Jenny Knaak is Teri Orr’s daughter. She contributes her own thoughts from time to time.

To all the parents sitting through high school graduations this week and next, as you are bored by the predictable speeches by students and staff – yes, it sounds like a loop – they all complain about Covid. Yes, they are giving the same advice that is given every year. Yes, there are many more exciting ways for you to have spent the last few hours… Please, take a moment to remember what a privilege it was for you to be bored. Because there are 38 parents, countless grandparents, cousins and friends who started this week with plans for barbecues and are now forced to actively participate in Memorial Day as they bury their elementary school-aged children.

We are at a point where the rights of gun lobbyists and their constituents must be set aside to protect the rights of our children. Every single Pro-Life activist must adopt gun control that puts children first. If they believe so strongly in the right of the individual to be born, no matter the circumstances, they must support the right of those children to grow up safe. Those votes, combined with the already Pro Gun-Control lobbyists, should be enough to instigate transformation.

It can’t be both ways. If, as a legal exercise, law students want to simultaneously defend the rights of the 2nd Amendment enthusiasts AND the Pro-Life forum, it would make for a powerful debate. But the people of this country must take a stand now. We cannot continue to do nothing and expect change. It is the definition of insanity – repeating the same behavior but expecting different outcomes. We have done nothing, and we have had a dramatic increase in violence. If we continue to do nothing, we will continue to see a dramatic increase in violence. It is that simple. And it is simply tragic.

Columbine. Sandy Hook. Parkland. Uvalde. When is it enough? In 2001, one man unsuccessfully tried to detonate an explosive on a plane from ingredients smuggled onboard in his shoes. To this day, we have to take our shoes off in the security line at the airport. One time, one incident, and the rules were forever changed. Why do our children deserve less?

My son’s high school graduation ceremony was this week. He and his classmates were beaming with pride, waiting and wanting to take on the world. Despite the turmoil of school closures, forced isolation, and a global pandemic as terrifying as it was fast-moving, these kids managed to graduate.

No one had ever faced anything like it, and no one knew what was going to happen to our economy, our families, or our fragile social structure. But we made it – families actually got stronger and closer. Workplaces became more flexible and understanding. Covid was awful, but there were silver linings.

These same kids have had to do Active Shooter Drills for all their years of schooling. They were taught to look at every new classroom with Defensive Survivor Logic. Where are the exits? What are the strongholds? Are there any places to hide? Who among them would be an ally?

My son is a very large human – standing 6 foot 7 inches and 315 pounds. He excelled in wrestling and football and is going to college on a football scholarship. I am so proud and happy for him. Yet it absolutely broke my heart when he told me, repeatedly, after every drill, how he would plan to use his skills and his body to protect his classmates and teachers. It is not right or fair; after he and his fellow students have continually endured these frightening exercises, we expect them to be well-adjusted people.

We won’t know for years the psychological toll this has played on each of them. But make no mistake, collectively, they are a completely different breed of American teenager than has ever existed. These kids faced fear on multiple levels every day – to an extent the rest of us truly cannot comprehend. They will change the world – because they know they can. They have looked in the face of potential death and still take those graduation pictures, smiling. It is hard not to have faith in our future with such optimism smiling back at us. They are looking at this world in a way that we can only hope to. Their resilience is hard to resist.

One of the silver linings with the Covid shut-down of everything meant no school shootings. Our children were safe from senseless violence if they were stuck inside with us for months on end.

Every parent of these graduates I’ve talked to about this agrees – it was challenging and difficult but also a bit of a gift. Just when our kids were spending less and less time at home because of their newfound driver’s license freedoms, they were forced to spend time with us. Due to the crazy circumstances, we felt closer and guiltily confessed how much we liked it.

Our country’s desire to hold fiercely onto the 2nd Amendment – a right written by men who also believed in the right to own other people – has continued to fail our children. When will we, as parents, loving families, community members and concerned citizens, fight and demand that our politicians protect our collective future and not their own self-interests and pocketbooks?

It needs to be NOW, This sad Sunday in the Park….

The post Jenny Knaak: Taking aim appeared first on Park Record.

My son has always been big — I’ve said this before — but just to revisit the facts — I gained a lot of weight when I was pregnant, and knew I would have a big baby, but at 10 pounds, 5 ounces, he topped the charts at the hospital that week. He wasn’t late and I didn’t have gestational diabetes; he was just a really big kid.

He only wore the newborn size for the first two weeks. By the time he turned 1, we had burned through all the baby-shower items and were buying 24 month-sized clothes.

When he was about 2 1/2, he started to complain that his legs hurt. I tried to get more information — along the shin bones? Feet? Hips? He’d always been vocal, but was still learning words, and “My legs hurt” was as much detail as he could give.

I was, naturally, concerned, and talked with his pediatrician about it. She asked tons of questions … did he complain in the morning? Evening? (Morning.) Maybe he didn’t want to go to daycare? (Our little politician — happiest in a crowd of constituents? Never.) Did I treat him differently when he complained? (Somewhat.) Special food, or light massage? (No, and yes.)

We talked about a number of possibilities — everything from simple over-excursion to the terrifying prospect of Lupus. We did some tests, watched (im)patiently, and in the end, we concluded … it was growing pains. He was off-the-chart large — at the 100th percentile of his age in weight and height — and he grew twice as fast as other kids his age. It must have been painful for his muscles and bones to extend twice the typical length in the same amount of time. I conceded to watch for changes, but accept it.

There wasn’t anything I could to stop it from happening — and in the end, it was natural and what needed to happen, but … it hurt. And it was hard for me to accept that I couldn’t shield him from it.

Fast forward a dozen years…

Tyler played little league football for two years. Last year, as a high school freshman, he played football and joined the wrestling team. In the spring, he had spring training, which spilled into summer, and scrimmages and games resumed in August.

In the first actual junior varsity game, Tyler’s elbow was injured. By an opponent’s helmet.

We took him to get an X-ray — it wasn’t broken but he had a compression injury to the growth plate in his elbow.

I asked the doctor, “Um, how much room is there left in his growth plate?”

I guess this wasn’t the typical response of a parent. He looked a little confused.

“Well,” I said, realizing I was already presenting as crazy-mom, “is he going to grow? Like, A LOT more…?”

The doctor smiled. “It’s hard to tell. Elbow growth plates aren’t as easy to read as necks or hands … he MIGHT be close to done…”

Sigh. MIGHT? Be CLOSE? My 15-year-old is 6-foot-6 and currently weighs about 250. Some days there’s just not enough food in my house.

The team doctor, the team trainer, the coaches and my husband and I all agreed — he would sit this season out. As a sophomore, he would have plenty of opportunities to play in the coming years. And if we allowed him the time to heal, he would be stronger for it. Having been in contact sports and training consistently for the past four years, his body was in a constant state of recovery from consistent abuse. A couple of months of relative rest would be really restorative to his body in general.

Sometime into the second week of his recovery, I asked how his body felt, overall. He told me he felt great! Rested and strong. Frustrated he couldn’t play, and his elbow still hurt, but the rest of him felt really good. Amazing how not getting beat up daily makes someone feel better.

I asked him if he thought the constant discomfort was just from training and games — or if maybe some of it had been from growing. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I dunno, Mom. I pretty much hurt all the time. I figured it was probably just from sports, but maybe some of it is from growing.” Well, that wouldn’t be a huge shock. I did the math in my head and realized he has added at least three inches to his height, each year, for the past three years. It can’t have been easy on his body to grow at least a quarter of an inch every month for the past 36 months.

Which is why I asked the doctor the question “Will he grow … a LOT more?”

There is quite literally nothing I can do about his physical growth. But I’ve been actively working on his emotional and personal growth. … When he was little, I told myself I wanted him mostly independent by the time he turned 16. Able to plan and cook meals, manage money, do his own laundry, grocery shop, clean his bathroom and bedroom … have the basic “adult” skills he needed, before learning to drive. Because I knew that once he was behind the wheel, it would consume the majority of his non-school, non-friends, non-sports time.

And now, he’s driving. He’s been taking driver’s ed through school, and we’ve been letting him drive on family outings. And it is terrifying. As any parent of a teenager will attest — giving them the permission to pilot a 3,000-pound death trap at 70 miles per hour, knowing it can take them, you, and random strangers out with a single mistake is … heart stopping.

But this is the first major step toward independence. Not to mention a rite all of us enjoyed. It’s just … besides being terrifying (and, he’s actually a good driver) it makes me a little sad to not be needed anymore. But as much as it might sting … I have to let it happen.

And I guess these are my growing pains. There is nothing I can do to stop it — and in the end, it’s natural and what needs to happen, but in the midst of the process … it hurts. I have to hope that someday soon, once I give myself the chance to rest and recoup, I will start to feel like him, rested and strong. Ready for whatever that day throws at me, even Sunday in the Park…

Jenny Knaak, guest columnist, is the daughter of Teri Orr, the customary author of “Sunday in The Park.”

The post Knaak: A mother’s growing pains appeared first on Park Record.

It was sudden, but not wholly unexpected. My father’s health had been declining for years. But I was still shocked last Saturday night, when I was told he had passed away.

He was a larger-than-life kinda guy. Big laugh, big heart, big personality. He and my mother split up when I was 3, so I have no memories of us together as a family, but I’ve seen pictures. We lived at Lake Tahoe when I was born, and he was a ski instructor during the winters. He taught me and my brother, Randy, to ski as soon as we could walk, so it has always been a skill I’ve taken for granted.

My dad was a lot of things — adventurer, sailor, entrepreneur, contractor, farmer, ski instructor — but his most meaningful titles were father and grandfather. Family was paramount to him. The eldest of five kids, he was always family-first — often to the frustration of his spouse.

When his first grandchild was born (Randy’s daughter Izzy) he became Grampy. Within three years, he had three little monkeys to love — my one, and my brother’s two.

It was an eight-hour drive to and from “The Lake” — a trip he made three times a year. He would typically come out on Friday, stay Saturday and Sunday, and head home on Monday, staying with either Randy or me.

And Grampy had his own way of doing things. Once the kids were all talking and potty-trained, he insisted on “Grampy Night.” It consisted of having all the kids stay at one house, kicking out the resident parents for a date, and watching an old animated movie. There would be pizza, hot dogs or some other gourmet treat for dinner. And for breakfast — Eggo waffles with ice cream, chocolate syrup, sprinkles … anything ridiculously sweet. Randy and I tried to protest and we were always shot down.

“Awww, come on. It’s ONE morning. So what if they have ice cream for breakfast? It’s not gonna kill them.”

We would reluctantly agree. One horribly unhealthy breakfast wouldn’t be the end of the world. So what if there wasn’t any fruit? Or discernible protein? So what if the kids got a total sugar buzz from breakfast, crashed an hour later, and were grumpy little monsters until lunch?

In recent years, his mobility went from bad to worse. Years in construction had him hunched over and walking slightly sideways. His knees were weak, and his back was a wreck. But he didn’t let that stop him. He would come armed with a folding camp stool, and make his way to whichever event was going on. He would walk about 50 feet, stop, put his stool down, and sit for a minute. Then he’d get back up. Yes, it would take five times longer to walk to the field than normal, so we factored in more time. I know he was both sad and embarrassed he couldn’t easily get around. But he didn’t let his pride get in the way of supporting the grandkids.

He limped his way onto many fields to watch and support them — softball, baseball and football. And the kids weren’t exactly prodigies. They fumbled and failed — and he couldn’t have been happier or prouder, to be there encouraging them.

Don’t get me wrong — my dad was no saint. Just ask any of his four wives. He was, as my brother and I dubbed him, a “serial monag-amer” — not a player or Lothario, just happier with a mate. He was really good at getting them, but not great at keeping them. Except Vivian, his widow. He was with her for over a dozen years — longer than anyone since my mother. He and my mom were eighth-grade sweethearts, married at 19, divorced at 26. They both said they were just too young and inexperienced. It was not a “conscious uncoupling” — it was messy and complicated.

Nonetheless, she allowed him be part of our lives. And he made an effort. Even though we were sometimes 500 or 2,000 miles away, he called and visited. Or had us visit. Which is how we ended up in Hawaii over the summers of my high school and college years.

In my late teens and early twenties, Randy and I spent our summers with him, on the south shore of Kauai. It was not a terrible place to visit — we biked, hiked, sailed and surfed. My dad left “The Lake” for 12 years, and had two stores in a small fresh-air mall. My brother and I would work all summer, making sandwiches and scooping ice cream for tourists. And when we weren’t working, we were playing in movie-worthy locations.

We hiked the Napali Coast — the island in “Jurassic Park.” We bodysurfed at Lumahai, “Nurse’s Beach” from “South Pacific.” We explored the Menehune Fish Pond — part of the opening sequence in “Raiders of The Lost Arc.”

Most of my best memories of my dad are from those years. Before I was married. Before I was tethered. We were drinking buddies and partners in crime — decidedly not a traditional father-daughter relationship. He taught me to drive, sail, bodysurf and snorkel. And no matter what adventure I was off to, my dad’s parting words were always the same — “Have fun. Be safe.”

I sometimes forgot the second part, but I was always faithful to the first. I made plenty of mistakes — and he let me. He truly encouraged my independence — a gift not all fathers give their daughters.

I know it will be a while before it sinks in — how I’ll never hear his voice on the phone again, how he’ll never see the grandkids graduate or marry, how he’ll never again wrap his arms around me, kiss my cheek and say — “Have fun. Be safe.”

This weekend, we will honor Grampy with a breakfast of waffles and ice cream — nutrition be damned. Because it’s okay to throw caution to the wind, and important to honor your loved ones, especially Sunday, In Any Park.

The post Jenny Knaak: Goodbye, Grampy appeared first on Park Record.

I did this.

I lay on the hospital bed, crying.

I’m scared of the potential pain, and of the potential diagnosis.

I’m ashamed because it is my own fault I’m laying here.

I should’ve had a mammogram 2 ½ years ago. They say it again and again Get a mammogram when you turn 40. I didn’t. My doctor moved, and I’d been reluctantly shopping for a new one. It’s inconvenient and uncomfortable and I am very sensitive. I felt fine I would do it later.

And then I started to feel a cosmic push.

In October, my son dyed his hair pink for breast cancer awareness. Nudge. There’s an article about a woman who was diagnosed too late for treatment, and her adult son spends her last few weeks with her. Push. My husband sees a news piece about contributing lifestyle factors exercise, weight and alcohol consumption he asks if I have done it yet. Shove.

And so here I am.

They called on Monday. The mammogram was inconclusive. They wanted to do an ultrasound.

Can you come in on Thursday?

Yes.

I try convincing myself it will be okay this happens to many women the first time they just need a baseline.

Except there is a mass. They want to biopsy it it might be fine, and it might not, but the sooner we know the better.

Can you come back next week?

Yes.

Wait we have an opening can you stay and do it now?

Yes. And when I say yes, what I think is: I don’t know. I’m terrified. I’m by myself. I don’t know if I can do this.

I remind myself I’m actually a grown up. I should act like one. I lay back, and my tears leak out of my eyes, roll down my cheeks and find a resting spot in my ears.

They come back into the room.

Are you ready?

Um, yes?

It’s going to be uncomfortable, painful. They explain the procedure. They will finish the biopsy, and then, to add insult to injury, I will need another mammogram.

Can you go home after this and just lie down, relax?

No, I have to go to work.

Oh, that’s too bad obviously you didn’t know today would go like this.

Understatement.

I survive the procedure. I get dressed and walk out. I can’t make eye contact with any of the healthcare professionals who undoubtedly would never be in my position. They wouldn’t be 2 ½ years late with their first test. They wouldn’t be as irresponsible as I have been with myself.

I get into my car, trying to decide if I should call anyone my husband, my mother, one of my girlfriends. No, I will wait until I get the results. It is my fault I’m here, I shouldn’t burden anyone else with worry until I know anything certain.

And then I get a phone call.

The radiologist would like you to come back. Are you still nearby? Can you come back?

I know without a doubt this is not a good sign.

I say yes, because I am still pretending to be a grown up.

I go back, put the gown on again, and wait.

The radiologist comes back in.

I’m so sorry to call you back here, but there’s just something I want to check out.

There is a second mass, under the first mass.

I think I stop breathing.

It’s probably nothing. Most certainly nothing. Yes, looks like a run-of-the-mill cyst but they need to do another mammogram.

Luckily, this time, it is good news. This second mass is nothing to worry about. Just the original first mass worry about that.

They give me small disposable icepacks and say to keep them on all day. I go home, change into a bulky sweater and head to work.

Usually it takes 2 days to get the results, but because it’s Thursday, I won’t hear anything until Monday. I take my punishment without complaint. I have been reckless with my health for 30 months; I can wait 4 days for the outcome.

The bruise on my left breast has turned from a small violet blossom to deep purple in full bloom. It is tender, and I dread even the concept of further procedures, let alone treatment. So far, I have kept this secret, but I won’t be able to keep it up. If it turns out to be malignant, how will I tell my family? How will I explain to them I gave this disease a 2 ½ year head-start?

I should lose 30 pounds. I should curtail my wine consumption. I should exercise. If I come through this, I will change.

They call late Monday afternoon the biopsy results are benign.

See you next year!

I breathe out. I breathe in. I realize I have been holding my breath for 10 days.

And so, for me, this is my New Year. New Me. I have never felt a stronger resolve to change. I thank The Universe for this cold hard slap in the face. My family deserves to have me take better care of myself. I deserve it. You do too. Don’t wait 2 ½ years to do what you know you need to. Call now, even on Sunday in the Park.

The post Resolutions appeared first on Park Record.