Don't Stop Believen'

Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children began in 1921 with a mission to help crippled children regardless of their parents’ ability to pay.  Since the beginning, they have helped over 200, 000 children; I was one of them.  Scottish Rite Hospital is one of the most amazing places on planet Earth – and that is an understatement.  How do you begin to tell the story of a place that had such a monumental effect on your life that even 35+ years later, you remember and share the gifts and lessons learned there? Well, in the words of the King in Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland, you “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

I was born in 1972 with bilateral club feet. While I've never seen pictures, it probably looked like this

 When I was born, the doctors told my parents that I would never walk because the deformation was so severe. Even thirty years later at my grandmother’s funeral, some of the nurses that had been in the delivery room with me still remembered me and even commented that they had never before seen a deformation so severe.  To those who see me today, I imagine that it is difficult to reconcile such a grim prognosis for a woman that they see leaping, chasing, and dancing through life.  How did I beat this fate?  Well, I am a talking, WALKING miracle. A miracle that was performed by God through the love and devotion of the miracle factory that is Scottish Rite hospital.

As any parent can imagine, my parents were quite distraught by the news about their first born child.  But like any parent, defeat wasn’t an option.  They were not ready to accept that I would be confined to the equivalent of a board on wheels to push myself around on or a wheelchair.  There just had to be something else out there to help us.  They began with an orthopedic doctor who did as much as he could before admitting that my case was more than he could handle. An admission that I still am thankful that he had the humility and bravery to assert.  He told my parents about a hospital in Dallas that took cases like mine – the mission impossibles.

My parents took me to Scottish Rite hospital in the mid-1970s.  Most of the fourteen surgeries they performed on me were new and untried.  I spent most of my infancy and toddlerhood in casts, operating rooms, and semi-private hospital rooms at Scottish Rite.  My parents have enough stories of me kicking off and wearing down casts to fill an entire book. 

(Not me but gives you the idea.)

(I wore and slept in these - for a LONG time. I HATED these.)

 But with each surgery, each cast, each long hospital stay, my feet began to turn and be corrected, and I could walk. Walk by myself with no casts or crutches.  By the age of nine, I had beaten the odds and had my fourteenth and final surgery on my club feet.  They weren’t perfect. They weren’t pretty. But they carried me. I could now stroll the halls of my school, perform in dance recitals, walk across the football field at homecoming, run up and down the basketball court, march down the wedding aisle, and dance at my wedding.  It was nothing short of a miracle that the men and women of Scottish Rite performed on me.

That alone should be enough. The gift of walking. It was enough; but Scottish Rite gave me more. They gave me a haven, a respite from the outside world where I was always different. And many weren’t about to let me forget it.  I was the kid with the weird, scarred up feet and corrective shoes.  As you can imagine that didn’t go unnoticed on the elementary playground.  But at Scottish Rite, I was just like all the other kids.  All of us had something “wrong” with us.  We were all in a wheelchair, on crutches, or walking with a limp or some other definite sign to the outside world that not every baby is born “perfect.”  But none of that mattered there.  We ran that place because at Scottish Rite, it was and still is all about kids. 

Staying in the hospital was like going off to summer camp. There were toys, coloring books, activities with famous Dallas residents, newspaper reporters, and a staff that just let us be kids…even when we played “ding-dong-ditch” with the elevators 50 bazillion times a day.  And being there in the early 80s, I got to play on the revolutionary and much coveted new home video game system – the Atari! It got to a point that my brothers and sister actually got jealous of how fun being in the hospital was!

But the gifts didn’t stop there.  Being at a place where the impossible was made possible, I had the gift of seeing that a whole lot of other kids had it a whole lot worse off than I. And it taught me not to wallow in self pity and above all else, I learned empathy.  I saw a girl my age that had been born with arms so deformed that she couldn’t use them. So instead she did everything with her feet.  It was amazing, and I never once saw her feel sorry for herself.  She was absolutely inspirational in her determination and spirit. But that is the attitude at Scottish Rite – everything is possible.

I “threw” my first board game in the lobby of that hospital.  As a kid growing up with three siblings, losing on purpose was never part of the equation.  One morning while waiting to be called back for one of my many checkups with the doctor, I was playing Connect Four with a girl close to my age. We played several rounds of which I won all.  It was during these victories that I realized that they were all hollow. While physically she was stronger than me, she was mentally deficient and didn’t have the gift of strategy and planning that God had blessed me with.  I let her win all the other rounds that we played that morning. Never had I imagined that losing could feel so good because I had discovered that day that it was more blessed to give than to receive.  I also understood that I should be grateful for those intellectual gifts because God doesn’t see “fair” the same way humans do. 

Now, one of my students has become one of the blessed thousands to be cared for by the staff of Texas Scottish Rite Hospital. When I found out that this child was going to Scottish Rite for his surgery and rehabilitation, I was so very, very happy for him. I know that even though his physical trials are and will be Herculean, he is having fun and getting to be a kid even while faced with adult circumstances. He is at the best possible place being cared for by the best possible people in the best possible environment that any kid could ever dream of.  I know. I lived it.

Crazy

I’m not a royal watcher; I really couldn’t care less about any of them. Especially Princess Di. Don’t even get me started on the over-rated, not-that-pretty, what’s-the-big-deal, ex-next-Queen-of-England. But I have to say that I have kinda liked Kate Middleton.

        I think part of it’s because she’s a commoner – or was. One of the coolest things she did was when she got married, she asked the wedding guests to donate to an anti-bullying charity. Turns out that the future Queen of England was bullied as a kid - bullied to the point of changing schools to get away from the mean girls.

        And look at her when she was a kid:

        No one would have expected this plain girl to end up with Prince William. And I still think that her wedding invites should have been printed with this on them:

“What NOW, Bitches.”

        But today I am beginning to really not like her. Maybe even hate her if this comes to pass:

Kate Middleton brings back pantyhose.

Yahoo! Shine says, “…Kate's bringing back the look for a new generation.” And, “Already, the trend has caught on in the UK, with a significant spike in nude hosiery sales since Kate's made them part of her dressing routine…”

       

       


Yeah, that’s right. F-ing pantyhose are coming back.

           And I just have one thing to say, “HELL NO.” I am NOT wearing these instruments of torture and devices of female servitude. I’m not. And I will hurt anyone who tries to make me. If you think I'm wearing pantyhose EVER again, YOU'RE CRAZY!

        Kate Middleton, I invite you to take the South Texas challenge. Come spend an ENTIRE summer here, wearing pantyhose EVERY day, and see THEN if you want to bring these implements of torment back into fashion.

        Until you do this - and survive with your sanity still in check, you and the nylon tubes of itchy and scratchy can go on back to England! Crazy indeed.

        And just to remind you of just how far we’ve come, here’s a little flashback:

Walkin' After Midnight

     It’s after midnight, do you know where your Sleep is? I don’t. He just gets up and leaves whenever he feels like it. No warning. No note. Just leaves. He’s a bitch, but he’s not my bitch. I hate Sleep.

     I can’t just kick Sleep to the curb. He’s a sexy, fickle, young boy who can’t make up his mind if he loves me or loves me not. While he’s super-hot with his Ryan Reynolds’s six-pack and his messy hair that looks like he just got out of bed, I’m tired of him and his flaky ways. He shows up at odd times and demands that I drop everything I’m doing and go with him. He doesn’t care if I’m working, driving, or needed for sex or to assist with a school project. He even bothers me AT CHURCH! He wants me, “NOW!” And if I don’t go with him when he demands, I never know when he’ll come back. And he makes me snore! Oh, I hate you Sleep – you sexy, fickle, hunk of man.

     It’s Insomnia that is my true friend. I know he’s kind of old, graying, and a bit of a pain, but he’s there every night. There with me and my Droid to hang out and read useless Yahoo! articles about Lindsay Lohan, the Kardashians, and waitresses who give dating advice (which I don’t need because I’m married). He enjoys watching FOX News with me on the couch at odd hours of the morning. He is reliable, steadfast, and will not leave me no matter how hard I try. Insomnia and his Herculean strength can stand up to Benadryl, Lunesta, and multiple glasses of Merlot. He is not a fair-weathered friend; he’s there, after midnight, walkin’ with me to the potty, and he accompanies me all the way back to bed and stays with me, so I won’t get lonely. Insomnia, he’s a snuggler!
Insomnia is fiercely jealous of Sleep. I know this because any time Sleep comes around, Insomnia kicks his ass. Yes, he protects me. Insomnia loves me; Sleep only pretends to love me.
              
     This is why I’m officially dumping Sleep and taking up with Insomnia. Yeah, Insomnia and I are going to have a great future together. My life will be so much more stable and safe because I’ll know what to expect. I can accomplish so much more with Insomnia than I ever could with Sleep. I will bake, clean, give myself regular manicures and pedicures, and the Power Points that I will create for my classes will be amazing. I could even write a book! Yeah, life with Insomnia is going to be great.
               
     Wait a second. Is that Sleep over there washing my minivan without a shirt? Why, yes, it izzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

If We're Not Back in Love by Monday

We love our kids, but sometimes we need a break from them to remember why. And since absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, my honey and I went on a mini vacay – sans children. An opportunity for us to also remember why we love each other when the kids are not around. Our chosen exotic locale? Austin.

        First on the itenary? Ikea. And after Google Maps took on us on a wild goose chase ending at the Austin Chronicle’s office (WTF?), we finally discovered that it is actually located in Round Rock. Once we got there, I wet my pants like an excited dog. That place was AWESOME! Furniture, fixtures, and fuzzy rugs! Kitchenware, officeware, even toys for the kids! Acres and acres of all things home!

        Later, we checked into our hotel, and the STRANGEST thing happen to me. When we first got there, I looked like this:

 

        Upon checking in, I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby’s mirror, and I had transformed into this:

        Why is it that men think checking into Hyatt Regency magically transforms women into Ginger Legsbehindmyhead? I’m still the same, boring, minivan-driving lady you left the house with. So, we had that discussion AGAIN, and he put the swing back in the suitcase and sent the midgets away.

        It was this evening that I actually found my new love – Fogo De Chao. It was EXACTLY what I think heaven is going to be like – people walking around with skewers of red meat and slicing off pieces directly to my plate. I enjoyed multiple food-gasms and am leaving my husband for this guy:

        The next day, we did some shopping on south Congress, and my brother gave us an insider tour of the capital building. We did the Sixth St. thing with some great friends ending up at our favorite, Pete's Piano Bar. But mostly we just enjoyed each other’s company without the interruption of our offspring.

        It was a great repose and break from the demands of parenthood, and we are now back in love with our four little brats.

Sunday Morning Coming Down (Sunday, July 10, 2011)

My sweet husband, with the help of a carpenter friend, made for our family this beautiful table.

           Using his own two hands, he transformed rough pieces of pecan into a haven for our family. It is nine feet long and sturdy. It is not fancy and has no intricate detailing. In fact, it has no carving or detailing at all. It is big, well-built, and strong. It is beautiful in its simplicity and functionality. Tucked up under this pecan Polaris are two matching benches to seat our family and the future of our family. Both made by my sweet husband.

We love this table because it is perfect for our lifestyle. It is where homework is completed, Playdough is molded into pretend hamburgers and snakes, Hot Wheels become real life race cars, and occasionally, we eat on it. We’ve even had mass celebrated on it. It is the central station of our home.

It is also symbolic of what we hope to be to each other - supportive and accommodating without flashy, overt details screaming out to be admired. In other words, no resounding gongs or clanging cymbals. Because after all, we, like our table, really are just here to serve a purpose, not be admired or praised for doing what we are supposed to do - support and hold up a place of communion and refuge for ourselves and others that happen into our space.

            It is on Sunday mornings that we draw most on this slab’s strength. All six of us converge with our coffee, milk, biscuits, bacon, and newspaper, fighting over who gets the comics or sports section first, being careful not to disturb Dad’s organized stack of black and white and read all over, letting him deem who gets what. We discuss what we’ve read and explain what is not understood. We discuss what the week has given and challenged us with and what lies ahead for the coming seven days. My sweetheart and I answer challenging questions such as, “Which is stronger – fire or outer space?” or “Why are Storm Troopers so bad at shooting with laser guns?” or “What would happen to the earth if everyone was really fat like Santa Claus?” Challenging indeed.  Then, up and off to church.

And just like the table, the memories connected to it will be priceless family heirlooms.

Stand By Your Man

The hubby and I are leaving today for a mini vaca - with no children. (No, I will NOT come back pregnant.) Yesterday, I went shopping for HIM. Here's what I got for HIM:

What a lucky man to have such a thoughtful - hot ass babe - as a life partner!

I'll be out for a few days. Enjoy my absence?

Mama Tried

What is intellectual curiosity?  I mean, I KNOW what it means. I know kinda how to do it. But what IS it? In other words, what does dictionary.com say? Actually, nothing. It took me to Ask.com which means that even THEY (you know the smarty-smarts at dictionary.com) don’t even know what it means.

Shirley, from Yahoo! Answers says it means, “you want to know more than the basics or the common knowledge; you want to LEARN so you (and maybe others) can benefit from the knowledge; something to challenge you and make you think about problems and issues, and how to communicate with others about those issues and possibly resolve them.” And Shirley was voted as having the best answer. (Well, she was the only answer, but hey…)

Merriam Webster (mother freakin’ MERRIAM WEBSTER)  didn’t have an answer either. It tried to break the phrase into the two words and define them individually. Uh, I can do that, and I’m not even a Webster.

So, I turned to the internet’s supreme and most entertaining source – urbandictionary.com. I clicked and held my breath because I wasn’t sure just exactly what I was going to get. (Anyone who has visited this website before knows whatI’mtalkinbout.) Well, after being distracted – briefly – by suggested entries such as intellectual blue balls, intellectual douchebag, intellectual grabass, and my new self-appointed title, Intellectual Badass, I found it defined there as, “A desire to learn more about a person, or a thing, or a way of life.”

OK, this is the one I like. Short, sweet, and easily understood to the ADHD freak-show that I am. Sorry, Shirley, but you lost me with all your WORDS.

I am, then, intellectually curious. I like to know lots of stuff. I wonder about lots of things. How did we ever live without Wikipedia, Yahoo! (Sorry, I don’t Google, I Yahoo! It’s just way more fun to say. YahoooooOOOooo!), and Netflix streaming documentaries about the Shakers, Polio, and the Planet Earth (all of which I have watched)? I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Except sports which is what keeps me from being the ULTIMATE Trivial Pursuit partner. I even DVR Jeopardy and watch a bunch of them all in one sitting. Just soaking up the intellectualness. I like learning stuff about stuff. Except sports.

What can I say? I’m gifted.

But my real quandary is not what intellectual curiosity is – duh! My real quandary is how to get others, or more specifically, my two oldest (11 and 12 year old boys) to be intellectually curious.

I’ve tried museums but I get all stressed out when instead of marveling at how ancient people lived or how jellyfish can function without a brain, they are more marveled by their brother’s loud and nasty fart that sets off a giggle-fest that eventually draws me in. I do make them read AND talk about it afterwards, but that too ends in someone farting and me becoming angry at their lack of awe and interest in the literary qualities of the novel that has entertained generations of young boys before them. And documentaries? Yeah, tried those, too. It was the best naps they EVER took. But at least there was no farting.

I gave up. I have given birth to Dumb & Dumber! Larry, Moe, & Curley! Jackass Parts 1, 2, AND 3! I am not going to be the mother of the next Senator, CEO, or, even, Angus Young. I am a failure. I will apologize to their future wives and explain that MAMA TRIED!

But then one day, I walk into their bathroom. (It was on a dare from my husband.) Anyway, I walked in and saw, sitting on the shelf above the toilet, a BOOK. Now, granted, it was DC Comic’s Encyclopedia, but it was a BOOK. And it had the word Encyclopedia in it. I took it down and began reading some of it and realized something glorious. Hidden there in the pages of brightly-colored images of tights-wearing men assisted by young boys and very politically incorrect images of women, I found classical, highly-intellectual literature – ok, glimpses of literature. These superheroes’ stories mirrored the tales of mythological heroes and heroines such as Zeus, Poseidon, and Hermes. Great epic tales of good and evil were being retold through Superman, Aqua man (Yeah, I know he’s the lamest of all the supers.), and Flash. Good ol’, classic Greek mythology was right there wearing spandex and a cape. Not that they knew it. Not that they cared. But it was there.

My heart sung. My boys were reading mythology – sort of. There was some hope for them yet. The seeds of intellectual curiosity were being sewn, and when it was time for them to read Greek mythology –you know, for a grade and stuff - they would get it. They would connect it to something they already knew. So for now, their form of intellectual curiosity is not the same color, shape, or smell as mine. And that is ok. I’m just going to go have a glass of wine and celebrate my SUPER victory for today.

Conan O'Brien visits DC Comics.