We had the typical struggle to get three girls out the door. Someone couldn’t find their shoes. Someone else was wearing her sister’s shirt. Amidst the chaos, Curt called over to me. “Did you grab the camera?”

Emily groaned. “Can you please do me a favor? Can you not videotape me this year?”

“What? Why?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. “We have every piano recital since you first started lessons.”  

“Well maybe this year you can just listen – and not video it. Okay?”  

“Fine.” I shrugged. Anyway, I still had my cell phone if she changed her mind.

Like always, recital began with the youngest, most-inexperienced musicians first. Some could barely reach the pedals. One-by-one each kid took their turn playing their masterpieces.

We heard a quick version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Then the ‘ol reliable, Hot Crossed Buns. Then a heartfelt rendition of Ode to Joy. Each kid ended their songs with a little grin and a big sigh of relief.

A girl played the first couple of measures of The Entertainer. Curt and I looked at one another and nodded. How many times had we heard a girl plunk out that song from the piano in our basement?

I leaned in toward Emily. “Are you sure I can’t record you? I promise I won’t videotape. I’ll just record the sound on my phone.”

Emily shook her head.

“But it’s your last recital, Em. You’ll never do this again.”

She smiled. “I know.”

She was glad it was her last recital. I was tired of “lasts.” This year has been full of them. Her last volleyball game. Her last homecoming. Her last performance in the school play. Her last senior banquet. Her last day of school.

It feels like I’ve been desperately grasping to hang onto something that's impossible to hold. It occurred to me, this was a “last” for me as well. My last attempt to hold onto this season of motherhood with my first little girl.

The piano teacher called Emily’s name. She walked to the front and began playing a song called, Butterfly. I was tempted to record it on my phone. But I didn’t. Instead, I honored her wish and just listened.

“Butterfly” was a fitting name for the song. As she played, I imagined a little caterpillar emerging from its cocoon. I pictured its crumpled wings slowly straightening. As the tempo fluctuated, I thought of a delicate butterfly fluttering gracefully in a summer breeze. Its brilliant colors sparkled in the sunlight. Butterflies have no idea how beautiful they are. Neither does my daughter.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I really hate change.    

But I also know. Caterpillars have to go through a change if they’re going to become a butterfly. And Emily has to go through her own transformation as well.

All I can do is release her. And let her fly.

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Most of the phone chargers in our house are falling apart. The problem? Too many teenagers have twirled them around and / or carelessly yanked them out of their phones. Wires are exposed and beginning to fray. A couple of them don’t even work anymore. Strangely, frayed wiring reminds me of my latest neurological appointment.

The doctor held a metal instrument against my ankle. “Can you feel this?” It vibrated. I nodded. He moved it to my big toe. “How about this?”

“Um … no …” Did he shut the thing off? Across the room, I gave Curt a questioning look.

Is this guy messing with me?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the doctor. It was MS.

Multiple sclerosis is a disease that breaks down the protective covering surrounding the nerves. Basically, this makes it difficult for the brain to communicate with the rest of the body. My brain sends out signals, but those messages get disrupted.

So, I have a communication problem between my brain and my body. No wonder I feel like my body is short-circuiting sometimes! MS affects different people in different ways. One of the main ways it affects me is my balance and coordination.

Before MS, I could walk across the room without giving it a thought. Now – especially if I’m tired – I have to think about my every step. Most people probably don’t even notice, but I am always concentrating on walking without tripping.  

Balance is also something I can’t take for granted. One time my doctor asked me to close my eyes and say which direction he was moving my big toe. I couldn’t tell, so I took a wild guess. I guessed wrong.

Again, it’s a communication problem. Somewhere between my brain and big toe, the message gets lost.   

Another issue I have with walking involves spasticity. When my doctor first used the term, I thought he was insulting me. (Remember junior high? “Oh, he’s such a ‘spaz.’) It’s not a flattering word. But spasticity is a real problem.

I first noticed it while walking on a cold winter day. My right leg tensed up. I couldn’t walk normally. My muscles felt stiff. Tight. Painful. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t walk without limping. Turns out, my leg was having involuntary muscle spasms. It happens – especially in cold temperatures.

On a positive note, MS has done one thing for me. It has forced me to ponder the amazing design of the human body. The incredibly creative and miraculously complex way my brain sends billions of messages to control every move I make … every breath I take … (I know. Sounds like a song from the eighties) Anyway, it is amazing the way the brain controls every part of the body – all the way down to the flicker of an eyelid.

I can’t wrap my head around it.

And so, I am reminded of all the miraculous things my body can do. Like breathing – without even thinking about it. And seeing this big ‘ol colorful world around me and smelling the fresh-cut grass and taking walks with my husband. And making and delivering beautiful babies. And smiling and laughing and reading and typing. And lifting my hands to praise God and thanking Him for all of it.

Even if I do limp a little.

I’ve always liked to shop. Not for groceries, mind you. I’m talking about clothes. Shoes. Purses. Those kinds of things. When my girls were young, I used to daydream about the four of us shopping together once they all became teenagers. It was gonna be great. I imagined the four of us, talking and laughing as we strolled through the mall. We’d check out the latest styles. Shop for shoes. Bond over pretzels.

Boy, was I delusional. Allow me to introduce my three daughters.  

First, there’s Emily. Emily likes to browse and inspect every rack when she shops. She tries everything on, then carefully weighs the pros and cons of each item.

My next daughter, Taylor, also likes to shop. But Taylor is very goal-oriented. She knows what she needs. She finds it. We buy it. There’s no need to aimlessly wander or waste her sweet time. When she tries on clothes, it’s quick and painless. “It fits. Let’s go.”

As you may guess, shopping with both of them creates quite the challenge.  

Then there’s my third girl, Madison, who hates shopping altogether. Typically, if her sisters and I are headed to the mall, she and her dad will go see a movie.

But I had a dream! Shopping ... laughing ... shoes … pretzels ...

For years, I tried to make my dream a reality. If only Emily would hurry up. Or if Taylor could be patient. Or if Madison would just visit one store in the mall besides Chick-fil-a and Cinnabon.  

Eventually, I faced the facts. If I’m going to enjoy shopping with them, I need to do it individually.  

Now I know. Before shopping with Emily, I need to rest up because it’s going to be a marathon. When going with Taylor, it’s best to stick to the plan. And Madison? Let’s just say, I’ve discovered other ways to bond with her – and thank goodness for hand-me-downs.  

Just as I’ve learned to have a flexible shopping approach with each of my girls, I’ve also learned to adjust my parenting style.

Every kid is different. Different personalities, temperaments, interests, strengths and weaknesses. It would be easier if the same parenting strategies worked for every kid. But parenting isn’t a one-size-fits-all kind of job. The goal is to figure out what floats their boat – and meet them there.  

After all these years, I’ve found only one thing they all have in common – whether it’s the girls who like to shop, or the one who really hates it. All three of them look in their closets and swear they have nothing to wear.

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The middle school years can be tough. Tough on kids – and tough on moms. Today I’m sharing a story about my soon-to-be-high-school-graduate during some of her difficult days of middle school. Hopefully this will be an encouragement to all of the middle school mamas out there. This too shall pass. I’m sure of it.  

Emily slammed the back door and flung her backpack to the floor. “I am so tired of being the shortest kid in my class.”
 
“What happened?”
 
“We picked teams for volleyball in PE today,” she said. “Like always, I was the last one picked.” 
 
Normally, I’d say something about “being a late bloomer” or maybe remind her to “be patient because everyone grows at their own rate.” Instead, I tried a lighter approach.
 
“Well, that’s what I call saving the best for last!”
 
“Seriously Mom, I can barely reach the net – let alone spike a ball over it!”    
 
“You know, it doesn’t matter how you look on the outside. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”
 
Emily sighed. “You always say that.” She picked some pink nail polish off her finger. “I just feel, you know, like nothing special.”.
 
A week later, Emily was discouraged again. This time we were at the mall.
 
“I don’t like it.” Emily stared in the department store mirror, shaking her head.
 
“I think it looks cute,” I said, tilting my head to the side. 
 
“Mom, I’m not wearing ruffles or bows to my Christmas program.”

I couldn’t blame her. Most of her friends wore trendy clothes from the junior department, but Emily couldn’t fit into those sizes yet.
 
I glanced down at the shoes she had snatched from a display. “Oh Em, those heels look tough to walk in.”
 
“They’re fine.” She took a couple of wobbly steps. I exhaled. This girl would try anything to look taller.
 
The school year went on, Emily worked hard on her schoolwork. She was respectful to her teachers and kind to her classmates. Every now and then she still had bad days, but I did my best to encourage her. 
 
“Em, you’re a good student and a great kid.” Emily rolled her eyes but I kept talking anyway. “You just need to be the best Emily you can be. You're going to accomplish great things.”
 
I know she heard me; I just wasn’t sure she believed me. Then one day, toward the end of the school year, Emily’s principal called.
 
“I’ve got some exciting news,” she said. “Emily was chosen to receive the Illinois Principal’s Association Student Leadership Award.”
 
“Okay?” I began, “I’m actually not familiar-”
 
“It’s a program our school participates in every year. All of the students vote for one boy and one girl based on behavior, strong character, leadership skills and academics.”
 
I couldn’t help but smile. “So, Emily’s classmates picked her?”  
 
“Yes, they did. It was actually a landslide.”
 
I thanked the principal and hung up the phone. How about that? Emily’s classmates saw something in her she didn’t see in herself.  
 
Later that day Emily dashed through the back door. “Did you hear, Mom? Did my principal call?”
 
“Yes, she did,” I said. “And I am so proud of you!”   
 
Emily’s face beamed. It didn’t matter if she was the smallest kid in her class. On that day, she finally realized that her classmates looked up to her.

There's something very strange about sitting in the passenger seat while your fifteen-year-old drives. No doubt you’ll have flashbacks of teaching them how to hold a spoon or sit on the potty. Now suddenly, that same kid is operating a motor vehicle and passing oncoming traffic at 55+ miles-per-hour.

How does a mom keep her cool during such stressful situations? I'm still learning how to do it. But with the my second kid behind the wheel, I can share a few tips that I've found helpful.

Check out my post over at the Quad City Moms blog ... Five Ways to Keep Your Cool When Your Teen Starts Driving.

Normally, I’m not one who climbs onto a soapbox to complain about stuff. I’m a laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of gal. Unless it’s an issue that hits super-close to my heart.
 
So, what’s close to my heart?
 
Well, for one … raising three girls to the best of my ability.
 
And when something (or someone) comes along and tries to undermine me in that mission, I feel the need to speak up. So here I go … speaking up.  

Dear Hardees,
 
I want you to know that I haven’t eaten at one of your restaurants in a very long time. Decades, actually. And I want you to know why. Your commercials make me want to lose my lunch.
 
Let’s start with the fact that they are so ridiculously unrealistic. Seriously. I’ve eaten a lot of cheeseburgers, but not once have I felt the need to throw on a string bikini, bend over in some awkwardly provocative position and pretend to seduce my sandwich.
 
I mean, seriously. Who does that?
 
I have to wonder, is that really the best you’ve got? Is your advertising staff so lazy and uncreative that they have to resort to inappropriate ads to get our attention? I know, sex sells, right? Well, I’m not buying it.
 
I can already imagine what you are thinking. Lighten up, lady.
 
Let me explain why I won't take your nasty commercials lightly. Emily. Taylor. Madison. My three daughters. For the past 18 years, I’ve had the monumental task of raising them to be confident, self-respecting, strong women.
 
And I take that job very seriously.
 
Then you came along and tried to annihilate all my hard work. Your commercials contribute to so many struggles that girls face today. Poor body image. Eating disorders. Feelings of inadequacy. Depression. Obsession with diets.

I understand that the models you use aren’t actually as perfect as they look on TV – but little girls don’t. When they see your commercials, they see an impossible standard of beauty. A “beauty” they could never attain – because it isn’t even real.   
 
Little girls grow up believing they need to dress or act like the women in your commercials. They mistakenly believe the only way to feel important or valuable is to draw attention to their bodies.    
 
And here’s another thing that really annoys me. One minute my family might be watching the Super Bowl or the Olympics, the next minute, we've got women hanging out (literally) in skimpy lingerie and chatting about three-ways. By the way, thanks. That wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have with my eleven-year-old.
 
I remember the model in your commercial … staring seductively into the camera while saying, “It’s called a three-way burger. What did you expect?”
 
Well, Hardees, I expect you to show some courtesy toward women. I expect that, while watching family-oriented shows with my kids, I won’t be bombarded by images of bare breasts and sexual innuendoes. I also expect you to actually promote the product you’re selling. Remember? Hamburgers.
 
Selling burgers doesn’t give you the right to treat women like a piece of meat. Your commercials aren’t entertaining or clever. They are disgusting and I want you to stop it.
 
Stop undermining what I’m trying to teach my daughters. Stop lying to women. And for heaven’s sake, stop grossing me out.
 
Do I sound a bit harsh? I hope so. After all, I am the mother of three girls. What did you expect?

My ninety-year-old grandmother sat on her bed and watched my mom pull a pink sweater out of a dresser drawer. Grandma wobbled over to Mom, inspecting her every move.
 
“What are you doing?”
 
“I’m writing your name on the tag.” Mom picked up a black permanent marker. “See here, G-L-A-D-Y-S,” Mom said, spelling it out. “We don’t want your clothes to get lost at the nursing home.”
 
Grandma’s blank expression confirmed Mom’s suspicion. She didn’t understand. If she had, she would have argued.
 
For many years, our family had worked hard to keep Grandma and Grandpa in their home. But with Grandpa’s physical limitations and Grandma’s dementia, it was no longer possible. Finally, my mom and her siblings sat down with my grandparents for a difficult conversation.
 
Grandpa wasn’t pleased with the decision, but he knew what must be done. He also knew that convincing Grandma would be no small task. She hadn’t even liked it when they hired a caretaker a few months back. She especially didn’t like “that woman” fussing over Grandpa. After all, Grandma had taken care of him for the last seventy-one years. She wasn’t about to quit now.
 
“I have a home,” Grandma said, folding her arms like a strong-willed two-year-old. She didn’t want to hear any more about nursing homes.
 
But moving day had come all too soon.  
 
Mom grabbed a stack of clothes off the bed and checked her watch. “We’d better go.”
 
My grandpa and aunt were already making their way toward the door. Grandpa hunched over his walker and shuffled tiny, slow steps. Janet walked behind, making sure he didn’t lose his balance. Meanwhile, Mom tried to gently usher Grandma along.
 
“I have a home,” Grandma repeated, shaking her head. As soon as they reached the door, Grandma stopped.
 
“I am not doing this.” Grandma’s eyebrows furrowed with determination.  
 
My aunt and mom exchanged looks. They didn’t want to upset her. Of course, they didn’t want to force her. But what could they do? Grandpa looked back from his walker.
 
“I need you with me, Gladdy.”
 
Grandma hesitated for a moment, then followed Grandpa out the door and into the car.
 
Grandma stared out the window from the backseat. They passed the small country church my grandparents had attended for seventy years.
 
“Where are we?” Grandma asked. Janet tried to distract her. She dug through her purse, found a mint and gave it to Grandma.
 
Meanwhile, my mom worried. It had already been such a difficult day, but what if the worst was yet to come? How would Grandma react when they got to the nursing home? What if she got upset and refused to stay?  
 
Grandma interrupted Mom’s thoughts. “I don’t like this.”
 
Janet touched Grandma’s arm. “I know you don’t, Mom. We don’t like it either, but you know it’s for the …”  
 
Just then Mom noticed the sour expression on Grandma’s face. Grandma spit the mint into her shaky hand, rolled down the window and tossed it outside.
 
Suddenly, Mom and Janet looked at one another and broke into spontaneous laughter. Grandma wasn’t referring to the nursing home; she was talking about the mint. They shook their heads and laughed some more.
 
They probably looked strange, sharing that unexpected laugh in the midst of such a difficult day. But at that moment, laughter was exactly what they needed. It broke the tension. It added a little joy.

I love this story because it’s a great reminder for all of us. Even in the midst of the most difficult days, there’s always room for a little joy.
 
My challenge this week? No matter how bad the day (or how difficult the decision) I will be looking for those small moments of joy.  

Certain words always come to mind when I think of my mom. Honest and kind. A hardworking farmer’s wife. She is definitely a lady who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. However, there is one word I’m sure I never used to describe my mom: cool. Lord knows I wished for it—especially during my teen years.

My best friend had a cool mom. Patty’s mom wore stonewashed jeans and sang along to Madonna. I wasn’t sure my mom had even heard of Madonna.

Truth be told, Mom and I didn’t have much in common. I loved checking out the latest styles at the mall. Shopping gave her a headache. I enjoyed traveling and exploring new places. She was a homebody. In high school, I was captain of the pom-pom squad. She played the accordion.

However, there was one thing I always appreciated about my mom: she was a fabulous listener. Every day I came home from school and told her about my day. I could tell her anything—the good, the bad and the boring. She always listened, even when I told her things she didn’t want to hear. Like the night I went on my first date.

It was a double date, actually. Two popular boys had promised to take my friend and me to dinner and a movie. They pulled into the driveway and honked the horn. Of course my mom wasn’t okay with that. She crossed her arms and gave me a look. “If he wants to date you, he can come in and get you.”

As it turned out, I should’ve left him in the driveway. The boy was a loser. The date didn’t go well. Later that night I returned home and marched up the steps to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

“How was your night?” Mom stifled a yawn. Dad snored.

“Terrible,” I said. “They didn’t take us to dinner. We didn’t see a movie. Someone got alcohol and they spent the entire night driving around back roads, drinking beer.”

“What?” Dad mumbled, half asleep. Mom elbowed him.

“I swear I didn’t drink,” I said, plopping onto the bed. “I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to come home.”

Thinking back, I’m surprised I even told her. After all, she had every right to be upset. Instead, she just listened. She didn’t overreact. Dad never learned to master this skill. Mom did it well, time and time again. So I kept telling her stuff.

After high school I moved out on my own. I called my mom often, mostly for cooking advice. Dad liked to tease me when he answered the phone.

“Is Mom there? Is Mom there?” he huffed, acting offended. “Doesn’t anyone ever want to talk to me?”

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to you. How long does it take to hard-boil an egg?”

After a few seconds of silence, Dad cleared his throat. “Here’s Mom.”

Life went on. I went to college, got a job and met my future husband. Curt and I got married one beautiful day in May. At the end of the ceremony, we faced the congregation and grinned as our pastor belted out an official introduction with his best preacher voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Zeck.”

There was something very symbolic about that moment. We had walked into that place on our own, but we would leave together. I squeezed Curt’s arm as we took our first step back up the aisle.

As we approached the first row, I glanced at my mom. She looked lovely—even with damp eyes and a red splotchy face. As mother-of-the-bride she wanted to look pretty. I thought about how she had struggled to find the right dress. She didn’t like to shop. She didn’t like many of the current styles, yet she wanted to make sure I liked what she wore.

Within a few years, Curt and I were expecting our first baby. My husband was wonderful, but sometimes a girl just needs her mom—even if she is about to become one herself. Between contractions I picked up the phone.

“Mom, I’m scared,” I said, whispering into the phone. “I don’t think I can do this. I’m totally exhausted. This is just too hard.”

Mom’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “I know it’s hard, but you can do this. Labor lasts only so long and then it’s over. Think about holding your sweet baby.”

Six hours later I called Mom again. “She’s here,” I said, looking down at my beautiful baby girl. Mom was right. Joy had replaced pain.

It didn’t take long to realize I had no idea how to care for a newborn. Thank goodness Mom was only a phone call away.

“The baby has a bumpy rash all over her tummy. Should I call the doctor?”

“Should I give her some cereal before putting her to bed?”

“How many diapers does a normal kid go through?”

Mom always warned me that babies grow quickly. The years flew by. Two more baby girls joined our family. Today, I can hardly believe I have three teenagers. If ever I needed Mom’s advice, it’s now.

It amazes me how Mom managed to keep her meltdowns to a minimum during my teen years. I needed to know her secret.

“So how’d you do it, Mom?” I asked. “I told you stuff, but you never freaked out. How did you keep your cool?”

Suddenly, I caught myself smiling. After all these years, I had described my mom, and I used the word “cool.” So cool, in fact, I wanted to be like her.

“Oh, I definitely freaked out!” she said, laughing. “I just waited until later. I tried to stay calm when I was with you.”

Now there’s a skill I hope to master someday.

My mom never dressed in cute, trendy clothes or listened to popular music, but she always gave the best advice. She encouraged me through good times and bad. She’s my lifelong friend.

Today I realize what a special gift that actually is. Not everyone can say their mom is their very best friend.
I can. And I think that’s pretty cool.

Welcome! You've picked a good day to stop by. Look what the UPS guy delivered to my front door ... books! I'm celebrating and I'd like YOU to join me. 

Do you remember my recent blog post, The Little Writer Who Could? In it, I confessed that writing isn't always easy for me. Like they say, the struggle is real.

However, my latest story in Chicken Soup was such a fun one to write. I'm not sure why, but it practically wrote itself. (I love it when that happens!) I can't wait to share it with you.

Today I'm giving away TWO copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Best Mom Ever! Because really, who doesn't like a free book? You can keep it for yourself or give it (hint, hint, Mother's Day is coming) to your favorite mom.

I'm giving you FIVE ways to enter before TUESDAY, MARCH 28. Feel free to be an overachiever and do all five if you'd like. Then I'll enter your name in the drawing and choose two random winners which I'll announce NEXT WEEK. Good luck!

FIVE WAYS TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY ...

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