The Measure of a Life

People often realize too late that they failed to live. Our children’s lives serve as a backdrop to these missed opportunities. Our children’s lives help us mark the time of our own passage.



I was determined to not miss anything when my children were born. They were such a miracle to me. From the time I was a small girl, I knew that I wanted a crack at being a Mother of the Year candidate. I wanted to influence my children in positive ways that would enhance the people they were to become. My own role models were not good, but I’ve come to appreciate their role in whom I’ve become. We can learn something in all situations and I can attest to the fact that I learned how NOT to be from my early years. Life is a choice at each critical decision-making point. We can’t always choose well, but it requires awareness of what can be gained or lost.


With my children, their needs and desires, what was right for them…not necessarily the popular choice, always came first! I was able to remain at home with them until they were fourteen months old. I longed to be an “at home” mom, but I HAD to return to work to assure they were taken care of. Consequently, knowing I lost precious hours with them, I devoted my evening time to them. Playing, creating, reading, and imagining were our evening events. We would build makeshift tents and imagine ourselves in the desert, or paint on the side of the bathtub and become famous artists, or their favorite time was story time with invented characters or even better the real characters of our lives.


Then school…their lives were being handed off to someone else for the very best hours of their days. Being a teacher was always important to me, but now, as my children were in one of my colleagues hands, I felt a much deeper sense of purpose and protection for those ‘someone else’s babies’ loaned to me for the day. I choose to give my students the kind of school experience I hoped for my own children.


I entered graduate school as my children entered their elementary grades, further squeezing precious minutes away from our time. Somehow I managed a Summa Cum Laude performance that paralleled their beginning school times. We were a hit!!!


Initiation in the world of sports began sometime around the twin’s sixth or seventh year. We began with two seasons, fall and spring sports. My daughter cheered for her brother’s football team. In the evenings, with school work, house work, homework and sports, time together suffered another pinch. The tighter the pinch, the more I found myself working to share those moments. I sat through practices, tryouts, and games, dragging school work along so I had a hope of getting it done. Springtime brought sunscreen, bug spray, folding chairs, late dinners, and even later homework. All willingly given in loving devotion to seconds shared.


Around fourth grade, we added a winter sport to our lives. Basketball became a very long winter marathon. I sat through practices for each twin, doing homework with the other twin while waiting, or we would simply sit and spend time. It was at this time, I began knitting again. Before long, we had a mom’s knitting club; squeezing minutes with our kids, doing something productive.


For all of middle school, the twins and I spent seasons in the chase for time, academic success, and athletic prowess. We managed fairly, but I must believe that through it process, the kids became diverse, used to a variety of personalities through exposure to teachers, and coaches, and friends. Being young, they struggled along which made their successes sweeter. I made sure that although free time was almost non-existent, to be apart of each squeezed moment in our day.


Upper middle school meant a change of fall sports for my daughter, but the time expense was just as great. Long hours spent standing along fences watching in wonder as my children were growing into teenagers. Other parents seemed to loose interest. I never understood how they would rather watch a soap opera rather than watch the nuances of their children’s growth and development.


High school years began and practices were suddenly closed to parents. I found myself resenting the loss of time. I had to find something to occupy myself with through this new shift. At this point, the kids naturally began needing me less. It’s a painful blow, yet a necessary step in their growth – this time away from me. I still watch in wonder how they are always in a state of ‘becoming.’ This sophomore year has brought huge change to bodies and hearts and minds. I find I now have to police them more and more as they try their fledgling legs. Instead of enjoying time together, they want to be anywhere but with me. Throwing iron around, bowling with friends, time at boyfriend’s house, laughing with ‘his’ mom, time chatting on the computer or texting on their phones is the time they choose. My purpose in their lives seems to have been fulfilled. They don’t remember all the time I spent on hard bleachers, in foul weather, standing at the fences of their future. I guess its good they forget, but I know I never will.


Amazingly, other members of their immediate family, who attended perhaps one or two events, for part of the time or no time at all, for all the ten years of year round sports, missed all that growth, development, and change. Four seasons times two children times ten years or eighty seasons of wonder…how can they live with themselves? Do they know what they missed? Do they really care? Have they really lived?


Kids are forgiving. The neglectful ones say, “I’d like to come see you play,” and there is great excitement at the thought. Perhaps the twins don’t care if I’m there anymore, but I had those ten years. This may sound like resentful jealousy, but it truly isn’t. The others have the glory of their long awaited time in the stands, but I have the memories .


I have lived.



Debbie ~ 4-15-10

But for the grace of God…

What must it feel like to have grown up under an oppressor and suddenly been given the gift of knowledge, rights, and freedom? I’m looking at a beautiful young girl on the cover of Junior Scholastic Magazine. The title story is, “This is my home.” This young lady is a child of Afghanistan and the article profiled her need to have the United States as an ongoing force in her life.

Her eyes express fear, and anguish, her olive skin glowing behind green gauze attire common for her people. Behind her is a mountainous area with military vehicles on alert. I wonder what this beautiful child is doing so close to a location where violence waits to erupt just around the corner. Why isn’t she in school, giggling with other girls her age, bent on an afternoon of teen girl discovery? How could anyone look past the pleading in her eyes? This child, but for the placement of her soul at birth, could be anyone’s child; strong and beautiful, with hope and promise.

I will pray for this young lady, so that she may live a long and productive life, one with a chance of flourishing amidst the ever present danger of the terror network alive in her land.

I’ll pray for her to receive the necessities of life and the gifts of an education, human rights, and good health.

I’ll pray for her new transitional democratic government to uphold its position and continue to fight against the danger the Taliban presents to her nation.

As moral human beings, can we do less? Can we continue to be uninformed and ignorant about the world? The time to respond is NOW to the needs of those who are helpless and oppressed, OR how can we live with ourselves?



Debbie ~ 4-15-10

Happy Birthday!!!

April 6th, 2010


This day my father would have been 88 years old. He has been gone since January 1977, just months before his birthday that year. He was only 54 years old. At the time he died, I was 18 and thought 54 was old. I knew I’d miss him and it would be a long life without him.

Well, here I am just months from my 52nd birthday. Being in my 50s sure doesn’t feel so old to me anymore. I wonder if Dad had ideas and plans, hopes and dreams for the years when he could retire. Did he hope his life would somehow resolve and he might someday find peace and happiness? I wonder if he felt these feelings that are so much a part of my everyday thinking.

It would be so wonderful to be able to bake him his favorite rich, strong black coffee in the chocolate cake recipe with whipped peanut butter icing today, sing the birthday song, and search high and low for a gift for my dad. To sit across the table from him and see the sparkle in his aging blue eyes, would be a gift to me. I know that the woman I’ve become would be able to reach through some of his protective layers. Perhaps seeing the family he helped produce would have brought him some measure of joy.

Happy Birthday, Daddy…I wish you peace at last.





***Side note…My father died on January 6th, his birthday was April 6th.

                    My mother died January 23rd, her birthday was March 23rd.





Debbie ~ April 6th, 2010