Parenting

Yesterday, I wrote on Facebook that I was still learning how to parent even though my kids are 14 and 15. Lots of affirmations from friends came in that, indeed, the learning never stops. 

Well, this morning on my way to school with my kids, the learning certainly continued! We were channel-surfing on the radio and landed on 105 (Jack FM). Imagine my surprise when they replayed LONG parts of Oprah's interview with Whitney Houston... including Whitney's explicit instructions on how to "lace" her marijuana with crack or crystal or something - I didn't hear the exact structure because my ears were ringing! It went on and on... Oprah asking over and over, "So, how did you do it?" And Whitney, laughing and saying very slowly for Oprah's benefit, "Okay, you roll it, and lace it, and smoke it..." 

Now, I had actually seen the interview yesterday on TV. By myself. Whitney is/was an addict, and it is fine for her to describe her life in detail on national TV. But, was it really necessary to give my kids (and thousands of other radio listeners) the blow-by-blow of the instructions the next day on the radio?

I KNOW, change the channel. I finally did. But not before my kids had completely tuned in and started asking questions. 

I KNOW, ratings.

I KNOW, life lesson. It was. I used it without preaching too much. I know drugs are everywhere. (I did grow up in the '70s, after all :)

I KNOW, freedom of speech. My favorite right.

I'm just saying it went a bit far, even for moderate me. If anyone is going to explain how to roll a joint to my children, I'd rather it not be Whitney, with Oprah ooohing and aaahing in the background of a morning radio show.

Ali Kemp and the T.A.K.E. Foundation

(originally published in The Independent in 2008)

Roger Kemp is one of the most amazing and endearing individuals I've ever met. Wait, that's not enough. Let me start over. Roger made me feel like I had known him for years, and he enabled me to feel like I had known Ali, even though I never had the pleasure of meeting her in person. No, still not right. Roger is larger than life and more vulnerable than a baby: I was drawn to his strong/soft, injured/indominatable, husband/father/spokesman spirit – in a way that I've never been drawn to anyone. In short, he is the man he never intended upon becoming. But he is a man that everyone looks up to, and I'm not kidding... everyone.

Kathy and Roger Kemp's world came crashing down on them and their family and friends when Ali was murdered at a Leawood pool in June of 2002. Roger was relentless in finding Ali's killer, and his efforts included a first-ever billboard campaign donated by Lamar Advertising, and run across the country. The sketch of the man they were seeking garnered nation-wide attention, tips, and results. 

In a small way, justice was done. The killer was arrested, tried, convicted, and jailed. But the gaping hole in Roger and Kathy's lives wasn't getting any smaller. Immediately Roger set about finding a way to honor Ali and keep her death from fading away as newsprint does. It is an easy phrase to speak, "I don't want my daughter's death to be in vain." But Roger put action behind the phrase, as well as some pent-up energy stemming from anger and disappointment, and got to work. Before the year 2004 was over, the Kemp family had established The Ali Kemp Educational Foundation.

T.A.K.E. was formed in partnership with  Johnson County Park and Recreation District and in cooperation with Blue Valley Recreation Commission and Leawood Park and Recreation. More than 32,000 girls and women ages 12 and older have been trained with free hands-on self-defense training. T.A.K.E. Defense carries its message and training across the United States each year to colleges and universities such as Kansas University, University of Missouri, Kansas State University, University of Miami, Vanderbilt University, Southern Methodist University, Texas Christian University, University of Wisconsin and more. T.A.K.E. Defense Training has been featured on America's Most Wanted, ABC's 20/20 and CBS Prime Time, along with numerous local and regional news casts. Our goal is clear, as said by Roger at each program, "If we can save one life out there, I don't care what it costs; this whole program will be worth it."

T.A.K.E. Defense Training provides girls and women of all ages with unique reality-based, hands-on self-defense training. Such training provides safety awareness that everyone needs and deserves. And the way that the classes are presented is the truly unique part. Volunteers teach hundreds of girls, high school age and college age, in large groups in their own schools. T.A.K.E. comes to them in their environment and brings all the tools of the trade to teach girls how to defend themselves in a violent situation. Roger and his friend, Jill Leiker, who is in charge of all the classes and the curriculum, say that they have reached more girls than any other self-defense class because they go to the girls, and make it convenient and compelling. 

I was able to witness Roger and Jill at work at Blue Valley West High School one morning, as they gathered about 150 sleepy, coffee-toting high schoolers. Roger talked about Ali, the foundation, and the reason they were all in the gym together. Jill talked about what the class was going to be like and what the girls would take away from it. Then, Jill's husband, Bob, also part of the team, started asking the Blue Valley West girls with Starbucks cups in their hands if they had noticed a certain man at the coffee shop. Bob asked for details... what was he wearing, how tall was he, where did he stand in line? The girls' answers might as well have been describing Ali, herself. They knew nothing of the man in Starbucks. The instructor went on to describe him in detail. He was six foot, five inches tall, he was wearing a Chiefs jacket, he had brown hair, and he kept shifting his place in line. Bob was convinced the man wasn't really there to buy coffee. The gym with 150 girls was silent. 

All the self-defense training in the world doesn't substitute for being aware of one's surroundings. Lesson number one. Look around. Be aware. Take mental notes. Don't be paranoid, but do be conscious of where you are. It might save your life. And, really the whole crux of the classes that T.A.K.E. presents is this... if you are aware, you might be able to avoid a potentially dangerous situation. But, if awareness isn't enough, equip yourself with the skills it takes to save your own life. 

Roger and the investigators in Ali's case are all convinced that Ali put up a good fight. There was evidence to prove it, and Roger knows his own daughter. But, if she had possessed just a few more critical skills to take her attacker down, maybe the situation would have turned out differently. Roger's hope is that another father will not be standing in Roger's shoes someday. That daughter will tell police and family about how her attacker acted, looked, and tried to take her down. Then she'll triumphantly describe how she kicked him, poked him, put the moves on him, and took HIM down. Roger also hopes that that family will never have to resort to billboards. 

The other activity that T.A.K.E. is engaged in is a delightful combination of girls, prom dresses and a fashion show. Ali's Runway is an annual prom fashion show and a self-defense class wrapped into one fun, educational event. First, there's a showcase of the latest prom dress designs by Alfred Angelo, provided by Natalie M's of Overland Park, and modeled by area high school students.  After the runway show, everyone is invited to take part in an actual T.A.K.E. Defense Training session. Nearly every high school in the area has participated, and continues to participate in this wonderful bonding experience. 

I honestly don't know how Roger does it, but he manages to inspire people of all ages as he presents his story over and over. He must be exhausted and exhilarated at the same time, every morning. He has created a real legacy for Ali, one that keeps the serious topic of self defense in front of women all over the United States, and one that lets girls have some fun with some great fashions. I'm convinced that Ali is by Roger's side in each and every class and she is so proud of what he's done in her name. Roger and Kathy may have lost the hopes and dreams they had for their beautiful daughter, but they are making hopes and dreams come true for others by moving forward every day. I am in awe of Roger Kemp. I am in awe of the relationship that he and Ali had and still have. 

Quality Hill Playhouse Reinvents Dinner and a Show

(originally published in The Independent in 2008)

If you haven’t seen J. Kent Barnhart, you haven’t seen the most amazing combination of not-for-profit accomplished artist and business-savvy entrepreneur. There are, in no uncertain terms, precious few people in this town or any other, who can run a business as efficiently as Kent can. The fact that he can do it while protecting the integrity of his artistry is nothing short of incredible. He is a man of so many talents, that I’m not sure anyone comprehends his complexity until he or she has known Kent for more than a couple of years. 

At first glance, Kent is a piano player, singer and director. Graduating from the University of Missouri-Kansas City’s Conservatory (of just music, in those days), the techniques he brings to the ivories are impeccable. But, after a while, one realizes that he is actually doing four or five other things while he’s playing some incredibly fast-paced piece. He’s also singing, he’s watching the sheet music, he’s directing the bass and drums behind him, he’s watching cues for and from singers coming and going from his two stage entrances, and he’s making eye contact with the audience so that Aunt Georgia really thinks she’s being serenaded. 

At second glance, during the intermission, the program allows how Kent has hand-picked the songs, created some of the arrangements, auditioned the performers, been at every rehearsal, orchestrated and conducted some fundraising, been to board meetings, glad-handed the press and his fans, and now… has conceived, designed, and sold the idea of a combination theatre, restaurant, and bar – combining both not-for-profit and profit constructs and ideas. (Whew, makes me tired just to write about it!).

So, as the title says, Kent is reinventing his playhouse, his atmosphere, and the opportunity for comfortable dinner and drinks for his customers, all while his concept of the intimate cabaret theatre stays untouched. There is no part of this $5 million, 15,000 square foot total makeover that Kent didn’t approve, himself. And, don’t think for a moment that he didn’t have a big sell-job on his hands when this project first took shape. Kent does not understand nor tolerate the word “can’t.” 

Kent’s belief in superb cabaret-style entertainment has brought him from three performances of each production (thirteen years ago), to more than 225 performances each season currently, and 2,750 season subscribers. Nearly 30,000 individuals attend performances at QHP each year. This was “destination entertainment” for downtown long before the Sprint Center was even a blip on someone’s screen. (Many of us remember when parking places were easy to come by, and dinner had to be eaten before the trek downtown!)

So, as his 2008-09 season is about to embark with Rhapsody in Gershwin, Kent is many steps closer to his dream of the ultimate dinner and theatre experience. Patrons will be able to experience a full-service restaurant, new restrooms, a larger lobby, convenient on-site box office (staff and volunteers carry tickets back and forth from theatre to office right now), separate meeting and reception space, an actual rehearsal room, larger dressing rooms, and on-site administrative offices (not blocks away). 

When I glance now, I see the guy-from-Raytown-made-good, the man who tried his hand at the New York theatre scene, and the personality at the heart of true cabaret theatre in Kansas City. New York is and was fun, but not the kind of place where one person can continue to educate people about the art of the songbook and see the results, year after year, face after face. Kent hosts a yearly New York theatre trip (which is the only way to see and hear the best of Broadway!) and provides background and commentary along the tour, so he is still connected to the big apple. But Kansas City is where his heart is, and it’s where thousands upon thousands of us have been guided through the best of the best, Cole Porter, Kander and Ebb, George and Ira Gershwin, Irving Berlin, Johnny Mercer… you get the idea. 

And just when you think you’ve got him figured out, he pops out a one-liner about a squished pecan roll from Stuckey’s, lovingly transported from the heart of the Ozarks by a rabid fan. One more talent. 

In my humble opinion, Kent is single-handedly keeping the American Songbook alive and well in the heart of America. And, while he’s at it, he is providing his services as teacher, mentor, artist, businessman, stand-up comic, director, and inventor. His concepts and expertise allow us the chance to step back in time, revel in talents – both past and present – and support his mission. It’s not a tall order; it means relaxing with 152 friends in an intimate theatre and being entertained by the magic that is J. Kent Barnhart and Quality Hill Playhouse. 

Marriage and Communication - I think.

It occurred to me in the last twenty-four hours that I have a marriage that is an experiment in shorthand, of sorts, and if we knew Morse code, we might be able to relay messages more effectively than we do with plain old English language skills. Unwittingly, we tested our hand signals and eye contact prowess for three days!

Wednesday, seven a.m. my husband leaves for a destination on the east coast – something lingers in the air about New York state, but with the proliferation of cell phones, mine most importantly, there is no need to know his exact whereabouts except to satisfy a friend who likes to confuse his domestic travels with international ones. (Anne, is he in Dublin or Joplin?) 

Wednesday night, my better half calls (message… can’t remember) while I’m escorting children to bed, and still have a sink-full of dishes to do, and some pesky e-mail to check. No communication for Wednesday.

Thursday, spouse is trotting about the countryside in NY (or going to a business meeting, not sure which), and the ETA for home is sometime between dinner and bedtime. Said ETA arrives, kids go to bed asking where dad is, and quite frankly, mom doesn’t know. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon…” I say authoritatively. He’s actually stuck in Detroit, but who knew? “Eleven-thirty-ish” he comes in and asks why I’m still up. I’m not, I just let the TV lull me into Leno-induced slumber. No other words spoken on Thursday.

Friday, seven a.m. my husband is dropping one child off at school and on his way to his office, (Lebanon or Lenexa, my friend will want to know.) I’m off with other child to school, meetings for impending auction, and work after that. Friday is also the day I agreed to pick up a slew of children at 3:15, bring them to our house, take them out for pizza, and then get them to a basketball practice. (Why, I’d like to know.) He arrives home just in time to help load the crew for the pizza run (I do allow a bathroom break) and off we go. He is given the title of Transportation Chief to the basketball practice, and I stay home with a child expecting overnight guest. (Why?) At “ten-ish” father and son arrive home exhausted from training (I’m tired just from watching the Olympics) and after a bath, some waffles (snack of choice for our son day or night), and a quick kiss among family, it is time for bed. I’m out before Leno has a chance to coax me. Minimal words spoken on Friday. 

Saturday, eight a.m., Norbert and Nick are off to the all-day chess tournament (fortunately held in Leawood, close and unmistakable). Mother and daughter and guest go to the last basketball game of the season (can it really be true?). And, noon-ish I make my way to the chess extravaganza, where I quickly pick up my laptop to start writing. No one will ever believe that we actually coexisted for three days without speaking more than a dozen words. My husband sits right across the table from me, as I write, looking vaguely familiar, maybe I should re-introduce myself?

Confessions of a Chess Mom

(originally published in The Independent in 2006)

Soccer moms of the world, beware! The chess moms of the world are about to usurp your title, sceptor and SUV. 

Let’s just look at the tools of the trade. Soccer moms need a plastic bag for muddy cleats, one hour of time, and plenty of Juicy-Juice. You’re in, you’re out, you’re done (so to speak). The chess moms need airline tickets, rental cars, hotel rooms, rolling suitcases, refreshments, snacks, money, and enough changes of clothes for five days. They must have good walking shoes, compasses, breadcrumbs, cell phones, walkie-talkies, and a quick command of lobbies, porters, and registration processes. 

Above all, the chess mom must be quick on her feet and keen in sight so she may jump into action when the all-important word “pairings’ has been announced from twenty miles away. If you have a bionic eye, all the better. The pairings for each match are printed on poster boards three football fields from the nearest chess board or eight-year-old player. 

On our recent trip to Nashville – nice enough city – and the Gaylord Opryland Hotel and Convention Center – nice enough behemoth – for the Supernationals chess tournament, my son and I had mostly the “right stuff”. Tickets, car – check; snacks, drinks, rolling containers – check. But, what we where tremendously ill-equipped for was the mass of humanity converging on the largest man-made structure resembling a rat-maze, east of the Mississippi. Actually, a river runs through it, but that’s a different story.

No one had prepared us for five days of five thousand young people (accompanied by their parents) running the five miles to and from the two thousand-five hundred chess tables. My son had taken chess lessons with the school chess club. We had done a stellar job in Jeff City at the state competition. I didn’t lose one cooler or snack in my eight-hour shift in mid-Missouri, so I figured I was well on my way to mastering the chess-mom bachelor’s degree, as my son was on his way to capturing another title. 

But, Opryland Behemoth Hotel got the best of me; it swallowed me whole. With its 13 lobbies, 43 restaurants, 12 pools, 475 ballrooms and exhibit areas, and 72 escalators and raised walkways in split-level heaven, I didn’t do anything right. The first afternoon, we met half the team in the wrong lobby. Who knew the Magnolia lobby even existed?   After parking the car in the Cascade lot, I found that our room was in the Garden district, only four and a half miles from the Delta Convention Center, the Ryman Exhibit halls, and Governor’s ballrooms. Oh well. With rolling bags in tow, we circled our Garden room like vultures, finally landing on the prey after avoiding a menacing escalator. We were greeted by a nice, comfortably appointed room with a flashing message light on the phone. 

“Yikes,” I thought, “I’ve left an appendage somewhere – quick! Child, check – rolling things, check. But the flashing light must be dealt with. After following the instructions on the two-line portable phone (for one mom, one kid, and 45 square feet of space?) I get the message center of the Behemoth. I must enter my room number (which starts with a letter – G for Garden) and then a password. A password? Which lobby would that have been in? So, I called Little Rock on line 2 (Line 1 didn’t work.) and got Rita. She allowed as how my password is the first four letters of my last name (my last name only has four letters, whew). But she’ll connect me and I may retrieve my message. Little Rock says, “Message Center, Goodbye.” No kidding. I call Rita back and explain that I’ve messed up somehow and she says she’ll reconnect. This time Arkansas says, “Behemoth is glad you’re here.” Gee, thanks. 

Next I go in search of ice and water, and maybe some O.J. for the morning. It is two doors from our room, and I now see that we circled the wrong half of the Garden section looking for the room. The major indoor highway for chess people is twenty feet from our door. No ice, though. But the nice employees (who must live on the mothership to get to work on time) gladly give me ice with my $3.00 bottle of water, and my $6.00 bottle of O.J. Must be the import taxes.  

Several thousand dollars in chicken fingers and Sprite later, we’ve mastered the map, only by memorizing landmarks. (If you get to the third gift shop, you’ve gone too far. I think I remember these stairs from Tuesday.) And, I was really downright comfortable in my command of room names when the time had come to “PROCEED TO THE AWARDS CEREMONY.” Behemoth beckoned, and we dared not be late, for fear of reprisal in the form of a confusing bill, or luggage relocation program. In a room that has to be large enough to house the residents of Texas and their cattle, we found chairs – hundreds of thousands of chairs – more chairs than Behemoth even knew it had. And, at the end of the rainbow we found trophies – gazillions of trophies lined up like the skyline of a great city. The drool flew from our children’s mouths as they ran down the runway to the stage, some sixty miles away. Never before had trophies been so plentiful, so tempting, so large. And, believe it or not, there were many chairs empty. So the parents ran (okay walked quickly) to the chairs in the front by the trophies. We claimed as many chairs as we had items in our purses to mark them. Our territory – we challenge anyone to encroach.

One of us must have read the time wrong. It was no wonder there were so many free chairs in the countryside. So we took naps on our chairs. 

After trophies depart, and children stop jumping up and down, and adults have taken migraine medicine, we take our leave of Behemoth. Sadly, it is time to return to the land of normal houses and affordable food. But, we have been enriched. Our children have played their best chess, and we have risen to the occasion. We can do anything, we can navigate anything, we can conquer even Nashville. Now, how on earth do we get to the airport?

Tribute To My Parents On Their 50th Anniversary

Where do I start? What do I say?

Fifty years is a long time, 

It’s a way of life, it’s a time of day.

It is a romance carried through a continuum of love,

It is the sand under your feet, 

It feels like the stars above.

It comes and goes through threads and chains,

Sometimes it holds, sometimes it stretches, 

You know the peaks, you feel the wanes.

I think I know where to start, I think I know what to say, 

Fifty years is a long time, 

It’s a way of life, it’s a time of day.

Your way is and always will be

The decisions you make together, 

It’s the bond you’ve forged at a quarter to three.

Time never was of consequence for the two of you, 

Schedules were for tossing about,

Night was when the creative juices set to brew.

Take the writing, the drawing, the reading, the planning, 

Take the thinking and loving and traveling,

See the flow of water this bridge has been spanning.

I think I’ve started, I think I know what to say, 

Fifty years is a long time, 

It’s a way of life, it’s a time of day.

Your days and nights have been combined

As patriots and Anglophiles,

With a love of two countries so fierce and so defined.

Seems hard to imagine you drove about in a big green car, 

With daughter and duty,

Ahh, the trappings of a teenager with friends flung afar.

“Go explore the world,” you said to me, 

Find ways to live and love and be an adult, 

Tell us you lived and loved with a vengeance, see?

Follow our lead, we love holidays and friends,

Never let someone wander around,

On Christmas without a place to sit or time to spend.

As it turns out, I do know what to say, 

Fifty years is a long time, 

It is a way of life, it is a time of day.

It’s the note from Santa Claus, 

It’s Cimarroncita,

It’s Castle Combe, 

It’s graduation, 

It’s marriage, 

It’s childbirth, 

It’s the many Potter black dogs, 

It’s the fine wines, 

It’s the greasy spoons, 

It’s complete and unadulterated love, 

It’s complete misunderstandings, 

It’s always coming back to the truth of family.

It’s a way of life, it’s a time of day.