A Ripple Frozen in Time

2018 was a year that will stay firmly stamped in my brain for so many reasons, but mainly I will remember it as a year of death and rebirth.

The first time I had a year like this was in 1997. It was a year that should have been dominated by the thrill of my high school graduation but was instead marked by death and struggle. Not only was I kicked out of my parents' house at the beginning of the summer (long story) but three adults that I knew closely also passed away. It started with the death of my former math teacher, a man who was one of my mom's best friends. A man we considered family. I wrote a poem to honor him and read it at his funeral even though the lump in my throat was so large that I felt suffocated by its presence. This was followed by the death of one of my parents' closest friends, a death that was hard for their friend group to grasp because they were all still so young and vibrant. The illness that took Bev descended on her like a rapidly encompassing dark cloud and killed her in a period of time that was so short that it was terrifying to think about. At her funeral I watched my dad--my calm, stoic, dad--lose himself in a grief so unabashedly palpable that my heart ached for weeks in its aftermath. And then the following month, the father of one of my best friends passed away. I will never forget the sound of her voice on the other end of the house phone and how hollow her tone was when she breathed from her lips, "My dad just died." Even though his death wasn't a shock, the wave of confusion and sadness it created was almost unimaginable. As I watched my friend and her sisters grieve, I couldn't help but feel terribly selfish for the petty fight that had driven me and my parents apart. I swallowed my hubric pride and moved back home to my parents' house, a mere two weeks before I packed up again and moved to college.

In 2018, I lost two students. Both were beautiful and fiercely passionate and independent 19 year old young women with nothing but sunshine to add to the world. Hannah perished in a horrific plane accident while on vacation with her family. I will never be able to explain the wave of emotions that passed through me when I woke up to the news that she and her whole family were gone. In the midst of my blinding grief, the only thing that brought me any sense of peace was that they were all together. No one was left behind. But at the same time the reality that no one was left behind was almost too much for me to bear. 4 beautiful souls. 4 people I had laughed with and learned from. Hannah had a passion for conservation and activism that was inspiring. Ari's musical talent was truly incredible for a young man of his age. Leslie's smile and laugh were contagious (she always loved the snacks in my office), and Mitch had a deep, soulful voice that sounded like smooth caramel and prompted me to joke with him that he needed to leave his job as a physician and become a voice actor. Why would God take them so soon?

Two weeks before I received the news of Hannah and her family, a student near and dear to my heart fell ill. Lauren spent a lot of time in my office. She was one of the hardest working students I have ever met and never complained about how hard she had to work to reach the level of success she desired. I first met her when she was a sophomore in high school. Since she lived in a different city, we Skyped weekly as I helped her prepare for her standardized tests. Our relationship continued as she worked on her college applications and sought my advice for what college she should attend. And after she chose to attend college just 20 minutes from my office, she became a permanent fixture in my life. She always showed up with a cup of coffee and a smile, and when she left, she always thanked me and hugged me with the type of warmth that can't be faked.

About 10 days before midterms, Lauren started to not feel well. She was dizzy and had a hard time concentrating. Within a few weeks, she found out she had cancer. I was getting ready for church when I received the text from her mom. It literally knocked the wind out of me, and I lost control of my legs and hit the ground. I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't even articulate to my husband what was going on. When I finally found coherent words, he held me and told me he was sorry as I cried and blubbered repeatedly into his sleeve, "But, I love her. But, I love her."

She passed away 8 months later.

It was during her funeral that a life changing moment happened. It was a ripple of my existence that will forever be frozen in time. It was a small moment that has created a tsunami of change in my life: a tsunami that has created a boundless sea of regrowth in its aftermath.

I attended the funeral with my daughters because my husband couldn't leave town with me and I didn't want to go alone. I sat in the funeral feeling lost. Feeling beaten down. Feeling angry at God  and confused. Feeling like my legs had been cut out from underneath me. Feeling like no matter how hard I tried I couldn't breathe.

And then her mother spoke. And as she did, both of my daughters grabbed my hands. I could feel their stares piercing into me as they watched an infinite stream of tears roll down my cheeks. As her mother spoke, I couldn't help but be inspired by her strength. Instead of crying and lamenting over a young life full of promise that was lost too soon, she spoke of love and God and family. And then like an unexpected bolt of lightning that I never saw coming, she took a moment to give advice to every parent in the room:

"Never miss a moment that you don't have to."

And as her words settled into my brain, the whole world stopped moving and a ripple frozen in time took a hold of me. And I knew that even though I was a damn good wife and mother, I could be a better one. And in that moment of time, I gave myself up to God and recommitted myself fully to my family. To my baby girls who so strongly held me and comforted my pain. To my son who lacked the right words to say during that time so instead said it all with his eyes. To my husband who had long taken a back seat to my desire to have more "me time" and rarely complained as I struggled to find balance in my life. To myself who decided to grow from these tragedies instead of letting grief drown my soul.

It has been 4 months since those words, those simple words spoken by a mother who lost her one and only child too early, caused a dramatic shift in my persona. I am not the same person I was in 2018, and I never will be. I have learned that my focus needs to remain on my family because soon, all too soon, my babies will be grown and gone. And when they are, I will have more "me time" than I ever could have imagined (and probably won't even know what to do with). And since I have been more present, I have found that the "me time" I long sought exists when I am surrounded by my husband and children and can bask in the glory of their actions when they don't even know I am watching. I love hearing my son talking to his friends. I love the sound of his hockey stick scraping the driveway as he takes practice shots. I love hearing the sounds of my girls giggling in their bedroom and in the shower. I love watching them sing to their favorite songs-- their heads bopping underneath headphones that look too big for their tiny bodies. I love the smile on my husband's face when he is watching hockey or how he slides around on the floor in his socks or how he looks at me when I am helping the kids with their homework. And I know that I will never again miss a moment that I don't have to. This is the message that God sent me through these beautiful young women, and I will forever honor their legacies with my whole heart and soul.

Not all Super Heroes Wear Capes

Yesterday was the last day of school, a day that I always celebrate with vigor even though deep down inside I am constantly amazed at the quick passage of time. I know that parents always say it, but it's true. You blink and your newborn is a toddler. You blink again and your toddler is starting preschool. You blink a third time and your preschooler is a preteen on her cell phone texting her friends. You blink a fourth time and your preteen is about to turn 16 and has long towered over you because he surpassed you in height when he was in 7th grade. The list goes on and on.

Every stage of parenting brings with it its own set of thrills and difficulties. My mother's famous mantra "this too shall pass" and prayers have gotten me through every stage of parenting. It's scary when your toddler starts to walk, unsteady steps that only provide a steady stream of visions of terrible falls and smashed faces. It's scary when you send your baby off to school: someone else, a mere stranger really, will be spending more waking hours with your child than you will and will provide a steady source of influence beyond your control. It's scary when your child becomes an adolescent and is faced with the opportunity to make potentially devastating and permanent poor life choices in regards to issues like drinking, drugs, and sex. Let's be real: parenting is kind of like riding a never ending and terrifying roller coaster ride. So many parts are exhilarating but you never know what is coming around the next corner you approach.

And because of this (and maybe this is only me), you constantly worry that you are doing it wrong. That you are failing at parenting. That you could have made different decisions that would have more greatly benefited your children. That maybe, just maybe, you aren't sacrificing enough of yourself even though you can't remember the last time you did something that only benefited you.

But then in the middle of it all, something happens that makes you realize that everything is going to be alright, a small moment in time that snaps you back into reality and allows you to breathe because you know your kids are going to be the kind of adults you will be proud to have played a part in nurturing.

For me, this moment happened last night.

We were out to dinner to celebrate the last day of school when the sky became black and unleashed blinding wind and rain, the kind of wind and rain that floods the streets in minutes and pelts your skin with raindrops that feel like snaps of electricity.

I gave the kids a pep talk and prepared them to make a dash for the car, emphasizing three times NOT TO RUN because the last thing I needed was for someone to trip or slide out and shatter an ankle. We ducked outside, huddling like hamsters under the roof line of the restaurant, and ogled at the storm. Dear God, I could barely even see the car. I made the quick and authoritative decision, "It's not worth it. You all stay here. I will go and bring the car back. I'll pull way up close so you don't have too far to go." Then I turned and made a run for it. Three steps in I realized I couldn't run in my flip-flops, so I walked as quickly as I could, laughing as I made my way to the car. I could hear the kids behind me cheering me on. By the time I reached the car, I was so wet that my jeans and shirt were soaked all the way through and water was running into my eyes from my hair.

I went back for the kids, pulling way up into a loading zone so they only had to traverse 10 feet of the storm. As the side door of the van started to slide open I yelled, "Run!", and my three little ducklings came crashing into the car one at a time, smallest to largest, my son taking up the rear as he let his sisters in first. Everyone was laughing.

Then in a voice so quiet I almost didn't catch it, I heard my son say, "Not all super heroes wear capes." I turned around and looked him in the eyes and said, "Wait, what did you just say to me?". He kept his eyes locked on me and said more loudly, "Mom. Not all super heroes wear capes" and then just smiled at me before looking away.

My heart burst in that moment.

Moms, I know that like me you often feel invisible. But you aren't. Your babies: they see everything even if you don't always realize that they do, and it's often the littlest of things that create the loudest echoes in their minds and hearts. I know you don't do the things you do to receive validation or praise, but your sacrifices do not go unnoticed. Keep up that seemingly invisible fight.

I'm far from a perfect mother, but thanks to my 16 year old son, today I feel unstoppable. Today, I feel seen. And today I know that no matter what parenting difficulties the future may hold, everything is going to be OK.

Goodbye, witching hour. Goodbye.

It didn't hit me until I buckled my seat belt and put my car into reverse, but when it did, it struck me deep into my heart: this is the last time. When I started to say it to my children, my voice cracked as the words became stuck in my throat. I tried to hold it in but finally let it all go as I cried, explaining that I would miss this part of our family routine.

This morning was the last time that I will ever drive my babies to school together. The last time! And I am struggling to grasp just how quickly we are being catapulted into the next phase of our life as a family.

My husband has always left for work early in the morning, just as the kids are waking up to get ready for school. This has left me for years juggling three groggy children and policing them (often like a drill sergeant) in order to get them out of the door on time for school. This has not always been a smooth routine (for years it was affectionately known as "the witching hour") and there have been many mornings when we are all running around frantically in various states of undress.  I have certainly not always enjoyed this aspect of my life with my children, so I guess this is why I never anticipated how emotional I would feel for it to end.

Because I work atypical hours, I am not home for the afternoon and early evening routine of my children's lives: that is under the jurisdiction of their dad. It doesn't bother me that I miss this part of their day because I know it is affording them the opportunity to nurture relationships with their dad that they probably wouldn't if I was home. And as a byproduct, it has created the morning time as their time together with just me. During this short period of time, I get to share intimate moments with my children--over bowls of cereal, the packing of lunches, and the wait in morning car line. During this short period of time, I have witnessed my children growing into independent people. What six years ago was a routine 100% dependent on mom has grown into a routine with mom simply overseeing while I bask in the small moments of my children's lives that I will keep locked inside my heart and cherish forever.

And this routine. This routine is now over. Next year, we will embark on a new routine. The boys will get up early together and leave for their days, and the girls will follow shortly after on theirs. And even though I am excited for my son to start high school, I can't help but lament the time with him that has already passed. It will no longer be me forcing him out of bed, starting his shower, helping him gather his things. It will no longer be me quizzing him for his tests and quizzes in the car. It will no longer be me watching him walk up to school to begin his day, marveling at the man he is becoming. It will no longer be me, and there is so much about that that makes my heart ache.

I have always tried to cherish every moment, but so much about this past year has made me realize that I need to slow down and pay attention, even more, to every remaining moment that I have with my children. These precious moments, although abundant, are also fleeting. I know that I can't slow down the time, but I do know that I can look more closely. I can listen more closely. I can cherish more closely.

Goodbye, witching hour. I never thought I would say it, but I will miss you. I will miss this nuclear time with just me and my babies. I will always remember the smell of syrup on my shirt from someone's tiny mouth. I will always remember helping my babies tie their shoes. I will always remember the waves and the "I love you, mom" as my children got out of the car. I will always remember the quiet morning moments when all three of my children were hanging out together, laughing and playing games. I will always remember every precious moment of this obsolete routine and be thankful for the mothering and advice shared on our many car rides to school together. I know we will have countless new moments together but this, this morning routine, I will always cherish deep in my soul.  

An Open Letter to My Adolescent Son

             You asked me a question yesterday that sounded into the deepest part of my soul: “Mom, what do you like best about me?” It came after a conversation I was having with your younger sisters, who at 8 and 9 years old respectively, are constantly inquiring about anything and everything. The topic of their questioning last night was the attribute about each of them that is my favorite.

            Now all moms know that it is best to shy away from any line of questioning that involves the word “favorite”, but I have recently gotten into the habit of speaking to my girls about their character. Even at such young ages I can see the dark cloud of insecurity looming in the distance and I know that all too soon their sweet innocence will be shrouded by puberty and mean girls and boys and body image and everything trying that comes with adolescence. In these precious last moments I want to pump them full of everything positive I can think of, so I gladly play the favorite game that they have grown to love.

            I told my middle child that my favorite thing about her is her giving spirit, how she is always willing to let others choose first and simply take whatever is left over for herself. I told her that I am proud of her for always acting as the peacemaker in a busy house full of children and pets.

            Then I moved on to my youngest child. I told her that I love her nurturing soul, how she is always trying to make people who are sick or hurt feel better. I told her that I see a great comforter in her and know that she will always be the first to offer help when someone is in need.

            You. You my almost 14 year old son. You were sitting at the table during this conversation, wearing your earbuds, absorbed in some video on your phone like you always are these days. On a daily basis I have conversations with you that I realize you have heard none of because you are deeply immersed in your adolescent world, a world dominated by cell phones and computers and screens. A few years ago I stopped trying to force you to be engaged in all of our family conversations because I could see that your world was shifting. Instead of only needing reinforcement from us at home, you began to also need it from the other people in your world: friends, teachers, and coaches. I tried to fight this until I realized that finding your place in the world beyond our home is a crucial part of your maturation. It was your first attempted flight out of the nest, and even though I wanted to hold onto you and keep you young, I knew I had to let you fly and help you should you fall.

            You are not only my first born: you are also my only son. Parenting you has brought with it both many first experiences for me and also many only experiences for me. I learned how to be a mother when you were born, every instinct in my body taking over and showing me how to keep your precious life happy and healthy. As the oldest child you have to forge ahead in life with me and your dad scrambling to keep up with you as we traverse each stage of your growth for the first time as parents. This isn’t easy for us and sometimes we make mistakes, so please be patient with us. In addition, as my only son, you and I share many experiences that make our bond very different from my bonds with your sisters. There is something unique and special about our dynamic that I will always cherish in every part of my fiber.

            I want you to understand how hard it is to start letting you go, something I have already begun to do. I know you think it feels like an eternity before you will be off to college and beginning your own life, but let me assure you that the next four years are going to pass at lightning speed. I blinked and you were a toddler. I blinked again and you were waving independently as you walked into your second grade classroom. I blinked again and you were taller than me, saying “I love you, Mom” in a voice that I didn’t recognize as that of my son because you sounded like a man. The next time I blink I will be dropping you off at college. I’m not ready for that yet so even though you are blinking as fast as you can because you are ready to grow, I am trying as hard as I can to not blink at all because pretty soon, very soon, my time with you will have passed. I know that we will always have each other, but once you know that you can fly without me nothing will be the same. I know you will need me but you won’t need me the same way that my heart will always need you.

            Sometimes you say things that make me realize that my baby boy is still somewhere inside the handsome young man that you have become, and when this happens my heart flutters because I know I get at least one more chance to shower you with the love and guidance that God entrusted me to share with you.

            In the middle of my conversation with your sisters, you pulled your earbuds out of your ears, put down your phone, and said to me, “Well, mom. What is your favorite thing about me?”

            I could tell by the tone of your voice and the way your eyes pierced through me that you genuinely needed to know and hear my answer. Weathering these last few years of your adolescence have been some of the most difficult years of our relationship. As our dynamic has morphed into something new, we have not always handled this gracefully. There have been fights, slamming doors, angry words, and lots of tears. We have both said things we wish we hadn’t and withheld other words that we should have said. We have both been stubborn and prideful. But we have continued to love and forgive each other as you have experienced adolescence for the first time and I have experienced parenting an adolescent for the first time.

            There are so many things that I love about you that it is hard to pick my favorite. I love that you are so open-minded to trying new things. You will give anything a shot at least once, and I know that this will allow you to live a full life. I love that you are kind and respectful to your teachers, coaches, and friends. I love that you are not afraid to meet new people: that you can hang out with any type of person or group and have a good time. I love that you have always chosen nice boys to be your closest friends. You have no idea the sense of peace this fills me with because I know how much your social circle will shape your experiences and decisions. I love that you still ask me to hug you even though you are bigger than me now. I love that you will still let me snuggle with you because you know that I need this even though you don’t anymore. I love that you will still give me a kiss in church even though most boys your age would never do this anymore. I love that you pay attention to the small things: you always notice if I have on a new outfit or have gotten a haircut. I love that you are growing into the kind of young man that I am proud to call my son because even on those hardest days of adolescence, I can look at you and see the kind-hearted and genuine person you have always been inside. So what is my favorite thing about you? Well son, I think my favorite thing about you is that you have always remained true to yourself no matter what the situation. To have that kind of strength and resolve at such a young age makes me realize that, no matter what, you will always be just fine. 

            Of course I answered you yesterday in much fewer words than this. Had I pontificated, you would have rolled your eyes at me, so my answer was brief just like you prefer. After I told you my favorite thing about you, you smiled, jammed your earbuds into your ears, and drifted back into your adolescent world. As you ambled away from me and my heart ached for that chubby kneed toddler of your past, my heart also felt proud and excited because it could see the future you have awaiting you on your journey, and I know that everything will turn out just fine. 

I know

          To all other parents out there who have a child with learning disabilities, I know your struggle, and I feel your pain. I know that you lose sleep at night worrying about your child, and I know how much you have devoted your own life to being his/her advocate. I know that sometimes you feel exasperated and overwhelmed. I know how much you pray for it to get easier for your child. And, I know how desperately you wish that other people better understood the silent battle that your child and you fight every day without reprieve. I know you want the best for your child and how much you want your child to stop questioning his/her abilities as he/she fights to forge a path of learning that leads to pride and success. I know.

          I know the feeling you get when you have to try to explain these things, countless times, to the people around you--family, friends, and teachers-- and see the look in their eyes that they just don’t get it. I know the sinking dread that fills your heart as you realize how much your child is up against and the fact that it will never go away or be easy for him/her. I know how hard you fight to swallow your tears when you watch your child crying because he/she is feeling defeated, stupid, and worthless. I know you feel like someone has punched you in the stomach when your child expresses concern about his/her future, wondering if he/she will be able to accomplish his/her dreams. I know that you cry at night after everyone in your house has gone to bed or when you are in the shower and no one can hear you because you are exhausted from watching your child struggle and worry every single day. I know you try to boost your child’s self-esteem and combat your child’s feelings of fear, loneliness, and anxiety. I know that this in and of itself feels like a full-time job. I know.

          I know you realize that no one, even you, knows exactly what your child is going through and how helpless this makes you feel. I know the extra worry lines that have formed too early at the corners of your eyes and how you feel suffocated by the weight of homework, long-term assignments, and tests. I know you are up until midnight on some nights trying to help your child complete assignments to feel as prepared as possible for the next school day. I know you try every day to find a balance between helping too much and helping too little. I know how much you wish that there was a way to fix all of this for your child. I know that you would sell the shirt off of your back if this meant removing every difficulty that your child faces. I know.

          I know that, despite this all, you never give up hope that tomorrow will be an easier day. I know that you hang on to the dream that your child will one day feel calm, successful, and happy. I know that you will never give up; you will never stop advocating and explaining; you will never rest until your child finds peace. I know how much you celebrate every success in your child’s life, every single thing that makes him/her beam with pride and excitement.

I know that you and your child are not alone in this no matter how much you sometimes feel that you are. I know.  

Just "Kim"

Today, I am just not feeling it. The "it" that I'm not feeling is lurking like a monstrous, hideous gorilla in the room: parenting. Today is one of those days that I feel like just being Kim. I sometimes don't even remember who she is. The person she was before having children who has been long buried in piles of laundry, late night barfing, tattling, signing paperwork, coordinating the calendars of five individuals without (dear God) making one blunder, and putting the needs of everyone else before herself.

I think as a mom this is a blasphemous confession to make. A confession that will have "better" moms turning their noses up at my apparent willingness to admit that, at the end of the day, I am human, I am flawed, and sometimes I long for the simplicity that existed before I earned the title of Mom.

But you "better than me" moms, I know you secretly have these days too but are too prideful to admit that mothering is without a shred of a doubt the hardest title you have ever and will ever receive. And, it is a title that brings an endless to do list that draws on every ounce of your will to even attempt to manage every single day of your life without reprieve.

Because, you see, we can't turn this off even if we are physically away from our children. After all, how would those we left in charge even begin to function without the detailed lists and spreadsheets we leave behind? The pre-filled out forms, the pile of already stacked uniforms, the daily itinerary that keeps our family afloat, the wisdom that our oldest child will only eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in his lunch, our middle child only nutella, and our youngest only nutella and peanut butter? That for breakfast, our oldest likes his egg wrap with cheese and salt & pepper, our middle with egg and salt & pepper but no cheese, and our youngest with egg and salt but no pepper or cheese? Who else knows the millions of tiny details that allow us to make it through the day with only a small number of tears and the least amount of frustration? No one. No one knows this but us, and even though it allows us to know every member of our family most intimately, we are often left to wonder who knows what we like in our morning wrap? No one else but us because we are the keepers of these important pearls of wisdom. The pearls of wisdom that are simultaneously enlightened and suffocating.

Today I felt suffocated by this role.

Today, I wanted to be just Kim. I didn't want to me "Mom" or "Wife" but Kim. Kim the girl who used to climb to the tallest branch of the tree in her backyard and read books. Kim who loves to feel the sun on her skin and the sand between her toes. Kim who likes to lay in the damp grass at night and look into the vastness of the sky feeling both empowered and intimidated by the understanding of her own smallness in the big picture of God's universe. Do any of you even know these things because I sure know them about you. I hold on by the hope that one day you will understand that for so many years I willingly chose you over me because that's just what parents do.

I know that tomorrow I will wake up to a different day, a day in which I proudly grab the title of Mom and traverse its challenges with ease and peace. I know this because I have had days like this before and will no doubt have them again in the future. My sense of peace returning will begin when I walk in to check on you in bed later and stall for a minute to take in the beauty of your faces and watch how your chests slowly rise and fall as you dream. When I lay in the quiet of our dark house tonight, I will remember the immense quiet that accompanied my life before children and be thankful for the noise that you bring me, a noise that always reminds me of the beauty and dynamism of life. I will remember the tears I cried when I prayed for over two years to conceive my oldest and the subsequent tears and despair I felt when I suffered five miscarriages before my second was born. I will remember how much I ached and prayed to earn this title, and my heart will swell with pride for the family we have together, no matter how chaotic and suffocating it can sometimes make me feel. And, most of all, I will realize that I can't remember who Kim was before children because she is a ghost from my past who has morphed into the person she is today, a person that I am always thankful for and proud of.

A tall, ice cold glass of The Golden Rule

My youngest daughter asked me last weekend if she could have a lemonade stand. She was so excited to learn how to make homemade lemonade from the abundance of lemons from our tree that I couldn't resist. I let her know that I would help her set up a stand on Saturday.

Since the introduction of allowances into our family last year, it has been an interesting lesson in personalities as I have watched how my three children handle money. My oldest child and only son is the epitome of having a "hole in your pocket." The second he has any money he is dying, DYING, for me to drive him to Target, Walgreens, CVS, ANYWHERE to spend every last penny he has on some trinket. He feels the pain of wanting something two days later but having no money to his name, begging and pleading for a loan or an advance that I have never and will never grant. Regardless, the pattern continues every week. My middle child and oldest daughter is, much like her personality, the model of moderation. She will save her money if there is nothing that she has been longing for and spend it intermittently when a strong enough desire grasps her mind. Her piggy bank is always half full, either able to allow her to indulge on some small treasure or save in little time for something more impressive.

Now my youngest (and the entrepreneur behind this weekend's lemonade stand) is much like her mommy: she hangs onto money as if it is a rare gift from God not to be trifled with. The first time I allowed the children to take their own money to Target to buy a toy, she cried in the car after she realized that she had sacrificed one of her blessed twenty dollar bills for the two My Little Pony Girls that had been added to her arsenal of misfit toys. I calmly explained to her through her tears and snot that things cost money and that there was no need to cry if she was able to get something that was important to her. Since then, she has hoarded her dollars and change as if she will never see another, passing up trips to Target to select new treasures for her toy box.

In her defense of the events that unfolded this weekend: the lemonade stand was her idea. She did all of the prep work. She spent an extended period of time picking the ripest lemons from our tree. She learned how to make simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar she repeated astutely). She helped me squeeze lemons with only her two hands and a fork (why did I agree to this since we don't have a juicer?). She made a sign with leftover poster paper from one of Maia's recent projects. She helped me move the table to just the right place in the yard, arrange cups, gather a bucket of ice, and determine the best jar to store her earnings. She sat out in the warm sun that only January in Florida provides for over an hour until her first customer arrived. She struggled to stay patient as I explained that hundreds of people would not majestically appear from the air the second that she was ready to receive customers. She stayed committed to her stand for three hours, talking through her shyness to people from the neighborhood that were strangers to her, making change, pouring glasses of lemonade, and hiding from the intense rays of the sun. She worked hard for her earnings and learned that making money doesn't happen without effort.

However, somewhere along the process her older brother and friend from across the street joined her in her endeavor. They kept her company and assisted in the drudge work that accompanies any job. Even though they poured glasses on occasion, it was the fraternity that allowed her to last so long out there in the sun. Yes, they abandoned the project the second I announced that we were closing up shop and did not stay around for all of the clean up that was included, but they offered her support for a decent amount of time.

After clean up commenced, the fun part started: the counting of her loot. She excitedly spread out her treasure on the dining room table, her eyes growing wide as she continued counting and counting and counting. For a few hours in the sun (and mommy's contribution of the cups and the labor), she did pretty well in her first dabble in the world of business.

As she was excitedly shoving bills into her piggy bank I stopped her.

"Don't you think Hunter and Fisher deserve a reward for helping you?"

The look she shot me could have frozen Hell over three times.

From under narrowed eyes and uncompromising fortitude she said, "But it was MY lemonade stand."

I stayed calm sensing the fork in the road. I was walking on thin ice. I didn't want to crush her spirit, but there was an important lesson to be learned.

"Yes," I responded calmly, "it was your lemonade stand. But don't you think you should reward the boys for helping you?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her eyes darting around the room for help. They landed on a large bag of markers resting on the kitchen table.

"Yes! Of course they deserve a reward. I will give them markers. I have lots of those."

I met eyes with my husband from across the room, and we shared the silent communication that only parents can. We nodded in agreement. This point couldn't be dropped. We have been talking a lot about the Golden Rule in our family over the last year, and we finally had a different REAL example to use to reinforce our point.

I asked her directly how she would feel if she had helped the boys as much as they had helped her and been given only a few used markers. She locked eyes with me--all knowing--and began her concession.

"OK. I will give them each a dollar."

Our stare down continued as I refused to look away from her challenging stare.

"Do you think that is fair? Do you really think that is the best answer? Do you remember what The Golden Rule says??"

Another awkward shift, the slight welling of tears in the back of her eyes as she looked back and forth between me and the stack of dollar bills on the table. And then she sighed and let it go.

"$5. I think $5 dollars would be best."

Mark and I shared smiles as we praised her for thinking about someone more than herself. She didn't even cry or complain as she skipped away to give each of the boys their $5 reward.

I doubt that at seven years old she ever expected that day to serve up more than ice cold glasses of homemade lemonade, but most importantly she served up two ice cold glasses of The Golden Rule. I know it isn't an easy lesson, and I don't want my children to think that they should always expect a reward for helping out a friend or doing the right thing, but I also do want them to learn that they should not only be doing things to benefit themselves. I want them to learn that sometimes, just sometimes, the richest reward is the unexpected act of kindness that they can extend to someone else.