Choose Quality

I apologize ahead of time for the subject matter I'm addressing here. I'll be writing about some tough stuff that we'd all prefer not to talk about, stuff we'd really rather not even think about. But, when it comes to CF, it's part of the package. So, here goes . . .

As moms of kids with a chronic and terminal illness, we are desperate to do everything we within our power to keep our kiddos healthy, no matter their age. Most of us study, question, work and use all of our intellect, creativity and energy to give our kids the best life possible.

Sometimes, I think it's worthwhile to take a moment to consider exactly what constitutes the "best life." Does it mean the longest life? The fullest life? Some combination of the two? Naturally, as parents who love our children with every fiber of our being, we long for them to have a normal life expectancy. We yearn to trade places with them -- to take their suffering as our own. We, especially, hope and pray that they outlive us.

When my daughter was diagnosed at seven months of age, she was hospitalized. The CF specialist, Dr. Claude Prestidge of Children's Medical Center in Dallas, one of the best CF centers in the country, perhaps the world, stopped by to see us at seven in the morning. I was still in my robe and did not yet have my emotional walls up for the day. He walked in, looked me in the eye, put his arm around my shoulder and said, "Hi, Caren, I'm Dr. Prestidge. I understand that Holly's been diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, and I'm so sorry." I turned toward him, buried my face in his shoulder and cried.

He examined by baby girl and promised me he would be back that night after he finished his day. He arrived 12 hours after he'd been in our room that morning, plopped his lanky frame on the floor, leaned back against the wall and pronounced that this was our opportunity to ask any questions we wanted and he would not leave until we were finished. We asked everything we could think of at that point in our new-diagnosis ignorance.

During that marathon session, Dr. Prestidge shared so much information that our heads swam. He had warned us that it would take a long time for it all to sink in and make sense. But there were two bits of information that I never forgot and that I've come back to throughout Holly's 35 years.

One was that he was going to discuss life expectancy with us once. We had asked, and he would answer us now and never again, because it's so very individual. I thought, at that time, that he was just trying to give us hope beyond the 18 years that were the average at that time. However, time and experience has taught me the truth of his statement.

The second, and this became our guide in the choices we made and helped her make as she grew, was that first and foremost, Holly was a normal child. She just happened to have cystic fibrosis. Dr. Prestidge urged us to treat her as a normal child. He predicted, accurately it turned out, that there would be occasions in which we'd be forced to choose what might make a difference in her quantity and quality of years. He pled with us to always choose quality. He said, "I would rather see Holly live 18 fun, wonder-filled, happy years than 21sheltered years." Understandably, my heart ached that I would be forced to choose. However, this was the life we had. This would be the life that would be hers.

I wanted her live -- really live. I wanted her to taste everything she wanted in whatever time she would have on this earth. She should experience all the good things God had for her without my standing in her way overprotecting her out of fear.

So, she grew up as normally as possible. Yes, she had to take handfuls of pills with every meal, and she did treatments every day, but other than that, and, of course, hospitalizations and home IVs, she lived normally. We had a pool, and she and her sister lived in our backyard during the summers. From our trampoline to the pool and back again. They loved to play "Little House on the Prairie" or "Orphans," in which they dug in the dirt to make beds for themselves, since, in their imaginary world, they were too poor to have real beds. When they got thirsty, they turned on the hose and drank from it, and she didn't catch anything.

We visited grandparents most summers and stayed at their cabin on a lake in northern Illinois. She, her sister and her cousins swam in the lake and we all enjoyed wiener roasts together. She became a great water skier and looked forward to every opportunity to be in the boat, going skiing or tubing.

We went to Colorado and she learned to snow ski. Of course, before long, my daredevil daughter was zipping down the Black Diamond slopes. She'd come into the lodge covered with snow, cheeks bright red, teeth chattering from cold and a huge grin on her face. She was living and loving it!

She went to two different camps especially for kids with CF. They sat at long tables with bowls of the various types of enzymes set out across the tables. Each kid grabbed what they needed before they ate their camp food with their CF buddies. The kids did treatments together in one big room, mist from the aerosols filling their air along with the sound of "pounding" as the therapists performed manual CPT on each kid. And they coughed and coughed all in one room and then breathed in that air. And Holly didn't catch anything.

And she made friends. She enjoyed the times when she wasn't the only one doing treatments and taking pills. Holly had one special friend who had CF named Kathy. They spent the night at one another's houses, though usually at Kathy's, because she had a G-tube for night feedings, and Holly didn't. The slept in the same bed and played with the same toys and, just in general, had fun together. Being normal. And Holly didn't catch anything.

We went to Schlitterbahn, a giant, wonderful water park in Texas and went on nearly every ride, even the one that took us right out into the river. She went on overnight school trips and sleepovers with friends who didn't have CF, which, sometimes, meant she missed treatments for a few days. We chose quality.

She lived as "normal" a life as she possibly could. She took pills, she did treatments, she did home IVs, she had sinus surgeries and lung infections that landed her in the hospital. Once, she came close to death when she contracted a fungal blood infection.

Now, at 35, she looks back with fondness at her childhood. There was no way around the fact that she was "different" in some ways, but we tried to make sure that it was in as few ways as possible.

I know that different gene mutations contribute to good health or the lack thereof. We worked hard to be consistent with her treatments and make sure she was compliant to the best of our ability. We never took CF lightly, but we tried to ensure she lived a good, full, "normal" kid's life. To the best of our ability, we did that, and her life was enriched because of it. Allowing her to be exposed to germs did not shorten her life.

I know there are parents who do everything "right," and their kids don't stay healthy as long as Holly. But, even if Holly had not made it to 35, I would not regret having allowed her to be normal. She was happy. She never saw herself as a "sick kid," and she got into more than one fight with kids at school who told her she was sick.

Every parent has to do what's right for their own kids, and I respect that. I had to be able to put my head on the pillow every night and know that I'd done everything in my power to give both my kids the best life possible, before I could relax and go to sleep. But I'm an advocate for our kids. They have way too much to deal with -- much more than any child should have to -- but I believe we should allow them to, as much as possible, just be normal, carefree kids. While they have the opportunity, I want them to live. Just live. When you have to choose, choose quality. Neither you nor your child will regret it.

5 Ways to Maintain a Healthy Relationship With Your Adult Child

When our children are babies, we learn to cope with one set of difficulties, such as how to get them to take their enzymes without burning their mouths, ensuring they swallow the applesauce, or whatever medium you use before the enzymes digest it. And then there’s the challenge of finding a way to entertain those little ones, so they cooperate with treatments when all they want is to get down to crawl and play or toddle around.

Then they grow, and as they become adolescents, we plead, we cajole, we fight, we do everything we can to entice them to sit down and do their aerosols and chest physiotherapy (or pounding, as we called it) or the Vest. We beg them to “just say no” to cigarettes and so many of the other things that teenagers often experiment with. We do all this, because we love them, and we know the work, the commitment, the sacrifices made are worth it to help them grow up to live out their dreams, while all they want to do is just be “normal,” which, of course, to them means no pills, no treatments.

Then, for those of us parents who are blessed to have our children reach adulthood, we face a whole new set of problems that many of us find ourselves unprepared for. Now they’re independent. They answer to us no more. We’re thrilled as we watch them do what we’ve prepared them for. Perhaps they go to college, maybe they get jobs and live out of reach of our daily supervision. At this point, their independence dictates that they make the choices about their health care. We discipline ourselves to avoid calling every day to check up on them. Then, some of them marry. When that happens, their relationship with us changes for good. Now, someone else replaces us as caretaker. That’s right and healthy and good. But it isn’t necessarily easy for those of us who have, until then, been their primary caregivers. We restrain ourselves from jumping in when we’re sure we know best. We resist the urge to “check in” frequently.

Knowing that we must make that adjustment in our thinking and our behavior and actually doing it are two very different things. Everyone who has children experiences this to a certain point when their nest empties. However, those of us who have committed our lives to caring for our children who cannot be healthy and, quite honestly, might not survive without our time and attention, undergo a more significant loss and experience greater anxiety.

So how do we deal with this? I have been forced into a serious change of behavior by being told in no uncertain terms that I am not allowed to ask about Holly’s health. Ever. At all. That’s hard for any loving mother, but if I am to love her the way she needs to be loved, that’s what I do. Not easy, but worth it to maintain the relationship.

Perhaps if you, as moms of children/adults with CF, realize what independence means to them and take appropriate action from the beginning, you can avoid the extreme, painful and anxiety-provoking consequenses I’ve undergone. How do you do that? Well, obviously, I’m not exactly an expert at it, but here are my suggestions:

1.     When your child leaves home, be sure to talk about her activities, her interests, her friends, whether she’s enjoying her life and other questions that parents of healthy children would ask them. Avoid questions about her health.

2.     Let your child take the lead in discussions about health. If he wants to talk about it, he will. And, he will appreciate the trust you’re demonstrating in his ability to be an adult and take care of himself.

3.     Don’t automatically assume that you’ll go to clinic visits with your child just because you always have. Wait to be invited.

4.     When your child needs you, be there unconditionally. Don’t shotgun her with questions about what she’s been doing to care for herself and immediately tell her what needs to change. Ask questions only occasionally and offer suggestions only if asked. Let your intimate knowledge of your child and your intuition guide your behavior.

5.     Let his CF specialist be the advice-giver. It will go down much easier from an objective party than from mom. Resist the urge to intervene.

This major change in your relationship to your child will not be easily navigated. You will make mistakes. However, mistakes present an opportunity for your relationship with your adult child to grow and improve as you demonstrate trust and open a dialog about your fears and your child’s need for independence.

And last, develop a tough hide and hang in there. It’s worth it in order to maintain a close relationship with your adult child.

Listening

As adults, we like schedules. We get up at the same time every day, eat at the same time, go to work or school at the same time, and we expect our children to live on our schedules. And, to a certain extent, that's reasonable and necessary.

However, when it comes to talking and sharing about what's on their hearts and minds, kids, whether or not they have CF, work on their own timetables, and, frequently they don't jibe with ours. Just about the time we're settling down to crawl into bed, they decide to open up. Though it's tempting to put them off until toothpicks aren't a necessary accoutrement to keep our eyes open, with kids, we have to listen when they're ready to talk. If we don't seize those opportunities, we lose them. They cannot and will not be vulnerable on our timetables.

Holly and I had a lot of 2 a.m. chat sessions sitting on her bed, sometimes high in the air in her loft. These were rare and precious times when she granted me access into her very private world of hopes, dreams and fears. These were the times she voiced the concerns that I had no idea she carried.

When we're entrusted with the gift of our children's open hearts, we must tread carefully. We must take their thoughts, feelings and fears seriously. At times, that means we sit quietly as we let it all sink in and weigh our answers thoughtfully and carefully. It's critical that our children know, without a doubt, that they have been heard and are being taken seriously.

Sometimes the feelings and thoughts they express will surprise or shock or even hurt us. I remember biting the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears when, as a young teenager, Holly shared that she thought she probably shouldn't consider becoming a mother when she grew up. A friend of ours had recently died, and his death affected her deeply. She also observed and felt keenly the pain his high school and college-age children experienced. Holly said that, knowing she might not live to share the experiences of graduation, marriage and the birth of her children's children, she didn't think it was fair to them to bring them into the world only to "abandon" them too soon. As I bit my cheek and blinked back tears, I prayed for wisdom of how to answer this honest, realistic question. Finally, I told her that I believed with every fiber of my being that she was such a precious gift to those she touched that any child would be privileged to call her mom for as long as they had her, and that she should not deprive them of that. I explained that whatever time she shared with them, she would leave her imprint on them, and they would be better for it. Thank God for His insight on that one.

As it has turned out, she is now 33 and has a 10-year-old daughter who adores her mama, and her mama adores her right back. How deprived they both would have been had she chosen not to have a child.

There were many other discussions. Some were not quite so heavy and future-focused. There were the typical teenage angst talks, as well as those that dealt primarily with CF.

The point is that, as parents, we must be prepared, and we must be focused on the needs of our children ahead of our own needs for sleep. Along my journey as a parent, I have been fortunate to learn from people wiser and more experienced than myself. They have passed on valuable tips on communication with children that are especially appropriate during those intense times of sharing. These tips help us let our children know they have our attention and are our priority at that moment. It's not just important that we give our attention, they must know and believe they have our attention. How do we prove that?

1. Look them in the eye, and when they look back, don't look away, especially when they are the ones doing the talking.
2. Don't interrupt! Hear them out, even if you disagree with what they're saying.
3. Don't discount their thoughts and feelings. They're real and important to them, no matter how they may seem to us.
4. Do ask questions to show your interest and to get clarification.
5. Do take time to consider what they've said to show that you value and give importance to the information.
6. If you don't have the answers, be brave and honest enough to tell them. Or say, "I need some time to think about that. I don't have an answer right now. I'll get back to you." Then do it. Do NOT let it drop. They'll respect your honesty whether you have an answer or not. Believe it or not, they figure out sooner than we think that we don't have all the answers. They just choose to love us anyway.
7. Tell the truth, even it it's tough to say and tough for them to hear. They'll spot a lie before it gets past your lips. Children are intuitive creatures. They know us much better than we realize, and they will catch us in a lie, even if we think it's for their benefit. Once we've lied, we've lost their trust and may never get it back. (That's a topic for another post.) Just tell them what they need to know, taking their age and level of understanding into consideration.

Give your child(ren) the time and attention they need, when they need it, you'll not regret it. You'll catch up on your sleep, but you can never get back the opportunity to connect with your children if you miss it.

Making the Hospital Fun

Let's face it: hospitals are not fun. IVs, treatments, bad food, isolation, boredom . . . I could go on, but you know the drill. However, I always strove to give Holly something to look forward to, something that we only did in the hospital.

I knew one mom who bought a dollhouse for her daughter; you know, one of those big ones that you can decorate with wallpaper, fixtures and rugs, as well as the appropriate doll-sized furnishings. She reserved work on the dollhouse for hospital stays, which offered her daughter a fun experience every time she was hospitalized. Inspired by her, I wracked my brain for ideas and tried out different activities until I hit on something that worked for Holly.

My first attempt was to make a life-sized paper doll of Holly. I traced around her body and encouraged Holly to add the face and hair. Then we brainstormed about the proper clothing choices. After making a few outfits, we hung the Holly replica on the door for her to dress in different clothes every day. She thought it was fun at first, but she quickly lost interest in changing the outfits or doing anything with the paper doll.

Then, when I was shopping one day, I happened to see a pillowcase designed for autographs. It featured a funny picture of a cow on it that I knew would make Holly smile. The timing was perfect as Holly was scheduled to be admitted for sinus surgery.

The autograph pillow was a big hit. Holly loved it, and every time someone visited or a new doctor, nurse or RT came in the room, she insisted on a signature. I kept looking and was able to find similar pillowcases to have on hand for the next hospitalization until we, eventually, had exhausted the choices. Fortunately, that didn't seem to matter to Holly. A plain white pillowcase served just as well, and we kept up the tradition for years. As she grew older, she outgrew the practice, but she still has some of her collection of pillowcases stashed away for safekeeping.

The pillowcase tradition seemed a small thing to me, but it made Holly happy. She looked forward to that every time she went in the hospital. We had a hit on our hands.

Who knows what will make your child happy. Just brainstorm a bit and be willing to go with the flow and accept some trial and error, and you'll hit on an idea your child will love.

It's Not Fair!

It's not fair. It's not fair that your child and mine were born with a chronic illness. It's not fair that, through no fault of their own, they have to deal with cystic fibrosis and all its attendant problems. It's not fair that so much of their days are consumed with simply staying alive. They didn't do anything to deserve this. They didn't put themselves at risk or make unwise decisions that would make CF a natural consequence of their behavior.

But then, life is not fair. That's an unfortunate fact we all must deal with at some point in our lives, at least if we're to avoid living out our days disappointed by our lack of constant bliss. Thankfully, we are not only plagued by disappointment but also surprised by joy. Life is a study in contrasts.

Our family is celebrating the news of a baby on the way. Vanessa, Brian, Brigid and Katrin expect to welcome a third baby in May. I am thrilled. Holly is thrilled.

At the same time, I wonder why one daughter enjoys the anticipation of new life while the other looks forward to more six more rounds of chemo in the hope of shrinking an inoperable brain tumor. This on top of her constant fight with CF. Vanessa requires more rest because of the tiny life growing inside her. Holly must rest, because the chemo drains her body of stamina and energy.

I am experiencing great joy for this new baby that is unmitigated by Holly's trials. Yet, I experience grief that Holly's life is, well, just plain hard. That's not to say it's devoid of happiness. She loves her husband and adores her daughter, dotes on her nieces and makes a point to find wonder in everyday life. If you read her Caring Bridge posts (www.caringbridge.com/visit/HollyLoughlin), you will see how she celebrates life every day in spite of everything.

Life isn't fair in other ways. For instance, Holly and Vanessa, precious human beings and gifts from God, were entrusted to me to nurture. Me! I don't deserve them. I couldn't possibly have done anything to make me worthy of them.

It isn't fair that I have a safe place to live with a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and heating and air conditioning. It isn't fair that, flawed as it may be, I live in a country where I can worship as I please. It isn't fair that I can leave the house safely and without worrying over the soldiers clustered on every street corner.

Life is not fair. My family is simply a microcosm that demonstrates the truth evident around the world and in every life. The contrast of the joy between Vanessa's life and the struggle in Holly's is just a slice of real life taken from a moment in time in our family. Joy and pain, simple and complicated, happiness and sorrow.

An amazing observation I've made in the midst of our personal circumstances is that Holly rejoices when Vanessa rejoices, and Vanessa weeps when Holly weeps, which is exactly as God intended. What a lesson for me to learn to rejoice and weep with those who are not part of my family but with whom I am connected, for as John Donne expressed, "No man is an island."

As far as our own daily lives and the difficulties we encounter that make us wince and squirm, what's important is what we make of it. We have a choice. As my pastor, Chuck Swindoll points out:
"The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life.

Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home.

The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot c

hange the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude... I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it.

And so it is with you... we are in charge of our attitudes."

Anger at God

When Holly was diagnosed at 7 months, I was first overcome with deep sadness. This beautiful baby for whom I had so many hopes for the future, the child I longed to get to know was threatened by an ugly disease. Would she be a girly girl who loved bows in her hair or would she be a tomboy with perpetually skinned knees? Would she be musical, like me? Or would she be an organizational whiz like her dad? Certainly she would be beautiful; we could already see that. We were hoping she would grow into a compassionate and caring woman. Now I was wondering if she would live long enough for us to learn any of those things.

As I was grieving the potential loss and the certain hardships in her future, anger began to bubble up.  It roiled and boiled in my stomach and forced its way upward, closing my throat until it ached, moving through my tear ducts forcing hot, salty tears to make my face wet and my nose run. Then it flew out my arm as I pounded the steering wheel. It screamed out my mouth, and I yelled, "NO! IT'S NOT FAIR!" I screamed at God and told Him, "You want to teach me something, you teach ME, NOT MY CHILD!" I was furious, so I raged on, as Shakespeare said, troubling "deaf heaven with my bootless cries." At least that's how it felt. Small and helpless as I was, I was shaking my fist at the God of the universe, and He wasn't answering.

He eventually did answer, though not from a booming voice from heaven or a bolt of lightning to strike me down for my daring insubordination, but by reminding me of things I'd read in the Bible. He reminded me of His special love for little ones and for ones who are frail. What God wanted from me was trust. Would I trust Him to take care of Holly in His own way even if it were painful for me? I wanted answers that I didn't get. I wanted to know that she would live a long life. I wanted assurance that she would be happy. I wanted God to take it back. Take the CF away. I wanted some doctor who would redo the sweat test and find the first had been wrong. I wanted to know she would be OK. After all, she was my baby. She held my heart. I knew that anything that hurt her would probably hurt me more. Certainly what happened to her would hurt more than anything that could happen to me. Since God didn't give me any of those answers, I needed to listen to the answers He was giving me to know how to deal with the future.

And then I knew. It was as if God had whispered to my mind. "Love her. Just love her. Love her more than you love yourself. Let me do what is best in her life, even if it means watching her hurt, even if it one day means watching her die." It's hard to imagine how or why a good God would let those things happen. But we live in a world that is not the way God created it. We are not the perfect beings God created us to be. Disease and pain entered the world when Adam and Eve took a bite of that fruit. In spite of that, God can make good happen out of awful, seemingly senseless situations. I don't know how He does that, but I've seen it happen.

I've learned a lot since that day 32 years ago. I've learned that it's OK to be angry with God. He's a big God. He has big shoulders, and He can handle my anger (and yours). I've learned that He faithfully hangs on to me and keeps me going when I see Holly hurting, and she's hurt a lot in her life.

Too much for her 32 years. Her first hospitalization came when she was seven and then yearly for the next few years. When she became a teenager, severe sinus disease and persistent polyps brought on more than 20 surgeries. In one when she was 17, the surgeon opened her up ear to ear across the top of her head. She shaved her head in preparation, and we learned that she looked pretty darn cute with no hair! That surgery brought on two very serious blood infections that nearly took her life. then in her 20s her life was pretty routine for a while, with hospitalizations here and there. It even got better for a while after her daughter was born.

Then 3 1/2 years ago she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It had to be removed immediately. A long difficult recovery followed, along with six weeks of radiation that took her hair and her energy. Recently, still not completely recovered from that ordeal, she got the news of another brain tumor. This one inoperable.

In the midst of all the hospitalizations and illness, I watched God work good in her life as He brought her a loving husband who understood that she was worth dealing with all the crap of CF. God gave her a precious daughter who brings untold joy to all of us. I have watched Holly reach out to others who are hurting with boundless compassion, because she knows what it's like to hurt. She has become an amazing person, whom God uses to bring joy into the lives of people she doesn't even know. She is indeed the product of God's grace.

I still get angry at God sometimes, like when Holly told me about this new brain tumor. Now, however, I move quickly into gratitude for His immense goodness. After all, He gave me Holly. What could be better than that?  Still, four years later, he gave me another beautiful daughter, Vanessa. More proof of His love. When I was first told that Holly had CF, the doctor (woefully out of date) said she probably wouldn't live to school age. Then I learned that age 18 was 50/50. And just before Mother's Day we'll celebrate her 33rd birthday. If I had no other proof of God's love and goodness than that, it would be enough.

The Role of Exercise

I haven't yet talked about the importance of exercise in the treatment of CF, and that is a serious lapse on my part. Exercise has been a part of Holly's regimen since she was old enough to run and jump. Before she was two, doctors told us that jumping on the trampoline was beneficial to kids with CF, because it helped shake the mucous free from the lungs to make it easier to cough out. As much as anything, I think it was the exercise and taking deep breaths that helped. We were very careful with the trampoline, and no one was hurt on or around it. However, I know that American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that parents keep children away from trampolines. That still leaves a host of other activities that kids love and that get them breathing hard and coughing. When Holly was really small, we would sometimes have short little races with her, pushing her to run as fast as she could, then encouraging her to cough. Then we'd sprint again, over and over until we saw she was wearing out or tiring of our game. Other times, she we'd get her on her big wheel, and when she was older she really enjoyed riding her bike.

After living in Dallas when she was diagnosed, then being transferred first to St. Louis then New Jersey, we moved back to Texas. Knowing the heat would be hard on her, we bought a smaller, older house in order to be able to afford a pool. As soon as I could, I taught both girls to swim. In the summer they spent most of their days in the pool with each other and/or friends. I have great memories of watching them and listening to them laugh as they swam and played in the water. Frequently, they'd swim most of the morning then eat lunch on the trampoline before getting back in the water. When she hit the pre-adolescent years, we got her involved in swimming. She first swam on the city team, and when she hit high school, she swam on that team. Sometimes, she swam so hard that she couldn't get out of the pool and had to be pulled out by team members, but it did the job and helped keep her lungs clean!

Holly had a somewhat unusual school path and left high school after her sophomore year. (More about that in another post.) That ended her competitive swimming for a couple of years until she left home for the University of North Texas. At that time, knowing that there was no one around to do chest physiotherapy (CPT), she started swimming again to help fill in the gap.

It helps to just think creatively. Put on your "thinking cap" to come up with ideas to spur your kiddo to exercise more. Dance, even in your living room, requires good deep breathing. I'm talking bouncing around, active dancing. The kind that kids really like. Basketball, soccer, even just "chase" will do it. Those kids of things also encourage your child to be outside rather than inside parked in front of the brain-draining television.

For more encouragement, check out Jerry Cahill's You Cannot Fail through the Boomer Eaiason Foundation's website. Jerry (who is 55!) was a pole-vaulter for a long time and now coaches it. He still finds ways to keep exercising even when he has to carry his oxygen with him. He is a real inspiration!

Let me know what you use with your kiddos to help keep them breathing deeply and coughing. This is a great place to share!