Ingenuity

The kids and I were sitting around our dining room table having a mundane lunch on a hot July afternoon. Pretty typical fare: ham sandwiches, fruit, and milk. After I finished, I began to clear away the debris left after the meal. As I reached for his plate, my son exclaimed, “Don’t take that apple core, mom!”

“Riley,” I answered, “you don’t want that apple core; it’s trash.”

He went on to explain, “It’s not for me, mom. It’s for my friends.”

“Son, your friends don’t want an apple core.”

“It’s for my friends in my ant farm,” he continued.

“Son, you don’t have an ant farm.”

“Yes I do, mom,” he shared, “I made one. It’s under my bed.”

This caught my full attention because I knew it was . . . (gulp) . . . possible.

After a deep, slow breath, I excused myself and went to Riley’s room. I laid on the floor to look under the bed. Oh, boy. Packing tape secured two large marshmallows to the carpet directly under the center of the bed. This sugary structure was enveloped by a hoard of very large, black ants.

My recollection of what happened next is quite vague; but, my children claimed that I produced a blood-curdling scream. The adrenaline burst, and I somehow cast the double bed and oak frame aside (despite the fact I was seven months pregnant), and relocated the house guests. I can only share what has been reported to me; I have blocked out this part of the memory.

At some point, I returned to the table where Riley was calmly finishing his lunch. This was an opportunity for a teachable moment. “Son, why are there ant-covered marshmallows under your bed.”

“I was afraid that you wouldn’t like them if you saw them, mom.”

Accurate assessment.

“Son, why were the marshmallows taped to the floor?”

“I didn’t want the ants to carry them away.”

Sensible-ish.

“Son, we can’t keep food in our rooms because it brings in bugs, just like this.”

“But mom, the ants didn’t come in the house!”

“Son, I saw them!”

“But mom, I had to BRING them in.”

“What!?!”

“That’s why I needed the marshmallows. I had to leave them on the ants until they crawled on top of them, THEN I brought them in the house.”

Well of course, how silly of me. Now it made perfect sense.

Keylin's Coffee House

Snooze. Snooze. Ugh . . . start the oatmeal, jump in the shower, wake up the kids. Floss, brush, start the crockpot, re-wake the kids. Hair fixed, make-up on, chase kids. Start the car, eat the oatmeal, dress Monster Queen. Load the bags (purse, laptop, phone!), brush little teeth, meds in little mouth, dress baby. Load car, strap in baby, re-dress Monster Queen, load Monster Queen. Drive to town, sing Wheels on the Bus, listen to the Cars, stop and unload at daycare. Drive to school, pray for parking spot, unload supplies, in the door, Hello Lori, get mail, Hello Jo, Hello Kari, Hello Rachel, Hello Kays . . . up the stairs AND into Keylin’s Coffee House.

Shoulders down, supplies released, breathing slows, “Good morning, Witham”; I am here, Keylin’s Coffee House. This is my place, our place, the home I have made. Finish homework, drink your coffee, serve yourself. Did you hear? Do you know? Can I have? It’s Keylin’s Coffee House. Sit around the circle, lie on the couch, work out the table. Talk, always talk. Smile, tease, laugh. Learn your way, find your place, you belong at Keylin’s coffee house.

Parties

I love, love, L-Uh-h-VVVVV parties. And baby, can I throw one! Some of my favorite memories were spent planning, preparing, and celebrating with my favorite people. These times give us something to look forward to and something to remember.

My dad told us he did not want to celebrate his 50th birthday. There was to be no party, no big to-do, nothing. We didn’t listen. Over 30 of my dad’s best friends came to rock the house. The house was accessorized with posters, banners, and photos. We asked that guests bring a snack, but no gifts. They didn’t listen either. The people poured in with food, gag gifts, even a poem written just for dad. We drank, we ate, we laughed; and, oh yes, the fart machine made an appearance. I saw my parents, and their friends, in a new light. They were people. Dad was thrilled. The decorations stayed up until he died nine months later. A massive heart attack took the first man I ever loved. What if we had not had the party? What if we had been too busy, too practical, too obedient? Would he have ever known how many people loved him?

There have been more. Not long after my divorce, my oldest daughter and I worked together to host a Halloween party like no other. We shopped, hung lights, painted lights and baskets, and made food. It brought us together during a time when we desperately needed to enjoy one another.

The celebration of my second wedding was held in the gardens outside my friend, Marilyn’s home. My family, friends, and I came together to recognize my new life and grieve the end of my time in Kansas. What a day! My new life excited me, but I ached at the thought of leaving the kind, talented people who had carried me through my tenure as a special education director.

The slumber parties when I was a girl, my children’s birthday parties, school parties, pumpkin carving events, my breakfast bashes . . . there are too many to list in a single post. I loved them all.

Any party regrets? Only the one I did not have the chance to give. When recruiting in the Philippines, my right, index finger became infected. In the beginning, it was only a strange tingle. Later, it became swollen and sore. The finger continued to swell on the flight home. During this flight, the finger changed from pink, to white, to yellow, to green. Red streaks climbed up my arm like vines. The pain throbbed. Medical help was unavailable at the airports because of the odd hours of my flights. The only relief came with a fantasy I created. Should my finger need to be amputated, a funeral would be held. A coffin would be fashioned from a match box, two of my co-workers would be the pallbearers, we would dress in black, and there would be feast. Ah, yes! If the finger had to go, it would go in style. Thank goodness, the finger is with me still. Oh, but what a party it would have been. I may have to create a prosthetic finger and host the event anyway.

Life is uncertain. Places, careers, and acquaintances come and go; but, memories we keep forever. Time must be invested wisely. Moments with family and friends are investments. Inevitably, we loose loved ones and days stream through our fingers. We must take time to celebrate and savor one another. If joy does not stumble upon us, we must create it. There’s nothing like a good party.

Miracles

The great Kevin Henkes wrote the statement, “Wow . . . that’s all I can say . . . wow.” Boy, doesn’t that say it all. Many miracles have been a part of my life; my children are my favorite four. Today, I celebrate the Monster Queen, the third of these miracles.

It shames me to admit that I was anything but thrilled when I learned I was expecting my third child. A master’s degree in educational administration was finally in sight. I had worked for years. I had earned honors. I had taken extra course work and finished my district certification at the same time. I was Emporia State’s Educational Leadership student of the year. I was ready to leave teaching and become a principal the next fall.

Notice how many sentences in the last paragraph start with “I?” It isn’t only poor writing; it was a poor attitude.

Yes, I was grateful for my family, home, job; but, the “I” took the lead in my life and my decisions. Miss Ana changed that.

On Ana’s first morning, I was told that she had a slight heart murmur. The physician’s assistant assured me that it was a minor problem; in fact, it might not be a problem at all. Just in case, we should check it out. An appointment was made, but I was not worried.

Three weeks later, we arrived at the office of a pediatric cardiologist. Tests were given, and her father and I sat in a room and waited for the results. We visited and admired our little girl until a kind man with a concerned face entered the room and sat down. Heart disease *BAM*; birth defect *BAM*; hospital, surgery, lifelong . . . *BAM*BAM*BAM*. I was hit with brick after brick. My breath was stolen, my nerves were on fire, I felt sick . . . what! I couldn’t think clearly. How could this be?!? Anyone could see she was perfect. There must be a mistake; I must be dreaming . . . MAKE THIS STOP! There was no mistake; and, as with all of the waves in life, there was no stopping. We were to drive to the Children’s Hospital in Omaha immediately. There was no time to go home for clothes. There was no time to make arrangements. Life was never going to be the same starting NOW. Wow . . . that’s about all I can say . . . wow!

A few days later, Ana underwent open-heart surgery. Her aorta and pulminary vein had not seperated at birth. Her own tissue and Gortex were used to correct this defect. This surgery was successful; however, there were problems with the valves on the lower two chambers of the heart. Her heart disease was a life-long condition, and I needed to come to terms with that.

For her first eighteen months, we did our best to minimize contact with the outside world and germs. Common viruses could mean disaster. There were constant check-ups and immunizations, but it was all manageable. I accepted a position as a special education director supervising five school districts. Our family relocated, but we were able to keep the same doctors and hospital. I bought a house, hired a nanny, and life went on.

Less than a month after I started as director, my marriage exploded. Police came, and our world changed. I lost a husband and my children lost a father in a matter of hours. This was only the beginning of a long, wild ride. I couldn’t promise my kids it would be easy, but I did promise that we would take it together.

We survived the next year. My pain and the demands of my career made me an inadequate mother, and I was even worse as a father. Ana was the glue that held us together. She gave us a reason to laugh, love, and care. Putting her first took the focus off of our own grief. She mended our souls.

Ana’s second open-heart surgery was in late June of the next year. Her aortic valve was insufficient. The result was loss of appetite, minimal weight gain, and excessive fatigue. I was nearly sick with dread and worry during the weeks leading up to this second surgery. Plans had to be made for my other two children, arrangements made at work, and I was petrified. The thought of loosing her was more than I could stand.

Ana’s surgery went well. There were tears and stress, but she came through unbelievably well. We were out of the hospital in four days, better than I dared to hope for.

I was flying high. Until I wasn’t. Two weeks later, Ana’s scar was seeping and her temperature soared; she had staff infection. We made a fast trip back to Children’s in Omaha, and Ana endured another surgery. Recovery included three weeks in the hospital, and another three weeks of isolation at home. Medication was given through a line in her side. Work unraveled, my kids acted out, and I fell apart. I was failing on every front; it was time for a change. It was time to set priorities and put what mattered first. I left administration, Kansas, and our home. I remarried and set out on a new adventure.

Two and a half years later, I am writing this from the bench in the ICU. Our Monster Queen just conquered her fourth open-heart surgery. The nurses call her a rock star; I know she is a miracle. Through all that she has endured, Ana continues to give. She changed my focus and my life. She is leading me toward becoming the person I want to be.

“Wow . . . that’s all I can say . . . wow.”