News Trend Imagine|Actual

My daughter in Vietnam She is not the bride.

Imagine that your third-born baby girl lives all on her own on the other side of the world, 7028 miles away from you.

[I know. That alone is a legitimate mind bender, am I right?]

Now imagine that her employer somehow neglected to arsip the necessary paperwork, and her visa has expired.

Imagine that her boss calls her to inform her of this fact, and tells her that as a temporary condition of the renewal process, she must leave the country immediately.

Imagine that she takes this in stride, figuring that in her considerable network of Southeast Asian friends and acquaintances, there must be someone who could take her in for a week.

But as phone call after email is sent and returned, all her options fade away and her employer suggests she wait out the week in Laos.

Laos.

[You do not need to imagine this part because you know for a fact that Laos is not a reasonable place for a young white American woman to visit on her own.]

So imagine that you step in and say to your daughter, Wait. Are you comfortable with that plan? And she says No. Not at all.

So you wrack your brain trying to imagine another solution and then bingo. You come up with a brilliant idea.

Me in Malaysia.

Now, imagine messaging your best Malaysian friend and two-time host out of the blue on a Saturday morning, saying I need your help. Please Skype me ASAP.

And he calls and you say, Hey, would you please let my daughter come and stay with you for a week...Starting tomorrow?

Imagine watching his face as this request settles into his brain. Deep in thought and justifiably bewildered, he rubs his head, blinks hard a few times, takes a deep breath and says, Yes. Of course. Don't worry.

Imagine the overwhelming relief that immediately floods your soul.

* * * * *

And now remember, as you rarely do, that

he is Muslim and you are Christian.

He is from Malaysia and you are American.

His skin is the color of coffee with cream and yours is pale white.

But you know that none of those differences affect this situation one little bit.

Because this is not a matter of

religion or

culture or

racism or

white privilege or

global terrorism or

violence in the Middle East.

This is simply a matter of two friends who share one world and help each other out.

And please, imagine with me how amazing our world would be if we could always live this way.

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope some day you'll join us

And the world will live as one.

News Trend Do You Remember?|Actual

Earliest known picture of my mom holding baby me.

When I show her this photo, she remembers.

I spoke to my mom on January 1. My birthday.

Four months had passed since our last contact. She can no longer use a phone, so our conversations are few and far between..

And during that time, her mind has obviously traveled much farther along the road from this life to the next. She tried to participate in our conversation and although her comments were mostly unintelligible, I knew she could understand perfectly well what I was saying.

Do you remember? I asked her, over and over again.

Do you remember the big sleet storm on the night before I was born?

Do you remember how the roads were covered with ice, and it took you hours to make the twenty-minute drive to the hospital?

Remember how people were crawling along the icy sidewalks outside the hospital on their hands and knees, since walking upright was impossible?

Remember how the admitting area was decorated with balloons and streamers, and all the staff were wearing party hats and blowing noise makers? And when you asked if they were celebrating the new year, they smiled and said no, this is all for you...We're celebrating your new baby?

And do you remember how in the first day of my life, I caught a cold? And I had to be put into isolation and the only people who were allowed to touch me were the doctor and you?

She remembered.

I know my mom loves the story of my birth and I know she loved hearing me tell it to her once again.

* * * * *

One of the cardinal rules of care for Alzheimer's patients is to never ask Do you remember.

Because Alzheimer's patients can't remember. And asking them to do so only frightens and confuses them. Not a good move.

But my mom does not have Alzheimer's.

She has advanced Lewy Body Dementia and sadly enough, she can often remember her life with perfect clarity. In many ways, this is far worse than forgetting, because my mother has a pretty clear picture of how far she has fallen. There are moments when the grief for what has been lost overwhelms her and that is a very hard thing for a daughter to bear.

But there are other times when - with a little prompting - my mom can remember the joys of her life, and I consider it my sacred privilege to take her back to those moments whenever I can.

Do you remember, Mom?

News Trend Turquoise And Orange|Actual

When I was a little girl, my home was decorated in mid-century terkini style.

Back then, my mom called it Danish design. We didn't think of ourselves as mid-centurions just yet.

Crisp white walls

Teak sofa and side chairs

Hairpin leg tables

Pole lamps

Philodendrons

And here and there against the clean Scandinavian aesthetic, splashes of turquoise and orange.

Even the front door was painted turquoise. My mom's brazen use of color set the neighbors' tongues a-waggin', and I'm sure they were mad jealous of her bold sense of style.

* * * * *

All these images and memories come flooding back to me whenever, like today, I see a composition of turquoise and orange.

A walk through the produce aisle turns into a stroll down memory lane, and that is a nice little surprise in my day.

News Trend My Mother And Me|Actual

This is a long, complex story about my mother and me, and also about:

God's absolute power and love,

the forces of spiritual darkness,

and His amazing power to overcome that darkness and bring goodness and light into our lives.

And sad as much of this story might be, I promise you a very happy ending.

Everyone's life story begins at the moment of birth, and my mom's birth was touched by tragedy

She was born with a twin, but her sibling was stillborn.

Now, we know that babies in utero experience many sensations of life.

They respond to their physical surroundings

They move about and rearrange themselves in their cozy space.

And they most definitely react to the comforting sound of a beating heart.

And so I wonder about that.

I wonder what my mother experienced when the sound of her sibling's heartbeat was silenced.

I wonder what she sensed, alone in the womb with her lifeless twin

And after my mother was born, I wonder how my grandmother's grief for her lost child affected the early minutes, hours, days and weeks of her bonding with her surviving infant

I don't think any of it was good.

My mom's childhood was, by all reports, happy and comfortable. Her parents were patient and loving, her small-town upbringing idyllic, her accomplishments many. But an undertone of darkness weaves throughout her stories from these days - my mom did not like herself, and even decades later, found endless fault in her young self. I've thought long and hard about my mother's formative years, and I can only conclude that the sad circumstances of her birth cast long shadows over her sense of self

It was as a young twenty-something that she met my future father, and another wave of darkness undoubtedly entered her life.

* * * * *

My mom had always kept her lip buttoned about their courtship. But as the dementia broke down her walls, she shared with me more and more details. She never meant to marry my father, she told me. But he begged, even cried, when she hesitated at his proposal, and in the end, she broke down and accepted.

The first few years seemed to pass happily by as they set about making a home and a family. But six years into the marriage, my father was caught cheating and boldly continued his philandering ways for the next ten years.

I remember the first time I became aware of their fighting. I was a little girl, three years old, and one night I woke up and headed to the kitchen for a drink of water.

A tiny thing, I recall standing on a chair to reach the faucet and holding my cup underneath the running water without being able to see what I was doing. I climbed down and stood in the middle of the kitchen, quietly drinking.

My parents' bedroom door was open, a light was on, and their silhouettes were projected onto the wall ahead of me. As I drank, I could see their figures silently moving, and I slowly realized they were grasping each others arms, pushing and shoving each other back and forth. Straining my ears, I could hear a fiercely whispered argument taking place; clearly, they had no idea I was nearby, and were hoping to keep us children from waking up.

This was the first of dozens of late-night altercations that disrupted our lives over the next decade. The decorum of that episode quickly wore thin, and I was often awakened from a sound sleep to hear my mother screaming, crying, yelling, begging him to stay, and my father quietly but firmly attempting to escape the house.

I realize now that he would go to bed as usual, but then when my mom was asleep, he would try to slip out of the house and travel to his mistress's bed.

From the start, I appointed myself the peacemaker of the family and the referee of these fights. As soon as I woke up to the chaos, I would leave my bed, place myself between them, and try to break up the physical contact. Sometimes my mother would threaten to hurt him; sometimes she would threaten to hurt herself. Always, my goal was to get my father out of the house, and to comfort my mom. Sometimes, he would drive off within a few minutes; other times, they would fight for an hour, maybe stopping and starting up repeatedly. Sometimes, my brothers would cry out from their beds or even come in and join me in the turmoil. I would escort them back to bed and do my best to calm their fears.

These were bad times. I suppose they occurred in bursts - there may have been months of silence, and then a series of episodes every few nights. I recall that when I was in fourth grade, times were particularly bad, and I was very concerned for my mother's well-being when I was away at school. Day after day, sitting at my desk, the anxiety would gnaw away at my stomach until I told the teacher I was sick and asked to go home. Eventually, Mrs. Sutherland deduced the dilema, and called my mother in for a chat. "Is there anything going on at home that might be causing Diane to worry?" she asked, and I can still see the look of horror and shame that swept across my mother's face as she feared her secret might be revealed.

After sixteen years of marriage and ten full years of cheating, my father left. I recall that the day brought me sweet relief but my mother entered a new phase of self-shaming and profound embarrassment.

* * * * *

Decades passed. My mom built up a successful and satisfying career as a teacher. I grew up, married a faithful man, and begat a new generation of sweet little girls. But my relationship with my mother suffered terribly.

Looking back, I understand now that my mother's self-image, fragile from the first days of her life, had been deeply damaged by my father's infidelity. As her only daughter, my life seemed to be everything she had wanted for her own life, and my success and happiness deepened her shame. To compound the duduk perkara, as much as my mother hid the story of her failed marriage from absolutely everyone in her life, she knew that I had been by her side for the whole ugly mess; I had seen it all.

The darkness deepened between us, and as my daughters grew, they also became subject to my mother's frustrations. I decided to take a big step back from this conflict zone, and our relationship became distant and cool.

Fast forward to 2013. My mother's slowly emerging dementia had been on my radar for a decade, but until that point, she was still able to maintain her emotional defenses. It was in the fall of that year, as her ability to care for herself became an issue of daily concern, that she and I began to talk on the phone. Twice a day, every day, a dozen hours a week at the very least.

An interesting thing began to happen. Due to the disease, my mother's walls began to come down. She began to talk openly with me about her childhood, her fears that her parents loved her sister more, her feeling that she was never good enough. She also shared more about my father - many of her middle-stage hallucinations involved him coming back to hurt her, and over and over, I reassured her that I would never let him hurt her again.

* * * * *

Slowly, eventually, painfully - and with the help of a sensitive and insightful caregiver - I realized that my mother had been fighting forces of darkness for most, if not all, of her life. The loss of her twin, her husband's betrayal had made her vulnerable to deep, dark energy.And in the profound desperation that comes from knowing that I was powerless to help her, I began to pray for her.

I prayed over her home, passing from room to room, blessing each door knob and light switch, invoking God's name over every inch.

I commanded the dark spirits to leave her alone.

I know. That sounds intense, doesn't it.

Before this experience, though my faith in God was strong, I was dubious aboutdanquot;spiritual darkness." But as a part of my awakening, I perceived a real and tangible energy that was doing my mother harm. I experienced the commanding power of God's spirit as I never have imagined possible and I prayed for my mom's protection with an intensity that did not come from me.

And I begged our God of mercy and healing and infinite love to heal my mother's pain.

Now. I am certainly not willing to say that I worked a miracle, or that my prayers turned the tide of unhappiness in my mother's life.

She still has advanced Lewy Body Dementia, and her life is a fading shadow of what it once was.

But I can say with absolute certainty that my relationship with my mother has been fully, completely and dramatically healed.

As crazy as it sounds, my mother's battle with dementia is the best thing that ever happened to our relationship. Now, whenever we get a chance to talk or spend time together or even when I'm just thinking of her, I can feel a loving mother-daughter bond that I had never experienced before. Despite her wildly debilitating illness, I instinctively seem to know how to reach her and how to comfort her, and for the first time, she can express happiness and satisfaction with me.

* * * * *

Am I glad my mom was afflicted with this terrible disease?

No. I wouldn't wish such tragedy on anyone.

But there is no question whatsoever in my mind that God has moved into this ugly place and used her illness to bring healing and peace in a way that seemed utterly impossible.

And so I am thankful, not for the disease, but for our amazing God who took the broken pieces of my mother's life and transformed them into something beautiful, precious and whole.

* * * * *

Stories about my less-than-perfect dad:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning Gold Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

Hockey Night In Canada

News Trend Priyanka And Me Again|Actual

On a day full of goods and bads, rights and wrongs, ups and downs, I found myself so spun around and flustered that I momentarily lost track of who I am and what I stand for.

Then, this little gem landed on my Facebook timeline.

And in an instant, I remembered.

Thank you, Nat, for posting the picture.

And thank you, Priyanka, for shining with a light so pure and true that everyone around you can see the truth.

Life is for loving, and that's that.

* * * * *

Read another story about my sunny little friend:

Priyanka And Me

* * * * *

And if you like, delve into the stories from all my adventures with the little princesses in India:

Under The Same Sun

Indian Princesses

Art Is Art

Puzzles

Primary Colors

A Meal To Remember

Do Hard Things

Rooftop Supper

Getting There

Trust Me, This Will Work

On The Balcony

At The Market

Content

Water And the Word

Sanctuary

Walks In The Sun

Playing With Sticks

Indian Sunset

Charminar: The Mosque And The Monument

Charminar: The Shops

Full Circle

Oh So Special

Together

Three Fantastical Deserts

Three Things About India

News Trend An Invitation To Dinner|Actual

A 'before' shot of the lasagna I made for Aqil and Brian. I tried a new recipe which met with rave reviews. Don't worry...I left out the pork.

On Saturday night, I invited two friends over to join my family for dinner.

They arrived around seven and we sat right down to the table.

We ate a lot of dinner.

We talked.

We played a card game.

We took a deep breath and then plowed into dessert.

We watched a movie.

We talked during the slow bits.

We finished and stretched and mulled over the movie and slowly shook ourselves back into the real world

Then I packed them up some leftovers

And my guests said goodnight.

Now. There are two interesting things about this evening that keep circling around in my head.

One:

This was a perfectly ordinary night. I've hosted my fair share of dinner guests over the years, and the script generally follows this same pattern. There was nothing unusual or strange or even the least bit out of the norm during this particular evening.

Two:

This was an extraordinary night. My guests were not neighbors or school buddies or a family from church but two college freshman born on the other side of the world.

Aqil is the cousin of my best Malaysian friend, and Brian is his Taiwanese/Swiss roommate. The guys met while attending an international high school in Kuala Lumpur, and share the experience of growing up in several major cities around the world before landing themselves here in Seattle at the University of Washington.

Both present themselves as articulate, interesting, and thoughtful young men. They are funny, honest, amazingly well-traveled, and super easy to get along with. My family and I find their company thoroughly enjoyable and they seem to like us too.

And on one hand, it's ridiculously clear that all of our differences really amount to nothing at all.

But on the other hand, this world is full of people screaming about differences as if there is no way on God's green earth that we can ever overcome them and find a way to get along.

Maybe the people of this world could solve all the drama by simply inviting each other to dinner more often.

The evening passed by so agreeably that I entirely forgot to take more photos until the guys had gone  home and all that was left was me and this 'after' sink full of dirty dishes.

* * * * *

More stories about my friend, Aqil:

An Invitation To Dinner

Aqil's Chicken

Chicken Drumsticks

Ready To Launch

An All-American Dinner

Moondawg For The Win

News Trend Life As A Math Teacher: My Hero|Actual

If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.

- Issac Newton

Once upon a time, there was a boy named John.

I know. Not an exciting start to the story. Please bear with me.

Even though he was a simple boy from a small town in the deep south, John had a big dream.

He hoped to become an Air Force fighter pilot.

As dreams go, that one is about as finely tuned and high-reaching as they come.

But guess what. Against all odds, John made his dream come true. Eventually, he flew 55 missions in a B-26 Night Intruder during the Korean war, worked as a test pilot at Edwards Air Force Base from 1957 to 1962, and later served in Vietnam. Bucket list item most definitely ticked.

When John retired from the Air Force, he established a quiet life in Norman, Oklahoma and thought about what to do next. And as he pondered his options, his thoughts kept circling round and drifting back to the circumstances of his own satisfying life, and this is what really captivated his mind:

I achieved my life's dreams because of math. I could never have made it as a pilot without my engineering degrees, and I would have not succeeded as an engineering student if not for my strong background in high school math.

And with that sentiment, John dedicated the remaining decades of his life to helping high schoolers build math skills that would allow them to make their own dreams come true. He developed a revolutionary math curriculum uniquely built for success, and spent years as an outspoken advocate for a return to strong, unsullied math education in American high schools.

Source

In case you don't know, this man's name is John H. Saxon Sr.

And he is my hero.

Honestly, I get choked up l every time I ponder his genuine heart, deep wisdom and powerful educational vision.

I am a passionate proponent of his methods and his materials. They work. Every student who makes an effort to follow the Saxon program will succeed - I've seen it happen a hundred times. In fact, I would never teach students using any other curriculum.

John Saxon is the best.

Even though Mr. Saxon died in 1997, after a long, rich and rewarding life and just a few years before I began teaching algebra to high school students, I like to think we are kindred spirits.

Just ask my students. I speak his name pretty much every day in our lessons, invoking his wisdom and channeling his encouragement. I like to think he's sitting alongside of us,

doling out distance problems about girls who hike to Lake Tenkiller and ride back with Mr. Ali,

insisting that a good first step is to isolate our radicals,

and reminding us to always, always draw the diagram first as an aid to problem-solving.

And while I humbly acknowledge that I bring my own gift for teaching to the table, my success as a high school math teacher has been accomplished by standing on the shoulders of this math education giant, John Saxon

* * * * *

Read more stories about my life as a math teacher:

Social Distancing

Playing With A Full Deck

The (Math) Joke's On Me

Sharing Life

Little Brothers

Sweet Inspiration

My Hero

What I Do

Number 15

Christmas Edition

tiga.1415926

Buy It And Burn It

In Honor Of James K. Polk

House Tours

My Deep Gladness

Isolating The Radical

By The Numbers

Teaching My Own: High School Art And Algebra

News Trend The Difference Between Cam Newton and Russell Wilson|Actual

Look. I don't plan to sink down into the quagmire of shaming, blaming and poor sportsmanship.

Though the thought is tempting.

Instead, I'll just share with you the post-game videos of the two most recent Super Bowl losing quarterbacks: Russell Wilson from the Seattle Seahawks' 2015 last-minute loss, and Carolina's Cam Newton whose team suffered defeat in yesterday's 2016 championship match-up.

Check them out.

No one likes to lose.

We can all understand that.

And I think there's a little part of each of us that can appreciate how easy it would be, in the face of tremendous failure, to retreat to a petty, petulant place.

But when a man can rise above his disappointment, and speak out about responsibility, commitment, hope and love, well, then he is more than just an elite athlete or a graceful loser,

He is a true man..

News Trend My Yelp Review |Actual

"I'm the best there is at what I do." - Wolverine from X-Men

The true magnificence of the marble and precision of the stonework is not fully

revealed in this photo, but you get the idea.

If you are looking for a counter top super hero, choose Mike Cooper.

I'll be honest. When it comes to contracting work on my home, I'm a nit-picking perfectionist. I have ridiculously strong opinions about what I want and borderline unrealistic standards about the finished look. Not surprisingly, I have a hard time finding ordinary human beings who can live up to my high expectations.

Mike Cooper totally rescued me from the sea of average contractors. From our first meeting to discuss my project to the final install, every aspect of Mike's process and professional manner was spot-on. He pays close attention to detail, communicates well, and follows through on all phases of the job.

For seven hours last Friday, my home transformed into a makeshift stone fabrication site. Between the heavy duty trolleys, various saws, and windswept spray of fine marble dust, Mike and his crew were definitely not fooling around.

His wife, Jenna, was also a huge asset to the project. I spent several hours with her in the Lynnwood showroom, mulling over design options and bouncing ideas off her. Her knowledge, flexibility and listening skills are also off the charts.

Ranger is always a little uneasy with workmen in the house,

but he gives our new counters two big paws-up.

I love, love, LOVE my new counter tops. Not only are they beautiful, but every detail of their craftsmanship and installation is immaculate.

When it comes to stone counter tops, Mike Cooper is the best there is at what he does.

* * * * *

Mike Cooper owns Integrity Stonework and serves up his super powers all over western Washington. His wife manages their showroom in Lynnwood on 196th, open Wednesdays through Saturdays. Their young son reportedly loves to play with rocks.

News Trend Happy Golden Birthday (Part Four - More Photos, More Commentary)|Actual

Ready to see the Golden Birthday photo barrage for Daughter Number Four?.

Read more about thathere

Twenty two years of my fourth-born's life to celebrate.

Twenty-three photos to be carefully chosen; one for each year of her life plus a newborn shot.

Twenty-two hours to post them.

My original posts feature captions that give a bit of information about each scene; in this post, I'll reveal the photos in reverse chronology and share my own motherly thoughts and emotions on each one.  .

22: When asked to consider a jaunt to the Seattle Art Museum for the First Thursday in February, my fourth-born spent a good part of the afternoon considering her response. In the end, she decided to join my second-born and me on the outing, but it was that long, methodical deliberation that defines my twenty-two year old daughter.

My fourth-born is thoughtful, analytical and not particularly prone to rash decisions.

Also, she rarely wears her hair up in a top knot anymore, though she often did as a baby.

21: Well, yes, here she is on the other side of the world, taking a short break from clinging to the back of a tiny motorbike as her sister expertly weaves through the crowded streets of Danang, Vietnam. But when it comes to throwing peace signs with this third-born mighty midget, my fourth-born girl feels right at home.

20: Overcast skies.Drizzling rain. Unending grey, from sand to water to clouds overhead.

This is my fourth-born's version of heaven, glory and Disneyland, all rolled up into one.

And at the end of each school break, before she packs up her flip flops to head back to the high desert of Arizona, my daughter comes here to our hometown beach where she fills her senses with this Pacific Northwest perfection to last till the next trip home.

19: One side of my mother's heart celebrates the rugged independence and strong sense of self that led my fourth-born to choose Arizona as her college destination. Couldn't be more proud of her for forging her own path, marching to the beat of her own drum, and boldly going where no Streicher has gone before.

But there's another side of  my heart that hates, hates, hates having her so far away from me.

In order to make peace between those warring factions, I've settled upon a satisfying compromise. Twice a year, I go visit her. These long weekends of fun in the Sonoran Desert sun have helped me fall in love with the southwest and fostered my obsession with the Saguaro cactus. Also I've seized these opportunities to help her stockpile some groceries, run a few off-campus errands, and recognize that she really is doing just fine without me.

18: Oh, the special challenges of being a last-born.

Not that I would know. I'm second-born of four so I can't imagine what it's like to run at the back of the pack.

But my youngest daughter has taught me that much patience is required to wait and watch from the sidelines as the older sibs launch themselves into life, making their own decisions and occasional mistakes. Slowly, slowly, the years slide by until finally, it's your chance to turn all that vicarious experience into wisdom beyond your years as you make your own calculated leap into the great unknown

This scene dates back to the spring of my fourth-born's senior year of high school. We were visiting my second-born on her nearby University of Washington campus, as we had so many times before. But this time was different. My baby had recently accepted an offer of admission to University of Arizona and now knew that somewhere, far to the south, her own college campus was waiting for her.

Such a great feeling to know where you belong.

17: It's challenging to document the internal adventures of a dreamer.

There is no camera technology available to capture the inner workings of the brain.

And the true introvert is hardly prone to snap selfies during moments of introspection.

Which means that there are precious few photos that show my teenage fourth-born doing what she often did during those years - sitting around and thinking.

But over the years, once or twice, I discovered a cache of web cam photos on the shared family desk top computer. Photos like this one, taken of my fourth-born by my fourth-born in a typical moment of deep thought.

I think she kind of hates these photos. They capture her in moments when she was focused on her inner thoughts rather than her outer appearance, and that is apparent to her when she looks at them.

For the very same reason, I treasure these views because this is the lost-in-thought person that I saw - sitting next to me in the car, sharing a chairlift, setting the table together - through most of her teenage years.

16: I do not envy the younger sisters of older girls. So many opinions, directives and words of advice flow down the chain of command, and in our home, this was particularly true in the world of fashion.

The older girls gently but firmly spoke their minds to their youngest sister with unending streams of guidance about wardrobe, hair and make-up. And my baby, God bless her, unilaterally ignored every syllable of their advice.

She was going to do things her way, and you could either like it or lump it.

Influenced by her early snowboarding roots, my fourth-born's emerging sense of style leaned toward a skater vibe featuring oversize tees and beanies. She turned out to be crazily on-musim and as it turned out, the older girls often took a halaman from her book.

Especially at windy Pacific beaches.

15: When I came to the dinner table with stories of an amazing graffiti wall in Seattle, down near the train tracks behind a warehouse in Sodo, and my emerging plan to pay a visit, my daughters all thought I had lost my mind.

When I showed up the next evening with a camera roll full of the most gorgeous street art imaginable, they lined up and asked, "So when are we going back?"

This photo not only commemorates that wonderful pair of back-to-back adventures, it's also a tiny slice of that heavenly pie called Mom Is Occasionally Right.

14: Sometimes, my favorite moments as a mother are those in which I am utterly and completely left out.

Case in point. Every now and then, when soft summer evenings beckoned just so, my little pack of teenage girls would fall under the spell of adventure. Off they would go, running barefoot around the neighborhood, slipping away on their scooters, disappearing for an hour or two at a time on these enigmatic outings about which I was provided few if any details.

Sometimes, mothers just need to keep their noses out, and let the mysteries of sisterhood take over.

I'll admit that these are among the moments when I wished I'd had a sister. Because I do believe that twenty hours of hair-pulling would easily be worth one hour spent is such sweet camaraderie.

13: A world of many people; a girl of many worlds.

12: Around the time this girl was turning twelve years old, she, her third-born sister and I dove headfirst into the snowy world of winter downhill sports. Joined by many of our homeschooling buddies, we adventured up into the nearby mountains to spend every Friday from November to April careening down slopes, hollering through the woods, and floundering in lovely powder drifts. Long after dark, we would load up in the vans, laughing and snapping photos in the backseat all the way back home.

This new passion stirred up different energies in our family because my two older girls weren't interested in freezing their booties off while falling face first into the snow with both feet strapped to a slippery hunk of polymers.. Huh. Go figure. So for the very first time, our merry band of five became three, and a whole new dimension of our lives took shape.

These snowboarding years were good times. And when I occasionally struggle with those dark motherly moments where I lament - as all mothers occasionally do - for the things I wish I had done during my children's formative years, I can always console myself in the end by remembering, ah, but I gave them the gift of snowboarding.

11. As my fourth-born neared adolescence, her natural clowning abilities and people-pleasing ways began to give way to a deeply introspective self. This lovely self-awareness showed itself first and most fully in natural settings, where my girl's fascination with the physical world overcame her need for human companionship and conversation.

Of course, Ranger was always welcome to buddy up with her. He is a man of very few words.

10: When my baby turned ten, her sisters were 12, 14 and 16 years old. She lived, quite literally, in a world full of teenagers and like many homeschooled kids, saw herself as an equal partner to their shenanigans. Our home was often stuffed with our homeschooling counterparts but also the mostly-traditionally schooled kids from church youth group. This girl's high spirits and clever sense of humor won their favor and she was welcomed into the pack of big dogs many times over.

The Nike shirt deserves an honorable mention. When my third- and fourth-borns were maybe seven and five years old, respectively, they found themselves a sweet set of matching Nike warm-ups - light blue jacket and navy pants - and these matching grey tee shirts. We bought them slightly oversized and the girls literally wore their new outfits right out of the outlet store and into near constant use. Slowly, over the years, each garment was eventually outgrown - they never wore out even though they were worn almost nonstop - and this grey tee was the last piece standing. My baby cleverly layered it over a properly-sized long-sleeve tee, and stretched a few more precious years out of it.

9: Three things about this photo are really cool:

1. My first-born and fourth-born are now exactly the same height. Hard to remember when they were this far apart.

Dua. In my baby's face, I can see both her toddler self and her eventual teenage self melded together. This age was a time of great transformation, though of course one can never see such things happening at the time.

Tiga. The inspiration for this finger gun pose was neither James Bond nor Jack Bauer. These millennial girls are all about the Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle.

8. Two little pixies playing in the snow. All I can think is that it looks like a magical fairyland and I hope it felt that way to them.

7. Yes, that it a big, firmly packed snowball in her heavily mittened hand. But this seven-year-old would never think to heave it as ammunition. She would much rather pat and prod it to perfection, and then use it as the base for a miniature snowman. #peacemaker

6. With three older sisters, my youngest got her fair share of hand-me-downs. I expected more complaints but she often found something to love among the gently worn contributions to her wardrobe and I was always tickled when she latched on to one of her sisters' old favorites.

These aptly named "doggy pajamas" sported one big dalmatian puppy on the thermal weave top, and lots of little spotted pups leaping and prancing all over the bottoms. They were a huge favorite of both my second- born and my fourth born; between the sisters, the jammies enjoyed two long seasons of wear and became a family legend.

5. I could tell you a story about the day that a box full of dress-up clothes from a relative arrived and how the girls ripped into it like Santa's sleigh and played endlessly with the goodies.

I could share the trauma of those bangs, which were an unauthorized style change enacted by my second-born and a rogue pain of scissors.

I could explain how the older girls always cast baby sister in the less glamorous roles of their fantasy play. Cowgirl, prince, butler. It fell to my youngest to playact far beyond the typical princess, babysitter or girl detective, and she always did so with a willing heart and a happy smile.

But when I look at this photo, all I can see are those twinkly blue eyes and dimpled cheeks and my heart melts. I wouldn't mind spending one more day with this five-year-old.

4: In my photo album, this is one of a series of photos where my four-year-old is making funny faces. She named them all for me and I wrote the captions next to the photos. This one is called "big eyes."

3: Just before this girl's third birthday, we found a little lost kitten, brought her home and named her Blackberry. Already a dog lover, my baby took to the new kitty with deep affection and charmed the little orphan with her soft hugs and sweet pink cheeks.

2. In almost every photo we could find of my youngest in her first five years, she is accompanied by at least one older sister who is guiding and directing her through the situation at hand. The uncropped version of this photo shows my second-born sitting to the left - her hand remains in this version. Clearly, big sis is consulting with the birthday girl on how to handle those candles, and my baby's expression suggests that she is seriously contemplating the advice.

1. Sunny winter lunch time, giggles abound. Now it may be that the older sisters are cracking her up, but chances are good that my one-year-old, with her curly top knot and toothy grin, is the instigator of the laughter. From a very early age, this girl learned of her own power to amuse her sisters with funny faces at mealtimes, and quickly earned the title of family jokester.

0. My fourth-born girl at less than one week of age. I fall in love with that little face all over again these many years later, and feel the same sense of wonder and awe that she could possibly have come from me.

And I am reminded once again that mothering is a precious gift which cannot be explained, only experienced. The mystery of motherhood gives rise to the great sisterhood which connects and unites all mothers, across time and space. We birth these precious miracles from our very bodies and then set them free to leave us. As the years go by, we hold tight not to our long-grown-up babies, but to the sweet memories of when we gave them life.

Happy Golden Birthday to my beautiful fourth-born girl!

* * * * *

See more of my Golden Birthday stories and photos here:

Part One - An Idea And A Baby Are Born

Part Two - The Photos And Lots Of Commentary

Part Three - The Idea, Like Helium, Expands

News Trend Making It Happen|Actual

"A dream doesnt become reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination and hard work."

-Colin Powell

More than a decade ago, my second-born's middle school buddy - named Scotty - told her that someday he would be a famous rapper and his stage name would be Ska-T.

Now, pretty much every kid in America dreams of becoming a rock star.

Or a professional athlete.

Or an astronaut.

Or in the case of some overachievers, all three.

But here's the thing. Scotty did not just sit around dreaming.

After getting the practical aspects of his adult life together, he got to work on making his dream come true. For the past year, Ska-T has been recording music, performing at clubs around Seattle and perfecting his art.

Here are a few shots from last week's show at The Jet:

Artistically speaking, Ska-T describes his style as a high-energy and unforgettable blend of Hip-Hop and Reggae with hard hitting, faced paced flows and laid-back tropical vibes.

You can pretty much smell the Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion and feel the sand between your toes as you listen.

Ska-T boasts a commanding stage presence far beyond his experience, and uses wardrobe changes, logos,, props and giveaways to engage the crowd on multiple levels.

He also taps into some family talents: that's his dad, the legendary Conman, on drums, and his brother - aka Twisted Chich - waving the Jolly Roger for all he's worth.

A multisensory feast for any music aficionado, Ska-T entertains across a broad spectrum and is well worth a listen.

And I'm not just saying that because he's my friend and former student.

Or because his mother is my BFF.

Or even because I am a sucker for all things Jamaican. I mean come on, that bobsled team..

I support and encourage Ska-T because I believe in the power of dreams coming true. And I'm fiercely proud of Scotty - the man behind the music - for putting in the sweat, determination and hard work required to make it happen.

Photo credits to Heidi who always, always has her camera pointed in the right place at the right time. <3

News Trend Happy Golden Birthday (Part Three - The Idea, Like Helium, Expands)|Actual

Outtake #1: This is one of my favorite snaps of my fourth-born's life at age one. But really, a mouth full of Corn Chex is not the most flattering look.

Last June, when I rolled out a year-by-year photographic essay for my third-born's Golden Birthday, it was all about necessity being the mother of invention.

She was living it up in Vietnam, I was sitting on my hands in America with precious few options for throwing her a worthy celebration.So I spammed Instagram and Facebook with her pretty face and shared the story of her life.

And while that was my seat-of-the-pants solution for a long-distance birthday, I also discovered that the process was a lot of fun.

Outtake #dua: While I tried to focus my collection on solo shots, the truth is that my fourth-born rarely spent a moment of her childhood alone. Shown here marching up an improvised slip and slide while a small army of older girls wait patiently for her to clear the racetrack, this is the life my baby truly led.

I enjoyed the long, lazy trip down Memory Lane, as I strolled through hard copy photo albums, endless digital archives, and even came upon a cache or two of long forgotten secara acak photos filed away in old-school paper envelopes..

I challenged myself to choose scenes that not only reveal chronological ages and stages, but also capture important events and the developing personality of the birthday girl.

I obsessed over the artsy factor, looking for shots that capture a beautiful scene, that crop and edit themselves into a pleasing square image.

And though this may sound nutty, I loved the rigor of posting those photos hour after hour, around the clock, remembering back to the long hours of labor before the original birthday. My girls each demanded more than twenty four hours of labor from me. They had no qualms about keeping me up all night back then, so it seems entirely fitting to put myself through a sleepless night in commemoration of their births.

Outtake #3: An adorable shot of my third- and fourth-born, with the younger girl cuddling our good dog, Casey. But the scene is also populated by a handful of other kids and the whole effect is cluttery and distracting.

So, after completing the project for my third-born last June, I knew without a doubt that I wanted to repeat the process for the other girls.

As luck would have it, two of the three remaining daughters are also about to celebrate their Golden Birthdays - the year in which they turn the age of the date on which they were born. My fourth-born just hit her gilded milestone last week; my first-born will score hers in May.

And in June, my second-born honors the tenth anniversary of her Golden Birthday, which presents itself as the perfect opportunity for a belated bash.

Outtake #4: A PERFECT shot of Daughters Three (far right) and Four (far left) with their sibling BFFs but uncroppable into a square format. Oh, the amazing snowy memories!

I will have a lot of pictures to post in the next few months.

But I don't mind one little bit.

Outtake #lima: Posting swim suit photos on line without express permission? Always a bad idea.

Oops. Just did it anyway.

It's a small thing I do, this capturing of four young lives well lived.

And it's the very least a mother can do to show her girls how much they are loved.

Outtake #6: A scene from the Christmas tree farm, intended only as a private message to Daughter Number Three in Vietnam. But those smiles are too good to hide forever.

Gohere to see all the photos.

* * * * *

See more of my Golden Birthday stories and photos here:

Part One - An Idea And A Baby Are Born

Part Two - The Photos And Lots Of Commentary

Part Four - More Photos, More Commentary

News Trend Happy Birthday, Heidi|Actual

March 8 was closing in fast. I needed a gift for my dear friend, Heidi's birthday and I was running out of time. For at least a week, my mind raced round in circles, trying to come up with a worthy idea.

Fresh in my memory was her support of my Golden Birthday projects. If you look at the Instagram posts for my fourth-born's recent celebration, you'll note that Heidi promptly commented each one. Instead of words, she tapped in little red balloons - one for each year of my daughter's age in the accompanying photo - and she stuck with it through the whole twenty-four hour marathon.

This is the kind of thing Heidi does.

That is the kind of person Heidi is.

Understated.

Supportive.

Imaginative.

Creative

Inventive

Dedicated.

And cute.

Always cute.

So, as I wracked my brain, trying to come up with a gift to suit such a friend, I wished that I could do a Golden-Birthday style celebration for her as well. But alas, I don't have access to a treasure trove of her photos, and that definitely creates some hurdles.

In lieu of that option, a new idea hit me.

I could sneak into her house and lavishly decorate for her big day.

Yeah, I liked that idea a lot. But as I quickly sorted through the prerequisites of such a plan, I realized the enormity of such a scheme and gave myself a solid reality check.

But as I eased myself back down to reality, a more practical notion popped into my noggin.

I would throw her a virtual celebration.

Every hour on the hour, all birthday long, I would post for Heidi a photo of the party I would like to throw for her. After just an hour or two of puttering around Pinterest, I had gathered up a gold mine of picture-perfect scenes All that was left to do was to wait for the starting gun at midnight, and then I put my plan into action:

1|25  Sleek mylar letter balloons, monocromatic styling and a few pops of adorable bokeh. A perfect kickstart to the celebration, I posted this one at the beginning of Heidi's big day.

2|25  I think of Heidi as a highly sensory person, and this room full of brightly colored, larger-than-life swirly paper shapes - which I can just see spinning and twirling in the breeze when all those windows are opened - struck me as a place where she would very much like to be.

3|25  Strangely, the first thing I noticed about this photo is the white banner which almost disappears into the white wall. Love the texture and subtlety of that look, and I think Heidi would too. Three darling little blonde girls in party hats and pretty dresses add a whole 'nother layer of charm; the cuties on the left and right strike me as tiny versions of Heidi's two grown-up daughters.

4|25  If I were throwing a real party for Heidi, I would have set up an area like this one, only the photo displays would have started out empty. Then, throughout the gala, I would have sent someone around with a camera to take instant photos, and then used the photos to fill in these frames over the course of the day. Instant decor. Instant souvenirs.

5|25 Pom-poms, balloons, garlands, lacy tablecloth and frilly tutus. The textural story here sets my heart beating fast, and the dreamy colors remind me of Heidi's seaside-colored home.

6|25 Polka dots and balloon animals represent Heidi's carefree, child-like mindset and I love how this scene captures that feel with grown-up style

7|25 Okay, watercolor garlands are one of my obsessions, so that part of the scene is on me. But Heidi has a longstanding tradition of celebrating her family's birthdays by peppering the walls of their home with tiny signs that show of the digits of the birthday person's new age. This big and bold 5 reminds me of that fabulous tradition.

8|25  Years ago, my then-teenage third-born daughter went to a Mika concert. Afterwards, she told me that she had run into Heidi at the show; when the lights came up, my daughter had helped Heidi gather up handfuls of the confetti that had just showered down over the crowd as part of the closing song. That is such a fantastically Heidi thing to do, and I celebrate that memory every time I see airborne confetti.

9|25  Garlands on garlands on garlands. As far as I'm concerned, you can never have too many garlands and I think Heidi shares that sentiment...

10|25  ...unless it's a party after dark. And then twinkle lights, votive candles, and a few giant pops of color are the ideal scene-stealers.

11|25  Heidi is not so much the type to normally go in for cutesy themed party decor or pastel pom-poms, but I think that if she was throwing a bash for a six-year-old cat fanatic, she might choose something just like this.

12|25  Back in the day, in a literature class that we taught together, Heidi and I read with our students a book called The Twenty-One Balloons . A fanciful story of travel, discovery, and imaginative inventions, we all enjoyed the experience of transporting ourselves to a magical land. These balloons took me right back to those adventuresome days.

13|25 This banner - look closely; you'll see the string connecting the letter - is just the kind of simple paper construction that both Heidi and I love to create. I hope she forgets all about this photo by her next birthday because seriously, I want to make this for her.

14|25  Or maybe I'll make this one. Or both. Heidi is the kind of person who wouldn't mind getting two birthday banners.

15|25 Every birthday banner - big or small, bright or bold, fancy or plain - is a good banner.

16|25. This display seems to be set up out-of-doors, on a porch or a deck, perhaps; definitely against an exterior wall. Upon seeing this for the first time, half of my brain scoffed at the absurdity of creating such a lavish lay-out in the soggy Pacific Northwest; the other part of me obsessed over how perfectly this arrangement would work on Heidi's front porch.

17|25  No question that Heidi loves tacos and the fine traditions of the American Southwest. But I chose this scene, with its horribly pun-ny sign, for her husband, Scott.

18|25  The simple strategy of using pale balloons taped to the wall to mimic a champagne toast strikes me as pure Heidi.

19|25  Another paper creation that is right up Heidi's alley; I'm pretty sure she owns a foamy headband that boasts a row of almost identical candles that is often used for birthday selfies. Also pretty sure I've seen her dog wearing it on her very own birthday.

20|25  Another husband-inspired idea. Hey Scott, I'm pretty sure a row of empty beer bottles along the deck railing, stuffed with twinkle lights, would earn you some major points with your wife. You're welcome.

21|25  I love the clean, simple lines of this cake on its sleek white pedestal, contrasted with the exuberance of infinite sprinkles. Pure Heidi.

22|25  Heidi and I are both winter babies, and I'm guessing that, like me, she often dreams of a birthday dinner celebrated outside on a warm summer evening.

23|25  Heidi has taught me that sometimes, a smaller, simpler version of a classic extravagance is all the more tempting for its tininess. This precious cookie-cake strikes me as a perfect case in point.

24|25  Simple joys, like sun-swept rooms and balloons within reach for the little ones, are the kind of things that Heidi loves best.

25|25  One of my favorite things about Heidi is that she wastes little time on the vanities of life. Each passing year is not measured in wrinkles, troubles, or aches and pains. Instead, she views life as an endlessly interesting and mysterious journey, and that's just one more reason that I'm happy to be traveling alongside her.

* * * * *

I loved celebrating my friend's birthday in this way and I thoroughly enjoyed running the race against time to get all my pictures posted.

But for the ultimate cerebration-worthy photo, I pass the baton to Heidi's fourth-born who posted this sweet mother-daughter shot.

True birthday joy cannot be measured in streamers, balloons, cakes, or even confetti. It's the people who make our lives worth living. and as Heidi crosses the finish line on another year, I wish her nothing but more love and togetherness in the year ahead.