Letter to Hollywood Producers

Dear People Who Make Movies for Kids, I just want to thank you for your recent movie "Curious George". I recently saw it again with my 4 year old son at a special "Summer Movie" screening in my town. It is possibly one of the silliest movies ever made, and I mean that in the best sense of the word. When you have an entire theater of 4 year olds laughing because George puts a sandwich on his head instead of the yellow hat, well, you know you've hit gold. Please make more movies like this. And stop making movies like Chicken Little. Chicken Little is, in a word, lame. And I don't mean that in the best sense of the word. I mean it's lame in the sense of "Who on earth thought that kids under the age of 6 would find a movie about scary aliens really fun?" And you know it's the kids under the age of 6 who are watching it, because the older kids have already figured out that it's lame. And what's with the whole complex family relationships you've got going in that show, huh? Like 4 year olds care about "closure" with their fathers, or can identify with deep seeded needs to prove themselves to fathers who just don't 'get' them. Again, those are issues that older kids are dealing with, and again, older kids ain't watchin' 'cause they're hip to your lameness. Please stop making movies like "Robots". It's a seriously creepy world with adult innuendos and constant jokes about a woman's robot butt. And the message of "You can shine whatever you're made of" just doesn't translate very well to a kid under 8. Refer to the above discussion about lameness regarding why kids over 8 aren't watching. And seriously, there ARE other actresses besides Joan Cusack who can be a character's voice. Besides, every time you use her, it confuses the kids because they keep saying stuff like, "Hey, it's Jessi! Is Bullseye in this movie, too? I want Woody!" And since there is nobody even half as cool as Buzz Lightyear in "Robots", you can see the mother's dilemma. Please note. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO ENTERTAIN ADULTS WHEN YOU MAKE A MOVIE FOR KIDS! I am not offended when my kid is laughing at something I recognize as inane humor. I do not attend animated shows because I personally find them inspiring and uplifting and I'm intrigued by the computer graphics. I buy animated shows to keep my son from driving me up the wall. I go to theaters because it's too friggin' hot to take my kid anywhere else and the neighbors are tired of him knocking on their doors demanding to know when their kids will be home. I park him in front of the TV so I don't have to play lightsabers with him for the billionth time that day. These are my goals. Notice that "entertain myself" is not among them. And please don't make another movie where I have to explain why the Cat in the Hat says "Awkward!" when the boy tells him that the woman that made the kitty go "schwing" is his mother. And that was just from a preview. Sincerely yours, Curious George Fan
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I hate the Very Hungry Caterpillar

Yeah, yeah, yeah, you all are saying, "How can you hate that book? It's a classic! Eric Carle is a genius! Counting, days of the week, healthy lifestyle, that book has everything!" I used to think that way, too. And then I saw the light. And I'm here to expose the truth. That book is part of a VAST, RIGHT BUTTERFLY-WING conspiracy to DESTROY ALL THE PLANTS OF THE WORLD! That book is not only pro-insect. It is ANTI-PLANT! Seriously, haven't we all grown up charmed by these little creatures? Oh, the magic of it all--a caterpillar eats some good food, makes a cocoon, and emerges as a beautiful butterfly. Oh, look at the pretty butterfly! Pretty, pretty, pretty! Not once did it mention the untimely DEATH OF PLANTS that is necessary to support such pretty activities. Does Eric Carle put a disclaimer on his "book" about how many innocent vegetables were harmed in the making of his "classic"? Of course not! He's right there, in the inner circle! To date, these "cute" little creatures have completely destroyed our broccoli crop, in a matter of 2 days, I might add. Yeah, nice green leaf, my *&^%. Also, we found more of the gross, disgusting creatures burrowing into our squash, and it's just a matter of time before we lose most of our squash as well. These fiends hid themselves so well that we didn't notice the damage until it was extensive. Stupid insects. And did you know that these insects are so revered, they even get a special name for their excretions? Yes, it's called "fress". Why everybody just can't call it poop is beyond me. And the visual propaganda is just appalling. I mean, everybody goes for something that looks like this, right? Would you sell as many books if you included THIS, a TRUE IMAGE? Not exactly cute and fuzzy, eh? And yes, those are exact creatures that are inhabitating MY garden! Did I invite them to the party? I don't think so. Join with me friends, join with me to end this conspiracy, to reveal the truth about these creatures. They are foul, evil, squash and broccoli eating fiends who are not to be trusted. And I'd like somebody to figure out how I can recover damages from these guys. They owe me some vegetables, dang it! Maybe I should call Eric Carle. He looks like a guy who could be easily extorted, right?
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"Be prepared"--not just for Scouts.

I recently met up with an old friend. I love this woman. She's fantastic. She's the type of woman who has planned her entire life around being a wife and mother, and it's awe inspiring. She has entire file folders full of decorating ideas for her house, things she has been collecting for literally years and years. She bought all the Disney shows when they came out as "Limited Editions", just so her kids could know and appreciate all the classics. She has boxes of recipes, ready at a moment to be used for her family. She is, in all aspects, the perfect wife and mother. There's only one problem. She isn't a wife, or a mother. She is nearing 40, and is single. And she's not pleased about this. As you can imagine. It's been interesting to watch what this woman has done with her life. She studied something in college that would come in extremely handy as a mother, but has virtually no economic value at all. When she graduated, husbandless and childless, well, she was a little stuck, I think. She sort of bounced from menial job to menial job, trying to figure out what to do. She eventually pulled it together and got a decent job with good pay, benefits, etc, but again, it wasn't something on a career track. It was definitely something where she could pull out at any moment, should that family opportunity suddenly arrive. 7 years later, she is finally starting a career. And doing extremely well, I might add. But part of me sort of feels like muttering, "What took you so long?" I also know several women who took similar paths, but they did get the husband and the children. They felt prepared for motherhood (or as prepared as you could be--I mean, can anybody possibly prepare enough for the poop?)but feel ill prepared for anything else. Sometimes they express discontent, and I have asked them, "Well, what did you want to do before you had kids?" The answer, of course, is, "I wanted to have kids." I have also asked women this question, "What DID you do before you had kids?" The answer: "Prepared for a family". Well, they got the kids--now what? I am in no way suggesting that women shouldn't prepare for motherhood and family. I wish I had prepared better in so many ways, and had to learn the hard way some of the lessons that could have been learned easier and under better circumstances. But I think so many women could be better served, especially in the church, if there is a message somewhere that says, "You may not get the family that you want and expect. Then what?", or "You may get the family that you want, but when you need time for youself, what skill will you fall back on that can fulfill you as an individual, separate from your mothering duties?" I'm not even only talking about something specific to earning potential. There are plenty of things that can be fulfilling to a mother beyond her family that may or may not be economically viable. But in my friend's case, economic stability was a crucial factor for her as she struggled to support herself financially. So money, or lack thereof, can definitely be a part of the equation. So I would love to see the motto "Be Prepared" be taught not only to the Scouts, but to the Young Women too. Be prepared, little ladies, for an awesome, exciting, tiring, joyful ride called motherhood. Be prepared, young maidens, for a time when you wonder what there is beyond this wonderful ride, when you want to remember what you liked to do before you entered the land of diapers, car seats, car pools, and ballet lessons. Be prepared, little mommies to be, for a time when you want to follow the Lord's commandments to be sealed to a worthy priesthod holder, but that priesthood holder just isn't showing up, and you are on your own for the forseeable future. And above all, be prepared, O ye daughters of God, to follow His will and stay on your knees when all you have prepared for gets completely shot to hell, and you have no idea what is coming next. Those are the times that will try you the most. And always bring a dry pair of socks.
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Mommy in a Mustang

Today, as I was coming home from shopping, my car full of groceries (most notably the eight potatoes I had to bake for the swim meet,'cause that's what every kid under the age of 8 wants in the 101 degree heat after swimming 3 laps--a piping hot tuber), a convertible Mustang with 3 young women turned left in front of me. These girls could have been in a commercial, they were just that typical. Young, tan, beautiful hair that was flowing just right in the breeze, you know, instead of all messed up and tangled from the wind, like that scene in "Terms of Endearment" when Shirley McLaine goes to lunch with Jack Nicholsen (has that guy ever NOT been creepy?), and they drive in his covertible too fast and her hair piece is all torn to shreds. I sighed just a little as I watched them. I was reminded of a time when I, too, had that carefree look. Ok, so my hair always turns into a rat's nest when I'm in a convertible (which, you know, I've managed at LEAST half a dozen times in my life!), but still, I FELT carefree, even if I did look like Shirley McLaine without a wig. It happened when J was still quite little, and I was doing per diem work for my old company. One of the speech therapists was on vacation, so I was covering for her for the entire week. Of course, this happened when our car was in the shop, so my only choice was to rent a car to get to work. It was a beautiful spring day in Boston, you know, the kind that almost makes up for the dreadful New England winters (almost). I went to rent a car, and the guy said, "For 10 bucks more, I can get you into that", and he pointed to a silver Mustang convertible in the parking lot. Sold, baby. As I stepped into the Mustang, I felt like I morphed from tired Mommy who spent her life with spit up on her clothes into Hey there, sexy Momma! And, looking back, J was so young that it was the first time I had been really dressed in probably a month. Work was about 30 minutes away, in Concord, which is a beautiful place to be any time of the year. I drove along Route 2, breezy and excited to be free of mothering duties, just for a minute. And then, wonder of wonders, I even got honked at by some leering guy in a Pontiac. Not that I'm partial to creepy, possible rapist types who honk at strange women, but I do have to admit, it gave me a boost. I roared into work, still feeling happy and carefree, and did what I had to do. I drove home, still smiling, and then went to pick up my precious offspring at the babysitter's. The illusion of the day was only slightly spoiled by me strapping my small child into the carseat in the back, and I did stop speeding, just because I was terrified of what would happen to a little child in a convertible if we had a wreck. And I should point out that from the babysitter's to the rental place was, at most, 1.5 miles. Please, I'm no Brittany Spears. (Although you do have to feel sorry for the girl. I'd hate to have the papparazzi judging every mothering move I make.) I returned the Mustang, and the illusion faded completely when I got the car seat out of the car, pulled the stroller out of the trunk, and proceeded to drag the car seat while simultaneously pushing the stroller with my small child in it down the street the mile or so back to our apartment. Sweating, tired, with a screaming child in the stroller, I trudged back home, thinking, Well, at least that icky Pontiac guy won't get me. There's absolutely no way he would know I was the same person. I returned to my apartment, fed my son, and we all went back to our lives. Ok, and the point of this rambling post? I'm glad I had the experience, and others like that--bright spots that remind us who we are, why we do what we do, and then let us be better mothers for it. We need Mustang Moments! I'm sure that if I hadn't been living in the land of non-stop nursing, no sleep, cleaning spit-up and poop 24 hours a day, I wouldn't have enjoyed the day nearly as much. It would have just been another day with the perk of having a different car. But as it was, I got to laugh and think, Wow, the rest of the world has no idea! This isn't really me. I'm just a Mommy in a Mustang. I really got to get me one of those.
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You say Tomahto...

I say I LOVE SUMMER FOOD! Yes, this is a picture of a tomato that came from our garden. It isn't the first one--the first one we ate yesterday, too excited to be finally eating the fruits of our labors to take a picture of it. There are two more coming right along on the vine, if you will. And now, I am going to tell you the most delicious way to eat fresh tomatoes, even if you don't have them growing in your garden. Ok, cut them into thin slices. Put the slices on a platter of some kind (I just used a casserole dish as well as a platter I have--a 9x13 will work ok too), pour some balsamic vinegar and olive oil over the tomatoes. Then slice up some mozzarella cheese, and put the slices on top of the vinegar/olive oil soaked tomatoes. Top them off with some chopped up fresh basil, and voila! You have a delicious, fresh, very healthy snack or side dish that looks incredibly fancy. Yum! Ok, your kids probably won't eat it, but that leaves more for Mom, I always say. Also, we went blueberry picking today, and I learned something about freezing summer berries: Freeze them on a cookie sheet to keep them from sticking together. I told my SIL this tip today, and she basically said, "Um, duh!", but hey, I thought I'd share for those of us who are frozen-berry challenged. I may have mentioned this before, but I love iced mint tea. You take some fresh mint leaves, put them in a cup, and pour boiling water over them. Just let them seep for a while, and then pull the leaves out or strain the water, add sugar to taste, and you've got a lovely drink. Stick a large portion in the fridge, and in a few hours, you have a lovely, refreshing drink that is fantastic at the hot pool. You can also add mint leaves to lemonade for the extra something special. Any other fun summer food tips? Recipes, things you love, yummy drink concoctions? Liesl, if you are reading this, I want your watermelon slushie recipe. That stuff rocks!
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Non Mommy related question

Ok, this has nothing to do with motherhood, but I need a little bit of input, so I thought I'd ask y'all. And I know I said that I wouldn't blog about PKD on this blog, but like I said, I need a little bit of help and advice, so, here I am. Here's the deal. The PKD Foundation has a walk every year, around the country. (Check out www.pkdcure.org for the walk in your town. It is held around the country on September 16th or Sept 17th. Yes, that was a shameless fundraising plug. Sorry). Anyway, our chapter here in Virginia is pretty new, and we are planning only our second walk this year. I sat in on the meeting, not having much to say, and finally I asked, "How long is the walk? Is it a 5k?" Everybody looked at me for a second, and then burst out laughing. "Oh, you can tell she's in good shape!" somebody said. "Girl, if you expect me to walk 5 miles, you're gonna hafta bring a coffin out with ya, 'cause I'll be dead!" "5k isn't 5 miles. It's 3.2", I said. "Well, I'll still be dead after about 2 miles!" he said, still chuckling. Everybody continued to chuckle as they explained that the walk was less than a mile. Less than a mile? Who's gonna show up for that? So, I was talking to DH about it, and he agrees that more people will be likely to come to a 5k that is on some running club's schedule and pay the $15 registration fee if they can actually run a race, as opposed to some little walking event. I think it could be a fairly successful event, really, if we combined a 5k with a "fun run/walk" for people who wouldn't really be able to run 5k. Dh and I got all worked up about the details, things we could do, etc, but we have one problem. I have no idea how to go about putting together a 5k. Not a clue. I've only actually run in about half a dozen of them in my whole life, and yes, I worked for Rick during a couple, but in all of those instances, I basically just had to show up. I'm not part of a running club, and if you asked me run a 5k right now, I'd probably do it, and then just not call you the next day as I moaned in inexpressible pain every time I moved. So, are there any runners out there who can tell me how I could possibly put this together? I've asked other people, of course, and I'll do some more research on my own, but I thought I'd throw out this question to everybody, in case there was somebody who can say, "Yes, I've planned one, and this is how you do it!" Thanks very much. And I promise that after this, we'll return you to our regularly scheduled program.
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A Failed Liberated Woman, or Losing the Battle in the Lawnmower Wars

I love gardening. I love everything about it. I love tilling soil, I love planting, mulching,weeding even. One of the things I like best about our new house is that we finally have a front and backyard we where can cultivate some of the skills we learned last year about having a garden. And we also finally have a lawn. That needs to be mowed. Often. After all, like DH said, living in the South is a bit like living in the Degobah system with Yoda. Times two. I actually like mowing the lawn. The first time I did it, I was a wussy girlie man and needed DH to start the dang thing for me. When I asked in frustration why it wouldn't start, he said, "It senses weakness". He gave it one swift pull--vroom, it revs to life, and he impishly grinned at me, leaving me to the task. Annoying, I know. I love him anyway. Last week, I was determined to mow down our rapidly growing mini-forest myself. And you know what? I DID! I got the thing pumped full of gas, I gave it some swift manly, calmly assertive pulls, and whaddya know, it came to life, and I mowed the whole lawn. I felt strong. I felt powerful. After all, mowing the lawn was typically a boy's job, and here I was, in my swimsuit and shorts (of course we had just come from the pool, our second home these days), my straw hat and sunscreen, sweatin' to the oldies, as it were, mowin' my lawn in the Degobah system. A liberated, strong, self-sufficient, self-reliant, lawn-mower-butt kickin' gal. And, if I do say so myself, I did a fabulous job. Well, it's been a week or so since my power trip, and it definitely needs to be done again. And heady with my success of last week, I decided to tackle the grass again. The lawnmower will not be moved. I can't get the stupid thing to work. At all. I've primed it, I've pulled and pulled until I swear I pulled a muscle in my neck and in my back, and I called DH swearing at him about the *&$#@ lawnmower. He calmly asked, with a laugh in his voice, what I thought he could do from his office, since he hasn't developed that certain ability to apparate from the office to home to fix all of my daily problems, and he does actually have to work for a living. Slacker, I know. I love him anyway. But clearly he doesn't understand the war that is underway, this battle of wills between me and the lawnmower. That the inanimate object is not just a piece of machinary that is simply malfunctioning, or a piece of junk that I simply do not know how to work properly. It is a sinister minion of Satan who is laughing at my feverish attempts to own it, to have a girl operate it. He is telling me, "You may have won last time, missy, but don't bet your little spandex clad bootie you can claim full victory. Victory, lassy, will be mine!" And I don't know why the lawnmower is talking to me in a vaguely Scottish accent, but, there it is. I don't want to admit defeat this time, but I may have to. But watch out, lawnmower. This day may be yours, but this isn't over. Not by a long shot. Summer's not even half over. We've got a looong way to go. BWHHAHAHAHAH.... (The guy in picture isn't me, by the way, nor is it DH. It's just some random guy who appeared in this short film which captures the event perfectly. Enjoy!)
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Taking Care of Rick, IV

I'm going to share one more thing with y'all about Rick that I bet you didn't know. And I can say y'all now because I live in the south and drive a pick up. Rick's a Mormon. He was baptized in September 1997. A golden investigator if there ever was one. When he told me that he was thinking about becoming a Mormon, I thought he was joking. I turned his wheelchair around and looked him right in the face and said, "Are you serious?" Indeed he was. I arranged for the missionaries to give him the discussions. He cruised through them, and was baptized not long after his first discussion. One of the missionaries who taught him had a disabled brother, and he said that Rick was one of the most important people he had met on his mission. The missionary said, "Rick, you remind me of my brother. I like being here with you." The doctrine that brought Rick to the church was the idea that when we are resurrected, our bodies are perfect. No more cerebral palsy. When Rick heard that, he started laughing, smiling, grinning, snorting, moving all his limbs around, all the things Rick does that means that he is happy. His baptism was the biggest I'd ever seen. The chapel was completely full, and I'm pretty sure Rick didn't know most of the people there. But they were all there for him. It was a good day. Rick has told me that he feels like he has a good relationship with God. And there was one incident that occurred around the time of his baptism that confirmed his faith. Rick does not have a PCA at night. He sleeps alone in his apartment. He used to sleep on a waterbed, to avoid getting bed sores that are so common with people who can't move themselves around in their sleep. Rick can move somewhat, but he still needs a special bed. One night, his waterbed broke, and he was lying face down in it. It was in the middle of the night, and Rick was in serious trouble. He told me that he prayed to God to help him. Soon thereafter, there was a knock on the door, and then somebody entered the apartment. It was the night maitenance man who was on duty, and although he didn't speak English very well, he was aware enough of the situation to get Rick out of the water, and somehow get him safe. As far as I know, that guy has never done something like that before--enter a resident's apartment in the middle of the night with his master key. But that night, something prompted him to check on Rick, and he saved Rick from a potential scary situation. That must have been some prayer. Rick also has a firm faith in his own mission, that God has put him here for a purpose. He is to be the voice for people with disabilities. Ironic, really, since Rick can't even talk. And yet he has found ways to reach thousands of people, letting them know that people with disabilities are people too, and that really, there are no limits to what you can do, disabled or not. If you want to know more about Rick and his father, please visit his website. Be sure to click on the part about stories inspired by them, especially if you are in the mood for a really great cry (in a good way!) There is a book about them that you can order from the site, and you can even donate to the Team Hoyt Fund, which is used to help various programs for individuals with disabilities. You can also run with them in Virginia Beach in September. Well, you'll have to be in pretty good shape, as I think it's a half marathon race, but you can come and hang out with us as we cheer them on from the sidelines. It's guaranteed to be a party. With Rick, there is never, ever a dull moment! Other links: The Hoyts prepare for 25th Boston Marathon Team Hoyt misses the Boston Marathon due to surgery Tribute to the Hoyts (includes SI article about them)
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Taking Care of Rick III

I broke Rick's nose once. Not intentionally, mind you, and it's not like it was perfect to begin with. But those horrible moments I was talking about? Yeah, that was one of them. It happened on a day I took Rick to work at Boston College, where he was helping them develop a new augmentative communication device by tracking the movements of the eyes. They were basically trying to come up with something where they could eventually use a person's eyes like a mouse. Cool stuff. The day in question was after he had recently gotten a new wheelchair. His old chair was huge, red, and sort of metallic, and it didn't fit completely onto the lift of the van. It sort of hung over the edge, so you couldn't lock the small gate on the edge of the lift designed to keep the wheelchair from falling off. It was with this chair that I was trained with, and, well, old habits die hard. Once he got the new chair, of course Rick trained all the PCAs to lock that little gate. For that matter, a good, conscientious PCA should always lock a wheelchair's breaks anytime she can not be physically holding on to the wheelchair. It's basic safety, and I've since learned how necessary it is. It was a hard lesson, though. As I was loading Rick into the van that day, I got him all the way up to the top of the lift, and he was about to roll back into the car. Well, somehow I got distracted, whatever, and he didn't roll backwards. Rather, he rolled forwards. I have seen the moment a thousand times replayed in my head and in my nightmares. Brakes unlocked, Rick rolled forward, pitched over the edge of the lift, where I had, per previous habit, not locked the tiny fence, and he landed face first onto the concrete sidewalk below, falling about 3 feet. I don't remember much about the rest of the moment--somehow I was next to him, somehow we were both covered in blood, and somebody, who knows who, asked me if he could do anything for me. "Yes, call 911", I said, and somewhere in the back of my brain, you know, the part that doesn't actually do anything but just records things, said, 'I can't believe you just said that.' Again, I don't know how events transpired, because I was so terrified about the extent of Rick's injuries, and seriously, how would I tell Dick Hoyt that I had killed his son? But somehow an ambulance got there, a nurse materialized out of nowhere to mop up the blood and figure out what we were dealing with, and we somehow got Rick to the hospital. When all was said and done, Rick was basically ok. He had suffered a broken nose, but no deviated septum. You can thank the fact that he fell literally flat on his face for that one. His pinky on his right hand had been sort of squished in the fall, but the X-rays showed no broken bones. He was bruised, bloody, and was in some significant pain, but nothing he wouldn't recover from. And he was even ok enough to crack a few jokes. When I told him I was certain that he had suffered brain damage, he said, "That's ok. I already have brain damage." And hey, I guess he can't complain too much. In the hospital, to shrink his swollen nasal passages (Rick is an obligate nose breather, so having a plugged up noggin made him pretty anxious) the doctor's gave him some cocaine. Seriously. Nothing like sanctioned illegal drug use to lift the spirits, I always say. Like I said, that was a horrible moment in my life. I relived it over and over, both awake and asleep. My roommate at the time said that I was thrashing in my sleep once, and she said I started yelling about Rick. If Rick were reading this, I'm sure he'd be trying to make a crack about being the man of my dreams. Sorry, guy, you were more like a nightmare! But Rick never held that moment against me, nor did his father. Or if they did, they both hid it pretty well from me, and we all moved on. Sure, Rick once joked that if I was ever looking for a second profession, I should really consider becoming a mortician, and he did say that I had completely given up my shot at the title of 'BEST PCA EVER!' "Good PCAs don't break other people's noses", he said. I guess he does have a point. But all in all, they accepted my profound apologies, and Dick even made me feel better by telling me about the time HE dropped Rick, getting out of the car on their way to a wedding. Blood all over the tuxedos--not a pretty sight. So of all the lessons I have learned by working for Rick, this one is paramount: Always lock the brakes.
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Taking Care of Rick, Part II

There are two things that I will forever associate with Rick: The Boston Marathon, and Walden Pond. Rick lives to race. That's what he does. It's who he is. He and his father participate in at least 52 races a year, I think. That number is just off the top of my head, but they race at least once almost every weekend, sometimes twice. Some of the races they run are short, like the occasional 5 or 10k. Some of them are longer, like the 6 Iron Man Triathlons they have competed in around the world. Again, that number is just the one I used when I was working for him. It wouldn't surprise me if they have now been in far more than just 6. At this point, most people ask me, "How do they do triathlons?" Well, Dick pushes Rick in the running part, of course, and they have a special bike that they can strap Rick into for the biking section. For the swim, Dick puts Rick in an inflatable raft, which has a line connected to a vest that Dick wears while he swims, allowing Dick to tow Rick. Yes, I've seen videos of it, and it's just as amazing as you think it is. But the Boston Marathon is their race. Rick actually graduated from Boston University, and so feels like there are parts of the race that belong to him, like the road through Kenmore Square where I first saw him. Ironically, during the 2+ years I worked for Rick, I only worked about half a dozen races. I took care of him mostly on weekdays, and the races, of course, are on the weekends. But I did get to work the morning of the Boston Marathon. What a trip! Rick and Dick were getting interviewed at every turn, and everybody knew who they were. They were also the very first people on the starting line. The wheelchairs start first, of course, and when Dick pushed Rick out to the big yellow line on the road, a huge cry went up from the who knows how many thousands of people who were waiting to start the race. Like I said, everybody knows them. Years later, when I was watching the marathon on TV, I waited to see Rick and Dick cross the finish line. After they crossed, the media coverage of the race stopped. I realized that the television crews were waiting to cut the feed until the Hoyts had finished. After all, you can't have the Boston Marathon without the Hoyts. It will forever be their race. (By the way, note the time on the clock behind them in the picture. That's a fairly accurate reflection of Team Hoyt's Marathon time. Pretty speedy.) But like I said, my time spent with Rick was rarely spent at a race, strange as that may sound. A large part of my time with Rick was spent at Waldon Pond. Rick loves to swim, surprisingly enough. And he can do it, sort of. He and I would go to the pool at BU, which had lift access to the lanes. I would get in with him, tread water next to him, then flip him over, face down in the water, for 5 seconds while he flailed every limb, propelling himself about 3 feet. Then I would flip him back, let him breathe, and wait for his signal that he was ready to be flipped again. If and when he got too cold or too tired to swim anymore, I would then tow him, one hand wrapped around his chest, the other arm swimming the side stroke, his head resting on my shoulder, as long as he wanted to be towed. We did this a lot, and it was a work out for both of us. Rick had a goal that summer. His goal was to swim across Walden Pond. Walden is not a small pond, but it's not tremendously wide if you cut straight across it. Still, it seemed a rather formidable goal, but I came to understand that if Rick wanted you to do something for him, you did it. We spent countless hours in the BU pool, working up both of our endurance. And once the weather got warm enough, we headed out to the pond. The first time we tried it, I thought we were both going to drown. The water was colder than we expected, and Rick practically seized, he was shivering so hard. I was cold, too, and got exhausted well before we reached the other side of the pond. Bad news when you are responsible for somebody else's safety. A lifeguard saw me drag him out of the pond, and came rushing over, thinking Rick was a drowning victim. Well, not yet, I thought, when the lifeguard quickly asked me if Rick had drowned. But another trip like that, and he will definitely be fish food! We were both completely spent, and Rick was dangerously cold, too cold to go back in the water for the return trip to the original shore. I started to pick him up to carry him back around the shore of the pond, when that blessed lifeguard volunteered to do it for me. He carried Rick back to his chair, and I slowly pushed him back to his van, convinced that this would be the end of the whole affair. Silly me. It would take a lot more than cold water and a tired PCA to make Rick quit. Of course you know by now that we made it across that pond, both across and back, several times. Rick pushed us both beyond what I thought either one of us was capable of, time and time again. That's another thing Rick does. He pushes people beyond what they think their limits are, forcing them to find the parts of themselves that will give a little more, even when they think that surely they are empty. Rick will always ask you for everything you've got. After all, it's no less than he asks of himself.
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Taking care of Rick, Part I

This is my friend Rick. Well, Rick and his dad, Dick Hoyt. They are a team. They call themselves Team Hoyt. I'm blogging about him because I was thinking about him tonight. I was thinking about all of the other 4th of July's I've ever had, and I was reminded of a particularly interesting 4th I spent working for Rick. Then I thought, "Hey, I haven't introduced everybody to Rick, yet!" See, the thing about Rick is that he's the type of person who blesses other people, just by meeting them. Yep, that's right. If you meet Rick, and/or his dad, you are automatically blessed. So, consider yourselves getting a freebie today. The first time I saw Rick, I didn't know his name, or his story, or anything about him, actually. Surprisingly, I had never even heard of him, which is unusual, living in Boston. He is, without question, a local celebrity. Anyway, the first time I saw him, I was in Kenmore Square with my friend Jessi, watching the Boston Marathon. Kenmore Square is right where Fenway Park is, and it is mile 25 of the Boston Marathon. It is also right in the middle of BU campus (such as it is), so that's where most of us students would come out to watch the race. My friend and I stood there, two Utah girls watching a phenomenon we had never experienced, and there he was, right in front of me. Rick, in his racing chair, being pushed by his dad through mile 25. The crowd was going crazy, and even I started screaming for them, not having any clue what or who I was screaming for, I was just completely caught up in the moment. Then I saw them as they passed me, and tears came to my eyes. Here was a dad, pushing his son, doing something for his son that he clearly could not for himself. Pretty awesome, if you ask me. Fast forward two years. I was a senior, about to graduate from a program in "allied health professions", looking at grad schools, and I felt my resume needed to be beefed up in terms of professional experience. "Waitress at Pizzerio Uno" just didn't seem all that impressive. So I was perusing the BU job board, and I noticed a post for a PCA, a Personal Care Attendant for a young man with cerebral palsy. Duties: Bathing, dressing, feeding, light housekeeping. Competitive pay, flexible hours. Therapy majors preferred. Contact Rick Hoyt. Sounded perfect. I called, and set up a time with the woman who answered the phone to meet Rick. I thought Rick just hadn't answered the phone because he was unavailable, or something. I dunno, maybe he had an issue with the phone. It never occurred to me that Rick didn't answer his phone because he couldn't talk. Or actually pick up a phone, for that matter. Thus, I was totally unprepared for what met me when I went to the interview. The same woman I talked to on the phone answered the door, and Rick was sitting in his wheelchair by the table. He was smiling at me in a goofy way, laughing sort of with a snorting sound, and moving all of his limbs at once. I have since learned that's how he acts when he sees a woman he thinks is cute, and that he prefers blondes. At the time, I only saw a spastic, nonverbal quadriplegic making some seriously funky sounds. I felt like bolting for the door, right then and there. But I took a deep breath and I stayed, and learned about what it takes to take care of Rick. Quite a lot, actually, and initially I felt overwhelmed, underqualified, and simply not strong enough. I felt I wasn't strong enough both to emotionally handle dealing with somebody with a disability on such close terms, and also not physically strong enough to lift him from his chair, into the bathtub, out of the bathtub, carry him to his bed, dress him, back to the chair, etc, etc. He doesn't weigh much, but for a wimpy girl like me, it took a while before it was easy to swing him around. But I have to say, it took far longer for my arm and back muscles to get used to it than it did for my heart. I found out pretty quickly that Rick is easy to love, and lives to bless the life of others. Some of the most powerful moments of my life have come from taking care of Rick. And, to be honest, some of the most horrible moments have come from taking care of him too, mostly because in some way or another, I failed him, and failed him terribly. I'd like to take some time to share some of those moments with all of you. Not today, of course--this post is too long as it is. But Rick has told me that he feels he was put on the earth to show people that being disabled is not the worst thing that can happen to you, and to educate everybody, both disabled and mobile, what a person who can't walk, talk, or even do anything more than nod his head consistently (even that can sometimes be iffy!) can accomplish. So, in the next little while, I'd like to share with you some of his accomplishments, and some of my experiences with him and his extraordinary family. Like I said, prepare to be blessed.
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Good primary teachers are hard to find

I have to admit, J used to hate church. We would battle all morning about going to church. He would cry, throw his clothes away from him, refused to get dressed, and scream, "I hate church! I don't want to go!" all the way there in the car. He would squirm in Sacrament meeting, he would ask loudly to go home, and he would insist that he didn't want to go to Primary. In short, it was a nightmare. And then, we moved. Today, he sat, just SAT, in a his seat during Sacrament meeting. We had no fight getting him there, even though he was playing on the computer when I got him dressed, which means he had to give up his beloved Nick JR.com games to go to church. No screams about primary, just a perfectly behaved little kid. What's the deal? I thought. Is he just growing up? Then I met his new Sunbeam teacher, and the light dawned. The first Sunday, J handed me a full sized painting of himself. You know, the kind where you lay out a huge thing of butcher paper, trace the kid's whole body, and then let him color everything else in. I'm sure she tied it into some basic doctrine like, "God made our bodies". J was thrilled. Today, I caught a glimpse of her classroom, and she had put a giant Noah's ark, in that same butcher paper, up on the wall, and the kids had drawn the necessary items to the story--the rain, the clouds, the animals, the water, etc, etc. Truly, it looked like something even I would have hours of pleasure doing. Last Sunday, J handed me a paper sack full of "treasures": Rocks, bits of bark, an oak leaf, and some dirt he had clearly gotten on a little walk around the chapel. Again, he was thrilled, and kept that grubby little bag for days before he let me return the treasures back to the earth. My gratitude for this new teacher knows no bounds. I've told her what a difference she has made in our lives, and she just shrugged, poo-poohed it, and said that J is a great kid who is a joy to have in her class. Truly, she does not know how her preparedness, her effort, and her love have changed my son's entire attitude about church. We owe this woman a lot. So if any of you out there teach the Sunbeams, and you think it's sort of a lame calling, please know that there are desperate parents out there who need your skills, your dedication, and your presence as we give to you our young children and put their spiritual education, or at least their spiritual attention span, into your hands. I used to think the RS was where it's at, but now I know that truly, the Lord needs His very best people in the primary. So thanks to all of you hard working primary people, and thanks to the Bishops who realize that primary is not a throw-away calling. Our kids deserve the very, very best.
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