Tag: childhood

Time Marches On…(and The Juggle Struggle Is 9)

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 7 Comments

I am both happy and sad when people ask me why The Juggle Struggle rarely sees a new post these days. Happy that anyone cares…sad that I am not writing like I used to. The truth is that I have a lot that I want to write, but my focus and discipline have hitched a ride out of town. I haven’t completely given up, though, and I am compelled to write a little now to mark the ninth anniversary of this blog.

On October 18, 2012, I wrote my first post. The ol’ girl’s been around for a while and seen many changes over the years…the blog, me…the world. So much is so very different. But one thing is always constant: There are 24 hours in a day, and the days just keep getting logged into the book of life.

My church is currently studying No Cure for Being Human, by Kate Bowler, and today we discussed the idea of “spending” time–as the currency that it truly is–and what it means about the choices we make. This perspective of time as a finite entity makes me think of something I came across a few years ago via Tim Urban’s Wait But Why site. He does some wonderful things with numbers, and one spin of his really drives home the point about our time on this planet. Below is what a 90-year lifespan looks like in weeks…and the blue line is where I am…

Image courtesy of Tim Urban’s Wait But Why)

…well past the half-way mark…IF I make it to 90. That’s a lot to take in.

And in taking a peek back on this anniversary at some of my previous posts, I remembered the one that I am sharing below. I wrote it when my son was 10–and it speaks to how much time we had left before he turned 18. Well, guess what? That milestone was reached earlier this year. Reading what I wrote then is obviously poignant to me now.

It happened in a mere blink.

What will the next blink bring? How many blinks do I have left?

Time marches on…

So…happy anniversary, The Juggle Struggle! I am grateful to have the words to string together that can sometimes matter to people. And I am grateful for every reader who gives me a few minutes of their precious time to read those words–I appreciate you more than you know!

And now, if you care to read on, I offer you the post that I wrote eight years ago…thinking about the time that I am actually facing now. A blink indeed.

936 and Counting

Originally posted September 30, 2013

Time flies. We all know this. The only case where time does NOT fly is instances like when you’re stuck in a boring workshop where they have the thermostat set so cold it just may crack off a body part and all you can think about is lunch. Then it’s slow. But typically, another week comes and goes and it feels like a blip on the radar.

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Recently, I had a 1-2 punch that was the kind of coincidence that makes me stop and think. I saw a framed graphic at a family member’s house that said something along the lines of “940. The number of Saturdays until your child reaches 18.” Me being me, I checked the math (52×18=936) and wondered why they added the extra month. Googling it, 940 is the number used again and again, but I like the number 936 better than 940 anyway, so I’m sticking with that. (Why the extra four? Can you guess?)

The very next day I was speaking to a friend, and she said her pastor’s message that Sunday was on pretty much the exact same thing. He had a jar of marbles that visually represented how many weeks were left before his daughter turned 18. The emphasis being, of course, that we use our time together wisely. It is fleeting.

So there I was, with two totally different avenues leading me to the same wakeup call: we only have so much time with our children before they are off and running in the world.

Of course, I know this. But when you put a finite number around it, it drives it home even further. Tick…tock…and another week is gone. Another marble leaves the jar.

I have issues with time management. I just do. I aspire to knock the hell out of each day, and before I know it, I’m brushing my teeth before bed.

But the clock of life is wound but once…

My son had his feet resting on my lap the other day, and…they were huge. What happened to the teeny ones that I nibbled on and made him giggle?

He was just sharing with me his fascination with the circulatory system that he’s learning about in science class. Only yesterday he was learning the alphabet.

I tell him—like my dad always told me—there will always be room on my lap for him. But the last time he tried it, we laughed together at how comical we must have looked.

936.

If my math is right, we’ve had 541 Saturdays together…and only 395 left before he turns 18.

395. 3-9-5. Holy crimony.

Thankfully, I am wise enough to know that these days do not need to be chock full and supercharged to be meaningful. I think back to my own childhood, and I realize that while there are some “big” memories of trips and special events—the real things that stick are the small things. The moments. It didn’t have to be anything special—just a time where I felt that I mattered. I don’t even think those thoughts typically cross our minds when they are happening—it’s like they just go into a special reservoir of love, where for some reason, we feel it and cherish it.

So, before I “lose my marbles” with my son, I need to remind myself that the moments count. That just because we may not be able to carve out the better part of a day to do something significant, I can still get out and play touch football with him and his dad.

I can genuinely listen to him catch me up on the first part of the “Full House” episode that I am sitting down to watch the rest of with him.

I can make time for a bike ride on a beautiful fall day, even if deadlines are looming.

I can share in his joy at the occasional 49¢ McDonald’s ice cream cone.

While we still do need to hit the “big” things and make those memories, it’s important to remind myself in the swirl of the day that not all is lost as long as we remember the moments, too.

Because that is what he will remember. The moments.

936 down to 395.

It’s not about us putting more stress on ourselves because who needs more of that? What it is about is keeping the perspective that we do have a finite time with our children, and it does matter—to them and to us—and it is all a blessing of unknown impact and meaning.

So amidst the flurry and chaos of everyday life, I’m going to strive to remember to jump in the leaves. Even if it means we have to rake them all over again.

The “Lasts” Go By in the Blink of an Eye

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 2 Comments

Odd, anxious kid that I was, when the dog that I grew up with got older, I used to “practice” saying goodbye to her. I would think to myself, “What if this was the last time you’re ever going to get to pet her?” And…in those moments, I could never stop petting her until I let go of that morose notion. Continue reading “The “Lasts” Go By in the Blink of an Eye” →

“When I Was Your Age” and 4 Other Phrases Kids LOVE to Hear

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ Leave a comment

If I want to ensure that a deep sigh billows out of my son’s mouth, all I need to do is begin a conversation with, “When I was your age…” and wait a beat. Whoomp! There it is! Few things are dependable in life, but this is one of them.  Continue reading ““When I Was Your Age” and 4 Other Phrases Kids LOVE to Hear” →

How Will He Remember Me?

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 6 Comments

As I was reading over my “On This Day” Facebook reflection this morning, one of the memories was: Continue reading “How Will He Remember Me?” →

What Would Get You to Take It All Off?

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 6 Comments

Last week, my sister took it all off. In front of hundreds of people, she bared herself in a way she has never done before. And she did it for money. If you know her, you’re not too surprised at this behavior. She tends to do stuff like this.

 

hanger

 

Stuff like raising over $1500 for childhood cancer research by shaving her head.

Did you think I meant something else? Sigh. Get your mind out of the gutter, people.

My sister, Theresa, shaved her head last Friday as a way to raise money for St. Baldrick’s childhood cancer research. As a fun incentive for people to donate, the organization (named as a combination of “bald” and “St. Patrick’s,” since the first event was held March 17, 2000) encourages people to raise funds for research by pledging to shave their heads.

 

trying to capture the two of us--and her hair--in one last photo
trying to capture the two of us–and her hair–in one last photo

 

Theresa is a teacher, and her high school has been supporting St. Baldrick’s for a few years. At the very moment she was speaking with a teacher about being a “shavee” this year, another colleague walked into the room and shared that his grandson had to have his eye removed in his battle with cancer. It was a powerful coincidence that fueled my sister’s commitment to participate. Not surprisingly, she chose to sponsor this boy in her efforts. (The boy has since gotten his labs back, and, thank God, he is now cancer-free.)

 

since she is donating her hair, it needs to be in ponytails
since she is donating her hair, it needs to be in ponytails

 

My sister and I hate cancer. (Is there anyone who doesn’t?!) It’s not only taken our dad, but affected too many people that we know and love. And—just too many people, period. It is an insidious, horrible disease—but research is making strides. As the St. Baldrick’s website notes, “In the 1950s, almost all kids diagnosed with cancer died. Because of research, today about 90% of kids with the most common type of cancer will live. But for many other types, progress has been limited, and for some kids there is still little hope for a cure.”

 

quite the transformation
quite the transformation

 

I am very proud of Theresa for “taking it all off.” (I won’t gush much more, as she already accuses me of posting schmaltz.) She not only raised a chunk of money for research, but she was also able to donate her hair to an organization that will use it to make hairpieces for disadvantaged children suffering with hair loss for various reasons. Shaving her head was a double win.

 

check out the hair she is holding in her hand to be donated!
check out the hair she is holding in her hand to be donated!

 

And, in a way, it was also a kind of triple win, as well—at least for Theresa—because her decision to shave her head had another layer of personal impact.

You see, my sister and I both started going gray in our early 20s, and we are now predominantly (and prematurely, mind you!) gray. As I’ve shared before, deciding when and if to cease the coloring madness is not easy. Both (originally) brunettes, if we stopped coloring our hair, we would have to deal with a defined line of brown-to-white until it all grew out. Who wants to look like variations of a skunk tail for months? Not me.

But when my sister committed to shaving her head for St. Baldrick’s, she also decided that she would let it grow back au natural. I found this to be a brilliant plan. No ugly outgrowth! Just new, healthy hair. That is just smart all over the place.

Who knows? It may be the route I take when I decide to make the transition. I will watch my sister’s journey and perhaps it will inspire me to one day do the same. (After all—I have time if I am to follow in my sister’s footsteps, as she is MUCH older than me. You’re welcome, T.)

 

with "Shelly the Head Shaver"
with “Shelly the Head Shaver”

 

Doesn’t she look great?

So far, she is loving it. As she recently shared on Facebook:

Shaving head for St. Baldrick’s – $1,585!
Savings in hair products per month – $17
Time saved every morning – 25 minutes
Startling myself every time I pass a mirror – PRICELESS!

Her bold commitment has also, in a way, set her free.

Of course, when I wrote the title for this post, I was hoping that the salacious nature of it would make you want to read it…

But there is a “real” reason for it, too. Those who shave their heads for St. Baldrick’s are ready to drastically change their appearance—at least for a while—to help the battle against cancer.

What are you willing to commit to? What will move you enough to say, “for this, I will endure some discomfort/pain/sacrifice/risk”?

I know I’m not ready to shave my head quite yet. While I did do the AVON 39 Walk to End Breast Cancer a few years back, I’m not courageous enough to go cue ball like my sister. But understanding what it is that you are willing to “take it all off” for is an important thing to know about yourself, don’t you think?

What will you put yourself on the line for?

If you feel comfortable enough to share in a comment below, please do.

And…way to go, T!

 

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I Should Have Asked for a Horse

~ Lisa Ancona-Roach ~ 7 Comments

horse 2Though I don’t get sick a whole lot these days, I definitely did as a kid. The kind of sick where I would have to miss a week or two of school. It wasn’t very fun at all.

Thankfully, with the help of immunity boosters, I eventually grew out of it, and by my sophomore year of high school was ecstatic that I received my first perfect attendance certificate. My friends thought I was nuts to be happy about that, but I knew how wonderful it was to have that many days of health in a row.

But let’s get to the hamsters.

During one of my bouts of illness when I was about seven or eight, I needed to go to the emergency room because I wasn’t doing very well. While lying on the hospital bed, I watched my mom and dad talking to the doctor, and when my dad looked over at me, my little arm went up and a weak little finger wagged him over.

“What is it, Honey?” he asked. And in what must have been an awfully endearing yet pathetic moment, I mustered the energy to whisper, “Dad…can I please have a hamster?”hamster 3

“Baby, you can have anything you want…” and he kissed my forehead and went back to the doctor. Though I was happy to have gotten the “yes” I wanted, I thought to myself, “Anything? Shoot, I should have asked for a horse!”

But it was the hamster I had asked for, and my dad kept his word.

Once well, we went to the pet store and picked out two hamsters—one for me, and one for my older sister.

They were just adorable—and so cute in their little Habitrail home and bubble ball to roam in.

habitrail

But then the bloodshed came.

My sister’s hamster killed mine one day while I was at school. My mom took the remaining one back to the pet store and announced “I have a murderer in my car.” The clerk said he would take that one home and care for it while he replaced both hamsters for us.

We were back in business.

(Let me just make a side note and say that this wasn’t the first time my sister’s pet kicked the crap out of my pet. Before our hamster days, we had two dogs that “went to the farm” because her dog wouldn’t stop attacking mine. Hmmm. But that’s for another day.)

Back to the hamsters.

Our two new ones were off to a great start—until the male ate the brand new babies one morning. That was absolutely awful to find their chewed up little pink carcasses in the corner.

Who knew there was so much to learn about these little furballs?

After that episode, we read up on what to do when the female gives birth and then they had a successful litter. It was hard finding good homes for all of the hamsters when the time came, but it was a good lesson, too.

hamster 4

I guess you could call this the blissful period of our hamster days.

As time went on, the male died, and we only had Tinker, the mama, remaining with us. All was well, until one day when she just wasn’t moving. She appeared to be dead.

My dad felt awful as he realized that he had used an oil-based paint nearby where her Habitrail was, and that the fumes had probably killed her.

With great solemnity, he wrapped her in newspaper, placed her in the garbage, and told me about it. (Had I been the one to discover her, I would have fought for a proper burial!)

Late that night, my mom was reading the hamster book when she read that hamsters sometimes go into hibernation.

Though it was the middle of July, my mother and father dug the hamster out of the garbage, started a fire in the fireplace and placed her stiff little body near it to warm her and bring her back to life.

And they waited.

And waited.

Let’s just say little Tinker was in permanent hibernation.

This concluded the hamster chapter of our lives.

Yep, I should have asked for the horse.

Though the housing would have required much more than a Habitrail, I’m pretty sure that these other horrific occurrences would have been avoided, and I would have been riding free through the meadows of life.

horse

Well…a girl can dream, can’t she?