Priorities

Within one hour yesterday afternoon, I learned of three things.

First, our local health-food store is now selling coconut-milk egg nog.

Second, the Duggars, of 19 Kids and Counting fame, are having baby No. 20.

And third, the child-molestation scandal that was uncovered at Penn State University had thickened, as infamous football coach Joe Paterno's integrity and job was called into question.

Upon learning of scenarios No. 2 and 3, I quickly forgot all about dairy-free holiday beverages. And so, after reading some news stories and watching some ESPN, I turned to my normal social media outlets to see what the buzz was.

I was shocked and appalled at what I found.

Literally, every other Tweet, post and message I read seemed to be vilifying the news-makers that day.

And I'm not talking about Joe Paterno.

There was Duggar-bashing going on the likes of which I've never seen. Telling the modest mother of 19 children that she needed to keep her "legs closed." Calling the Duggars unfit and irresponsible parents. Blaming the Duggar family for pulling a publicity stunt.

Now, here's the thing; I'm no Michelle Duggar. I hope and pray to God above I never have to give birth to 20 children. In fact, I think she may be a little loopy for wanting to go through it all again, in her mid-40s, after having a very difficult pregnancy and outcome with her last baby.

But I will stand by her right to give birth to as many children as she wants to. And, quite frankly, I think she's a pretty nice person, to boot.

Because the truth is? It's her body. It's their family. She's not raising her kids on government dollars. She's not relying on social services to rear her children.

Her current kids are upstanding, well-mannered citizens, whom she and her husband care and provide for adequately.

What can I say to that but "Go forth and prosper, Michelle, go forth and prosper." She's not telling me what to do with my body, so I'm not telling her what to do with hers.

And, yet, people? They were freaking out upon the Duggars announcement yesterday.

They were atwitter on Twitter. They were virtually slapping their faces on Facebook.

You'd have thought the Duggars had stolen money from the elderly. Participated in dog-fighting. Kicked a woman in a wheel-chair.

The way people were talking, you'd have thought someone had been raped.

Oh, wait, that's right.

That did actually happen.

To some poor 10-year-old boy in Pennsylvania. And, until recently, no one was saying a thing.

Worse yet, this poor victim, and 14 others like him, was attacked by a Penn State football coach, on Penn State property, and the man was allowed to retire and was then given continued access to children via his office on campus and the foundation he'd established for underprivileged youth.

And, from the looks of it, Penn State authorities and colleagues seemed to have covered it up.

Upon reading the details of the story yesterday, I found myself running to the bathroom, sick to my stomach, while my husband held our baby girl.

We are talking about a man who ruined the lives of children. Sweet, innocent children. God-given, wonderful, should-not-have-a-care-in-the-world children.

But 15 of their little lives are never to be the same again.

And, yet, the Duggars choose to give life to another sweet little soul, and we're going to call them "sexually depraved"?

Are you kidding me? Do we have our priorities that twisted?

From a personal perspective, on Monday alone, I - little, old, nobody me - received several hateful e-mails and comments telling me I was "full of myself." That I don't care about my child but only about my own "ego." That I'm wrong and hateful to the medical community and anyone who doesn't think like me, as a whole.

Why?

Because I wrote a blog post about an alternative solution to relieve baby ezcema.

Baby ezcema.

You'd have thought I'd slapped babies, instead.

But, honestly? It just leads me to ask, yet again, What is wrong with us?

We attack nobody bloggers for voicing concerns or making statements about what they believe; we call Michelle Duggar names for living out her truth and harming no one in the process.

But a man rapes 15 boys and almost gets away with it? And suddenly we're silent?

That's crap.

Absolute and utter crap.

Where's the public outcry for those kids? Where's the aggressive comments in defense of those boys? Where's the anger for those children?

We're so busy questioning one mom's right to give her child formula, and another mom's decision not to vaccinate her baby, that we're missing out on speaking up for the children who really need our help, our voices, and our time.

We're too busy making villains out of our fellow soldiers to fight the real war.

Shame on you. Shame on me. Shame on us.

So the next time you think of judging another caring mother, think again. The next time you accuse someone of not rearing their children properly, think again. The next time you get angry at some woman who doesn't do things like you do, think again.

There are bigger issues out there. More important places to place your energies.

Get a life. Get a grip. And get your priorities in check.

Let's stand up for the kids who really need it.

Let's put our words where they count.

Let's fight the real war.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

It's Surreal

I had my car searched yesterday.

I was driving home from a quick trip to the bank, and I had my car searched.

Furthermore, I had my ID checked when I walked into work. I had to turn around and take a different route to a friend's house, thanks to newly erected barricades. And I got several e-mails stating there would be even more heightened security measures in our neighborhood over the next week.

While I live on a military base, I was still a bit shocked by all the extra security.

It wasn't until I really thought about the fact that Sunday is Sept. 11 - Sept. 11, 2011 - that I remembered why, exactly, there seemed to be an increased sense of paranoia among the powers-that-be around here.

The Westernized part of me finds it ludicrous. Initially, my result is to sigh and hem-haw and exclaim, "Really? Do you really have to search my car? Can't you see I have a crying baby in the back-seat? Trust me, the only weapon you're going to find is a wet-bag filled with one very dirty diaper."

But then I remember being a junior in high-school.

I left a class that was held in the school auditorium. It was the only place in the entire school without a television.

As soon as I entered the hallway, I noticed a hushed tone. Something was weird. I had missed something, and I had no idea what was going on.

I walked into third-period biology, and then, I saw it. On the T.V.

I watched the plane hit the second tower of the World Trade Center.

I remember thinking, "Why does Mr. N have a movie on?"

And then, when I realized he was playing a news channel, I started to wonder, "What kind of spoof is this?"

But it wasn't a spoof. And it wasn't a movie.

I was a kid, and I'd witnessed an event that would define my generation from here on out.

Ella will ask me, "Where were you during 9/11, Mom?"

And I'll have an answer. I'll remember seeing that plane crash; I'll remember watching that tower fall; I'll remember crying, not sure what was going on; I'll remember hearing other students and teachers scream.

I'll remember.

I cannot believe that was 10 years ago. I cannot believe how much has happened in my life, and yet, how little I've forgotten.

I can't believe that now, I'm married to a sailor, and that, this morning, when I jog with Ella in her stroller past barricades erected around my neighborhood, that it's all because of what I saw happen 10 years ago, when I was just a teenager.

The significance hasn't escaped our government; apparently, they think this morbid anniversary could provide an opportunity for a real threat.

I hate that thought, so much so that I almost choose not to believe it.

Instead, I want to sigh with exasperation that I have to show my ID everywhere I go. And I want to exclaim loudly what a pain it is to turn around in the middle of the road because military police have cordoned it off.

But what do I know?

We're involved in a war of ideals and have been for years. It's a battle I've lost track of, and it's a battle that no American can define anymore.

It's an annoying reminder that we aren't liked. That, because of that, we aren't safe.

For a generation defined by what happened 10 years ago, I know shockingly little of who to believe.

I'm married to the military, but I don't always agree with it. I'm an optimist, but I'm scared of the possibilities. I love, but that doesn't mean others don't hate.

It's funny. Because likely, Sunday will go off without a hitch. We'll go to church. We'll watch the season-openers of the NFL football season. We'll eat Sunday dinner, and we'll get ready for the week ahead.

All behind barricades that will likely never be challenged.

It's a funny way to commemorate the event that changed us; the 10 years of battles we've fought.

I guess, for now, it's another piece of the story I'll tell my children. It's another bit of color to add to the history of what I lived through and witnessed, thanks to Sept. 11.

Still, it's unsettling.

It's as if the whole country is holding its breath on Sunday, hoping and praying to exhale with a huge sigh of relief come Monday morning.

***

What are your thoughts on the 10th anniversary of 9/11?

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Poor Maggie

I was going through my normal morning routine yesterday: Nursing and watching the news.

While Ella chowed down, I absently flipped through morning programming and then stopped on Good Morning America.

They were interviewing the author of a children's book called Maggie Goes On A Diet.

source

In the book, Maggie is over-weight, gets teased for her size, eats her feelings, and finds that doesn't work. So she starts eating healthier foods and exercising, thus losing the weight, becoming a super-star soccer player, and gaining popularity with all the kids who picked on her before.

As I sat there feeding my daughter - my perfect, roly-poly little baby girl who is in the 95th-percentile for her current height and weight - I almost became one of those stay-at-home-moms who spends the majority of her day yelling at the T.V.

I could not believe someone was publishing such a book. For children. And, more specifically, for little girls, no less.

The author - a man, actually, which, in my opinion, makes it all the worse - said he wrote it so that children with weight problems could see that they were not alone and that, from making a few healthy changes, they, too, could help improve their lifestyle and health.

Which sounds all well and good, in theory.

But what I take such issue with is the fact that this author is tying the physical appearance of someone so closely to their happiness, and, thus, tying things like popularity and "fitting in" to their happiness, as well.

The truth is, not every little girl is built the same. Bigger does not mean unhealthy. And, especially in young girls, chunkiness can be caused by a variety of factors other than poor diet and exercise, such as puberty, glandular issues, or an unstable home life.

At 8 and 9 years of age, I truly hope Ella doesn't think her size and ability to fit in make her successful and happy. I hope she tries out for any team she wants to join, regardless of her athletic and physical abilities. I hope she doesn't look to kids who tease her for validation.

Now, I wasn't a big kid. But like Ella, I was a big baby. I leveled off well before school age, and, by the time high-school rolled around, I was actually a bit of a late-bloomer.

But, up until the age of 18 or 19 or so, I was surrounded by girlfriends of varying heights, weights, and sizes.

I had friends who were smaller than me, friends who were bigger than me; friends who struggled with eating disorders and over-eating and a whole cornucopia of body-image issues, all thanks to the fact that we were girls, growing up as the generation that was told we were never thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough, or cool enough.

Now, I'm the first girl to look in a mirror and find things I don't like about my body. I've harbored guilt over things I've eaten. And I make a living off of helping people improve their physical shape.

Obesity is an epidemic, and I'm all for getting in at the ground level, i.e., elementary schools, and helping instill proper physical-fitness values in young children.

However.

Changing oneself to fit in and become popular is already an issue kids have. And this book just validates that peer pressure all the more.

I remember talking to my best friend while I was pregnant, and I found out Ella was a girl.

We both secretly admitted that we hoped, a little bit, that Ella wasn't "popular," mostly because we hadn't been as kids ourselves. And now, as adults, we actually consider that a blessing.

Thanks to the fact that we couldn't find validation in those around us, we had to learn to validate ourselves.

We had to learn to be who we are and stand up for what we believe in, even if that made us freaks in the eyes of the popular crowd.

High-school had its hard moments, thanks to my steady status as a geek, but I now look back and am a thousand times grateful for it.

I stuck to who I was even when it was hard.

Now, as an adult, that skill has come in handy over and over and over again. As a blogger. As a military wife. As a professional. As a mother.

Dear heavens, grown women can be clique-y. They're downright mean to each other.

But I've had good practice walking away from drama and cat fights.

All because I learned to be my own person early on, when, luckily, I didn't happen upon such a book as Maggie Goes On a Diet.

I didn't hear yet another message, set in rhyming phrases and disguised as a children's tale, telling me that my one-way ticket to Popularity-ville meant changing who I was. Telling me that being a happier person meant making myself thinner, prettier, and cooler, and, thus, more popular with the very people who had made me doubt myself in the first place.

I want the same thing for my daughter. I want her to shine for who she is, not because of who she forced herself to be.

And I, in order to achieve that, know one book I won't be placing on her bookshelf.

If you're a mother of a little girl, I ask you to do the same.

***

Working in fitness, experiencing my own body dysmorphia, and teaching high-school-age girls has made me particularly sensitive to modern-day issues such as body image, peer pressure, and self worth.

So, granted, I may be reading too much into what others may see as a harmless children's story.

But now, as a mother of a baby girl, I can't help but be worried that we're sending yet another harmful message to the next generation of women.

It's already hard enough to stand up and be who you are in our society.

Why make it harder?

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Ella for President

I talk to my baby.

A lot.

I tell her what I'm doing and where we're going and how we're going to get there, and, well, she loves it.

She talks back - squealing and laughing and coo-ing and making all sorts of weird noises only babies can make sound cute.

She's so vocal that, when I go to pick her up - out of her bed, her car-seat, her swing - she'll start squealing with glee and talk-talk-baby-talking away, all in anticipation of our mommy-and-me conversation.

The hubs, also, thinks it's a riot to watch her interact with us.

But, admittedly, he's a bit jealous sometimes, as, even when he's holding her and talking to her, she'll often turn her head to me, staring quizzically at my face and waiting for me to begin conversing.

It's not that she doesn't love her father; it's just that she's already figured out that I'm the food-source, the talker, and the consoler, while Daddy's good for bath-time and some snuggles in the evening, and (for now) that's pretty much it.

Still, I encourage him to talk to her. After all, she likes it so much that she often calms right down when you start chatting with her, even if she's hollering up a storm minutes before.

But he's a man, and, where I often bestow infinite (and sometimes made-up) wisdom and intelligence upon my daughter, the hubs is much more likely to be all, "Dude. She's a baby. I love her, but it's not like she really understands me."

Still, I push him to "Talk to her. Talk to her!" sometimes with no avail.

Until yesterday, when I handed him Ella so I could throw in a load of dirty cloth diapers.

I walked back into the living room only minutes later and overheard this:

"...And then Pakistan let China across their borders and gave them access to view the downed U.S. Navy SEALS helicopter. Can you believe that?"

Ella laughs hysterically and grins.

"I mean, we're [the United States] already on the outs with Pakistan, and then they had to go and do something stupid like let the Chinese in to see it, and there are even talks of them giving it to them. I mean, that's just wrong."

Ella smiles and coos back.

"Well, baby girl, you seem pretty happy about it, but still, it's pretty bad news. I mean, the last thing we need is another world super-power getting their hands on our military technology."

Ella throws her head back and squeals.

"Just be glad you're cute because I'm pretty sure the rest of the country doesn't find this nearly as funny as you do. Now, I'm going to kiss you."

And then he did, following it up with a brief discussion on who was running in the Republican presidential primaries and on how the Dow was looking that day.

***

OK, now quite. He hasn't discussed election politics and economic crisis with the baby.

Yet.

But he legitimately talked about world conflict. With our 2 month old.

She, apparently, found it riveting.

Riveting enough that, when I went to get her from her father, she actually fussed. She seemed to enjoy their little conversation about nuclear weapons and rising world superpowers.

So, to that, I say, Forget Baby Einstein. Bring on CNN.

Girlfriend's gotta study up if she wants to solve all the world's problems in about 40 years time.

Watch out world. It's gonna be Ella for President in 2048.

And she'll definitely have her father to thank.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

A Conflicted Reaction

I woke yesterday to find a heightened security watch over the home I live in.

It's a perk to living on a military base, you see.

When something internationally significant happens, they put up their guard on all our American bases, posts, and stations around the world.

So, thanks to the death of Osama Bin Laden, there were a few extra measures put in place around my home, my neighborhood, and my community yesterday.

Honestly, it didn't bother me much. I appreciate every measure taken to keep my family and me safe.

And, also, I understand why there was concern. History shows us that, in cases such as these, when dealing with extremists and terrorists, retaliation is almost imminent.

Still, I was pretty peaceful about the whole thing. I wasn't concerned for my safety. And I was happy that the world was rid of one more extremely evil, corrupt, murderous, violent man.

Then, I turned on the news.

I saw video and audio and photo after photo after photo of people celebrating Bin Laden's death in American streets.

And, honestly, instead of laughing and smiling right along with them, much like I do when I see a town celebrate a Super-Bowl win, I sat there, generally disturbed.

Not because I cared about Bin Laden. Because trust me, I don't.

The man needed to die. He's caused harm and death to thousands of people. He's funded and supported one of the world's craziest terrorist organizations. There is no question in my mind that he is, or was, evil.

Furthermore, I feel grateful that the Navy Seals who shot him were well-trained enough to serve their country and complete a mission that will bring peace to the thousands of family members who've lost someone in the September-11 attacks and millions of others who have died across the world thanks to the hate incited by the infamous terrorist backer.

So, trust me, it wasn't that I was perturbed by what we Americans were celebrating. It was the fact that they were celebrating at all that bothered me.

That really got me: Seeing jubilation in the face of death.

Granted, it was the death of a murderer. But it was still death.

And it was the exact same way many Middle Easterners reacted 10 years ago when thousands of Americans died at the hands of Taliban terrorists in the Twin Towers and the Pentagon.

We were horrified watching their jubilation. I remember that.

I remember watching them on CNN, celebrating in their streets on Sept. 11, and thinking, "How barbaric! How horrific! Who celebrates death? What kind of people are they?"

I was sickened by their reaction.

Frankly, I thought lesser of them. Their apparent joy at that horrible date in our history skewed my view of them forever.

They, it seemed, were evil. Anyone who celebrates death, in my mind, would have to be.

Which is why now - today - I wonder what they're thinking of us.

Granted, it's just the death of one man. One horrible man. One evil man who took innocent American lives.

He didn't deserve to live, and he's a far cry from the men and women who died during 9/11.

But for a culture that prides itself on being founded on Judeo-Christian values, and for a country that's spent the last 10 years pointing fingers at Middle-Eastern morals and religion, and point-blank saying, "We're better then them," I'm concerned.

After all, I thought better of us. I, too, see our country - our faith, our democracy, our morals and values - as better than theirs. I am forever grateful I was born into a country that values what we value.

After all, we don't wrap women in burkas. Our government doesn't kill those of other faiths. We don't pump boy-soldiers and money into terrorist organizations whose sole purpose is to kill, kill, kill.

So, yesterday, I thought I'd see a juxtaposition. I expected to see us rise above the obviously human urge to celebrate suffering and death. I hoped to see us smile a little; congratulate our troops, who have fought so hard for this; acknowledge that we're happy about it, maybe; but then move on.

I wanted to see us show a little class.

I wanted to see us espouse those Judeo-Christian values we hold so dear.

I wanted to see us represent America the best way we know how.

Without the street riots. Without the publicly spewed hate words. Without the violence-inciting parties.

After all, that's what they did. And I think we're better than that.

Sure, we can be glad that a bad man is dead. We can applaud justice. And then we can hold our heads up high and show what it means to be an American.

An American who's not barbaric, but proud. An American who's not out-of-control, but restrained. An American who's not vengeful, but fair.

Except, yesterday, I didn't see that. At least not in the audio and video and photo after photo after photo peppering the news. If we think we're superior, we sure didn't show it.

In fact, yesterday, we weren't any better than they were. Other than a few subtle, cultural schema, we could have been them yesterday. What with our hate speech and riots and parties celebrating death.

Truth is, we don't seem so different anymore. And as a proud American, I'm not so happy about that.

***

From a tactical standpoint, I also fear our jubilant celebrations in these coming days could incite even worse retaliations than we're already fearing. Just as we could see Middle-Easterners celebrating 10 years ago, they can see us cheering now.

Our actions are the perfect propaganda for terrorist organizations constantly waiting to fan the flames of hate they've already lit.

We don't need to be the oxygen for their fire. After all, we (and our troops) will be the ones who receive the brunt of the next blow they deal.

***

I'll come back tomorrow with happier stuff to discuss, like our vacation last week. But this was on my mind for now, and I wanted to discuss it while it was fresh.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Workout Wednesday: The Great Ironies of the Winter Olympics

I won't lie to you.

I love the Olympics.

And I'm not just in it for the figure skating.

I love it all: the speed skating, the luge, the skiing - heck - even curling. I'll watch curling and get pumped about it.

And it's not just because I'm a Floridian, who wouldn't know what to do with skis even if I found myself standing atop a pile of snowy, frozen crystals so far above sea level that I'd probably have trouble breathing.

I just love the camaraderie, the excitement, the pure hope and joy one feels when some random stranger accomplishes his or her life-long dream of bunny-hopping over moguls faster and better than anyone else in the world.

In some unexplainable way, it's captivating.

And, also, a little crazy.

Because, seriously, I know I'm a Florida girl, who considers a cool breeze against my bare legs when I run a "winter sport," but in all sincerity, some of this stuff is nuts.

I mean, cross-country skiing is a distance event - in snow - that involves guns. And shooting things.

Bob-sledding involves cramming tons of men in a little car and careening down an icy Slip-N-Slide.

And pairs' figure skating?

It's the only time wholesome American families clap and applaud for scantily clad couples careening about on ice, grabbing each other in semi-inappropriate places.

Yeah, sure, there's tons of athleticism involved. And training. And self sacrifice.

NBC sells us barrel full after barrel full of sports montages about the athlete who started a non-profit for orphaned puppies only to find out that he was being disowned by his native country because of a stolen identity so he was forced to pick himself and his orphaned puppies up and move to Mother Russia where some wizened old coach with Alzheimer's takes pity on him and decides to teach him how to be a true winner, and go for the gold even though they don't speak the same language and are forced to train in an abandoned farm where they spray the ground with a garden hose in hopes that they can create enough ice for practices.

And yet, we buy it. Hook, line, and sinker.

Trust me, I'm not judging you.

I buy it, too.

I cry every time somebody wins a gold medal.

I'll cheer against Americans if the Chinese, Canadians, or Ukrainians have a better sports montage, a better life story, a better ice-dancing costume.

I adore it all.

And yet, I marvel at it.

Because every four years, Americans could care less about football, baseball, and basketball - the sports that serve us all so well, normally, year-round.

At this moment in time, nobody cares if Brett Favre retires or not.

Women are actually turning on ESPN to watch daily highlights, but not of the major league players.

Instead, we all care about the quarter-finals of the speed-skating event.

We all want to know how the world's hockey teams are looking.

We're actually cheering for Lindsey Vonn - a woman with a hurt shin - to throw caution to the wind and go slip-sliding down a ski run in the next few days.

We're holding our breathes and praying every time another athlete slides down that horribly fast luge run.

We collectively gasp when somebody falls on a triple toe-loop.

We cry for that adorable Chinese couple, who - gasp! - were in their 30s when they finally won Olympic gold in pairs' figure skating Monday night.

We tolerate Bob Costas.

And we eat a bag of chips while watching athletes with 0.5 percent body fat slalom down the slopes at break-neck speed.

Granted, it's hard enough to get outside the house and hit the gym when it's freezing.

Even as a Floridian, I get that. I stared at the ice outside my house last night and cursed the fact that I had to go to the gym and teach a class.

And the Winter Olympics?

They give us all the more excuse to hunker down inside and marvel at great athletic feats, while not attempting any of our own.

So, remember, as you tune in tonight to see what happens in men's figure skating (U.S.A! U.S.A!), those athletes have invested years into strength-training, running, skiing, skating, etc.

You can venture out and do the same thing for an hour.

I promise, the Olympics will still be there when you get back.

Along with good old Bob Costas.

***

Happy Exercising everybody! Be back tomorrow with more regular ramblings!

When the kids get it, you know it's serious

Yesterday, I did an activity I do once a week with each class I teach.

We call it "Current Event," and it's by far the most simple, and yet, most effective, teaching tool I've ever used.

All the kids have to do is watch or read the news, remember a story or incident that struck their fancy, and briefly explain it to the class.

Every student who brings a different current event to the table earns a few measly extra-credit points, which, truth be told, doesn't really affect their grade all that much. (But shhh! Don't tell them that!)

Now, more often than not, I get a lot of current events like these:

"Turns out, Mrs. C, that Tiger Woods has another mistress."

Or...

"My neighbor knows a girl who has a cousin who's foot got shot in a random liquor store robbery, and my mom said they were on the evening news last night."

But sometimes, just sometimes, they bring up something important.

And yesterday, thank the Lord, yesterday was one of those days.

After a couple sordid tales of drunk driving and celebrity gossip, one student raised his hand:

Me: Yes, T?
Student T: There was a big old earthquake in Haiti, and a lot - I mean, A LOT - of people died.
Me: Good, T, very good. And you're right. This did happen. What else did everyone hear about this?
Student P: It was a Level 7 earthquake, and I don't know if you all know this, but that is really, really, really big. Like bigger than the ones they have in California. Like so big that land was ripped apart and tons of houses were falling down. It's just really, really big. And really, really bad.
Me: Exactly, P. It was very catastrophic because it was such an enormous natural disaster. Can anyone tell me why this is so especially devastating for Haiti?
Student M: Well, you know what, me and my family are Dominican, and the Dominican Republic has a lot of problems itself. Like, our family that is still there are really poor. But you know what? Our family know some Haitians that now live in the D.R. with them, and they were even worse off in Haiti. Like, when people are murdered, no one gets arrested, and no one cares that somebody died. And sometimes, houses just fall down because no one is taking care of them, and no one - no one! - does anything about it! The house just falls and stays like that.
Me: Very good, M, and very, very true. I have heard stories like that, too.
Student B: But Mrs. C, people there also don't have food and clean water and doctors. They are really poor there. I think it's because the government doesn't have any money to help the people that live there. They lack, they lack, infer - what's the word? - infer? Inferstructure?
Me: Infrastructure, B, and yes, that's very true. Without the proper governmental infrastructure, they can't take care of their people's basic needs like housing, safety, and food, especially in the face of a natural disaster.
Student C: But question, Mrs.C, question. What happens now? If the country can't take care of its people normally, what are they going to do now that the earthquake hit?
Me: To be perfectly honest, guys, I don't entirely know. Americans and other countries' citizens will help with immediate rescue and care, but after that, I just don't know.

And just like that, my classroom fell silent (a rare miracle, let me tell you.)

The kids looked grave.

In fact, a few looked almost devastated.

In a rare, selfless teen moment, they got the significance and the severity of what had happened.

More importantly, they felt the significance and severity of what had happened to people that are not directly related to themselves.

And in that space, looking at my kids' faces, I finally realized the significance and severity of what had happened.

So while I thanked God for teach-able moments, I also prayed for help and solace for Haiti.

Because if the kids get it, I definitely have to get it. If it affects callous teenagers like that, who am I not to be swayed to prayer or donation by the thought of an earthquake hitting an impoverished country with no "inferstructure?"

So, as we settle into the weekend, I ask that you do what you can for Haiti, even if it's offering up a moment of silence at the dinner table or donating a dollar to the relief fund at your grocery store.

Because this is significant. This is serious. This is severe.

Even the kids get that.

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P.S. For those of you looking to make financial donations, please head over to my friend Whimzie's blog. She has good recommendations where to put your money so that it gets right to those who need it: the Haitians we're all praying for. Thanks, Whimzie, for such sound advice and guidance!

P.P.S. Happy Birthday to my sweet little "nephew" Ethan! He turns 1 year old today! It's hard to believe that a year ago today, I watched you come into this world! And now you're 1! Such a blessing! One day, I hope you can read all that your momma and I have blogged about you and realize how much we all love you, precious boy!

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Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! Happy Friday!