What's in a name?

When you look at pictures of people born a hundred years ago, it is easy to believe that they had no fun at all. Life was hard, and you can tell, because they all look like they are having a dreadful time of it. Grim faces betray the difficulties they faced on a daily basis, and the stiff clothing betrayed the formal nature of the occasion.

But despite the stern faces that peer out of the photographs, it is clear that some of them had a sense of humor, especially when it came to naming their numerous offspring. If you visit a cemetery, or even look through an old family photo album, you will see some pretty interesting appellations for all those cute little tots with their long hair and sad eyes. I realize, of course, that we have to allow for the time period into which a person was born, and perhaps the names weren't quite as unusual then as they are today. But sometimes, you have to wonder if they just got bored with it, or if those really were the hot names of the day.

I find it interesting how names seem to cycle, and those old time names, which sound so antiquated to me, are suddenly coming into vogue once again. I heard from a friend the other day that a new niece was named Lillian. That is a name I haven't ever heard applied to anyone under the age of 70. Suddenly it was, apparently, the perfect name for a newborn.

Of course, people come up with names for their children in all sorts of ways. Many couples take months to choose the perfect moniker, one imbued with meaning and character and sophistication. Children are named after their parents, old family friends, or another much loved relative. Some people name their children after people in the Bible, while others choose the celebrity of the hour. One family will search for a name that is so unique, their child will stand out in the crowd, even on paper, while others look at the list of trendy names and go with whatever is at the top of the list.

My grandparents certainly came up with some unique labels for their six offspring, most of which I don't expect will make a return trip to the top of the popularity charts any time soon. But they probably weren't any more unusual at the time than some of the names that you see today.

They named their eldest child Albion Marcus, which was probably not that unusual of a name in 1919, but isn't exactly the top choice among parents of today. I will be surprised if Albion makes a comeback, as I've only known of two of them in my whole life. But it fits my uncle, a serious, detail oriented man, who even at 91, continues to take charge in whatever situation he finds himself.

Next up, we have Phillip Rudolph. Personally, I like the name Phillip. In fact, that was almost the name of my firstborn, after this much adored uncle who died from complications of diabetes when I was little, but lives in my memory forever. When I hear Rudolph, all I can think of is jingle bells and bright red noses, not exactly the image most parents want for their newborn. Of course, this was before Rudolph was known primarily for being a reindeer, so perhaps I should cut them some slack. Maybe Grandma had a secret crush on Rudolph Valentino!

When my aunt, the first daughter, came along, they went all out, and named her Myrtle Aldora. She has never claimed the Myrtle, although my Uncle Bud has somehow gotten away with a lifetime of calling her Myrt, followed by his happy chortle. She remains the only Aldora I have ever known, and I have always wondered where they came up with it.

The next child in line, Frederick Orvall, has always been Fritz to me. I have, on very rare occasions, heard him referred to as Fred, and it always causes me confusion, as I try to recall exactly who that might be. The name Fritz has always fitted him to a T, there is something carefree and fun about it, which is exactly how he has always appeared to me, although he has his serious side, too. He was born on Christmas Day in 1924, and the world has been a better, and more exciting, place ever since, no matter what you want to call him.

My mother's name is Rosella LaVerne, a name that is probably one in a million. Or two. My lovely daughter, whose middle name is Rose, is named for her grandmother. I named her Rose, because I thought I would spare her a lifetime of explaining [and spelling] Rosella. I was informed some years ago that she is bitterly resentful that I named her Rose, and she has maintained ever since that she will change it to Rosella at her first opportunity, which is obviously the name I should have given her to begin with. I see this as clear evidence that you simply cannot win the name game with your own children.

The youngest child in the family was about to be given the name Agnes Luella, when someone apparently thought better of it and named her Alice Marie, instead. I have always thought it was best to be the youngest, and I consider this to be one more proof of that truism. [Have I ever mentioned that I am the youngest in my family?] I can tell you my aunt definitely prefers Alice to Agnes, since she has told that story a few times, and never without a heavy sigh of relief. Of course, I don't call her by either name, since she will always be Tootsie to me, but that's another story for another day.

As for myself, I apparently started my life as Debra, but upon being adopted, had it changed to Sarah, which I have been ever since. I am not especially fond of Sarah - it's a serviceable name, I guess, but I utterly fail to understand the popularity of a name that no one can spell right without direction, and which is not really that great to begin with.

My cousin, Rachel, [who never liked her name, either,] and I envied each other's names back when we were young. We were both sure it would be so much better to have the other name, and we even talked about trading. In the end, of course, we didn't, since we were Minnesota Lutherans.

Let me just share with you a little tidbit about Minnesota Lutherans. Or really, Minnesotans in general. Probably Lutherans too, although I think it's more pronounced in the Minnesota variety. We do not go in for a whole lot of nonsense. Trading names falls under the category of nonsense. It was, in a word, a non-starter. We would not have been indulged in that kind of foolishness.

So instead, I called her by the sobriquet Tracks, due to her initials RR. She called me Des, after the Sahara Desert. It was silly, I suppose, but it served the purpose, and now it makes an amusing anecdote when trying to illustrate a story about the goofy names people have.

When it came time to name my firstborn child, it was a big decision, and I wanted to get it right. I was under the impression [due to everyone at the doctor's office telling me so] that I would have a girl, so I didn't spend a whole lot of time worrying about boy names. I focused instead on the name that my perfect little girl would carry with her forever.

When the doctor exclaimed, at the moment of his birth, "It's an Adam," it turned out to be a very good thing. The name I had so painstakingly selected, Tiffany, is not one that I would be too happy about today. I was young, it was trendy, I have no real excuse. You are stupid when you are 24, what can I say?

Fortunately, he ended up with a name selected at almost the last hour, but which has always suited him right down to the ground. Serious, sober, short and to the point, that's his name, and that's his personality.

He, predictably, did not always agree, of course. There was that one long evening at church youth group when he decided that he was going to be known by his middle name, Karl. [Karl was his great-grandfather's name. I wanted to name my newborn after my dad, whose name was Stanley Wallace, but I didn't feel that was quite going to make the cut, so extended the range to my grandfather.] That lasted a week or so, and he has been satisfied with Adam ever since.

My lovely daughter had her name selected months in advance, as I wanted my then five year old to get used to the idea of a sibling, and wanted him to learn his/her name from the start. Adam, in fact, had the honor of selecting her name, and in his usual analytical way, made it easy on himself by choosing the only name on the list that could work either way, Erin [or Aaron.]

After months of weekly ultrasounds, as my high risk pregnancy limped towards the finish line, I knew she would be a girl. I was happy to be able to have an Erin of my very own, since that was my secret first choice of names for her. Her name means peace. I was obviously hormonal, or possibly delusional, I'm not sure which.

Names define us, in many ways. Research has shown that names have an impact on everything from success in school to how much money you make. With the right name, you can have popularity and riches, while the wrong name may doom you to the back of the unemployment line.

When we alphabetize people by last name, always starting with A, I wonder if those people at the beginning of the line get a boost of self-esteem every time they stand up first, or if being at the end of the line helps in the development of patience and resiliency.

The one name that is rarely chosen with care is the nickname, which can come from anywhere, and be embarrassing or familiar or become the first choice, depending on the person whom it adorns. My cousin, Rebecca, has been Becky since she was born. My brother, Charles, is Charlie. Another cousin briefly went by the name Poopsie, while I refer to my first born as Sonshine.

Some names are less charming, of course, especially when bestowed by classmates, friends, or, heaven forbid, enemies in middle school. The phrase, sticks and stones can break my bones but names can never hurt me, is a patent falsehood, because those names, which some people carry with them for life, can inflict pain and damage long after the name is forgotten by everyone else.

Juliet opined "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But it would still have thorns. I think that's something to think about.

A mother by any other name....

Twice a year, I think about a woman to whom I am related more closely biologically than to anyone other than my children, but about whom I know nothing. I do not know her name. I don't know what she looks like. I would not recognize her voice on the phone, and I have no idea if I get my musical ability or my passion for writing or my bad teeth or my lucky predisposition to be on the thinner side from her or not. (I am sorry to all the dads and future dads out there, but somehow, that guy never seems to enter my mind. It's a mom thing. That's why kids always say, "Hi Mom" on television. It's nature. Deal.)

I am adopted, and my biological mother is not, and never was, a part of my life. I like to say that she gave birth to me, then gave me life by giving me to someone who was better able to be a mother. Good choice, from my point of view, since I have the best mom there is.

But it also illustrates a point that I think is worth examining on this weekend where we honor and venerate our mothers. Being a mother is not about biology, it is about love, and time, and caring. It is about taking another person into your heart, and wanting what is best for them, even when it costs you. It involves worrying about them, being proud of them and taking the time to make them your own, whether they were born to you or not.

We only have one mother, and no one can take her place. But there are a lot of other chosen honorary family members out there that become an important part of our lives, and I would like to extend the day to honor them, as well.

My children, for example, have a wonderful honorary aunt, who is related not by biology, but by love and time and attention. She has been a part of their lives since before they were born. She knows their story, and she knows mine, too. She is there for them, whenever they need her.

It is comforting for me, as their mom, to know that there is another adult in this world that loves and cares for my children almost as much as I do, and loves and cares for me, as well. In supporting me, she is supporting them, and in supporting them, she is supporting me. If that is not deserving of the label family, then I don't know what is.

Happy Mother's Day to Aunt Beth from all three of us. You are the absolute best!

We also have a neighbor and close friend who has become our family. She is there for us, whenever and wherever we need, no matter what it may be. We could, any of us, call her in the middle of the night, or at work, on vacation or on a sunny afternoon, and she would be there for us, whatever we needed. We have been there for each other's children most of their lives, an important resource and support in times of need.

Her daughter, who is like a daughter to me as well, once said to me, "I need to wish you Happy Mother's Day, too, since you are my second mom." The importance of that to me is obvious, since she said it years ago, and I still cherish it in my heart, as I do her. I am so grateful that my children have had someone in their lives to see them as they really are, for better and for worse, to know their whole history, and to love them anyway.

That is a mother's love, and to Susan, I wish you a happy Mother's Day. You are loved.

I have been blessed in my life to have the most wonderful collection of aunts a girl could ask for. They have loved me, nurtured me, cared for me, chastised me, corrected me, and inspired me. Without their influence, in every facet of life, I would not be half the person, or mother, I am today.

Thus, in no particular order, because they are all my favorite for one reason or another, Tootsie, Shirley, Aldora, Marian, and Jean, happy Mother's Day to each one of you. And in memory of my Aunt Alice, as well, because although you are gone from this life, you are not forgotten. I love you more than I can say, and I am so grateful for each one of you in my life.

As I have been loved by my aunts, I am lucky, indeed, to be an aunt to two nieces and a nephew that I have seen too seldom, but loved from afar. I hope they realize they are in my heart, cared for and prayed over every day, and that if they ever needed me, I would be there for them. I am one of many aunts, and I know they love them all, but they are my "onlies" and as such, are very special to me.

To Jason, Alyssa, and Rachel, happy Mother's Day to you from your loving aunt. I send you a hug, and my love, even if I'm not there in person.

My life experience being supported and loved and mothered by so many others in so many different ways, has taught me that being a mother is more than a label, or a biological event. It is a calling, and a mission, and extends far beyond the confines of one's family.

We, as women, have an opportunity to shape and support and love any number of children, and it comes naturally to most of us. By listening to the beacon emanating from the hearts of those in need, we have the privilege of answering the call for the children, and the not so young, that need us for one reason or another in their lives, and we have the joy of being a part of someone's chosen family, whether for a short time, or a lifetime.

As a child who lost my father very early in my life, I learned to dread Father's Day, because it was a cruel reminder of what I had lost, while all my friends took for granted what they had. I was not resentful of their fortune so much as angry at my own lack of it. I regret now that I did not take the time to recognize the people who made the effort for me, not to take my dad's place, but to stand in for him, when he could not be there.

As an adult, and a mother, I have taken that hard experience, and tried to make a difference for those children who come into my life and have a need, not for a replacement mother, but for another adult who loves them unconditionally, as their mother does or would. Although the role is different for each one, I hope that they all know they each have a place in my heart, uncontested and entirely their own, and that it will be that way forever, no matter where they go or what they do in their lives.

Committing to a child is not about giving birth, it is about giving love, and that is a gift that is freely given and willingly offered to anyone who wants it. When it is returned, it is a special and wonderful thing, and the magic of motherly love takes place.

To those children, some of whom are now adults, in my life that I love and cherish as a supplemental mom, know you are wished from your mother-of-the-heart a day of love and caring. I will be thinking of you, and caring for you, as always, and I am here, if you ever need me. You have only to ask, and I will answer to the best of my ability, whenever you call out. (I will not name you, because I don't want to leave anyone out! But you all know who you are, I hope, or at least you should.)

There are some brave women out there who have been willing to take on a role that leads to as much heartache and pain as joy and love. She is the step-mother. Vilified by Disney and reality, rejected and accepted in equal measure, step-mothers are forever relegated to be the runner up. It is a hard and unforgiving position in which to find yourself, and my heart goes out to any woman who is willing to endure it. In the end, most step-mothers earn their appreciation the hard way, but perhaps it is the sweeter for the pain.

To all the step-mothers out there who took on the role for the love of another, happy Mother's Day. You have earned a pat on the back and a day to be honored for being willing to endure the most difficult and complicated family role there is. You, of all mothers, deserve a day to yourself, where it is all about you.

Mothers-in-law have a reputation for being impossible. Most of the women I know who either have one or are one must be the exception. I have heard a few horror stories, but mostly I hear about women who have taken their child's chosen love into their heart and accepted and nurtured and cherished that love almost as if it were their own. Everyone is blessed, including the grandchildren, who will have that many more loving adults to model acceptance and caring.

To the mothers-in-law out there, happy Mother's Day to you, as well. Keep the faith, keep smiling, and above all, keep your opinions to yourself unless you are asked. That is the way to unlimited time with the grandchildren, which is the real objective!

On a lovely August day, 25 years ago, my understanding of what it means to be a mother grew exponentially when I gave birth to my first child. He has expanded my universe in ways I could never have imagined, and the love I felt for him even before he was born has multiplied daily ever since.

I didn't think it would be possible to love anyone the way I loved him until my daughter came along a few years later, and I finally understood the magic of mother's love. It is boundless, and endless, and without limitation, and it is achieved without any effort at all. (Well, most of the time. There are a few years I would prefer to forget, when it is just as well we had an established history, or we may have had a different ending!)

I feel more pride when my children succeed than I have ever felt with my own success, and I feel more hurt at their failures. I feel their pain when they are wounded, and I feel their joy when they are happy. No matter how near or far they are from me, they are always in my heart, and I know that I am in theirs, as well. As long as they are alive, they will know my love for them, because it is carried within them, a part of their very being from before they were born.

To my children, Adam and Erin, I am grateful to be your mother, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for each moment that I have called you my own.

I know nothing about the woman who gave me life by giving me up, but I do know that I owe her a debt that cannot be repaid. I cannot imagine it was easy, and I think it is probably still hard, especially on days like Mother's Day, when the reminders of what she has lost are everywhere. No matter how many children you have, each one is a gift, special and unique, and there is no replacement for the ones that are lost.

To my biological mother, thank you for letting me have the mother I have, because it was the greatest gift of love you could have given me. It was worth it.

The day would not be complete, of course, without mentioning my own mother, the woman who has loved me, supported me, been an angel of mercy my entire life, and hung in there with me when only a mother could have loved me. I will never doubt that God brought us together, and it was a perfect fit. Mom, you proved that biology is a word but being a mother is a calling, and you have succeeded brilliantly in every way.

To my mother, Rosella, my role model and teacher and my first real love, the one who taught me what being a mother is all about, happy Mother's Day. I wish I could be there with you to celebrate you, but you know that you are celebrated each and every day in my heart.

To each mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, step-mother, aunt, and mother-of-the-heart, Happy Mother's Day to you. Celebrate what it really means to be a mother, and know that you are special and wonderful.

Turning seasons....

Spring has finally sprung in our part of the world, and it seems long overdue. And with it comes the usual springtime rites of passage, prom and graduation, which ushers yet another crop of young people into the adult world they have dreamed of for so long. Since I am harboring one of these budding adults under my own roof, I have had substantial opportunity these last few weeks to observe, up close and personal, the transformation.

It has brought to mind the Biblical passage from Ecclesiastes 3.

"There is a time for everything,
And a season for every activity under heaven:
A time to be born and a time to die,
A time to plant and a time to uproot,
A time to kill and a time to heal,
A time to tear down and a time to build,
A time to weep and a time to laugh,
A time to mourn and a time to dance,
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
A time to embrace and a time to refrain,
A time to search and a time to give up,
A time to keep and a time to throw away,
A time to tear and a time to mend,
A time to be silent and a time to speak,
A time to love and a time to hate,
A time for war and a time for peace."

If you have spent much time with a high school senior at this time of the year, you will find that the last few weeks of school can include most of those times, sometimes all at the same time. As your child pulls away from you, they tear down what has worked for so long, and try to rebuild, on their own terms, what will work for them going forward.

It can be a painful and difficult process, and few children do it well. Few parents do, either, even when you have done it before. You are renegotiating your traditional roles, trying to find a new equilibrium. You are learning how to be adults together, instead of the adult-child relationship that you have held for so long, and the growing pains are often surprisingly agonizing.

The next few weeks will bring the end of an era to my household, and it is an emotional and exciting time for everyone involved. Senior year is a fast ride on a short track, and it goes so fast you barely have time to catch your breath and it's already over. It is a whirlwind of activities, each "last" moment speeding by in a blur. Long before you are ready for it, you find yourself sitting in a seat watching your young adult process with a lot of other equally young adults, and you realize they have changed before your very eyes, and the future is already here.

As we approach this momentous place in our life journey together, that fork in the road where she makes her own choices, and goes forward on her own, I find my sense of what is truly important has changed rather drastically from the days of diapers and legos underfoot.

When my son was little, I was set to be the perfect parent. I remember holding him in my arms and thinking, I will do everything right, and we will never, ever have a moment of conflict. Right. That worked out well. I didn't understand that conflict comes, not because you have done anything wrong, but because children are hard wired to test their boundaries, and they do so on a regular basis, just to see whether those boundaries still hold them.

I remember believing that if I didn't allow my little tyke to have a gun, he would never want to have one. That also worked out really well, right up until he was about two, and started using his finger as the gun I wouldn't let him have. Wake up call, anyone?!

My daughter loved Barbie dolls, even though, as a Serious Mom, I didn't want to allow that overendowed hussy in my house. Before we were done, we had the house, the convertible, the spa, and more clothes than Barbie could wear in a lifetime.

Looking back, I realize none of that was as important as the time I spent reading to them before bed. Exposing them to music developed their appreciation in ways I would never have dreamed. Encouraging questions, and taking them seriously contributed to children who constantly question and expand their knowledge and understanding of the world.

As I approach this new phase of life, where I am sitting in the bleachers instead of being out on the playing field with them (thanks Dr. Miller!,) I have realized anew that the things that matter most cannot be bought or endowed. They are earned, through the power of being present in the lives of the children you brought to life.

As I look backward at the last 25 years, my only regrets, and they are few and far between, are in time not spent, words not said, hugs not given. I did the best I could each and every day, and at the end of the day, I usually could look in the mirror and know that I had done my best, and it was good enough.

To anyone at the beginning of the journey, especially if you are overwhelmed at the busyness and the demands of your life, know that the only thing that will really matter in the end is the time you have spent with your child. It matters far less what you are doing, than that you are doing something, anything, to build the ties that will bind you to each other for life.

I would not be the person I am today without the two people I brought into this world. The changes, both big and small, have not always been easy to accomplish, but they make me a better person today.

As the seasons change, and spring turns to summer, I wish you sunny days even when it rains, and moon beams every night. I wish you laughter and tears, hope and despair, courage and fear, and a few stones skipped over the water on a lazy summer day. I wish you the journey I have been privileged to take, and I encourage you to embrace the present. Then the future will take care of itself.

Ironing out life's little wrinkles....

Life is full of raw irony. When you are holding down the middle ground on the aging timeline, it becomes all too apparent that not only is life unpredictable, it is downright impossible.

For example, who would have imagined that the daughter who screamed at the very sight of a car seat for the first year of her life would turn out to love driving more than anyone else in the family? I can, even now, visualize her red little nose and her dripping eyes as I stuffed her into the dreaded seat which would confine her for the entire ten minutes it would take to get anywhere. She would look at me with salty disdain from her perch in the center of the back seat, angry and unforgiving, until I pulled her out again.

When she got a little older, she got more enterprising, and put her brain power to work on thwarting me in my quest for ultimate safety. I would buckle her in and sit down in the driver's seat to pull away when, pouf, there she would be, hanging over the seat, clutching me around the neck in a death grip. This maneuver was usually accompanied by a wailing sound, and it wasn't always the kid.

Ultimately, you can shove a child into their car seat, but you cannot make them sit there, and she won. I got a booster seat, which was the first of many negotiated automobile compromises to come. While I knew it wasn't really up to approved safety standards, it was better than a two year old hurtling around unrestrained in the interior of the moving car. Ultimately, in the interests of ever leaving the driveway again, I had to give in.

Ironically, as I said earlier, that same child is now firmly planted in the driver's seat of her car every chance she gets, and loves the power and the feel of the car on the road. In fact, she would rather drive than do almost anything. The car that once confined her is now her ticket to the larger world outside her home, and she rushes here and there with unrestrained passion for the freedom she now enjoys.

As a parent, I find irony in much that happens in life. I have spent the last 25 years making myself obsolete, only to find that I don't want to let go. Just when your children get to be interesting people, they suddenly want to spend time with everyone but you. The same children whose impeccable manners are widely praised by everyone else cannot remember the most common courtesy at home.

There is also irony in being an adult "child." I have seen my friends and relatives struggle with the caretaking of a parent that is no longer able to do so for themselves. Instead of depending on the adults who have cared for them their entire lives, suddenly, the roles are reversed, and they are now taking care of their parents. It is a difficult transition, both mentally and emotionally, for both parties.

All their lives, my children have heard, "I am the parent, you are the child, and that means I am in charge." How ironic it will be when suddenly the child holds all the cards, and I won't have a deck any more. Hopefully they will be old enough that their memories will be failing.

Ironies come in all shapes and sizes, of course. It is one of life's smaller ironies that the number of red lights you will have to stop for is directly proportional to how late you left the driveway. If you left on time for a dinner party, or, even better, early, you will have the green light express and arrive 20 minutes before the hostess has gotten out of her shower. If you left five minutes after the last second, it will take you 40 minutes to go ten miles, and you will arrive after dessert is on the table.

Mixed in one way, flour and water make paste. Ironically, mixed another way, they make lefse, the Norwegian version of a tortilla. One is inedible, the other is delectable. Sweet irony.

Irony is defined by people differently, I think, meaning that what I consider to be ironic, you may not. For example, I find it ironic that I ended up with two children, because when I was in college, I was never going to have any at all. I also find it ironic that every appliance goes bad at once, that we fertilize the grass so we can cut it down, and that eating "natural" and organic foods is more costly than shipping in chemically preserved foods from the other side of the world.

I find it ironic that there are permanent press clothes, which are always wrinkled. Does anyone else find it ironic that the garage door always breaks when you are on the inside and can't get out, rather than stopped outside, and struggling to get in?

Mother Nature is full of irony. Beautiful roses also have thorns. Honey bees have stingers. Ten minutes is forever standing in line, but flies by when you are on the ride. Water is so soft and formless it just washes over you, but it can also carve deep canyons that can be seen from outer space.

There is an old saying, strike while the iron's hot. Although you can get burned, a little irony goes a long ways in removing the wrinkles from life. It's up to you - do you want your life to be safely permanent press, or are you going to take the chance of getting scorched on the hot iron?

I say get out the ironing board!

Keeping things in perspective....

I have been musing this morning on how flexible perspective can be, depending on the circumstances in which you find yourself.

For example, three days ago, if you had informed me that I would need to spend $125 on repairing my washing machine, I would have been appalled. I don't have an extra $125 laying around with nowhere to go, and I certainly didn't need to throw it away on washing machine repairs with a graduation party coming up, and college to pay for.

Technically, I will have two "children" in college next year. I can't really claim the oldest one is either a child, or my responsibility, since he has managed to find a way to both continue going to college at age 24, and get paid for it, but still, the fact remains. Two of them. In college. At once. Be amazed. I know I am.

Where was I again? Oh yes. Perspective. One moment, $125 sounds like a huge sum of money. The next moment, it sounds like small change, especially when we are talking about repairs of any kind, and numbers with lots of zeros begin to loom.

A couple of days ago, I walked into my laundry room to find water spreading rapidly across the floor. The obvious source was my washing machine, the center of a quickly expanding pool threatening to engulf everything within several feet of the offending equipment. I grabbed some towels from the laundry basket sitting there at my feet, and threw them on the floor to soak up as much water as I could, while I tried to figure out what had happened.

Because it didn't make any sense to me that my washing machine should suddenly, out of nowhere, start to leak, I assumed it was an overflow, or something random that happened. My perspective was narrow and limited, and didn't yet allow for the possibility that something more drastic had occurred.

I threw in another load to see what would happen, and shortly thereafter, once again saw my floor, and my perspective, being increasingly consumed by water. I threw down more towels, emptied the washer of the water that remained, and called for help.

I did not want to make that call, knowing that it was probably going to cost me a lot of money. Car repairs never seem to cost less than $1000, and smaller electronics never seem to be less than $300. I think it's a rule or something - that's the minimum charge. So I was resigned to my fate, and accepted that the price of clean clothes was going to be another $300 out of my already empty pocket.

Thus, I was pleasantly surprised this morning to learn that the cost was "only" going to be $125 to replace a drain hose that had a small hole worn into it. How quickly things changed, as $125 went from a huge sum to good news. My mind shifted in split second timing, as I immediately absorbed the savings of $175. (This is the type of creative accounting that allows Congress to see a rise in spending as a cut - they haven't spent as much as they were originally going to, so thus, we now have a savings. Simple perspective.)

Perspective is, by definition, a view, a vista or a mental outlook. Human beings have a fascinating ability to come to grips with almost any situation, aided and abetted by an ever changing sense of perspective. We can be whipsawed by the change, it can occur so rapidly, as we acquire additional information or gather supporting facts.

When we take a photograph, we generally do it straight on, standing in front of the subject, putting them in the center of the frame. The more artistic among us, however, have a different perspective, and will tilt the camera, or fuzz the background, use different colors, or shoot from an unusual angle. The perspective of the shooter will change the perception of the viewer, and you will see what they saw.

In life you cannot control the perspective so neatly and easily. I think that is why blind dates so seldom work out. Whatever the introducer sees in each of their friends is rarely what they see in each other. Their perspective, as the introducees, is different than that of the one who knows each of them more fully, and that first impression is difficult to overcome.

Children take their perspective from their parents, and as they grow older, add their own experiences to the mix, until, as adults, they form their own opinions, independent of their parents. Whether its people or food or experiences, they have their own perspective, and it's often surprising to find out what they think or feel.

I have never liked meringue. There is something about the taste and texture of it that does not appeal to me, and I don't enjoy foods where that is a big part of the product. Thus, I was shocked a few years back to learn that my son, my very own child, liked lemon meringue pie. I had a difficult time wrapping my mind around the idea that not only did he have his own opinion, it was, in fact, the complete opposite of mine, and in direct conflict with my strong feelings.

Needless to say, this is not the last time we have come into deeply held conflict, as he has only solidified his opinionated nature as he has grown into adulthood and lived increasingly on his own. But it was, for me, the wake up call that adulthood was looming, and that soon his perspective would not be what I told him it was, but rather, his own.

I have often been told that my son is like me, and so the points of conflict are, by definition, somewhat limited in scope. We generally have the same outlook on life, and frequently are facing the same direction, even if the angle is slightly different.

The same cannot be said for my daughter, who has her own perspective on everything, and is rarely in sync with me on any given subject. She has her own way of dressing, her own way of thinking, her own way of looking at the world, and it is rarely how I would do it.

She wears boots in the summer and flip flops in the winter. She will wear shorts and a winter coat. She is a puzzle to me most of the time, as she and I rarely see things from the same perspective. She has enlarged my world, as I have learned to examine things from different angles, and allowed myself to expand the assumptions that color my understanding.

When I was little, my mother always dressed me in blue. She loves the color blue, and she looks good in it, so that is what she usually chose for my clothes as well. I never wore green or black, because, spoken or not, her perspective was that I didn't look good in those colors.

As I got older, I continued to choose the colors I had always worn, because my perspective was taken from my experience. However, one time, I fell in love with a green silk dress and tried it on. I was surprised to see that it looked good on me; the color flattered my eyes and my skin tone. My perspective changed, and suddenly, I tried a variety of colors I would never have dared to wear previously.

My closet is now full of salmon and green and black, and hardly a blue piece to be found. I see myself differently, and it has opened up a new world to me that was off limits previously.

When my daughter was little, I dressed her in pink and red, because those were the colors I thought were most flattering for her. Now that she is an adult herself, she chooses her own colors, and uses the entire palette to support and enhance her vision of herself. Her perspective is entirely different than mine, and the person she presents to the world is one in vivid color.

Perspective is always influenced by one's original impressions. Although the old cliche tells us not to judge a book by its cover, as humans, we rarely flip through the pages without having a preconceived notion established by glancing at the dust jacket. First impressions are very difficult to overcome, although it can happen with time and effort.

Career counselors say you can lose a job in the first three seconds of an interview. I would believe that, because the moment you walk through the door, the interviewer is already forming an impression. That perspective will affect everything from the questions they ask, to assumptions they will make, all of which play a role in whether or not you get the job.

Perspective is everything, and I feel that the next few years will bring a new perspective to my life, as I become an empty nester, and learn to live life in a new and different way. I vividly recall 25 years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, feeling overwhelmed by the impending responsibilities, and almost paralyzed at the thought of being in charge of someone's life for the next 18 years. My cousin, Susan, gave me some wonderful advice, which I have thought about many times since, and which I pass along here to you. She told me that parenthood happens one day at time, and that is all you really have to worry about. You grow into the job, and by the time you get to the future, you will be ready.

In other words, you need to keep things in perspective, and everything will work out. Words to live by.