Everything Matters

I watched a fascinating interview with Starbucks' CEO, Howard Schultz about a month ago, and have been thinking about it ever since. Among other things, he said that one of his business philosophies is Everything Matters. The details count. How we do anything, is how we do everything.

At first I explored the opposite way of thinking, that nothing matters, and quickly became depressed. While not sweating the small stuff is wise, that doesn't necessarily mean that the small stuff doesn't matter. There is a paradox in that, and therein lies the lesson, I think.

We know for a fact that energy cannot be created or destroyed, and we're all just carrying it, moving it, spreading it and re-arranging it all the time, so it stands to reason that how we do anything, has far-reaching ripples. The energy that we put into the things we do, matters. Everything matters.

So, while we are busy not being busy sweating the small stuff, that's more of an energetic release of the anxiety around the "small," not an abandonment of our intentions around things that are "small." At least that's where I've landed on the issue for the time being.

I'd love to hear your thoughts. What matters?

A New Year

I don't get too excited about the "new" year, don't make a lot of resolutions, don't stay up until midnight to ring it in. For me, it's better to one-day-at-a-time it, waking up each morning with a sense of newness and promise, hopes and objectives. I think it's dangerous to lump 365 days together, call them a year, and deem the whole sum as either "good" or "bad." Things come in waves, cycles, and it usually takes more than the turning of a page on the calendar, to abruptly interrupt that.

There is something to be said, however, for resolving, for taking inventory, for starting over, for having hope, faith, optimism and a can-do attitude. January 1st can be a good time to do that, because there is strength in numbers, there is a swelling and momentum, that can take hold and help move you "out" of wherever you are, and that is the first step.

Our dear friend, Claire Rose, Wil's guardian angel of 11 years, lost her mother on Christmas Eve. Her death was sudden and tragic, and the community is shaken, her family reeling, the sadness reverberates in every direction. I can't wish Claire a happy new year, I can't tell her everything will get easier and better and back to "normal." Her life has been altered forever. What I can tell her is she's not alone. She has a community ready and willing to step up, to not replace, but to substitute for her mother's role in her life. I can tell her that there are any number of people she can grab onto and hold on, until the wave of I-can't-do-this passes. I can tell her that although the year ahead may not be happy, it is not resigned to being terrible, either. It will be hard. It will be different. It will be sad. It will also have moments of piercing grace, love that shines through and sustains her. I can tell her that each morning of this new year, she will have to resolve to make the day anew, lean into the changes, make open her heart to receive all the love we have to give, so that one day she wakes up and the resolve to have resolve doesn't have to be so strong.

For Claire, the "page turned" on the day her mother left her in the physical world, and became a guide from the other side, one that will shepherd her through these dark and difficult days, with a little help from her friends.

A "Ruined" Christmas

This is, apparently, the first year Wil has heard of anyone getting a lump of coal in their stocking, because they've been bad. The minute he heard, he flew into action. "I am going to ask Santa for a lump of coal in STM's stocking, he's been naughty, and he's getting a lump of coal. I am going to ruin his Christmas!" he said with joy.

I assumed Santa had it all under control, but let's just say there was a little last-minute drama when said coal did not arrive with a moment to spare.

Traditionally, we go over to my mother-in-law's and open gifts on Christmas Eve. As we were walking out the door he announced that Santa would be putting coal in STM's stocking over there, too, even though we'd explained on numerous occasions that those stockings were filled by Grandma, and Santa didn't start his world-wide trek until Christmas Eve night. He accepted the answer, but was disappointed that STM's Christmas Eve would not also be "ruined."

As you may recall, Santa was also asked for an elephant for his friends, Barky and Elmo. There was much anticipation as to what this elephant would look like, and whether or not Elmo and Barky would be excited.

Because this is not our first rodeo, we also told Wil he would be getting a bike for Christmas. We have learned the hard way that he does not like surprises. A bright shiny, red bike showed up one Christmas morning, and he was underwhelmed, to say the least. He liked the (teeny tiny) bike he had just fine, and was not having any of it when it came to moving up to a bigger bike. Even if it came in his favorite color.

This time we got smart. We told him at his birthday time (and prime bike-riding weather), that he'd be getting a new bike for Christmas. His bike was too small for him, and he needed a new one. STM and I made multiple trips to STM's favorite bike shop, and consulted extensively about which bike would best meet Wil's needs. We got it down to two. We took Wil at a specified time to the bike store, explaining it would only take 10 minutes, but he had to ride both bikes and tell us which one he liked best. He chose in his customary "random" way (I think he liked the color, even though we could have ordered the other one in other colors). So, although he did know about the bike, he was excited for the bike, and told everyone, "I'm getting a new bike for Christmas!"

Be that as it may, the three big hits of Christmas were the lumps of coal that "ruined" STM's Christmas, Ellie the elephant for Barky and Elmo, and the true huge hit of the year, the $2.00 bottle of foaming hand soap with Santa on it.

May we all delight in the little things.

And So Forth

"Sin is not the adult bookstore on the corner. It is the 

hard heart, the lack of generosity, and all the isms: 

racism and sexism and so forth." 

- Anne Lamott Help, Thanks, Wow

You're either going to think me a genius, or a nut job, but I had another reading with a spiritual intuitive. It was an entirely an intuitive "decision," that is to say, no "decision" was made. I heard of this woman through a "weird" turn of events (say it with me...) and "knew" I had to schedule a reading. She is, of course, located in my stomping grounds, and was, of course, readily available when I called. That is not to say she is easy to get into, not at all, but everything lined up in a meant-to-be way, and within a few days of calling, I was seated across from her in a folding chair, in a make-shift room, having my chakras cleared.

Turns out my chakras were in pretty good shape. She did ask if I was having troubles with my right side, and I mentioned the hip issue from the dog pulling me on the leash, my cumulative injury. "More than that, though, is the issue of your yin and yang not being in balance, the feminine and masculine sides. Your left side, the feminine, is strong. Your masculine side, the right, is weak. That's the side that speaks out, that stands up for itself, that is willing to confront. If you ask your guides and angels to strengthen that side, I guarantee you'll be given plenty of opportunities to practice!" she said with a giggle.

I have decided that I will live with the occasional twinge. At least until after the holidays. There isn't enough eggnog in the world to entice me to take that on right now.

But the bigger question remains: Do I go out on a limb, and make a point of making a point? Both the astrologer and spiritual intuitive said my message is to awaken people that are asleep to their beliefs that those with lower "intelligence" have nothing to "offer." They are to be dismissed. We are to put up with them. To be "nice." To endure and possibly support, but not to elevate, learn from, watch, pattern after, and hold in high esteem.

Intellectualism is the final frontier. Martin Luther King, Jr. had his dream, and I have mine - to one day live in a world when we are as (appropriately) appalled to hear an intellectualist remark, as we are to hear a racist, or sexist remark.

And so forth.

Mindfulness

Please join me over at Hopeful Parents, for a short but sweet post on mindfulness!

Love.

Stitches

I just finished Anne Lamott's newest work-of-art, STITCHES. No accident that I finished it on the anniversary of Sandy Hook, as it was that horrible tragedy that spurred her to write it. So at a loss of what to do, how to move on, much less restore hope, she did what she does best, she wrote.

I can't think of a single person I know that isn't struggling to find meaning, hope, and/or in need of repair. The one-of-a-kind Anne Lamott did much to help me heal from the Newtown event that I've yet been able to really write about it, it's been sitting on a shelf in my brain for a year, not to be touched. It is too much to take in, too much to grieve, too much to be horrified and saddened by. It's all just too much.

I've seen a few interviews over the last year with parents of children that were killed that day. The stories of how one mom almost didn't send her son to school because he had been up late the night before, and had the sniffles, and how she's had to live with that choice to go ahead and send him.

When I met with the past-life reader, she said she was told by Spirit that the children of Sandy Hook were volunteers, sent with a very special purpose to wake us up from our sleep and change the way we do things. My only issue with that theory is that it implies the shooter was fated to shoot, and I just can't believe anyone makes a soul agreement before coming here, that they will become mass murderers. Maybe they volunteered to come here to change the world, and had it not happened the way it did, they would have each gone on to change it in other ways.

I don't know.

A tragedy does that to us, it shakes what we believe and what we thought to be true, and knocks us so far off kilter we are never the same again.

If you need help being put back together, I would highly recommend both of Anne Lamott's latest books, HELP, THANKS, WOW, and STITCHES.

The Look

Wil at 2 months old

When I met recently with the director of the developmental health organization, we talked about "the look."

"There was a look Wil had in his eyes (besides the strabismus) that should have tipped off the doctor that something wasn't right. He was discombobulated-looking, I can see it so clearly now in pictures."

"There is a look," she said, "we know that now. We're training doctors to recognize it. Obviously, the earlier a disorder is recognized and treated, the better."

Obviously.

I'm trying not to let fresh outrage take over, and chalk it up to que sera, sera. But it's hard. Had our doctor seen "the look," I would have welcomed his concern. I realize not all parents of infants want to be told "there's a look," but when a parent comes in with a laundry list of complaints/symptoms, and has "the look" and is still not taken seriously, well... then memoirs are written.

I've occasionally seen pictures of kids, or held a baby and wondered if what I'm seeing is "the look." I don't know quite what to do in those situations. I don't want to be an alarmist. I don't want to force anyone to deal with anything they're not ready to deal with. And I don't want to be wrong. I haven't resolved this conundrum, but what I'm leaning, is to ask leading questions when given the opportunity, and see just where that does indeed lead, if anywhere.

And if it does lead any "where," I hope that is to a place of answers, reassurance, and hope.

Use Me

Oprah says that for years her daily prayer has been, "Use me." If it's good enough for Oprah, it's good enough for me. I've been working with that prayer the last couple of weeks, and some interesting No-Accidents have occurred. My tireless, 1-woman PR team of liz, is systematically working her way through the Archdiocese of Portland, and will not rest until all the principals not only read the book, but order a complete set for all their staff. Apparently, liz is also saying the Use Me prayer each morning.

On Tuesday I received an e-mail from the executive director of an organization devoted to children's developmental health here in Oregon. Someone she works with had given her my book months ago, she'd put it in her briefcase with the best of intentions, but didn't have a chance to read it until Monday, at which point she read it straight through. We met yesterday, and she has since ordered the book for everyone on her staff, all the clinicians, behavioral peds, everyone. She wants me to do a book signing and give a talk. I mentioned that I would love to talk to a group of doctors someday, because it is my fervent wish that my experience of not being taken seriously, not be replicated. She said, "I can arrange that."

I'm trying not to get ahead of myself, just trying to stay in the moment of gratefulness that my book is doing the work it was meant to do, however big or far-reaching that may be, or not be.

What may be, may be, que sera sera.

Use me.

Amen.

The Stockings Were Hung

This is my 20th Christmas as a parent, and the first one in which I'm not taking a kid, or kids, to see Santa. Last year Wil and I made the pilgrimage to the mall, and 24-hours later there was a shooting in the same mall, in the same spot, and that was enough to further traumatize me to the point I put my foot down.

I told Wil that this year he'd be e-mailing Santa, and that I would need to proof-read the email before he sent it, just so I could make sure Santa would know what he was talking about. God bless modern technology and the horse it rode in on. The whole thing took less than 2 minutes and he's as happy as a clam knowing Santa will be able to make his dreams come true.

DEAR SANTA I WANT COLLEGE T-SHIRTS PLUS THE OAKLAND RAIDERS AND THE SEATTLE SEAHAWKS MY STUFFED ANIMAL FRIENDS WANT AN ELEPHANT AND MY DAD WANTS THREE PIECES OF COAL BECAUSE HES BEEN NAUGHTY LOVE WILSON

Today he said, "Care? Will Santa bring a real elephant or a stuffed elephant for my friends?"

"I hope to God he brings a stuffed elephant," I said.

Then we pulled out the glitter glue pens and wrote ELMO on one side of the cheap-o, off-the-shelf stocking, and BARKY on the other. We hung the stocking with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas, soon would be there.

Top 10 Things You Heard Here First

10. Primary care physicians, particularly those that deal with the geriatric crowd, should have to undergo some training in special ed. Let's face it, if we live long enough, we all end up with special needs.

9. Another great idea of mine is to employ people (such as myself) to sit in on doctor appointments and be the interpreter between the doctor and the age/special-needs-affected patient. It would be their/my job to read body language, to repeat what wasn't heard, to rephrase, reiterate, simplify, summarize and in all ways be most helpful.

8. Holidays need their own drinking games. These games do not necessarily need to include anyone but you. Just rattle off the Top 10 Most Annoying Things Your Family/Extended Family Does (this won't take long) and every time one of them goes into effect, chug.

7. You'll be drunk, but you won't care, and if that's a problem for any of them, let them devise their own game accordingly.

6. For every "bad" tradition (read: anything that makes you want to devise a drinking game), create a "good" one to counter-balance (read: devise a drinking game).

5. Everyday should be a day to give thanks, even if you have to dig deep.

4. Pandora, alone, is enough reason to be thankful.

3. Oh, and Netflix.

2. There are no accidents.

1. Love.

Thanksgiving

Not a whole lot to report from these parts, at least not a whole lot of interest. I could go on and on about the thrill I get every time I see an empty shelf, drawer, tote, or space where something used to be, that isn't anymore, but I won't. The deep purge continues. I've got a few drawers and cupboards to go, and still haven't tossed all my old teaching materials or journals, but I'm plugging along. The recycling bin is full each week, and that is the goal. My car continues to fill with stuff that needs a better home, and each time I drop off a load, I feel as though my own personal baggage load has been lightened.

STM asked me the other day, "When is the last time we cleaned the light fixtures?"

The last time was never. In 10 years, they've never been touched.

This may sound silly, trite, and in the grand scheme of things, utterly ridiculous, but taking down the shades, washing them, cleaning the fixtures, wiping off the bulbs and putting them all back, was holy. It was an opportunity to practice giving thanks. Thanksgiving for the time and space to do it. Thanksgiving for the home I live in. Thanksgiving for the place we are in our lives, with our children, with our marriage, with our wherewithal, that allows this to be be on the To Do List, after 10 years of putting out fires, and chasing our tails.

We aren't the same couple that moved into this house 10 years ago. We aren't the same parents. We aren't the same family.

And for that, we give thanks.

I've Come to Believe

Please join me over at Hopeful Parents.

Love.

Dear Younger Self

Dear Younger Self,

Wow, looking through all the files you created years and years ago, I can see just how hard you worked to create order out of disorder. I can see that you thought all the information you worked so hard to acquire, could be used to help someone else someday, and you'd be ready. You'd have your files set inside matching swinging files, all labeled and ready-to-go. When someone wanted information on ADHD, ASD, OCD, OT, how to talk to kids about dying, the signs of depression, and on and on, you'd be a vast warehouse of at-your-fingertips information.

You didn't know that all that effort to clip, sort, file and save was going to just sit there and never be opened. Not once would you take the green lid off that Rubbermaid tote. Not once. Years and years later, after the crises had all passed, you'd pull out that tub from the bottom of other tubs, and wonder  - but just for a second - what it was you were thinking at the time?

You know what you were thinking. You were thinking you'd try to help others. You were thinking that  if you kept your hands busy, your mind could stay quiet. You were thinking that if you were "doing" you were doing enough. You were thinking if the information was in a sensical form, you'd be able to make sense of the diagnoses. Actually, you weren't thinking at all - you were responding.

Maybe your husband was right, you should have been "smoking a lot more reefer," instead of doing and going all the time, but that's okay. That's not who you were.  You were a doer and a goer and those are not traits to apologize for - the world needs doers and goers. The world needed you.

So, thank you, Younger Self, for your optimism, for your consideration, for your efforts all around. When you meet up with Older Self, smile at her from the past, wave as you pass the baton to her and let her take what you've done and where you've gone - all your doing and going, and bless her as she takes a deep breath.

And exhales.

Top 10 Most "Helpful" Things I've Found While Purging

10. Clippings, clippings and more clippings from my mother

9.  Eye glass prescriptions dating back to '06

8. VHS tapes that are really advertisements for some ADHD treatment

7. Cassette tape explaining autism to me

6. Old, used name tags

5. Brochures and info. on events that are over a decade old

4. A Post-It note with ideas of how I can help Wil work on his vestibular system, circa 1998

3. Woohoo's standardized testing results from 2006

2. Every receipt for every single Apple purchase we've ever in our lives made

1. The original literature/brochures for my '97 Honda CR-V

Third Stage People

Wil and I are going to be photographed together on Saturday, as part of a project a friend is doing. She wants to document mothers of special-needs children, and include in her project an ethical will/legacy letter-type thing.

"What have you found to know or trust or believe as part of YOUR life journey? What have you learned from adversity, how have you navigated the tough times, what or who gives you hope and perspective?"

I've been mulling over those, and the other questions she has raised, over the last couple of days. I wrote a whole book on that very topic, but how to condense it all down to just one page?

This morning I not only drove Wil to school, but two of his friends that also have special needs. All three very different boys, with very different needs and strengths. Two of the boys are in a religion class called Morality and Justice. They, apparently, are learning about the Stages of Morality. Wil's friend, Jack, told me all about it, "Carrie, there are three stages of morality. There's the Self Stage, where you only care about your self. Then there's the stage where you only care about yourself and a few other people, like your family. Then there's the third stage, where you care about everyone."

"You're in that third stage, Jack," I said.

"Yea," he said, "so are all of us. Everyone in this car cares about everyone."

Then we bumped fists and got really excited about how awesome we all are, what with our magnanimity and all.

Ironically, despite all the extra attention, extra therapies, extra miles gone for the special-needs child, it is my experience that most special-needs children are Third Stage People, they don't think it's all about them.

If I had to boil down what I've come to believe most through the journey of raising a special-needs child, is that we are ONE. There is no "us" or "them," we are all threads in the greater tapestry, and all of our thoughts, words and actions affect the WHOLE.

The Song

My cousin, Jim, a talented musician and song writer, posted on Facebook that my post, Uninvited, inspired him to write a song! Here is his beautiful song:

"I don't recall a hand extended/or any special invitation/all falling free from where we ended/ending years of speculation/

truth be told I don't like bitchin'/and don't hold out for salvation/but when my friends are in the kitchen/I know they came by invitation/

Uninvited, uninvited

Don't feel passed over or slighted

You're a ghost in no one's dream

And no one needs your grifter smile

Uninvited, uninvited

When the band is reunited

We'll be passing 'round the good stuff

And we'll go the extra mile"

Written by Jim Goodwin

No one needs your grifter smile! Amen! Let's all use "grifter" three times today and make it ours forever!

Uninvited

I have been having great and helpful dreams again, I seriously think it's the improvement in the feng shui! For those of you that need a reminder, there's a great book out there that has super easy, practical ways to improve the energy flow in your home and in your LIFE:

Everyone I know that has bought the book, swears by it. Do yourself a favor and get the book already.

Back to the dreams. The other night I dreamt that we had two coffee makers in our kitchen, one for me, and one for everyone else. What was most interesting about this, was that the one for me was the good one! In the dream I had invited a friend over for coffee. I poured her a cup from the other coffee maker, and then I happened to notice this other person just sitting in my kitchen. I noticed she also had a cup of coffee from the other coffee maker. I was so pleased with myself in the dream, because I had not fussed over this person, in fact, I had not even noticed her. I went on to enjoy coffee with the invited friend, and didn't give the time of day to the interloper as she sat there and drank sub-par coffee.

I'd love to think this means I'm going to "pour from the good one" in real-life, too, as well as ignoring those things and people that I do not invite into my life, because they are, well, just that, uninvited.

Clearing

On the outside, it looks like I'm consumed with clearing junk that's been stored for years in my basement, and painting my living room and dining room. On the outside it looks like all I want to do is freshen, purge, repair, replace, and recycle. And even I was lured into thinking that what it looks like, is what it is.

But we'd both be wrong.

There's something about turning 50. There's something about facing forward in the next decade to come (Lord willing). There's something about getting ready for what's next, that is happening. It's like when you're eight months pregnant and you start nesting like crazy: cleaning, sorting, washing everything, folding neatly, and getting yourself as prepared as one can be, before the big event.

Whether or not there's an actual "big event" coming or not, is anybody's guess, but what we do know, is that like all the ages and stages that have come before, something is dying so that something may be reborn. To "die" there must be a clearing away, a letting go, a leaving behind and a putting away, so that there may be a picking up and moving forward in a clearer, cleaner, and less "cluttered" manner.

I do some of my best meditating when I'm in this mode, some of the most helpful insights and connections come to me when I'm moving my body, my stuff, and the energy of the stuff. I'm trying to Eckhart Tolle my way through, that is to say, touch with gentle awareness, the accumulations, the stories behind what is there and why it's there, the inherited baggage, the stuff I have because nobody else wanted it, but nor did they want it to disappear entirely. When I look around and see all the stuff my mother has given me because she no longer had the space or desire for it, but yet, wanted it to stay in the family, I am both honored and burdened. As I go through each photo, each packet of clippings, each box of memories, I see a younger version of myself that has dutifully lugged it all from house to house to house, without ever really wanting it, but never having the skills to make it go away.

I don't want to pass all that on to the next generation, it's not Woohoo's place or problem. It never really was mine, either, but I allowed it to be, and now, at 50, I'm ready to relinquish all the stuff, and all the stuff that is attached to the stuff.

There is a definite shift in the feng shui of the house already, even though right now if you were to take a look, you would see a disaster - furniture all shoved to the the center of the rooms, tools, step stools, paint cans, art, lamps, all the crap everywhere but where it should be.

Sometimes we have to strip our own inner walls, move all our crap to the center of our being and allow the energy to move where it has been stagnant, open up the places that are stuck, and let go of what we no longer need, what is not serving us, what we have just been dutifully carrying for far too long.

Doesn't Everyone?

Doesn't everyone have a child that insists on bypassing the perfectly good bathroom right next to his bedroom, in favor of brushing, or rather, having his teeth brushed, in the laundry room?

Doesn't everyone also have an iron with it's cord neatly wrapped up, on a shelf in the laundry room?

Doesn't everyone go incident-free in the laundry room, whilst brushing one's son's teeth for years, only to have said iron suddenly, and inexplicably, fall from the shelf and land on one's head?

Doesn't everyone have a son that laughs harder than he's ever laughed before, when his sainted mother lets out a string of curse words and lies on the floor, writhing in pain, BECAUSE AN IRON FELL ON HER HEAD?

I thought not.

Help Yourself

Portland, a city not known for its great weather, has had a breathtaking fall. Let's go back, spring was great, too, and so was summer. Three seasons of beauty, with every reason to believe our winter will be spectacular, too. The forecast was for rain on Halloween, and I was hoping the forecast was wrong, and we could hold onto our streak for one more day, just so all the kids could enjoy a dry night of trick-or-treating. The forecast was indeed wrong-ish, it sprinkled a little in the morning, and the evening was dry and warm!

Wil, having eschewed trick-or-treating for 17 years, announced in early September that he was going to be a monkey. We ordered his costume and it sat in his closet, until it finally occurred to me we should take it out and try it on, just to make sure it was going to fit. The thing was one size fits "most" and nobody every accused that boy of being "most."

"It'll be fine," he said, and so it came to be that he put the outfit on in a mad dash before school on Thursday, for the very first time. Usually, our mornings are anything but mad dashes, we have way too much time because he wakes up so early, and takes very little time to actually get ready, but he needs a built-in period of lying around with the iPad, listening to iHeart Radio, before he's ready to really launch the day. It's his coffee. I went for a very early walk Thursday, and when I got back, he was still asleep, plus he had an early morning Peer Mentors meeting, hence, the mad dash.

The monkey costume came with monkey hand gloves and a big head, with the the face totally open, so I thought there was a slim chance he'd wear it, at least for a picture. No dice. And the tail. I did not factor in what having a very long tail would do to him. Let's just say that that tail became a belt more quickly than you can say, no-way-in-Hell. The "belt" cinched his pants way too high, and he was left with high waters. Basically, the only possible way of knowing he was a monkey, was if he told you he was. He mostly looked like a tall kid that had grown out of his brown pants, and happened to have a brown top on, too.

Happy as a clam that "monkey" was, to plan his first real trick-or-treating outing. In early October he'd already arranged with his friend, Tim, to go out for the evening, a plan that was going to work for both of them, because neither wanted to go long or far, and both wanted to get to bed at pretty much their usual time. But then it mushroomed. Each day Wil came home from school with a more elevated plan for the evening. I did some of my best letting go and letting God, you ever did see. I didn't call mothers. I didn't check with the boys themselves. Nary an e-mail or text was sent.

I did have the foresight to buy extra beer (for me) and two take-and-back pizzas for the crowd. All were consumed. It turned out that five boys from the program he's in at school, sat around our barely-used dining room table, and had themselves a dinner party. STM, Tim's mom, Kim, and I sat in another room, sipped on our adult beverages, and marveled at the day we thought would never come.

"Has enough been made that Wil's having a dinner party?" I must have said ten times.

The doorbell started ringing, and the boys hopped up and answered it, giving us more time to celebrate their awesomeness. When it was finally dark enough for them to go, they put on their makeshift costumes, stood briefly for a picture, and were out the door. Kim and I went to the front porch with our glasses and huge cauldron of candy, and STM stayed inside to clean up the mess. He'd pop out to refill our glasses and the candy and see how it was all going, then go back inside.

Because by this time I was so "relaxed" from all the celebrating, I opted to just put the cauldron down in front of us, rather than holding it and selecting the candy for each kid, and putting it in their bags from them. Kim and I had fun seeing the reactions when we'd say, "Help yourself!"

There were the diggers, the ones that wanted to crouch down and search for just the right piece. There were the easy-to-pleasers, the ones that just grabbed the first piece their fingers came upon. By and large, most took one piece, said thank you, and were on their way.

But not all.

One girl looked right at us, dead in the eye, after we told her to help herself, and she said, as though to dare us to argue with her, "I'll take two!"

Some would ask, "How many can I take?" To which we'd reply, "How many would you like?" Most would answer, "Two." "Have at it," we'd say, and their faces would light up with the magnitude of their haul.

One little girl, about seven, with dazzling light-blue eyes and blond hair, answered, "FIVE!" when we asked her how many she'd like. Her side kick lit up, and the two of them got down in there and foraged until they'd found just the perfect five.

They came back 20 minutes later and marched themselves right to the front of the line, and without even going through all the formalities, began their hunt all over again.

Kim is a second grade teacher, and we had a ball talking about the kind of adults these different personality types, would grow up to be. We don't need a long-term, costly research study to tell us this, the ones that know from an early age, that you've gotta ask for what you want, unapologetically, with charisma and strength, are going to be just fine. I, myself, would have taken the one on top, only one, never forgetting to say, "Trick-or-treat," and always remembering to say, "Thank you!" It's only at age 50 that I can finally stand with my hands on my hips, look someone right in the eye, smile and say, "I'll take TWO!"