When I was in 10th grade, I read the first aphorism—or proverb—that changed my life. It was hanging out right in the middle of Act I of Shakepeare’s Julius Caesar. Cassius says to Brutus “Men at some times are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings” (Act 1, Scene 2, 140-143).
Yeah, I know what Cassius and Brutus went on to do, and I know that in the tenth circle of hell, Satan is chewing on Brutus for eternity. But that’s not the point.
The point is that my 15 year old self was rocked by the divine literary affirmation of what my parents had been telling me: my life was mine, every triumph, mistake and consequence. All mine to make or break. Intoxicating. Empowering.
As a teacher I put aphorisms around my classroom, in print that was big enough to read from across the room, but only if you really focused. I never called attention to them. Aphorisms need to be mulled over a few times. I waited for the students to ask me. And in drips and dribbles, over the course of the year, kids would come to me and say “Can I ask you what this means?” To which I always answered “First, tell me what you think it means”.
I’ve done the same thing in our home. Only Gabriel can read, and he’s probably too young for Ben Franklin, but I want the words to be a fixture in our home, familiar, like old friends. I want the words to be there for the day they lose a game, or get a D, or fight with their friend. Something to mull over. To help them figure it all out.
Because sometimes the answers to life’s questions can be tied up in one tidy, historically, philosophically or spiritually significant saying.
Here they are!*
This was the first sign Shea and I got when we married. It was a gift from my sister-in-law’s parents and has hung in our kitchen since the day we moved in.This hangs in our guest bathroom. Gotta love Mr. Franklin!This sign hung over the window in the nursery for all three babies. From “Guess How Much I Love You”. I never want my kids to doubt!We put this in the living room, along with the S, which is our family initial. We are proud to be children of God.I’ve had this one in my home in some form or fashion for almost twenty years. This MOVES me.I bought these as favors for Anne’s baby shower. There have never been sisters in my family before, and I wanted to let the important women in my life know that I learned about sisterhood from them. This is who we try to be.This one kind of speaks for itself. But we want our kids to know we have faith in them.I got this one at Kohls. Gabriel quotes it at Kate sometimes, which makes me smile.This one is going upstairs between the kids’ bedrooms. Simple.This is our newest sign, purchased from Shutterfly for Father’s Day. Love it!
Of course, the most important words in our home are contained in our family Bible, which normally lives on our hutch, right within easy reach. But since we are currently short a hutch, it’s in the cupboard next to the phonebook, which is pretty appropriate if you think about it.
I am sure as the years go on, I will add or switch some of the hanging words in our home. Maybe (dream of dreams) the kids will add some of their own eventually. Either way, I hope we are always a family of words, spoken and hanging.
*The wooden signs were made for us by my sister-in-law’s mother, Karen Shoemaker. Her work can be found at www.shabbyshoesigns.com.
My cousin is beautiful. She’s about 5’3”, has long, naturally wavy, blonde hair, and blue eyes. She’s got this infectious laugh and there is nothing about her that doesn’t sparkle.We’ve lived super close to each other, and we’ve lived continents apart. Now she lives about an hour away, but our kids are pretty much stair-stepped, hers are 7 and 4 and mine are 2 and 8 months, so we don’t get to spend nearly enough time shopping at Anthropologie and eating cupcakes, like we used to. But we catch up about once a week on a marathon phone call that seems short if it falls under an hour. I love her with all of my heart and all of my soul.
One Saturday at the beginning of summer she was headed to Fashion Island in Newport Beach with the kids and we were discussing her outfit. Definitely not pants, but maybe a long skirt? “I DO NOT want to wear shorts,” she told me, “my legs are way too pale.”
“Let me tell you something,” I said. “Nobody’s looking at you.”
I realized after I said it that it totally sounded harsh. But I didn’t mean it as a dig at all. In fact, if people are looking at her, they are not noticing her pale legs.
But this is a lesson I have learned while nursing my children. Because babies, well, my babies at least, don’t want to be discreetly covered up by a hooter-hider or a blanket after a certain age. Nope. They want to see what is going on in the world. Yes, they’re eating, but that doesn’t mean a thing. And I see their point. I don’t want to be under a blanket while enjoying a good meal, either.
But when this first started happening to me, I was humiliated. I was sure that I would get dirty looks and maybe even some rude comments. So I huddled in corners, sweating, trying to hide my half-exposed boob from the world. But then it happened… nothing. People didn’t even notice. It was like they had their own stuff to worry about and weren’t even looking at me. What a revelation!
And for the most part, those who do look at me don’t even care.
And isn’t that the truth? Aren’t we all just out there, doing our best? Don’t we give each other, and our pale legs, and our half-exposed boobs the benefit of the doubt? Because when a friend tells me that her hair looks awful today, I haven’t noticed. When the lady in front of me at the grocery store mentions she’s not even wearing make-up, chances are I’ve been too busy keeping kleenex out of Baby Violet’s mouth or putting Mazie’s shoes and socks back on.
Of course, there are those who notice. There are those who look and laugh. But you know what? Who cares about them? They’re not our people anyway. And someday, they themselves will be there: running on 2 hours of sleep, lucky to just get out of the house alive. We won’t be there to see them, but others will. Others will notice or not and the world will keep on turning.
See… this is my cousin. Would you notice her pale legs? Love you, Bebe!
One of the great things about being anywhere Disney is this: ain’t no one judging anyone, since we are all one dropped ice cream cone away from the Mother of All Meltdowns.
There are still moments that test this collective patience.
It was my fault, since Anne had been in a swim diaper for five hours. First she was playing in the water at Typhoon Lagoon and then she was asleep for two hours and then it was time to go, so I threw her in the stroller and we headed towards the shuttle.
And of course, as we came around the corner, there was our bus, five stops down. I started running with Gabe and the stroller, waving my arms like a crazy mama who needs to get on the bus now and not 20 minutes from now. I put Gabe on the first step of the bus so the driver couldn’t leave without us, reached down to pick up Anne, turned to point to Shea running with Kate. Shea took one look at me and yelled “OH MY GOD! POOP!”
I looked down into the stroller—the rented stroller, BTW—and saw the biggest lump of poop I have ever seen.
The next five minutes are a blur in my memory, punctuated by Gabe needing to tell me right now about the flies swarming the poop in the stroller and also needing to know right now why flies in Florida are blue. Shea whisked the stroller away to the bathroom. I had to pre-clean Anne to get her suit off. And yes I did push lumps of poop through the slats of the bench onto the cement, where they were immediately covered with blue flies.
It was EPIC.
And then, when I had the baby cleaned up and diapered and the bench reasonably cleaned and Shea was back with the stroller and the bus was turning the corner into the parking lot, Kate says “Hey Mom. Did you know you have poop on your cover up?”
Sure enough, there was poop on my cover-up, so I took it off.
And that means that I—of the soap box modesty post the day before—rode the bus back to the hotel wearing my swimsuit and nothing else, holding my baby girl wearing her diaper and nothing else.
Standing. Room. Only.
I refrained from grabbing the shuttle mic and explaining to everyone why I was wearing my suit and my baby was only wearing a diaper and we all smelled like poop.
My husband and I spent July 4th 2010 in New York City. It was the first year since 9/11 that the Statue of Liberty was open to visitors. The city was crowded beyond belief and we watched the fireworks on our televisions from our hotel room.
In the next couple of days though, we drove up the East Coast and made our way to Boston and it’s surrounding cities. Our first stop was the cities of Concord and Lexington. This leg of our epic (40 days and 40 nights) road trip was probably the one I had looked forward to the most. For there we stood, on the North Bridge, the site of the first battle of the American Revolution and the “shot heard round the world.”
As my former students will tell you, I’m a total geek for that kind of stuff. It fires me up. But there are places on this earth, places where HISTORY has happened, that are still inhabited by the ghosts of the past. The bridge was surprisingly empty and so we had a good deal of time to drink in the beauty and the importance of that place. I could feel its weight on my shoulders and I loved every minute of it.
In the city of Boston, we saw the Old North Church and Paul Revere’s house. What? One if by land, two if by sea, Baby! Awesome! I love the story of the brave men who hung those lanterns up in that Anglican (read: loyal to the King) Church, how they narrowly escaped through a window, and how Revere, a silversmith, rode on borrowed horse and stopped at each and every house, sounding his alarm, on his way to alert Sam Adams and John Hancock that the British were here.
Later in Philadelphia, we visited Independence Hall. Are you kidding me? It looks just like it’s supposed to: green table cloths, original desks, Thomas Jefferson’s walking stick at his regular chair (pictured below). It was here that those men of the Second Continental Congress, some politicians, but some farmers, lawyers, printing press operators, voted to declare independence from British rule. Their names are etched in our collective American minds: John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, Samuel Adams, John Hancock.
We walked in their footsteps, honored their gravesites, fell in love again with their lives and their vision for this country of ours.
Sometimes I feel sad for what has become of America. I feel like we are forever divided. But on Independence Day, we are united in our reverence for those who fought for our freedom 237 years ago. We are grateful for their bravery, for their conviction, for their resolve. We remember their optimism and hope for the future, for our future. And together, we love America.
And besides, who doesn’t love the chance for matching American flag dresses? Happy Independence Day and God bless America.
Last year on Father’s Day, this was my Facebook status: There are so many different faces that my dad has worn as a parent. Many of you know the strict, almost mean, dad that reared himself when I was in high school. Many of you know the sarcastic joker who is always giving people a hard time. Many of you know the proud father and grandfather that would do anything for his girls. But today, I celebrate the man who is teaching me to be fearless in the face of whatever life throws my way, to not feel sorry for myself when I’m sick or tired, but to get big, get strong, and to meet the challenge. You know, these are the lessons that he taught me in sports, and now I’m seeing him live them in life. I love you, Daddy, and I’m so damn proud of you.
Little did I know that the next Father’s Day would be the one-month anniversary of his funeral. Some of you knew him, some of you knew of him, but most of you didn’t. As he spent more and more time in the hospital, and even when we brought him home for hospice, I found myself telling more than a couple of nurses and doctors, “This isn’t my dad. I mean, he’s not this sick, elderly man that you see. He runs his dog every morning, he wrestles around, he throws the football in the front yard with us on Super Bowl Sunday.”
When we planned his funeral, we decided that there wouldn’t be a sharing time, just the pastor’s message. My dear Aunt Candy, his youngest sister, read his obituary, but other than that, there were no personal touches. So today, I want to share him with you, to give him the eulogy that I wish I had given him then.
At my wedding, 2007
My dad, Allen Lee Builteman, was born in 1938 in rural Oklahoma. He lived for about 12 years in a small town called Yale. Even though he spent the majority of his life living elsewhere, he was always a country boy at heart, and considered Oklahoma is home. I traveled there with him and my mom in 2010 and saw his home, which is still in the family. The garden that his grandmother planted is still growing in the back.
Dad with his parents Mary-Mae and Guy in 1941His Aunt Lena and his Uncle Elsie raised him those years in Oklahoma. He worked in the town drug store that Elsie owned and always credited his knowledge about business to his uncle. And since he was the soda jerk, he could make a mean chocolate malt. That was always a treat, when Daddy made malts on a hot summer evening.
In 1955, he moved with his parents and siblings to Wiesbaden, Germany, where his father was stationed after the war. It was there that he fell in love with Marlene Dietrich and her famous “Lili Marlene,” which I sang to him often in the hospital and at home his last few days.
Wiesbaden, Germany – February 1956As a father, my dad was extremely supportive of my brother and me, especially when it came to our athletic careers. He coached Derek in pony league baseball and in basketball, even into adulthood. And he cheered from the stands at my volleyball games. It became a bit of a joke that I played volleyball because it was a sport that Daddy couldn’t coach!
But his true love was always basketball. When I was younger he coached church league, but gave that up because it wasn’t competitive enough. It was then that he formed a city league team called The Cherokee. Watching these men, many of whom had played professionally in the United States and Europe, was instrumental in forming my identity as an athlete, which has in turn formed my identity as a person. If there was a game that he was playing, he wanted to win. It didn’t matter if it was a friendly scrimmage. He would say, “If we’re keeping score, I want to win.” Me, too.
After a game at Long Beach State, 1997… which we won, by the way.Whether it was on the court or in the banking world, or even in his personal life, my dad demanded excellence. As a kid and teen, it totally bugged me. It seemed he was always ragging on me. Nothing I did ever seemed good enough. But as an adult, I saw him always give his best. No, not his best, his excellence. You see, with him, saying you did your best wasn’t really good enough. You had to give your excellence. And if you didn’t, he’d let you know about it.
Let me give you an example: late in his banking career, the bank he worked for hired a new president. To say that the two of them didn’t get along would be an understatement. As a passive-aggressive punishment, the new president moved my dad from Senior Vice President/Manager of their corporate office in Ontario to Senior Vice President/Manager of a small office in San Bernardino. Instead of fighting or complaining, my dad pulled a “Dad Move.” He went after two new accounts: The San Manuel Band of Mission Indians and the Diocese of San Bernardino County. The Natives and the Church. Go Dad! Those two accounts, plus the few that he had brought with him from corporate, made his branch, the small, crappy San Bernardino branch, the #1 highest earning branch in the company. But that was my dad. Excellence.
Us in New Orleans – 2004Daddy was the kind of guy that never left the house in just shorts and a t-shirt. Casual meant slacks without a crease pressed in, and a polo shirt. As he became more successful in the business world, he started buying custom sewn suits and dress shirts. I always thought it was unnecessary and a little pretentious. But I brushed it off and knew that it was his “thing.” He had grown up poor, and so now he wanted nice clothes. A couple of weeks before he died, though, he told me the motivation behind it all: when he was in junior high, he moved to a new school and was enrolled in art class. The teacher had him be the model for the other kids to draw on his first day. Cruel, right? So he sat up on a stool, on a platform, in the center of the room for the entire class period, kids drawing and snickering. At the end of the class, he found that most of them had drawn him as a hobo because they could see the holes that were in the bottoms of his shoes. “So if you’ve ever wondered why I dress the way I do, there you go,” he told me.
But one of my favorite things about my dad was the way that he loved my daughters. I can’t really write a whole lot about that right now because it’s just too hard. But trust me, it was awesome. Just look at the pictures. You’ll get the idea. And I also need to say that he comes to visit my 2 1/2 year old. Every now and then, she will tell me that Zha-Zha (her pet name for him) came to her room. Sometimes he tells her, “I looooove Mazie!” Another time she said that he told her she is “getting so big!” I believe it. So I tell her, “Well, next time you see him, tell him that Mama loves him.” “Ok,” she says, and goes about her business.
Daddy and Baby Violet, April 1, 2013Mazie and her Zha-Zha, April 1, 2013We made the decision to bring him home on a Tuesday morning. After meeting with the hospice folk at the hospital, my mom, my brother, and I went up to his room to visit for a while. We had just learned that his cancer spread to his lungs and he had lost his ability to walk. We shed many tears while he slept, then tried to eat, vomited, slept again. But I will never forget the rush, the absolute, overwhelming flood of love that I felt, looking at him there in the hospital. I literally couldn’t stop smiling at him, even through my tears. In a moment that he and I had alone, he took my hand and told me that his lung cancer was going to be horrible. It was almost an apology. “Oh Daddy,” I told him, “Don’t you worry about that.” I stroked his head while he rested again. I kissed his feverish forehead before I left. He didn’t know his body was shutting down.
That Thursday, he came home for good. He had been off of his morphine and dilaudid for a few hours so he was completely awake. As the paramedics rolled him into the living room, he looked up at all of us, his family that surrounded him, Mom, Aunt Candy, my brother, my daughters, and me, and said to each one of us, “I love you. I love you. I love you all.”
Two days later, he was gone.
When I think of my sweet dad, I think of laughter. I think of country music and cowboy boots. I think of basketball. I think about the Oklahoma Sooners and his love for the city of New Orleans. I see him wearing one of his newsboy caps. I remember running for cover with him, laughing, in the New Orleans rain. I remember his puffed up chest at my college graduation. I remember him holding me when I woke up crying, in my adulthood, from a bad break-up. I smell his ChapStick. I see his crystal green eyes. I watch him do his little hop after fielding a ground ball. I can see him shooting free throws: how he held his hands before, during, and after his shot. And finally, I can see the sincerity in his eyes the last time he told me he loved me.
Daddy and me on his 70th birthday – October 18, 2008
Full Of Graces 