Just One Time Around

I've not been ignoring my blog on purpose, but clearly I've been less than ambitious about posting. It's not for lack of want, but rather the self-imposed schedule of events that consume my life lately. Some of these events are quite worthwhile and important while others, not so much. In either case, too many events result in a lack of blogging time. My apologies.

Today was a big day for our family and one that comes but once a year - piano recital day. I wish I could say that our kids love playing the piano, but alas, I can not tell a lie. Piano is one of those things, like making their beds, that we require them to do. It definitely falls into the "chore" category, but I'm confidant and hopeful that someday they will thank us for the "chore" of making them play. 

We've been blessed with a wonderful piano teacher, a strong Christian lady with extremely high standards and expectations, who is both kind and bluntly honest in her feedback.  She comes to our home every week and gives each of our kids a private, 30 minute lesson, expecting that they will practice every day until she comes again. To entice them to practice every day, she gives them stickers for the times they play each piece perfectly and for every piece they memorize.  Then, on recital day, she passes out elaborate trophies to those individual kids who excel in their practice by memorizing and playing with perfection. The ones with the most stickers win. Each year, the Pettit kids leave empty handed. Well, that's not totally true. Their teacher has consolation medals, which she passes out to all the kids who won't be getting a trophy. The slackers.

This year, as we were racing to the recital after church, Colton kept saying, "I really want to get a trophy this time." Realizing that this was a teachable moment, I patiently reminded him that the kids who get the trophies actually practice every day.

"Remember honey, when you and your brother were playing sock hockey in the house this morning before church and I suggested that you practice for the recital, instead? And remember when I remind you to practice during the week and you give it two minutes, but call it twenty? The kids who get the trophies are the ones who put in the real time and effort."

"But hockey is funner than piano," he argues, with perfect second grade logic. 

I see his point and am just grateful that his teacher has not yet banned our kids from the recital. To make up for their lack of practice, I make sure they look like a million bucks. This takes much effort and I could write a different blog about shopping for recital clothes, another "chore" the kids enjoy.

We screeched to a stop in front of the church. Late, the kids jumped out of the car and ran in with their music while we parked. At each recital, all the recital kids sit in one section of the church in the order they are playing while the parents sit on the other side. The youngest kids sit in the second row and so it goes back to the final performer - the creme de la creme of piano students. Directly in front of the tiniest recital participants, Colton included, our teacher lays out her elaborate trophy display on the front pew of the church.

I notice, as Colton sits down, he is on the very front edge of his seat leaning over to see the shiny trophies right in front of him. I mention to my mom how very badly he wants a trophy while explaining that I'm sure it won't be happening. We both realize disappointment looms.

Each one of our kids played beautifully and each made it look effortless, like they actually practiced every day and enjoyed it. As the final student finished his lengthy and complicated piece, their teacher stood up front and talked about the enormous effort that the children put into their piano. I realize, she is not talking about our kids, but I pretend that she is. As she is speaking, Colton is fixated on the shiny trophies laid out before him, ready to jump up at the mention of his name.  Slowly, she introduces each student by telling the audience how many pieces each winner has memorized. "And this student has memorized 354 pieces this year." Followed quickly by, "This student has only been playing for six months and has managed perfection on 210 songs."  And so it went.

I'm pretty sure that Colton's biggest disappointment was not that he left without a trophy, but rather watching the little boy who sat next to him leave with two.  As we walked out and I hugged each of them, I asked Colton if he was sad that he did not get a trophy.

"Yes! I wanted one!" He shouted as we walked over to thank their teacher.

As each of the kids hugged their teacher following the recital, she complimented the two who practiced the most and did the best. "You did it, perfection!" To the other two, she said, "You looked nice." She's must be on to me.

As we made our way out to the car, I decided to try the teachable moment thing again with Colton. "You do understand, honey, that the little boy next to you probably practices for 30 minutes every day and that's how he is able to memorize so many songs.  If you practice more starting tomorrow, you could leave with a trophy next year," I tell him, hoping to use this moment of raw disappointment as a catalyst for change.

"No, I've already thought about it. I'd rather play hockey," he tells me and runs off, looking spiffy while happily wearing his shiny new slacker's medal.

After a most relaxing, enjoyable and yummy lunch date with my friend Janet, I hit the road for what would be another crazy afternoon of family activities.  Audra had her first softball tournament game scheduled right after school, while the boys had basketball and soccer practices scheduled some distance away, later in the day. Wade and I compared schedules and decided on our attack - I would cover the softball game with the girls while he would pick up the boys and take them to their practices after school.

Driving toward the girls' school, ominous storm clouds followed and the wind picked up its pace. Storms were expected off and on all week, so the dark thunderheads were not a surprise. Still, everyone was hoping to get the game in before the rain came. Pulling into the school parking lot, I was surprised that Sierra was not in her usual spot to greet me, waiting impatiently for me to bring her water and a game-day snack. Such was our routine. Walking over to the field, setting up the chairs, I was struck that there was still no sign of Sierra.  Hmmm, I thought. It's not like her to be completely out of sight. After walking around the softball field area and checking with the folks there, I took off to look for her on the front side of the school. Not there. I checked the office while one of her classmates helped me by checking the lunch room and the library. Still, no Sierra.  

About now, the grayish black clouds began to leak large drops of cold water onto the world below. I put my hood up and walked a little faster. As I walked around the small, quiet campus looking desperately for my Sierra, I found myself dialoging with God. Please help me find her so I can relax, even though I know she's here. And, when I do find her, help me to not be angry with her.

It was such a strange, uncomfortable place for me to be.  I knew in my head, as all logic told me, that she was fine and safe on campus, just preoccupied someplace out of sight. But in my heart, raced all the images that I've seen on faces of parents who've lost children. Children who were there one minute and gone the next. It's easy, I think, when it's not your child who is missing. "Oh, she's here somewhere.  She'll show up."  Yes, that's what my mind was telling me, too, but it was my heart that couldn't rest until I saw her bright blue eyes and that familiar blond pony tail.

Finally, after some 30 minutes of searching, some of the girls on the team told me where they had last seen her, as school dismissed. One of the dads was over in that area kindly helping me look for her, so I called him on his cell. Minutes later, he called me back and it was her sweet voice on the other end. "Hi mom. Are you looking for me? I'm sorry, I was in one of the 7th grade classrooms doing homework with my friend."

Complete relief washed over me as the storm clouds let loose, drenching everyone beneath. Within minutes and with rain dripping from my face, I hugged my sweet Sierra with unspeakable joy in my heart. The game was rained out, so we gathered our soggy belongings and headed home. By the time we pulled into the driveway, both soccer and basketball had been rained out as well.  

As we ate dinner together, we talked about the important lessons we learned today while I gave tremendous thanks that my lost daughter was found.

It's been a big day at our house - our baby, little CJ, turned 8 and what a terrific eight years it's been with him! Always a happy kid, full of exuberance, Colton takes life head-on and looks forward to each experience with precious enthusiasm. Our family is tremendously blessed to have him as our youngest member and we love him to pieces. (I'm plucking a few grey hairs trying to keep up with him, but I'm not complaining.)

Today, as is our tradition, I went in to his school to have a special birthday lunch with him. His Nana met us there, as a special surprise, and we had a lovely visit while sitting in the school cafeteria. Normally, most of the second graders power through their lunches with extraordinary speed to ensure themselves the most recess time at the end of their meal. On this day, Colton was in no hurry to run and join his classmates outside. Instead, he happily sat next to his Nana, eating his Chick-fil-a, soaking in the specialness of the day. Finally finishing, he asked if we wanted to accompany him outside to the playground. Happily, we followed him out into the breezy sunshine.  

Immediately, a large group of second grade boys, in the middle of a big four square game, called out to him. "Colton, come play four square with us. We've been waiting for you."  Without hesitation, he ran off with a large ear-to-ear grin consuming his handsome little face. My mom and I stood nearby and watched the sweet kids as they played.  The first thing we noticed was that they immediately handed the ball over to Colton and made him king, which is the coveted fourth square position, the one everyone is trying to beat everyone else for. The next thing we noticed was how in charge he was of the game, the group and the playtime.  Immediately, I thought about something his preschool teacher told me when he was 4.......He's like the pied piper and all the other kids just follow behind as he tells them what to do. It's amazing what a leader he is and how much everyone loves him. That's exactly what was going on here on the second grade playground. The other thing that I noticed was that all the other boys took turns getting out and rotated to the end of the line. Not Colton. He stayed in the "king" position and kept the game moving.

On one play, he obviously missed the boy's square next to his and hit the ball out of bounds (he should have been out). Instead, the other boys called a do-over. I spoke up this time and with a long, pointed index finger, told Mr. Colton that he needed to go to the end of the line and play fair. He shot me a toothy grin with eyes that said, you got me...I'm going. Just as Colton handed the ball to another boy so he could take his place at the end of the line, the other boys said, "No, Colton, you're still King. We'll call that interference."  

I picked up my lower jaw, which was resting on top of my shoes, while my mom said, "Look at that, the other boys won't make him move even if he is supposed to be out."  Sure enough, there he was, the baby of our family out in the world all by himself and taking it by storm.  

I shook my head and smiled. How interesting it is that our "baby" is actually quite a big boy and such a leader, at eight.