To The Female Executives at Anheuser-Busch and Nike; and, well, Women Everywhere

Robin Grace, Uncategorized April 14, 2023Culture, Rational Conversation, Women

Men cannot do everything better than women.

Just. Stop.

My great-grandmother could not vote.

When I was in junior high, female administrators could not wear pants. Title IX was enacted after I was born.

The Church, which I love in spite of itself, has not yet figured out how to wholly honor women and the Bible at the same time.

Women are still climbing and battling–living in a world that is overly influenced by looks and shape rather than brains and aptitude.

And yet we are allowing people to redefine what it is to be a woman without a fight. I simply do not understand.

I admit, I had never heard of Dylan Mulvaney before last week. I don’t do TiK Tok. I’m not likely to go down a rabbit-hole investing hours into watching Days of Girlhood documenting his transition to her. It’s not my thing. (Hours watching cooking shows? No problem.)

Last week, there was a huge kerfuffle about Budweiser sending her a beer can with her image on it. They were certainly producing it, and likely plopped it in the mail, during National Women’s Month. In 2015, Vanity Fair named Caitlin Jenner one of their WOMEN OF THE YEAR. In 2022, Lia Thomas won the NCAA Title 1 Women’s Championship in the 500-meter Freestyle, while competitors say her male genitalia was exposed in the ladies’ locker room.

I neeeeeeeeed to take a deep breath, stand tall, and say: People who are born male, then become transgender, are not women.

They can be brilliant and funny; charismatic and talented; they can make you laugh, and you can love their hearts; they can be your favorite people on the face of the planet, but a person born with an XY chromosome and a penis cannot become a woman because they want to.

It has no bearing on their value as human beings, but it has an enormous bearing on the value of being a woman.

I get it. So many out there want to feel like they are being nice. More than anything, they don’t want to be mean.

They want to be compassionate. Empathetic. Honoring. Sincere.

These are all noble and worthy desires, but can those intentions (in these circumstances) withstand the scrutiny of reality?

In a recent Facebook post, Influencer and author Jen Hatmaker said: “Trans kids are not identifying as such to win high school track meets.”

Okay. I’m willing to give you that.

But what she (and those who are on the soap box with her) need[s] to understand is that whether or not that is the reason they chose to be trans, competing in girls’ sports (while having been born male) gives them an undeniable advantage. Girls who have worked for years and years to succeed ARE MISSING OUT on opportunities and victories when they are given to transgender athletes.

That’s all there is to it.

Is that nice to the girls? Kind? Empathetic? Honoring?

At those moments, there is an undeniable choice:

There is EITHER fairness for girls OR opportunities for transgenders. There cannot be both, as it is now.

I realize the suicide rate in the transgender community is high. We should all want to eliminate the suicide risk for the trans community, but we need to find a way to do so that is not at the expense of our daughters.

For almost all of human history, societies have existed, treating men as superior, with women having no voice and no choice on many topics. After decades of battling for change and getting some, we are now willingly handing priority over to transgenders as though it was the only morally acceptable option.

The ones who rail loudest against the patriarchy are often also the ones rallying for transgender rights. Those two positions are sometimes directly in conflict.

Think about it: WHY IS THERE NEVER A TRANSGENDER MALE WINNING ATHLETIC EVENTS, BEATING BIOLOGICAL MALES? Why?

Why are there no transgender males heading up advertising campaigns for men’s products?

Why was the transgender male who killed 6 people at a Nashville Christian School openly and consistently referred to by her birth name and counted among the 2% of mass killers who are women in the media, rather than among his chosen gender?

I’ll give you a minute to just sit with those questions…

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A biologically male athlete knows he never needs to be concerned about losing to a transgender male in any athletic endeavor. There’s no malice. There is no hatred or attempt to limit opportunities. There’s only facts: A from-birth male athlete will beat a transgender male athlete with statistical certainty.

Similarly, advertising executives know that men approach personal commerce with practicality: They will not choose a jock strap because someone who was born a woman, but now identifies as a man, wears one.

Men are not handing over sporting honors or influencer opportunities, but women are surrendering them to the movement of “inclusivity”.

As has been the case many times throughout history, men have nothing to lose in this game.

I burst out laughing when the NIKE Ad of Dylan Mulvaney wearing a sports bra came across social media.

I am a top-heavy, middle-aged mother who nursed three children. Gravity is not my friend.

I am entering a stage of life where I might be able to develop a realistic exercise routine. Having watched my parents age, I understand that mobility must be fought for in the later years. I really should go to the gym.

Sports bras are a real-life need for me.

Dylan Mulvaney can offer not one single applicable thing to validate my genuine consumer priorities. When choosing how to advertise, men cannot do everything better than women.

We need to find a way to have rational conversations about this. Cognitive dissonance is tough. People cannot rationally hold two conflicting thoughts as truth at the same time. Whether we acknowledge it or not, one thought will win.

In 2018-2019, William Thomas ranked 514th in 500-yard freestyle. In 2020-2021, Lia Thomas ranked 5th.

As a man, competing in the men’s division, he never stood on the winner’s podium. As a woman, she did. Lia Thomas knows that truth. No matter how many people affirm her journey, she knows the results were significantly different before and after the transition.

From a trophy standpoint, William Thomas was never as effective as Lia. From a reproductive standpoint, Lia Thomas will never be as effective as William.

Lia Thomas, who used to be William, had a physical advantage over women in the pool with her. Lia Thomas, who used to be William, has an irrevocable disadvantage when it comes to giving birth like women her age. She cannot do it.

No matter how badly a transgender person wants change; no matter how uncomfortable they are in their own skin; no matter how many people in the world say differently, they know their newly chosen gender identity comes with enormous areas of shortcomings. Transgender women cannot give birth. Transgender men cannot have spontaneous erections and impregnate a woman with their sperm.

Again, they can be scientists or artists; social workers or attorneys; doctors or actors; they can donate thousands of hours to non profits or build spectacular buildings; they can gather communities together for causes they believe in and change the world for the better; but men cannot give birth. Males transitioning to female cannot get pregnant; a pregnant female claiming to transition to male is a pregnant woman.

On social media, the conversations go south quickly. “I just can’t with all the hate!” One person responded to questioning of drag queen story hours. I am speaking only for myself here, but suspect there are others who agree with me:

I do not hate transgender people. In fact, there are several I love and would (literally) give a kidney to. They are brilliant and tender and talented. They have a complication in life that I do not share, nor do I pretend to genuinely understand. (Spoiler alert: I also have complications in life they do not share, nor could they understand.)

But I do hate the idea of giving kids hormone blockers. I don’t want to give my kids chicken nuggets with hormones in them, much less gender altering hormones.

I hate pretending that chopping off body parts is a solution. Do you know how a penis is created for a transgender male? According to the UVA Medical website:

We can give you male genitalia in two different ways:

Phalloplasty creates a penis and urethra (to stand while urinating). We use tissue from your forearm or thigh. …

Metoidioplasty takes your existing genital tissue and makes it longer, turning it into a defined phallus. This needs only one surgery.

They carve tissue out of one part of the body to create another.

For transgender women, the Johns Hopkins website mentions this:

Vaginoplasty: This surgical procedure is a multistage process during which surgeons may remove the penis (penectomy) and the testes (orchiectomy), if still present, and use tissues from the penis to construct the vagina, the clitoris (clitoroplasty) and the labia (labiaplasty)

There are often radical mastectomies and facial surgeries involved. It is a brutal road.

And what about the implications for a meaningful sex life? “We are going to take a scalpel to your reproductive organs and radically change your hormone levels” is never going to be on a pamphlet for thriving sexuality.

Again, I have never experienced this but intuition tells me it probably has a negative impact. Are people currently telling the truth about post-transition sexual fullfilment?

And MOST IMPORTANTLY is there any reason on earth we believe a 7 year old could be able to make an informed decision about such radically permanent outcomes?

Is it cruel to not allow a child to identify as their “preferred gender”, knowing that they do not have a brain developed enough to actually understand all the implications? Or is it cruel to start giving kids hormones to transition, knowing it means they will have a medical condition that requires ongoing treatment for the rest of their lives?

As far as I am concerned, we are all just a little bit nuts. Every human has some form of some kind of mental illness and should probably get some help. (In my experience, the ones who fight the hardest against this idea are the ones that need counseling 911 the most.) There is no judgment of value or worth to say trans kids need help, not hormones.

God so loved the world…all the world, not just the cookie-cutter, clean edged world…He sent His Son for all the world to have the opportunity to love Him. I absolutely believe that to be true.

However, I also believe the most loving thing we can do is to live in truth–even uncomfortable truth. And in order to get there, we need to have honest, rational conversations. So let me start: To the female executives at Budweiser and Nike, and all the progressive women out there, PLEASE STOP giving away the honor of womanhood and opportunities for women to people who aren’t.

Thank you.

EULOGY

Robin Grace, Jojo, Moments, Uncategorized November 8, 2021Family, Grief, Joey Conklin, Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, PSP, Sobriety

This journey—life, letting go, and death—is one of discovering what we know, and what we don’t know. I want to begin by sharing a few Facebook posts I wrote, about my mom:

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The judgment poured thick through the phone.

“You did what? What is that?

You took her all the way to Dallas?” The Hospice nurse asked incredulously.

I could hear her eyes roll through the phone.

Today is my mom’s 82nd, and final, birthday.

What the judgy (but also incredibly efficient) Hospice nurse doesn’t realize is that I have had a lifetime of conversations, with my mother, about color and art and beauty.

Those are important things, my mom would say, that help to create a life.

And while my mom is clearly dying, she is also still living.

So we loaded up and went to VAN GOGH: THE IMMERSIVE EXPERIENCE where we were surrounded by music, light, dimension, and history.

“Look at the wall, Jojo. It’s beautiful,” my son said.

My mom has an unmatched gift for covering walls with random artwork and making it look like they were created to go together. Spending her birthday celebrating art makes so much sense.

When my mom was (mis)diagnosed with ALS in 2017, she wasn’t sure she would make it to her next birthday. “This isn’t it, Jojo,” I told her. “I mean take the medicine, because I am not a doctor, but I am not convinced.”

We traveled tens of thousands of miles, she and I, chasing hope, and have spent ten times that amount trying to find not yet discovered answers.

My Dad funded a research study we knew wouldn’t be fast enough for us.

Brutal diseases beat even the most determined into submission, and Progressive Supranuclear Palsy has done that to us. “I am so, so sorry, Mom, but I am out of ideas,” I tell her. “You have people who love you here on earth, and people who love you in heaven. No matter what, you are loved.”

The book of Job tells us that our days are numbered by the Lord; With each day that passes, my mom’s number eeks closer.

So whether the Hospice nurse understands and approves or not, we will fill her days with beauty.

And the other thing that nurse does not know is this: I am my mother’s daughter. I will do what I damn well please.

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I know it’s preposterous to say that I am stunned, but that’s exactly how I feel.

My brilliant, valiant, warrior of a mother went home to heaven on Sunday, September 12th.

I thought we had a few days more.

The resilience my mom has shown over the course of her life is remarkable. The resilience she showed facing death unparalleled.

“You have had such a great life,” I reminded her. “The day after your 40th-anniversary party you told me that if you died then, you had all you could have wanted. That was 17 years ago.

You have done well.”

She has kids who love her, grandkids who think she hung the moon, and great-grandkids that will hear all the stories.

I always say recovery is part of the fabric of my children’s lives because they each attended countless AA meetings with their Jojo. They met the people. They smelled the coffee and cigarettes. They listened to discussions of life, lived one day at a time.

She helped countless people learn a sober way to live.

My mom was an avid shopper. Under the Christmas tree always looked ridiculous once Jojo showed up with her presents.

She loved clothes and shoes.

She was remarkably healthy except for one terrible disease.

She tried nearly every crazy therapy I brought her way to fight a disease with no cure. Except the hyperbaric oxygen chamber–that was a “no”. She was claustrophobic.

She was a reader and a book buyer. There were thousands of books in her home. She was so smart.

She and my Dad traveled the world with retired judges. They traveled the country with their animals in a fifth wheel. They spent weeks in Hawaii in a time share.

She had a wonderful life.

She died peacefully in her sleep.

We made it through a patch several weeks ago when she was in pain and anxious. Once we got over the hump, we got back to all the crazy oils, and lotions, and crock pots full of warm washcloths and my mom died both comfortable and virtually medication-free.

We honored her decades-long journey of sobriety.

We surrounded her with caregivers who loved her.

Every night my son would help her over to see my Dad, and he would kiss her goodnight and tell her he loved her.

While I was in church yesterday, praying for my mom and listening to a sermon about heaven, my mom was getting ready to go…

The last words I said to her the day before were, “I’ll see you tomorrow Jojo. I love you. I know you know how much I love you.”

For whatever reason, we never really talked that much about my mom’s life as a child. There really is so much that we don’t know, but my Uncle David has been kind enough to help fill in the gaps.

Lora Jo Kuether was born on September 1, 1939, in Chillicothe, Ohio. This is one of the first things I did not know. The gentleman at the funeral home asked me, “Chillicothe. How do you spell that?”

“Ummm…I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

My mom always reminded us that September 1, 1939, was also the day that Hitler marched into Poland…so life for everyone on the planet was eventually impacted by the day my mom was born.

Her family then moved to Pelham, New York, where my mom grew up. She had one older sister and two younger brothers. They lived on a dead end street where they played ball into the night using manhole covers as first, second, and third base. Her Dad would holler, “Joey, Butch, Davy NOW!!” When it was time to go in.

When my mom was in junior high and high school she’d roll back the rugs in the living room and host sock hops. She was a cheerleader. She played on the LaCrosse team. She’d walk to church on Sundays with her mom—her Dad was already there because he was a Presbyterian Minister.

What I didn’t know until recently was that HIS dad was also a Presbyterian Minister…a respect worthy line of people who served the Lord.

When my mom was 12, her parents purchased a 21ish acre lot on Livingston Rd in Laconia, New Hampshire. It had a two room cabin, kerosine stove, and a well in the back. There was no running water. My Grandma Rithy named it “Hi Larkin”.

Her Dad bought a tent to put in the back where the kids slept on old army cots. Her brothers slept in the tent for much longer than my mom, who eventually joined her sister Annie and worked as a chamber maid at the Wicwas Lodge, where they got free room and board.

My grandparents made everyone work on that cottage to make it livable. They nailed floors and walls and dug a cesspool and well. That home stayed in the family until after my grandmother passed away and my parents bought it. And the grandkids would tell you the upstairs was not as livable as they professed, with the tilted walkway that you needed to traverse to get to the upstairs bedrooms.

In her final years, my grandmother was forbidden to go upstairs. Safety first.

After being tenderly and generously cared for by my uncle and aunt, my grandmother, too, peacefully passed away in that home, while my mom was on a plane to be by her side. Now she is by her side. I’m sure they are still talking and laughing together.

Hi Larkin burned down years later.

My mom went to Wilson College in Chambersberg, Pennsylvania, where she received her Liberal Arts degree.

After graduating from college she spent a year abroad in the Netherlands. When her parents and brother visited her there, her Dad bought a red Volkswagen that they drove around Europe in.

My mom named the car “Rubin” which meant RED in German.

She lived in the Netherlands with her best friend Kitty, who was originally from California, so when they finished their time abroad they moved to San Francisco, where my mom met my Dad—a law student at Cal State Berkeley.

They married in the spring of 1964, and soon moved to the Central Coast. My dad was first an attorney at Bill Wright’s law firm until he was appointed to the Judicial Court by then Governor, Ronald Reagan.

Meanwhile my parents were growing their family first with their son, Glenn, then daughter April, and third and final me. Three kids under the age of 5.

They were crazy.

Our childhood was full of books. Their home literally had thousands of books in it, and their decor was centered around custom made bookshelves. The Pokey Little Puppy; The Tawny Scrawny Lion; The Bad Children’s Book were all read time after time after time.

She was creative. She wrapped presents in the cartoon section of the newspaper tied up with string. We made God’s Eyes with sticks from the oak trees in the yard and colored yarn. We learned how to paper mache.

She loved laughter.

I remember Saturday mornings when we were supposed to be doing chores and my brother would be laying on the living room floor watching the THREE STOOGES. My mom would let him slide from working because she just loved to listen to the sound of his laughter. His laughing filled her with joy.

She was outspoken. When my sister, who was a gifted athlete, would make a great play in the field, my mom would holler from the stands, “NOW YOU GET DINNER.” I didn’t know that my mom’s love of watching my sister play sports was, in part, because she was a gifted athlete herself.

My athletic skills are more like my father’s.

She volunteered in the classroom and corrected the teacher’s grammar. “ALOT” is not one word, it’s two. “LETS” needs an apostrophe every time.

She was a stickler for proper English. While at the dinner table, if one of us kids asked her to “Please pass down the milk,” she’d put it on the floor.

There. It’s down. We were proud of ourselves for remembering the please.

When we were all teenagers, my mom went back to school and got her teaching credential and master’s degree in English.

She was so smart.

In 1983, after an intervention planned by my father, my mom went to a recovery program at Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara to deal with her addiction to alcohol. There she learned the fundamental basics of living ONE DAY AT A TIME…she became an active member of the Alcoholics Anonymous community, known as AA.

My mom, however, really needed a group that was just called “A”. I mean, when the queen of oversharing joins an organization based on anonymity it is problematic.

All three of us kids have memories of saying, “Moooommmm, the person behind you in line at Cornet’s doesn’t care that you are a recovering alcoholic.”

She overshared all the time…I remember after one of my brother’s little league games, at Shakey’s pizza, my mom telling all the other parents exactly who my sister and I had crushes on.

I didn’t know then how much I would simply miss the sound of her voice, even if it was oversharing.

In 1991, my parents moved to Marin County where my father became the special master to the courts for Buck Charitable Trust. My mom plugged in to AA there, volunteered, and worked with the aging population highlighting available community resources.

Long after the desire to drink had stopped, she kept showing up to meetings. “Some one was here when I first came,” she’d say.

But my mom’s real zest for life sort of began with becoming a grandmother. “JOJO” was her name, and grandkids were her fame.

She once gave me a card that said, “Perfect love sometimes doesn’t start until the first grandchild.”

She took them all to AA meetings. She went to dance recitals and ball games and birthday parties. She showed them how to compost. She let them stay at her house when they needed to. She taught them how to make a hospital corner on a bed.

She bought a ridiculous number of Christmas presents.

She and my Dad moved back to the Central Coast.

They traveled in their 5th Wheel, so they could take their animals with them.

They traveled the world with retired judges going to Alaska, and Cuba, and Europe.

Then they’d come home and invite everyone over and bbq ribs and steaks and before every meal they would lift their glasses in gratitude, toasting the blessing of their lives.

Years later my mom would say that was an important ritual because she could feel things starting to go awry, and she wanted to live one day at a time, grateful.

She loved adventure. She asked my brother to take her for a ride on his Harley, and he happily obliged. She and my husband began a tradition where he would take her flying in his plane every year on her birthday.

After we moved to Texas, Carl took it upon himself, each year, to take her to her AA birthday meeting where she’d get her chip and he’d eat cake. Once she lost the ability to speak, Carl would share and tell the community all about her beautiful journey of sobriety.

In a gathering like this, where the statistics are clear that someone here is struggling with some kind of addiction, I know my mom would want you to know that 90 meetings in 90 days can change a life. She would tell you that you, too, can have a beautiful and vibrant and sober life.

She believed that to core of who she was.

She believed that you could trust the process.

That when things get chaotic you should get really still.

That you could take a trip not taking a trip.

That bad things that happen are just AFGO’s.

That the old timers had a lot to offer.

That whether the disease is addiction or Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, living one day at a time is the only rational solution.

But the blessing of recovery inevitably follows the burden of disease. Our own personal and family dysfunctions color the lenses through which we see the world.

One of the things I did not know until I put together the slide show we are about to see was this: MY MOM WAS BEAUTIFUL.

I spent my entire life not seeing it. I knew she was smart and funny and loyal and fierce, but somehow I didn’t see this. I don’t know how I missed it.

My prayer is that we all leave today just a bit more in tune with the abundant beauty that surrounds us…able to see clearly, as I see in the slide show, that things we perhaps have looked past for a lifetime, are here and waiting to be enjoyed.

4 Times Is CLEARLY Not Enough

Robin Grace, Growth, Moments, Special Needs Families, Uncategorized July 19, 2017enough, yoga

I went to yoga for the fourth time in two weeks.

Okay, one of the times was a relaxation/stretchy/destress-y thing and not so much a strength building thing. It was my favorite of the four.

When it comes to actually doing yoga, I strongly resemble a walrus on a tread mill. It is just not pretty. Seriously, I cannot now, nor have I ever been able to touch my toes while my legs were straight. The only way I can put my palms on the ground is sitting on my rump.

Midway through every class I have absolutely no idea what in the love of all that is sane I am doing there.

Something is certain, however, and that is after 4 times at yoga I am not stronger. My clothes don’t fit better. I don’t love it.

CLEARLY it will take more than this to achieve my goals.

At the stretchy/relx-y yoga thing I loved, the instructor said the foundation of her life is her relationship with her Lord and Savior. HE spoke directly, through this perky teacher, to the nagging voice in my head whispering yoga and Christianity were not compatible.

I can assure you, as I am holding my aging body in Downward Dog AGAIN, I am praying to the Lord. When I am breathing at the beginning of class, I am praying for His will and strength to become.

I am overwhelmingly convinced that for my life to move forward I must become who HE wants me to become; and exercise is part of the discipline in doing that.

This morning the instructor mentioned over and over that yoga is a practice. I hate practice.

I love to do things that come naturally. I don’t want to have to work hard or get better. This is likely why I am middle aged, soft around the middle and less affluent than I wish I was.

Lying on the mat, my mother on one side and my daughter on the other, I must face that life is often delicate and sometimes broken. My mom (who has been losing her ability to speak clearly from a yet-to-be-diagnosed issue) and my daughter (who has not yet learned to over come her disability and still can’t speak) remind me time is fragile. So is hope.

I want 4 times to be enough with every fiber of my being. Enough to get my mom’s brain to start sending signals to the right side of her body; enough for my daughter to fully engage in the practice because an amazing speech therapist once said, “What you see in the body, you see in the mouth,” which means that becoming proficient at yoga poses may help her learn to talk; enough for me to be comfortable in my own body.

Although it may not be enough to arrive, today was a step forward. Forbidden from evaluating results for 6 weeks, I am focusing instead on breathing in His grace. I am practicing focus on Him. Breathing deeply I am praying silently, asking and listening, when conviction washes over.

Slowly the thoughts create an unmistakable picture in my mind, showing me a pattern desperate for change: Rather than asking God what His plans are for my life, I am coming to Him asking for blessings on my plans.

Sigh. Of course four times is not nearly enough. I have to keep coming back…to yoga, to prayers, to listening, to a place of repentance…and remind myself that God’s ways are better than mine.

THAT is going to take practice.

Epiphany Day

Robin Fasting, Grace, Growth, Uncategorized January 6, 2017

Epiphany is my favorite word.

Long before I became a Christian epiphany, defined as an “illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure,” meant learning and wisdom. Epiphanal moments were cherished.

I had them watching Oprah, laughing with friends and reading good books.

Decades later, I learned there was actually an Epiphany Day. What a beautiful discovery.

It was a long time after I discovered Epiphany Day that I learned it is actually deeply rooted in the birth of Christ:

noun

the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi (Matthew 2:1–12).

The original epiphany was the beginning of the story for those of us adopted into God’s family.

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Just this week, 20 hours between midnight and dawn have found me awake and caring for a sick kiddo. Warm baths, cleaning up sick messes, dosing out medicines night after night stood in the way of precious sleep.

In addition, there have been a dozen hours in emergency rooms and doctor’s offices with my mother in law and my little peanut when I was finally convinced she was not almost better.

Lots of buggy things got in the way of my lists and my peace of mind.

But what has poison churning in my soul is none of those things, but rather what I see in the world of my teenager and the teens around the world. It is infinitely harder to raise high schoolers today than just ten years ago. Chatting with my pediatrician about the craziness and uncertainties in the culture and the world, and lamenting my ineffective search for answers, he said, “There are a lot of people to claim to have answers, but at this point they are really just opinions.”

Drugs, graphic images available 24 hours a day on hand held cell phones, distresses taunt and haunt from every visible corner. Not to mention a gazillion “sexual identities” available and supposed to be acknowledged and accepted.

I am a very simple “In the beginning God created them; male and female He created them” kind of a gal. While our doors are open wide to teenagers of all beliefs and walks of life, I yearn for simpler days and less pressure on our kids.

Social media bombards endlessly.

Pressures mount daily.

Already pondering and praying about these things, I was forced out of complacency in early December. A friend across the country asked for prayer when her son was in lock down at school. A young man hung himself in the gym and when the paramedics came to get him to the hospital, no one wanted the students scarred by the image. The boy in the gym was taken off life support a few days later. Within 24 hours of praying for that another friend across the state asked for prayers for her dear friend whose son had been killed in a car accident.

Sometimes it feels like filling my lungs deeply with fresh air is impossible, because the strain and fears I have for our kids has me so constricted…

I decided I would revive a practice I have used before of fasting on Fridays. I know what specifically I am fasting and praying for…sometimes I choose a Bible verse to pray when I runout of words…I allow myself drinks and break the fast at 6:00 pm. I use the pangs of hunger to remind me to pray and look to the Lord.

I threw it out on social media and some friends will be joining me in January, to fast on Fridays and pray for our kids.

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I want to be obedient to God. Obedience to His word and His nudgings matter to me, but this life of growing in Him is not always one with clearly defined edges. In my world it can be a bit fuzzy.

Is that what He is asking?

Am I sure?

I committed to praying on Fridays…fasting and focusing on freedom for teenagers everywhere, mine included.

By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; And by knowledge the rooms are filled with all precious and pleasant riches. PROVERBS 24: 3-4

I know this is a good practice, but imagine my thrill when I looked on the calendar and the very first Friday of January is, of all things, Epiphany Day.

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And so tomorrow, Epiphany Day, I will begin my January commitment to fasting on Fridays. I will be praying for victory for our kids. I will be praying for joy in our families. I will be praying for a cleansing in our culture and a rise in God honoring ideas and principles.

Join me? You can join our little Facebook group here.

It is time. The need is huge. If you are a parent, friend, grandparent, aunt, teacher or concerned citizen, you are welcome to join us. For some of the stories that drove me to this there will be mourning, but my cry is that by the end of the month we will start collecting stories of victory.

“Even now,” declares the LORD, “return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning.”

Joel 2:12

Hello Kettle. My Name Is Pot. Nice To Meet You.

Robin #FridayFive, Bible Study, Grace, Growth October 12, 2016The election season

Let me begin by saying that I am in a season of repentance. My emotional entanglement and dread over the election is, simply, not godly. It is rooted in fear rather than faith and indicates that my hope is not in the Lord…

I am sacrificing Jesus on Golgotha because of worry I will not get the political salvation I desire.

I am like so many Jerusalem citizens in the first century.

Sigh. I don’t want to be.

So I am praying for forgiveness and heart change…

In that spirit, I am linking up (late) with the spectacular Kelly at Mrs. Disciple in her #FridayFive discussion of wisdom.

For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools…Romans 1:21-22

This discussion, challenge, thought process on wisdom Kelly is encouraging me to embark upon is poignant in its timing. Providential…one might say.

Deeply pondering my own beliefs, our nations future, and raising my kids led me to an epiphany this past weekend: In the past, people from the left and the right had their biggest disagreements about how to solve problems. Now we disagree on what the problems actually are.

It is a stunning and sad revelation. It is relationship and conversation stunting because no longer is there an easy segue between problems and different perspectives on solutions. Doing life together now involves huge offenses–on both sides–at what people call “problems”.

I feel like I am on an island, and the island is burning. I can’t say for certain that the entire island will be destroyed, but I feel sure that enough of the island will be damaged to change things permanently.

There are two boats waiting to sail away from the flames. One is captained by an unreliable, morally degrading leader. But the ship has a compass I believe works. I am confident it is headed in the right direction to get me where I need to go, and that the boat has no holes.

The second ship’s leader is equally, if not more, morally repugnant, but nowhere near as bombastic. That captain may (or may not be) more pleasant, but I believe with all my heart the compass guiding the ship will move me farther and farther away from freedom to live out God’s truth. The ship looks like it has holes in it. I am sincerely afraid for the health and safety of my family, should I travel a long time in that ship.

In the few moments I have to decide what to do with my family, the decision is easy: I care far more about the compass than I do about the captain. Certainly the captain may choose to deliberately go in the wrong direction, but the broken compass–even with the best of intentions–is guaranteed to get me lost.

People reel in disappointment at my conclusions and convictions and I struggle to care.

People rail in disappointment at things I think are beautiful and I care too much.

And so I am pushing PAUSE…and seeking WISDOM from the Lord. Digging deeply into Romans 1, these are the steps in my quest for wisdom:

Know God. For me this comes from studying His word. I am in a bit of a dry spell–I do not love the Bible Study we are doing at church–and there is no question this both sets the foundation for and feeds my struggle. I will pick up the project I began this summer–writing out the words of Jesus and collecting my thoughts about them. Ahhhh, it will be sweet joy for my heart.
Honor Him as God. This may be a discipline rather than an emotional outpouring for now, which is OKAY in my world. I will write it out and repeat it often, “NO matter what happens this election YOU ARE STILL GOD. You cannot be dethroned. You still love my family. I still trust You. I still look to You for guidance.”
Give Thanks. Time to break out my gratitude list and, perhaps, reread 1000 Gifts. Gratitude to God centers me. It gives me hope. It reminds me what is true. It shows me I will be okay, no matter what.
I Will Stop Speculating. I will doggedly and with great compassion leave the outcomes to God. They are HIS anyway. I will remind myself out loud and in writing to LEAVE THE RESULTS TO GOD and pray for His strength to be obedient.
I will let my heart be light. Darkness may not take root in me if I beg Jesus to fill me instead. Practically speaking that means I will SERVE. I have a Brighten A Corner project this weekend which will nourish my love for others. Coming along side people of varying beliefs to serve people with varying beliefs is just what I need this contentious season. I will also LOOK FOR THE GOOD and celebrate it.

What people are shouting, “Not on my watch!” about one particular side is, quite honestly, readily available with the other option. If a person decided early in the process not to like one or the other, there has been PLENTY of evidence gathered to support the position. Hypocrisy is reigning from each and every self righteous corner.

Including mine.

Seeing that and wanting to change it means that I am on my way, and while letting go and trusting God may not be easy, it is the only path of hope. My hope is not in who is president. It is not in how much I pay in taxes or even whether or not I can afford good medical care for my kids and my mother in law.

My hope is in the Lord.

May I be faithful to remember.

A New Corner

Robin Apraxia, Grace, Growth, Homeschool, Special Needs Families, Uncategorized September 12, 2016

There has been wailing and gnashing of teeth here on Park Hill Road.

Mostly from me.

It was slowly becoming more and more apparent that I should homeschool my precious little peanut full time this year. A thousand little pieces of information added up to a clear picture: In order to make progress we’d have to make a change.

Homeschooling is time consuming and patience strengthening, but that is not where the wailing and gnashing originated.

I am just so sad that I am the best option for my daughter.

This is not some whoah is me, the sacrifices I must make thing. It is truth.

Last summer my little person and I hopped on a plane and flew to Connecticut to meet with a speech therapist and an aqua therapist. They worked with her and taught me and she bloomed.

When I pulled out of the parking space on the last day, I was a mess. In that school lot, the smell of chlorine thick in the rental car, a new realization was forged in my heart: We only grieve things we are grateful for.

I was so, so grateful for the time we had been given. And I was so, so heartbroken that we had to fly to other side of the country and leave them behind.

People who are excellent at what they do are unique. To see people who are gifted at helping my daughter was vulnerably beautiful. To come home where I have been unable to such find help was hard. And sad.

I had to grieve the loss.

I would MUCH rather have gifted, great therapists to work with my daughter than have to do it all myself as an amateur.

But we have rounded another corner and here we are: A homeschooling family.

I have it all thought out:

I have prayed and researched and I believe God has guided me to the right focus and approaches for Ryan…If I do all I have set out to she will thrive.

If I do all I set out to do, our family will thrive.

My goals for the first trimester are fairly simple:

For my Precious Little Peanut, that means stronger jaw, tongue and lips for speech; and core and hands for writing. For the rest of the family, it would just be good.

Here we are prayerfully, humbly on a new adventure; hauntingly optimistic that we will make progress. This I know: The biggest weak spot is me.

I am flakey.

I can be lazy.

I naturally gravitate toward chaos which means I have to fight me very nature in order to succeed at this.

But God.

I believe HE is for me. I have prayed through my natural laziness and made great strides. I have people praying for my character, so that I may be the educator my daughter needs.

So here and now, for this season, I am coming out of my corner swinging.

Missed Boat: A Letter to Women’s Ministry Leaders

Robin Grace, Growth, Meltdowns, Special Needs Families, Uncategorized August 8, 2016Teenagers. Women's Ministries

In my mind’s eye I see a group of women circling around a kiddie pool. There are rubber ducks and floating boats. There is splashing and laughing and chubby toddlers spilling out of swimsuits.

Sitting close by are older, more experienced moms chatting with the younger gals engaging and listening. The sun is shining. The colors are vibrant. There is fruit cut and skin tanned and it is beautiful.

Behind them (just out of ear shot) is a grey, damp, worn down industrial shipyard. Lurching away from an old, beat up, barely functional dock pulls out a huge cargo ship. There are no windows. There is no color. Its destination is not clear, but trapped inside are the moms of teenagers who can barely catch their breath.

Leaders in women’s ministries everywhere: YOU ARE MISSING THE BOAT.

I remember my teen years well and do NOT hope to repeat them with my kids. (Do as I say, please, not as I did.) Our oldest is 26 and our middle is now a teen. It is MUCH harder today than it was a decade ago to raise sane teenagers.

There are moments when I feel I have this thing NAILED; then, without any warning, those feelings are replaced by a tight chest and sick stomach. I am nauseous at how many things there are seeking to poison our kids.

Poison their minds.

Poison their hearts.

Poison their values.

Poison their wills and want-tos.

It is not only the things looking to destroy them but the very nature of the season of life that stack the odds against us. In her book The Teenage Brain, author Frances E Jensen, MD, explains:

Before leaving adolescence behind, a boy can have thirty times as much testosterone in his body as he had before puberty began…That explains why adolescents not only are emotionally volatile but may even seek out emotionally charged experiences–everything from a book that makes her sob to a roller coaster that makes him scream. This double whammy–a jacked up, stimulus-seeking brain not yet fully capable of making mature decisions–hits teens pretty hard, and the consequences to them, and their families, can sometimes be catastrophic.

The thing is, teens today have access to far more degrading and damaging things to excite them. Sexual images are available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week on hand held cell phones that can be tucked away in their pockets. Medical marijuana cards and prescription pain killers have put drugs in more homes than anything I could have imagined when I was a teen. It is easy access for almost any high school student to acquire mood altering substances.

Kids from middle class, activity attending families are crumbling under the weight of the realities our kids are facing. Imagine a Friday night, kids are drunk, a boy decides a girl (who can barely even walk and will not remember) must want to have sex…so he takes it from her.

Cast into the dirt, she is not sure what happened. Zipping up his pants, he is sure he’s done nothing wrong. At home, asleep, are the parents (of yet a different teenager) who bought the alcohol that got the kids drunk and started it all…

Versions of this scenario are playing out weekend after weekend after weekend…

Where can any of these moms go for help? Church?

YES! to MOPS and Mom’s mentoring groups and so many other programs sweeping the young mom cultures around us. That work is vital and holy.

But I personally have sat and watch thousands of tears roll from the eyes of moms of teens. Kids are gone–at boarding schools and military programs–last ditch efforts to stop the spiral. Women are sharing stories of feeling like their families are being damaged by this season of life with teenagers…living daily with an invisible anvil sitting on their chests crushing hope and joy. What can we do for them?

In our own area, we have lost dozens to heroin. These were good kids from loving families.

The days of the typical addict lying in a filthy alley with a needle stuck in their arm are over. These are our friends and neighbors. We must wake up!

Let women’s ministries be a haven. May they be real and transparent full of answers and hope.

YES! Make meals for the brand new mama just home from the hospital. But are we helping the mom of the 15-year old connect around the table as well? With more than just words, can we come alongside with answers and aid? Can we use our voices to tell the kids, “The future is bright. Set your standards high. Don’t sell yourself to the lowest bidder.”

Can we look each other in the eye and say, “I will hold your hand while we hold each other and our kids accountable?”

Can we gather around tables and collaborate, acknowledging that the teenage brain is seeking high impact activities? Let’s brainstorm about healthy opportunities to fill that need in the faint hope of keeping them from finding their own ways?

Yes, they may roll their eyes. No, they probably won’t volunteer to join our quest. Let’s parent anyway.

Recently I had the privilege of helping to plan a prom for a local boy who was restricted from going to his own senior highlight because of medical complications. A whole group of parents came to put the event together. I was STUNNED by the conversations…”You know, the high school just had their prom. If we don’t make this REALLY special no one will want to come.”

“You can’t serve a sit-down dinner to high school kids. They don’t like that. They want, like, sliders and finger foods…”

Parents’ expectations of teenagers have hit an all-time low.

Our kids are going to be adults someday. Are we doing all we can to help them be productive ones?

500 teenagers got dressed up, sat down for a polite dinner, and celebrated with that boy–giving him the prom of his dreams. 125 other kids showed up in their finest to dance and join the after party…where tons of teenage favorite foods were served. The parents who doubted the kids would behave well were wrong.

This is war for our children. We are fighting low expectations and morals, along with easy access to pornography, drugs, and alcohol. Other parents and teachers are turning a blind eye saying, “Kids will be kids,” but, church, let’s not join their cry.

I often say that parenting is a crap-shoot. It is a roll of the dice, where we can guarantee no outcomes. Let’s lock arms, look each other in the eye and say, “We are going to face this head on and do all we can to stack the odds in our favor.” Let’s listen to each other’s heartaches and fear. Let’s commit to praying boldly and telling our truths. Let’s tell God’s truth to our kids and your kids and their kids.

Let’s find ways to have fun with our teenagers and with each other. Laughter can build a bridge…Let’s see great examples and paint bright futures and let high school students everywhere know that we believe in them. Let’s invest in them and tell them we want them to make good choices and make their marks on the world, leaving a trail of beauty behind them.

When the wheels come off the bus, as they certainly will, let’s sit together without judgment and give support until we can breathe again. When our kids fail, which they MUST if they are to learn, let’s remind them that mistakes don’t have to define them; that taking responsibility is ALWAYS the best way to move forward; and that tomorrow provides a new opportunity to do better.

Time is running out…we can do this.

5 Things I Want To Learn

Robin #FridayFive, Grace, Growth August 6, 2016Mrs. Disciple

Life is funky.

I live a few miles out of a tiny town that has no stop lights.

There are no stop signs on the main street. There are, however, two bars and a winery. Anyway…

Finding community, that super-cool kicked around word, is not easy…perhaps it is not even available in my area. It is much easier to come by online.

And, lest you discount such a thing as shallow and unproductive, it is only online that I have found friends who crave to do their craft better. Kelly is one such person, and I am so grateful to be linking up again with her Friday Five chatting about what I want to learn…

********

There are so very many things…

**I want to learn to begin each day loving God and pursuing HIS love for me and others.

Many of the boundaries of my life have been put in place to support my Christian walk. I listen to only Christian music–except when I am on the tread mill–and don’t have cable. I watch DVD’s or nothing. I go to church every Sunday.

I do many things to support my faith but I don’t begin each day on purpose with HIM.

What could happen in my heart and my head if I capture those first moments of the dailiness I am interred in and POURED purity and goodness from Jesus straight into me?

**I want to learn to manage money with excellence.

Pathetic, I know.

But I have NEVER learned the discipline of earning, spending, tracking and STOPPING before you run out. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I am a stay at home mom, so I am not even earning. My management “skills” are only in the conversation in my head of how I will spend my lottery winnings…but I do, someday, want to be that person that Proverbs 31 talks about: “She considers a field and buys it; From her earnings she plants a vineyard” verse 16.

**I want to learn to be effective at speaking God’s love into my kids’ lives.

Okay, so I really, really, really believe that God loves my kids.

But do I live that way? Do I TRUST HIM in a way that reflects HIS love for my kids? Do I speak that into their hearts?

Keep working, I tell myself. Keep growing. Keep speaking God’s love into my kids’ hearts. And PRAY, PRAY, PRAY to learn to do it with greater excellence and effectiveness.

**I want to learn to let discipline dictate my day.

I am lazy.

Now, in fairness to me I am not AS lazy as I used to be. I am progressing well on my journey out of sloth-i-ness.

And yet.

I am about to enter into a new season. This fall my precious little peanut will be home with me nearly all the time to be home schooled.

To say that I am anxious is a ridiculous understatement.

I have researched and looked into and decided and in my brain the fall will begin a beautiful season of learning and growth. That CAN ONLY BECOME REALITY IF I am disciplined in doing what I am thinking.

PLEASE, Jesus, help me dictate my days with discipline.

**I want to learn to create a social life with my husband.

Could be wishful thinking, but whatever.

I think it would be/could be great to have couple friends. We HAVE tried…but flopped. We have brief moments of YAY…but no longevity.

How can I have more YIPPEE experiences without the inevitable THUD that follows? I don’t know. I have to learn…

I do learn a lot. I read and study and grow. But these things we have talked about? They would add depth and longevity to relationships and life…THAT would be beautiful.

In Life, The Choice Is Often Either/Or

Robin Grace, Growth, Special Needs Families July 3, 2016election

I am linking up today with the wonderful Kelly at Mrs. Disciple for her FRIDAY FIVE. This week’s topic is leadership.

In the Academy Award Winning film, Braveheart, there is a scene where the Scottish Rebels are lined up on one side of a field, and the British nobles and their soldiers are lined up on the other side of the field waiting for the impending battle. William Wallace (Braveheart) comes riding up in full battle attire and paint. As he gets ready to ride across the field to talk to the British, one of his men asks him, “What are you doing?”

Wallace, in a thick Scottish accent says, “I am going to pick a fight.”

Photo from Hollywoodreporter.com

This election season.

It’s hard to even come up with a complete sentence without sighing and shaking my head, but I fully realize to many these words are picking a fight.

Keep in mind that I have a daughter named Reagan and a MacArthur Study Bible, so stereotyping me is not a huge challenge. I am incredibly comfortable in heated discussions smiling and saying, “Well…you know that I am a right-wing, religious nut.”

I am not actually a nut, but I believe most of the things that the other side associates with the far right. I am not at all ashamed of my beliefs because I am also committed to a life that is filled with grace and service, and spend infinitely more time working the many, many logs in my own eye than searching for other people’s specks.

MY GUY was the first one out of the race. Long before I knew Scott Walker had suspended his campaign, I was getting text messages and Facebook posts asking me who I was for in light of the new facts. RARELY, do people not know where I stand. (Walker/Gowdy 2016 would have been so, so good.) My next choice hung in there for a while, but then also stepped down.

Who is left was my last choice going in, but I am a pragmatist and I am keenly aware that life is often comprised of either/or choices.

I am an ABC gal. Anybody But Clinton. I also concede that is a weak position to take and a sad reason to vote for the leader of the free world. As time has gone on and I have re-examined what I believe and why, I am moving from ambivalence to believing that Trump could be the one for this moment in history. (Look up Ulysses S. Grant’s presidency and see if you find similarities economically.) I will share with you five reasons why.

The Hope Of Getting Rid Of Monopoly Money.

That is what we call it in our home.

Congress and the Executive Branch so easily spend money that is not theirs, it might as well come from a boxed game you buy at Target.

When the current president took office, the national debt stood at 10.6 trillion dollars. With the last budget signed, he will leave with 20 trillion dollars worth of national debt. That number is staggering and, frankly, disgusting. There is no rational reason to believe the trend won’t continue with Hillary Clinton as president.

Over in the Trump camp, however, they seem to see the potential and power of a dollar much differently. As the media and pundits on both sides say Trump’s chances are slim because he has 1.2 million in his coffers compared to Hillary’s 42 million, you can almost hear Trump and his people laughing in disbelief as they respond: “‘Donald has proven before that he doesn’t need as much money as the other candidates.'”

This graph from NHPR.org is quite telling:

Seriously, do you see that tiny little Trump slice? If that kind of efficiency were brought to the Federal Government, I would celebrate!

Obamacare.

I hate it.

I have a daughter with special needs and a mother in law with severe dementia and neither of them have anywhere near the quality insurance coverage or medical care they had before Congress “passed the bill in order to see what was in the bill.”

My daughter has specialists who no longer take insurance because of Obamacare.

We pay a doctor, I would never actually choose if I had other options, $2500 a year just to consider my mother in law a patient. He then bills for all appointments. Why? Obamacare.

Proponents of the monstrosity acknowledge that while my family has been pummeled by the plan, the greater good has been served. I neither agree with that, nor do I actually care.

I want my daughter and my husband’s mother to have good medical care more than I want the greater good ESPECIALLY since we were willing to work hard to provide it. Those who call me selfish for such thoughts make no difference to me.

Trump is the only hope I have for eliminating Obamacare.

The Way Things Are MUST Change.

The Democrats are against him. The media is against him. Many in the Republican establishment are against him.

That’s good enough for me.

We are numb to the ineptness that rules this country.

There was no budget passed by our leaders for six straight years, including years when the same party controlled both houses of Congress and the White House.

America’s credit rating was downgraded under this administration. How much more in interest do the American people pay as a result?

I find this all to be untenable. If Trump is a disaster and what is crumbles, okay. If Trump brings a tenacious business mind set to these issues and fixes them, okay! It is difficult to believe that an entrepreneur with phenomenal success in many areas would not desire to also see the country turn a profit under his leadership. He might begin with the basics of making a budget and increasing the credit rating.

I Don’t Think A Wall is Racist.

I am from California. I’ve spent most of my employed hours working in the restaurant business.

My husband works in the housing industry. We both have extensive experience with hard working, family-loving immigrants who also believe that illegal immigration must be dealt with.

Some sort of a border deterrent (like a wall) has been mentioned for years by people from both parties. I think there are sound bites available from both Clintons talking about such things.

Trump is just the first to suggest that Mexico pay for it.

I don’t think putting a fence around my yard means that I’m inhospitable, and I don’t think that putting up a barrier to make it more difficult to enter the country illegally is racist. And I absolutely believe that something has to be done about illegal immigration.

We Need To Start Understanding Facts.

Trump is not the one I would have suggested for such an endeavor. However, he tells it like it is and it is resonating with people.

If those people get educated and start asking questions and examining information, there could be real hope. We need to encourage thinking citizens.

The Obama administration claims to have fixed the economy, but how is that possible with national debt doubling? Can you fix your family’s finances by putting everything on a credit card? Why should a nation be any different?

The following numbers are all taken from Factcheck.org.

The Republican party is presented to the world as the party for big business, while the Democrats are supposedly for the middle class. Is that how you understand it?

Compare that paradigm (of Democrats for the middle class and Republicans for the rich) to this: Under this administration, corporate profits are up 166% while real weekly earnings are up 3.4%. Which represents the middle class?

Homicides are down 13% while gun sales are up over 55%. Ownership of firearms is up AND violent crime is down, which party’s belief system lines up with those numbers?

Unemployment is supposedly down by over 600,000 people, while food stamp recipients are up by 42%. Does that seem odd?

If you keep in mind that unemployment reflects the number of people looking for a job, rather than the number of people who are not working, do those two statistics make more sense? (Stop looking for work and just get government aid…)

Trump, if nothing else, knocked a political system out of complacency. Jeb Bush spent $100,000,000 on his failed campaign. I am so, so glad that did not work because we have been bought and paid for, for far too long.

For a while the either/or of candidates this year felt like choosing between Sodom and Gomorrah, but now I believe we are already in Sodom and Gomorrah and the real calling is to run away and not look back.

It Doesn’t Always Go This Way

Robin Grace, Growth, Meltdowns, Moments, Special Needs Families, Uncategorized June 29, 2016imperfection, parenting, paying attention

School got out two weeks ago tomorrow.

Since then we have thrown parties, gone to the Melodrama, had a few trips to the waterpark and dropped one kiddo off at history-loving camp. There have been some real highs.

There have also been a couple of low, low moments. Meltdowns of epic proportion have ruined large chunks of more than one day.

As much as I hate to admit it, the meltdowns were mostly me.

I really did not want to melt down today, so when my peanut was starting to be difficult, I took a deep breath and leaned in.

I am trying to do a series of speech videos with her–if not every day–regularly. She was CLEARLY not interested and started to misbehave. She had to sit on timeout, but rather than fighting it through and making the timeout the issue, once she pulled it together and came back to the table we restarted and actually got a lot done!

YAY.

Then she wanted to watch TV. Now, I’ll be honest. I am actually not a mom who limits screen time with my kids. We are pretty busy as a family. My kids go to a Classical Education private school, which mean they read (or are read to) a lot. There are also sports we do, church and youth group every week, trips to the water park and playing in the pool.

We fill their lives with so much good stuff, I don’t feel the need to battle about TV. We also can only watch things on video or DVD, so there’s not a lot of worry about the influence of commercials or things I don’t approve of.

However, today I just didn’t really want her lounging on the couch and sinking in for a binge-fest. Nor did I want to create a commotion over it. So I tried a new approach.

Without saying a word, I got out her light box and began to set it up. I added a dish of ice, food coloring, salt, a spray bottle of water, and a squirt bottle of oil.

While I was working on that, she turned off the TV and found some “homework” to do on her own.

When I finished setting it up, I left it.

Again, I said nothing.

A few minutes later, she began exploring…

The squeezing and spraying strengthen her hands. The ice is refreshing, as it has been so hot the heat radiating from the blacktop burns my feet walking in flip flops. The salt adds texture. Food coloring is just always fun.

She kept herself happily busy while I got some ironing done.

I didn’t melt down.

She didn’t veg out.

We all won.

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