How to Play the Guitar Like Me

            

(This is my step-by-step process for playing the guitar. Feel free to tailor it however you'd like, there is no one way to play, as long as your music speaks to you. As Longfellow said, "Music is the universal language of mankind." And as I say, "Yep.")

Nineteen years ago, a boy taught me how to play certain parts of certain songs and I have never forgotten how. Well, I’ve never forgotten how to play certain parts of certain parts of certain songs. So I’ll explain that.

The guitar I play is a classical guitar, which means it has nylon strings (acoustics have steel strings) and it has a wider neck than an acoustic guitar. The sound is much more mellow and “folksy.” I didn't know this at the time, instead, I liked the color of the wood. I recommend choosing your instrument based solely on appearance. I bought the guitar at a pawn shop on my eighteenth birthday. I also bought a pair of Doc Marten’s from Joon’s head shop in Lakewood. It was a good birthday.

First, I take the guitar out of the attic and blow off the dust. I have an allergy attack and go upstairs to find tissues. I notice my linen closet is in complete disarray so I rearrange and organize a bit. I go back to my guitar. I unzip the case and remove the guitar. The initial strum of the strings tells me the guitar needs tuning. I call my husband, Chad, who tunes it for me. I’m not sure how this is done. I think magic is involved. And turning the pegs on the neck just so. But mostly magic.

Once the guitar is tuned (I know it’s tuned because Chad tells me it is) I situate the guitar in my lap, holding the neck in my left hand with the strings facing away from me. This part is important to remember for the novice. I wrote a poem to help you remember:

Guitar strings away

Easy to play.

(After a while, this part will become second nature, be patient with yourself.) I spend the next three minutes trying to recall finger placement for the intro to Metallica’s “One.” This is where those around me hear a lot of:

“No wait…. Okay... listen now—no—wait. Okay, watch. How come this isn’t working?”

Finally, I realize that my fingers are on the wrong part of the fingerboard, which means I’m playing the wrong notes. I can’t tell you what the notes are called, only that they’re the wrong ones.

Eventually, my fingers find the right strings. This is usually an accident. By this time, everyone has left the room. I begin to play the song. I can’t use a pick because it messes me up, but I’m pretty sure the song would sound better with a pick. Also, it might sound better on an electric guitar, but I don't have one of those.  I begin to play the notes and at this point, I once again say:

“Wait, No... Okay… No. Wait... I hate this stupid guitar.”

I pick—with my fingers, not an actual pick, because those are hard—my way through the first eight or nine seconds of the song. Because that’s all I know. I call my family to come back in the room. They seem to not hear me. I yell louder. I get up and take the guitar into the other room where they are squeezed together behind the curtains, standing as still as statues. This tells me they are waiting for me to perform and don’t want to be a distraction while I play. I perform for them.

It takes a few minutes of fumbling, but I finally play my piece. They slowly step out from behind the curtain. My kids’ faces bear the expression of someone who just watched a natural childbirth for the first time. As I begin to ask what their reaction means, I’m interrupted by Chad, who puts his arm around me and says, “Rachie, how do you do that?” I offer to teach him but he quickly excuses himself to answer the front door. Which is weird, because I didn’t hear a knock.

That is how I play a guitar. There are multiple techniques and methods by which you too can learn to play, and I hope you find one you love. Remember, it took me nineteen years to get where I am. 

Forgetting Molly

If I could forget any pet I’ve ever owned, I would erase Molly from my memory. Molly was the teacup poodle I had in 1985, when I was eight years old. My mom bought her and gave her the hideously refined AKC name “Good Golly Miss Molly.” I was embarrassed to call her that so she simply went by “Molly.” Molly was my best friend. We snuggled in my favorite blanket together and watched Saturday morning cartoons. I taught her how to dance for treats and when she stood on her back legs, she was barely taller than my Cabbage Patch Preemie, Cassandra Marie. Molly reluctantly allowed me to shove her into piles of stuffed animals where she sat patiently while I conducted photo shoots. I was a child who got along better with dogs than I did with humans, and Molly was the love of my young life.

One sunny Saturday morning, my dad took my sister Leah and me to play baseball at the school in our neighborhood. We loaded our dogs and that god-awful Louisville Slugger into Dad’s dull grey Chevy pickup and drove five blocks to Lydia Hawk Elementary School. I wanted so badly to amaze Dad with my non-existent baseball skills; I was determined to win his affection. So it seemed a particularly cruel twist of fate that instead of bonding with my father, I ended up beating sweet Molly to death with the Louisville Slugger. 

Here's what happened...

Targhee and Molly 

While Dad pitched, Leah and I took turns swinging at (and rarely connecting with) the ball. Targhee, our German shorthaired pointer, brought us rocks to throw into the bushes so she could hunt for them but Molly didn’t venture far from my side. I imagine she felt safe next to me in that big dirt field. I was, after all, her protector.

It was my turn at bat and I directed all my focus toward Dad, ready to impress. I took a few practice swings and then, as I swung the heavy bat backwards with all my might so I could rest it on my shoulder, I heard the sickening hollow THUNK that thirty years later I still can’t shake from my mind. 

I turned and looked at the ground where Molly lay motionless at my feet. From the corner of my eye I saw Leah take off in a full sprint heading the opposite direction straight through the gate and down the street. In a choked whisper, Dad said, “Rachel, go to the truck.” And so I ran. Pure panic set in and I couldn’t even think. I climbed into the back of the truck and maybe I cried. Maybe I prayed. Maybe I hyperventilated. I was eight years old. What was I supposed to do?

Dad returned to the truck and as I gasped for the air that refused to fill my lungs I asked him, “Is she okay?” He just shook his head and wouldn't look at me.

He wrapped Molly’s tiny body in his shirt and laid her in the front seat. Leah and I rode home silently in the truck bed, terrified and stunned. When we pulled into the driveway I jumped out and ran to my room to get my favorite blanket. I hugged the dusty pink calico fabric to my chest as I carried it down the hallway and placed it in Dad’s hands. I told him to wrap Molly in it when he buried her. In my childish mind, she would need it to keep warm at night. I’d had that blanket longer than I could remember but Molly needed it more than I did. I had just aged twenty years and it was useless to me now.

My mom sat on the couch staring out the window probably thinking, where is THIS chapter in the parenting books? Meanwhile, to keep myself from crying, I did cartwheels around the living room. I flipped around the floor like Mary Lou Retton at the previous year’s Olympics, fighting back the tears and trying to erase the images that were already permanently etched in my too-young-for-this brain. I knew if I stopped doing cartwheels I’d cry and then how would I ever stop. People do weird things to keep from collapsing into despair.

It was a horrible accident that left me traumatized, and for a long time I was unable to even pick up a bat. I had the bonus of being teased by family and friends when I was finally able to play baseball again. They would say, “Everyone, get the dogs away from Rachel!” and other hysterical wise-cracks. I still can’t play baseball without remembering what I did. Or swing a golf club, or hammer a nail, or watch a coconut fall on Gilligan’s head, or...

I’m almost forty and sometimes I still do cartwheels, hoping that one day I will finally forget about Molly.

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.