20 Years and Counting

I have been with my husband for over half my life.  And tomorrow, we will have been married for 20 years. I met him when I was 20, a sophomore in college, and he was a freshman.  We both played basketball and for most of the season, he was dating one of my teammates. I didn't consider him as dating material because of that, and also because I knew he was WAY out of my league.  He looked like Vanilla Ice (before the dawn of reality tv when Vanilla Ice was still somewhat reputable), could rap, was majorly handsome, talented in basketball, and could dance like nobody's business.  

I rode with his girlfriend to our end of season team gathering at our JV coach's house. I asked how her boyfriend was, and she said, "Matt? Oh we broke up." "Reeeeeeeaaaaally......that's too bad," I said, not really sorry at all. (In my head I was thinking possibilities.) 

Long story short, we met up again at another end of year basketball party, we smooched, I made him spell my last name, convinced that he would never look me up in the college directory.  The next day, I purposely spent all day out of my dorm room, just in case he didn't call. Or just in case he did.  And call he did.

The rest is pretty much history. Our trajectory was fairly predictable. We had our ups and downs and before his senior year in college and during my first year of teaching, he proposed and I said yes.  We were babies really, 20 and 22, and had more bumps in the road along the way. A car accident, a terrible first year of teaching, a year of being separated by physical distance as he finished college, and a postponed wedding.  After the car accident in October of 1994, I could barely decide what to eat and what to wear, let alone plan a wedding. 

In an act of complete faith, on the phone one night, Matt told me quietly to take my ring off and set it on the dresser. He told me to put it back on when I was ready. I sobbed, told him I loved him, and hung up. 

I never took off my ring. We postponed our wedding from July 1995, to December 1995.  I was flooded with relief and things started looking up. 

My husband is an incredible man. This demonstration of his faith in me, in us, is just one of the many reasons I love him and admire him.  Here are some more.

1. He thinks I am beautiful, even when I am decidedly un-beautiful. He has loved me through high waisted jeans, stirrup pants, over sized everything, and big hair. 

2. He puts up with my family, even though we are very un-perfect, my siblings, my parents, my step-parents, and me. He appreciates the great things about us and quietly tolerates the crazy parts.  

3. He is a great dad who loves all three of our kiddos fiercely and would take down anyone who tried to hurt them. He also demands a lot from them, and knows they will rise to the challenge. He understands that they will disappoint him, and he knows he will forgive them. My favorite all time line from him came from our first trip to Disney World on day 3. "Let's start the day with hugs and kisses, because we know it will end in spankings."

4. He is so smart, even though he doesn't think he is. It isn't every guy who can get through undergraduate school with an A- average and graduate school with a 4.0.  

5. He is good with people, especially where I am not. We are both introverts, believe it or not. But, he is better in large group social situations. I tend to sit on the sidelines and observe gratefully while he takes over and shields me from awkward situations. 

6. He is an excellent teacher, a teacher who believes in the value of physical education and its benefits the whole child. He has integrity and knows that his PE class is not an "easy A." He makes kids, high schoolers, work for their grades and is great at holding them accountable.  He calls parents when kids aren't meeting his expectations and doesn't back down when the student tells a different story.  

7. He is a phenomenal coach, one who truly allows athletes to believe in their gifts, even if their gift is hidden.  He has pulled more talent out of kids than I can believe. We plan workouts together, and then he'll turn it around in head all day long, come to practice and change the plan. Annoying sometimes, yes, but it works! He is successful, but more than that, he has made the relationship with the athlete more important than anything else. 

8. He thinks I am funny, and even if he doesn't, he pretends.  I have a strange sense of humor (thanks Dad) and he has come to appreciate that in me over the years.  

9. He knows that it's okay to argue, and has brought me also to that point. For a long time, I wouldn't argue, I would just acquiesce and seethe inside. He won't put up with my passive-aggressive junk, and draws me out so that we can get to the heart of the issue.  He never swears at me, and he knows that divorce is a sacred word.  We both know NEVER to throw that around in a casual way, and have never used it as a tool in our fights.  

10. He makes a mean tuna casserole. Okay, so that one's a joke. I mean, he can make tuna casserole, but I beg him not to. I hate tuna casserole. He does push my food boundaries though. He enjoys attempting to hide mushrooms in a bite of stir fry, and makes me try seafood even though I have never liked it.  

11. He's adventurous.  If it were up to me, we'd probably only go to the mall and Target. But, with him, I have been to France, England, Aruba, Antigua, and Puerto Rico. I have been to 41 states, I think.  Plus, he's forced me to be adventurous in two of the best purchases of our lives. One was our Chevy Tahoe, which we bought in 2002 and we still have. The second was our current, and forever, home.  Even though it was a foreclosure, it was still out of my comfort zone. He pushed me through that zone and I thank him all the time for forcing me into this amazing house and 17 acres of woods. 

12. Finally, and most of all, he loves me and my imperfections and he forgives me daily. We both understand that marriage isn't perfect, that it matters more what's IN the marriage, than what people on the outside think.  We trust each other and believe in each other. We encourage each other to be the best versions of ourselves. 

Every day, I am grateful that he chooses me to spend his life with. I choose him every day, too, and in the end, that's how it works. Happy Anniversary, Matty. I love you.

Memories on the Tree

Putting up the tree in my house growing up was not an overly joyous occasion. It should have been, but as I've found since childhood, we humans try to make an occasion ultra meaningful and in our quest for perfection, just end up creating conflict and stress. Don't feel sorry for me, I would guess that many have similar stories to tell.

We would try to put the tree up around the time of my oldest sister's birthday, December 10th. We couldn't have a real tree because my middle sister was allergic to them. Inevitably, I began the season already feeling a bit deprived.

SIDENOTE - When I got married we were determined to get a real tree. And we did, for a few years. Until I got tired of the dropped needles and the dog drinking out of the tree water (or worse). When we started our family, we reverted back to the artificial tree, so as to avoid the baby eating the needles or worse, getting them stuck in his head.

A SECOND SIDENOTE - To my parents - say no to over sensitivity about this post, I know that my children will have occurrences like this to pass down to their kids. I often wonder how I've scarred their childhoods each day that I attempt to parent them appropriately.

There were other reasons my growing up Christmases weren't overflowing with joy, but here are some specific events that occurred each year while putting up the tree.

The tree was always crooked.
The lights never worked correctly.
Swearing happened, once even over a coke bottle that fell into a newly made pie. Oops.
The lights, once working, were never evenly distributed.
We could never remember whose turn it was to put Grandma's angel on the top of the tree and fighting ensued.
We could never remember who got to set up the manger scene and fighting ensued again.

And so, I have been determined to make our family's tree putting up experience much less stressful. Only, reality takes over.

The tree is always crooked.
If the lights don't work I throw them away without even checking to see if I could fix them.
Swearing occasionally happens, but I don't make pie, so I am safe there.
We argue a little bit about colored blinking lights vs. white solid lights. I usually win and our white lights shine on.
The kids insist they remember whose turn it is to put the star on the top of the tree. And fighting ensues.
And Baby Jesus disappears from one of three manger scenes because there is arguing over whose turn it is to place him in the manger.

I have always said that someday, I will have my very own Christmas tree. I want one that has a theme, like "Up North," or "Gold Things," or something equally creative. I look at our tree with a bit of a sigh and a bit of frustration. Nothing matches. Much to my chagrin, some years colored lights blink. And each year that we go home, our respective parents load us up with more ornaments from our childhoods.

The first years we put up Christmas decorations in our house, it looked like the Christmas Fairy had thrown up in every room. Literally. I mean, there were snowmen of all kinds, Christmas dishes, Christmas rugs, tinsel, fake green garland, lighted houses, placemats, table runners, signs, I could go on and on.  Gradually, we've pared things down so that it's not quite as overwhelming and there is still room for us to move.  I still have lighted houses and garland and table runners and snowmen. However, some of it remains in storage until I can load my kids down with it when they are adults. Now, the only thing that is overly decorated, is the tree.

This year, we just, literally, just put up our tree last weekend. December 14th. So, pretty much par for what we would do growing up. Only this year it was less about tradition and more about not making time until then. I am thinking that maybe we need to start a new tradition of after Thanksgiving like others do. At least if we set that as our target, we may get the tree up earlier in December.

Putting up our tree is always an experience. And that's the nice word for it.  Here's how it went down this year....After 6th grade basketball practice, I went into the cave and started pushing tubs out for the boys to bring upstairs.

Ben was helpful, Gabe was flustered because I hadn't given exact instructions, and Matt was on his phone (darn fantasy football). I told Gabe to bring up the green tub with the red cover. Which one? The one right in front of you. Where do I put it? In the office. Where in the office? Just, in the office. What do I do after that? Come back down and get another tub.  Matt came down and chastised Ben for putting a (minor) dent in the wall with a tub.  I sighed, pushed out a few more tubs, and followed the boys upstairs. Matt noted to me all five dents Ben has put in the walls over the last four years. Ben shrugged, and we carried on.

We started sorting the color coded branches.  Gabe put in a few and then had to go and get gloves to finish the job. Mr. Sensitive we call him.  Ben started putting them in, too. Lyndee and Ben argued about who was putting them in correctly.  Matt had to leave the room in order to not get frustrated.  Matt returned. I laughed. Wrong thing to do. I shrugged. Matt left again.

The branches finished, I attacked the lights. Since Matt was outside, I chose white lights, non-blinking.  The first strand I tried didn't work. I threw them away.  Then the other strands went on. Matt returned and to help
me. No blinking lights? Nope. No colored ones? Nope, you snooze, you lose.  I got half way through and realized that my lights ended in the back with no way to plug them in. Sigh. Matt left me to problem solve.  I went to the laundry room, found a white (oh well) extension cord with the appropriate ends and plugs, and plugged them in. Yay! Lights!

Matt said, "You missed a few spots." I smiled, determined not to make a frustrated comment. I succeeded, gritted my teeth, and smiled again. "Mommy, what's wrong? You don't look so good." LQTM. (Laugh Quietly to Myself).

And then it was on to the ornaments. I like to be organized and go about things in a sequential manner. To me, that means putting up the ornaments from the top tray in the box first and then working on the lower tray. Kids don't necessarily think like that and pretty soon, there were ornaments everywhere. All. Over. Everywhere.  I finally lost it. "CAN YOU GUYS JUST HOLD ON A SECOND? CAN WE DO THIS IN AN ORGANIZED WAY?!"

Silence. Matt said, "What do you want me to do?" Deep breathing ensued and I smiled, albeit not a natural smile. Back to the ornaments. And gradually, I relaxed. It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be. My goal this year is to embrace the messy in my life and this was the first step.

I started putting on ornaments, randomly, on random places, from random places. And I realized, this isn't MY tree. It's our tree. It tells a story. Many stories really. It tells the story of me as a little girl, and Matt as a little boy.  It tells the story of us as teachers and coaches. It tells the story of our kids - their first Christmases, the ornaments they've made in school, the ornament gifts from their cousins.  I found the ornament my childhood best friend, Sarah, had engraved for me and hung it on the tree, a bit tearful. You see, she lost her husband this year and by putting this ornament on our tree, I remembered US and I prayed for HER and her boys.

I realized, that we were decorating our tree, not with ornaments, but with memories. And each time I placed something on the tree, I was remembering the person who gave it to me or the event it symbolized. Here's a rundown of some of my favorites from this year:

• the brass piece of mail engraved from Sarah
• the Christmas Nail buried deep inside the tree
• the lace heart from Matty for our 8th anniversary with the gift tag still attached
• the Christmas ball with hand prints from 3rd grade for each of the kids (Thank You, 3rd grade teachers!)
• Baby's First Christmas for each of the kids
• Gabe's ornament from daycare with his buddy, Derek
• the angels each year from my dad
• the homemade basketball ornament from my athlete turned colleague
• the hummingbirds from China from my sister
• the Thomas the Train for G from my other sister
• the White House Ornaments from the MD Northrops
• the Eskimos from Gma and Gpa N.
• the silver ball from Gma and Gpa Devitt, that held a gift of money one year for their poor, newly married grandchildren
• the rocking horse that my dad cut out and I painted in 1981
• the Minnesota Twins ornament of Matt's from 1987
• the "Best Big Brother" ornament from Matt's little sister, Courtney

Truly, the list could go on and on.  I'll stop now. But, I think this gives the reader a good picture of our tree.  

Perspective is everything, in Christmas, and life.  I'm working on things that cause me frustration, like a messy and unorganized tree, and trying to change my perspective. Here is what I've come up with so far. Christmas is filled with expectation, both personal and public.  Trying to live up to that expectation is what causes the frustration.  Perfection is not possible, but an altered perception is very doable.  This year, I'll do my Christmas as imperfectly as possible, preserving and appreciating the memories on my tree along the way.

Northrop News 2015

Dear Family and Friends,

Every year, I debate about whether or not to write a letter. And, every year, I guilt myself into writing it.  Mostly, I think I end up putting my thoughts on paper so that our kids can have a written documentation that we actually did observe their childhoods. Matt and I say often, that we are “living the dream” and reflect on the tangible and intangibles that fill our lives.  We are always busy, and we choose that. My parents worry about us, that we are “too busy,” and wish that we would slow down. I think that sometimes, they forget that I have always chosen busy. Busy brings me joy, purpose, and inevitable challenges. Here is what our “busy” consisted of in 2015.

Gabe - 12

It’s been one of those –wherehasthetimegonehowismylittleguygottensobigihopehelovesusforever - type of years. G is in 6th grade, so I get to see him every day, as one of my students! He is a good friend to others and loves to read. Last winter he played basketball, coached by his dad, and followed with baseball in the summer, and football this past fall. He enjoyed summer Bible camp with his best bud and his brother. Gabe takes piano lessons, is a percussionist in the band, is a talented artist, and last spring was chosen to be part of a 4-5-6 boys all state choir.  He also loves watching sports with his dad and cracking jokes with his mom. Gabe bought his own bow this season and loves spending 1-1 time with Matt learning the finer points of hunting.

Ben - 10

Benjamin will always be his own person. He has a deep ability to care for others, while still daily annoying his sister. He is creative in a messy, dragon, 3D sort of way. He has a way with pop up books, stop motion videos, and enjoys drawing mutants to add to his collection. Ben loves imaginext and action figures and legos. He enjoyed playing Champion Basketball last winter and baseball this summer. He loves to read books about super heroes and magical creatures and most recently declared his love for Beverly Cleary and her chapter books. Ben started piano lessons last winter and can make a mean piece of toast.  

Lyndee – almost  9

We are getting a glimpse of the challenge of a strong willed, perfectionist daughter. Lyndee does her homework without being asked. If I sign my name to her homework messy or upside down, she erases it and makes me start over.  She loves her brothers and wishes she could marry Gabe. Lyndee loves to read, still cooks in her kitchen, and has numerous birthday parties for her babies.  Lyndee was forced by her mean parents to play basketball this winter (there are some things you HAVE to do in this family honey, and one of them is play basketball). She was also forced to do track and field camp (run by her mother), but did not play baseball or softball this summer. She wants to play piano soon, and she has a beautiful singing voice.

Matt

In his second year teaching at Century High School, Matt has settled in and his enjoying the chance to influence teenagers in positive ways.  I am so proud of the work that he does and the great role model he is to the young adults that he interacts with each day. He also is amazing at holding students accountable in and out of the classroom and communicates well with the parents of his students and his colleagues. As a Pine Island Track and Field coach for 19 years, Matt led an amazing team of athletes last spring to 3rd place in the State True Team Meet, and 3rd place in the MSHSL State Meet in June.  Two of the relay teams earned state championships and several school records were set. In addition to coaching, he loves the woods and hunting. He got several deer during shot gun season this year, but chose to spend his fall teaching Gabe about bow hunting instead of shooting his own bow.

Amy

My house is messy. All. The. Time. It bothers me, but apparently not enough to really do anything about it. Laundry from 5 people paralyzes me and sometimes, I just buy more socks instead of pairing the ones that are already clean. I tell my students and my athletes that I am a lot of things, but perfect is not one of them. I am perfect in my imperfection. It’s a good thing my family loves me anyway. Love drives what I do. My family is first, although sometimes they fail to recognize that meals and clean underwear are one way I show my love for them. I adore the ages of my kiddos right now – their conversation, imagination, and humor makes me grateful. My job teaching 6th graders makes me smile, challenges me, and gives me purpose. Not many can say they are passionate about their jobs. Count me among those lucky few. I coached Cross Country this fall for the 8th year and loved each minute. And, I assisted Matt with the track and field team and loved most moments. ☺ When your husband is a demanding head coach, you sometimes have your differences.

Family

Matt and I trained for, and completed our first marathon. It was painful for sure, and by far the toughest physical/mental thing we have ever done.  It was great to experience it all with Seth and Kaela and their girls. We can’t wait for our next adventure with them. We also adventured out west this summer, right after the state track and field meet, with our good friends Ben and Lisa and their girls, to Big Sky, Montana. We hiked and rested and enjoyed the amazing scenery and conversations with good friends.  We spent some time at the lake and Matt enjoyed 6 vacations (wife of the year, I know). Fishing with Chris, WE Fest with Chris and Bree, Football in MD, Huskers/Vikes weekend, SEC weekend with Seth, and hunting weekend with friends. Me? Well, I did travel to Kentucky for my nephew’s graduation AND I went to Target alone a few times!

Pets

We have some sort of predisposition to having dogs who are each just a bit quirky.  Dash – is 4 years old with a wanderlust and a short attention span. He’s sweet, huge, and is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Tucker – our Craigslist purchase – is 3 years old also with a wanderlust and a devious streak. He fiercely defends his daily IAMS (dog food) kill and runs away whenever he gets the chance.  Mia - Ben’s tortoise is alive and well despite a near smoldering from a light that fell into her dwelling. Russell – sadly Gabe’s gerbil went to the great running wheel in the sky after a short 16 months as a Northrop. It was a tragic funeral as gerbils are supposed to live a few months longer.  And now, introducing Wrigley. Wrigley found us at the lake.  He is a yellow lab of unknown origin and unknown age.  He is a lovely boy with a habit of barking at any noise outside and whining when we are in his spot on the couch.  And, even though Matt mentioned getting another iguana just tonight, we are “never, ever, ever, getting another reptile.”

Peace to you. May your homes and lives be messy, for it is in the messy that we find the grace and the life we were meant to live. Merry Christmas!

Love,

Matt and Amy

Gabe, Ben, and Lyndee

Dash, Tucker, Wrigley, & Mia

A Love Story with Teaching - Episode 1

When I started teaching, I thought I would teach for a few years and then….well, I didn’t know, but I sure wasn’t going to be one of those old teachers who stay in teaching because they don’t know what else to do.

I scoff at my younger self often. How silly I was to think that experienced teachers didn’t know what else to do, because now I am one of those old,experienced teachers. Only I’m not that old, unless you think 44 is old, and don’t lie, some of you do. It’s okay. Don’t feel bad for a minute. I can handle pretty much anything you throw at me now.

Because not only am I old, but I am tough. Much tougher than I used to be. I care much less about how people think about me or what they think about me. If I think something is a waste of time, I’ll tell you. If I think an idea is fantastic, I’ll tell you that, too. I mean, after all, what are they going to do, fire me?

Maybe, but probably not.

Because every day, I am still trying to be a good teacher.

When I first started, I thought I was going to massively change the world. “Why are you becoming a teacher?” people asked me. And I would say, “Because I love children.” Barf. That’s the answer of some poor girl who has no idea what she is getting into. That would be like someone asking a newly engaged person why they are getting married and them saying, because I love so and so. Well, I guess that’s what we do say, because we don’t know any better. And believe me, I do love so and so after 20 plus years together, even more than when we first got married.

It’s like that with teaching, too. I do love children. All of them, just not all of them on all of the days and just not all the time. I love them more than I ever thought I could. I love the smelly ones, the dirty ones, the cute ones, the ones who do their homework, the ones who don’t, the ones who have parents who make a hot breakfast at home for them and walk them to school, the ones who eat at school and set their own alarms and get themselves to school, the ones who love to learn and the ones who don’t, the ones for whom learning comes easy, and the ones who struggle for every piece of knowledge to stay put, the ones whose parents volunteer and the ones whose parents I never see all year face to face. I love the ones who are friends with my own children, and those that sometimes aren’t very nice to my own children. I love the children that everyone else loves. And I love the children who it seems that no one else loves. What do I do with all of that?

I carry it with me daily. Some days it lifts me up and other days it drags me down and I wonder if I am making any difference at all.

At a recent staff development, don’t groan inwardly. It was actually pretty awesome, and I can say that exactly one time of all the staff developments I have been to over the last 18 years. Our presenter seemed to be speaking my language. Mine! Yippee! Someone understands how I think about teaching! It wasn’t about reviewing data or closing the achievement gap or new mandates or interventions or test scores or new standards. It was about creating relationships with students that go beyond the classroom. And it was about telling our stories. Our real teaching stories and why we still are teaching when somedays, we wonder if we are making any difference at all. It’s really many stories within a story. So, I’ll just tell them one at a time. Here we go. Here’s the beginning of my love story with teaching.

My first year of teaching was hard, harder than I ever imagined it would be. I thought I was prepared. I had done well in my undergrad and my student teaching. The opportunity to teach when I graduated came in the form of a graduate fellowship. I and 17 other recent college graduates became employees of Winona State University and signed on for $11,000 over 15 months plus tuition. We took classes and taught in our own classrooms for those 15 months. Some of us were amazing. Some of us were overwhelmed. All of us were poor.

We came together as a group after our first day of teaching. Everyone was gushing about how wonderful it was and how they just KNEW it was the thing for them. All their dreams of teaching in their own classrooms were coming true. And me? Well, I went home and called my mom and my fiancé and cried. I felt like an imposter. I struggled with classroom management and felt like I was steam rolled all the time. I was excited, enthusiastic, and really unprepared for the realities of teaching.

I am surprised that I survived that year in a classroom of kids with complicated needs for which I wasn’t prepared. I am also surprised if those students took much out of our shared time. During that year, I referred a child for special education services. That same third grade student told me to (expletive) off and he didn’t give a (expletive) what I thought. I called another student over to talk with him about a repeated behavior infraction and he said, “What do you want, Chicken Head?” Funny now, but then? Not so much.

Numerous other not so great things happened that year. I forgot to give a little boy a message about walking home and heard the wrath of a parent. I was in a car accident and fractured my pelvis in two places. I wore a hard cervical collar for six weeks. I finished my master’s. I completed my capstone project in the 11th hour, saved my paper, and left the school at 11 pm the day before it was due. The next morning, I booted up my computer, put in my disk, and found that my disk was corrupt. My paper and my project were gone, completely. Thank goodness I kept my handwritten copies of everything and retyped it, footnotes and all, the next day.

There were wonderful things that happened that first year, too. I hosted a families and fairy tale festival after hours where the kids served punch and families came to celebrate their precious kiddos and listen to them as storytellers. I held conferences with three families that needed interpreters. A mom came in to make sticky rice and teach my students how to eat with chopsticks to go along with our thematic unit built around a book called Everyone Cooks Rice. We built Conestoga wagons out of shoe boxes and spools. We made gingerbread people.

At the end of that school year, each of us graduate fellows interviewed with the school district that we had been teaching in for the last year. I wasn’t one of the lucky ones who were offered positions. My assistant principal said it was because I had missed school during my car accident recovery and that the students suffered because of that. I interviewed for a position out in western Minnesota and didn’t get that one either. When I called to inquire about what I could do better, the committee chair said that I was the first choice, but they had had to pick the hometown girl instead. With my 4.0 and my master’s degree, I resigned myself to subbing for a year to try to “get my foot in the door.” Again.

A phone call came in late August. Did I want to interview for a position in an EBD Day Treatment? Nope. I didn’t. But, I did anyway. And I got the job. It turned out to be one of the best things that I ever did.

The Worst Best Thanksgiving

It was the worst best Thanksgiving I've ever had. It started before Thanksgiving of 1985, at least a year before in fact. My sister had long been demonstrating her prowess as a distance runner in both cross country and track and field. Coaches were calling, sending letters, and asking for her to come and visit her campus. She visited a few and made an official visit to Iowa State when I was a 7th grader. I remember visiting it with her and falling in love with the campus. I loved Greek Row, I loved the big tower in the middle of campus, and I loved the coach - Ron Renko. He made a big impression on our family, including me, a glasses wearing, moppy haired, chubby little 7th grader. I think at this time, I probably weighed more or equal to my senior sister.

When we visited ISU, it was Easter. I remember stopping at Hardee's on the way and getting a stuffed pink rabbit, one of those special "with purchase" type of deals. I kept that rabbit for a long time. My family stayed in a hotel (a definite rarity in my family) and Jill stayed in the dorms with one of the runners. When we met up with Coach Renko, he was a blur of energy and positive words. He walked fast, talked fast, and stopped at every drinking fountain along the way. He paid attention to me, too, the chubby little 7th grader, and asked with a wink if he should start recruiting me, too. I responded that, while I ran cross country, I was most definitely a basketball player. I didn't know that cross country would become a lifetime thing for me.

When we pulled away from Campus, I know that I had made my decision. Iowa State was the one for my sister! Luckily, she made that choice, as well. When we left Jill to begin her freshman year, I think I cried until we hit the Minnesota border, and maybe then some. But, ISU was such a great fit for her. Cross Country was a challenge, but her team was a hit. She made lots of friends. And soon, my sister, the introvert, was bursting with friends. She was so happy and really embracing everything that CC and ISU had to offer.

She called after the regionals and let us know that her team was going to nationals. We were elated, especially since the National Meet was in Milwaukee - yay! Driving distance! The weekend before Thanksgiving, we headed from Southwestern Minnesota to Eastern Wisconsin. My other sister, Heidi, stayed home because she had school obligations to fulfill. We stayed overnight the night before, and then headed to the meet. It was cold and snowy. The skies were gray and heavy with the promise of snow. We watched the race with anticipation and cheered loudly for my sister and her friends. She ran well, so well, and we attempted to run and watch her at different spots, our shoes crunching in the snow that was already on the ground. We were counting at the finish line and knew that the top 25 would be named All-American. She placed high, but I didn't know exactly where and then we found that she had placed well enough to earn the All-American Honors! Not only that, but the team got 2nd! Second in the nation!!! We jumped up and down and cheered and it was pure, and unadulterated joy!

The weather was changing quickly, so we made every attempt to get on the road quickly. We would go as far as we could, hopefully all the way home. We had to go by Jill's hotel to get her bags and we rode in the elevator with a few of her teammates. I remember riding with her new friends from England - quiet Sue Baxter and bubbly Julie Rose. I hugged her teammates, and they tolerated a little sister's eager hugs. And, we waved and said goodbye.

The roads were terrible. We started to see more and more cars in the ditch and when we saw a car spin out behind us and end up in the ditch, we took the next exit. We found a room at the roadside motel and called my Aunt Mary and my sister to tell them that we had had to stop. We would see Heidi tomorrow and we started to settle in for the night. Then, the phone rang.

"When did it crash?" my mom said. I had no idea what was going on, but my heart and stomach dropped when you know that something terrible has happened. My mom got off the phone and told us what little she knew. One of the three ISU planes had crashed. They didn't know which one, they didn't know what happened, and they didn't know if there were any survivors.

I grabbed my jacket and left my parents and my sister alone in the hotel room. I walked out in the cold, hoping that this was a dream. I prayed and, even though I knew it was wrong, I prayed that it was the men's team. It would be terrible, but I could live with that. I was crying and angry and scared. I clearly remember kicking a dumpster and hurting my foot.

I made my way back to the hotel room to a night of watching news clips and crying and feeling helpless and making phone calls. One of my parents got in touch with Heidi. Someone claiming to be the press had been calling our home and asking if she knew where her sister, Jill, was. When she said Jill was in a hotel with my parents, they asked her if she could confirm that. Heidi knew when those questions came, that the plane crash had been fatal and that people were trying to figure out who, exactly, had been on the plane.

The story came out slowly. The plane had been diverted to Des Moines. It went down in a residential neighborhood killing all of those on board. The passengers included Jill's teammates Julie Rose, Sheryl Maas, and Sue Baxter, the team's student trainer Stephanie Streit, Coach Ron Renko, Assistant Coach Pat Moynihan, and Pilot Burton Watkins.

I really don't recall much about the next days. I just know that when we got home, Jill did what she always did when she was upset. She retreated to her basement bedroom and would speak only selectively. None of us knew how to help her or what to do to guide her through this grief while we, also, were feeling the weight of sorrow and the losses.

Heidi and I went to school after that weekend, while my parents stayed home with Jill. It was frustrating to say the least. It was an unwanted 15 minutes of fame. Questions like, "Did your sister die? Who died? If you hadn't gone to the meet, would she be dead?" All unspeakable questions that were spoken to an ill-equipped 8th grader. Teachers meant well, but mostly, I just wanted to go home. And then, when I got home, I wouldn't want to be there, either. What I really wanted, was to go back in time and have the weekend end in a different way.

We had Thanksgiving dinner that week. It was quiet and tearful. My sister didn't eat a whole lot and retreated to the basement as soon as it was socially acceptable. We were unbelievably grateful to have her present with us, but we were all so weighed down with grief about what had been lost. Jill lost some of her best friends and her coaches. She also lost the chance for a long lasting joy of the national runner-up or the accomplishment of becoming an All-American.

How do you ever recover from the greatest joy and most devastating grief - both in the space of a few hours? Recover? Never. Remember? Forever.

I've been coaching high school cross country for eight years now, and track and field for almost twenty. Two summers ago, Jill came to speak at a summer cross country camp that I hold. She spoke of the gifts that cross country can give you. I listened and watched the athletes, few of whom knew the story of her freshman cross country season. She did not speak specifically of the great losses she had suffered. She did tell my team, teenagers ranging from 13-18, that what you do in practice and competition, the friends that you make, the coaches you look up to, that all of these things are a gift. The gift is strength, endurance, and hope. You never know when you will need to draw on those gifts of cross country, but they will always be ready when you need them.

Tomorrow, 30 years after the plane crash, my sister will greet some of her teammates with whom she experienced those great joys and deep grief. She will visit the site of the crash and memorialize and remember those lives taken. She will rejoice in the time she spent with them and the lessons she's carried with her throughout the past three decades. Then, she will get in the car and travel from Ames to Minnesota to spend Thanksgiving with my family. We will all remember, shed some tears, and draw on those same gifts that cross country has given all of us - strength, endurance, and hope.

Road Trip 2015

I am 15 hours into a 17 hour road trip. Don’t feel too sorry for me, because it’s also Day 3, so it’s not like we’ve gone straight through. We have been through Minnesota, all of North Dakota, and are two thirds of the way through Montana. As I said before, 15 hours in. And I don’t hate it. Not at all. If I am to be honest with myself, as I most always try to be, I actually am enjoying it.

It may be shocking to some, because in my normal life, I am not very good at sitting around. I don’t deal well with idle time. I create things for myself to do because I get ancy. It feels unproductive if I am doing nothing. And, most of the time, I am all about being productive. Even when I am watching tv, I am correcting papers, reading the newspaper, clipping coupons, online shopping, painting my nails, you get the idea.

Fifteen hours in, and I am not itching to do something. I am relaxing. It is a foreign concept during the school year. During the school year, there is always something to do. It goes without saying that I don’t always do the things that need to be done. Sometimes, I just think about everything I have to do and correct and grade according to a rubric. I think about it, and it weighs on me, but instead of doing it, I do laundry or feed my family, or watch tv while clipping coupons. It is definitely procrastination disguised as productivity.

For the past thirteen weeks, since the beginning of track and field season, downtime has been non-existent. I want to be clear that I am not complaining about that. I chose it, and continue to choose it, every season that my coaching contract needs to be signed. Why I coach will be detailed in a later post. This post isn’t long enough to for those explanations now.

Sitting in the passenger seat over the past few days has been really lovely. Of course there are the questions like, “My movie’s over, now what do I do?” “I’m hungry,” (30 minutes after my offsrping didn’t want anything at Arby’s). “I have to go to the bathroom,” (15 minutes after the last bathroom stop). The sibling arguments are frequent, but not serious. The irrittion my husband feels is greater than mine. We are not on a deadline after all. We don’t have any buses to catch, meets to be at, people to email, posts or updates to the website to do, students to teach, lineups to make and enter, staff meetings to attend, appointments to make or go to, nothing is on the agenda.

We are on vacation. And if you are inclined to say, “She deserves it, she works so hard during the school year,” please don’t. Every single person I see, work with, meet, and know or don’t know deserves vacation. I am so grateful that we have the time and the ability to be able to take our kids on road trips. So deserving really has little to do with it. Choosing to vacation is more what I feel lucky to have the resources to do.

Most of the time when we go on a trip, I have everything planned out. That means that things are packed days in advance, the kids all have matching outfits labeled in gallon sized freezer bags, and when I walk out the door of my house, it is clean - very clean. This time, I packed the morning we left, some of the clothes I packed were dirty, we won’t be matching, I forgot some things, and when I walked out of the house, it was pretty much a disaster. Especially the kids’ rooms. Di.Sas.Ters. Truly.

But you know what? We are still on vacation. And that dirt and those disasters will be waiting for us when we return. No. Big. Deal.

This ride has not been a total lack of productivity, and I suppose that is why I have been okay with it and sitting still has not been anxiety producing. I have written more than a dozen graduation cards, a couple of Father’s Day cards, read two books, and uploaded hundreds of pics into my online albums.

I didn’t say I was perfect, but I am learning. Relaxation is hard for those of us who consistently choose busy, but I am learning. And it is lovely.

My hubby, the gift giver....

I admit...my love language is not gifts. I really could care less what a gift is, what it says about me, what it says about the giver, whatever! If you give something to me, I love it. It's perfect. It was just what I wanted, because it is from YOU! And you thought enough to give me something. Even if it was the wrong thing, it was something. Maybe it comes from years of pretending as a teacher. YES! I love the dollar store oranament, mug, bookmark, etc. you picked out for me. A used candle? Perfect! Just what I wanted, and purple, how did you know??

My husband's love language, I think is gifts. That and another one, which is a whole separate blog post. So, we tend to give love in the way we wish to receive love. I give him "acts of service." Do not let yourself get carried away here. Acts of service to me are emptying the dishwasher, making his meals, packing his lunch, making sure his drawers always have clothes in them (yuck, when did I become so traditional, barf). I also hang up his coat, pick up his clothes, do the taxes, yada yada yada. I do these things not because he can't, but because I can. Whenever I get irritated with doing these things for him, I remind myself...I am so glad that I, I, I, am the one doing these things for him and not someone else. I get to take care of him. Me. No one else. Me.

My husband, because he loves gifts, loves to give gifts. I disappoint him sometimes because, like I said before, gifts don't really matter much to me. He was raised a traditional gift giver. On our anniversaries, he follows what Hallmark tells him to do. I have two all-time favorite gifts from him. One was on on our 7th anniversary. The traditional gift was wool and copper. On the 29th of December, I received a ring box. Not a jewelry person, I inwardly cringed. I adjusted my eyes to read "eager anticipation" when really I was thinking, "How much did this cost?" I opened the box and found steel wool and a penny. I cried. I was so happy! Strange, right? I loved it. It was quirky and weird and meaningful all at the same time. It was probably because he had already considered my reaction and adjusted his gift to my weirdness and quirkiness! I still have it! It sits on my dresser and I truly love it.

On our 11th anniversary, I was hugely pregnant with number 3. We always wanted three. We just hadn't anticipated three in three and a half years, especially considering our difficult road to number 1! So, on the 29th of December, at 38 large weeks pregnant, he gave me a key chain. The traditional gift is steel. The modern one is fashion jewelry. So, he kind of combined the two for this year. The key chain was shaped like an envelope with a heart clasp. When the clasp opened, a letter came out of the envelope. On the envelope was Love, Matt, Gabe, Ben, and _________ . Yep, a big blank. My thoughtful, wonderful husband said, "We'll get it finished when Baby is born. And sure enough, three days after Lyndee Elizabeth was born, we headed to Things Remembered in the mall and had her name engraved on it as well.

I also loved my 13th anniversary gift. It was lace. Again, remember who is writing here and don't get carried away. It was a lace Christmas ornament in the shape of a heart. Every year, we hang it on our tree and the tag is still attached. It says, "To My One and Only." I love it, truly, I do.

But, the best birthday I ever had was during the first year we were married. It was my 25th birthday. I worked at a Day Treatment then for kids who were challenged in lots of ways. It was stressful, beautiful work. So, on my birthday, I came home to our apartment on 41st street to a note on a large stuffed frog in my entryway. The note said, "Play the answering machine." So, I did, all the while thinking how romantic my husband was and that I have not a romantic bone in my body. The answering machine told me to go into the bedroom and get dressed. So, I headed in our room and he had picked out an outfit for me. It was a lovely outfit that I felt beautiful in. The message told me not to take too long, because I had to be at Carousel Floral by 5:00.

I walked into the floral shop and they practically screamed, "Ohhhhhh, you must be Amy! Your husband is so (sweet, handsome, nice, cute, on and on and on). I got some roses and another note.

The note had some sort of poem or something on it that told me to go to Dayton's (at the time) and look for the heart balloon. I did, and found said balloon, and again the clerks just gushed over my husband. He had gotten me some perfume and left another note.

This note told me to go to Baker's Square and retrieve my favorite pie. So I walked in and said I was Amy and I think my husband left me a French Silk Pie? More ooooohing and ahhhhhing and then I got my pie......and another note. This one told me to go "where everybody knows your name....." it's a "Cheers" reference people, if you're not old enough, look it up. I knew he meant "Brother's Bar and Grill" where our co-ed softball team always went.

I was greeted at Brother's door by my friends Jeff and Linnea. Jeff said they were supposed to buy me a beer. I was looking around for Matt. He said, "Matt? What? He's not here." Huh? So, I waited just a little longer and Jeff said, "Okay, now it's time for you to go and meet your groom." He told me to go to Wong's Cafe on historic 3rd street. I walked in, and there was my groom, waiting with a bottle of champagne.


I mean, really, what guy does this? You know who? My guy.

A lot has changed since my 25th birthday. We live in a different house, in a different city, with different jobs. Three kids and eighteen years later, my husband still surprises me with gifts.

Now, it's Valentine's Day. He didn't leave a card for me today, but he did for my eight year old daughter. That to me, is the most wonderful gift he could give.