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.