An Open Letter to the Thief Who Stole My Kids’ Christmas Presents

Hi, Dick. I don’t actually know if that’s your real name but it seems fitting. Dick, I’m the owner of the front porch from which you swiped a package that was delivered today. I own the property that you trespassed on when you slithered up my driveway to rob me. The family you upset is also mine. My name is Rachel. It’s nice to meet you.

First, let me tell you that you are gonna be so mad when you open that box. Lucky for me, Amazon split my order into three deliveries and you stole the one that contained nothing more than a box of 64 Crayola color crayons and a Star Wars rebel t-shirt. Sad for you. I hope you don’t take my package to the vacant burned-down house where you and the other crooks gather to compare loot and eat Beanee Weenees out of cans held in your dirty, fingerless-glove-covered hands. Because if that’s what you do, your criminal friends are going to make so much fun of you... You can’t even burglarize properly! Trying to imagine the look on your thief-face when you realize you just risked jail time for a box of crayons has helped ease the pain of what you did. Almost. Because whatever you did with my package after you stole it, you violated a part of me today and I need you to be caught.

I wanted to be the one to catch you. My first instinct—and I’m being sincere, was to kill you. I immediately began to plan my revenge. I paced up and down the street asking my neighbors if they saw anything suspicious. I plotted, I fumed, and I cursed you. There was a moment when I even considered finding an eye of newt and toe of frog so I could cast some sort of spell on you and your kin (that was a reference to Shakespeare, perhaps you've stolen one of his books before). Dick, I wanted to break your kneecaps with a baseball bat and maybe I watch too many violent films but for a while, it sounded like a perfectly valid solution. Admittedly, I don’t think logically when I’m that furious.

Who are you? Let me guess: A meth addict who follows the UPS truck around, stealing packages so you can sell the contents for drug money? Some punk kid whose parents are failing to teach their own child how to become a decent human being? Or are you a desperate, unemployed parent struggling to put food on the table for your kids and you feel like this is your only hope in the world? I have no idea who you are, Dick... Or Jane. But you need to be caught.

After the initial rage wore off, [note to self: ask around to see if that level of fury is considered “normal”] I sat down on my bed and I prayed for you. First I asked forgiveness for hating you so much and for being that upset over "stuff" and then I prayed that God would get His hands on you. Not so that He would bring you to justice, but so that He would show you His mercy. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life and I've been a lousy human being at times. And God took every dirty little bit and made me new. I’m no better than you because I've seen what's in my heart. But God loves me anyway. He loves you, too. I hope you let Him catch you, Dick. He’ll be a lot nicer to you than I would. He’s not full of sin and anger and way too much Die Hard. And let's face it, you need to be caught.

If you find that you don’t like the 64-crayons or if the rebel t-shirt doesn't fit, I’ve got a couple of kids here who would really love to have them back.

Merry Christmas, Dick.

Sincerely,

Rachel

I Have An Idea! Let's Talk About Racism

Not enough people in America are talking about racism. Wait, that’s not right...

What I meant was, not enough white, privileged, middle-class moms are talking about racism, and I can think of nobody more qualified to offer an opinion on such a convoluted and volatile subject. Prepare to be schooled yo.

Racism exists and you know it. Everybody, in some form or another, discriminates and I hope you know that, too. America has a dark and dirty history with racism and unfortunately, that problem is not going anywhere. But please allow me to launch a little missile of truth at your head. If you are a parent, you hold the power to not poison your children with it. And whatever your racist tendencies, I encourage you to hide your bigotry from them. Because they watch everything you do and they hear every word you say.

One of the hardest things I have ever had to do (remember, I’m a white, privileged, middle classee) was to send my children to public school. It was a decision I agonized over. Yes, while other parents in our neighborhood worried how they were going to feed their children, I was distraught because we couldn’t afford to send two of ours to the private Christian school where Ali had attended kindergarten.

When the first day of school arrived, I feigned excitement as I got the kids ready but inside I felt like was preparing a couple of lambs for slaughter. Chad and I dropped Ali off in her classroom and said goodbye. Next we took Jackson to his morning kindergarten class, where I stayed to watch over and protect my boy because clearly he needed me (in reality, he forgot I was even there when the class gathered for the morning welcome song. But whatever.)

At the end of the day, we took the kids to Baskin Robbins for a celebratory ice cream cone. I asked Ali the question that had been on my mind all day: “How was your first day of first grade?”

With brimming tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks Ali said, “Mommy, I can't be friends with any girls in my class.” Then, in a performance worthy of an Academy Award, I calmly listened as she explained why.

When the class was lining up for morning recess, a sweet little girl named Jhanae asked Ali if she would like to play with her and Ali said yes. But another girl named Lakisha* came over and yelled at Jhanae, “You can’t be friends with her, she’s white!” So Ali had nobody to play with during recess because not only was she white, but she was the only white girl in class. If what Lakisha said was true, who could be her friend?

In her short six years of life, Ali had never heard anything like this because she was not raised by racists. But apparently, Lakisha was.

The next day, I walked into the school office and explained what had happened to my daughter. I told them that they were going to handle the situation in the exact same way they would handle it if it had been my daughter that said those things to a black child. You might be surprised to learn that they didn’t. Or, you might not.

So, for good measure, I walked into Ali’s classroom and found Lakisha, who outweighed every other first grader by at least thirty pounds. She was wearing french-tip acrylic nails, had a weave half-way down her back, and her ill-fitting t-shirt said, “I Heart My Attitude” in silver glitter. In my most impressive and frightening mommy whisper, I told her that Ali could be friends with anyone she wanted to be friends with. I told her the color of Ali's skin didn’t matter, but what kind of person she was did. I’m sure my “content-of-their-character” reference was completely lost on this little girl in the same way it would’ve been lost on the people who were indoctrinating her.

So that was my daughter’s introduction to racism. She remained the only white girl in her class that year and despite Lakisha she made some good friends and learned some great lessons. And so did I. Specifically, that racism comes in all colors and sizes. And while America is screaming loudly, I will not allow that fact to be drowned out. And neither should you.

*I changed the name of the blossoming racist to protect her identity*

PEZ Dispensers and Blind Guys

I had a dream once. It was actually a life goal, and I was semi-serious about it for approximately three years. My brilliant plan was to purchase every single PEZ dispenser ever made and one day, Chad and I would retire, sell my record-setting collection, and live like kings off the proceeds. I started collecting in 1997, when the internet wasn’t the most convenient way to shop for rare PEZ dispensers. It took minutes to “dial-up” and the websites took even more minutes to load. I didn’t have time for such nonsense so I relied on local antique stores and collectors. Not far from our apartment in Seattle, I found a shop called Gasoline Alley which specialized in vintage and collectible toys.

One humid summer afternoon, we left Gasoline Alley with my newest investment: A MIB (that’s mint-in-bag for you non PEZ-collecting imbeciles) Indian Peace Pipe from the 1970s. Never released in the United States, this was a rare find and would surely buy us a villa in Tuscany upon retirement. We were young, kid-free, and living in Seattle. What else was there to spend $75 on?

We climbed into our 1989 Nissan Sentra, rolled down the windows because we didn’t have air conditioning, pushed the Beastie Boy’s cassette into the tape deck, and headed for home. I was clutching my new purchase, anxiously trying to propel us home by sheer willpower, so that I could get my peace pipe into the safe and breathe easy. And by “safe” I mean the shoebox under our bed.

We approached a four-way intersection and stopped at the red light. Over the music, I heard a loud clack-clack-clack. It was rhythmic, unfamiliar and right outside my passenger window. I looked up to see a man wearing dark glasses, crossing the street alone using a cane as his guide. I gasped and squeezed Chad’s arm in a panic. Not because I was shocked to see a blind person—I see them all the time (actually, I don’t, I see like, one a month). Any other day, at any other time, my mind wouldn’t have even registered this scene. After all, he was following the traffic sign, he was walking in the crosswalk. Guess who else was in the crosswalk? We were.

Our car was stopped in the middle of the crosswalk, the light was red, and the car behind us was so close that I could smell the driver’s breath. As the clack­-ing got louder, I braced myself for impact.

Hindsight is 20/20 and that’s not a joke because the guy was blind. It’s easy to look back at my twenty-year old self and want to say, “Hey Rachel? Why don’t you warn the poor guy instead of sitting there like moron? Oh yeah, and your retirement plan sucks.” But my twenty-year old self was too mortified to do anything but pinch Chad with one hand and grip my future riches with the other. I pulled my shoulders up to my ears and slid down in my seat hoping that would make me invisible... to the blind guy.

His cane hit my door first. And then his knees did. He waved his hands in front of his body trying to decipher what was blocking what should have been a clear path for him. As he was groping, his hands passed through the rolled-down window, inches from my cowering face. I held my breath, waiting for it to end. Remember in Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, how Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin hide under the tree roots from the Black Rider as he searches for them? Put those hobbits in a Nissan Sentra, stick a cane in that Nazgul's iron-clad hand and you have an exact replica of what we went through. Chad and I sat motionless as we watched the poor guy fumble his way to the front of the car and complete his journey across the street. (Click here to watch the LOTR clip)

I thought about that blind man today. I wondered where he is and if, when he’s having dinner with friends, he ever tells them the story of the idiots in the crosswalk, who didn’t have the common courtesy to help someone in need…Someone who wouldn’t even have been in need if those idiots weren’t in the crosswalk in the first place. I also wondered if he braille-blogs about stuff like that.

I still have my Indian Peace Pipe. It’s now worth $135 and it’s sitting in the attic with the rest of my PEZ collection—my retirement plan—my stupid dream that occupies exactly two 18-gallon Rubbermaid totes. I think I’ll hang on to that pipe. I figure in just under a million years we’ll be able to buy that villa. You know, maybe twenty-year old Rachel wasn’t as dumb as you think.

Remembering

Thirteen years ago today, as I watched the towers fall, I knew I needed to record my thoughts. We all experienced it that day, in various ways, and we all remember. Here's my story:

September 11, 2001

9:12 pm

I was lying in bed when I heard Alison's little footsteps pounding through the house as she ran into our bedroom.  It's her daily routine—she runs in the room, stands next to me and says "Can I come in?" and without waiting for an answer, she climbs up into our bed taking over my spot.  Chad had left for work less than an hour earlier.  I moved over to his spot on the bed and cuddled up to Alison's little body.  Just as I got comfortable I heard Jackson yelling "mom-eeeeeee" at the top of his lungs.  I got out of bed and went into his room where he was laying upside down in his new blue race car bed.  I picked him up and he hugged me as I carried him back to my bed.  

We climbed in with Alison and the kids instantly started playing together.  Once they start, they don't stop until nap time so I knew it was going to be an exciting day.  The phone began to ring and I didn't want to answer it.  We listened to my mother-in-law leave a message on our answering machine.  Slowly I climbed out of bed and looked at the clock.  It was about 10 minutes until 7.  The kids and I went in their room and since they both had runny noses, I cleaned them up and put them in warm snuggly clothes thinking we would have a nice cozy day at home.  I brushed their hair and they were ready to go.  The house was really cold, so I built them a fort from the couch cushions and blankets.  They loved it.  I turned on the TV so the kids could watch the Teletubbies. I got online and checked my morning e-mail and entered my daily sweepstakes.  Same thing I do every morning.

Around 8 am, the phone rang again.  It was my sister, Heather, who was going to come up and visit for a bit.  

"Well, I guess I won't be coming up today,” she said.  

"Why?  What's going on?"  I replied, not thinking much about it.  

"Haven't you seen the news?  Rachel, we're under terrorist attack!!"  

"WHAT?"  I said, more amused than anything.  

"The World Trade Center is completely GONE…" 

As she said this, I turned on King 5 News just in time to see an airplane crashing into one of the twin towers.  The other tower had a huge gaping hole where another plane had crashed 18 minutes earlier.  I said something along the lines of "thank you" to her and we quickly got off the phone.  I stood 6 inches from the television watching  in absolute shock, while my babies ran and played around me. 

My mind was racing so fast that I'm not quite sure what happened next.  I believe I stood in front of the TV for a good 15 minutes, at times with a huge lump in my throat.  I remember thinking "hmmm, I wonder if Regis and Kelly still did their show” and then I remember thinking "I saw this on Godzilla"...  But as the news progressed and as my mind cleared, the reality of it began to hit.  Thousands and thousands were probably dead.  I then began to think "Oh my god, please don't let there be a day care in that building".  I remember the images from Oklahoma and don't think I could bear to see them again.  I saw no dead babies this time.  Instead I saw terrified adults leaping out of the buildings, killing themselves.  This was a whole new set of terrifying images.  I began to think, "I'm not safe here.  This is supposed to be a safe country". 

Once again, the phone rang and it was Chad.  Instantly I started to cry.  I wanted to have him come home and make me feel safe.  He was fine and he would stay at work for the day.  I don't remember what we talked about.  But when we got off the phone, it rang again.  It was my mother-in-law, Cheryle.  Again, I don't remember what we talked about.  I do know that she told me to go buy candles and batteries, water and staples.  Something about a World War.  That reminded me that I had to go grocery shopping.  I didn't want to leave the house, I wanted to hide inside with my babies.  Instead, I got the kids ready and we left. 

The streets were almost empty.  It was a little after 9 am, I made a point to look at people's faces as they drove by me.  I guess maybe I wanted to see their reaction to the news.  I was sure everyone knew.  One lady was rubbing her eyes as if she was wiping away tears.  I pulled into the Fred Meyer parking lot, trying to sound excited as Alison told me about all the things we were going to buy while we were there.  I even let her walk all by herself through the store.  She felt like such a big girl.  Walking the aisles, I realized I should've made a list.  I had no idea what we needed.  I couldn't think clearly.  My mind was still filled with strange and confusing thoughts.  I saw few customers in the store and those I made eye contact with gave me a look that I can't describe.  Some shook their head almost in disbelief.  Some looked as confused as I felt.  I grabbed what I thought we needed and even took the kids to the bakery for their cookie.  They always get a cookie from the ladies in the bakery, it's their favorite thing about Fred Meyer.  We got in the check-out line and waited while the cashier rang me up.  "You have beautiful children,” she said.  That was a welcome comment and I thanked her, telling her that she had just made my day a little better.  I got 50 dollars cash back 'just in case' and we went home.

We live right below McChord Air force Base's flight path and there were no planes flying this morning.  None.  All airports in the entire nation had been shut down.  It was really a creepy sort of silence.  Everything just felt 'off'.  I unpacked the groceries as I listened to a message on the answering machine from my mom.  It sounded like she had no clue of what was happening in our country.  I called her back and she had just found out.  Again, I don't remember what we talked about.  I was struggling so hard to collect my thoughts. 

Jackson went right down for a nap and Alison had a tea party.  I sat down and wrote the two of them a letter.  I just really wanted them to know how much I love them.  I wanted them to know that they had just experienced history in the making and they had no clue.  Maybe I also wanted to write out my thoughts—I don't know.  After I finished the letter, I turned off the news, and let Alison watch two of her programs, Dora the Explorer and Little Bill.  I read a magazine (Rosie) and tried to shake the depression I was feeling.  I felt shocked, sickened, saddened, angry, scared, anxious, and yet, a little bit awe-struck.  Trying to deal with those feelings at once is overwhelming. 

I made lunch for the kids when Jackson woke up and they ate like the good little kids they are.  The rest of the day was spent watching more news.  Hearing more stories about how horrific this attack was.  How our country will never be the same.  Wondering "what now?"  Trying to pray but completely at a loss for words.

I spoke with friends and family throughout the day.  The conversations were all the same, expressions of disbelief were repeated over and over.  Everyone is in shock.  Everything has changed.  Our whole country has just shifted.  But no one knows exactly how.  There is so much confusion.  We still don't know the death toll.  The news has announced they believe between 100 and 800 people are dead at the Pentagon alone.  There are about 250 firefighters and 200 police officers believed to be dead.  Hundreds of people that were trapped on the 4 hijacked planes are dead.  And God only knows how many people are dead that were in the twin towers when they collapsed.  But it's got to be thousands.  Thousands of innocent people killed at the hands of terrorists.  Terrorists who believe they are doing God's will.

In Palestine today the people were celebrating in the streets, chanting, "God is Good!" and passing out candy to the citizens there.  Unfortunately for them, God IS good.  And He is just.  And somehow, His hand is in this.  This morning I was talking to Alison and telling her about Jesus.  I told her Jesus loved her so much and that one day we get to be with Him.  That we will all go to heaven and be together.  She looked up at me and said "I don't want to go heaven... I went there yesterday."  I hugged her tight, laughing and crying at the same time.  She makes things better.  My kids make things better.  In the midst of all the tragedy and sadness, I actually take joy in knowing that my kids are clueless.  They don't know how lucky they are.

So, Chad and I are getting ready to tuck them in for the night.  Into their warm little beds that—up until 8 o’clock this morning—I thought were safe.  I will stay awake with my husband and watch the news.  And hopefully allow some of this to sink in.  I'm sure we won't find the answers we're looking for and we will probably only feel worse tomorrow.  But we will get through this and move on and our lives will pick up where they momentarily left off.  Sadly, thousands of others will not.

Time Well Spent

In five days, Chad and I will stand on the front porch and take our babies’ back-to-school-pictures, then we’ll drive those babies to school and say goodbye to a sophomore, a freshman, and a brand new middle schooler. Every year it’s the same scene: The two of us sitting in our car, childless, asking ourselves, “Where did the time go?”

As the years go by, we all ask that question in some variation. But no answer ever seems to be given. So I will answer it myself.

Where did the time go?

The time went to holding my little papooses, snuggled in blankets, while singing them lullabies and worship songs and when I ran out of those, theme songs to 80’s sitcoms because refined culture is important no matter what age.

I spent countless hours changing diapers, doing laundry, wiping runny noses and drool-coated chins. I spent way too much time whining because my house couldn't stay clean and now I wish I could go back and tell myself that having a house that looks like a model home just doesn’t matter when you have babies to love, and I would change a thousand more diapers for a chance to hold those little guys one more time.

Sometimes it seemed like ten hours a day were spent teaching manners, respect, and how to “use your words.” Sometimes it seemed like twenty hours a day were spent disciplining them. But I look back on those days and know that we were training them up in the way they should go. And the world will be glad that we did.

The time went to traveling as a family or sitting on the couch in our pajamas. We went to libraries and zoos. We went to parks and to beaches, to the woods and to the city. We went to fairs and movies and plays. We ice skated, roller skated, and snorkeled. We played in the snow, we played in the mud, and we did it all together. We experienced life as a family and no career was more important than raising our kids.

And now the time is spent planning for the future, teaching these guys how to prepare for the real world, how to succeed in life and that doesn’t mean financially. The time is spent in the car with the fifteen-year-old driving, Chad in the passenger seat, me in the back with both hands clamped over my mouth because my baby girl who wanted to be a kitty when she grew up cannot possibly be ready to face these crazies out on the road.

So next week, when we send our kids off to school, and I cry in the car while Chad comforts and laughs at me, if the question comes up, “Where did the time go?” I’ll know the answer. It went to being a family and making memories. And it was time well spent.

The Writing on the Wall

I don’t spend much time in public restrooms reading the scrawling of obnoxious people who are apparently so full of rage that they feel compelled to furiously scribble insults while going potty. I get out of those stalls as fast as I can, occasionally stopping just long enough to take pictures of the best ones.  Like this one I saw on a dirty restroom wall in a café in Portland:

Lately, when I scroll through the comment threads on the internet, I feel like I’m in a smelly restroom stall, staring at the walls, wondering why everyone is so angry. Gone are civil conversations between fellow humans sharing ideas and expanding one another’s worldview. Those have been replaced with vitriolic disputes and attacks of people’s fundamental beliefs that set off emotionally charged arguments. I’m right, you’re wrong, and everyone’s an idiot.

I once got caught up in a let-me-put-you-in-your-place comment frenzy and I’m totally embarrassed about it. And what do we do when we’re embarrassed about something we’ve done in the past? Share it with the world, obviously.

Last year, there was an article in The Olympian about the Tanglewilde Pool and how it was not going to open due to a levy failure.  One of these angry types—who probably spends his free time carving swastikas into restroom stalls—was raging against the neighborhood and against its founder (who happens to be my grandpa). I thought I could logically and rationally present the facts to him, systematically address his mistakes, and explain how levies work. Surely, he would see the error of his ways and we would skip off into the sunset holding hands, friends for life, laughing over our silly disagreement.

Here’s a helpful hint: When someone is hiding behind a fake screen name and appears to be a raving lunatic, chances are, they aren’t going to listen to reason. (This is where I awkwardly confess that my own screen name certainly was not Rachel Niemeyer, so... who’s the raving lunatic?)

I engaged this guy, and when he refused to discuss the matter in a civilized way, when he snubbed the evidence I presented and chose to continue his insults, I simply responded by pointing out his grammatical errors. Of which there were many.

Wrong thing to do, Rachel. Wrong. Thing. To do.

Shockingly, he didn't receive my critique in a kindly manner. Nor were we able to come to a mutual understanding of the neighborhood pool dilemma. And I felt bad for days. Especially for this guy’s poor grammar skills. He probably works for The Olympian. That was mean.

What I did was just as ridiculous as if I were to go into a public restroom and, with a big fat Sharpie, write something offensive on the wall, and then come back periodically to check for replies.

Comment threads are an embarrassing revelation about the nature of humanity. And like the stalls in public restrooms, they stink, they’re a stupid place to display opinions (that's what blogs are for), and it seems to be where illiterate people spend most of their time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of a fantastic argument about why biting should be allowed in soccer.

An Hour at the DMV

His name was Tyrone. I know his name because his mother shouted it at him at least thirty times while the rest of us at the DMV looked on. I suppose she didn’t shout his name as much as she whimpered it, pleading with her three year old boy to please behave, please be good, please stop screaming, and on and on... and on.

As his mom conducted her business at the counter, Tyrone played with his sister who looked to be about five years old. Tyrone yanked, with all his might, on a pen attached by a chain to the counter, while his sister looked into the vision testing machine. When Tyrone decided it was his turn to look into the machine he started screaming, “SEE! SEE! SEE!” Mom tilted the machine down, away from her daughter, and told her to lift up her little brother so he could play with it. Once Tyrone realized the machine was not a View-Master he got mad, and with his little fists clenched at his sides, he let out a scream to rival all screams in the history of screaming. The man in the chair next to me muttered something under his breath, got up, and moved as far away from the family as he could get. Other people subtly tried to plug their ears. I think a window may have shattered, I know my ear drums did.

Tyrone’s mom said, “Please be good and stop screaming. If you’re good I’ll give you a snack when we get to the car. I’ll even take you to McDonalds for an ice cream.” Tyrone replied by screaming, “NO! NO! NO!” He ran to the testing area plopping himself in front of a computer that sat right below a sign requesting patrons be quiet because testing was in progress. He banged on the keyboard and yelled until a woman came out of her office, walked over to Tyrone, and said to him with a firm but gentle voice, “computer time is over,” and made him stop. Which he did. Until Mom came over. Then he started screaming, “NO! NO! NO! NOOOOOO!” Mom took him by the hand and said, “I'm gonna buy you a treat, okay?” He screamed all the way to the vending machine.

Tyrone got to pick the treat while his perfectly behaved sister stood quietly in the background. As the candy dropped from its place, Tyrone screamed, “MINE! MINE! MINE!” and Mom gave him the first serving.  When Tyrone’s name was finally called, the struggle to take his picture ensued. Tyrone tried to climb the blue curtain that was suspended from the ceiling. After two employees asked him to stop, and two more told Mom that he can’t hang on the curtain, they were able to take his picture. But not before he hit Mom in the face and let out a blood-curdling scream. 

“Ah, that little shit. He needs a good spanking is what he needs,” said the man sitting behind me. I heard a lot of chuckles from like-minded people. When Tyrone left with Mom and sister trailing behind him, my attention shifted to another family.

Her name was Mildred and she was 99 years old. (I know this because as three employees helped her sign her name on an electronic signature pad, one of them announced, “She’ll be 100 in January.”)

Mildred looked ancient as she sat in her wheel chair. She wore brown polyester slacks pulled up farther than looked comfortable, a white turtle neck sweater, and hot pink socks with colorful flowers printed on them. And black Crocs. She was pushed to the counter by her elderly daughter. Mildred’s daughter propped her up against the counter and the employee asked, “What’s your name?”

“What?” Mildred replied.

“What’s your name?” 

“What?” She asked again.

“HE’S ASKING WHAT YOUR NAME IS!” Mildred's daughter yelled in her ear.

This continued for a while. And then the next question came.

“How long have you lived in Washington?”

“What?”

“How long have you lived in Washington?”

“What?”

“HE WANTS TO KNOW HOW LONG YOU’VE LIVED IN WASHINGTON!”

“I don’t know,” Mildred answered, as if he’d just asked her the circumference of Jupiter.

“I hope she’s not getting her license renewed,” I whispered in my daughter's ear, instantly feeling guilty for being judgmental, yet secretly proud of my comedic timing.

There were ten people (my daughter among them) waiting to be photographed, but Mildred was ushered to the front of the line. Her daughter pushed the wheelchair right up to the blue curtain and yelled, “YOU’RE GETTING YOUR PICTURE TAKEN, YOU NEED SOME COLOR IN YOUR CHEEKS. PINCH YOUR CHEEKS LIKE THIS!” That message took a long time to convey, as you can imagine. Mildred began pinching her cheeks and I watched, worried that her thin skin might tear.

It took a while to get the picture taken because Mildred had trouble keeping her eyes open. But they finally managed to get an acceptable photo and Mildred was wheeled out of the DMV. As the doors closed behind them I heard her ask in a bewildered tone, “What are we doing?”

My daughter's name was called next and as I watched her get her driver’s permit I thought about Tyrone and Mildred. I imagined Mildred, seventy five years ago, as a young mother with Tyrone as her son:

The two of them stand in line at the Horse and Carriage Licensing Department, Tyrone screams and misbehaves. Mildred lovingly and patiently gives him a warning, Tyrone refuses to listen. There is not a second warning. She doesn’t offer him a Sarsparilla or a bit of horehound if he behaves, Mildred simply scoops him up, lays him across her lap, and spanks his butt. He cries. She hugs Tyrone and tells him she loves him, but that kind of behavior won’t be tolerated. She holds him until he stops crying, then plops in him a chair with a slate and a piece of chalk to keep him busy. The men remove their stovepipe hats and the women fan themselves as they all rise and give Mildred a standing ovation. She nods shyly and dabs her eyes with her kerchief, patting Tyrone on the knee….

My daydreaming ended abruptly when my daughter approached, holding her new driver’s permit. Tyrone and Mildred vanished from my mind and were replaced by visions of my family and me, trapped, hanging upside down in our mini-van, dangling precariously over shark-infested waters, secured only by our seat belts, after our new driver accidentally drove us off a bridge. These thoughts should keep me occupied for a while.

Some People Never Change

This year has been a year of change for my family and me. And change is good, right? Self-help books and bumper stickers tell me so all the time (unless the “change” we’re talking about has to do with the climate. Then it’s bad. Bumper stickers tell me that, too.) But this week I have had a rough time dealing with all this change. A few days ago, I registered my first baby girl for Driver’s Ed, then my baby boy turned fourteen, and then recently I noticed it’s time for my last baby girl to get a training bra. Add that to the evening I spent watching home movies of “the good ol’ days,” and I've pretty much been crying since last Friday. Everything and everyone is changing. How do I make it stop?

So I was grateful for the phone call I received this morning reminding me that not everything changes—some things, some people, stay the same.

First, let’s go back to another phone call I received in 2006:

“Hello, Mrs. Niemeyer? I’m calling about Jackson,” the school secretary said.

“Is he okay?” I asked, the panic already in full effect because I was raised to worry about anything and everything.

“Oh, he’s fine. He just thought he would be a magician today and make a bead disappear... By sticking it in his ear. And now the school nurse can’t get it out,” she replied, and I could hear her stifling a giggle.

“I’ll be right there,” I said.

But first, I called our pediatrician: “Hi, this is Rachel Niemeyer, I’m calling about Jackson,” I said when Ms. Becky answered the phone.

“Uh oh, what did he shove up his nose this time?” Ms. Becky said.

“Actually, he stuck a bead in his ear. Because he was performing a magic trick,” I threw in the last part thinking it might add a bit of mystique and prestige to the story.

She laughed and told me to come right in. Jackson was infamous at Dr. T’s office for an incident that occurred right before his fourth birthday. During an appointment for an ingrown toe nail, the doctor found a toy cell phone button (the # sign, if you’re curious) lodged securely in his nasal passage. Removing it was quite an ordeal, and to this day, Dr. T still teases Jackson about it. 

When I picked up my six year old boy from school, he was more concerned with telling me how his friends thought he was really magic than he was about the trapped bead that was already causing hearing loss.

“Which ear is it, sweetie?” The nurse asked Jackson when he was on the exam table.

“2006,” said my beautiful, smart boy.

Now let’s get back to the phone call I received this morning. Chad called to tell me that while he was at work, Jackson called him from school. After nearly eighteen years of marriage, I have trained Chad to always immediately assume the worst in all situations, so he went into high alert. But Jackson was laughing.

“We had a bit of an adventure today, Dad,” he said.

Instantly, Chad’s mind went to the same place all minds of parents with teenage boys would go: He skipped school. He went out to the woods and did something bad. He’s drunk—he sounds drunk, why is he laughing?

Jackson delivered the bomb: “My friends and I ate packing peanuts."

"What?"

"Ms. Sweet told us we were knuckleheads and made us call you in case we get stomachaches and stuff,” Jackson said.

As Chad told me the story this morning, I envisioned getting a phone call from Jackson’s wife in twenty years. “Mom!” she’ll say, (she’ll call me mom because we’ll be best friends and hang out all the time) “Do you know what your son did?” And she’ll proceed to tell me that my grown boy, in an effort to impress his wife, swallowed/stuck/shoved something somewhere and they were on their way to the hospital.

And I will tell her, “You know, Emily, some people never change.”

Man, I Feel Like a Woman

Josh and Me - 1986
(I'll let you figure out which one I am)

I was nine years old when it first happened—when I learned people didn't always see me quite the same way I saw myself.  It was the summer of 1986 and I was at Lakefair with my family. I was devouring an elephant ear, wishing I was old enough to hang out by the Gravitron where all the teenagers stood, defiantly pitying fools in their Mr. Rags t-shirts and jean jackets. I was standing on the sidewalk, planning my ride itinerary, when I heard a woman say to her daughter, “Watch out for that boy,” just as the girl bumped into me. The two of them continued on and there I stood, with an over-sized chunk of elephant ear hanging out of my mouth, wondering if I heard her correctly.

Boy?! I thought.

I'm not a boy! Okay, maybe my short hair and 3-inch rattail made it unclear that I’m a girl, but surely my Michael Jackson t-shirt and black parachute pants… oh, wait…. oh, yeah, okay… I see it.

And that, my friends, was the first time I heard someone call me a boy. But it certainly wasn’t the last. 

I played He-Man vs. Skeletor and wished I could trade in the My Little Pony Dream Castle someone gave me for Castle Grayskull. I rode bikes at the dirt hills and spent every recess playing two-hand touch football with the boys. My hero was (and still is) Rocky Balboa and my cousin Josh and I carefully choreographed our pre-boxing match workouts to “Eye of the Tiger.” At times I felt confused because I had a crush on, yet wanted to actually BE, Daniel Russo.

None of these things were even remotely abnormal to me. What was strange, however, was sitting on the floor in a scratchy dress, playing with dolls (unless the dolls were Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker, and I was re-creating what was, to my 9 year-old-self, the most profound scene that ever came out of Hollywood). I didn't understand the appeal of painting fingernails and styling hair. I was completely content to live the rest of my life wrestling boys and having butt-buster contests with them off the high dive.

I suppose I never fully outgrew my tomboy side; I still prefer hanging out with the guys, and I’m about as socially awkward in a group of women as Rocky was while he taped the Beast Aftershave commercial in Rocky II. Eventually though, people stopped calling me a boy (well, Chad still does) and I grew into the delicate, feminine lady you have come to know and love.

I could go on, but I need to go work on my motorcycle and spit.

They're All Gonna Laugh At You

My last semester of college-level Spanish was coming to an end. I had spent four years studying, practicing, and mastering this beautiful language, and, finally, the time had come for me to say adios to Spanish class. I was confident that I could now travel to any Latin community, summon the waiter at a restaurant, and successfully order two Coca-colas, please. I could tell him that my eyes are brown (they’re actually hazel, but no one knows how to say THAT in Spanish), that I like to go to the beach, and that the librarian is very skinny.

As I walked into the classroom one last time, my amigo Lee (amigo means friend in case you’re not bilingual like I am) was sitting at our table holding what appeared to be a flash card. I sat down, ready to practice our new words for the day, and in my best Spanish accent I read the two words written on the flash card to the other students at the table:

“Grah-day esteh-mah-tay. Weird, I have no clue what that means.” I said, a little nervous because after 4 years I was pretty sure I knew all the Spanish words.

“Uh, Rachel? It says 'Grade Estimate,' Lee said, turning over his card and revealing the letter A written in red ink. I was suddenly concerned that my grah-day esteh-mah-tay wouldn't be quite as high as Lee's.

Sometimes in life we say really stupid things. Every now and then, our brains short circuit, our common sense abandons us, or we might have added a little too much bourbon to our morning coffee. Some of us are just giant klutzes fumbling through life. My point is, why do we pretend like we aren’t all 5 seconds away from the most embarrassing moment of our lives?

Oh, you don’t think my Spanish story qualifies as the mother of all humiliation? How about this one:

I decided to attend a women’s breakfast at church because someone told me I really needed to make friends (thanks, Mom). I went to the breakfast by myself and found an empty seat at a table with seven older women who all knew each other. I tried to participate in the conversation, but none of the women seemed interested in my comments, which shocked me because I thought I was on a roll. Twenty minutes in, I heard someone say the word, “Disneyland," and I knew that this was my moment. I was about to make a new friend.

“I’m taking David to Disneyland; he’s ten and this will be our first time,” said one of the ladies.

“Oh my gosh! You’re taking your grandson to Disneyland!” I said, ready to offer any helpful tips and answer the multitude of questions I was sure she would have.

“David is my son,” she said, as laser beams shot at me from her bifocals. Her face reddened, complimenting her freshly permed salt-and-pepper hair.

I could go on and on regaling you with stories of my utter humiliation. Like when I was twelve years old and a teenage boy (who I had a huge crush on) tickled me so hard that I tooted while sitting on a countertop made of very thick, very hard wood. (In case you're unaware, solid wood countertops make incredible amplifiers.) I saw him six years later and the first thing he said to me was, "remember when you farted?"

I just want you to know that your incredibly embarrassing, most mortifying moments—the ones from which you think you’ll never recover—will one day be a source of great amusement. Especially for your family. And for those who were there to witness your disgrace. And for your children. And probably your grandchildren.

It’s alright. Go ahead and laugh at yourself. Everyone else is.

A Lesson From My Cats

When we moved from Tacoma to Olympia it was a big change. But mostly for our cats. We decided to introduce Kitty Cross-Eyed and Jake Jammies to their new home one at a time, so they could each have a chance to adjust to their new life. Kitty Cross-Eyed was first. He was such a good boy—lazy, clumsy, and unintentionally hilarious—he was a perfect fit for our family. We brought him in his cat carrier to our backyard, opened the door for him, and he sauntered out.  He slowly walked the perimeter of the yard, sniffing every shrub, and every blade of grass, deciding which spot was best for napping, and which was best for… well, napping. He took his time getting used to his new home, and when he was finished, he lay down in the grass and looked contently off into the middle distance (or straight into my eyes. It was hard to tell with him).

Jake Jammies, on the other hand, was a bastard. That’s the only word I have in my vocabulary that adequately describes him. Once I found him in my closet, pooping on a shirt that had slid off the hanger onto the floor. And he just looked up at me like a defiant kid looks at his parents while touching something he’s not supposed to, with that “What are you gonna do?” expression. While Jake Jammies was waiting his turn in the cat carrier, he was screaming like someone was lighting him on fire. When we opened the door of the carrier for him he ran out ready to attack someone. He looked left, then looked right, and then running at full speed, Jake Jammies jumped our five-foot fence and we never saw him again.

Life changes for all of us. How do we  react? How do we adapt? I suggest that we learn a lesson from my cat. From both of my cats, actually. If we can learn how to avoid starting forest fires from a bear wearing jeans, and how to give a hoot about not polluting from a Peter-Pan hat-wearing owl, then we can certainly learn a lesson about how to handle change from an obese cross-eyed cat. And how not to handle it from a demonic one. 

When you are faced with a life change that you didn’t ask for, or that you didn’t expect, the best thing for you and everyone around you, is to examine every aspect slowly and carefully. And when you’re done, and you realize this is just the way it's going to be now, go ahead and lie down and make yourself at home. Don’t be a bastard. Don’t poop on other people’s things, and don’t run away leaving a bunch of crying kids behind.  Your life won't get better if you run away. You'll probably be picked up by the pound and euthanized because you're a jerk.

Why I Laugh

My sister and I received a sweet e-mail from our mom recently. (I didn’t ask my mom's permission to share it because I’m the baby in the family and we get away with these kinds of things.)

Mom wrote: "I love you guys! I just feel like I need to tell you all that today for some reason.  I'm being emotional.  But I love my family so much and you girls and your husbands are so great, I just want you to know how much I love you!”

Here’s my reply:

“Leah and Mom, This e-mail was very timely. I wanted to tell you both something. I got some test results from my doctor yesterday and they aren’t good. I mean really not good.

Just kidding. I love you, too.”

Humor is a very complicated and wonderful enigma. It brings some people together and divides others, it relieves tension or causes it, it makes most people laugh but there are always the few who end up confused or upset. But above all, humor makes an incredible shield and a fun coping strategy.

How do you cope with the hard things in life? Do you drink too much? Self-medicate with illegal or prescription drugs? Impulsively shop? Compulsively clean? Compulsively hoard? Do you play a cute little game of make-believe with your life? Work out like Jane Fonda on crack? (I’m sure there is a more relevant illustration of a fitness guru, but I’m a stranger to the culture of “exercise.”) We all have some way of coping. Every single one of us.  Now, there are many people who are perfectly stable, knowing how to deal with the stresses of life in a healthy, normal way.

Just kidding. There aren’t.

One of the things that annoy me more than anything else in this world is having to explain myself. So please, let me explain myself: I make jokes. It’s just what I do. I instinctively find humor in everything because of the heart-breaking despair in most things.

I am about to compare myself to Steve Martin. I know, I know—it’s like Kim Kardashian comparing herself to Mother Theresa, but just hear me out. In his autobiography, “Born Standing Up,” he describes a brutal beating his dad inflicted on him when he was 9 years old. And how it ruined their relationship for the next 30 years. Steve (I pretend we’re on a first-name basis) writes, "I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know… I am qualified to be a comedian." 

If you look, you will find a hundred examples of comedians with similar stories. Bob Newhart said, “I think there’s some trauma, probably, in a comedian’s background, or upbringing that this is the way we compensate for it.” The funnier the comedian, the more painful the past. Please know I am not calling myself a comedian, but merely saying that I relate to their methods.

There is a reason people spend their lives being funny.

I have reasons for making jokes. And I don't need to explain them. 

If I don’t laugh about life, I will spend large portions of my day sobbing hysterically. Who wants to see that? Who wants to do that? And so I joke. The security-blanket-like protection it offers is just a cool bonus.

When my second step-mother swallowed a bottle of Xanax and hurled us into the horrific aftermath of suicide, humor (what little I could find) is what made the whole disaster manageable. And my sisters allowed me to make jokes when most people would’ve labeled me insensitive. The fact is, I am so overly-sensitive I don’t know how to deal with that much emotion.

You can sympathetically shake your head, and say “you poor thing, I’m glad I don’t do that.” And I will reply, “You probably don’t. But you do something.”

Speaking of replies…Here’s Leah’s response to my e-mail:

“You are an ass.  I mean really an ass!” 

A few minutes later I received a follow-up e-mail from her:

“...I cannot believe it.  I almost ran out the door and down Martin Way.  That was so scary.  I just knew it was cancer and you were gonna be gone by your birthday.”

I still haven’t heard from my mom.

Life is Beautiful

Have you ever noticed that it takes an adult to explain to a child that dandelions are not pretty flowers?  A child looks at dandelions and sees these magnificent beauties that would look perfect in a jar on mommy’s kitchen table. Apparently, a grown-up’s duty is to inform these little people that dandelions are ugly.  That they are unwelcome, bothersome weeds that should be destroyed—poisoned, cut down, dug up, and permanently disposed of—so we can be free to enjoy our yards the way they are meant to be: plain and green, with no trace of those hideous yellow intruders.  A child would never come to this conclusion alone.  A child must be taught the strange ways of the adult world. 

A few years ago, I was faced with the task of explaining to my 11-year-old daughter what abortion is. I knew the burden I was about to place on my innocent girl, and I knew I was chipping away a little more of that protective covering she had enjoyed all these years. As I began to speak, I struggled to find my voice as though it were the first time I had ever formed a sentence.  Inside, I fumbled and choked on my words but on the outside, I managed to appear composed and articulate. Each utterance was carefully considered before it left my mouth and entered my daughter’s ears, mind, and heart, where it would permanently settle for the rest of her life. I was looking at my first born child and telling her that sometimes, for reasons I cannot understand, a mother thinks of that tiny life growing inside her as nothing more than a dandelion.

Alison’s reaction should come as no surprise to anyone - she was utterly speechless. I watched the confusion and disbelief appear in her eyes, and we sat in deafening silence. Not once did she nod slowly, absorbing the information, and then thoughtfully say, “Well, I suppose a lady has a right to do what she wants to her own body.”  There was never a moment where Alison assumed that unborn babies aren’t really babies at all but simply unviable masses of tissue.  My daughter, at only 11 years old, understood exactly what abortion is.  And she was properly horrified.

As I taught my own baby girl about abortion, we discussed the beauty of life and the precious gift that it is. We considered the unbearable pain for both the mother and unborn child. As we talked about the more than 50 million babies that have been cut down and destroyed as though they were common weeds, we imagined them as beautiful babies made whole, and we grieved for all of them.

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart…” Jeremiah 1:5

Your Mom Goes To College

In 1998, in the midst of morning sickness and exhaustion, I received my Associates of Arts degree from North Seattle Community College.  Soon after, I tucked away that degree, quit my part-time job at a software company, had my first baby, and became a stay-at-home mom for 15 years. Though I often dreamed of returning to school one day, I have never once regretted my choice. I dedicated my life to shaping little lives, cleaning giant spills, and being a teacher of all things.

Not long ago, I began to notice my children needing me less and less, and it hit me that in a few short years they will be gone.  I then understood that it might be wise to have a plan for myself so that when they do go, I don’t find myself in the loony bin, rocking back and forth, weeping in a corner. The idea of returning to school came to my mind, and then it never left. And it was a scary thing to think about.

You know the feeling of swimming in the ocean, right along the shore where the waves are crashing, and as you try to paddle out beyond the surf to where the waters are calm, the waves keep heaving you back onto the shore, and you can’t seem to get past them? That’s how I felt for the past two years as I struggled with the decision to go back to college. I would think it’s just a passing phase, the kids aren’t ready for me to be gone, I’ll miss out on their lives, we can’t afford it… each thought spitting me back onto the shore of indecision where I had stood long enough. I’d paddle through the waves of second-guessing, self-doubt, and worry, just in time to be bombarded by a larger and stronger wave of guilt for wanting to do something for myself. I should just stay home because I know I’m needed here. And I’m good at what I do. Also, I’m 36. That is twice the age of the average college freshman for those of you who struggle with math (which I do.)

Finally, a wave (in the form of my husband) came along that not only forced me away from the shore, but guided me into those calm waters where I was to begin a new part of my journey.

“You need to be in school. It’s where you belong. Stop making excuses,” he said.

“Your mom makes excuses,” I replied, resorting to our inside-joke slash defense-mechanism that always makes the other one laugh. (I said I was 36, I didn’t say I was mature.)

But this time, Chad didn’t laugh. “Either go back to school or don’t, but you need to make a decision.” I assumed he said this because he was just tired of hearing me talk about it. But that sentence changed my life.

I had been researching which college I would apply to IF I were to apply, which I wouldn’t do because I probably wouldn’t get accepted, and then who would take care of my family after I’ve abandoned them, and then what if I’m in over my head because I’m really not that smart, I don’t remember how to do homework, and, and, and… [You have just been introduced to the professional second-guesser that resides in my mind. She is in the process of being evicted, but she’s a fighter. I can’t even drag her out by force because she has permanently embedded herself into my mind. I affectionately call her “Mother.”]

Chad and I prayed a lot during this time. God has always put me right where He wants me to be in life, so there should be no need to worry about doing the right thing. If He wants me to go to college, I’ll go to college. He wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom, and that was a huge success; our children have grown into incredibly smart and lovely human beings. It was impossible to know what I should do. I wavered for months between that strong faith in God, and the feeling that if I went back to college I was securing my eternal place in hell for making the wrong choice.

I decided to apply for Evergreen State College as my first step, although I had read Saint Martin’s program for their English Major (with a writing minor), and my knees went weak and I nearly cried the way you do when God gives you the exact answer you need and confirms immediately that THIS is what He wants for you. But I pushed that feeling aside because Evergreen was cheap! Evergreen was easy! I knew I could get into that school! Not only could I get accepted to Evergreen, but I could make up my own degree in fairy dust-manufacturing and wear a giant diaper to graduation and be applauded for my creativity and stance against the “Man.”

“I’ll go to Evergreen. That way we can just pay cash because it costs like, a dollar,” I told Chad.

“You’ll hate it,” he said as if he were warning me not to eat the cat poop that I was about to put in my mouth. “Where do you want to go?”

“Well, Saint Martin’s has this amazing—“ that’s all I was able to say before he interrupted me.

“Then go to Saint Martin’s,” he said.

“But it’s $30,000 a year, and I’m not smart enough, and—“

“I’m telling you to go to Saint Martins, you’ll be the smartest one there,” he said patiently, being very familiar with the unwelcome tenant in my head.

So I applied. And not only was I accepted, but they offered me a Presidential Scholarship for the grades I had received 15 years ago. And before I knew it, I was sitting in a classroom at Saint Martin’s University, surrounded by young adults who were just as content ignoring the overly-excited old lady in class as I was to be ignored.

It’s been 6 weeks and I now know that the timing was perfect for me to return to college. How do I know I’m ready for college? Because I feel as though there is no possible way that I can do this. And my feelings lie to me all the time. So I feel ill-prepared. Good. It’s time to be uncomfortable. It’s time to finally evict that cynic from my head, and know that if this mom can raise three brilliant children, chances are, this mom can go to college.