Flexibility

     About a decade ago I asked a family friend—mother of four well-behaved, bright, balanced, friendly, and happy boys—How do you do it?
     “Consistency is the key,” she said.
     Such a simple formula but ever since applying it, I've learned its underlying wisdom:
     To mean what you say.
     To model desirable behavior.
     To stand united as parents.
     To establish a predictable, rule-following, boundary-enforcing household.
     To demand respect, obedience, diligence, and appropriate behavior.
     To enact discipline and consequences for unacceptable behaviors.
     And most importantly, to do so on a day-to-day basis. 
     This sounds tough, but doing so with positive results makes life a joy cruise—especially compared to not doing so and having unruly, rude, disrespectful, stubborn, arrogant, rebellious, disobedient, sloppy, lazy, defiant, rowdy, mean and/or resentful get-in-trouble kids that make life feel endlessly torturous.
     Having worked so well all these years, this simple formula started showing weaknesses when Braden hit his teens and started rebelling and acting up just to “get into our heads.”  I was thus ill-prepared for how difficult things would get, having lived under the impression that “Good parent that put in all the diligent hard work while their kids are still young get their reward when their kids become teens”—so said a pastor I'd heard long ago.
     I understood Braden's acting out—the transition to adulthood is fast and scary—and that it's healthy and normal for him to assert his independence, but it still left me exasperated and near desperate at times because time-outs and groundings weren't working, sending him outside (to the carport) wasn't calming him and neither was having him walk up and down the street or sending him to bed after dinner or talking with him because his torrid temper prevented effective listening or clear thinking. Having him eat alone or outside only exasperated him (and us) as did having him do all the chores. 
     In short, everything that had worked so well in years past suddenly failed. What were we to do?
     I considered corporal punishment, but wisely resisted. (To get through to him would require use of a belt or slap to the face. With rare exception, such violence should be used only for self defense). 
     I considered for a moment seeking for him or us outside counsel. But before doing so, I took stock of the situation in more objective clinical terms and observed:
     With the exception of music class, he was doing well in school (all A's and B's at the time—mostly A's in his academic classes).
     Outside home, his behavior was fine. 
     He was independent, able to handle his daily personal responsibilities mostly without being told. 
     He always attended church with us and actively participated. 
     He maintained his interest in scouting. 
     His misbehavior at home came in spurts of two to three bad days for every three to seven good days (on average). 
     His appetite, weight, exercise, and sleep were all within healthy range.
     He didn't seem depressed or to hate or fear school.
     And overall, his development was tracking fine with just occasional rough patches that needed smoothing out. Thus, we declined seeking outside intervention.
     But then outside intervention came to us in the form of God's silent prompting to allow Braden to attend a JROTC banquet that I'd said he couldn't go to due to misbehavior. By relenting, I contradicted one of my prime tenets to remain firm when it comes to discipline—a rare exception for me. I felt at peace about the decision, though, because he deserved a reward for taking the initiative to take JROTC as an extra credit class and following-through by catching the bus to school every morning by 7:00—pretty responsible for a fourteen years old! I also hoped that he'd feel guilty about going (at my expense) after acting up so much and that he'd make up for it by behaving extra-well.
     It worked for half a week.
     Then, at dinner one night, he mentioned at Deanne's prompting that he desired to sign up for a couple of end-of-year activities that would require lots of after-school practices and missing half a day of school. 
     “No can do”, I said and listed his iffy grades and already busy schedule as justifications. A tornado of fury whipped up within him and unleashed on us all in seconds. Thus, I instituted the aforementioned consequences as deemed appropriate. 
     But none of them worked. His anger didn't abate and his defiant rebelliousness intensified. 
     Two days later at the library, a random book on display about teen misbehavior caught my attention. I read a page that seemed relevant and laughed at its description of typical teen change: “The mind-set of 'I am the center of the universe' returns! Teens typically don't understand why adults expect them to conform to 'stupid rules', and they act as though the world revolves around them.” Another section about typical teen know-it-all attitudes also cracked me up. But then another section about balance and the need for parents to let go and trust overall responsible teens to make their own decisions (and mistakes) made me wonder, Am I hindering his growth and igniting his rebellion by being too strict or inflexible?
     So after discussing it with Deanne, who agreed with my plan, I apologized to Braden for my hasty decision and said, “I recognize your responsibleness in JROTC this past year. If you still want to do those activities, print out your updated grades and let me see them first. If they're OK, I'll approve your activities if you agree to change next year's music class to Japanese.” (See my prior True Expectations essay for reasons why).
     The angry tornado left and peaceful calm returned. The next day, Braden showed me his grades, which to my surprise were quite improved from mid-quarter, and said, “I'd like to sign up for the activities. I'm willing to take Japanese next year instead of music.” 
     I gave him the signed forms and told him, “Take this as a trial. If your grades hold up, next time you ask to do extra-curricular activities, I'll be more inclined to approve. Whereas if your grades drop, then what?” 
     “You won't approve,” he said. 
     I nodded and walked away.
     It's been about a week since the angry tornado's disappearance and Braden and I both feel good about his increased responsibleness, though he still acts up with Jaren at times. We'll see how it goes with his grades and how long his decent behavior at home lasts. Like a tornado, Braden can be difficult to predict. On the upside, life with him is rarely boring.

True Expectations

     When I was a sophomore in college I asked my upperclassman dormmate—also an accountant in the making—what I should expect to get on a tough exam I had just taken that filled me with a mixture of optimism and apprehension.
     With practiced certainty he said, “Expect the worst. Hope for the best.”
     It was the best advice I could have received at the time because as I imagined an F, which wouldn't kill me, my fears subsided. And as I imagined an A, I felt buoyed. The exercise, oft repeated over time, brought me good, balanced perspective that I had previously lacked. I don't remember what grade I got—probably a B—but during the exam's distribution, I felt calm and warm, not jittery, what's-it-going-to-be-my-career's-riding-on-this tense as in past distributions. So from then on, I practiced the exercise during nearly all my anxious wonder-what-its-going-to be moments whether in academia, career, or even romance. 
     Through trial and error I soon discovered that I had to modify the exercise to better suit my needs. Specifically, expecting the worst became increasing difficult as I studied harder and harder and focused better and better in class. Why expect an F if it seems so remote? Better to expect the probable worst, I reasoned, as in a C. I still hoped for the best (A!). But I also prepared for the worst by imagining what would happen if I did get an F. (Redo the class? Change major? Quit college and become a plumber? None seemed so horrific or earth-shattering after thinking about them in those terms. After all, I loved and still do love working with my hands and the story I'd heard of a white collar professional that hated his job, quit, became a plumber, loved it, and earned twice as much struck me and made me wonder “Might that be me?” I felt okay about accounting but did I love it? I wasn't sure at that point.)
     I raise all this only because Braden, for the first time ever, freaked over a grade. Due his lying, acting up, displaying disrespectful and rude attitudes, and being negligent and irresponsible with his chores we disallowed his attendance at a couple of after school music rehearsals. I both times wrote and signed a note requesting that his absence due to discipline reasons be excused but upon Braden's return, he said that after turning them in, he was told, “Absences due to discipline reasons don't count.”
     This surprised me but I thought, What the heck? It's his problem, not ours. 
     When his mid-quarter report card came and showed an F for music, I asked him, Is this for real? 
     He said, Yes, it's due to my two absence.  
     I shook my head and smiled but later recommended that he change one of his next year's electives from music to foreign language—especially since he doesn't take music serious, having brought his instrument home to practice only five times during the past four years of music classes, and having practiced only twenty minutes or so each time. 
     With some reluctance, he agreed and got the form to switch music to Japanese.
     But then before signing the form I remembered he'd already signed up for four honors academic courses next year (which I'd approved of but wasn't confident he'd be able to handle with all B's or better) and realized that the swap will increase his overall academic challenges—Japanese being tougher than music. So I held off signing the form. 
     Two days later Braden complained to Deanne that based on his current calculations of his GPA, he's going to flunk and have to repeat ninth grade! And that it's all our fault because his F in music is what's bringing his GPA down! 
     Deanne told him it's his fault for getting in trouble and needing discipline all the time and to calm down and stop blaming us. When he refused to comply, I sent him outside for time-out. 
     When Deanne later expressed her concerns to me, I said it sounds implausible, reminding her of our family friends' daughter that got straight A's in one semester then straight F's the next but still graduated high school on time with a full-ride scholarship if she just maintained a C average or better in college, which she didn't. Whereas Braden, besides the F for music, has gotten all A's and B's “Flunking out for one F?” I said, “doesn't seem real. If you're still concerned, talk to his counselor and music teacher about it.” 
     Then I told Braden to quite talking to Mom about it and to contact the same if he's still concerned. 
     Because Braden and Deanne expected the worst, they both panicked. I, by contrast, expected the probable worst and thereby stayed calm, chuckling even. Further, I hoped (and still hope) that Braden would keep it together (his attitudes and behaviors have improved some) and pull his music grade up to C or B by quarter end, possibly even A if he can earn extra credit. Preparing for the worst (his flunking music) came easy as I imagined forcing him to switch music to Japanese next year—problem solved!  
     Funny thing, as I was composing this essay, he acted up again and so had to miss another after-school music rehearsal. I wrote another excuse note, but good luck with him pulling up his grade by quarter end now. His GPA may suffer, but if he finally learns the at-home lessons we've been drilling in him all all these years of character, integrity, competence, and responsibility, it will have been worth it. For what are grades but letters on a sheet of paper? It's what's inside that counts most. Always.

The Art of Self-Defense

     About a year ago, we started Jaren on martial arts—not so much for self-defense or even self-confidence, but more so for discipline and body control. It's a non-violent martial art form, not at all like kung fu or karate with its kicks and attacks, but it is interactive requiring partner work unlike tai chi. It's also non-competitive, which for us was essential (see my prior Competitive Sports essay for reasons why).
     We've liked it not only because he's quick to learn (they promoted him to orange belt, skipping yellow belt entirely) but also because he now sits still quietly without fidgeting for longer (when required) and in general is less frazzle-headed and always wanting to do something (such as annoy his siblings), instead entertaining himself during free time reading, playing make pretend with toys, riding bike, practicing soccer, and running laps around the house. Even at school, he's been getting less notes sent home from teachers for misbehavior (although we'd still like to see that reduced to zero).
     When I told Norm (a karate black belt instructor) about signing him up, he said, “I hope it's not one of those fufu clubs...”, meaning lacking real-life practical application possibilities. I stayed quiet because yes, by Norm's definition, it is a fufu, work together, always help your partner out, do it right so no one gets hurt type of club. The older youth in particular do a fantastic job mentoring the lower ranking youngsters and Jaren will one day get to do likewise when he gets older and better. And what's wrong with that? I wondered. Isn't that even more valuable than a “beat the crap out of 'em even if they're bigger and stronger than you are” type club? After all, our world hardly needs more violence.  
     Norm, short and slender as a youth and now rotund, has always been prepared for a fight, even carrying a buck knife everywhere for awhile (perhaps he still does), so machismo certainly shapes his view of what makes a good martial arts club. Whereas, I, by contrast, though taller and sinewy-looking with some measure of athleticism (or so I delude myself), view fight as absolute last resort and the carrying of weapons as counter-productive (for as statistics show, gun owners are far more likely to get shot than non-gun owners. Though knives aren't guns, pull a knife on certain assailants and they'll go for the kill rather than run—not a smart self-preservation tactic. Norm owns several firearms, by the way.)
     I saw a terrific women's safety program on TV decades ago in which a long-time police veteran said that women's number one safety tactic should be avoidance (stay away from sketchy situations, trust your gut, know your surroundings, be alert, look people in the eye, appear strong and confident, go out in groups, avoid drinking with strangers, and always drink responsibly). If tactic number one fails and a non-physical confrontation occurs, tactic number two should be flee (run toward others; shout, “Fire!”; and don't believe anything the aggressor says.) Finally, if the above fail and physical confrontation occurs, tactic number three should be fight to escape (stomp the sole of a shoe on the aggressor's shin and foot; kick; scream; shout No! Stop! Let me go!; bite; shove thumbs deep into the aggressor's eye sockets; grab the aggressor's privates and pull unrelenting; and urinate/defecate if undressed—anything to get away). Upon escape, flee and avoid (back to tactics number two and one).
     I liked what he said and shared it with my sister Joan (who freaked over it for awhile—good, if it got her to act more prudently) and other women in my life. One of the key take-aways for me was that self-defense is not about out-fighting an aggressor but about outsmarting him and not being the next victim. And what's true for women's safety is true for anyone.

Other security tips he shared:

When shopping, don't wrap purse straps around appendages that could get broken or dislocated in a tug-of-war against a 250 pound thug, rather unzip the purse, wrap its straps loosely around the purse's body, and hold the bundle like a clutch. If a thief grabs it, it'll explode open sending its contents flying. No thief will bend over to search the ground for the wallet that contains the cash he wants. He'll flee and possibly drop the purse when he realizes it's empty.

Keep a wad of rolled up $1 bills with a $5 bill showing on the outermost layer in the purse. If alone and confronted with an aggressor with a weapon who demands money, show the wad, say “This is all I got,” throw it over his head so it lands far behind him, flee in the opposite direction and scream, “Fire!” He'll go after the money he wants and let you go.

     The officer started the program by saying that statistics show one in three women will be assaulted during her lifetime but that each woman can reduce those odds against her by doing common sense things mentioned in the show. Perpetrators always hunt for the easiest mark they can find. Be a tough target and they'll give up and look for someone easier. He also emphasized that past victims should not feel the least bit responsible for what happened to them, no matter what they did or didn't do, because it's always the perpetrator's fault. And that violent crime happens every day and will continue to happen, sometimes even to the most careful, prepared, and physically imposing person, so all anyone can do is his or her best to avoid being the next victim—vigilance and preparedness being key to reducing those odds.

Rest

     I've been feeling the need for rest recently and more importantly God's call to rest, so I did just that the other week by taking a half-hour afternoon nap after work one day and more significantly by not posting to my blog, even though I had a first draft essay done and entered in the computer.
     I'd been so habituated to posting once a week from between Monday to Wednesday that restraining was difficult. But restrain I did 'cause anxiety had been building and posting had come to feel more and more like burden than pleasure, and though ideas for essays came, I forced myself not to write, knowing that rest was necessary and would do me good, restoring balance to my life and rejuvenating my desire to write. 
     For by prioritizing weekly postings to maintain high search engine optimization over spending more time with the kids—Jaren and Pene in particular—I'd made suspect tradeoffs as my blog will always be there but my kids won't.
     Braden had selected and I'd purchased for us a 3000 piece jigsaw puzzle from Goodwill awhile ago and Jaren seemingly read my mind and hinted the other day, “...it will be fun to work on...”
     So we did.
     He helped me hand-sort the straight side pieces and the whites, pinks, and yellows (it's a 100% nature photo of a gentle waterfall beside a field of wild flowers) and assemble the sub-sorted side pieces, while I continued to sub-sort. 
     And at the library the other day during a relaxed lunch break (no checking e-mails or blog stats or doing other have-to-do-chores) I chose another book to read to Pene: a love story—the first I've read to her—about love in the true sense of the word, not Hollywood's fake version. The memoir describes a female Asian American Californian living the fast life in Hong Kong as a successful columnist/reporter/editor who dates a rich snob, feels dissatisfied, and then meets a humble East Indian writer who shows her the simple beauties of life, love, and family—worlds away from her chaotic family upbringing and glam single life. She breaks up with her boyfriend, lives within budget, reevaluates her life, and marries the East Indian—a sequence that to her resembles a fairy tale. 
     Now Pene, at this point in my eyes, has unlimited career potential and like the author could achieve worldly success in globe-trotting fashion should she ever choose to do so. I hope she does see the world outside Hawaii, which is just sooo limiting and is one of the reasons why I hope to move to the East Coast after retiring in about 2020, so she and Jaren can go to a nearby university at more affordable in-state tuitions. 
     And like the author, Pene could find a wealthy shallow lover to live with who'll pick up her tab for everything except clothes and incidentals, something I pray will never ever happen.
     As I read to her, I add my personal observations and commentary and edit out the heavy topics (about psychological defects and the author's abusive dad who develops mental illness) and instead focus on the love story and scenes of beautiful India that remind me of Deanne and my own love story. For like the pair in the story, Deanne and I, after an initial introduction and hardly any time spent together, began a long-distance correspondence that grew (for us after another short meet up) into love. And like the couple in the story, we came from near opposite sides of the world, with distinct and disparate cultures, dialects, and values that we had to, or rather got to, combine into our own. Coincidentally, Deanne, like the author, suffered a difficult childhood (but not nearly as bad) and I, like the author's fiance, have deep roots in my rustic Hilo birthplace (his was in a century old faded glory mansion in the old part of Delhi).
     So as I read I hope Pene catches that there are unlimited possibilities as it relates to career, residence, marriage, and life, and that the everything-has-to-be-local-Hawaii mindset that afflicts so many locals ought to be avoided because beautiful as Hawaii and its people are, there's more to life than just here.
     Since starting my rest sabbath the kids and I have gone on more after-dinner walks—times of enjoying, winding down, and interacting, which we hadn't done much of lately. 
     And I've spent more time with Deanne in bed just before leaving for work and before bedtime, which can be sooo soothing.
     Our busy week prior to my sabbath would probably have seemed to many whose lives are jam-packed with activities like a lazy Sunday afternoon nap. Nonetheless even we (and I in particular) need these occasional rests in addition to our usual weekend afternoon naps and sleep-ins. And I assure you that after awakening from that late weekday afternoon nap before dinner, I felt more restored and centered, a feeling I hope everyone that needs it gets to experience some time soon.

Land Enough For Everyone

     Isn't it presumptuous of man to think he can own land? Or to think, “I own this property now and forevermore and no on can share any of it unless I say so 'cause it's mine! All mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!” Or, “I have this piece of paper that proves my ownership rights...” I don't deny the legal authority or benefits of land ownership—I'd like to perhaps own a house myself someday if I feel that's God's desire for me, but come on, own land? What does that mean? 
     Ownership suggests permanence, yet nothing in this life is owned perpetually, not even the plot of land in which our remains are buried. Within hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands years it's inevitable that our burial plots will be destroyed, paved over, or turned over to some other use. Land is just too scarce to think otherwise.
     In terms of the big picture, I believe that God created this glorious, beautiful, wonderful life-sustaining orb that has a limited life span of a few billion years tops. And that he created us modern humans to thrive, multiply, enjoy, and live upon this orb for a little more than a hundred years tops, each. And it seems to me that the entirety of this earthy paradise belongs to God or perhaps to all his creation—not just man alone, or just certain countries, or just certain individuals or entities within each country. After all, man arrived on earth just recently compared to crocodiles, sharks, and tons of other of its long-term inhabitants.  
     Sure, some may claim that none of this is Biblical 'cause God gave Israel the Promised Land as their possession (which they later lost due to repeated disobedience to God, I might add). 
     But one of my favorite passages in the Bible that no one I know of likes to discuss, remember, or even acknowledge is in the Book of Acts in which all the followers sell all their possessions and give freely to everyone in need so that no one lacked anything. This spontaneous repudiation of private ownerships of land and all earthy possessions was one of the greatest miracles ever because the followers—real people—for perhaps one of the few times ever acknowledged that all belongs to God who gives freely to all, that God is sovereign, that God's Holy Spirit can be relied on to guide everyone in all righteousness, and that trusting first in His abundant provision, no one including the givers of all will ever be in want. 
     Whenever I share this with someone—even Godly Christians—I sense a tightening up as if to suggest “What? Just give away my house and years of hard earned savings to lazy scums, drug addicts, and dirt bags, who haven't lifted a finger to help themselves all their lives?”
     There's no easy answers to this, but picture life with the foreknowledge of an inevitable and shared catastrophic doom—perhaps a huge asteroid or comet slamming into earth. It could happen. Now if everyone knew this was going to happened a year, a month, or a week from now, how might people live differently? Would living lives in the obsessive pursuit of accumulating ever more wealth still remain paramount to so many—especially us Americans? Or Hawaii residents? Or my family and me at times?
     No.
     Rather, I think we'd all cash out all our discretionary assets and do those few last major things that must be done before we all die—visit loved ones, carry out commitments, seek forgiveness for past hurts committed, and everything else that has to be done because there just isn't enough time to waste doing anything else. And the excess of such liquidated assets would most certainly go not to loved ones with ample, who don't need anymore because there's no time left to spend it all, but to those in need—who never had and never will during this earthly existence have anything of worth other then life itself. 'Cause at that point why should anyone in need have to go without?
     Yet this science-fiction scenario is not so different from what we all face in everyday life, for we all do share a collective, sudden, certain catastrophic doom: death. For in the life of our universe, a million years is less than a blink of an eye. A thousands years is less than a thought. A hundred years is less than the tiniest increment perceptible on the most precise atomic clock. We're all on the verge of this shared sudden doom, yet we all too often act as if we're immortal. Especially when it comes to our own possessions, which I find puzzling at times. 
     It's easy to imagine how the first possession came into being. There was a caveman—a big, tough, selfish, greedy brute that favored a certain stick, stone, berry plant, cave corner, fishing spot, or watering hole perch. He saw someone else take that favored possession (new words and thoughts) for temporary usage and via a very strong physical effort or display—a shove, snatch, hit, tackle, roar, stare, or threatening movement got it back! And kept it evermore until the next tougher brute came along and took it away from him. 
     Is this God's best for man in a world of plenty but limited prime resources? 
     Antarctica, I think might be the model of sharing. No one country or individual owns or possesses it. It's shared by all for perpetual peaceful purposes. Stuck residents, inaccessible to incoming or outgoing vessels for months at a time, must share with others in need. And residents from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds, and speaking different native tongues do quite well cooperating, for the most part. 
     I'd love to live and see the day when the Book of Acts comes to life again. It would be fantastic to be part of, especially if such ready giving and sharing lasted beyond our lifetimes to our kids' and then some. It would have to be so freeing to not ever have to worry or think about or struggle for the continued accumulation of wealth again. Relying on fellow man at times can be a good thing. Anyone who has experienced a flat tire, empty gas tank, or lost cell phone or wallet and received the help of a kindly stranger knows this—it's a blessing both to giver and recipient. And always relying on God is even better.

Table Manners

     I read in a novel that it's the small day-to-day courtesies—the exchanged thank you's, you're welcomes, good mornings, good bye's, and have a great days, and the shared chores, errands, and responsibilities—that make for happy marriages. It seems like such a simple formula, but I think there's much truth to it, for nobody is perfect and everyone is flawed, so that it's not so much the person someone marries (since we're all filled at times with horrible, shameful, selfish, evil, and hurtful thoughts and feelings) but rather how a person treats his partner despite those shortcomings that matters most, for if a husband treats his wife well, she'll tend towards happiness; if he treats her bad, she'll tend towards sadness. Sort of like a sunflower that reaches toward sunlight when love and acceptance is offered, or droops and collapses when locked in a dark closet where nothing but moribund silence and disregard prevails. And of course the opposite's true whereby a husband will tend toward happiness or sadness depending on his wife's treatment of him. When both sides function well, there's usually ample happiness on both sides. (And there's seldom a glutton for punishment in marriage, at least not for long in happy ones.) 
     And I believe this simple formula also applies beyond marriage to immediate family life, for families, like couples thrive most when members help out, show consideration, and seldom take each other for granted. (It helps me when I struggle with selfish disregard to think that they won't always be here, that I won't always be here, and that I don't live alone anymore.)    
     Common courtesy for our family extends beyond exchanged pleasantries and shared chores to decent manners according to our customs. 
     This has been a struggle for our family and continues to be, for it's not always easy to mind our manners in the midst of hectic schedules, frazzled nerves, disappointments, and endless demands. In short, life's tough and we don't always feel up to it. Nonetheless, its worthwhile lest we neglect, hurt, demean, or offend another by our careless, thoughtless, or crass insensitivity as if no one's there or he or she doesn't matter much, for everyone wants and deserves dignity and respect 'cause no one's beneath another, slave-like, or sub-human. 
     The dinner table's a prime example. Sometimes ours reminds me (or used to) of The Simpsons for its Homer-like belches and burps without so much as an “Excuse me” or hand held over gaping mouth to obscure tongue and uvula. 
     “What do you say?” I ask with astonishment after such an outburst with no apology in the offing. 
     “Excuse me,” Deanne may say after a chuckle. 
     “Elbows off the table” is a common refrain to our kids or “Eat with your lips closed.”
     It may sound harsh, but my dad used to jab my cheek with his pointed index finger when I didn't “get it” and kept chewing open-mouthed after endless, repeated reminders—it even drew me to tears at times and I hated it!
     But I thank him now (Thanks Dad!) for teaching me civility so that I can eat anywhere with anyone with no apparent disapproval (that I'm aware of).
     And I did the same for my children when they didn't get it (especially Braden who was slow to learn), but now, they seldom need reminding even with words. 
     Other corrective reminders that we employ as necessary include:
     “Sit up straight”—no ducking head down to fork like a bird sipping water; no slouching. 
     “Put your plate in the middle”—not angled off to one side.
     “Wait your turn”—age before youth when self-serving; no interrupting when someone else is speaking.
     “Take your fair share.”
     “Eat civilized”—no noodles dangling from mouth to plate; put entire forkful of food into mouth; cut meats to size; no hasty eating.
     “Hands on your lap”—don't rest unused hands on table or gesture inappropriately with them.
     “Sit properly”—unused hand belongs outside the thigh, not crossed over creating closed body language to persons seated on that side of the table.
     “Hold your fork properly”—no hobo hand grips or flipping utensil upside down into mouth. 
     “Sit straight”—no half-turned body or errant leg placements.
     “Finish your vegetables first...” before asking for dessert or seconds.
     “Swallow before talking.” 
     “No more talking until you finish your dinner”—eat and don't just talk. 
     “I can't hear what you're saying”—no side conversations, whispers, or secrets; include everyone in conversational exchanges.
     “What do you say?”—receive permission to be excused before leaving or taking seconds; say please, thank you, I'm sorry, or excuse me.
     “I don't understand what you're saying” or “Does that make sense?”—think before speaking. 
     “I don't know, go look it up”—no endless annoying questions.
     “You don't know what you're talking about”—don't spout off false knowledge like a know-it-all or state wild speculation as fact. 
     “Let's change the topic” or “We'll discuss it later”—said to Deanne for inappropriate subject matter or when emotions run too high.
     It might sound harsh, as if everyone sits in a straight-jacket of formality at our family dinners, but it's quite the opposite: warm, friendly feelings, shared laughs, spontaneity, and positive reinforcements flow through ninety-five percent of most meals. And it's hard to imaging such shared conviviality sans decent manners. For by focusing first on others at our meals with everyone saying, “Can you please pass me the ______” and “Thank you” in turn, we all feel valued, welcome, and a part, and none is excluded or minimized. Good manners is just a nice, easy way to show caring. And as they say, over ninety percent of communications is non-verbal, tons of which include manners. 
     I've told my kids that manners are culturally determined, everywhere interprets good manners differently, and different families set their own standards. Nonetheless, the first time I witnessed uncivilized manners by high school classmates at a formal banquet, I was shocked. But I was also relieved that my parents had taught and trained me well. And I'm sure my kids will feel likewise when the same happens to them. Or when they dine with their girlfriend's or boyfriends' parents for the first time. 'Cause manners do matter and leave big, lasting impressions.

Lying

     I read in a non-fiction, heavily researched book (that wasn't about parenting) that asking one's son certain difficult questions forces him to lie, therefore parents ought not to ask sons such questions because doing so only trains them to become adept liars.
     This struck me as so much dumb psycho-babble advice because if one's child has trouble with such a critical character-defining trait, one ought to instead drill him until he gets it right—before he leaves home and it's too late. 
     My mom, I'm convinced, did this very thing to me when I was in the habit (probably at around age seven or eight) of lying. 
     I find a dime on our hallway floor. Mom, materialized out of nowhere, asks, “Is that yours?”
     “Yes,” I say.
     A look of dismay shrouds her usually cheerful, pretty face and transforms it into a tragic dough ball of worry. And she says “I don't know what I'm going to do with you—growing up to become a liar.” 
     “I was just joking,” I say to reassure her.
     She shakes her head, says, “No, you were serious, I'm worried about you,” and walks away bent double, hand to mouth, as if I were the cause of all her worldly suffering. 
     Asian mothers have a knack for making their children feel guilty and small. Even over the smallest of things. Such as a dime planted on the floor to entrap a lying son. I never felt guiltier in my life. Lousy. Filthy. And unworthy. I couldn't have felt much worse had I raped, maimed, or murdered Lei Hamada—sweet, helpless two-year-old down the street from us. So I knew then for certain that I never wanted to feel that way ever again. Or to disappoint Mom again. And to avoid those feelings and Mom's reproach, I decided never, ever to lie again. 
     For the most part, I've kept that commitment. God has helped me in this, for whenever I tell a doozy, I almost invariably get busted and feel guilty. Or I don't get caught and I feel even worse because of it. Either way, guilt forces me to repent and redetermine to never, ever lie again for the rest of my life! I've got tons of character flaws, but dishonesty ranks low on the list—thanks, Mom and praise God.
     Like me, no kid has to lie. There's no gun to the head or waterboarding involved. It's sinful nature or Satan that tempts a kid to lie. It's the desire to get away with something wrong. Or to steal credit for something good. What innocent kid says, “I stole it”, or what helpful kid says, “I didn't do the dishes”? (In Shindler's List, a boy lies to a Nazi soldier in order to avert senseless killings—a rare good lie that seldom happens in real life.)
     Braden, a trustworthy, honest boy overall has of late become loose with the truth. A week ago on a Monday evening, I find a permission form on my home desk calendar for his end-of-the-year JROTC banquet that Deanne says is due tomorrow. I hate this 'cause I've told him countless times to give me at least two weeks advance notice for such things. I ask him, When did you get this? He says, He gave it to us on Friday. When's it due? I ask. Tomorrow, he says. Why didn't you give it to me on Friday, then? I ask. I forgot, he says. This irritates me even further since his delay tightens the already tight deadline. I decide to make him suffer the consequences of his delay (and figure since the deadline is unreasonable, why rush?) and blow it all off for a day. 
     While I peruse the form at work, its date—nearly a month prior to when Braden got it—pops out at me, as does the due date that's a day earlier than Braden mentioned.  
     I call the school's JROTC class and get put through to an upper classman teacher's assistant to whom I restate what Braden told me, and ask about the mismatched dates and if Braden was lying or was the form really distributed so late with a new due date?
     The guy, who sounds African American with a southern accent says in hurried, slurred speech (Is Braden imitating him when he speaks, I wonder?), “The form was distributed awhile ago and was due yesterday. One of the boys said he lost his form and asked for another...”
     I immediately like the guy for his formal manner, loyalty to cadets, and candor. He thrice apologizes—wholly unnecessary—that he can't answer my question—Is Braden on the list of awardees?—because they haven't yet gotten around to making the list. 
     Braden is already in the doghouse with Deanne and me for talking back, acting disrespectful, disobeying, and violating other rules, and I realize that further time outs, lectures, dinners alone outside in the carport, walks up and down the street, and doing all the chores are losing their effectiveness, so I decide to pull a Mom on him and make him feel guilty. 
     I say nothing, sign the form, ante up the $25, and leave them on his desk. After all, he deserves a treat for taking JROTC as an extra credit elective and following through with it every school morning, I reason. Maybe he'll feel guilty for getting away with the lie. 
     But he doesn't display much, if any, remorse, only apparent smugness for having duped me. So right before bedtime that day I snap at him, “I know you lied to me—get to bed!”
     Only, it's not over yet, 'cause only a few days later, he disobeys a direct command and lies about it.
     Because we live on an older, narrow street without sidewalks, I've told him for years to walk on the left side of the road toward oncoming traffic. When I see him walk on the wrong side to the bus stop one morning, I remind him via angry scoldings that evening.  
     Two days later, I see him do it again! I reprimand him and he mutters under his breath. What did you say? I ask. I was just crossing the street! he growls with a dismissive hand gesture that suggests, “What are you getting so worked up about? I didn't do anything wrong!” 
     I saw you walking up the street! I say.
     He curses me with his eyes.  Caught dead in a lie and confronted with the truth, he hasn little choice.
     Sometimes I get so exasperated by his continued bad attitude, defiance, and disrespectful attitudes, I feel like striking him.
     And sometimes I feel like sending him away.
     Mostly, I try to get him out of my sight when he's fuming about everything so I won't ruin his, mine, and everyone else's day. 
     But we still have to feed, clothe, teach, school, and house him, and provide him with a monthly bus pass. I suppose his lying, disobedience, rebellion, and arrogant disrespect wouldn't hurt so much if we didn't love him so. After all, if we didn't, would we even bother or care? 
     God help us and him! We need you so, God! (I often feel so utterly helpless when no matter what we do or try, it seems we're not getting anywhere with him. I suppose all parents of teens feel that way sometimes. Or frequently. Or always. God help and bless all parents of teens!)

Date Nights—Part III

     For Valentine's Day, Deanne and I watched The Flying Dutchman at the Neal Blaisdel Concert Hall performed with musicians from the Honolulu Symphony Orchestra and dozens of opera singers. I bought tickets by phone through Hawaii Opera Theater for pickup before the show at the will-call booth, thereby optimizing affordability, seat location, and purchasing convenience, for when I called the Blaisdel Ticket Office, $30 bargain seats were sold out (plus tickets had to be purchased in advance in person) and Ticket Master's processing fees were exorbitant.
     It was our first classic opera and here are my impressions: Fantastic music—can't beat Wagner for conjuring images of stormy seas through sound; lighting and staging added to the foreboding mood; the soprano and the humorous night watchman sang with penetrating gusto—very impressive; acting was OK, nothing spectacular (I saw Pavoratti on TV once in a classic opera and his acting stank—I guess for him it's all about the voice); and the engaging story kept me guessing to the end (my guesses were way off).
     Afterward we went for a quick bite at Ward Warehouse where the only kiosk open that Sunday evening was Mr. Eggroll. Its Chinese food was excellent for the price and super convenience (it was getting late), and the proprietress was friendly and generous, giving sample dishes to try and even an extra sample with our meals. 
     On another evening following an exhausting weekend in which we wanted to escape house and kids, we went for a low stress, low hassle dinner at Lee Ho Fook Restaurant, a favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese Cultural Plaza restaurant facing the canal. The six table Hong Kong style mom-n-pop shop serves yummy noodles and soup, has not changed its prices in years, gives generous portions, doesn't add MSG (that makes my hands feel weak and gets me thirsty), and allows the flavors of natural ingredients to come through without overpowering seasonings. Its offerings beat those of numerous fancier restaurants that charge twice or thrice the price, and its casual, relaxed, come-as-you-are atmosphere reminds me of my youth with its Formica top tables, vinyl padded steel leg chairs, and linoleum floors. We slurped up seafood won tons with chilli oil and dug into our egg foo young (a Hawaii classic) and three meat cake noodle with hearty relish, then walked along Chinatown's main thoroughfare past Mauna Kea Marketplace to window shop and burn off calories.  
     Then on Thursday's Kuhio Day state holiday we went to one of Art and Flea's monthly events at an industrial warehouse behind Marukai across Ward Warehouse partly converted into unfinished shabby/chic display areas where sixty tiny start-up vendors peddled their art, jewelry, hand made instruments and toys, used albums, baked goods, snacks, thrift clothes, and other offerings while a DJ spun vinyl disks pumping out young dance music (house, techno, trance—I don't know what). The vendors answered all my questions such as, “Where did you get this from?” “Are you the artist?” “Did you use a long or short lens on this photo?” with enthusiasm and friendly engagement. There was a demonstration outside featuring a very lively and synchronized dance team bedecked in uniform tights, t-shirts, and sneakers, with moves like robot from the '70s and hiphop from the '90s. 
     The crowd was predominantly twenty-something petite female beauties, some hand in hand with a complaint significant other. Entrance fee was $3 each, which was okay for a once-in-awhile thing, and I ended up purchasing a framed original hand drawn acrylic doodles on original photo for $35 that now adorns our dining room wall. When I first saw it, I wasn't sure how it'd been done, the doodles were so whimsically convincing that it made the wave photo beneath seem painted, and I'd never seen a piece quite like it before. The artist with purple dyed hair and large arm tattoo had a lot of different styled work with no set one-trick-pony pattern or theme, so understanding her individual works was a bit more challenging, which I think is great as I love variety partly because it gives me a better sense of who the artist is and how she thinks, which factors into purchase decisions.
     One of the most gratifying parts of the event was its welcoming air—I didn't feel at all intimidated, awkward, or unwanted, or that a pickpocket might target me, or that a seamy underbelly lay hidden, so that later at home I told Deanne that my sense of the youth there was one of innocence, which was hopeful. 
     I pray my sense was accurate and representative and that it bodes well for my kids' futures. I remember my youth when drug abuse (mostly alcohol and marijuana), posturing, and judgmental attitudes and behaviors were rampant among my classmates (and I, except for the drugs, which I didn't do) and how far from innocent we all were. Of course, I knew them and myself tons better than I do today's twenty-something youths, and who knows what I'd think if I knew them better? Probably depends on which “thems” I knew as everyone is different. Yet, in general, I think certain things may have changed for the better.

Second (and Third and Fourth) Opinions

     Decades ago, Dear Abbey's Abigail Van Buren recommended that her readers seek and obtain as many medical opinions as necessary until a satisfactory diagnosis and treatment plan is received because doctors are fallible (and some are less than honest, I might add). I've taken this advice to heart and through the years it's saved me much heart and pocketbook pain. 
     Dentists in particular have been my sometimes nemeses. It started in Seattle in the late 1980's when a dentist I selected from the Yellow Pages, who claimed to offer “reasonable” rates, cleaned and examined my teeth, remarked twice how nice they were, twice asked if I was Japanese (he was Korean), and said I needed fourteen fillings which would be a “big improvement”—despite my having had only four tiny fillings at that point (I still have only four) and I had been doing my diligent daily dental hygiene best, same as always. Not convinced, I asked him to write down which teeth 'cause I wanted to ask my mother who works in a doctor's office her opinion. He said in a doctor's office? I said yes. He nodded and wrote numbers (designating the teeth) on a Post-it note and gave me at my request the more than dozen x-rays he'd taken. 
     Only then did I do the smart thing (I was young) and asked my friend for a recommendation. He referred me to his dentist who worked down the street from where he lived in Laurelhurst. The dentist, who never recommended my friend do anything with his teeth, examined my teeth along with the x-rays, thrice commented how nice my teeth were, and asked could he see the list of suspect teeth because it might provide him clues? I said, Please draw your own conclusions first, then I'll show you the list. He went over each tooth and selected x-rays again and said he couldn't find anything wrong with any of them. I showed him the list and he went over the fourteen teeth plus some x-rays again, commenting as he went tooth-by-tooth on the health of each, then quipped, “your dentist must want a second boat,” which caused my heart to ache with longing to bless him. And he didn't even charge a fee for the over half-hour consultation. 
     A few years later, after I'd moved back to Honolulu, my regular dentist said she'd put in a small filling where I had some gum recession, the first of several that “will be a big improvement.” Yet she and her hygienist always complimented me for my “beautiful teeth.” Since I didn't feel the need for any fillings, I changed dentists to Doctor Franklin Fukuda, who to this day has never recommended a filling. 
     Twelve years later, our family's pediatric dentist said Braden needed two fillings due to tooth decay. I asked him to show me which teeth and he stuck a probe in and touched the chewing surfaces of two molars. (As a youth, I got a cavity once when I forgot to bring my toothbrush to a Boy Scout summer camp when I served on staff for several weeks. Doctor Atebara demonstrated the hard taffy-like stickiness of my tooth's decayed enamel by shoving in the needle point of a probe, then pulling away until it released with a sudden jerk. I wanted to see that happen with Braden's teeth (as proof). He was unable to do it, but rather jerked the probe to one side to simulate stickiness. I had him jot down the teeth in question, then brought Braden to see another pediatric dentist who said that he needed four fillings, but none of the teeth to be filled matched those of the prior dentist! (I didn't show or tell him about the list.)
     I then took Braden to Dr. Fukuda who said, All his teeth look fine. I can't find anything wrong with any of those six teeth. 
     God bless him for his honesty! 
     Finally, Pene's myopia has been progressing so her ophthalmologist, whom we two years ago changed to for reasons of convenience, recommended low dose Atropine eye drops inserted every night for months (or years) on end to help slow the progression and thereby reduce the risk of a retinal tear or detachment. She said studies in Asia showed that “it worked” but that it hasn't yet been FDA approved because “drug companies refuse to sponsor studies because the drug is already generic” (i.e. there's no profit motive). Because Pene and I felt so uncomfortable about the treatment recommendation; because Internet research listed very few studies, none of which were long-term; and because when I asked my ophthalmologist at my annual check-up what he though about the treatment, he said it's tough on patients and parents and the myopia could return once drops are stopped; we took Pene in to see our original pediatric ophthalmologist, who said she doesn't recommend eye drops to treat myopia; the Asian studies happened for two years, then stopped; there are no long-term studies; and the risk of retinal damage from even severe myopia is very low. She also mentioned that only one pharmacy in all Hawaii mixed the Atropine dilute, which I found suggestive of less than wide-spread acceptance or appeal. 
     So for now, we'll forgo the eye drops option, and instead follow the common-sense recommendations gleaned from multiple doctors and staff that Pene get lots of out-door exercise, take regular reading breaks, and read arm's length rather than nose-to-page. I'll pray as always for her health and trust what we cannot control to God, because He is always in control. And as He said, “I give you peace, the kind of peace that only I can give. It isn't like the peace that this world can give so don't be worried or afraid." (I tend to stress about such things...)
     By the way, the upside of all this regarding Pene is she loves to read (as do all our kids) and devours books like tiny bags of potato chips—it astounds me how fast she reads. Largely as a result, she's doing just fine in school—we couldn't ask for more.

Voting—Part II

     There's been ample talk of our nation's broken healthcare system so I won't reiterate that now, but given the U.S. population's repulsion with Congress's handling of its job (75% disapproval rating), greater disapproval than approval of the way the U.S. president and Supreme Court are handling their jobs, and all-time low voter turnouts since WWII in the last national election (37%), the argument could be made that our nation's leaders in all three branches of government are ill-representing the will of the people and that America's system of “democracy” (representative form of government, really, a far cry from true democracy whereby majority rules in all cases) is thereby itself ill, dysfunctional, and/or broken.
     True, America's leaders were never very representative—not back when nearly all were white, well-to-do men, and only wealthy white males were allowed to vote. Yet even today, with half the nation's voters female and minority groups on the rise, why is there still such a dearth of female and minority representation in Congress, the Supreme Court, and the executive branch? 
     I'm not complaining about the overall system as I recognize the value of our Constitution and the rule of law, however, without proportionate representation of women, minorities, teachers, accountants, social workers, blue collar workers, the unemployed, the poor, immigrants, and youth at all levels and in all branches of government, the people's will will continue to be ill-served by elected and appointed leaders. So can citizens be blamed for disengaging and not voting considering how leaders' capricious laws and edicts are passed, signed, issued, and forced upon them by mostly white male attorneys in D.C. and others equally disconnected at all levels of government?
     At the root of the problem lies big money influence in elections and politics, which has gotten obscene—everyone knows this, yet average exasperated citizens feel powerless to do anything about it 'cause past efforts to obliterate, reform, or even moderate such outsized influence have resulted in only paltry, token changes. I believe this can and will change when things get bad enough (yes, things can and will worsen 'cause greed knows no bounds) 'cause all governments, even ruthless dictatorships (as four time Nobel Peace Prize nominee Eugene Sharp pointed out) derive all their powers and privileges from citizens, and citizens always have the ability and power to revoke all such granted powers and privileges. And I'm not talking about voting do-nothing or corrupt politicians out of office, either, 'cause even responsible voting won't change a thing when there are only slim-pickin' just-as-bad alternative candidates to choose from that will change things only to the extent an exterior decorator might who dresses up a ramshackle, beaten down, worn, old, musty, hob-mailed, condemned, termite-ridden shack with a fresh coat of white-with-blue-tint or white-with-red-tint paint, take your pick.
     No, citizens will have to move en masse via a ground swell, a movement so persistent, powerful, and ever building that it can no longer be ignored or contained, a movement that may include but not be limited to recurring gestures, communications, gatherings, protests, marches, sign wavings, firestorm publications, and other campaigns legal and nonviolent, a movement that does not quit despite minor efforts to appease, a movement that continues calm in righteous confidence until those in power finally realize they have no choice, having been effectively stripped of all implied powers and privileges or nearly so, they must step aside or change to conform to the people's will.
     Small gestures from large numbers can mean a lot in aggregate, far more even than big dollar campaign contributions and other influence peddling and lobbying by wealthy individuals, special interests, and corporations. 
     Imagine if the 145 million non-voters in the last election placed one brick each to form a wall around the White House, Congress, and U.S. Supreme Court to symbolize citizens' will to block would-be buyers of influence from those hallowed institutions. I imagined there'd be a pretty high wall. Turns out a ten foot high brick wall would extend 345 miles, long enough to surround all of Washington D.C. city and then some. 
     Or imagine if those non-voting citizens instead mailed their individual bricks to either one of their congressmen, the president, or the U.S. Supreme Court. The resultant 5.6 million cubic feet of bricks would form a solid block 6 stories high and cover two football fields. Picture the highrise construction cranes and dump trucks necessary to move those loads.  
     Or imagine if each of those same 145 million non-voters instead got a bundle of Monopoly or Life play money, dirtied it, and mailed portions (instead of a brick) to each institution and enclosed in the packets a signed declaration that said, “campaign finance reform.” Such a deluge would certainly be unprecedented, the message would be clear and convincing, and recipients would no doubt feel convicted of the need for change, change requiring immediate action lest more demonstrative actions be forthcoming.
     My kids agreed to help me dirty some play money and to write and sign a note each: mine will go to our (local boy) U.S. president, Braden's to the Supreme Court, Penelope's to Senator Schatz, and Jaren's to Representative Takai. It may take awhile, but the removal of dirty money from politics may happen during their lifetimes if not mine. 
     Twenty-seven years ago I said, “No minority will ever be elected president in my lifetime,” yet citizens surprised me and I suppose something similar could happen again with this. Clean elections with attractive, ordinary citizen candidates—what a thought!
     Finally, about non-voters, let's stop assuming they're lazy, indifferent, apathetic, or take-your-pick pejorative label. Perhaps non-voting is their way of demonstrating—effectively boycotting what they consider to be sham elections that only perpetuate the powers of non-representative insiders responsive only to big business and special interest benefactors. My dad would make a better representative than ninety percent of the choices I see 'cause he has real character, integrity, and heart, and as an intelligent, thoughtful, and understanding retired school principal, knows real people and the issues. I always say Barbara Bush would have made a far better and more compassionate and humble president than either of her Bush kinfolk—kept us out of wars at least. And I'm sure everyone can think of an uncle, friend, coworker, grandparent, or other associate who'd make a fantastic and/or superior Supreme Court justice, president, senator, or representative.
     Numbered among nonvoters is now my mom, historically one of the most responsible, up-to-date, knowledgeable, and thoughtful voters around. She has even stopped following political coverages, deeming them all wastes of time. Why the sudden changes? Because, in short, things don't get better no matter what she does or who's in power. I consider her nonvoting proactive and am considering doing likewise (which is different than what I have been doing by not voting in races in which I can't stand any of the candidates which results in lots of blanks in my ballots), for by any reasonable standard, last election's 37% voter participation rate was miserable. How much lower can it go? 25%? 10%? What would be the ramifications of ever lower voter turnouts? Might leaders eventually get the message and realize that wholesale election changes must be made? I am hopeful they would, but if they didn't, what would happen if it fell even lower to only 5%? Or 1%? At what point would election results become so meaningless as to become invalid or illegitimate? .1%? At that point citizens action would by default be forcing government's hand, wouldn't it?
     Election season is fast approaching—get ready for even worse dirty money mud slinging than before. Any good-hearted, level-headed teacher, mother, librarian, nurse, waitress, salesclerk, or student ready to enter that humiliating mud-wrestling rink? I think not near enough and I don't blame those who demur. 
     Hats off, then, to all contentious, nonvoting, election-boycotting protestors, whose nonverbal message will register clear and convincing. One day.

 

The White House

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Supreme Court of the United States

1 First Street, NE
Washington, DC 20543

(Check out the U.S. Supreme Court's hilarious website faux pas! Right at the top of its home page is a reproduced image of “We the People”—the opening words of the U.S. Constitution, one of our nation's most beloved documents. But the washed-out looking words are over half-covered by a border on top and “The Supreme Court of the United States” in huge bold letters below. Which begs the question: Is this indicative of a desire for we the people to subject ourselves to the Court? Or a belief that we literally fall beneath the Court? I'm no legal expert, but isn't the Constitution the supreme law of the land to which all, including the Court, are subject? Might the Court's partial erasure of the Constitution's words be indicative of belief that it may alter the Constitution's contents? Or that it may erase those portions that protect we the people's rights? Regardless who designed, vetted, and approved the site, it demonstrates an appalling lack of judgment—tragic considering the source...)

Yum!

     In my mind, finicky eating is one of the worst forms of close-mindedness in children because by limiting what they eat, they deprive themselves of so much joy.
     When Braden was a toddler, he hated lettuce, which he avoided eating and dropped on the floor by “accident.” Neither worked because we insisted he eat what he was served and replaced what he'd dropped with even more. 
     One lunch, he tested our resolve by refusing to eat any more lettuce or rice, insisting he wanted more fish sticks instead. I said, “No, finish that first,” pointing at his food. 
     “I'm done,” he said. 
     Okay, we can't force him, I thought, we'll just save his leftovers for dinner. At dinner, he looked at his leftovers and acted like he wasn't hungry. I said, “Are you sure you don't want any?”
     He said, “I want that,” pointing at our meatballs pasta.
     I said, “Finish this first and you can have that.”
     He said, “No, that.” 
     I said, “Fine, you're not having any”, and stored his plate back in the fridge. Later that evening, I offered him his leftovers and he declined.
     At breakfast the next morning, I placed the reheated rice and ample fresh lettuce before him. Braden always eats breakfast with relish, but this time when he saw his plate, a look of hurt injustice stole over his face. I did my best to hide my self-satisfied smirk (and relief) while he, with slow, deliberate chews, ate. Upon his finishing, I gave him his usual fare of fruits and cereal, which he gobbled down with out-of-my-way-I'm-serious intensity. This was followed by seconds, then thirds, then fourths. 
     We ever after employed this eat-what-you're-served-or-go-hungry regimen to teach all our kids to enjoy all food.
     Because all food is good. 
     All food is a blessing. 
     Anything tastes great to the hungry. 
     No kid ever starved due to finicky taste.
     Occasional hunger never hurt anyone. 
     And the person who never experiences hunger is almost certainly overfed or overweight. 
     More than once, when Deanne fretted about their not getting enough to eat, I said, “We American have warped perceptions about food. Some people in Asia, South America, and Africa survive on only one small bowl of rice and watery vegetables per day. And they labor in hot fields all day long. Our kids aren't malnourished or underweight. Allowing them to pick and choose what they will or won't eat is spoiling them. Everyone in our house eats what they're served—no wasting food allowed.” 
     Which brings to mind a wonderful piece I read awhile ago. A local columnist (I can't remember who) told her friend from China that her mom always said, “Finish your food. Do you know how people are starving in China?” and asked, “How did your mom get you to eat?” Her friend said, “She told us about all the starving people in Africa.” 
     The columnist asked a friend from Africa what his mom did to get him to eat? and he said, “She told us not to waste food like Americans.”
     We try our best not to waste, but sometimes when we're careless, things go bad and have to be tossed, so we're far from innocent. At least we can take comfort, though, that all our kids love what they are served (though Jaren has distastes for freshly made chicken, pork, and beef when prepared with savory seasonings, which reminds me of when I was a kid and Mom prepared foods with MSG that made me feel like throwing up. So every time I see Jaren gag when eating (MSG-free) meat, a part of me empathizes). 
     Also when I was a kid, Mom insisted I eat at least a little of everything I was served, separating a small portion using my fork to show me the amount I had to eat of a detested dish (chop sueyed celery, carrots, and onions was the worst!), saying, “It's good. I don't want you to be a finicky eater and at dinner at a friend's house say, 'I don't eat that,' and they have to fix you something special. It's such a hassle.” 
     To this day, I'm thankful for my open-minded palate (thanks Mom!) and for Deanne's introducing me to so many fantastic South-East Asian cuisines, including Indonesian, Malay, Hokkien, Thai, and my favorite of all, Indian—many of which I may never have otherwise encountered, tried, or appreciated, and the joys of hot spicy curries sauces, and seasonings. Yum!

Letter Writing

     Ninety percent of last week's In Their Words essay was written by my kids who wrote their portions with enthusiasm sans complaints. How was this possible? Do they love writing? you might ask, to which I reply: They've written so many letters through the years, such assignments outside school are given, plus getting published on the Internet for the first time provided ample motivation. 
     I started them writing letters once they were able to assemble sentences (before that they drew pictures). Mostly they've written thank you letters for Christmas or birthday presents received from relatives, but also for overnight stays at Grandma's, Uncle Norm's or Auntie Joan's. They've also written Christmas, get well, how-are-you-doing, and hope-you're-having-a-nice-time greeting cards to elderly shut-in church members (whom we've never met), young adult attendees away at college, and other friends and relatives. 
     I've been writing letters since college and my enthusiasm for it has grown, so I suppose their writing letters in due course following (or leading up to) special occasions is natural (though I'm always the initiator). For all my letters, as well as theirs, are hand written—no computer print-outs, e-mails, or short-cut phone calls allowed. And all their Christmas and birthday cards to relatives and friends must be designed, constructed, and decorated by hand with lots of pretty pictures, colors, and/or designs—sloppy slip-shod efforts won't do. 
     Of course the greatest difficulty for them when they started was determining what to write. I'm not a big fan of vacuous letters, devoid of news or meaningful connection, so I've told them, “Tell them something they don't know about you,” or “Talk about something you enjoyed doing with them.” Upon such prompting, they've come up with appropriate news, often of a personal nature, or fond shared memories.
     I suppose writing of self can come across as somewhat egotistical, but as long as it's not braggadocio, I don't think of it that way. Rather, sharing a bit of self with others is about as good a gift as they can give right now. And people like hearing news of what's going on in other people's lives, or at least I do.
     Whenever our Japan relatives write—usually only towards year end—it's a special treat. My dad's cousin's daughter is always the correspondent who writes in broken, printed English only a few short sentences with photos, but they always bring us in an instant to their whole different world in Japan. (Deanne and I have visited twice—once as newlyweds and once with Braden and Pene for a reunion with Japan relatives and friends at Japan Disneyland; Jaren wasn't born yet.) With just this teeny-tiny window into their lives, and my return correspondences, our connection remains strong whereby we make it a point to meet up in Hawaii or Japan every so many years.
     I was taught that letter writing is common courtesy—no excuses that you already thanked them in person or you'll remember to thank them the next time you see them. And although I don't actively look for slights in our lives, not having seen hand written anythings from close relatives or fiends for years means we just don't get much fun mail anymore. I don't much mind; it's more the kids that miss out. And the would-be letter writers themselves. For I think whatever part of self gets poured into a letter, God refills and then some with blessings. 
     Apostle Paul suffered the worst privations imaginable—as a prisoner of war in horrific conditions might—yet his New Testament Epistles—letters to the church—shine with joy, hope, faith, and love, including some of the most beautiful, cherished, and oft-quoted passages anywhere. And he makes clear that he feels so blessed despite his hardships and sufferings, for having died to self, God's abundant joy has suffused him.
     Now, I'm as similar to Paul as an ant is to an elephant, yet when I write a letter with true love, which sometimes can be draining, I often sense peace and love flood in to fill the void recently vacated as if God noticed, cared and blessed me for this tiny bit of faithfulness. Not that I deserved it, I never have. As Christians, we know that we deserve death and it's only through God's infinite grace that we live and are blessed.