Don't Blink

If my life were truly a book, this would be where Part III begins.

Our kids, the ones I have written about so much- the ones who have consumed by life and my sleep and my pocketbook, are officially grown. Granted, they've been grown for a while, but now it's like grown-grown. It's such a bittersweet thing- something I would not trade for anything, and yet something that causes me to pause and reflect. The youngest has left the nest.

You see, she got this crazy idea that she was ready to go- much like her older brothers moved on years ago, and all my cooking and laundry-doing could not convince her to stay at home. I walk around a house that is full of moving boxes in her bedroom and her half-eaten ice cream in the freezer and wonder what in the world I am suppose to do now. It's not a sad feeling, just a different one.

I try to grasp how quickly the time flew by. Over twenty-seven years of babies and houses and jobs. First days of school and graduation diplomas. Laughter. Tears. Happiness. Anger. Successes and disappointments. All those things that make a house full of people a home full of love. What an honor it was to raise those children. What a privilege it has been to watch them fall in love.

So here we are. Part III. New beginnings all the way around. I found my way back to this blog because for me, writing is the best therapy. The husband says I should turn her room into an office and finally complete that book or work on that doctorate or make crafty things to sell. I think I should probably start with cleaning the house...

That'll keep me busy long enough to plot my next move.

My Husband Made Me Cry

And he didn't even mean to do it. I know he didn't.

I'm a mess.

I'm tired. I don't like my backside. The dark spots on my face are multiplying.

Are you feeling better about yourself yet? =)

Oh well. I've made an appointment with that handy doctor of mine that I pay forty bucks a month for unlimited access. So far it's worked out quite well. No co-pays. Email day or night. No wait time in the office (yes... I did just say that). Anyway, since most types of blood work are included in my subscription, I figured I'd see if the old hormones are out of whack or if the iron levels are low. It's time to be proactive. Better to do that than drape the mirrors in black cloth.

The tears, however, I don't know if I can do much about. I sat on the couch earlier and watched the older son help the younger son with his tie (senior pictures tomorrow). When I mentioned that his collar needed straightening, the older stepped back and said, "Sooner or later you're gonna have to take care of this stuff yourself. I'm not always going to be around."

To which I stood up, straightened that collar, and said,

"No, but your mama always will be."

My babies are growing up.

No wonder I'm looking a little worn.

Watermelon Memories

In my mind there is a picture and in keeping with my usual way of doing things, it is a picture I cannot find.

Ten bucks says it's in the same place that wedding album is...

Anyway.

In that picture are three little kids sitting at a Little Tikes table. They are dressed in swim attire and sitting inside a garage as they drip and dry and eat watermelon. If I remember right, one has a leg kicked up, one is ready to take a bite, and one is just plain laughing. It's the picture I think of when I think of the Fourth of July.

As you know, holidays always make a me a bit sappy. I think of how our kids have grown and how much I miss my own family and well... it can be easy to get locked into what use to be. Thankfully, for you anyway, I'm not so far gone that I can't see the life taking place around me.

The oldest just traded his dirt bike for a boat. I don't see a lot of that boy as it is; now I'm assuming I'll see even less of him. But you know what? He's happy and healthy and free. He's a joy to watch (even if that watching forces me to stay up late some nights).

The middle is so sure of who he is... all I know to say is that there's a part of me that's jealous of that confidence. To see the change that's taken place in that boy is nothing short of miraculous- and there was nothing ever wrong to begin with- but the last year has been marvelous to watch. 

The youngest. She met me at the door yesterday with a cup of coffee, a freshly baked brownie, and a smile. To someone who is drowning in the slippery slime of doubt right now (that would be me, not her), that random act of kindness completed my day and offered me hope. 

Three kids. Growing up before my eyes and yet forever young in my heart.

And seeing as how I can never seem to find the pictures, that's a good thing.

How Confident Are You?

I watched something unfold at my church on Sunday morning that I'm still trying to process. It was nothing overly dramatic, nothing too far out there, nothing that unusual... but it was something. Something that contains a story. A lesson. A not-to-be-missed moment.

I just can't quite put my finger on it.

So I am here to retrace my steps.

The daughter and I went to church together because one kid went to an amusement park, one kid went to his own church, and the husband was working. If I may say, we both looked pretty snazzy in our new spring dresses (though she might have been more snazzier than me) as we sat down together in our almost-usual spot.

(and I probably need to focus here if I intend to get anywhere with this).

In the midst of singing Because He Lives, I had a moment totally unrelated to what I am hoping to get at, yet it deserves sharing nonetheless. One reason I adore the church we attend is the hymns that are sung. I've got nothing against the newer praise and worship songs/choruses/one-liners-that-are-sung-twenty-times, but I love traditional, There's Power In The Blood music. These songs take me back to church days with my grandma. I can still see those red hymnals in front of us and her purse beside me that she would let me look through to find paper and pens. My brother and I played many a round of the dot-line/make-a-box-game-to-put-your-initial-in...

(and I apologize profusely for not having a better description than that)

...and I can even recall a few bruises I received from that same brother due to his twisted appreciation of a knuckle-buster he called "being frogged." Grandma would let us get away with so much before she would get onto us to sit still and listen. Time went by and I would eventually sit in that same pew by her with my own little family and my own little kids digging through her purse. If we weren't beside her, we were behind her or in front of her. You get the picture. Always near wherever she was sitting. It's because of this that I know (knew) her singing voice well. A soprano that could hit (or at least sincerely try) those high notes when they would come around. There are certain songs that I can still hear her singing even today:

Victory In Jesus. We Shall See The King. Star of Bethlehem.

Because He Lives.

So when I heard the beginning notes of that hymn on Sunday, the strings of my heart felt that gentle tug. Oh, Grandma. I could hear her singing right along with me even if her voice was only heard in my mind. I began to think of how thankful I am that one day I will hear her voice again. For real. There is so much joy in knowing salvation.

Anyway.

In the midst of the sermon, after the singing was finished, I watched an elderly man make his way back to his seat. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, though, and looked around. It was obvious to anyone watching that he was confused. He took a few steps back only to retrace his steps again and threw up his hands in what basically amounted to a moment of surrender. He was lost. An usher stepped in and led him to the next aisle where he was met by another usher (and yes, this is a fairly big church). From my vantage point, I could see an empty spot where a Bible lay on a pew. Sure enough, that was his spot. When that sweet saint of a man located the place where he had been sitting, he raised his Bible in the air along with a victory shot. The pastor repeated what the man said so we all could hear:

"It's the only thing that has never abandoned me."

I'm telling you, that moment did something for me. When I think about a man of his age with all the experiences and stories he surely has stored within, the confidence with which he spoke regarding the Book that he held up... well, you see, that's what I can't quite put my finger on. It was more than just a passing distraction. It's another one of those moments in which there really are no words to describe what my spirit longs to express.

Except I hope I never forget that image or that man.

Or my grandma's singing voice.

hmph:

A sound, usually made with a closed mouth, indicating annoyance, indignation, or sighing.*

Apparently my last post with "My Secret To Happiness" in the title hasn't done so well in the virtual world. I am somewhat of a stat watcher- my biggest fan base is overseas, go figure.** Oh well. I'm sure people are just busy with other things like laundry and work and spring weather. Besides, I tend to skim over anyone else's cure for happiness myself. As long as my mom keeps reading, I'm good.

Back to the business at hand.

Thank God The Tomb Is Empty!

Strangely enough, my house is also about to be empty. We had plans for Easter dinner, but our intended guests came down with a stomach virus of some sort. When that fell through, I graciously offered one kid the opportunity to do as he pleased today and the word spread like wildfire. I've now got two sons spending the day with the families of the girlfriends and a daughter embarking on an Easter egg hunt with a friend. That leaves me, the husband, and our good Sunday clothes. This will be the first year ever that there hasn't been a ham baking in the oven.

I think I'll let someone else do the cooking today.

My mom always told me that once the kids grew up, things would be different. They're by no means grown and out of the house (well, one pretty much does as he pleases), but things are certainly different. Some things know no age limits, though... there were three chocolate bunnies lined up and standing at attention on the mantle this morning. Every kid I saw smiled as they walked by and plucked away their prize. I don't know if that crazy big bunny will every get to retire.

Happy Easter, Everyone!


*(en.wiktionary.org/wiki/hmph)
**sarcasm; not true; an inside joke

I'm A Big Believer In Cake Pops

They're cute. They're tasty. And they're just the right size.






I like to think I'm pretty much a simple girl. I don't get too excited about a whole lot with the exception of Atlanta football,  Kentucky basketball, and old-school country singers in cowboy hats. I'm in love with Jesus, my parents, my husband and kids, and my country. I like to cook with real butter. I despise sorting socks. I've got a quick temper when I feel threatened. I'm not a fan of the mall. I'm very much the frugal shopper unless faced with a Starbucks sign or a pedicure in the spring and summer months. I don't like to spend money, but sometimes... I like to spend it very much.

I come from a small town. The words crime scene and racism and Mercedes Benz didn't mean much to me. I don't know that I could have really correctly defined any of those words at any point in my young life. It wasn't that we were ignorant; I just don't think we were faced with any of it. Life was safe. People were people. Everyone I knew drove a Ford or Chevy. My parents worked hard. They didn't cuss or drink or smoke or teach me anything other than respect and values and love. Family life may not have been perfect, but it was always stable. I didn't know how much I would appreciate all that until I got older.

I've been on quite the learning curve since we made the change from a one-stoplight town to a central six-county region of around 710,000 people. I don't care how long I live here... that number will always be about 705,000 too many people for me. I realize those numbers don't even come close to the big city numbers out there; but when I hear people refer to this area as a small town, I think to myself  you have no idea and for that experience, I am thankful.

But too be honest, I am more than spoiled with the many amenities that now surround me. I've developed quite the Starbucks habit. I've been to more movies in the last five years than I had been in my entire life. As much as I hate the mall, I appreciate the fact that going there doesn't become an entire day event with the time it takes to drive there and back. I love restaurants. I like hearing about all the concerts available (even if I can't afford 95% of them). I get a kick out of the abundance of nail salons and Chinese buffets. Things are certainly never dull.

And that's what I miss, if that makes any sense. I suppose that's why I am so addicted to my front-porch swing. I don't keep a quilt and pillows out there for no good reason. I'm a big believer in lazy days and afternoon naps and a cup of decaf as the sun goes down. I may get angry at the non-signal-using fools in morning traffic and become extremely agitated when the old lady in the smart car steals my parking spot... but it doesn't take much to unwind me and take me back to a simpler time.

The promise of eternity.
The adoration of my parents.
The love of a good man.

The sight of three kids at the dinner table.

And cake pops. Definitely the cake pop. Starbuck's Salted Caramel version pictured above. Combine that with George Strait on the radio and my Friday afternoon just got a little sweeter.

No small town needed.

On Quilt Blocks, Hamburger Helper, & Things I Can't Find

Today was a no-school day for the kids and the daughter spent part of her afternoon laying out quilt blocks she has been embroidering. Her cat was in the midst of it all as she carefully placed block by block on the floor, sighing every now and then. As I watched her, I thought about my own quilt blocks that I have been working on forever and dusted off the bag they have been hiding in. She suggested that we work together to finish hers first and then work on mine. I know it sounds like a perfect mother-daughter-kind-of-thing to do, but I respectfully declined her request. My reason? My stitches are nowhere near as perfect and straight as hers. Believe me, she would be regretting her decision the first time she'd have to rip my work out and start again. Look at it as a way to keep the peace.

Discussing quilts got us discussing our grandma which got us pulling out and talking about all the quilts she made us. In turn, that led to us digging around in the attic looking for other things which led to the squeals and delight of finding a favorite baby doll and dressed-up Barbies still in their box. By the time we wrapped things up so I could start supper, the couch was covered with quilts and such, and her bed was hidden beneath handmade doll clothes and passed-down jewelry. Now that supper is finished and the kitchen is clean (that would be the Hamburger Helper part), I suppose it's time for me to clean off the couch. I gotta have somewhere to sit... and maybe, just maybe, complete a stitch or two.

As for things I can't find?

A Quilt. Don't panic. I know it's tucked away safely somewhere.
Besides, I only have so many places to stash stuff around here.

A Box of Baseball Cards. Not a big deal to me, but a very big deal to the husband.
This is the current Great Mystery within the household.

And it seems like there was one other thing, but (of course) I can't remember it.

Except that wedding album... I still can't find that wedding album.

I'm betting it's all in the same place.

Memories, December, And Pictures To Go With It

The second of December? Good Lord. Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was trudging through knee-deep snow in the Rocky Mountains hoping to induce labor...  that and walking up and down a flight of steps during every commercial break of The Young and The Restless and As The World Turns (my soap opera days). I can't remember my exact due date with the oldest. I think it was November 27th at first and was later changed to December 9th, or something like that. Doesn't matter. He arrived just when he was suppose to, somewhere in the middle of those two guessing dates on the morning of December 4, 1993.

I remember the night before his birth so clearly that it's almost eerie. I'm sure I am not alone in that some memories are so exact, so right there, I swear my mind could fool myself if only for a short time. I was wearing a light blue and white-striped button down, short-sleeved shirt. The husband came home from his Army duties to a supper of Hamburger Helper Chili Mac and after the sun went down, we sat in a dark living room of our rented town home on the ugliest-couch-known-to-man looking at the twinkling lights on our first Christmas tree together. Around ten o'clock we went to bed and around eleven o'clock I knew something felt different. A few hours later, I called the maternity ward at the hospital, described what I was feeling to the friendly Air Force nurse, and was assured that I was not in labor.

She was wrong.

I remember the husband insisting we take our little baby carrier and my packed bag to the hospital when I finally woke him up and we left our home around three in the morning. I told him there was no need, the lady said it wasn't labor, and that they would probably give me something to help my stomach (keep in mind this was my first, my mom wasn't close by, and the book did not describe anything I was feeling). Ever the practical man, he said he wasn't making a trip back to get everything and he was pretty sure this was the big moment.

He was right.

That little boy showed up a little after six-thirty that morning and we made the happy calls to the grandparents. The next day, we loaded that little baby seat into the backseat of a Mustang where I hovered beside him terrified of all the passing cars on the freeway. I can still see us arriving back at our town home, setting our tiny little bundle still in his baby seat on that ugly couch, and looking at each other. We had nobody but us and I don't mind admitting that I felt utterly helpless. Nine months was suddenly not nearly enough time to prepare for our new family of three and our home felt a lot different than a fully staffed maternity ward. Thank God for that man. He sprang into action and by the end of that first hour had me settled into our not-so-ugly rocking-chair holding the most beautiful baby ever while he lined up bottles and stacked diapers and did everything else that needed to be done. It took a few more days of this same pattern before he looked at me and said, Wanna take him to see your parents?

And that's what we did... took a less-than-one-week-old baby on a fourteen-hour drive from the Rocky Mountains to the Midwest (in DECEMBER, of all times) and gave my mom and dad the surprise of their life.

One of my all-time favorite memories.

The tree we sat looking at on the evening of December 3rd.

Surprising my parents a week later.

The striped blue and white shirt and the ugly couch .

The not-so-ugly rocking chair.

Ponytail No More

A long time ago, my boy began growing out his hair. He had spent his elementary years and the first few years of middle school in private schools where the hair was kept short. In the eighth grade, he branched out into the public school system and a style of his own. While my opinion of public school might be a mixed bag, my opinion of his style never wavered.

He definitely had a style of his own, and his style was all about hair.

It grew longer.
Covered one eye.
Eventually hid both eyes.

Surpassed his chin.
Touched his shoulders.
Went down his back.

He marked his last hair cut (a minor trim, I might add) around February 2010, I think. I do believe he knows the exact date. A week ago, I had just come home from an out-of-town trip when he made the following announcement,

Mom, I'm ready to cut my hair.

Now, I handled this staggering statement rather well. I didn't cry. I didn't jump up to hug him. I just sat stunned. And probably as only a mother can know, it really had nothing to do with the hair. His hair had been something of a battle in the early years... we wanted it short; he did not. We (as in his dad and me) came to realize that his long hair was something that he needed. Something that defined who he was. He was never one to blend in.

Anyway, at that moment I looked at the man he is becoming.

Ready to make a change.
Ready to make a statement.
Ready to move forward.

That's my boy.

Does Laughter Really Cause Wrinkles, Or Do Wrinkles Just Cause Laughter?

Today I glanced in the rearview mirror while backing out of the drive and noticed something new. I stopped midway, put the car in park, and flipped the visor down thinking the lighted mirror would be more encouraging than the broad glare of daylight (and yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds). Obviously there was no change. It was long and very defined and slightly disturbing. I smiled. I frowned. I used my index fingers to slightly tug the skin toward each temple on either side of my face. That worked... did wonders actually, until I let go. With a heavy sigh, I flipped the mirror back up and put the car back in drive.

So this is what they call a deep crease.
A no-doubt-about-it wrinkle.
Something even cover-up won't begin to hide.

I hear some of you moaning all ready. No, this is not the first wrinkle I've noticed on my face and I know full well there are many more to come. But this one was so there, so visible as if shouting to the world, Hey! Check me out! I comforted myself with all those feel good thoughts about laugh lines and love lines and just plain old life lines. I told myself it was only really noticeable when I smiled big so either

A). It's a result from all the big smiling I do every day, or
B.) I just won't smile big anymore and no one will notice.

And for anyone that knows me, either choice would be believable depending on the day and my mood. As I sat in the park a little while later waiting for a couple of kids to join the ride home from school, my daughter took a good look at me and said, "I love your hair! It makes you look waaaaay younger than what you really are!" Feeling a sudden boost of confidence, I pointed to my new found wrinkle.

"Wow," she frowned, "and you've got one on the other side, too."
There's just no end to the laughter around here.