serenity now

After a day of analyzing over and over whether or not I’m living my place in the world just how I should and of reading all the noise online that alternately inspires me, frightens me, depresses me, thrills me, or sends me into the throes of jealousy from which I have to talk myself out with the rational knowledge that each of us has our own story to live – after all that, or smack dab in the middle of it, there’s nothing like a hug from this guy to make everything make sense again. But still, I stand by my title.

My family will have expected a post like this today, because Parents as Teachers came again. Oi to the Vay. Why does pure sunshine turn to pure stubborn the moment that woman says, “What’s this a picture of?” Why? I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t. Michael was here for moral support and to help with the post-apocalypse lecture. There were tears. And I know we just have to keep enduring the agony and the despair because if we tell that sweet little woman to stop coming and to stop making him participate in life then he will win and he may never participate in any part of life he’s not thrilled about. Right? I mean, I think this is right. But it’s Exhibit A, People. Parenting is hard.

Exhibit B. When I drop Jake off at school, he is the soul of independence. Goodbye, Mom, don’t walk me to the breakfast table, I need to “Hey Guys” my friends and high-five my table-mates and take on the day. Your work is done here. But when I pick him up, and the teacher sees me coming up the sidewalk, she calls his name and releases him through the door, and it’s like I’m the best part of his day. So he runs.

He runs to me. Arms flailing, feet flying, voice yelling my name. It’s awesome. The problem is, he does it DIRECTLY AFTER BEING TOLD, “Now don’t run, Jake. Use your walking feet.”

So I watch every single day as they tell him that, knowing he has every intention of completely ignoring every single word of it, and then he runs to me and I have to decide whether to swoop him up and thank him for running to me and stick my tongue out at the school and spit. Or to scold him for disobeying the order they give – for his safety – and which he definitely knows by heart now.

The truth is, my response varies. Today I scolded – gently, smilingly, attempting to attach to the scolding the subliminal message that I’d rather he run to me than not – and so he cried. He cried pitifully and heartbreakingly so that the teacher herself came out and tried to help him not feel badly anymore. I was still trying to talk him through it when I got him to the car. And you know what he said then? “I can’t walk. I have to run.” To which I said, “I adore that about you, Jake Kenneth.” And parenting is hard.

I’ve offered to guest host Serenity’s blog a few times, mostly in jest (she doesn’t trust me – with good reason), but I finally decided that I should really take a shot at it. Seren, I promise to behave myself. What’s the worst that could happen to me, right? I mean, it’s not like she has a bunch of writers on here, critiquing my every word…

I’ll preface my post by acknowledging that I could not be more out of my element than right at this moment. I am akin to a fish that is waterless. However, given my present lack of good judgment, I will press on. I am a supreme novice when it comes to the world of blogging, although I do think I understand its most basic concepts. I realize that in the grand scheme of things, I’m writing this more for Serenity than anyone else, but I also realize that my topic of choice could not be more commonly shared by so many people. So, all of the writers that are logging in, I kindly thank you in advance for keeping your editorial comments to yourself. All non-writers, don’t even think about it.

I, like most men, am not a complex creature. I have a few hobbies, things that I’m interested in, but nothing all that fascinating. I think about things: Religion, politics, will the Tigers stay in the Big 12? But that doesn’t mean I have an overwhelming urge, or even an underwhelming urge, to share those thoughts with anyone. I have friends, although I’m not sure they know that. I have things I want to accomplish in life, and even though it may take me longer than I thought, I’ll get there. I’m just your average, run of the mill guy who married a hot chick way out of his league.

My life is arranged simply: God, my wife, my kids, family, friends, and Clay (my Lab –last but not necessarily least). That’s it. If I find myself giving more importance to things other than what’s on my list, it’s time to stop and reevaluate. I don’t like things complicated, I want to keep it simple. And for those who really know Serenity, I’m sure you’re laughing right now. Yeah…complete awareness of the one you marry – did not have it.

On June 16, 2005, my simple life got messed with. Cancer. Seren and I had been thinking about our third child that would arrive in 8 months, and now we were wondering if she would even live that long. What do you do when everything you’ve been given, even life itself, is being threatened? Well, you live. I couldn’t be more proud of how Serenity made the decision that she was going to live, for however long that might be. And over the last five years, we’ve tasted the bitter and the sweet that life has to offer, and we’ve kept putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes we were taking steps into what seemed like a great unknown, not sure if there was going to be solid ground under our feet when they landed, but we always seemed to find our way. Our faith was tested time after time. And if we stumbled, there were always friends and family members around to help us along. I’m not suggesting that Serenity beat cancer because of our faith in God, but I will tell you, we’ve lived because of our faith in God. And however many days we are given, we’ll live.

So Seren, thanks for not leaving me. When I wake up early in the mornings, I’m very grateful that you are still lying next to me in bed…then I get up, go pee, and go back to sleep – stupid diet coke right before bed.

John gets his 80s on for a Decades Party. Authentic pinch-rolling by me.

I’ve been catching up on my InStyle reading, and I’ve learned some things you may care about. First, it is always spelled as one word. I’m pretty sure I’ve done that wrong on this blog before. (I learned this little tidbit in the Fifteenth Anniversary issue). The other thing I’ve noticed made me gasp and shudder and say these words, “The Eighties called. They want their clothes back.”

I’m not even kidding people – shoulder pads, harem pants (canNOT believe my mother ever let me wear something by this name), and – you know – big belts and buckles and stuff. Ug. In junior high Jason and Stephan and I made a bet with Mrs. Schlapia, the home-ec teacher. She bet us a Pepsi each that we’d be wearing bell bottoms by our senior year in high school, because all trends come back around. She didn’t win. I wasn’t wearing them until a year or so after my senior year (and I seriously doubt Jason and Stephen ever succumbed). But I think she could have bet me again on the Eighties. I thought that era was a terrible phase for the universe, like the year I tried to be a tomboy. I thought we could ALL look at those pictures and say what-were-we-thinking, Never Again, and put down that Aussie hairspray immediately, Missie, you’re going to break something – like the Ozone.

So, anyway, you’ll forgive me, InStyle issue September 2009, if I don’t run out for an updated version of the harem pants trend, something that really should never have existed in the first place, even if you’ve spotted actual celebrities in them. (Mrs. Schlapia, if you’re reading, I’ll buy you the Pepsi this time if I ever eat these words. Ever.)

There is one thing, though, that I’m way psyched to have kept from the Era of Aussie, like, totally, and that’s my husband. He’s every-day proof that life is better when you have someone to champion for you all the time no matter what. And he’s guest-posting on my blog this week. He’s going to give his take on something I talk about quite a bit around here and affectionately call The Cancer Year. And when you read it, I think you’ll see why I’m such a proponent of – well – him.

Back in the Caringbridge days, i.e., the days when people followed my health through CaringBridge.org, I became one of those people – one of those people who “wishes I could thank everyone personally, but…”

Every day at least one person left a message on the site, telling me they were praying for me, thinking of me and Jake – then known only as “the baby” – anxious to hear the latest update. It was always at least one because on the day that no one wrote, Uncle Kris wrote again.

And there were so many – people who knew me before I was born, people who didn’t meet me until fifth grade when I moved to Edina, people who’d only known me a few years. I was constantly afraid I would run into one of them in town – a person who’d taken the time to write on that site – and in the midst of the stress I was facing and the fact that there were so many, I wouldn’t think to say it. “Thank you so much for writing. It made all the difference in the world.” And that would be awful. How in the world could I possibly thank each one? How could I make them know that their words, their quotation, their scripture, meant as much to me as the next person’s did, as much as the person’s before that. Each one as special as if that person was the first and only person to think of me.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t convince anyone of that. I would run into people I wouldn’t stop to thank. And no one would ever know exactly how I cried or laughed when I read their comment, or when I took a breath and realized that oh-thank-God, perhaps I can face the next day after all.

Luke was one of those friends, and his wife Angela. And maybe this one little thing I can do for them will mean as much to them as their emotional support meant to me.

If you like coffee – take a look at the link to the right and consider buying Grounds for Hope. It’s certified Fair Trade. So it doesn’t just put money towards an adoption Luke and Angela are pursuing. It means something to families in developing countries as well.

If anyone else who left even two words on that website needs to raise money for your own adoption or a barn-raising or world travel, you know where to come. And if any of you wondered if I noticed that you wrote, I hope now you know that I did.

The shoulder. By Tattooist Andrew Bohon.

Because I like for you to have a new post on Monday morning, but it’s Sunday night as I write this and I’m totally strapped for a brilliant blogging idea, I’m going to pretend I get emails all the time with questions that I could compile into a Frequently Asked Questions section and now I’m pulling a couple of them out at random. So remember, these questions are made up. But I’m answering them like you actually care. (P.S. I blame the post-idea-drought on a funny saying Michael found online the other day:

Blogging: Never have so many with so little to say said so much to so few.

It’s really true, isn’t it? On with the Frequently Asked Questions:

What’s the deal with your writing these days? Well, I’ll tell ya. My memoir sits in publishing limbo. There was some interest but no offer. It was the ultimate not-personal-just-business sort of experience since I got a lot of encouragement about the writing, but the biggest no-factor was that unfortunately the cancer story isn’t all that unique and tragically, no one knows who you are (which in publishing terms is put in much kinder terms: You don’t have a strong enough platform.) In case you’re wondering, I’m totally cool about the whole thing. I still believe that book will be published someday. I just might have to accomplish some other things first.

Which brings me to book #2. I wrote a novel next. I’d always intended to pursue fiction. I would love to be in the great, beautiful world of storytelling. So that’s what I’m going for. That manuscript is in my agent’s corner now. She’ll tell me if the idea is marketable and, if so, then how much revision it will take to make the marketable idea actually ready for the market. I have no idea what will come of this book, if anything. And, weirdly, I’m cool with this too. It was my first, and there are lots and lots of published authors who didn’t get their first book published first, if ever. Yikes.

Which brings me to book #3. I’ve barely begun this one. It’s sort of in the outline stage. The think-about-it stage. And while it marinates I’m catching up on those InStyle magazines and watching a lot of 8 and 10-year-old basketball and playing a little Super Mario Brothers Wii. I’m going to kick it into gear soon and throw myself into the joy of writing another whole book, though. And you know what that makes me realize? I’m a writer. Published or no. And that’s deeply satisfying.

Hey, remember when you had cancer? Do you ever think about that?

I think about it all the time. I think about it when I look in the mirror, and my right shoulder looks a little smaller than my left. I think about it whenever my kids do anything that I’m glad I lived to see. I think about it whenever I laugh. Whenever I make plans and know that sometimes plans don’t work out and all we really have is today. Whenever I have a cold and realize I can totally take it, because I beat so much worse. Whenever I see a Livestrong bracelet. Whenever I think of July 13, 2010, when I’ll be five years cancer-free and cured. I love to think about it, because it changed me. And it was awful. And I survived it.

Did you paint your hallway yet?

No. Darn it.

What’s your favorite word? It’s so funny you should ask that, because I’ve been thinking about it lately. My favorite word is BRAVE. I think everyone pretty much has to define for oneself what being brave will mean for them. But whatever that thing is for each of us, I think it’s definitely something we should pursue.

If you could change one thing about yourself…

I think one of the most beautiful things about being human, is that we grow and change. And the biggest change I want to see in my life is how much I give. I want to  give money and time. I want to give myself. And I don’t know for sure how to do it. And it overwhelms me to think about how much the world needs. But I know I have a part to play in all the giving, and I really want to discover that part.

What’s Jake doing right this very second?

He’s pouncing around the house in a lion costume John Michael wore when he was 1. Never a boring moment, People, I’m tellin’ ya.