Sharing A Journey of Comical Parenting and Personal Growth
My name is Katie. I write for fun and enjoy the process. I work, have a family (including identical triplet sons plus a daughter) and have a small group of older lady friends that keep me fascinated. I take in too many rescue pets and tend to live outside the norm. I love travel, fashion and reading historical fiction. I’m a Believer and think everyone has good to offer. I strive to be the change I’d like to see in the world.
I sit alone in my room listening to my adult sons dart like missiles through my home. College is out early so we are all here inside. Unfortunately, I’ve been sick for two days unable to leave my bed. My head is pounding and my eyes are pulsating out my head. I don’t know what I have and can only guess.
My daughter came home early from Colombia with a cold. Another son flew home from skiing with a cough. I stayed in bed almost 3 days before I had energy to even shower. Is it Coronavirus? Is it just a bad cold or a virus? I certainly won’t go to the doctor to find out, that’s for sure.
It’s surreal that only last Saturday I was out running errands and a shop keeper lamented the way this was “blown out of proportion.” It’s shocking how wrong that statement was. The WORLD- not just my city, my state, or my country are being ravaged by an invisible foe. We are at war and the militia are our healthcare workers.
As I lie in bed staring at the midnight ceiling, I thought about how much has happened so early in the new millennia: The 9/11 attack in 2001; Hurricane Katrina in 2005; the Recession in 2008; more financially devastating hurricanes followed; the California wildfires of 2019; and now the lightening-quick attack of a virulent giant we’ve never seen before. The history books will be the mirror of how we make out. Our grandchildren will hopefully know much more than we do and be better prepared. One can only hope.
Never in my wildest dreams would I believe my church would shut. Yet here we are. It’s nearly shameful to go anywhere less essential trips. How long will this last- weeks, months, who knows? The unknown is the hardest part.
The only way I know to get through the bleak unknown is to lean on what I DO know. I know that God is STILL GOD. Jesus is STILL HIS SON sent to redeem us all. Peace is to be had DESPITE our circumstances. People are also mostly good. I’ve seen so much goodness on social media that I’m thankful I didn’t give it up for Lent!
One day this storm will pass. We will reflect on it as our grandparents do the Depression or World War II. We will say what we did to bide our time and probably share bizarre, humorous stories. Hopefully, we will rebound stronger, kinder, and able to remember what truly matters.
“Even if it ain’t all it seems, I got a pocketful of dreams Baby I’m from New York! Concrete jungle where dreams are made of There’s nothing you can’t do Now you’re in New York! These streets will make you feel brand new Big lights will inspire you Hear it for New York, New York, New Yooork!”
from EMPIRE STATE of MIND by Alicia Keys
I first visited New York City when I was a cash poor, college student working upstate. Regrettably, we ate only Pizza Hut and walked around aimlessly. I was warned more about crime than where to eat or what to see. “Don’t look up at the buildings, it makes you a target,” people told me. I was a small town girl visiting the Big Apple but felt I was visiting an entire produce market instead! The masses of people were bewildering. I felt compelled to ask everyone where they were going since everyone seemed in a hurry. When I went again, in the early ‘90s, Mayor Giuliani was beginning his term and I ate A LOT better. I remember seeing the volunteer “Guardian Angels” trekking around Times Square keeping order and a benevolent watch over the city. Times Square was a bit more seedy and undesireable back then. Still, the jumbo screens that only partially existed (compared to now) were a spectacular light show. And I did steal glances up at the towering buildings regardless of prior warnings.
I went a third time when taking my daughter to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. It was the early ’00s, after the horrendous 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center. It was a difficult decision to proceed, but we felt it was more tragic NOT to go. We relished the opportunity to stay at the famous Plaza Hotel and see Eloise. She was the little girl famed to live there in a childrens book. Amazingly, the illustrator, Hillary Scott, from the original “Eloise at the Plaza” was there and signed our copy. We sipped tea in the Palm Room, wrote a letter to Eloise, and recounted history of the famed hotel. Seeing Santa at Macy’s and riding the old, wooden escalator were highlights. The Fifth Avenue shop windows were extravagantly decorated for the holidays by designers involving big budgets. Those were worth a stand in line. A chilly carriage ride through Central Park was picturesque, as was skating at the Rockefeller Center. Minus the exact site of the twin towers, the city did not reflect it had just survived its worst tragedy in modern history. Nothing could hold New York City down, it seemed.
The attack on the World Trade Center forever changed the city (and country). I have read numerous accounts of heroicism and altruism surrounding the day’s events and those after. What terrorists meant for destruction and despair actually had the opposite effect. People began connecting and relating in meaningful ways versus the former “keep to self” mentality. I can attest that on my recent visit, I was aided on two separate occassions by New Yorkers who simply wanted to be nice. One totally inconvenienced herself by walking us to our destination. Another who appeared intimidating at first, was a godsend at the subway. He observed our wide-eyed confusion trying to choose a line and gave us detailed directions when he could have walked on. We noticed incredibly kind and friendly people overall.
My husband and I finally visited the 9/11 Memorial site last Fall. We were silenced eyeing the massive holes in the earth where the two towers once stood. Commemoration of all that occurred in those two towers was aided by deep fountains now in their place. Water cascading towards the center of the earth solemnly recalled the parallel events. Yet now it was beautiful and serene. What irony! Loved ones left flowers by the names of those deceased. Children born well after the devastation played happily on the grounds while young adults lined up at food trucks. The massive structure over the entry to the Oculus, a three story underground mall, appeared to be a gigantic carcass. (More irony.) When I learned it connected all the way down to the subway, I was dumbfounded at its architectural and engineering genius. My husband pointed out the Trinity church directly across the street with its aged cemetery that appeared not to have noticed the events of 9/11 at all. It remained miraculously untouched. The fourth tower is slated to be built next year, I learned, while touring the Freedom Tower Observatory. Its panoramic view was astounding and limitless. With the last tower, the site will be bigger and better than ever.
How can an event so devastating and ugly become an architectural feat that draws millions? How can New York overcome all that it has endured? It can through resiliant, inconquerable souls who love their city and their ideals. It can through those who choose not to live in fear but to look for possibility instead. It can in New York City. I know because I was there, met some of its people and saw all of it myself.
My family and I went to Colombia for the holidays. Not Columbia, but Colombia. Yes, the country where drug cartels ruled and kidnappings once regularly occurred. When I told people what we were doing for the holidays the common response I got was, “Why?” I then would explain that our daughter was teaching there and we wanted to see her. So, we made the family pilgrimage. Little did I know, I’d also come away with some powerful insights.
The trip there was about as smooth as a cracked cell phone screen. We grumbled and complained due to missing our flight because of mechanical failure. Our irritation grew as we were rerouted in the opposite direction. We actually lost an entire day scurrying from airport to airport piecing our arrival together. Then, the requisite cherry on top was the loss of luggage which ensued days of misery for one of us.
Our general misery subsided however, as we arrived to this land overflowing with abundant fruits and generous foliage. The lush, green canopies of aged, coffee plants, towering, wax palms and unidentifiable flora were breathtaking. Of course, seeing our daughter was the real prize. All six of us together on a family trip and we would have unknown memories yet to make.
Arriving during the Christmas season was extra special. My daughter had indicated that Colombia was its most festive around Christmas. The towns were lit up like gigantic, twinkling, tree ornaments. I noticed dancing lights every square inch from our aerial view during our flight from Bogota to Cali. I also noticed something odd- dressed up, lap dogs on our plane. Then street dogs, shop dogs, and personal dogs in just about every place of our first city, Salento. That was where we toured the coffee plantation and horseback rode up a mountain. For the record, most of us did not know how to horseback ride, much less on a narrow path on the side of a mountain.
Colombia is known for their flavorful coffee. I will never drink coffee irreverently again knowing all that goes into it. The back-breaking labor of handpicking ripe red, “cherry” beans (on a steep hill) and sorting through all the beans is impressive, intentional work- especially for the smaller, old fashioned farms that prefer to keep their coffee “pure.” We learned the process and that the country itself drinks the rejected beans and exports their best to the likes of us. “We are spoiled,” I thought more than once on this trip.
Another day, we took off on a Jeep ride to the base of the greenest mountain I have ever seen. There we mounted horses (without any education on riding- instructors couldn’t speak English anyway) and made our way up to the aged, wax palm trees. The trees looked straight out of a Dr. Seuss book. They were approximately 60 meters tall and 200 years old. Standing in their natural arbor, the panoramic view was pure art. Speechless, we took it all in.
At this point of our journey we learned a few curious things about Colombia. First, it is NOT a poor country. Second, you can’t flush toilet paper ANYWHERE in the country and third, people are extremely nice but you can’t expect anyone to speak English. Our most pleasant surprise was how incredibly affordable everything was. Our family of six could eat out for less than half of what we paid at home.
After Christmas, we headed to Cali and attended “La Féria.” It’s a traditional celebration parade of the peoples of Colombia dating from the indigenous through modern times. Each was represented with floats, music, and elaborate costumes. It was quite a site. Next, my daughter and I had a girls day and the boys tried kite surfing. I was thankful to eat a fabulous meal in a spa-like restaurant and shop Colombian designers instead. Custom clothes abound there. Many have the seamstress connected to their showrooms. I’d never seen boutique couture like that before.
New Years is a family event in Colombia, unlike the US. So, most everything was shut for the holiday. We ended up at the Marriott (notably the nicest and most expensive hotel in Cali) for a sushi dinner and people watching. It did not disappoint as people cascaded in wearing ball gowns and international flight crews arrived in their stylish, European uniforms. It was a feast for the eyes.
For our last stop, we headed to Bogota as our daughter headed to Medellin. We had one last day to see sights. A few of us headed up to Montserrat- named for the same in Barcelona- for good luck, per tradition, while others retreated from the rain.
Sadly departing, we immediately said we were coming back. Colombia we found, is NOT the TV show “Narcos,” nor is it a dangerous, third world country. As the small hotelier stated in broken English, “We Colombians don’t have access to everything but we appreciate more because of it. We have peace in our hearts and that comes from inside.”
The saying “Love you, like you” has made its way into my stash of favorites. I have no idea where it originated, but am so glad it did. I think one of our children spontaneously said it as a small child and it stuck. In our home, we tend to not always like each other but we always love each other. That brings me a lot of peace because sometimes family life is anything but peace-filled!
I have a dear friend with an autistic son who attends a special school. At the school the students and parents were asked to vote on t-shirt slogans to promote positivity and be a fundraiser. My friend voted the one with the slogan “I Love You & I Like You” and even ordered me one! I love it immeasurably. She doesn’t know the example she serves in my life. I wear that shirt with pride.
My mother in law once said that being liked is even more complimentary than being loved (paraphrased). I get what she means. We love our families and we like our friends. In this, we are basically saying “love” is commitment- not emotion led- but “like” is fun and endearing. Like anyone else I’d like to be liked too. Feelings aside, if you love someone, you might only like them sometimes. If considering just liking someone, then you either do or you don’t.
It’s the oddest thing to be disliked (and know it) but not know why. It used to bug me wondering why someone was frequently cold to me, but now, not so much. I realize I also like some people more and others not as much. Why? Who knows? It is just chemistry, or lack there of, or any thousand other reasons, I suppose.
God calls me to be like Jesus to love others as myself. I am relieved it’s okay to dislike. It is also relief to know I can still love others through my actions while disregarding my gut feelings. I guess what I’m trying to say is that liking or being liked is just pleasant- like icing on a cake. But when you’re loved AND liked, it’s the whole dessert.
I am naturally high strung and move at a fast pace through life. My father calls me Danika Patrick when he’s in the car with me. I don’t like wasted time nor wasted words and frequently “cut to the chase.” I even abhor when my TV system scrolls “please wait” across the screen. This makes me “Hurricane Katie,” I suppose. But I am beginning to realize there is great value in waiting.
My pastor preached last Sunday that the word Advent is derived from a Latin word meaning “to wait.” We are officially in Advent now and I feel I am being taught the value in waiting. I recently fell, accidentally slipping off my porch and injured my back. I had to wait three weeks to heal. It was agonizing but I learned major empathy for my older friends and their frequent falls. I also developed profound appreciation for a single moment without pain. Yes, waiting was good for me.
Try telling a two year old to wait for anything and you might witness a full on meltdown. I witnessed my goddaughter lie down in the service area at a bookstore after her parents told her she was going to have to wait to leave. It was hysterically funny and I imagined what it would be like if adults were allowed to conduct lie down protests? Can you imagine impatient coffee drinkers at Starbucks taking it to the floor over a latte??
We live in an age of instant satisfaction. I like quick results like anyone but is instant necessarily good for me? I am starting to wonder. I have learned that a lot gets accomplished while we wait. Important lessons and valuable training/equipping occur while we anticipate the future.
Patience is a learned choice, I believe. I am working on disciplining the little monster in me that beckons to cut corners and quicken outcomes. I’ve decided it’s a worthy pursuit to wait. It’s what develops and refines me. Instant coffee (yesterday) tastes bad anyway. I’d much prefer waiting in line for a craft coffee any day.
It is impossible for that man to despair who remembers that his Helper is omnipotent. Jeremy Taylor
I cannot fathom existence without divine life support. It is overwhelming to manage the mundane, much less the fear of the what ifs and what might actually occur to go without.
One of my sons once quizzed me on my faith. He is in college and had recently taken a Comparative Religion course. Wanting to answer him honestly but not sound preachy, I took time formulating my answer. Finally, it came to me and I said, “Because I like it and it works for me.” I could tell he wanted to debate the subject but my simple explanation warranted none.
I understand everyone’s need to question and find their personal faith. I also understand it is everyone’s right to choose. As I once read, “God is a gentleman. He won’t impose Himself on anyone.” This is true. I just hate for people- especially my loved ones- to miss out on this marvelous, mystifying, meaningful power source.
Watching my children suffer, hurt, or struggle is particularly painful. While I can intercede with prayers and support, I cannot force or impose my faith onto them. It’s their free choice. Their quality of life and ability to dig deep down within is completely out of my control. I won’t stop praying for the Holy Spirit to disturb them some, however.
Traveling to Israel recently, it stuck me how very simple Jesus’ message was. It has been man and our interpretation of His message that has created the complications of religion. So, I don’t talk about being “religious” but rather “spiritual.” People are created so complex and unique it’s no wonder there are so many ways to worship. I don’t judge anyone’s choice as God is a big boy and can handle meeting us all where we need Him.
To boil it all down, I was driving this week and was behind a car with a bumper sticker reading “If you have breath, speak LOVE.” I would like to practice more of that.
The sunrise hurt as I moved closer. Spying a jeweled dragonfly, a living brooch, I crept the boardwalk into my globe.
Not a snow globe, but a sand globe, whirling with cawing seagulls and cliquish pelicans. A grey blur whizzed past my feet in the shallows and I stared into the viewmaster of the sea. I smelled memories in the air and felt the blanket of the heavy summer drape over my skin. I busily attempted nothing and actively saw everything.
My mind quietened and I motionlessly drew closer to my Creator.
Entering my office last week I noticed a circular mound of grass on the ground. Upon closer inspection, I eyed a spiral mass of dried flowers and feathers, a bird’s nest. Tiny beaks had laboriously sewn and molded a home for their young. Now it lie empty and abandoned. It was literally an empty nest. Mine, on the other hand, was anything but empty. It was the BULGING NEST!
What is the correct term for an empty nest that isn’t ever empty? Once children graduate high school and leave for college the common phrase is that you have an “empty nest.” Our daughter has flown the coop but our three sons keep flying right back. I think they take turns coming home to ensure their father never lacks a playmate. My husband weeps when they leave. He says I’d fuel the Greyhound goodbye if I could. It’s not that I don’t love my family, it’s just that I enjoy the peace, cleanliness, and not having to do incessant chores.
Our home might never be empty because we have the fun house on the water. Maybe it’s because my husband will cook nearly anything for them. Maybe it’s because I will wash their laundry. I don’t know. But this summer, for example, I’d drive home from work to find at least one son and his friends lifting weights in our garage while blaring base for our neighbors’ enjoyment. Or, a crew would be headed to or from the boat on the river. Weekends ensured many of their friends also spent the night. Couches spawned bodies on Saturday mornings. Some were expected while others just spontaneously arrived. For this reason, my husband started calling our house Motel 6. Yep, we’d leave the light on for you!
As much as I’d like less noise, privacy and a tidied home, I’ve been warned not to wish away all the flurry of activity. My older friends say I will one day miss it all. Borrowing a saying from my father in law, I counter, “it sure would be nice to miss” it. With fall semester beginning, my husband gets teary talking about our boys heading back to school. Me? I think I will be fine. I look forward to missing them.
Someone once said “parenting is only hard if you care.” I must have cared too much. If my angst wasn’t obvious on the outside, it was FULL THROTTLE on the inside. I fretted over every. single. detail. Circumstancially, we had four children under the age of two. Four were in diapers at ONE TIME. Sometimes things were insane (more like frequently to be completely honest). Ofcourse I got some help (with child care and the counseling sort). But despite the “circus of life” our family has lived, I am finally seeing a positive outcome- the fruits of our labor are sprouting!
We are still actively parenting, don’t be fooled I think our job is complete. But a recent family gathering shed light on how far we have come. Mind you, structured chaos was where we started but fine young men and a young lady were what I saw this weekend. Our daughter brought home her first “suitor” (male friend with serious potential) and the entire family was present. She actually WANTED us all there to meet this person. I was so shocked that I even questioned her decision. I was a little afraid we would embarass her with our Type A, boisterous behavior. Worse, I feared her father’s inquisition of this criminal, I mean boyfriend.
Turns out, by the time he left, I had the epiphany that all went pretty well overall and that if he got scared off, it wasn’t because we weren’t kind, open and accepting. Our family is super loud (check). Our family is upfront and open (what you see is what you get). Our family is accepting and warm (we don’t care your race or religion- in fact, the more different, the more interesting). Our family is there for each other (we might rip each other to shreds occasionally but we show up for one another). There are no secrets (no skeletons in our closets, we parade them).
At first I chided my husband to watch his mouth, excessive questioning, and tendency to put a plate on the ground for the dog to lick. I just knew that would send this guy packing. I couldn’t get rid of the 5 rescue animals either so just went with all of it. The first night was rough and my husband accused me of trying to create a diamond out of coal in my backside. (Go ahead and laugh, it’s probably partly true.) However, tensions and pretensions eased throughout the weekend and finally her friend was able to joke he was moving his flight up. I knew things were cool then.
Our three sons were amazing. One even spoke so highly of his sister that I teared up. They all attended everything we wanted (doesn’t happen enough) and behaved very well. They were actually being respectful of their sister. None did what they joked about prior like wrestling him (they are triplet males, wrestling is their love language) or challenging him in weight lifting. Talking about making a mama proud!
My sister said we need to be on a reality show. I find our unscripted reality frequently hilarious. As someone once said, “You can’t make this stuff up.” But we have stayed together and we love each other, even when it has not been easy to do. The “Circus of Life” the Turners lived, live and will live is worth the ticket price. I’m in.
We use A LOT of words in our household. Some would add we use too many. This is probably true. Rare is the occasion when we don’t know how each other feels. You’d think we were first generation Italian just without all the good food. Occasionally, the word pollution can be too much, but it can also be really funny.
My young adult, triplet sons are merciless when it comes to ragging on each other. They are so quick witted with comebacks that I struggle not to laugh out loud at their lightening quick, verbal assaults. It seems no subject matter is off limits either. I might cringe on occasion, but I do have to admit that they are very creative in their put downs. Too bad there isn’t a paying summer job for their exceptional talent.
One such occasion was Mother’s Day about a year ago. Our family went to a steak house for dinner and was waiting to order when one brother looked across the table at the other and made an annoying comment about his haircut. Without any expression, the recepient of the comment deadpanned, “What? I can’t hear you through your perm.”
They can be merciless in poking fun at me too. Mom jokes are a team effort. “Type A++” is their description of me due to my incessant house cleaning. I also get compared to the You Tube video of the son dressed up as a mom yelling at everyone to, “Throw everything away! Make our house look like no one lives here!” Also, long ago two words became bad in our home: the “f” word (which was “fat”) and the “o” word (which was “old”). They may say a lot of things about me, but I don’t like to hear either when they tease me.
Our elderly chihuahua isn’t spared the heat either. She’s a 14 year old, 9 pound rescue. Her sight has deteriorated to the point she occassionaly walks into trees. She also has trouble hearing so one son renamed her “Helen Keller.” She doesn’t seem to care.
Recently, when inquiring what the triplets wanted for their birthday, I mentioned possibly getting all three ear pods. One son immediately countered, “First of all, it’s Air Pods, and secondly, I’d rather get a telescope and just steal their’s.”