Lead, Follow, or Get Lost in Paradise

Abby is on spring break.

With time on our hands

we headed (north?) into the inland

of Oahu.

Our destination was the

Dole Plantation, home of the world's

largest permanent maze.

Ain't it cool?

France wasn't thrilled about being hauled

away from the beach.

but once she learned that 

there were 8 hidden stations within the maze,

she took charge of the expedition.

She careened around the high bushes and canes,

Scott and I trying to not to lose her.

It was hard on the Scoutmaster who

wanted to examine the map before

charting a course.

It was hard on Britain to blindly follow anyone,

let alone France.

But as we raced behind her, I realized

how much of her life is a maze.

She has to navigate around tricky social roadblocks

at school and online.

Her homework is always problematic and learning

doesn't come easy for France.

Teenagers know their adult 

future is tantalizingly close, but they can't see it, 

the hedges of adolescence and parental control still

force them to adhere to a predetermined course.

France was fierce and determined, it must have been

cathartic for her to lead the way; 
control her destiny and ours, 

even for 42 short minutes.

After we emerged, we indulged in

Dole Floats.

Yes, the same delectable concoction offered

in Disneyland.

We then enjoyed a totally cheesy train ride

around the plantation and walked the garden filled

with the different varieties of pineapples

Isn't that just the cutest little pineapple in the world?

And Germany: the dole floats weren't 

nearly as good as the Disney ones.

I think it was because I couldn't share one

with you.

Midnight in Paradise

Scott had to fly back to the mainland 
the first week in March.

Sunday night came and I couldn't sleep. 
No sweet husband beside me.
It's the usual, 
waffling between the parent of a teenager
 feeling of righteous indignation.
You know, how The Fugitive felt.
The hot Harrison Ford version, not
the eeehh David Jannsen one.





and missing Taghe, who is far away in Mexico.
I couldn't do anything about the righteous indignation
but I could email my missionary.
As I typed away, I heard an alarm. Which in itself
didn't disturb me at all.  
We live in densely populated Waikiki.
Alarms and sirens are the background noise
of city life.
But this one didn't stop and I realized it was the 
building fire alarm.
By now Abby was awake and I stepped outside
(yes I felt the door first)
and looked down the corridor.
There was smoke coming out of the elevator area.
I couldn't see any flames
 and our building was constructed from 
concrete blocks so I assumed I had some time.
We got dressed, grabbed my phone, car keys, and all the important papers and documents. 
Down 7 flights of stairs and even though
less than 5 minutes had elapsed, 
firemen were pulling up.

The smoke was much thicker on the ground floor
and we retreated down the street with our neighbors.
There we were, standing in front of the Queen Kapiolani Hotel
at midnight.  Looking like the homeless across 
the street at the bus stop who were in fact, looking at us.

The source of the fire was the dumpster, which ignited
after a not-too-bright individual dumped their BBQ
charcoal after their Sunday party at the pool.
The smoke went up through the trash chutes
 on all the floors.
It was quickly contained, and we got a chance to
know our neighbors better during the 30 minutes 
we were outside.
Our next door neighbor flirted shamelessly 
with the firemen while attired in her pajamas 
and kimono.

She was very cute, for a 50 something year old. 
And what single lady can resist these fellows?
Though we got back in our homes by about 12:45
Abby and I were too wired to sleep.
We made some snacks and watched TV until 2 am.
I was most grateful that it was a minor incident and a
lifetime of emergency preparedness
 had truly prepared me to act quickly. 
And if you have ever wondered,
 the stink from a garbage fire
lingers through the chute for 
weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks.

France is Passive in Paradise

When we finalized our plans

to move to Hawaii, we realized that Abby

would be missing an important club season for volleyball.

She will be going into high school next fall and 

needs all the exposure to the sport she can get

if she hopes to make the Timpview team.

But since everyone knows that there is no downside

to moving to paradise in January 

(see photo evidence below)

Our solution was to invest her time and

our money in beach volleyball.

We found the greatest coach: 

Alika Williams of Hunakai HI Performance
and signed her up for a scrimmage league
at Queens Beach, the lovely stretch of sand
just a block from our apartment.

The girl has skills, she knows what to do. 
What is frustrating to me, her coach, 
and the cosmos is her lack of aggression.
Little known fact about the Steffies: we don't have 
a competitive bone in our collective bodies.
Scott and I just don't have that "eye of the tiger" gene
to pass on to our offspring.  That's why Kendra is so essential
to our family.  In a Game of Thrones kind of way.

(she's the adorable blond next to me)

That girl is wicked competitive.  In everything.  

It's awe inspiring.  There will be Steffies in the 21st century 

who will go for the kill.

But I digress.  I was talking about Abby.

So, here is my baby, looking awesome as she

spends hours in the sand.

But she can run a thousand drills, and play countless hours

but she won't progress in this sport until she plays aggressively.

And France (see blog post Not Abby) wants this....so bad. 

And I don't know what to do.

So here's where I ask for your help.

Let me preface this by acknowledging that this issue

is a paradise problem.  But I will ask anyway:  

How does a person gain the ability to be aggressive 

and competitive when it does not come naturally?

If you have any insights or advice, Britain welcomes them. 

Britain is me by the way.  Or so my eldest daughter tells me.

A once great nation in steady decline, but rich in history and tradition.