Ack! Young Love

All you do, don't tell Abby I'm writing about her. She's not on Facebook and doesn't really care enough about what I'm thinking to check out my blog on her own, so I think I'm safe as long as you don't blab. I'm writing about Abby for two reasons: 1) She's apparently set a new record; and 2) I can't think of anything else to write about.

If you know Abby, you're probably not surprised to hear that she set a record. You may be wondering if it's related to baking, duct tape design, clarinet, hula  hooping, soccer, softball or math. What you probably would never have guessed is that she has apparently broken the middle school record for the longest sixth grade relationship. Yep, you read that right. If you're surprised, imagine how her poor mother felt when she learned four five months ago that Abby has a boyfriend. Just weeks prior to this great reveal (thanks to her brother, of course), I had told a fellow mom that Abby was not in to boys. In fact I'm pretty sure I said something like "I don't think she even knows they exist." Yep, I was that mom. The clueless one saying "My kid would never..." Next thing you know I'll find out Ian's given up computer games in order to take on yard work.  

The good news is that I know Abby's "boyfriend." In fact, they met in church, like all 12-year-old couples should. And did I mention his mom is one of my best friends? And that she isn't shy about "checking on things?"  If she can't find out anything by snooping, she'll actually talk to her son to find out where things stand. In other words, "Are you and Abby still a couple? Have you kissed?" They haven't. That's what we're told and that's what we choose to believe. From all indications, sixth grade dating seems to consist of text messaging, instagram and holding hands while walking around the school track at lunchtime. There's very little talking and even less actual time spent in one another's company. Hence the success of their relationship.

So my Abby has a boyfriend. This explains a lot about the increased frequency with which she showers and brushes her hair. She hasn't changed how she dresses, however, (t-shirts and shorts), but I guess that look works for her. "I'm an athlete mom, not some girly girl," she explains. Point taken. While I'm totally relieved okay with the improvement in her personal hygiene, there's one change in my near-teenage daughter that I can tell is going to cause me great angst for the next five-plus years: her complete lack of interest in sharing anything personal with me.

How did a woman like me who shares everything with everybody, end up with a daughter who doesn't want to tell me squat? When I try to talk to her, I get one word responses that provide me with just enough information to consider the question answered. No attitude or sneering or complete silence involved, but absolutely no details either. For example, when I ask whether she and the boyfriend remain a couple, I get (with no eye contact whatsoever) "Mm hmm." When I suggest she might want to talk to me about him she responds with, "What do you want me to say? You already know him." It's quite clear that Abby will volunteer nothing over the next five-plus years, which means I better figure out the right questions to ask.

Upon further reflection, I should have expected this.

The Christmas when Abby was nine-years-old, I gave her a copy of the popular American Girl book, The Care and Keeping of You. This book offers a way out for those of us who don't want to have this conversation an ideal starting place for the mom/daughter conversation about changing bodies. It covers everything from deodorant and haircare to breasts and periods to friendship and healthy eating. When Abby received the book, I recall a grimace after which it was promptly forgotten. Or so I thought. The next day I suggested to Abby that we talk about it. From there, the conversation went something like this:

"I've already read it."

"All of it?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh. What did you think?" 

"I really didn't need to know all that."

We never did talk about that book. Thank goodness for 5th grade health class or Abby might find herself asking the boy at the bus stop what a period is when she gets to that place in Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? Yes, I did.

So what's a mother to do with a daughter like Abby? Do I force the conversations knowing she'll avoid eye contact and shuffle her feet and behave as though I'm holding her against her will? Do I hope she's got it all figured out and that her friends are providing her with reliable information? (That was a joke.) Do I try to explain that "You don't really 'love him so much.' Here's what love is...?" (Good luck with that.) Do I ask our youth minister to speak to them, warning that God will strike them down should they ever lay a finger on each other?" (Seems like a good time for the scary version of God.)

I know, I know. You're reading this and admonishing me to talk to her, regardless of my her discomfort. Okay. You're right. I know you're right. I'm going to get right on it.

I just think it's prudent to give it another month to see if they're still a couple. These sixth grade relationships generally don't last very long.

 

Random Musings, VIII: Food Edition

It's been too long. I don't usually go two weeks without writing. You know it's not because I have nothing to say. I ALWAYS have something to say. Unfortunately, right now much of what I have to say isn't ideal blog material. There's the new guy I'm working for who's 10+ years younger than me (I'm not sure I'm ready to confess my angst about that). There's the crushing situation impacting my church (it wouldn't be appropriate to share at this point). There's the emotional exhaustion I'm feeling from a ridiculously difficult year that's less than half over (that's depressing). So in the interest of meeting your Freakin' Angel needs (isn't it cute the way I assume you need me?), I'm happy to share a new volume (#8!) of Random Musings. Food Edition.

Those of you who know me well, know that I have a few food issues. For instance, I generally try to avoid anything healthy. I work out so I can eat badly. I also don't like "crunch" in my food. Nothing inside something else that makes its presence known. Example: celery or onions in stuffing. Peppers in crab cakes. I'm pleased to say, however, that I've met someone who has even more food quirks than me. My soul sister and colleague Kelly won't eat lettuce because she thinks it tastes like grass. Not that she's eaten grass, but she assumes that's how it would taste.

But enough about the quirks. Here are some random food-related thoughts from a Freakin' Angel:

1. Fish heads. Seriously, why would a chef think it's a nice idea to put the whole fish, head included, on your plate? How can you eat it when it still has eyes?
2. Uncut chicken breasts on salad. If I'm paying for the salad, the least you can do is cut the damn chicken for me. You know I can't eat it like that, and have you ever tried to cut on top of lettuce? Not particularly effective, which means you have to remove the chicken from the salad to cut it up. This is annoying, especially when you're hungry and just want to get down to business.
3. Shrimp. Along these lines, why do restaurants insist on presenting shrimp with the shell on? I like scampi, but I don't like dipping my hands in the buttery sauce to remove the crunchy part from the main ingredient in my meal (refer to my comments above about crunch).
4. Leftovers. Why do we keep leftovers we know we'll never eat? If you're like me, you wait until they're moldy so you feel justified tossing them. Weird.
5. Storage containers. Speaking of leftovers, is it just me, or does it seem that whichever Tupperware dish you dump your leftovers into, is bound to be the one you can't find a lid for? If you're one of those people with completely organized storage containers, you suck I don't want to know.
   
6. Burnt food. In another example of the head games I play with myself (and my family), I turn burnt food over so the lighter side shows, tricking my brain into thinking it doesn't taste like charcoal.  
7. Bread. Who else leaves the heel of the bread in the bag in the pantry, even though you already opened a new loaf and have no intention of finishing the other? When it's moldy, then you can throw it out.
8. Miniatures. Why does food always taste better in smaller sizes?  Mini cupcakes, pierogies and goldfish, for example. And those miniature bottles of condiments are so darn cute! Of course there's something psychologically befuddling about miniatures, the way you eat way more than if you had just selected the original sized item.
9. Sunflower seeds. What's the deal with the ones with the shells on them? There's so little reward for all the crunching and spitting involved. I don't get the appeal. 
   
10. Vegetables. I have made a fascinating discovery. There is a direct correlation between the number of people who like a certain vegetable and how difficult it is to spell. Research proves me right. According to Ranker.com's list of the most popular vegetables, potato, carrot, onion (bleh), tomato, corn and  peas are among the top 10.  Lower on the list? Broccoli, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, rhubarb, artichokes, cauliflower and zucchini. 

I hope you've enjoyed this food-themed issue of Random Musings. I'd love to hear some of your related random thoughts!

A Timeshare Idiot's Adventures in Vacation Planning

I'm pretty sure that planning a vacation should not be on my fairly long list of parental/family obligations that I dislike. This puts what should be an enjoyable activity in the company of cooking, helping children with their homework and arts and crafts. I think I have a couple things working against me when it comes to family vacations:

1. The family 
2. My damn cheapness thriftiness
3. The freakin' time share we bought years ago

Numbers two and three go together. See, once you buy a timeshare, you feel the need to get your money's worth out of it. This means that you need to use your property or exchange it for another location, and there's never one in the place you really want to vacation. Nor is there one in driving distance. And no, Atlantic City and the Poconos do not count. And forget trying to find a two-bedroom property even though that's what you own. In Orlando. With 80% of all the other foolish timeshare owners in the world. I confess that this is just another example of what happens when you don't listen to your father. The guy who despised the notion of timeshares since you were a little kid. The guy who would occasionally check out a property for the free toaster, and would happily punch the salesman in the nose if he didn't take no for an answer and give him the freakin' toaster at the end of the high pressure presentation. (He didn't really punch anyone in the nose. As far as I know.) Dad knew better than to commit to something like a couple bedrooms at a resort in Florida for the rest of your freakin' life. Yes, even if you're an adult, married with children, your father still knows best.

While we can exchange our week for reward points every other year (we own a Starwood property), 2013 required us to use our week. A use it or lose it situation. With two kids in school and a husband whose summer is half booked with Phillies games, our choices were limited, to say the least. Nothing besides the Poconos and Atlantic City in driving distance. Several options in desert climates. We did that a few years ago. Palm Springs, CA in July. 107 degrees. But it was a dry heat. Like sticking your head in an oven. Good times. The only other option? Ski resort towns. Hence last year's visit to Lake Tahoe. Lake Tahoe, however, was a winner, so guess what we decided on for this summer?

Breckenridge, Colorado.

I did my research. Everything I read said it's lovely there in the summer. Likely to be an identical experience to Tahoe. Bike riding, hiking, horseback riding, whitewater rafting. High altitude sickness. We turn into outdoorsy folks on these trips. And the added bonus? We'd be within 90 minutes of Castle Rock, CO, home to the world's most adorable nephew. My sister and brother-in-law are there too, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. We found reasonable airfare and a three-bedroom resort, and I booked it. Whew. One more thing off my to do list. Next up, window washing.

Yesterday I told the kids of our plans. My ungrateful bastards lovely children asked why we can't go somewhere we haven't been before. Though we've never been to Breckenridge, apparently having gone anywhere in the state before qualifies as having been "there." I heard "Why can't we go to the Bahamas with Noah's and Maddie's families?" "What about Mexico?" "I thought we were going to California?" I responded with "It's too expensive." "It's too expensive." "The flights were too expensive." For good measure I added, "You know there was a little trip to Italy earlier this year. And then there's your pastry camp, Abby. And Girl Scout camp. And Ian's leadership camp, which, I know, I recommended. And sessions with a personal trainer. Oh, and you want private voice lessons. And maybe an acting camp would be nice, too."

Generally, my children are not ungrateful bastards, but this is one of those unpleasant side effects of living in a nice community where everyone seems to take amazing vacations and some even take limos to the airport. And when they're not vacationing in Hawaii or the Caribbean, they kids are headed to some camp that costs more than my freakin' timeshare. I end up having to guilt my kids into appreciating what they have. "When I was a kid I went to Disney World once and every other summer was spent at the Jersey shore and we loved it. So pipe down, kid, or you can spend your vacation in your bedroom. Without the computer."

Talk about your first world problems.

Before I wrap this up, have I mentioned there's a two-bedroom Sheraton resort property in Orlando that's available for a steal? It's like brand new. The current owners have never used it. Let me know if you're interested.

Putting an End to the Nightmare that is Gym Class

Television, radio, websites and publications — in nearly every form of entertainment there is something that appeals to our individual interests, quirks and passions. There’s no reason to be like everyone else or even engage with anyone else when it can so easily be all about you. By immersing ourselves in that which fits our personality, IQ and emotional needs, we can be assured that no harm will come to our confidence, self-esteem or self-image.

With this in mind, three years ago in “Food for Thought,” I suggested that supermarkets designate lanes based on the kinds of food a customer buys. That way, those of us who purchase crap loaded with preservatives and artificial sweeteners won’t feel badly about ourselves when we’re in line with the organic health food buyer. I’m sorry to say that I have yet to see a grocery store implement this excellent idea. I can practically guarantee they’d enjoy an impressive customer base and strong sales.

Along those lines, today I would like to propose separate gym classes based on body type, athletic ability and basic level of fitness. And I recommend that these segmented classes begin as early as kindergarten so those of us who require remedial hand-eye coordination activities will not find ourselves ostracized during snack time. The reasons for despising gym class tend to vary from age to age and person to person, but the end result is always the same: emotional scarring, night terrors related to dodgeball and long-term aversion to anything physical.

For some, what they most loathe about the experience of phys ed is the actual performance part. Run a mile in 6:30. Finish 10 pull-ups. Catch this ball. Walk in a straight line. These requirements can be brutal and cause one to break out in tears hives at the mere mention. Others may not dread the activities so much, but find undressing in front of their peers is a fate worse than death. Are you as well “developed” as your classmates? Are you clean shaven? Did you forget today was P.E. and wear your Thomas the Train briefs? This is the stuff that keeps therapists in business. That, and our parents.

Personally, I still have nightmares about the choosing of teams in gym class. Who in the world thought it was a good idea to put a couple of kids (usually insensitive bastards athletes) in charge of picking teams? While you can try to blend in with a group of fellow gym class haters for the activities themselves, or disappear in a toilet stall to avoid comparing bra sizes, when you’re lined up against the wall for team selection there’s absolutely nowhere to hide. As each captain starts calling names and the wallflower lineup gets shorter and shorter, it’s basically the equivalent of someone shouting, “We don’t want Shimer! She’s the worst athlete ever!” I was usually chosen second to last, saved only by the significantly overweight kid or the one on crutches.  Good memories.

My simple solution, separating kids into appropriate groups, has the potential to be life-changing. Imagine no more…
• mysterious illnesses on gym class days
• terror at the prospect of playing dodge ball with the football players in your class
• standing alone against the wall like the girl who never gets asked to dance
• shame at wearing granny panties
• fear of ridicule when you fall over your own two feet at the starting line
• hyperventilating when you run out of air during those aptly named “suicides”
• concern that you’re overweight, underweight, undersized or oversized
• costly long-term therapy to address issues of self-esteem

With separate gym classes all kids can feel comfortable in their own skin. There will be no pressure to improve skills, get in shape, lose weight or talk mom into buying you appropriate underwear. Simply put, gym class, high school, and the world in general will be a kinder, gentler place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Awakening to Goodness at a Time of Loss

It's been a rough couple of weeks. On the morning of Friday, April 19, my Aunt Faify (Faith) was admitted to the hospital in critical condition after suffering what doctors assumed was a heart attack. That same day, my Aunt Glenna, who is battling leukemia, was told that chemotherapy wasn't working and doctors recommended hospice care. And then, that evening, when coming to the hospital with us to visit his wife, my Uncle Richie took one step into the lobby and collapsed, code blue. A dozen medical workers pounded on his chest, shocked his heart, and miraculously brought him back. If he hadn't been in a hospital when this happened, he would have died.

Two weeks later, Uncle Richie has had a pacemaker put in and was moved to a rehabilitation facility. My Aunt Glenna is holding on as best she can. And my Aunt Faify has found a new home in heaven.

I haven't known what to blog about during this difficult time. A comedic post seemed inappropriate (though laughter is exactly what we need now). A detailed post about the range of emotions we experienced felt too heavy. On Sunday during church, however, I got an idea from Pastor Nikki's sermon when she remarked that "the pools of kindness are drying up." You'll be glad to know I didn't shout it out loud, but my immediate reaction was "Nah ah!"

There's been a whole lot of tragedy in the world and a great deal of loss that I've experienced personally in recent years. And though my "Why, God?" has gone unanswered, I have found Jesus' words in Matthew 5:4 to be true: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted…" I can also relate to Psalms 94:19: "When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul." My comfort and consolation are coming from those pools of kindness, and I see them everywhere I look. I wish it didn't require grief and loss to awaken us to the goodness in the world.

In the past couple weeks I have seen love and kindness in action, some of it in direct response to my personal situation, some of it just there waiting to be noticed:

• The "newlywed" couple at church still holding hands after 50+ years of marriage.
• The simple gesture of a husband putting an arm around his wife's waist, symbolically saying "I'm always by your side."
• An adult son bringing his cancer stricken mother to church in a wheelchair and throughout the service rubbing her back, adjusting the scarf on her head and smiling because being there with her and for her was bringing him joy.
• The unexpected kindness of a Villanova student worker wrapping his arms around my shoulders and hugging me when I received the call that Aunt Faify had passed.
• The love of friends who bring food, offer prayers and provide support in times of need.
• A four-year-old walking into a room to give his PopPop a hug and a kiss -- just because -- and then walking out again to return to his toys. 
• The kindness and care of a neighbor whose love sustains my parents through good times and bad.
• The commitment and love that brings a daughter home from Denver, twice in two weeks, to be there to support her mom and to say goodbye to a beloved aunt.
• The constant presence of a husband who let go of old resentments and is providing the unwavering support his wife needs during one of the most difficult times of her life.

Freakin' Angels, indeed.

And then there's my Mom. For the past several months she's been a source of strength for my Aunt Glenna. Taking her for chemo and blood and platelets. Letting her cry. Talking and laughing. Reminiscing. Just sitting together. My Aunt Faith and Aunt Glenna have been my mom's best friends throughout her entire life. Out of five sisters, they were the inseparable three.To say this is a difficult time for my mom, would be a major understatement. She had to plan her sister's memorial service because Uncle Richie was in no condition to do so. She has had to care for him as well. And despite being emotionally and physically drained, she never lost sight of the needs of her sister Glenna. Through it all, my mom has displayed incredible strength, resilience and unwavering faith. She has mourned and will continue to mourn her loss, but the love she feels for her sisters keeps her going.

Having never known three women with bigger hearts who give (and gave) of themselves so selflessly, I'm certain that this awakening to the love and kindness all around us is exactly what my aunts, and my mom, would want. The perfect tribute to each of these wonderful women.

Not Despicable, but Replaceable Me

When I heard my previous employer had hired someone to replace me, I had mixed feelings. On one hand I was glad they filled the position (especially since authors were starting to contact me on Facebook for help), but on the other hand, this hiring was proof that I am, in fact, replaceable. All I could hope for was that this person was already failing to perform, was completely unlikable, or passed gas during meetings. Apparently none of the above applies to the new Kim new marketing director whom everyone is speaking highly of. Well, goodie for them. I hope they'll be very happy together.

While I confess to having had this terribly immature response, you'll be glad to know I didn't dwell on it for long. I've chosen something else to fret over instead, namely, the superstar I hired to be the new Associate Director of Marketing and Communications. Kelly started last month and without question, she's terrific. She's smart, hard working, inquisitive and pleasant to be around. She has a passion for office supplies and to-do lists. I can tell from the tchotchkes on her desk that her family and boyfriend mean the world to her. She's showing signs of a compatible sense of humor. In other words, I think I hired a younger version of myself. Except that I realized after looking at all the photos on her desk that I don't have a single picture of family or friends on mine.

Aside from the photographic reminder of my shortcomings as a mom/wife/friend, things with Kelly look promising.Though I have to say that there have been a couple times I've found my ego crushed myself slightly hurt by faculty and staff who behave like we've hired the savior. One of the deans actually introduced her as "the future of the College." To which I replied with a not-in-the-least-bit bitter "Whoa! Hello? What about me?" That little episode was followed by a marketing-related meeting in which the director of one of our programs directed absolutely everything in the conversation to Kelly. At one point I blurted out, "I've been working on that and will continue to do so. I mean, Kelly and I will work together on these things." Geez. Talk about insecure. Afterward I immediately felt like a jerk for appearing to be desperate for control and power. I apologized to Kelly and a faculty member in attendance, both whom said they didn't see it as such. In fact, the faculty member said he could see I was being a mother hen in protecting Kelly from all the work that was being dumped on her. Yes, that's it. I was protective. Not petty and insecure. Let's go with that!

I have very little experience being someone's "boss" and I can't say I was looking forward to it when I was informed that I would be hiring someone to work with me. I'm kinda the lone ranger type. Not "kinda." I'm definitely a lone ranger. Tell me what needs to be done and I'll do it. Don't make me be part of team and don't tell me how to do my job and we'll get along just fine. Given this controlling personality of mine, my biggest concern with working with someone was that I wasn't going to be willing to give up any part of what I consider to be "my" job. That I'd want to hold on tight to everything, or at the very least, give very specific direction on how to get the work done. In other words, I foresaw myself as a micro-manager, the very thing I hate in a supervisor.

The good news is that I haven't found myself doing much of that micromanaging or even withholding of work (heck, there's so much of it and so much that's challenging, that I've been more than happy to hand it off). What I didn't expect, however, is that I'd feel threatened, bordering on jealous. During that meeting in which Kelly was the star of the show, and given her glowing introductions and interactions with faculty and staff, I suddenly realized that I had hired someone who could replace me in the not so distant future. My reaction during that meeting wasn't so much about control (and certainly not about mothering), but rather it was a direct reflection of the threat I felt when I realized if they gave her all the work, I would no longer be needed. Once again, in the span of a few weeks, I've been shown to be replaceable. This is does nothing to boost one's ego.

To add insult to injury, last week I had my first official "Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" at work. It started with a security violation citation for leaving the office door open and the lights on with valuable equipment in the room. On Saturday. When I wasn't here. Four people in my office and I'm the only one with a citation. I hope this doesn't go down on my permanent record (insert "Kiss Off" Violent Femmes music here). The week only improved when I discovered a mailing piece I sent out was half the size I thought it would be (I'd only seen the computer file), AND that there was a major mistake in the title I bestowed upon the professor whom the postcard was for. Totally not my fault, but guilty by association. Then there was the insider information I received that clued me in to another rouge department pursuing a printed publication without me. And did I mention the number of occasions on which I've said too much about certain issues (so unlike me)? Have I told you about the tension that's been building in my office space because no one has the quiet place they need to accomplish their work? The honeymoon is definitely over, but the good news is I've gotten that officially crappy day out of the way and I'm still employed.

Yes, getting older sucks. Learning you're replaceable is a bummer. Knowing someone you hired will eventually be doing your job is threatening. Envying your kids for the opportunities they have that have officially passed you by stinks, too. But on the flip side, getting older means I'm closer to living the dream. Hiring someone amazing means I have a colleague who doesn't frustrate, disappoint or require me to watch over her. And envying my kids means they have a life worth envying, and what more could a parent ask?

Wow. That was so weird. Me looking at the positive side of things. I better stop here before I revert back to my old self.

Finding Faith Despite My Failings

On Sunday my son Ian was confirmed in our church, Media Presbyterian. This special day was the culmination of about seven months of classes, which he did not attend willingly. Because I failed to make Sunday school a required part of our week - a "given" - as kids, Ian and Abby both gradually fell away from the church. For Abby, the inconsistency in her attendance resulted in feelings of being behind in her learning (not a state she's comfortable in). For Ian, not being there regularly meant he never formed the close relationships that many of the other kids share. Fortunately, Abby has found youth group to be a place to grow in her faith. Ian's faith, however, has been a strictly personal journey, one taken alone instead of with the church family, the same church family that has literally changed my life. Because getting Ian to church was always a battle, last year I made it a point to regularly remind him that confirmation class was not up for discussion. He would go, not just because it was an important part of his spiritual growth, but because as a church elder, usher and involved member, I'd look like an even worse mom if my son did not get confirmed. A lousy reason, but an honest one.

So Ian went. And while the fellowship aspect of the experience did not greatly improve, Ian did grow significantly in his understanding of the Christian faith. More importantly, he actually enjoyed learning, and in the end, he was one of five confirmands who willingly read his faith statement in front of the congregation on Sunday. More on that later.

When Rob and I arrived at church yesterday, I immediately had the sense that I'd blown it. The pews were packed with family and friends who turned out to support and applaud these young people. We didn't even have Abby with us because we allowed her to choose between her brother's confirmation and a soccer game. A no-brainer in her book. I had invited my parents who were unable to attend, and that was it. I had no gift for Ian and no grand party. (He suggested we should have sent invitations to a post-party with instructions to "treat this like a Bar Mitvah."). I couldn't even convince him to let his Dad and me take him out for a nice lunch. For someone who claims to be a person of faith and a committed member of MPC, I had definitely dropped the ball on what was my son's biggest day in the life of the church. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I dropped the ball when it comes to my children's faith in general.

Ian and John

In addition to failing to make Sundays at church a family tradition, I rarely talk faith with Ian and Abby. I'll share it with my Freakin' Angels. I'll talk with Rob. I'll even write the occasional blog post about it, but the two most important people I should be sharing it with are being overlooked. I guess it should have come as no surprise when Ian stood in front of the church to read his faith statement and gave most of the credit to our youth director (and confirmation class teacher) John Chaffee. I think Rob and I were recognized for dragging, um, I mean bringing him to church. Even Pastor Bill and the children's choir director got more props than mom and dad. I know, he's a 15-year-old boy and they tend to forget their parents exist, but as he spoke and I reflected on those 15 years, I had to admit that I don't deserve the credit for bringing him to where he is now, at least where faith is concerned. I'm thankful to John for helping Ian to grow.

If you're wondering about Ian's paper presentation, I'm happy to say he did a great job with regard to his composure, delivery and eye contact. (He gets his public speaking chops from his mom.) As for the paper itself, it was classic Ian.

Honest: "I don't know where I'm headed with this faith journey or how I'm going to get there."

Humorous: "Despite appearances to the contrary, I actually enjoyed the time I've spent at church over the years." 

Brief (to John, before Sunday): "That's all I want to say. Can I stop at two pages?"

It's obvious that despite our lack of pomp and circumstance, confirmation meant something to Ian. After the service, he asked Pastor Bill if he can be a church elder now (the youngest elder ever, I'm sure). Bill offered him the pastorate instead, and I think Ian can handle it.