sweetheart bars

I keep meaning to email this recipe out, and can no longer remember who all to put in the address bar, so I'm sharing it with y'all.  Here's to a little heart-healthy snackin' for those I love.

These are basically granola bars, in the spirit of "larabars" or similar cookie-style protein snacks.  I did not really invent the recipe; variations are widely available on the wide internet. I just tried a few of the options, then figured out the ratios I like best and put together my own version. However, it is awards season, and I find these get me rave reviews every time I share them with my family and others.  So, I offer a little "dedication" speech to those who want to bestow high honors upon these treats:

I dedicate these bars in honor of my friend who got me hooked on the big money pit otherwise known as Costco, where I was stocking up on such snacks to the detriment of my checkbook. These are about 30% of the cost, little to no wasteful packaging, and do not require a hike through the land of samples. In honor of my friend who demonstrated that going gluten-free is easy if you have somebody cooking for you and buying your groceries, I offer a delicious GF snack.  In honor of my friends who have given up most comforts in life and travel the world to help end human trafficking, this includes fair trade (aka "slave free") chocolate.  In honor of my husband, who ate all of my cashews before I could make a batch of these last week, I made these and got you extra cashews. And finally, in honor of a slender, beautiful friend who bikes everywhere yet still worries about caloric balance, well... eat another, darling.  

Sweetheart Bars
2 C cashews (or other nuts)
2 C pitted dates
2 Tblsp peanut (or almonnd) butter
2 Tblsp (or more) chopped dark chocolate

In a food processor, chop the cashews into fine bits.  Empty into a bowl and set aside.
In the same food processor (!), chop the dates into fine bits.  They will start to mash together.  Add the peanut butter and process together.
Slowly pour the nuts back into the dates mixture, and process until well combined.  Add the chocolate and process well.
The mixture will likely be warm.  Press into a wax-paper lined baking pan (I use 9x13").  Set in the refrigerator and cool until firm.
Cut into bars of desired size, and enjoy.

*These store well in baggies or sealed containers.  I keep mine in the fridge, but it's not neccessary.

Happy Day!

bloom

It's not gas.  It's not the stomach flu.  It's not reflux.  What Baby M has been experiencing is likely called infantile spasm.  And if you google it, which I don't recommend, you will most likely find these words: cataclysmic seizure disorder.

I know because it's what I read after googling the term a neurologist used to describe the worst case scenario (and very unlikely, so meant to ease my fears).  It came after a long two weeks of trying to get answers and reassure myself that it was, as I was told, just gas or reflux, and facing that gnawing sensation that it was something else.  I made that now predictable error of using google and youtube for research.  Will I ever learn?!

So there I sat, desperate and terrified, staring at a screen, hardly able to breathe.  I tried to fight back tears, to quiet the voice that wanted to scream, "It's just not fair!!!" and managed a prayer-demand: please, God, just one good thing.  Can't you give me just one good thing?!?


And then there was a knock at the door.  Literally.  At that exact moment, somebody knocked on my door and tore me from my selfishness and blindness.  I stumbled downstairs, scrambling to assemble myself and push the dog back and listen to the boys at the front window describe a woman who'd gotten out of a minivan.  The door opened to my friend, whose name means the same as my daughter - bitterly wanted - standing on the porch with a giant vase of hydrangea blooms.  I stammered, and choked, and could feel a rush of heat to my tear ducts, which could no longer hold back the pain, frustration, and exhaustion.

"I am so sorry," she mumbled.  There were other words, but I could only shake my head.  One Good Thing.  When she asked, I stammered out something about the new possibility of a terrifying disorder.  My fear.  My dread.  My anger.  My prayer moments earlier. I clumsily fumbled when she said she just didn't know what to say: "just be thankful it's not your child."  My internal tantrum against the unfairness and injustice of life raged behind my tears, but I bowed my head when she asked to pray for me.  When she was done, I felt a glimmer of calm.  Perhaps I'd be able to cope.  It would be only the first of several times a friend would stop that day and pray for me, giving my thirsty soul and heart relief - if only for a bit longer - and helping me face forward.

I put the flowers on the table, and thought to myself how they reminded me of myself.  Blooming, in spite of the winter months.  It's possible, even if they are more naturally suited to a sunnier climate.  They were beautiful, and they reminded me of the many gifts - the many good things - in my life.  This diagnosis would be scary, but not insurmountable.  I pointed out the flowers to the boys; we admired them as we ate cold cereal for dinner and waited for Daddy to get home.  Exhausted, I let them watch a movie while another friend came over and processed with me, letting me cry.  When Mr. Kenobi came home, things settled for a bit, but when our baby had another "spasm," it did me in.  I burst into uncontrollable sobs, wailing to a God I wasn't sure was listening, "Please!  Please make it stop!  Please fix this!  Please!  IT'S JUST NOT FAIR!"


Mr. Kenobi took the baby from my grasp.  I hadn't been this way since we heard the words, "chromosomal abnormalities."  It's finally happening.  It's finally too much.  Everyone has her limits, and I've just crossed mine.

The night was long.  Every sound she made, sleeping within an arm's reach of me, made me jump to check on her.  I slept in scattered 15-minute naps, mostly laying awake in worry.  When I woke in the morning, it was more like conceding a battle lost.  I would not have rest, nor perspective, to start this day.  So I went downstairs.

Soon joined by the little feet of Obi-1, I sat quietly in the living room, snuggling him and trying to reassure him that Mama wouldn't cry all day.  I willed myself to hold back tears, and then he noticed something.

"Oh, no, Mama!  The flowers - they're dead!"

Sure enough, my beautiful blue blooms had wilted.  I nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity.  There they sat, poised on a dining room table, and wilted within a day. The heat from our fireplace, which I'd worked so hard to keep going the day before, had likely proven too much for them  Yup.  Just like me.  Couldn't stand the heat. Nice message from God.


Obi-2 came down soon after and noticed the arrangement with grief.  "Mama!  Your flowers died!"

Sarcastic prayers filled my mind, but somewhere - somewhere much deeper in me - words came from my mouth.  The teacher spoke.  "Actually, they died when they were cut from the plant, sweetie.  They just wilted because the air got too dry around them."

Died when they were separated from the roots.  Oh.  My ears didn't listen to my own words until later.

Obi-1 stirred oatmeal, I zombied my way through morning routine.  The phone rang - an EEG appointment was available today.  I began calling friends, trying to find help for the boys so they wouldn't have to come with us.  Cripled, wilting, I called a friend.  The friend who lovingly burped my gassy baby last week.  The friend who hosted my soul and my son in her home.

She's a little like my mother, this friend.  No pitty-parties.  Sympathy, but no wallowing allowed.  She began to point out the good things.  The reasons for gratitude.  She quoted this book - ironically one I gave her when I left her home - reminding me that miracles follow thanksgiving. With grace and compassion and steely resolve, she turned the lenses on my heart's kaleidoscopic and pointed to the colors.  And when she had heard enough of my, "yes, but..." whining, she asked if she could pray for me, and thanked our common Father for the long lists of blessings in my life.

Because sometimes, that's what friends do.  They write the thank you note while you're still staring at the ripped wrapping paper.  Or, as I realized after the call, she watered my roots.

From that moment on, I could see things - the very same things - in my day with a different perspective. We didn't have to get an EEG. We had to gift of the premier facility in the area putting us on the schedule today.  We had a neurologist calling into the head of pediatric epilepsy, urging a quick review of our case. Friends' messages streamed in, gifts of hope and kindness in thought and prayer.  Dear friend "Auntie V" rescheduled a client so she could stay with the boys, and arrived declaring how wonderful it was that she got to spend part of her day with them (with no indication that it was an immense favor for me).  Another friend penned me sweet words of encouragement, birthed from a heart that walks a similar path to mine.

Searching to satisfy my hunger for tangible reasons to be grateful, I remembered a friend who'd walked through an EEG with her son, and called for insight on our appointment.  No sooner did she hear what we faced than she said, "that's what my son had."  Reassurance.  Her bright, capable, beautiful (non-DS) son had come through this.  So had she.  So could we.

And so, perhaps it shouldn't shock anyone when I nearly burst into a dance of joy as the doctor - the same pediatric neurologist who had emailed back-and-forth with me and first mentioned the words that sparked my panic - called.  Dance with joy?  I was hearing the words that had only been a worst case scenario the night before. He had patiently consulted me with emails throughout the past few days, and paved the way for our daughter to be reviewed by the best of the hospital's experts.  It was eight at night.  He was likely home, but reviewing her brain waves via remote system.  He had already left a message on my home number, but then called my personal cell phone to try to talk to me in person.

It is likely infantile spasms.  Without missing a beat, he assured me that this will likely be okay.  Children with Down syndrome are a bit more likely to have this, even as rare as it is.  They also tend to do better - responding to more treatment options, responding well, recovering more quickly, with fewer or no long-term affect - than typical children.  If your baby is going to have these, it is to her benefit to have been born with Down Syndrome.  He spent about 15 minutes explaining, educating, encouraging.  We've caught it early, and she's going to recover.

What once felt like one more unfair thing was, divinely, a gift.  Her underlying genetic differences made her stronger.  More able to fight and win, not less.  More able to shine on the other side of this.  Less likely to wilt in the heat.

I'm so grateful.  I'm a little nervous, too, of course.  Treatments and epilepsy are a big deal, even if we're under the care of the best.  This Mama carefully researches everything that goes into her babies' bodies, so the thought of what we're about to do to my youngest makes my stomach tense, but a grateful heart is a good antacid for that.  Armed with more information, but more importantly, new perspective, I'm back.  A living plant loses some of its prized blooms when pruned, but leaves room and nutrients for new growth.

Love,
MamaToo



p.s.  for those wondering the health background...
She started doing little hiccup-like crunches a couple weeks ago, when the rest of the family was falling to a brief-but-vicious stomach bug, but she never got sick.  When we realized it was happening at least once a day, for several days, we called the pediatrician.  I remember using the words, "I'm afraid it could be seizures." The nurse asked many questions, and concluded that it likely wasn't seizures.  More likely was that dratted stomach bug.  We had an appointment already scheduled for a week out, and could check it then.  Unsatisfied, I asked her to review that thought with the doctor and call me back if he'd like to see the video I took.  She called the next morning; they had discussed it more and while she asked a few more questions, it just didn't strike them as something urgent.  It was likely gas or upset tummy.

So I went to visit a dear friend, and when she saw it, she said, "Oh, that baby has gas!  Don't worry!"  I got back to town and took our baby into the pediatrician for her visit.  She happened to have an episode when we walked in, and a nurse observed it, seeming to think it was odd, but not alarming.  Another nurse came in, discussed with me, and watched the video from my phone.  Everyone seemed to conclude it was classic signs of reflux.  Except our baby doesn't spit up (that was Obi-3 - ufdah!) and it doesn't always happen around eating.  It's more likely to happen upon waking up, or shortly after falling asleep, or when she's quite tired.  The pediatrician (not our usual one, but a partner in the practice) came in, asked more questions, and viewed the video.  "Hmmm... yeah, it's probably reflux.  We can get an EEG if it would make you feel better, just to be on the safe side."

Feeling like that mom who was insisting on extra testing for her perfectly well child, I emailed the neurologist we'd seen when we enrolled in a children's hospital program for Down Syndrome.  He mentioned infantile spasms (the first I heard the term) were a very rare thing that would be ruled out by an EEG, and said it wouldn't be an unreasonable precaution or defensive medicine to go ahead with that.  He also offered to take a look at the video I'd shot.  Within hours, we were on the schedule at two hospitals (I cancelled the later appointment as soon as I got into children's hospital).  The EEG went well, and the test results are still in process but the neurologist feels the data supports infantile spasms, which is what he saw in my video.  He does think her spasms are quite mild, which is probably the reason (along with the rarity of these seizures) our pediatrician didn't spot it initially.  He also says we've figured it out early enough to diagnose and treat quickly, hopefully averting any long-term issues with her.  For those of you in my close circle, I'll keep you updated with other information as I know it.

rolling along

The baby rolled over last week.  She was rolling, front to back, teeter-totter, for a couple months.  However, it has been sporadic, like losing her balance when placed "just so" on her elbows.  This time, she actually pushed on her hands and flipped herself over.  Pleased as she was with herself, she continued to do it, and prove that it's no longer a fluke.

Development. Check.

I felt excited, but also a bit nonchalant.  Of course babies roll over.  Why not?  This is only one little milestone in a series of milestones in a lifetime of little things that each human accomplishes, then moves along to her next challenge.

Still, it's probably the final time I'll celebrate this one for my own child.  It's also one of those little surprises and developments for myself.  It sounds obvious, but I'm finding myself taking little steps and achieving little things right beside my roly-poly baby.  I'm learning about babies with expected delays in development.  I'm learning about Down Syndrome.  I'm learning and re-learning and re-learning again that every person (including every soul in my home) is unique and interesting and yet not all that different from one another.

A friend shared a really sweet story with me the other day.  It brought tears to my eyes, partly in widening my mind to hopes and dreams for my daughter.  The tears were also out of guilt - for not having those hopes and dreams before hearing that story.

I don't know what to expect with her, but I'm learning to rethink it all - even to remember that I should have expectations.  Maybe that's something to celebrate in and of itself.  Maybe it's like rolling over on purpose - just engage some new muscles in the right way, at the right time.  It's big, it's small, and it's part of growing toward more mobility.

Perhaps it will cease to surprise me when my baby - this baby - is on or ahead of schedule in development.  Perhaps I'll learn to really celebrate those things.  Perhaps, as another friend advised me, every little development will be a big deal.  I'll get online and blog about it Right. At. That. Moment.  On the other hand, perhaps I'll continue to learn that she's a baby, and babies do these things.  There will be balance and progress, however uncoordinated and imperfect, for us all.

stinkin' ethics

Sometimes life is messy... literally.  I'm getting really, really tired of diapers.  Even though the boys have generally been out of them and using indoor plumbing by their 2nd birthday or so, I still have a baby in diapers and I'm starting to grow weary.  I've heard of "EC" for a couple years, but thought it was basically a bunch of hippie voodoo.  

Then I tried it, just on a whim, and the baby has been really responsive.  She's still in diapers. but a couple times a day she uses the toilet.  Amazing.  Maybe there is a light at the end of this tunnel.

Unfortunately, Obi-3, who is 2 1/2, has decided he's not really interested in being consistent with his use of indoor plumbing.  If he's busy playing, or just otherwise obstinate, he'll go in his underwear.  If there's one thing worse than changing wet or stinky cloth diapers, it's changing wet and stinky underwear on a squirmy kiddo.  Ugh.

I've tried all the bribes, techniques, rewards, and patience we used to get him toilet trained.  Sometimes it works, but he seems uninterested in all of the motivators that were really exciting a few months ago.  A good friend was over recently, and shared that her daughter regressed in the same way.  She figured out a habit-forming bribe that worked, and shared it with me: get a toy, or something the child really (REALLY) wants, have it sitting out and tell the child he must go 5 days with no misses in order to have the reward.  Five. Days.  She figures that makes a habit.  For her daughter, it was a doll house.

My boy wants his own guitar.  He loves musical instruments, and wants a real one to play.  After yet another miss, a bath, and mounting exasperation this morning, I decided to give it a try.  I told him that I would put up a picture of his very own guitar, and he could have it (the guitar) when he had five days of no accidents.  We'd put stickers on the picture to count the days.

He looked thoughtfully as we pulled up pictures of guitars online, and then said, "Obi-3 wants a ukulele."  (He speaks like Elmo - always using his name instead of a pronoun.)  No kidding.  The child who struggles to enunciate "orange" somehow managed "ukulele."  Oh, and he wants a red one.

Okay.  MamaToo can be bought.  I found this red ukulele that I can get here within days.  I showed him the picture, said we'd get it for him in exchange for the desired habit, and promised to put the picture up while he works on earning it.  "If you can keep your underwear dry for 5 days, I'll get this ukulele for you."

He replied, "No.  Obi-3 no want ukulele."

I looked at him, puzzled.

"Obi-3 no want guitar."

I started to get a little worried.

"Obi-3 wants BAN-JO."

Banjos appear to run at least $50.  They do not, from my initial searches, appear to come in red.  They are not commonly stocked at the online retail mega-stores, which means I need to make phone calls to local music shops to see if it's even an option.  A banjo.  Seriously?!?

And really, I think he's probably driving a hard bargain because he won't be bribed. If I find a red banjo, he'll want something else - an accordion or harp, probably. The child is a serious example of political gridlock.  Or, maybe he just has amazing ethics.  Frankly, I'm not sure whether to be impressed or frustrated.  Either way, it appears that the only thing I'm in control of changing is his pants.  Ugh.

trick or treat

Given that I use character names for privacy on this blog, I'm aware that it's ironic for us to introduce our boys to the Star Wars movies.  I never saw the movies until college, when Mr. Kenobi insisted that I must come to know the plots in detail.  Evidently he had friends who would have been deeply concerned for his sanity had they known he was dating a woman who lacked a proper appreciation of the Lucas epics.  Anyway, I watched them and vaguely remember each.  Mr. Kenobi has waited eagerly to watch them with his boys, and I finally relented and checked them out from the library.  (Note: the library is awesome.  Free movies!  And you can take them back!!)  Now the boys know more about the plots of long long ago in a galaxy far, far away than I ever care to know.  I recently saw this spif on youtube and thought it aptly summarized the movies.

but I digress...

Tonight is Halloween, and my kids are enamored with the Star Wars movies, so they are off in characters.  For the record, we have not shown them the "new" episodes, just the original three that came out when I was about their age.  Oy.

Here are a few photos for your amusement.  As I generally try not to post many pictures of them online, I may end up taking these down eventually, but I also know the majority of my readers quite well and the kids are in costume, so I thought you'd enjoy seeing them.

The Boys

Obi-Wan

Luke Skywalker

Ewok

Pumpkin

Happy Halloween.

-MamaToo

almost famous

Tonight, something will happen that almost didn't happen.  At least, it almost didn't happen to include us.  Let me tell you a little story about becoming (almost) famous...

Once upon a time, Mr. Kenobi was a tennis player. A very, very good tennis player.  He played through high school, and then was offered scholarship to play at a couple Division I universities.  He chose the one where we met because of its proximity to premier downhill skiing outstanding athletic and academic programs.  He then set out to meet his future wife become an engineer.

Something few people know about college tennis is that it's a bit unlike other sports, which have one season to compete, and then the pre/off-season training.  At the collegiate level, tennis players compete in the fall, generally as individuals at larger tournaments, and in the spring as a team. Because his program was in the northern Rocky Mountains, they had a lot of travel to play opponents - usually long drives in a crowded, stinky van full of other lanky tennis players. This travel comes at the expense of class time, and requires make-up tests, self-study, and lots of other dedication to academics, even while devoting a lot of time and energy to the sport.

This leads me to a point of pride for my hubby... College athletes, for a variety of reasons, commonly don't finish their degree in four years.  It often takes an extra year to complete the requisite coursework while they balance their obligations to athletics.  It is also a challenge to find a student athlete who graduates in engineering.  I won't speculate (here) why most athletes enroll in other programs, but let's just say that engineering professors aren't used to students like Mr. Kenobi.  Nonetheless, he was a stellar student as well as athlete, and completed his four-year degree in, well, four years.  While unusual, this doesn't make him famous, however.

So nowadays, especially recently, there is a lot of talk about NCAA rules.  If you've read stories like this recent problem at Boise State, you're probably tired of hearing how these programs can't (or don't) seem to abide by their own governing rules.  You may also be tired of the stories of criminal athletes, who are drawing scholarship money, auspiciously to "represent" the university, yet certainly aren't a beacon of inspiring character.  To oversimplify the way the rules work, both a university program (the coaches, athletic department, etc.) and the student-athletes are mutually accountable for following the rules.  If somebody breaks rules, everyone can lose.  When we were part of the college athletic system, NCAA violations didn't seem to make headlines often. I don't know that people were more honest or that the temptations were any less appealing, but there weren't constant news reports on college athletes and programs.  Further, a sport like college tennis rarely makes waves in the world of famous athletic programs at any time.  Yet sometimes, even without fame or tweets or spotlights or espn, there are defining moments in a person's character.

Mr. Kenobi played on the tennis team, and was a leader.  He wasn't the top player, but he always contributed solidly to the team's success.  At the start of his second year, a new coach came into the program.  He was charismatic, athletic, and seemed promising for the team.  He quickly liked Mr. Kenobi and things went well for a time.  Between the second and third year of college, we got engaged and started planning our future.  Things were good.

Unfortunately, Coach began to show cracks in his ethics and NCAA experience.  Coaching college athletics is a dangerous place for those weaknesses, and by midway into Mr. Kenobi's third year of school, there were big problems looming.  Violations, and potential violations, threatened with no apparent accountability in sight, and all of it weighed heavily on Mr. Kenobi.   If things didn't change, both the program and its athletes could face large consequences. He realized it and tried to address things with the coach.  He went directly and privately, and when things didn't change, he went again.  Then, he called together his teammates privately, and together they approached their coach.  And then, when things still weren't changing, he took a big risk.  He went to the athletic director.

Why a risk?  Well, the coach is an authority, and he could choose to cut a player from his team, effectively taking that athlete's chance to compete away (as well as his scholarship money).  The AD is an even higher authority, and could suspend players, even if the coach was at fault.  To keep quiet would have been easier, and Mr. Kenobi realized he was risking his opportunity to play, as well as his scholarship (which paid for an education he couldn't have otherwise afforded). Further, his younger brother played on the team.  Causing waves for himself could hurt his family.  This was a lot for the shoulders of a young man who had always been a tennis player, a guy who simply wanted to become an engineer and begin the next step of his life responsibly.  His identity was wrapped up in being a student athlete.  And in the moments that followed their decision, his world unraveled.

The coach was furious, and suspended him from the team.  An internal investigation of the program ensued.  Mr. Kenobi had to hire an advocate to petition his legal case for scholarship money.  It was unclear if he could remain at the school without winning that appeal, let alone his hopes to continue competing in tennis.  His brother, for reasons that were completely understandable, had to distance himself and try to remain on the team.  The other teammates - his best friends - were effectively cut off from him, and their training limped forward toward a season without their team leader.  Mr. Kenobi enrolled in the spring semester, but wasn't sure he would be able to go to class - his scholarship was not guaranteed and the out of state tuition was too much. It was incredibly stressful and isolating.

There have only been a handful of times I've watched tears form in Mr. Kenobi's eyes.  I remember those days, feeling truly helpless, seeing anger and grief and confusion wrap around his heart, threatening a stranglehold.  I also remember realizing that his entire identity was crashing.  This was a guy who was somebody on the tennis court, on the team, at the campus.  Now, he appeared to be losing it all.  Without athletics, he wasn't sure how to define himself.

Perhaps you can relate.
What happens when that thing that is part of your "definition of me" disappears or changes?
What does it mean when you lose your job, your career, your marriage, your dream, or...?
What is it to realize something you believed to be true and wonderful is fallible?

I'd love to tell you the rest of his personal story, but that is Mr. Kenobi's to share - ask him sometime if you know him.  Suffice it to say that he claims the enormous loss and incredible uncertainty of that time was one of the biggest blessings he's ever encountered.  And I, the beloved bystander, am eternally grateful for how things changed for him.

See, I don't care too much that he won his appeal on the scholarship, although I'm grateful we were able to keep him enrolled and complete his degree.  I'm also grateful we were not saddled with enormous debt from the process.  I was always proud of his athletic achievements, but it didn't change my life when he was reinstated on the team.  I was relieved when the coach left, and the university held to a high standard of ethics, especially because it opened an opportunity for our dear friend to assume the head coaching role.  In the perspective of an outsider, everything came back into place nearly as quickly as it all unraveled.  And yet, none of it was as monumental as the change that took place in those weeks and months of uncertainty.  My husband never returned to the student-athlete he was before things fell apart.  Instead, he became the man he is today, having weathered the storm and embracing a truer identity.

The following year, with a solid man of integrity coaching, Mr. Kenobi was team captain.  They trained, they studied, and they accomplished a lot of goals together.  He, together with his brother and teammates, did something especially remarkable that spring.  Something that had never been done - an accomplishment unmatched and worthy of some small measure of fame: they won the title of Big Sky Conference Champions.  It had never been done in the years of MSU tennis.  It is worthy of recognition, and tonight my husband, his brother, and all of those men who played that day will be inducted into the Montana State Hall of Fame.

"Where's the hall?" our boys have asked.  "The Hall of Fame - can we walk through it and see Daddy's picture or something?"

It's not a hallway.  There might be a picture, but mostly it's simply a recognition.  An award.  A congratulations and "thank you" from their school.  That's all.  Nothing more, nothing less.

In the recent weeks, I've seen Mr. Kenobi's world rocked in new ways.  I've seen tears pool in his eyes. He doesn't know how everything will turn out in the future, and there's a lot resting in the hands of a higher authority.  Meanwhile, his friends and family face their own upheaval.  Community scattered, marriages struggling, new and old lives facing fragile health and uncertain times.  I've wished for a team of best friends to rally around him, but they can't.  I've wished he and his brother were strong teammates in these struggles, the way they excelled and dominated opponents on the courts, but life isn't a tennis match.

So tonight, some - but not all - of that team from once upon a time will assemble at a football game in Montana.  They will receive the cheers of people, many of whom likely haven't heard of college tennis and most of whom have never heard of my husband.  They will be photographed, filmed, and properly celebrated.  I hope that each gets a moment to soak in the deserved pride and achievement of their days on the team at MSU.  I hope each has family to congratulate them, friends to offer high-fives, and somebody who is genuinely impressed, at least for that moment.

Meanwhile, back on the homestead, Mr. Kenobi will come home from his engineering job.  He will walk into our house, hopefully greeted with a few small smiles and running, leaping hugs.  He won't be in Montana.  After weighing the costs of travel required for our family (including newborn), he decided he didn't want to make the trip.  While he's still a member of that team and awarded into the Hall of Fame, he will not stand in the middle of that football stadium.  He will not be photographed.  If not for a few people who may read this or know it from other sources, he might not be congratulated.

That could make me sad for him.  I do wish we were in Montana tonight, but I can't argue with his logic in the decision.  He's not a guy who tries to get noticed, but he's a leader, through and through.  The world needs more people like him, and that makes me thankful we have three boys who can grow up in his influence.  I'm so proud of him.

I'm also grateful.  For somewhere in that experience of college athletics, Mr. Kenobi realized who he was.  His identity has very little to do with what he accomplishes, what he is paid, and who's in charge of his potential claims to fame.  He's truly the "team captain" around here - and like a solid doubles team, we are helping each other tackle each moment like a well-placed serve, yet also keeping one another's focus on the big picture.  When the band stops playing and the stadium lights dim, he's a man worth a bit of celebration.  He's somebody to remember, even if he's not quite famous.