accepting apologies

We've been working on teaching the boys how to apologize. Instead of simply saying, "I'm sorry" they have to say, "I'm sorry for..." and fill in the blanks. It was something I heard at a parenting conference and it made sense to me. It helps them connect the apology with the specific behavior that warranted it and they aren't allowed to give excuses for their behavior. They do a pretty good job with it.
But tonight I saw that I need to do some more work with them on how to accept an apology. We had an incident after dinner that included a stolen marshmallow. An apology was offered but there was no response. I prompted Jem, asking him what he needed to say to Truett and he insisted that he had already said it. Funny though that no one else heard him. And he refused to tell Truett that he forgave him or that it was okay and he accepted his apology. He tried to claim that he didn't remember what to say or that he had already said it. He ended up going to his room until he was able to come down and make things right.
When he finally made his appearance, he walked into the kitchen and said, "Daddy, I'm sorry." My parents were over for dinner and my mom, who had gone up to get him, prompted him by asking him what he was sorry for. And Jem said, "I'm sorry that you didn't hear me accept Tru's apology." I did my best not to laugh and we waited for him to offer a real apology.
Eventually, everything was sorted out and harmony was restored. As I'm thinking about it now, I realize that I could have saved all of us a good bit of screaming and crying and whining if I had just been content with Tru's apology. After all, he was the one who had taken one of Jem's marshmallows and then thrown a royal fit when it was taken away from him. He was the one who needed to apologize.
But...Tru came back and offered the apology on his own without any coaching or prompting. It takes humility and courage to apologize, to admit wrong doing. And I love that Truett is developing those character traits. I don't want him to lose that or to feel diminished because his brother just shrugs his apology off as if it isn't a big deal. It takes grace to accept an apology and that is another quality I want my kids to have. So this was a battle that I was willing to fight.

photo by: Cobra_11  http://www.flickr.com/photos/cobra_11/4130565324/

a handful of dirt

On Friday, Tru and I were outside. I was cooking on the grill (so boring, by the way!) and he was digging in the dirt. He walked over to me with a handful of dirt and mulch and other things and asked me to hold out my hand. And, because I didn't know what was in that pile of dirt ~ worms, centipedes, spiders? ~ I said no thank you and walked past him.
The instant I did it, I realized that I had made the wrong choice. And as I turned around and watched him let his treasure trickle through his hands onto the ground, I felt terrible. I had a chance to show my child that I value him and I missed it because I was scared to have a worm wriggling in my hands. Pretty sad.
Thankfully, I realized that Tru's look of disappointment was because he had failed to capture the grasshopper that he had thought was in that pile of dirt. Regardless though, it was a good reminder for me about affirming my kids. It would have taken five seconds to hold out my hands and let Tru pour the dirt in. Five seconds that would have told Truett that he is valued and that I take delight in the things that delight him. I missed it this time but every day is new, and I have no doubt that there will be more chances to hold out my hands to receive something from one of my children and give them my love in return.

photo by: Pink Sherbet Photography  http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinksherbet/6951659848/

boys

Yesterday I met my friend at the park for a playdate. We have six kids between the two of us and five of them are boys. And our children can not make it through a playdate without some form of bodily injury occurring. Sometimes the injury occurs on purpose and other times it is just the result of rough-housing. Today was no exception and we watched as the four oldest boys threw each other to the ground, swung each other around, jumped on one another and ran into each other. We tried several times to suggest other games but it would inevitably turn back into play-fighting or wrestling.
We stood there watching them, talking about what it might be like to have four girls instead. Would they be running around pretending to be fairy princesses? Or would they set up an imaginary ice cream shop on the playground? Would there be less bodily injuries, less cries of "he kicked me" or "he pushed me down"?
I don't really know because God didn't give me an abundance of girls. Instead, He gave me these rough-and-tumble boys whose favorite part of the day is rough-housing with Daddy when he gets home. It seems to be part of their nature, this desire to prove their strength, to pit themselves against each other. I don't really understand it but I don't have to. I just have to love them and rein them in every once in a while.



photo by: Reginaloves  http://www.flickr.com/photos/reginarose/3989527134/

snapped

This morning I officially "lost it". It was over the insignificant matter of Truett throwing his cereal all over the floor and then refusing to pick it up. Normally I would just wait him out, telling him that he isn't allowed to play with any toys or do anything else until he picks up his cereal. But today we had plans to meet a friend at the park and there just wasn't any time to wait him out.
And I am ashamed to say that the moment came when I was yelling and jumping up and down. Seriously. I was actually jumping up and down as I screamed out my frustration. And the absolute worst part is, that as I was doing it, I wasn't worrying about the affect on Truett or how awful I was being. Instead, I was worrying about whether or not the neighbors could hear me.
Needless to say, an apology followed.
I related the incident to my friend later and she said, "Been there, done that." I love her for admitting that stuff to me. It makes me feel that I can pick myself back up and try again. But it is still scary to me that I can get to that point. I want to be one of those moms who disciplines her children with just a look. That look that conveys disappointment and the belief that they can do better. But I either haven't mastered the look yet or my kids don't really care if I'm disappointed in their behavior. My mom had that look down pat and I have a feeling she would have turned it on me this morning if she had been at my house. Today my actions were disappointing and I'm capable of so much better.

photo by: Pink Sherbet Photography  http://www.flickr.com/photos/pinksherbet/3818974672/

noise

I am not a facebook fanatic. I have under 200 friends (gasp!) and I haven't actually posted anything myself in the past three months. I do not update my status and I don't know how to download pictures from my camera onto my computer so I don't post those either.
But I do occasionally get on facebook and just read up on what other people are doing. It is a nice way to keep tabs on my friends who don't live in the area. But as I was perusing this morning, I came to the uncomfortable conclusion that I might have to unfriend someone. I have never unfriended anyone before. And it wouldn't be because I now dislike this person. Instead, I find that this particular person (let's say "Pat") tends to have an opinion about everything. Everything! And Pat has no problem sharing that opinion. I'm fine with opinions and speaking your mind, but Pat is really forceful with opinions and shares them in a way that, if you happen to disagree, makes you feel that you must be 1) a moron 2) a satan worshiper or 3) a religious nutjob. 
Pat posts opinions on many current issues, like the supreme court's ruling to uphold the healthcare bill or the sanctions leveled against Penn State by the NCAA. I have been in opposition to the view that Pat took on both topics but have no desire to comment about it. This is because Pat does not write about it in a way that promotes conversation or leaves space for differing opinions. There is little room for doubt that Pat would quickly smack down any differing opinion with a lengthy philosophical ramble that left the person feeling two inches tall by the end of it.
And I have been discovering that I get a little angry when I read Pat's posts. I feel bullied and that my feelings and opinions are wrong and don't matter simply because I disagree. But guess what? I can have a moderate viewpoint on an issue. That doesn't make me a capitalistic drone who doesn't care about people. And I can have a more liberal view on something else and not be a communist. 
So I've decided to unfriend Pat or, at the very least, to just stop reading any of Pat's posts. Because when I read those posts, I don't hear logical arguments or an invitation into a conversation. It simply sounds like someone bashing two cymbals together and making a bunch of noise. And goodness knows, I have enough of that in my life already.

photo by: finallyiamnoone  http://www.flickr.com/photos/finallyiamnoone/2810576001/

I've been noticing a new trend with Jem lately. At some point within the last few weeks, he decided that he doesn't really need to listen to me when I'm talking. I ask him to stop walking and wait for us and he just keeps going. Or I ask him to put a toy in a certain spot and he puts it in a different spot.
And when I correct him, he starts giving me attitude. Making noises under his breath and pushing papers off of the table. Refusing to come to me when he is called and not remaining in time-out.
And I'm not liking this new trend. I feel like I have a surly teenager already. I thought that I had this child going on a good path and now we've taken a turn into uglyville. I don't like the feeling of being disrespected by my child, especially when I'm doing my best to keep him safe and to mold him into a decent human being.
And last week, thanks to a good conversation, I had the epiphany that when it comes to my relationship with God, I'm just like my children. I don't listen because I'm convinced that I know better. And when it doesn't go the way I want it to go, I pout. I make noises under my breath and I whine and complain. Even when I know that He wants the best for me, I still react poorly when His best doesn't match up with my vision. And I wonder if He feels disrespected or if that is just a human emotion.
How do I mold my child into a decent human being when I'm still working on that for myself?

photo by: Munira al Munif  http://www.flickr.com/photos/tranem/5370431938/

maturity, maybe

Last Wednesday evening, Sam and I were sitting on the couch when Jem came wandering down the stairs around 10pm to inform us that Truett pooped and to ask Sam to come change him. Sam went upstairs saying that he could do it and then called down for me to come up a few second later. And I knew that Truett had gotten into his diaper again. Sure enough, there was poop on the floor and all over Tru's hands. After a luke-warm shower and a thorough scrubbing of his room, we were able to put him back in bed minus his pillow and stuffed crocodile and puppy which all needed to be cleaned. We then went back downstairs, congratulated ourselves on keeping our cool and watched a show that makes us laugh to take our minds off of things.
The next morning Sam walked in to find that Tru had taken his diaper off and ripped out the stuffing. (Truett later told me that he did it because he was angry at us for being upset with him last night. The child has a strange form of logic) Sam informed me that he couldn't deal with it (boiling point) so I dealt with it. And again, I kept my cool. Who knows? Maybe I'm maturing.  Or maybe I'm just becoming numb to it all.

tastes like candy

Last night while driving in the car on the way home from a friend's house, Tru calls out from the back seat, "Daddy, do you know that I like to eat my boogies." And poor Sam did his best to explain to Truett why that isn't a good idea while I sat next to him and tried to hold in my laughter. He told Truett that boogies are dirty and that they won't make you big and strong. He told him that no girls would ever like him (not a big deterrent for a three-year old) and that it was just gross. Meanwhile, Truett is explaining to Sam that they taste like, what else, candy.

photo by: acid H1N1  http://www.flickr.com/photos/acidone/4909327665/

blaming the van

My mini-van is making me lazy. Occasionally, when I'm only carting around one child, I take the jeep instead. And I have found myself becoming frustrated with the fact that I have to open doors with my hands. It's so inconvenient. Why don't SUV's come with sliding doors that open with the touch of a button? And where is my special mirror for watching the goings-on of the backseat? Now I have to turn around and actually look at my kids. Only two cup-holders? Ridiculous!
How can something I dislike so much be so wonderful at the same time? Because, sliding doors not withstanding, I still loathe my van. I originally loathed it for being ugly and for announcing to the world that I'm either a mom or one of those few elderly people who prefer a van to an Olds. And now I loathe it for turning me into this lazy person who expects everything to be conveniently located and for doors to open at the push of a button. Stupid van.

photo by: SS1 design  http://www.flickr.com/photos/ss1design/7521760914/

blueberry lessons - part 2

The last time I wrote a post, I talked about worry overriding my enjoyment of picking blueberries. The first thing that I had been worrying about was my kids eating blueberries and announcing it to anyone within 50 yards of us.
The second thing I found myself worrying about had to do with my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. As I said previously, they had gone and picked blueberries the week before. They knew that I wanted to get out and pick some and they also know how difficult it can be for me to get certain things done with three kids hanging around. And so they offered to come with me and help me out. My mother-in-law worked next to me, picking berries and keeping the boys from getting into trouble. My sister-in-law spent the morning pushing Caia around in a stroller and then walking with Truett once he left the blueberry patch.
They volunteered to do this. And yet, I found myself worrying and feeling guilty. What if they only wanted to be out there for a half hour and I was still picking after an hour? What if Caia was screaming her head off and Libby was bothered that I was taking too long? What if Bev was keeping her cool on the surface but was internally frustrated with the kids and was wishing that I would hurry up?
Again, I was worrying about what other people may, or may not, have been thinking. I think this is a fairly common thing. It isn't a bad thing for me to be concerned about Bev and Lib's feelings. But there has to be a point when I trust that Libby and Bev would tell me if they were ready to go or wanted me to hurry it up. And I had to remind myself of that as I was picking. I had to trust that their offer to help me was genuine and that I wasn't a bother to them. Not the easiest thing to do.
So as I picked blueberries and worried about the thoughts of everyone around me, I think God was trying to teach me to just let go. I can't control what other people think of me or my kids. And when I spend my time worrying about it, the only person that is affected by that is me. Who would have thought picking blueberries could be such a deep experience? :)

photo by: mellow_stuff  http://www.flickr.com/photos/mellow_stuff/5171859344/

blueberry lessons - part 1

Last week, I picked blueberries with the kids. My mother-in-law came along to help me pick and wrangle Jem and Tru. My sister-in-law came along to watch over Caia. They had both picked their own blueberries the week before and generously spent another hour in the blazing sun with me so that I could pick some.
And while I enjoyed picking berries I spent more time worrying than actually enjoying the experience. What was I worrying about? The first thing was my kids. Overall, they did a pretty good job. They stayed with us. They didn't run around yelling and pushing each other. They didn't bother other people. But they did put more blueberries into their mouths than their buckets. And no matter how many times I reminded them that they needed to pick the berries, they just didn't listen. At the end, I had to send Truett out of the blueberry patch to walk with Yaya and Caia because he had resorted to grabbing handfuls of berries out of my bucket and cramming them into his mouth.
The truth though, is that I wasn't worried so much about the fact that they were eating berries. I was worried about the fact that they kept announcing it very loudly. "Mommy, that berry was great!" "Mommy, I just ate a huge berry." "Mommy, I can't stop stuffing my face with berries!"
And I was cringing inside thinking that people around us were looking at me and thinking about how I'm an awful mom for allowing my kids to steal blueberries. That if I had more control over them, I wouldn't let them eat so many berries. That I'm a terrible, terrible person. Seriously. These are the thoughts going through my head while I'm picking blueberries. Sad, I know. I was unable to enjoy the time with my children because I was too busy worrying about what the complete strangers around us might or might not have been thinking about my parenting skills.

to be continued...


photo by:brielegrandfromage  http://www.flickr.com/photos/brielegrandfromage/4740716357/in/photostream/

Nooooo!!!!

I turned on the tv yesterday morning to set our DVR. I tape shows everyday for the boys to watch at their designated show times. As I was flipping through our normal stations for taping, I realized that I had somehow missed Nickelodeon Jr. I went back up and checked again and it just wasn't there. It wasn't there!!! Where did it go? What happened? What would I do if/when my boys asked to watch Bubble Guppies, Pocoyo, Mike the Knight, or Backyardigans? What if they suddenly wanted to start watching Dora again after their hiatus of several months?
I know, I know. You're thinking to yourself "big deal. They're just tv shows." And you're right, except that you're not. TV isn't a big deal and if my kids have to watch a show they've already seen ten times then that is what they'll do. But tv time is limited in our house and it is a special time. I need tv time. I need my children to be occupied by something other than me for that one hour so that I can be a normal human being who gets to do normal, adult things like make phone calls and chop veggies and drink a glass of water without having to share it with someone who backwashes. And when my kids are watching old shows, their attention tends to wander and they suddenly find themselves in the dining room asking me if they can have a sip of my water. But new shows keep their attention. They become glued to the tv and it makes for a better hour for everyone.
So where did Nick Jr. go? Basically, DirectTv and Viacom are battling it out over prices and stay-at-moms everywhere are suffering for it. Suffering I say! A plague on both your houses! I had better go tape a bunch of PBS and Disney shows to tide us over.

photos by: japanese forms  http://www.flickr.com/photos/japaneseforms/4200616492/

kickin' it mr. miyagi style

Summertime means kids in and out of the house. And with my kids that means screen doors held open for the length of an entire conversation about whether or not the red ball is outside or in the playroom and who should look for it. Needless to say, I am constantly reminding the boys to keep the door closed and I am also constantly killing flies.
I actually don't mind swatting flies. On a stressful day there can be something cathartic about it. But there are always those pesky ones that refuse to land. They just zip around the room, flying in circles and buzzing past your head. I had one of those in my kitchen yesterday. It just wouldn't pick a spot to land which made swatting it very difficult. I finally decided to try to hit it in mid-flight so I watched it circle around and took a swing. Contact! I felt it hit the fly and started looking around on the floor. I couldn't find it though and I was just starting to think that maybe I hadn't hit it after all when I looked at my fly swatter and there it was, stuck in the fly swatter. I crowed triumphantly, yelled out "take that" and karate chopped the air. And then proceeded to feel like the coolest person ever.
And I'm not ashamed. Gone are the moments of winning conference championships in volleyball and having undefeated seasons. There are no more difficult exams to conquer or races to win. Now, my biggest feats are saving money on groceries and coming up with a dinner that everybody enjoys, or will at least put in their mouth. So I'll take my moments of awesomeness in whatever form they present themselves, even if they seem rather silly.

photo by: Sue Peacock  http://www.flickr.com/photos/soo/5871471528/

so simple

I am terrible at keeping plants alive. I have a tendency to underwater them and then over water them in my attempt to make up for the under watering. It's a vicious cycle and it doesn't help that they tend to look the same whether you over water or underwater; brown and droopy. So I've now started keeping a watering can filled with water on my front porch. That way, when I'm on my way out to the car, I can quickly throw some water onto my hanging plant and revive it if it's looking a tad droopy. It has worked pretty well except that I now have a container full of water on my front porch and containers filled with water draw little boys like bees to honey.
Jem seems to ignore it for the most part but Tru picks it up three times out of five and plays with it and dumps water on the porch while telling me that he wants to water plants. And I ask him not to touch it, get angry with him when he does, and use my "disappointed" voice when I ask him why he chose to disobey me. It's another vicious cycle.
Today, as we were heading out to the car, I spied the watering can out of the corner of my eye. Tru had, thankfully, already walked past it. I was about to water the plant myself when a thought occurred to me. Why not simply take the hanging plant down from the hook and allow Tru to water it for me? I called him back and asked him if he would help me water the plant. He ran back and gave it a small drink. I didn't have to tell him to stop or tell him to "put the watering can back now." He just watered the plant, said, "Mommy, I gave it a drink," put the can down and ran to the car.
It was such a simple thing and it brought happiness to my boy. And I feel like a dolt for not thinking of it sooner. Better late than never I guess.

photo by: Tim Stubbs  http://www.flickr.com/photos/timstubbs/2490426600/

dreaming in color

I haven't been sleeping well lately. I have been having a lot of dreams that mimic reality so closely that it feels like I'm not sleeping at all.
Last night it was all about colors. I'm trying to pick out colors for our new house. I'm not a beige sort of person when it comes to wall colors. I like colors that make me happy, colors that make me smile. I currently have an orange kitchen and a blue bathroom. And while the idea of picking out new colors is somewhat fun, I don't want my new house to look like someone on hallucinogenics painted it. The colors need to blend and work together.
I'm running into some problems though. Firstly, even though the house is ours, we haven't had our closing yet which means that we don't have keys. And, if you didn't know, when you are choosing a color, you have to see it in the room that it will be in. It's like putting on lipstick in the store and feeling fabulous and then walking outside and seeing your reflection in your rear view mirror and wondering what happened between the store and your car. Colors can look completely different depending on the lighting.
Secondly, the last time we moved, I didn't have three kids. Have you ever tried to walk through Home Depot and pick out paint colors, floor tiles, and granite with preschoolers and a baby? I don't recommend it. Jem was spinning Caia in circles in her stroller while Truett climbed up on step ladders that were conveniently left behind by staff. They climbed on lawn mowers and opened cabinet doors while Sam and I discussed which color of tile would show the least amount of dirt. (That's my criteria for everything in my kitchen - how well does it hide dirt.)
So now I'm having dreams of all the things that I'm stressing out about during the day. Last night was the colors and the night before it was that I had measured the width of our fridge incorrectly and all of our kitchen plans were now wrong. And while I toss and turn, Sam sleeps like a rock. Something is wrong with this picture and I'm starting to think that it might be me.

photo by: deadcenter  http://www.flickr.com/photos/deadcenter/2992228318/

beginning of the end

This is where my baby is supposed to be.

This is where I put her not even two minutes ago and, as you can see, she is not where I put her. Instead, she is half-way across the living room, playing with one of Jem's toy cars. It is all coming to an end. My peaceful (sort of) days are giving way to frantic moments of, "Where is Caia?" and "Don't leave that on the floor where your sister can reach it."
I have been dreading this day. I watched as a good friend went from a happy mother of three to a stressed-out, pulled-in-too-many-directions-at-once mother of three. And it happened when her littlest one became mobile. Suddenly she had to make sure that there wasn't anything small in his reach and she couldn't leave the room for a moment because he might not be there when she got back. I watched the change and knew that it was coming for me. I knew that my happy-go-lucky girl would start to rock back and forth and then wiggle her way across the floor and then start to protest when I held her for too long because there is so much to see and explore. And now it is here and I'm not ready. I'm not ready!

champion of falls

I had two more falls on the bike trip, one on day two and one on day three. When I say falls, I'm talking about flying off of the bike and landing on the ground. There were plenty of times when I had to jump off of my bike but those don't count as falls since I managed to land on my feet every time.
The day two fall came as I was coasting down a hill. There was a curved bridge at the bottom that spanned a mud bog. As I was nearing the bridge, I heard Dave yell out "Visually directed steering!" It was his way of reminding me that the bike usually went where I was looking. I yelled back to him, "I've got it," and then quickly realized that I did not, in fact, have it. My wheels hit the bridge and I knew that I was going into that mud. Looking back, I really have no idea how it happened. Chalk it up to the pure, evil genius of my bike or my own ineptitude. Whatever it was, I flew through the air and landed in the mud, rolling head over heels. The mud squished up around my neck, coating the back of my shirt. I came to rest in a seated position, completely unharmed but covered in mud. Dave called out, "That was great! But you need more height next time."
On day three, I achieved the proper height. I was out in front, riding on a fairly level, packed dirt road. No major spills had occurred and I was feeling pretty good. We only had about an hour of riding left and I was thinking that I might just make it through the day. Then, without warning, a huge gaping hole appeared in the ground right in front of me. I had enough time to notice the edges of rotted boards before my front tire plunged into the hole and I went sailing up and over the handle bars to land on my belly in the dirt. I remember thinking how nice it was to be laying down and how the sun felt warm on my back. Then I heard Dave tentatively say, "Whoa. Are you okay?" I did a mental scan and hopped back up once I knew that everything was fine. Dave and the rest of my group thanked me for finding the hole for them and named me as the champion of falls as they walked their bikes around the hole. I humbly accepted my new title and got back on my bike to ride the rest of the way home.  

photo by: stoast  http://www.flickr.com/photos/stoast/1590172490/

PS. Thanks for indulging me this week! I'll be back to my normal blog posts on Monday.

taking a tumble

The first day of our three-day trip started out fairly well. After several hours of riding we came across a gravel road. It was a nice change up from riding on narrow, dirt paths through sweet potato fields. We were able to ride next to one another and talk. I was really excited to ride with people but my excitement was short lived as I realized how jarring a gravel road can be. It also didn’t take me long to realize that it is harder to control a bike when you are riding it over loose pebbles and dirt as opposed to pavement. And of course, giving my biking prowess, it was no time at all before I began to lose control of my bike. Being the smart person that I am, I quickly deduced that falling on gravel would be very, very bad and decided instead to steer for the bushes on the side of the road. What I didn't realize is that the bushes were concealing a steep hill which I proceeded to tumble down. I landed about 10 feet down the hill with my bike on top of me. I wasn't hurt at all but I had inadvertently chosen to land in a bush that is covered with sticky seed pods. They stick to animals that pass by and the bush is carried to a new location. It must have thought it hit the jackpot when I whipped through there. It stuck pods everywhere. In my hair, on my sneakers, my shirt, my pants, my shoelaces.

I hauled myself back up the hill with my bike. My roommate was standing there doubled-over with laughter. She did help me pick off some of the seed pods though and I hopped back on the instrument of death and continued to ride.

Later that day, Dave told us that a great fall has three components.
1) distance
2) height
3) witnesses

I had really only achieved number three that day. I did roll for a good distance but for everyone else it just looked like I dropped off the edge of the map. But fear not. Day two brought distance and witnesses and day three is when I brought it all together and was crowned the champion of falls.


photo by: jake stangel  http://www.flickr.com/photos/jakestangel/2111628644/

we're off

The morning of our bike trip finally arrived. I will admit that I had gone to bed the night before telling God that it would be okay if He wanted me to have another malaria flare up. Alas, when I woke up at 3:40 a.m. I knew that the only thing wrong with me was a really bad case of nerves. I laid in bed for several hours waiting for everyone else to wake up and tried to give myself a pep talk. But I felt like Homer Simpson whose brain and body are so often on completely different wave lengths.

I managed to choke down two biscuits at breakfast. I was encouraged to eat more to help keep my strength up but I just couldn’t do it. I also couldn’t manage to keep from crying. I tried telling people that I was just super excited to get going and that they were tears of anticipation but apparently no one had really ever heard of tears of anticipation before and they weren’t buying it.

After breakfast, we lined up for our group picture and then took the bikes on a final test run around the yard. And as I live and breathe, a miracle occurred. As Tim was riding bike #2 around the yard, the chain broke. Hallelujah! Suddenly the skies parted and the angels sang and I was transported to a beautiful place filled with lollipops and rainbows. And then, simply by uttering, “Well, good thing we have an extra bike,” Dave brought me crashing back to reality. An extra bike? When did we get an extra bike? And there I was, sitting astride bike #8, a bike that I didn’t even know existed. This was worse than before! Obviously bike #2 was an evil thing. It had thrown me off countless times. It had pushed me off of a bridge and dumped me into patches of grass.  But at least I had some idea of how bike #2 operated. This bike #8 was a whole new animal.

As we pedaled out of the yard I realized that my brakes weren’t working. Could it be possible? Two miracles in one day? I called out to Dave that the brakes didn’t work on this new bike. He stopped and pulled out his small tool kit. He knelt by my bike, did something to something, and then declared that it would be fine to ride. I tried to argue that it was obvious I wasn’t meant to go on this trip but he just smiled and ordered me to the front of the group.  

And so our three-day bike trip began.

photo by: ranwar  http://www.flickr.com/photos/ranwar/5418007857/

spanning the gap

Due to my lack of skill, I was given extra practice sessions on the bike with our leader and another student. I did begin to improve and on my best day only had to jump off of my bike five times. On the last day of practice, Dave thought I should try out the "bridge trail."

There are two basic types of bridges in this part of Indonesia; the stick bridge and the plank bridge. The stick bridge, being very true to its name, is constructed by placing a long stick or branch across the space you want to traverse. Let me be clear that I’m not talking about a huge branch from an Oak tree. I’m talking about a branch from a sapling, something that is about 3 inches in diameter, with knobs and bends. I had already proven that I had difficulty simply walking over this type of bridge and now I was expected to carry a bike over it. Thankfully, stick bridges were used to span fairly small gaps, something several feet wide for instance, so in most cases I would simply hike my bike up onto my shoulder and leap over the space.

The plank bridges were used to span wider distances and consisted of two planks laid across the gap at the opposite ends, planks laid crosswise over those two planks to cover the gap, and then two more planks laid atop the original two. So in this case there was a fairly large structure which someone could walk or ride a bike over. However, the danger with plank bridges is that most of the planks have long since rotted away. The middle was almost always gone and only the four planks laid across the bridge still stood. So as we came upon a bridge during our ride, we would have to quickly assess the state of the bridge and make sure that we pedaled over the right part.

I can honestly say that I did fairly well on this ride, until the very last bridge. Somehow, my bike ended up on the bridge and I ended up in the ditch. The sad part is that I wasn't even riding at the time. I had gotten off to walk my bike across. That was when I started to suspect that my bike was, in fact, trying to kill me.

(sorry for the lack of a picture but I don't have a scanner and taking a picture of a picture with my phone and then emailing it to myself didn't work out so well)

memories

Last week, I wrote a post about a short bike ride. And I made the following statement: I had some bad experiences with bike riding when I spent a semester abroad in Indonesia. I actually didn't get back on to a bike for six years. But that is a different story. This week, I'd like to take a break from my normal blog topics of motherhood, family, and trying to keep it all together. Instead, I thought it would be fun to share some of those bad experiences. As background, let me say that I spent the spring semester of my junior year of college studying abroad in Irian Jaya, Indonesia. Part of my time there was spent prepping for and taking a three-day bike trek through the wilds of Indonesia. It went poorly from day one...

Today Dave (our adventure leader) took us back to a little shed off to the side of the property; a building that I hadn’t even really noticed before. We walked into the dim interior looking around curiously. Bikes; eight or nine bikes of various sizes and ages lined up or hanging from the ceiling like giant metal spiders. He asked the guys to wheel them all out onto the grass and then he split us into pairs according to our size and then each pair was given a bike. Marci and I received bike number 2 and two aesthetically pleasing helmets.[1]

I have to confess that riding a bike has never been my forte. I actually didn’t learn until I was seven. My parents had sent me to Ohio for a few weeks over the summer to stay with my grandparents. Grandma had suggested that I ride one of the old bikes over to my cousin’s house to play. This was back when you could actually let your kids ride their bikes a few miles through the countryside without worrying that they would never come home.  I told her that I couldn’t ride and suggested that she drive me over in the car. Yeah, Grandma wasn't having that. So I spent the next several hours sitting on a bike while my grandmother pushed me. There was crying and yelling but I did eventually master the art of riding a bike and rode constantly when I got back home. However, I was that kid who would dismount and walk my bike up and over curbs. When the sidewalk came to an end, so did my ride. This might have changed but when I was nine we moved out of our neighborhood to a place with no sidewalks or alleys, just windy country roads, unleashed dogs and cars that drove way too fast. So by the time bike #2 was in my hands it had been a good ten years since I had been on a bike that didn’t have a large fan in place of the front wheel.

It’s been said that riding a bike is something that you never forget, a skill that stays with you. I found that to be true. I was a little wobbly at first but pretty soon had no trouble getting the bike from point A to point B. The challenge was that Dave had placed obstacles in between point A and point B, rocks and large logs. Our job was to weave in and out of the rocks and then ramp our bike over the logs. Dave was attempting to simulate things that we might come across on our trail ride. I don’t even know how many times I hit that log. It seemed that no matter how hard I tried to lift my front wheel, I never managed to get it high enough. These were skills that I had never bothered to learn because, frankly, there weren’t a lot of logs laying across the sidewalk in the neighborhood, and they always had those nice places where the sidewalk dipped right down to the level of the pavement and you could just coast on through.

I failed at every single task given to me. I could not weave through the rocks. I could not jump over the log. I could not coast down a grass covered hill and pedal furiously back up the other side.  And I could not convince myself to keep trying. My helmet came off, I handed my bike over to my partner and I refused to stand up and try again.  I knew that my limit of humiliation and failure had been reached. There was much attempting to persuade me to continue to try but it was all in vain. Attempting to learn new skills in front of people, failing, and not caring at all has never been one of my strong points. I knew that continuing on would just lead to more and more frustration. So I took my juvenile and crappy attitude and sat down in the grass to watch the rest of my classmates fail and succeed.

We rode our bikes again for the next PE class, but this time we left our little compound and hit the open road. I had given myself a pep-talk, telling myself that it was okay to make mistakes and that it is the best way to learn. I was feeling much better. I told myself that I wasn’t going to worry about looking stupid in front of people. I had already made an ass of myself so it couldn’t get much worse. I was ready to feel frustrated and stupid but determined that it wouldn’t stop me. What I wasn’t prepared for was fear. But suddenly, as my bike just took off on seemingly flat yet haphazardly paved asphalt, there it was. When you are a kid and the road starts to disappear under your wheels all you think about is the speed and the wind in your face. When you are twenty and haven’t been on a bike in years, all you think about is how much that asphalt is going to hurt when it smacks you in the face. So by the time we reached our turn-off point to start trail riding, I was in quite a state. I couldn’t wait to get off of the road and onto hard-packed dirt. Yes, it would still hurt to fall but at least my face wouldn’t come off. But the entrance to our trail was not what I expected. It was a hill with rivets and valleys and rocks; a large dirt hill that we needed to ride down. I watched all of my teammates go before me and I made a quick decision that riding down that hill would be one of the worst choices I could make. If I was going to have use of my limbs for the rest of the ride then I would need to walk down the hill. So I got off of my bike and began to walk down the hill while the rest of my team watched me from the bottom. Nothing like having an audience to your cowardice. Dave encouraged me to get on my bike and ride but I refused.

When I finally made it to the bottom, Dave asked me to ride in front. So now every mistake I made, every time I slowed down, every time I fell off, reverberated back through the entire group. Only when the rain started did Dave finally let me fall back and allow the rest of team to continue on without me.

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[1] There is no such thing as an aesthetically pleasing bicycle helmet. They are dorky and uncool. The only people who can possibly wear them and look halfway decent are the guys in the Tour de France because if you are male and wearing spandex then no one is looking at your head.

photo by: sabellachan  http://www.flickr.com/photos/sabellachan/216587690/