Courage Under Fire

"Our coach said we wouldn't win today", Hayley said from the back seat of the car.

It was 4:30 AM and dark. I was driving her to the team bus for her first crew racing, a southern California regatta being held in Long Beach this weekend. She and her other Novice buddies had been learning to row for the last six weeks with ZLAC, a San Diego women's rowing club started by four ladies in 1892, Zulette, Lena, Agnes, and Caroline.

"Why would he say something like that", I asked. I wondered about this coach, but I didn't say anything.

"I don't know". Neither of us was awake enough at that hour to think this through.

There was room on the bus but, no thanks, I'll pass on a bus load of teenagers.

Her mother called from out of town at 9:00 AM after we arrived in our separate vehicles and before her first race to ask how Hayley was holding up. "I think she was a little nervous in the car, but she seems fine now", I reported. Indeed, jitters weren't apparent watching these youngsters hanging out together, getting their boats ready and in the water. They were all business in the water and typical 13 year olds on shore.

The other racing clubs were clearly bigger in numbers -- ZLAC pretty much had to race everyone to fill a boat -- but if ZLAC racers felt intimidated it didn't show.

Hayley had two races, an eight man shell to row and a four to "cox", then a third race to cox was added. Most boats had a coxswain (pronounced cox-en) to motivate and keep the team together.

The eight "man" shell for the first race looked long enough to launch a jet.


As they rowed up"river" to get into position, I got my own position on the opposite bank to take pictures for her Mom, that was my assignment for the day. I could see rowers coming down river and focused my camera on the lane that best fit Hayley's description of where they would be rowing. Snap, snap, snap... some good shots and I turned to leave.

Wait, there's another team coming from farther back. Are they in the same race? Could it be?

I waited. Yes, it was Hayley rowing in her boat of eight. Not quite as crisp and speedy as the others, but they were making their way to the finish line.


By the third race, I knew where to look for these plucky girls. Hayley was the "cox" on this boat, filling in at the last minute. I was positioned again, waiting to take that perfect photo, following the progress of the last boat toward my direction. Just a minute... they seemed to get off course, they were almost stopped, were they dropping out? I learned from Hayley later, you can't just "drop out" unless your equipment totally fails. I watched as they got themselves together and started up again, of course by this time very far back in the race. When they passed by, though, they looked beautiful and, in my book, pretty courageous.


I asked Hayley later what happened. "Tanicia caught a crab, we were heading for the rocks", she responded.

Not knowing the lingo at this point, I thought this was a strange thing to be doing in a competitive race. She explained catching a crab is putting the oar into the water other than vertical and it throws the whole boat off, sometimes violently.

I asked how she handled this, being the cox and all. She answered with some technical lingo, then said, "I just kept calm. If I hadn't, they would have all lost it". I think to myself, another generation with a "shield on her arm"!

The day was almost over, but not until unloading their boats back in San Diego, one hundred jump squats for leaving trash on the bus, and a Hannah Montana movie ("Ouma, you need some teen pop culture").

The next morning was more of the same, only in San Diego on Mission Bay. The girls had a "duel" with Xavier Rowing Club from Arizona. I was beginning to learn this sport starts pretty early in the morning, like before dawn, getting their boats ready.


Hayley had two races, a four man cox and an eight man row. (I'm starting to learn the talk.) I watched a quiet moment before the four man event...


and the launch for the eight man race.


Hayley was becoming a seasoned racer. She and her team would row almost a mile out into the bay to their starting positions, then bring the boat back across the bay, all by themselves from so far away you couldn't see them in the distance. No mind they would be in last place. It takes a lot of guts for a thirteen year old who knows all the words to Hannah Montana's "Nobody's Perfect" song.

Out of the mouths of ...

Where better to ski than the wide open spaces of Vail?


And in what better company than grandbabies? A teen and nearly teen, they object to being called grandbabies.




When one insists on skiing with an open jacket, even with a temperature below zero,
















and the other gets distracted by knocking snow out of trees,














and still wears alien holographic ski googles,


I say they are still grandbabies.

This year, though, they thought they were too old to go to ski school. They came up with a deal. If their Ouma would be their teacher, and they could behave like good students, they wouldn't have to go to regular ski school. Fair enough, I thought.


They lined up to listen, followed through with directions. One problem, though. While I'm OK with teaching more advanced techniques, I didn't know how to get the younger one out of her "pizza-french fries" into parallel skiing. I talked about edges, and knees into the hill, and upweighting, and using your breathing to set a rhythm. But, how to get Jennifer to progress beyond the wedge?

I said to the older one, "Hayley, I don't think I can get Jennifer out of the wedge. You're going to have to help teach her since you're closer to learning how to do that."

Hayley turned to her sister and said firmly, "Jennifer, keep your skis together".

I watched in amazement as Jennifer headed down the mountain, skis perfectly together.

Is there a lesson here?

Lauren the Birthday Girl and the Little Weasel

Yesterday was the party for LaLa's 7th birthday. As usual, there were lots of kids running around and having a great time. My favorite part was having Patrick sit on my lap with his bankie and B at the end of the evening, sucking his thumb and watching Parent Trap - oblivious to the rest of the world.

(This photo doesn't do LaLa's eyelashes justice. They are to die for!)

Seven Baby Birds, Sitting on a Sofa

Seven baby birds sitting on a sofa,
Waiting for the party to begin.
Some of them are happy,
But one's screaming mad...
Looks like Isabella poked her with a pin!

Family Friendly: The Moods of Isabella

Isabella's mother, Jennifer, came along during my medical training, soon before her father was drafted during the Vietnam war, and was raised by a single parent --plenty reasons to have a rough go of it. When Jennifer was an adolescent I thought I would run away from home. By the time she turned 21, she was able to say "I gave you a rough time, didn't I" and from then she has been the best daughter a mother could want.

Jennifer had Isabella, so good natured a child I haven't been able to reap the "just wait until you have children" reward.

There is rarely doubt about what Isabella is feeling. Her eyes and face and little body convey the thousand words.

The One With A Sick Heart

This is my 3-year old grandson, James Patrick. In May, we learned that he had been born with an atrial septal defect and it could only be fixed via open heart surgery. With the help of some special friends, my daughter, Jessie, eventually came to deal with the news with courage and faith, and painstakingly explained to Patrick and his older sister about the hole. Soon, Patrick was telling anyone who would listen that he had "a sick heart".

Luckily, we live close to MUSC's Children's Hospital and the physician who would be Patrick's surgeon, Fred Crawford, and his team are internationally known for their skill. The procedure would be just a walk in the park for them, and yet I couldn't help but tear up every time I thought of my little man being subjected to such a major operation.

Finally, the morning of the procedure arrived and we all met in the surgical registration room to wait for Patrick to be called. It wasn't even six o'clock yet, and there he was with his pretty blue eyes and ornery smile, clutching his raggedy old blue teddy bear, Bee, that his Aunt Jan had given him when he was born. He alternated between sucking his thumb on his mom's lap and looking around for something to get into. Then the dreaded moment arrived, and after we each gave him a big hug and kiss, he disappeared with Jessie and her husband, Michael, into the pre-op holding area.

Very soon Jessie and Michael came back out and nervously we all went to the PCICU (Pediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit) waiting room to, well, wait. Friends came to wait with us; their warmth and support (and Dunkin' Donuts Munchkins!) were such an enormous and welcome help. We chatted and even managed to chuckle a little. But when Dr. Crawford and his nurse practitioner, Kathy, came out to say that Patrick's heart was all fixed and he was being closed up, a collective sigh of relief arose from our little group.

It was tough to see Patrick asleep in the PCICU after surgery - he looked so tiny and helpless in that big bed. There were tubes coming out of everywhere on his little body, it seemed, and a ventilator was helping him breathe. I held his baby hand and whispered to him, all the while wanting to pick him up and hold him in my arms so I could kiss his sweet face. I hated leaving him that night.

I visited Patrick again the next afternoon after I got off work. When I first saw him, sitting up in the wagon his father was pulling about the atrium/playroom, he was pouting and looking like he was putting up a big fight against the urge to cry. It scared me a little because I thought he must be in a lot of pain, but then it occurred to me that he was only frightened by the noise coming from the other kids and overwhelmed by the sheer size of the atrium. So after I read him a couple of books with buttons he could push (he loves to push buttons!), he was ready for Michael to lift him out of the wagon. To my surprise, he stood up. Then he walked. He walked over to the toys and played with his mom and dad. If I hadn't known better, I would never have guessed that this child had had his chest cracked open, his heart stopped and fixed and restarted, only the day before.

The next afternoon, Patrick left the hospital and came home to play with his adoring older sister. This evening, a little more than a week later, Jessie and I walked in the neighborhood while Patrick and his Sissie rode their bikes alongside. As the kids threw sticks and pebbles into the pond where we stopped along the way, I couldn't help but marvel at the miracle standing right in front of me.

These days, that little miracle is known around here as - you guessed it - The One With The Special Heart.