Kate, my daughter, is a very smart, level-headed young lady. She has always been a black-and-white, by-the-book, follow-the-rules type kid — the polar opposite of her brother, Andy, but that's another blog.
So when it was time to select a college, she did her homework. She wanted a school that was on the smaller size. A school that was in an urban area, but not necessarily a large urban area. She wanted a school with a good pre-med program ... a good Spanish program ... and a safe campus. And she wanted a school with a good swim team.
To that end, she went on half-a-dozen college visits, many of them paid visits on behalf of the swim team. In the end, it came down to two different schools: The University of Northern Colorado in Greeley, Colorado, and Whitworth University in Spokane, Washington. Each school was giving her academic scholarships. And UNC was giving her athletic scholarships, too. Factoring in all the options — including the money — the Colorado school won out. So thirteen months ago, she accepted UNC's offer and that was the plan ever since.
In August, we made the trek to Colorado. Kate, Lisa and I in the van, loaded top to bottom with dorm-room stuff. We spent the better part of a week in Greeley, setting Kate up in her room, going through orientation and so on.
But some things that happened there gave us pause.
The swim coach, for instance, could never find the time to meet us. And because she was a swimmer, Kate had to register with an "athletic advisor." This young man spent an hour with Kate, arguing with her that the classes she wanted to take were "too hard" and that she should consider taking fewer classes — and easier classes — to help boost the swim team's GPA. That didn't sit well with Kate ... or with us.
But after a tearful farewell, we parent got back in the van and headed home.
Roughly 10 days later, on a Saturday, we got a long, very unhappy email from Kate. She said she had made a terrible mistake and UNC was not the school for her. She knew it was too late to do anything about it, but wanted to let us know that she would stick out the year, but that she would not be returning.
Her reasons? For one thing, her three roommates wanted to do little else but party. Kate was placed on an all-athletes floor where the students were essentially given carte blanche. When the three male baseball players living next door came over to introduce themselves, the first thing they said was "you guys all smoke pot and drink, right?" One by one, Kate's three roommates said sure, of course, absolutely. Kate just looked at them and said "no way." That's Kate.
In one of the first team meetings with the swim team, the head swim coach told the girls that she knew they would drink and party ... and that was OK, as long as they didn't come to practice with a hangover. Oh, and her advice for partying? "If the cops come, drop your drink and run." Seriously? A D-1 head coach essentially condoning drinking and partying? Again, that is SO not Kate.
Because of a scheduling snafu, she was never able to eat lunch. She has class from 11 to 2 each day, and the dining halls weren't open beyond that for lunch. So she was supposed to go to morning workout ... eat breakfast ... go to three classes ... then go to afternoon workout with no lunch. The dining hall people told her that it was her problem.
Anyway, long and unpleasant story short, Lisa and I decided that Saturday that it was silly to make Kate spend a year in college being miserable. So we called her ... talked at length ... then packed up (along with one of Kate's dear high school friends in tow) and drove straight through from Vancouver to Greeley, a super-fun 19+ hours.
As you can imagine, the swim coach was none too thrilled about this. Although ironically, in talking about drinking on campus, she mentioned to us that "out of control drinking" was one of the reasons she lost her previous coaching jobs. Hmm. Dorm cleaned out, admissions withdrawn and coach unpleasantness, we were officially done with UNC.
Spent much of the 19 hour drive home on the cell phone to the folks at Whitworth. What a difference. Yes, they could admit Kate. Yes, she would still get all of her scholarship money — even more, in fact. The snag was housing. This was their biggest class ever and they were actually 100% full up. Between the wonderful admissions counselor and the amazing swim coach, they made it happen. Kate was allowed to live in an apartment off campus — the first and only time they've allowed a freshman to do that. Whitworth staff — from the president and the director of housing, to admissions, financial aid and the advisors — bent over backwards to help us out in any way they could.
Again, long story short, we went from withdrawing at UNC to driving Kate to Whitworth in the span of five days. She had an apartment very near school. Our plan was to make it so that she would never be there along for the first week. As lucky would have it, we didn't get that far. Five days after she moved in, a dorm room became available. We're not 100% sure why, but our hunch is that Kate's advisor made it happen. He was horrified that an 18-year old freshman girl was living off campus in an apartment by herself. He even went so far as to line up classmates to escort Kate to and from campus! So we drove back to Spokane and moved Kate from the apartment to the dorm. Our prayers had been answered.
Yes, Whitworth is more expensive than UNC. But in the grand scheme of things, what's another loan or two. The bottom line for us is that the fit is right. Kate is where she belongs. She loves her dorm. She loves her swim team. She loves her teachers and classmates and the campus. And she loves that it's a close-knit Christian school with all that entails. Equally important for her is what it doesn't entail ... the big partying scene and the dumbing-down of student athletes.
No two universities are the same. And finding the right fit for your student is paramount. As trite as it may sound, don't let your checkbook be the key determining factor. That's a lesson we learned the hard way!
P.S. — To our friends, family, co-workers and clients who send support during this miserable few weeks, we say THANK YOU! Hopefully this gives you a little more detail of the craziness going on this past August and September!
Do not adjust your dial.
Somehow between the end of school, graduation, Disneyland, Andy's birthday, summer swim season, packing for college and driving to/from college (in Colorado), my blogging efforts have fallen by the wayside. But never fear fans of the perpetually too long stories! I'm back with a vengeance. Stay tuned.
'Twas the Fourth of July, six or seven years ago. As in previous years, we were the crazy house where everyone came for dinner and a fireworks show — and what a show it was! Since our town is one of those last bastions of fireworks insanity (where you can buy everything short of firecrackers and M-80s), we always went a little over the top. We'd spend a couple hundred dollars, friends would bring fireworks, too. Before you know it, we had 30 people in the yard and enough fireworks for 90+ minutes.
On this particular year, there was a bit of a breeze. Felt great, since it was hot out, but not good for fireworks that blast 50' into the sky. About an hour into the show, our mistress of the matches, Shannon, lit off something that was supposed to send a dozen flaming balls high into the July 4th sky, each one breaking into a different colored firework. If only.
Instead, the damn thing tipped over the instant it was fully lit. The first ball shot out over the head of the kids in the lawn. The force of the shot made the entire thing spin. It became a crazy Russian roulette of fiery balls. The second ball shot down the center of the street, harmless. I was inside, getting a blanket when I heard all the commotion. "Duck!" "Stay down!" "Run!" What on earth was going on.
As I came out the back door and neared the gate onto the driveway, a flaming ball when whizzing past my head, literally inches away. I ducked ... took a look around and saw that everyone else had scrambled.
Once the firework stopped its crazy dance, we noticed that the neighbors boxwood hedge was on fire. No problem, we had the hose ready to go and a bucket of water. Unfortunately, the hedge was dry. Very, very dry.
So in a matter of seconds, an entire section of the hedge was in flames. The hose wouldn't reach, naturally. As Lisa and a few others ran to use the neighbors hose, Andy and I ran into our backyard ... grabbed big plastic toy tubs ... and dipped them into our kiddie pool. We then ran across the street and tossed the water onto the shrubs. Someone in the house had called 911.
By the time the firetruck arrived a few minutes later, we had managed to put out the flames. Picture a 20-year-old boxwood hedge with a 5' section in the middle charred and smoking, no longer green.
The capper to the evening? As Lisa was explaining what had happened to the fireman, she accidentally sprayed him with the hose in her hand. His buddies howled ... checked the bush ... told us we had done a great job ... and drove away.
No one said a word. We boxed up the remaining fireworks and gave them to a friend. We swept the street. Everyone packed up their stuff. And the neighbor — who was very nice — told us she was so happy no one was hurt.
Yes, we bought and planted new boxwoods and purchased a new mailbox, too (the other one had melted in the fire). But that was the last time we ever did fireworks at our house. As I lay in bed this time of year, listening to the pops and bangs and booms in the distance, I wonder if somewhere out there, there may be another burning bush. Happy July 4th, everyone! Make it a safe one!
Most kids have a few bumps and bruises on the way from baby to toddler to teen. A sprained ankle here, a bug bite or two there.
Andy is not like most kids.
Ever since he was born, nearly 21 years ago, Andy has had a devil-may-care attitude about safety. When he was little, if we went somewhere near a pond, pool or body of water, he'd try and jump in it ... never mind he couldn't swim at the time. If there was a play structure to be climbed or a fence to be scaled, Andy was right there. And also unlike most kids, he had a tolerance for pain that's really remarkable.
Like the time in grade school when he was at the park with friends. Gone just a few minutes, they all came running back to the house, with one little girl telling us "Andy fell off the bars and his arm doesn't look right." When Andy came into view, he was white as a ghost, but not making a peep. Diagnosis: Broken elbow. Six weeks in a cast and sling was to follow.
Then there was the time he was at junior high bike camp with our church group. This particular year was Eastern Oregon year. At the end of the camp, a friend brought him to the beach, where we were already at with Kate for a swim meet. Poor kid was red from head to toe, with nasty blotches all over his body. Diagnosis: Poison oak. He had told his teenage counselor, who told him to go ask an adult. That must have seemed like too much drama, so Andy went back to bed and started scratching. Got so bad he had to be on antibiotics.
Also in middle school, there was the time he was visiting the Oregon coast with Lisa and her extended family. Lisa's brother let Andy climb up on some barnacle-covered rocks in the waves. Sure enough, whoosh came a big wave and down fell Andy — peeling off a dinner-plate sized piece of skin from his leg and thigh. Diagnosis: Enough degloved skin to require stitches, antibiotics and very nearly a skin graft. No tears, though, even though it hurt like hell — especially the cleaning.
With a nurse in the family, our kids have lived by the adage that if there are tears and fussing, there had darn well better be blood. As with all things, Andy likes to take that mantra to the extreme.
Another year, another wedding anniversary. 22 wild-and-crazy fun-filled years with the Mrs.
As I look back and reminisce, my mind wanders back to our honeymoon to Disneyworld. Ah, memories.
The plane trip from here to Chicago was uneventful. The trip from Chicago to Orlando, however, was anything but. Lisa and I were two of maybe 10 non-Asian, English-speaking passengers. Seems a Japanese Amway group had booked the other 190 seats. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the flight attendants rolling their eyes. Before we even left the gate, tray tables were down, bags were in the aisles, it was crazy. And they either didn't understand the instructions the flight attendants were giving, or they didn't care. After a short delay, we took off. Not more than 3 minutes in the air, the seat in front of me reclined as far as it would go. For the next four hours on a sold-out flight, I had a tiny Japanese man practically in my lap. Preparing to land, the flight attendants had to tell everyone — not once or twice, but dozens of times — to fold up their tray tables and sit upright. Having enough at this point, Lisa took matters into her own hands — literally — reaching over the seat and thwopping the man on his head to get him to sit up. Straight-forward and direct, that's why I love her!
Once in our hotel, we had a fun day-and-a-half in the parks. Then just after lunch, returning to our hotel via monorail, I suddenly felt lousy ... really, really lousy. Thought maybe a nap would do the trick, but no such luck. Spiked a temp, felt horrible. After a day of this, Lisa called for the in-house doctor. Turns out I had pneumonia — which apparently is very common with honeymooners, as they tend to be run-down from the wedding, then thrown into a hot and humid environment. Wheat Thins, apple juice and antibiotics every 4 hours. It's good to have a nurse on hand! Lisa said she knew it must be serious since we could literally see the Magic Kingdom outside our room and I was too out of it to go. Finally felt better just in time to enjoy our last two of ten days in Florida.
Here's to the next 22 wonderful and wonder-filled years. And may I never be on a Japanese Amway chartered plane again.
In our last edition, we introduced you to the wacky and eclectic cast of characters who can be found in the hospital on any given day.
In the words of Bachman-Turner Overdrive, you ain't seen nothin' yet!
Take the other night. A quiet Wednesday evening. Our gals on Labor & Delivery get a call from the E.R. telling them they have a pregnant woman, age 60, who needs to be seen. And, um, her water has broken.
Age 60, you ask? Call Ripley's Believe It Or Not and grab the ultrasound. So the charge nurse went down to investigate. Have you met our new friend, Crazy? She's having Jesus' twins. That's right — twins. And the water that's broken? She's peed on herself, naturally.
Another night in paradise and there's no room at the inn.
As the talented Susan Boyle taught us the day she belted out "I Dreamed A Dream" and became a worldwide sensation, you can't judge a book by its cover.
Case in point: Lisa's visit to the credit union drive up this morning.
On short outings like this, we often take Essie, our chihuahua. She likes to hunker down behind your head as you drive. If any sort of drive-up is involved, she knows that if she makes her presence known to the people behind the window, she might get a treat.
Today, as Lisa waited at the drive-up, a scary looking guy pulled up in the car next to her. Tattoos everywhere. Multiple piercings. The kind of bad-ass dude you picture riding a Harley or starting a knife fight in prison. So imagine Lisa's surprise when he rolled his window down, leaned over and said, about Essie, "She is just precious!" "Yes she is," Lisa replied. They exchanged pleasantries until the pneumatic tube — and Essie's dog treat — made its way back to the car.
Axe-murderer? Rogue undercover cop? He certainly had the look. But anyone who likes chihuahuas enough to chat it up at the drive-up can't be all bad.
The swim coach, for instance, could never find the time to meet us. And because she was a swimmer, Kate had to register with an "athletic advisor." This young man spent an hour with Kate, arguing with her that the classes she wanted to take were "too hard" and that she should consider taking fewer classes — and easier classes — to help boost the swim team's GPA. That didn't sit well with Kate ... or with us.
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