The "Special Home Finding" Do-Over

After our heartbreaking near-miss with the adoption Special Home Finding (SHF) list last spring, I thought for sure that I had learned caution and expectation management. Falling in love with a child, then not becoming her family is, after all, sufficiently grueling to leave a lasting impression, right? No. I was giving myself way, way too much credit. 

It all started off well enough. We received profiles of SHF kids from our case worker in May and June, reviewed them pretty dispassionately, and passed on them.** Perhaps, we thought, our prior "incident" was telling us to be patient and wait for a match through the "healthy kids" track. So we waited, proud of ourselves for being patient, for not rushing into another match scenario right away.

But then July came with its own crop of SHF profiles. This was a big group: we were used to getting 15 profiles at a time, but this group was 25, at least. It was a little daunting. In fact, I almost didn't look at them. We're waiting, I told myself, quit being impatient.

I waited all of fifteen minutes from receipt of email. The profiles just called to me, like maybe I knew there was an extra something special in that giant pile of information about the many children in need of homes. So I started flipping through the profiles one by one.

She was in the middle of the group, by far the smallest child, with by far the smallest amount of biographical information. I felt that familiar pull on my heart, but I resisted. This is impatience, I thought. Besides, she's probably already matched just like the last one. I just need to keep waiting.

That lasted all of ten minutes. I decided to get Jake's opinion uninfluenced by me. So I sent him the entire group of profiles to look at with (what I considered) a rather casual note about looking at them when he got a chance. I decided that if he randomly picked the same child, then that must mean something. Sort of like picking a guy out of a line-up! If he picked her, she was bound to be meant for us, right?

An hour later, I still hadn't heard from Jake, and it was nearing the end of the day. I called Jake, who was headed to the airfield to fly. He'd been planning a mission and hadn't checked his phone. 

"You need to look at those profiles and tell me if any of them jump out at you."

"Now??"

"NOW!"

He got off the phone so that he could check his email. I waited.

Ten minutes later, he sent me back the same tiny profile of the same tiny girl. Calm down, woman! I thought to myself. She may be matched already. The match could be rejected for other reasons. She's probably not yours.

But by this point, I was completely ignoring my voice of nay-say. I immediately called our caseworker, who didn't answer the phone. It was a Friday afternoon, late enough that she may have been gone for the weekend. But just in case, I emailed her too; just for good measure.

Sure enough, it was Monday before we heard anything. Our caseworker responded that she had passed along our request to be matched to the Inter-Country Adoption Bureau (ICAB), and now we just had to wait. 

This time, we didn't snap into planning mode, though. No talk about decorating a room or planning for her first few months home. No discussion of how to talk to Howie about this child. So maybe we actually did learn something from being burned--let's not get our hopes up until we hear something. 

But weeks went by and we heard nothing. And as the silence grew in length, my resolve that this child belonged to us grew deeper. In retrospect, it seems really backwards, like my heart was asking for trouble. But so it was that my certainty grew in the absence of news to the contrary.

Which is really dangerous, because it would be seven long months (and some self-imposed heartache) before we heard anything more about this tiny little girl with her tiny little bio.

**For an explanation of the different adoption "tracks," check out this post.

Family Trip Malfunction

We had one of those 'it could have been a lot worse' moments recently.

A couple of weeks ago, we took a family trip to Arkansas to surprise Jake’s grandmother for her 90^th birthday. We took the trip in Jake’s little Grumman Tiger, as we have so many times before, but this was special because it was the first trip that we’d taken together in the plane since Jake got home from Afghanistan. To say Howie was thrilled might be the biggest understatement on the planet. It’s all he talked about for over a week before it was time to go.

Jake flew from Kansas to Houston (or rather Cleveland, Texas) to pick us up, and the three of us flew together to the small airport in Saline County, Arkansas, not far from Little Rock. We usually land at Saline County Airport because it is a small airport (hence, typically no traffic jams), and it is near where Jake’s dad and stepmom live (Papa and KayKay to Howie).

On this particular trip, we were coming in to land just before sunset. It was an absolutely perfect landing, but when we turned left onto the taxi-way, the airplane started veering right for some reason. We didn’t know what was going on at first, so Jake had me hold the brakes while he jumped out to see what was going on. 

Flat tire. That’s what was going on.  In the middle of nowhere, at 8:45pm on a Friday night. Ugh. And we could see Papa parked near the entrance, about 1.5 miles away, but he didn’t have the code to get into the airport after hours.  Double ugh.  We called to let him know what was going on, but he could be of no help to us at the time.

After a few minutes, we saw a red truck driving our direction. It was a local pilot, just finished flying for the evening, coming to check on us. “The same thing happened to me two weeks ago, and someone came to help me” he said. “Lucky for you, I think I have the tools you need, and I’m looking to pay it forward.”

The man (who’s name I never caught, although I’m sure Jake did; I’ll just call him the Good Samaritan) went back to his hangar to get tools and returned a few minutes later to let us know that he needed to run and refill his air tank. He wanted it ready just in case the tire would hold air long enough to make it to the parking area. About that time, Jake suggested that Howie and I start walking to the airport so that we could let Papa into the gate to come help.

We walked along in the now-pitch dark with only my flashlight app to guide us the 1.5 miles down the taxi-way to the airport. I held my baby’s hand as he jumped at every nighttime sound he heard. I reassured him with “It’s just cicadas, sweet boy,” and “It’s only an owl” and “It’s just the frogs,” while praying that he couldn’t hear the coyotes in the distance.

When we got close to the airport I noticed what will likely forever be one of the most annoying sights I ever beheld: Papa, parked inside the security gate. He let himself in when the Good Samaritan left to go get air, but hadn’t driven down the taxi-way to find us. We hopped in the car and drove down to the plane. By that time, the Good Samaritan had returned and they were working on the plane.

Knowing he was staring down the barrel of hours of work, Jake told Papa to take us home so we could get Howie into bed, and so he could get more tools to help. We unloaded our bags from the plane into the car, and Papa took us to his house, where KayKay had some dinner waiting for Howie before bedtime.

Two hours later, Jake and Papa made it back to the house. They basically had to jack up the plane and then drag it down the runway to the parking area where it would sit for the night. The Good Samaritain told Jake and Papa if they came back to the airport in the morning, they’d find help fixing the plane.

The next morning, we had to divide and conquer. I had an interview with Fox at 7am in Downtown Little Rock, and Jake had to be back at the airport to deal with the plane. So Papa took Jake back to Saline County, while KayKay took me to my interview. She dropped me off and took Howie to the park while I tried to sound less nervous than I was. We all made it back home by lunchtime, and fortunately the rest of the weekend was much smoother sailing.

When Jake and Papa arrived back at the airport, what they found was the local pilots’ weekly breakfast club meeting. The pilots invited them to the table like they were old friends, fed them, and then fixed the tire for them in about twenty minutes flat. One of the pilots even gave Jake the tube to put in the tire free of charge! They saved us hundreds of dollars in repair charges, and hours of wasted time waiting for a mechanic to come from Little Rock and fix it. We really couldn’t be more thankful, or ask for more kind, generous people than the perfect strangers who saved our family weekend from ruin!

So this was quite the ordeal, but it is yet another instance in which, to us, providence in the situation is clear. See, apparently airplane tires are like bike tires—they have tubes. And whoever installed Jake’s tire tube did it incorrectly. The tube had been pinched. A blowout was going to happen, and it was only a matter of time.

In the time since Jake had the last set of tires installed on the plane, he has taken it on more flights than I can remember. Some of those flights were with us, but most of them were across country to see us, and they mostly involved stopping in remote places to refuel and keep flying. Just like with large aircraft, take-offs and landings in small planes happen at high speeds, and malfunctions during take-offs and landings can be extremely serious.

But Jake’s tire didn’t blow on a take-off or a landing; it blew when we were going about ten miles an hour and could easily stop the plane. And it didn’t blow at 9pm when he was refueling in [I can’t remember] Oklahoma, or 7am in [I’m not sure it’s on the map] Texas—it blew at a place with which we were familiar, with family nearby, and with me there to help.  In other words, the inevitable blowout, albeit terribly annoying at the time, could not have happened at a better place, or under better circumstances.

It’s too bad all of life’s little catastrophes can't be minimum-inconvenience ordeals. 

I Hate that Truck

Update (8/26/14): I'm thrilled to report that the cursed truck has now been replaced with a new (hopefully less cursed) truck. The replacement was coupled with the following, very sweet, admission-against-interest for which I love him dearly, by one Jake Hicks:

"You were right, love. That truck was a bad call. I'm sorry you had to deal with my mistake."

I am therefore officially vindicated.

Have you ever hated an inanimate object? I don’t know what it is about my husband’s vehicles, but they seem to war against me in unexpected and ever more maddening ways.

When Jake deployed to Afghanistan, he decided to sell his Jetta rather than let it sit for ten months. Jake’s brother Daniel was moving to Houston and in need of a car, so it actually worked out really well.

I knew that meant one of the first orders of business when Jake got back home was going to be finding a vehicle. He’d been saying for years that he wanted a truck, and now he was going to get one.  I figured that Jake would come home and then we’d go test drive some options in Kansas City, where we typically spend our time together when Jake is stateside.

But Jake had other plans. One morning, I woke up to a text message that Jake had purchased a truck on eBay while I was sleeping.  Oh geez. And I worry about buying clothes online!

Since he was gone, Jake needed me to reach out to the dealer, take a look at the truck, and complete the transaction.  He chose a truck in Houston because he was trying to make things easy on me. Which, as you will see, is incredibly ironic.

I made an appointment to meet with the dealer two days later to inspect the truck. I have to admit, it is a nice-looking vehicle.  But when the dealer went to start the truck, he had a little difficulty.  He was surprised and told me that the truck had been fine so far. He agreed to have the local Chevy dealer look into the issue and see what caused the problem.  Three days later, the fuel filter, casing, and sensor had been changed. I went to see the truck again, started it several times, and it seemed to be fine.

So I finalized the paperwork for the truck on a Friday, and then drove it to pick Howie up from school.  When Howie and I got back to the truck, the valet told me that it wouldn’t start.  Seriously.

I eventually got the truck started and drove it to Autozone to have the batteries tested.  The technician said that the batteries were fine, though, so we drove home while I made an appointment with the Chevy dealer near my home for Monday.

I drove the truck to breakfast and to the grocery store on Saturday with no issue, so I decided to drive it to church on Sunday. I usually drive a tiny car, and so I was trying to get used to the giant truck before I had to take it to Jake in Kansas.

The truck started fine Sunday morning for church, but after church it wouldn’t start at all.  Several of the men tried to help me figure out how to get it started, but with no luck.  I wound up having to send Howie home with friends and have the truck towed.  And since the dealer is closed on Sunday, I had to have it towed home, then towed again on Monday morning when it still wouldn’t start.

The Chevy dealer near my home looked at the truck and found several issues. A hose needed replacing, and a valve was leaking. The dealer replaced both, and then I picked it up.  That same evening, I drove it to a Leadership Houston meeting in South Houston. I parked horribly at the meeting—I can’t drive a giant truck—and when I went to start it and repark, it wouldn’t start. You’ve got to be kidding me!!

What I usually drive. "Small Car Only" parking was made for this car.

I went to my meeting and, thank God, three hours later I was able to start it to get home.  And then again the following morning to take it right back to the Chevy dealer.

Meanwhile, I contacted the seller to tell him what’s going on, and how extremely displeased I am with the vehicle. Not surprisingly, he didn’t care. When you buy a vehicle as-is, there’s not a lot you can make a seller do to fix problems you find later. I have sent a strongly worded letter to eBay about the seller, however, and I hope that future buyers are protected from these problems.

Eventually the Chevy dealer got back to me with a further diagnosis: the batteries are no good. WHAT?!? Thanks for nothing Autozone!

Fortunately, because it was an issue that they should have caught in the previous visit, they didn’t charge me for the labor, and gave me a deep discount on the batteries.

The Chevy dealer told me that eventually the fuel injectors and/or fuel pump would need replacing on the truck, but since it wasn’t an immediate issue and we’d already sunk over $3,000 into the thing, I passed for now.  Or rather Jake did. By that point, he started saying things like: 

"I bet it was just the batteries all along, and these guys are jerking you around because you don’t know any better.” 

Nice, hon.

By this point, I’m extremely nervous about the prospect of driving this stinking truck across country.  I tell Jake I think maybe I should fly instead (even bought refundable tickets), but he was adamant that the truck—which he’d never seen but in true guy fashion had decided was only suffering from user error—would get me to Kansas. He said:

“Worst case scenario, if you get stranded, just leave the truck and drive the rest of the way in a rental.” 

You can imagine how well I took that.

But I was not going to argue with my husband in a warzone about this anymore. I loaded up the truck and started driving across country with Howie and all of our stuff.

It’s a long drive from Houston to Kansas. I planned to stop in Dallas for gas in the early afternoon, then continue to Oklahoma City to stay the night and drive the rest of the way the following morning.

Howie, slap-happy at the end of our trip.

We drove to Dallas through pouring rain (how I learned the truck also needed new windshield wipers; sigh), and got to a gas station around 2pm.  We filled up, grabbed some snacks, Howie had a potty break, and we got back in the truck. And it wouldn’t start. I tried half a dozen times with no luck.  I took Howie back inside the gas station, which fortunately had a McDonald’s in it. We had happy meals and watched a movie on the iPad, hoping that cooling off the engine would help.

Ninety minutes later, the truck finally started and we drove to Oklahoma City.  But we missed our “early afternoon” window and wound up stuck in Metroplex rush hour traffic.  Ugh. Fortunately, Howie was a trooper about it, and we made it to OKC. Eventually.

The next morning, the truck started and we got on the road, but we needed gas. I stopped at a Love’s along the highway for gas, but I parked on the wrong side of the pump (because my gas tank and Jake’s are on opposite sides of the vehicle).  When I got in the truck to move it, it wouldn’t start.

Dozens of attempts, three mechanics, an adjuster, and a well-meaning elderly man later, no one can get the truck started. Howie and I go inside and find a table where we can kill some time, hoping that the truck will work later.  

The only bright spot in an otherwise horrendous ordeal was how awesome the people at Love’s were. They were very kind and helpful, they gave Howie fresh baked cookies to eat while we waited, and regularly checked on us to make sure we had everything we needed.  I could not have been luckier in the place that I was stuck. Or in the fact that my iPad is chock full of Pixar movies.

Three hours, several good Samaritans, and countless attempts later, I gave up and called a tow truck. The adjuster helped me locate the nearest dealer, and a rental car company.

I was working on getting Howie’s carseat installed in the cab of the tow truck when, wonder of wonders, the tow truck driver got Jake’s truck started.  I just threw my hands up in the air.

I knew I lacked the gas to make it to Manhattan, Kansas, so I found myself asking:

“so if I fill up with the truck running, what’s the likelihood it will actually blow up?”

“Ma’am, you’re driving a diesel; it’s not going to blow up,” 

said the tow truck guy, more than a little incredulously.  I confess, in Wichita I tested this advice.  I'm pleased to report we did not explode.

I made it to Manhattan and drove straight to the airport, abandoning the truck for a rental car.  Hours later we were finally united with Jake (more to come on that), and I recounted the whole story to him.  The next morning, he wanted to go to the airport and check out the truck.  When we got there, the truck started for him right away.

And it has started for him every time since. Every. Single. Time.

Of course it has. 

I hate that truck.

A Tale of Two Teachers

I constantly worry about whether I am making the right decisions as a mom. Sound familiar? I think it's a pretty common state for parents in general. I think I might have been worrying overtime lately because I've been making parenting decisions without the benefit of talking to Jake. Then again, I'm not alone in that either. 

I think somewhere between "I grew up crazy and turned out okay" and "look at me, I'm a helicopter," is exactly the "right" mix of freedom and structure for any given kid. Sometimes I think I've found it with Howie, only to have a string of bad days and then panic that I've slid too far one way or the other. 

So basically, parenting is a constant balancing act is what I've decided. That might be the most frightening thing about adding another kid to the mix--a new little person means a new puzzle to solve.

Recently, amid all the fretting about "getting it right," being involved but not *too* involved, I learned a really important lesson: maybe it's okay to second-guess your methods, but don't second-guess your instincts.

Howie has been going to the same school since he was four months old (and now he's four years old). He loves it, and our overall experience--from the teachers, helpers, and leadership to the curriculum, programs, and activities--has been exceedingly positive. We even love the security guards!

The Motley Crew at Howie's Birthday

Since Howie was about a eighteen months old--and younger in some cases--he has been with the same nucleus of a dozen-ish kids that have about a seven-month range in age (November babies to May babies). They moved together from the baby wing, to the toddler class, to the pre-pre-K class. The kids were not always in the same small groups, but were always in the same room.

Last summer, when the kids were in the pre-pre-K room, we had an issue where another child was regularly biting Howie. Hard. The child is usually sweet and was obviously going through something at the time, but that didn't make the behavior acceptable, and frankly it was really hard to stop. When it finally did stop, I was so relieved, it took me several days to notice that my poor baby was happier when he was being bitten than he was now that the incidents had stopped. 

I started noticing that I wasn't running into the parents I was used to seeing at pick-up and drop-off, so I asked the teacher about it and learned that "the group" had been moved up to the next classroom. Without Howie. I was upset, but my logic brain kicked in and told me "there must have been a reason; maybe there's an age policy as the kids get older; he's not always going to get to be with the same kids, he should probably learn that now; don't be that mom, just go with it."

So I did. For about two weeks, Howie and I had the same conversation in the car on the way to school about making new friends, and how you don't lose your old ones just because you don't see them all the time. And every day, our conversation in the car on the way home involved Howie asking me why he didn't get to be with his friends. And of course, this coincided with Jake leaving, and with him my primary confidante. Sigh.

Fro-Yo: Textbook Mommy Date

One Friday, after we'd both had a long week, I decided to pick Howie up early and have a Mommy Date (what he calls the time we spend, just the two of us). When I got to the school, Howie was not in the classroom where he was supposed to be. The teacher's aid took me back to a different classroom, where my sweet baby was in a giant puddle of tears. His friends were in that class, and he didn't want to leave. 

The aid admitted to me that Howie had been having days like this all week, and my heart just broke. How did I not know that my baby was this unhappy? I scooped him up with big hugs and kisses. He promised he would be good if he could be with his friends, and I started crying too. Howie isn't learning a resilience lesson, I thought, he thinks he's being punished! And I resolved to fix it.

I went to the coordinator for his age group and asked the pointed question: why was Howie left behind? It was an age issue, the coordinator said. There was not space for all of the kids and Howie was the youngest. I threw off that explanation, pointing out that three of the kids who did move, including "the biter," were younger than Howie. So that couldn't have been it.

"Well, I thought you would be pleased that we separated them," she noted. Ah ha! Now we've found the truth. They solved the biting problem by promoting one child and leaving the other behind. "But," I asked, "how is it fair to make Howie stay behind when he was doing nothing wrong?" Apparently, she hadn't considered it that way. She was very apologetic and told me that if I wanted to move Howie up, they would find a way to accommodate me. Naturally, I took her up on the offer.

True to their word, Monday morning Howie was moved into the pre-K class with his friends, and he was thrilled! I was not. I met his new teacher that morning, and she made it clear from the very beginning that she was not happy that another child was being added to her class. "He's too young," she said, even though others in her class were younger. "I have concerns that he will be disruptive," she said, even though she'd met him just minutes before. 

From that very first encounter I was unhappy with this teacher, but then the old logic kicked in again: she's probably just feeling overwhelmed; or maybe she's having a bad day, it is Monday after all; don't be that mom, who complains about every little thing; he's a good kid, and she'll figure that out; she may be unhappy today, but she'll end up loving him; hey, not every teacher is going to love Howie, and we might as well learn that lesson now.

After Howie moved to the new class, he was definitely happier at first, but things changed. Gradually, he started coming home with more and more "bad notes" on his progress charts. I was concerned, at first, but other parents were saying the same thing at birthday parties: everyone was experiencing an uptick in "bad notes." I decided that the Pre-K class must just have stricter rules he would have to get used to. They are getting the kids ready for kindergarten, after all. 

But then, more than just Howie's chart changed. He started acting like he was going to get in trouble for things when he wasn't doing anything wrong. He started not wanting to talk about his day. Then, he started acting out--talking back, not listening, actively disobeying. Some of it I chalked up to being three, and some of it I chalked up to Jake being gone. I tried to weigh those things in determining what was willful and what wasn't. I gotta say, at three, that's a hard distinction to make. But it got to where if there was a day he didn't have a bad note on his chart, Howie would actually cheer. Something was definitely wrong.

Then one morning, the age group coordinator called me and asked me to come visit with her. When I got to her office, she began by telling me that all of the (seven) boys in the class were having trouble; they were taking turns being disruptive, and they weren't sure the group was going to be able to stay together. I told her that didn't surprise me. The boys had been together for years, and they interacted like siblings (for better or worse). I was just asking her what I could do to help when the teacher walked in.

She laid into me right away about the fact that I travel too much, and must lack structure in the home for Howie to behave this way at school. I have to make him feel like he's a priority, she said, and clearly I was doing a poor job of that or he would act better. She noted that, by this point in a deployment, he should be used to having his Daddy gone, so that's hardly an excuse for being disruptive. And that if Howie would just behave, she was sure the others would follow.

There was more, but honestly I stopped listening after that. I looked at the coordinator, visibly uncomfortable but unwilling to step in, and I just smiled. I thanked the teacher for thinking Howie was a leader, and assured them I would talk to him. And I told them I was very interested to hear their plan for better engaging all of the boys in that class, and that I would be happy to help however suggested.

I was furious, but I'm not one to snap in the moment. I resolved to ask for Howie to be moved that afternoon. But when I got to the school to pick him up, he had already been moved to a different group. The coordinator saw me and gave me an affirming nod. She wasn't willing to say something in the moment, but she got my message; at least I had to give her that. And actually, all seven of the boys were eventually split into different groups. Moral of the story? It's not always good to have seven kids who act like siblings in the same classroom!

For the past two months, Howie has been with a new teacher. And it's truly been like night and day. Last Friday he celebrated three straight weeks of good notes at school, from all of the teachers of the new class. I hear comments about how helpful he is, how he takes care of his friends, and is attentive in his classes. He does come home with the occasional 'bad' note (he's a pre-K boy, right?), but now they are the exception and not the rule. And he loves school again. We are finally back to situation normal.

At one point I saw the old teacher in the hallway, and she mumbled something about how she heard he was doing better. In what I can only describe as a moment of grit, I told her "Yes, he's doing great. He finally has a teacher that doesn't treat him like 'the bad kid.'"

It's possible I overstepped with that remark; her face told me that I did. But she needed to understand her impact. My experience this year has taught me that there is truth to the old adage about kids living up to the expectations put in front of them. When Howie was treated like the bad kid every day, he started acting like one. He started believing it. How awful is that?

Now that he's just being treated like "Howie," he has started being plain 'ole, expected-to-be-good, punished-fairly-when-he's-not, Howie again.

And I guess that's the other lesson: kids are resilient. I can't tell you how much I've beaten myself up over this whole situation, wishing I'd intervened sooner, wishing he hadn't spent months in such a toxic environment. I messed this one up, but he's okay now. In fact now, he's thriving again.

The final and maybe most important lesson this situation taught me was to trust my instincts. Part of me knew that this wasn't just growing-up-type adjustments we would have to go through, but I doubted myself. I hesitated because I was afraid to make the wrong choice, and as a result I made the wrong choice. I'm so grateful that I had the opportunity to fix it!

And I'll tell you one thing, I'm sure it's a mistake I will repeat. I could say that I'll never doubt my instincts again, but that's not reality for moms. But I hope that what I learned is to err on the side of trust, not doubt. I will remind myself that no one knows my son better than me, and that if I sense there is a reason to act then there probably is.

My Favorite Images of the Year

I suppose the title of the post really ought to be "Some of My Favorite Images of the Year," because there are way too many to include them all. Going back through the pictures of the year was really bittersweet, and honestly as many of these made me cry as made me laugh.

We spent more than half of 2013 apart. Actually, we spent more than three quarters of 2013 apart, it's just that these past six months have not been dotted with the long weekends we were able to steal together in the first half of the year. It has been really hard, and it's not over yet. Not til May. Sigh.

But there have also been good things this year--new friends, new passions, new things to celebrate. New milestones for our sweet baby boy. 

In a year like this, ranking moments would be complicated and heart-wrenching. So I put these in chronological order instead. Roughly.

Let me know in the comments which ones are your favorites. Or tell me about your favorite moments of 2013.

Daddy Legs--Jake relocated to Kansas in January of 2013. It was miserable and cold and I have no pictures of the cold misery. But one bright spot is that we got in a routine of meeting in Kansas City for weekends. This is one of those weekends.

My Chanchito--This little pig was a gift from a friend. A symbol of perseverance against all odds, he came to me at exactly the right time.

I Missed You--2013 was another heavy travel year (SHOCKER!). The best thing about traveling is coming home!

Gavin--Howie got another brother this year. We were fortunate to get to spend a week in the Bay with Rowan and Gavin just before Howie's birthday, and Howie discovered his inner super hero in the process.

Howie's Third Birthday--I had a work retreat the weekend of Howie's birthday this year. But fortunately, Daddy was able to fly in, and we celebrated during out free time!

Hard at Work--One major highlight of 2013 was getting to work with (and meet in person) the rest of my Coms team from MSJDN. 

Fab Shoes--And might I add, we all have impeccable, albeit distinct, taste.

Has a Daddy, Has a Happy--One of my favorite random snapshots of all time. Howie didn't know that Daddy was coming home this day after weeks of training in Colorado. He drew a happy face on his hand at school. From the time we picked Howie up, he didn't let go of Daddy the entire night.

Fourth of July!--We got to spend it together in Kansas, and it was Howie's first time at a carnival. They both had a blast. You can see Howie gets his exuberance from his Dad.

Super Heroes--Howie's favorite exhibit at the Children's Museum this summer. I believe that's all that needs to be said.

Group Hug!--Our photographer did a family session with us just before Jake deployed. This one is one of my favorites because Howie's favorite kind of hug is the "everybody hug!"

Jake is Old--There is nothing special about this picture really. Except that it documents one of the all-time best schemes I've ever pulled off. Friends and family flew in, we rented out Jake's favorite brewery, brought in German food, and best of all--he was SURPRISED!

Deployment--Honestly, that's really all I can say about that.

The Bus Is Too Slow...--Was one of the first things that Jake told me once he got settled at Kandahar. He got so tired of spending over two hours a day on the bus that he bought a bike to ride to and from the airfield so he'd waste less time in transit.

Meeting the President--The ABA President, that is. She was very excited to hear about our work for military spouse attorneys, and she's eager to help in the coming year.

White House Baby!--We had the chance to meet with Dr. Biden's people to talk with them about the work we are doing to reduce military spouse attorney licensing barriers, and to educate employers about military spouses as employment candidates. It was awesome!

Uncle Clayton--We spent Labor Day weekend with my Dad's family. We went hiking and Howie got to ride in style. 

My Dad's a Hero--This is one of the sweetest, yet saddest, photos I pulled from 2013. My boys love each other so much. I can't wait until they are back together again!

Super Dirty Prius--Sometimes the right message comes to you at the right time. This was one of those days. If 2013 hadn't been filled with them, I'm not sure how we would have made it.

Making Change--Working for Pattie Millett was by far one of the most rewarding things that I did all year. And seeing our community rally around one of our own, champion her cause, renewed my hope that the work we are doing will make being a professional military spouse a more easily achievable goal in the future. 

I Cried--And then there was this. My worlds collided when Senator Leahy asked me to talk about Jake's deployment, something I'd neatly tucked in the back of my mind to focus on the work being infuriatingly obstructed by Senate Republicans. It was a perfect storm of ache, angry, and indignation all channeled into some pretty candid words about supporting military families.

Victory!--After four lost votes, a fundamental alteration of Senate protocol, dozens of meetings with Senate staff, weather cancellations and five inches of snow, we FINALLY got our vote, and Pattie is FINALLY going to be the judge that she unquestionably should be. Mary hates this picture, but to me it captures the hard work, joy and general delirium that was the last quarter of this year.

Silly Batman--While most of the Hicks clan were watching mortified as the Arkansas Razorbacks blew their lead in the last 90 seconds of their last Thanksgiving game against LSU, Howie was trying very hard to be serious like Batman "riding his Bat-cycle." His serious face might need a little work.

Zoo Lights--Because who doesn't love the zoo at night? This was our first time to experience Houston's famous display, and it did not disappoint. Howie's favorite? "The rhinoooo!"

Reindeer Family--Howie's favorite of our Christmas decorations. He didn't care a thing about the stockings, but he loved the hooks. He told me Santa must be pretty smart since he knew to put a Howie Deer, a Mommy Deer, and a Daddy Deer together. 

Deployed Silliness--The holidays were hard, especially for Jake being so far away and in a war zone. But I'm happy to report that, as per usual, he found the fun.

Dino Puzzle--Everyone's got a talent, and Howie's is puzzles. He's a master. This dinosaur puzzle has a hundred pieces. He was done in fifteen minutes. Kid is nuts.

#GivingTuesday a Gimmick?

Last week, social media lit up with the hashtag #GivingTuesday. People, charities and other kinds of non-profits spilled thousands of characters talking about the various initiatives that were going on for #GivingTuesday. In my Facebook and Twitter streams, the questions tended to revolve around "What is it?"

Fair question. Unless you are directly involved in one of the participating charities, or else know someone who was involved in organizing a #GivingTuesday effort, you might not necessarily know. Honestly, though, I was a little disheartened by the most frequent response I saw to the question. It was some variation of:

"Oh, probably just a gimmick."

Hm. On the one hand, I understand where this is coming from. The World English Dictionary defines "gimmick" as follows: 

"something designed to attract extra attention, interest, or publicity."

So we had Thanksgiving with all of its trappings, followed by Pre-Black Friday Black Friday, actual Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and now #GivingTuesday? Sounds like a collective effort to ride the proverbial marketing wave to me. Capitalize on institutional 'days of something' all in a row? Use the stark contrast of consumerism to compel people into less self-centric uses of their time and money? Yes and yes.

So #GivingTuesday pretty much sounds like a gimmick to me.  And do you know what I have to say about that?

...Yes ok. And...? 

I have never understood our collective knee-jerk criticism of any effort by the non-profit world to use the vast powers of marketing, advertising, and strategic communications for good. We're perfectly willing to be manipulated into buying new cars, signing up for gym memberships, eating more chikin, trampling six other people to get a TV for 30% off. We say "well, it's their job to try to sell me."

It's the non-profit's job to try and sell you too. On helping people. On being a good neighbor. On a service-oriented worldview. On the idea of doing good for good's sake. Why are we so resistant to being coaxed into these things?

I think it's (1) partly because of selfishness and (2) partly because of a certain degree of semantics.  

(1) I don't think we really want to be sold on the idea that maybe we should be doing more to help others. We don't want to be reminded about how much more willing we are to be a consumer than a giver. We don't want to think that we might possibly be a little lazy when it comes to our fellow man. We view the "ask" as a little judgment. A little hint that we ought to be pushing ourselves further in service to others.

But it's not a judgment. It's just an ask. The judgment is the baggage we bring to the ask. We need to leave the baggage at the curb. We need to be open to being sold on doing good. Seriously. All of us. Many non-profits will tell you that their single greatest difficulty is educating the public. There are so many issues that need addressing we don't even know about--I mean, how many of you ever thought once about employment barriers for military spouses until you met one struggling? 

When we turn a reluctant ear, a deaf ear, to the "ask" as though someone is spewing profanities, we tie the hands of the people with a straightforward and important purpose: awareness. I would love for us to be willing to be pitched on charity needs just like we are willing to be pitched on a new purchase. Maybe the particular pitch is not for us, but who knows what good-doing might appeal to the others listening?

(2) And then there's semantics. And in particular, I'm talking about the non-profit elephant in the room: overhead. There are plenty of people who think that a charity's money should not be spent on things like marketing and advertising, hiring communications experts and the like. They say that the money is better spent on the non-profit's actual goals. 

I think everyone agrees that a non-profit should be a good steward of its resources, that's not in dispute. But here's the problem with being overhead-phobic: See issue (1). Awareness requires outward reach, plain and simple. The broadest possible outward reach yields the greatest possible shot at awareness (bang for your buck, anyone?). And sometimes growth necessitates a willingness to invest in infrastructure, be it people, campaigns, or events. There is actually a great Ted Talk on this point by Dan Palotta called The Way We Think About Charity is Dead Wrong:

He said it way better than I could. My point is, so what if #GivingTuesday is a gimmick? Gimmicks catch people's attention, stick in their minds, and tend to find their way into general conversation. It seems to me gimmicks about good-doing are way better chit chat fodder than the latest commercials for cars or fast food. 

If good gimmicks result in more discussion with people new to a charitable idea: fantastic! If they result in action because some of that conversation reached the right set of ears: even better!  And especially with something like #GivingTuesday, where so many charities are reaching so many connection at once with the common aim of encouraging people to give back, the likelihood of reaching those ears and doing some real, immediate good in charities all across this great nation shoots way up. Now that's a kind of gimmick I can get behind!

Best good gimmick you've heard about lately? Let me know in the comments.

It Depends What You Mean By "Nice"

I sat in the lobby of a five-star hotel in Makati, sharing afternoon coffee with two local friends, Jack and George. I've just returned from Marinduque, the island Province I have represented these many years, and we are discussing how my trip went. 

Fishing Boats on the Marinduque Shore

I tell them about how I made my usual rounds, visiting the cathedral, the local environmental NGO, and the local government. Stakeholder engagement has always been my job, and the bulk of my time is spent sitting around a table talking to people. I actually really enjoy it, and it has given me a chance to get to know a good many people over my eight years of trips there.

Of course, I mention the adventure that is getting to the island--with the airport under construction, travel to Marinduque involves four-plus hours in a car to a port city called Lucena, followed by three and a half hours on a large, slow-moving ferry (the "RoRo" to the locals), and a 45 minute drive to the Barangay of Lupac, to the Governor's home, where I typically stay. The return trip is roughly the same.

Amid the conversation, George asks, "is Marinduque a nice place?" I hesitate for just a moment, deciding how to answer. Honestly, I was thinking "depends what you mean by nice." But then, any response from me becomes moot. "Yes," Jack says, "Marinduque is a very nice place." He said it certainly, without any hesitation.

Jack explained to George that Marinduque is nice because the people are kind, they work hard, and they are honest. He told the story of a colleague who left his laptop on the RoRo by mistake once, and went back a day later to find it was still there. He talked about hospitality, a warm welcoming spirit, a strong sense of values "not like Manila with strip clubs on every corner." (I confess, I chuckled a little at that one.). He said "life is simple there," with a kind of nostalgia that made my heart ache and warm at the same time.

Then I felt ashamed. Ashamed that while my first thoughts were similar to Jack's, my second thoughts, the reasons I hesitated, were all extremely material. I thought about the lack of infrastructure, the rolling brownouts, the lack of running water in many places. I thought of the difficulty people have obtaining what I consider basics--internet, television, meat you don't have to catch yourself. But listening to Jack made me realize that I was looking at Marinduque with a profound sense of snobbery. It's not even honest. I actually love the time I spend on the island. But I was thinking "would my friends from the states want to spend time here?" and the answer for many is no. They'd consider it primitive. But at the end of the day, that is our problem, not theirs. Jack is right, and Marinduque is the right kind of nice.

Kids at Play in Boac Town Square, Marinduque

The people of Marinduque, and most people I meet in the Philippines, have this joie de vivre that I don't often see among my friends here at home. We worry over the right schools, the right cars, the right homes, the right foods for our kids, and sometimes we worry so much we aren't even grateful that we have schools, cars, homes, and food for our kids when others don't. But they get it. They appreciate everything they have because it is hard to come by. Because it is a blessing. And they share their blessings with the people around them because they know tomorrow they may be the ones in need of help.

That's why, even though my beloved Philippines is devastated today, I know it will rebound. I've seen it. I weathered a Category 5 super-typhoon (Reming) on Marinduque, and saw resilience in the days that followed. I watched as the people regrouped, pulled together whatever goods they had left and sent them to the people stranded by debris in the upper parts of the island (I helped too, though they were a far greater blessing to me than I was to them). Reming was nothing compared to the devastation of Haiyan (Yolanda to the Filipinos), but I already see the same spirit in the way the whole country has rallied around their brothers and sisters in Tacloban, Leyte and other devastated places. I'm just so pleased to see other countries, including my own, join in the huddle.

Joy, gratitude for life, makes the people resilient. It makes them pick each other up and rebuild every time life throws an obstacle in their path. It's because they appreciate life for what it is--a single breath, a day with loved ones, a time to help others--rather than focusing on things they might not have.

In this week of Thanksgiving, we would do well to take our cues from the Filipinos. However much or little we have, it's a lot to be thankful for.