Don't Rush Me

It's Christmas morning.

So far today, I have squeezed into new pajamas one size too small (Christmas gift, you know); dropped a cookie sheet on my big toe (upsetting the elf in the living room, I'm sure); and popped a cherry pie in the oven (thanks ever be to Marie Callender and her frozen pie wonders). Before my coffee really kicks in, I will have went a round with a ham and a sheet of aluminum foil and wondered (for the umpteenth time) why on earth I told the kids I would have Christmas dinner ready at noon.

Gotta work on that thinking before speaking thing.

We opened presents last night with everyone together, minus one girlfriend, and I successfully prolonged the much-anticipated event by insisting that gifts were opened one at a time (a strategy the husband questioned me on). My feeling was this, we have all had a good year around here. There have been lean years in the past... okay, mostly all lean years, and although there is no doubt every Christmas has went down in the books as a good Christmas, I wanted this particular good Christmas to last.

So one-at-a-time we went.

By doing so, I got to see the smile on the face of the oldest when he peeled back the paper from a sign reaffirming his much beloved Second Amendment. The last two Christmases (is that even a word?) he lived three hours northeast of us. This Christmas he lives three minutes northwest of us. I am so thankful that boy is back home working a job he loves.

The middle patiently unwrapped individual gift cards from his sister that will take a dent out of his constant desire to eat from the always convenient local drive-thrus. He announced last week that he was moving out of our house and in with his brother. I will miss hearing the lock turn on the front door and knowing he is behind it at the end of a work day, but I am so thankful we raised two boys who get along.

The eyes of the youngest practically teared up when she unwrapped tissue paper from a cat-themed organizer. When someone initially asked her what the gift was, she simply said she didn't know, but it had a cat paw on it. She is learning the hardships of holding down a job while tackling college courses and although the stress can be overwhelming, she hasn't cracked yet. I am so thankful for her perseverance.

The husband was proud of his new "Dad" sign to hang on his shed. I obviously loved my one-size-too-small pajamas. My mom shared stories of my dad's battle with a backyard mole... a story that was inspired by a gift from one of the grandkids. A girlfriend smiled at her beautiful new necklace and a boyfriend modeled his new cowboy hat for us.

And that's just a sampling.

As my dad said in his final days, "We've had good times and bad times. I wouldn't trade any of it for a dime." I have come to understand that the bad times make the good times all the more sweet, and that if it takes a solid hour of the mother insisting that each person has their moment in the living-room spotlight, then so be it. That's why I offered cocoa in the beginning.

I don't want to miss a thing.

Christmas 1999

Celebrating Dad

Recently my mom gave me a shadow box to create a keepsake for my dad. It's a really neat concept and today I ventured out to Hobby Lobby with the intentions of buying some decorative pieces to fix it up. My thinking this week has been that I would spend Father's Day creating this beautiful, sentimental box that I could display in our living room. It seemed like an ideal plan until I actually found myself in the craft store today wandering aisles and thinking about what I was doing. Looking at all that beautiful "father' stuff and thinking about what I could incorporate into the box only solidified what I was actually doing...  sealing the fact that I was trying to do something fatherly because I no longer had a father to call.

I know, I know. Depressing at the very least, right? I'm gonna be honest, though, and fully admit for all those experiencing the same thing I am enduring at the moment... Father's Day is currently at the top of my list for "All Things Sucky" right now.

(as I just lost a few readers due to my total lack-of-class use of a not-so-real word).

Look, I don't know how else to put it. This one just kind of snuck up on me. I wasn't prepared for the complete lack of preparedness I feel for this one particular Sunday in June. I want my father back. Period. I mean, I think I knew last Father's Day that time was winding down- in fact, my blog entry from this time last year (found here), leaves no question to that train of thought- but, still... it is frustrating and disheartening nonetheless. So, I find myself on that dangerously, slippery line between self-pity and self-determination.

I look at the husband as he chuckles at something he is reading online. I think about how when the kids were younger, much younger, I would help them create or decorate or buy something for their dad for Father's Day and how I haven't had to do that for quite some time. Even now, the two youngest are discussing where they are taking him to eat tomorrow. I know they have already shopped on their own and have a gift or two tucked away that he will be sure to react with genuine surprise tomorrow. The oldest, who could not make it home this weekend, has already called to talk to his dad once this week and will no doubt call again tomorrow.

And that gives me cause to celebrate.

I think about all the Father's Day(s) I did have with my dad and I can only hope that I sincerely appreciated them all. I remember a sixth grade student I had years ago who lost his father a week before Father's Day and know that I have no reason to complain. I consider the kids I know today who are not even sure where their fathers are and shake my head in bewilderment.

I may or may not work on that shadow box tomorrow. When I mentioned it to my mom earlier today, she simply said, "You'll do it when you're ready." That is one thing our family is finding out for sure as we muddle through this year of "firsts" without the man who was such a big part of our lives... everything comes in due time. There is no fixed schedule for mourning; no exact time to do anything. Rushing only complicates things and "closure" is not a door that shuts easily. My mother demonstrated this perfectly a few months ago when she cleaned what has always been known as "Dad's Room". Some things had to go, but some things remained the same.

Such a beautiful reminder of the hope we carry, We shall meet again.





Happy Father's Day to the ones who are here,
the ones who have went on, and the ones who are yet to be.

1992

Psst...

It's late and I'm tired and this particular post tends to bounce all over the place. Good luck. =)

The year was 1992.

My hair was short. My glasses big. My dreams way out there.

I was freshly arrived at my new duty station and ready to show the parents my new world. My grandma even made the trip to see me and my new digs. Thinking back on it now, there was no way in h-e-double-hockey-stick that I even remotely had a clue what I was doing, but hey... in my mind I was on top of the world.

Or, in the case of this picture, on top of a mountain.

I am not entirely sure what month this picture was taken. It had to have been late summer or early fall. What is for certain is that in less than a year after this Kodak moment was captured, my last name would be changed and my dad would no longer be the only man in my life. For the time being, however, he was the man and probably the one I most wanted to impress. In some ways, that has not changed one bit.

Father's Day was yesterday and in my usual way of doing most things, I thought about life and family and what it all means. My dad has been diagnosed with a dirty word in a dirty stage that I refuse to talk about too much at this point in time. I don't like it one bit. I especially don't like how time has suddenly become an issue. It frustrates me and my comforting habit of always watching a clock.

Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.
Tick. Tock.

As if tock is even a word.

At any rate, I was thinking about my dad yesterday and scrolling through pictures of us together. There's not a lot, but enough to make me smile. Strangely enough, I don't have many pictures of my mom and me. Why is that moms are usually not in the picture? And selfies don't count, by the way. Posting a zillion pics of you with your kid using a minimum of two filters to get the right look of "you" does not fool any of us into thinking that picture is all about your kid--

But I digress (as usual).

My dad has always cheered me on. In a scrap album tucked away in a cedar chest is a card that he sent to me following the trip in which this picture was taken. Among other things, it simply says, "I'm proud of you." He still says that often and I gotta admit, I never grow tired of hearing it. If anything, our recent turn of events has just made me appreciate it all the more.

I always knew I had a good dad.
I always knew I was fortunate.

May the ticking of the clock always remind us to cherish yesterday and anticipate tomorrow. May we never grow weary of spending time with the ones we love. And may mountain-top memories always remind us that if even for a brief moment in time, we really were on top of the world.

Or something like that.

Happy Belated Father's Day to the men who make dreams seem possible. Even if we never reach them, they're the ones who always believed we could.

Being A Life Coach Is NOT On My Resume

A new calendar is on the fridge. It's a Gary Patterson... we do the same cat theme practically every year. Can't risk shaking things up too much.

The youngest asked me earlier if I do New Year's resolutions.

The answer?

Nope. Notta. Not worth the pressure.

I'd like to lose weight. I'd like to read more. I'd like to watch more basketball. I'd like to be a better wife, mother, friend. I'd like to read my bible more, pray more, give more. I'd like to be nicer, friendlier, happier. More optimistic. Less negativity. Cook more, clean more, walk more. 

A whole lotta MORE.

But you know what? I am who I am and to be perfectly honest, no one has ever accused me of having too much ambition. Let's face it, here I sit on this computer, in a recliner, the Wisconsin/South Carolina football game winding down. I have floors to clean, fans to dust, and papers to sort.

And most likely none of it will happen.

Oh, I have tackled laundry like a champ and managed to declutter my dresser, but other than that, my cleaning spree is about to come to an end. I'm in the midst of a good series on Netflix so even though reading is a passion of mine, the book has literally been put on a shelf for now. Papa John's did the cooking today. My bible has yet to be opened.

No wonder I don't do resolutions.

Nevertheless...

Happy New Year!

I'm all for new beginnings, even if I don't make promises to myself that I could never keep. Don't think of it as low expectations... think of it as a reality that I refuse to deny. I'll get where I'm going, one Gary Patterson calendar at a time.

Labor Pains

The buzzing of my phone woke me up about ten minutes ago. I was in the midst of a dream- a very good, afternoon nap kind of dream. Now I am trying to keep my eyes propped open with the help of a Starbucks (k-cup style) and the glow of this laptop.

Happy Fourth of July.

I actually went to sleep about an hour ago thinking about the Fourth and the marketing ploys of all things patriotic. I love the military. I was in the military. I believe in the military... but Independence Day is for all Americans, not just those who wear the uniform; and like Memorial Day, it's a chance to teach our children that we are not celebrating the invention of the hot dog. I look at it as a time to reflect upon the history of this great nation. A time when ordinary people- civilians and soldiers alike- stood up and fought for the dream of freedom.  A time to remember how we came to be and to reflect on how far we've come. Look at it as a mother reflecting on the labor pains she endured to give birth. We've all heard those stories (and even told a few of our own) as birthdays come and go. Let's give America a chance to retell those stories.

Patrick Henry* was considered a radical during the revolutionary years and remains one of my all-time favorite men of history. He was not a soldier and by most accounts, was pretty darn lazy until he found something he was passionate about... America. His speeches prior to 1776 were considered treasonous against Great Britain, but nonetheless packed a powerful punch. Even today, in my moments of private frustration, I often find myself reciting his words:

...we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.... Gentlemen may cry, Peace! Peace! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!

How cool is that?

Nathan Hale is remembered for his dying words, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." He was a teacher turned spy in 1776 and if you read the CIA's report on him (seriously), you'll see that they considered his espionage skills as "lacking."** Really? I suppose that any spy captured and killed might be considered lacking in something, but... sheesh. Let's give it up for those school teachers.

I could keep going, but I have a feeling I might have lost some of you at that remark about the military. Remember, I'm all for honoring those who serve and have served our country; I'd just also like to see equal time given to our past.

The cause. The revolution. The victory. 

I'd like to see patriotism taught as something more than buying paper plates and swim trunks bearing the image of the American flag. I'm not positive how I feel about that as it is... but that's a story for another day. 

As for today,

George Washington, Nathanael Greene, Thomas Paine.
Paul Revere, Ethan Allen, John Adams- the father and the son.
Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Adams, and even ole Benedict Arnold.

Hey, every good party needs somebody to talk about.



Happy Birthday, America.





*http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/related/henry.htm
http://www.history.org/almanack/life/politics/giveme.cfm

**https://www.cia.gov/news-information/featured-story-archive/2007-featured-story-archive/nathan-hale.html

Pretty Awesome Stuff

It's that time again.

High School Sweethearts 1965

Still High School Sweethearts 2012

You have no idea the amount of pressure these two put on me and my own marriage.

I mean, here they are.

They've been through everything. They raised two kids; worked more than one job each to make ends meet; put a doll house together in the wee hours of a Christmas morning (only to have an excited little girl wide awake before dawn- one of their favorite stories to tell). They've seen one son go off to war, decorated a house with yellow ribbons, and breathed a sigh of relief the day he came home. They watched a daughter pack her family into a moving truck and drive far, far away.

(And due to time restrictions and the lack of kleenex close by, I'll stop there).

The point is, I think they're pretty awesome and the best kind of example a girl could have for her own life. Tomorrow they will celebrate their forty-seventh wedding anniversary and what would have been my grandma's ninety-fifth birthday. April 29th has always been a special kind of day.

I love you, Mom & Dad.

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

Dear Mom,

I am writing this a day early for two reasons:

1). The house is quiet at the moment, and
2). I don't know if it will be this quiet tomorrow.

If I haven't told you enough already, I really, really love you. If I haven't said thank you quite as often as I should, thank you, thank you, thank you. And, because I know it's been a few days since I probably told you this, I miss you.

Tomorrow is your birthday and I never did get that card in the mail. I know you'll say that I come by that honest, but still... I don't know why I put things like that off. I looked online to send you flowers yesterday, and yet everything I looked at just didn't add up to what I would want you to see or know or... something. I can't quite put it into words, but even the most beautiful and expensive bouquets were severely lacking what I would want to express. Besides, you would just tell me I shouldn't have spent my money and probably would've mailed me a check. That's just the way you are.

I'm learning alot of things here lately. Just when I thought I had this whole motherhood-thing figured out, life throws a new curve at me. I can feel that oldest of mine slipping away. I think I told you it was like he is "inching away, a little at a time." I suppose only a mother can understand how much that tears at the heart. I know I understand a little more of what you must have went through all those years back. First with my brother. Then with me. I'm glad to see him independent and happy and ready to tackle life on his own, and yet... yet, I wish he could still be a little boy if only for a short while. What am I gonna do when it becomes the next one's turn and then the next?

I will call you.

I will call you and tell you how happy I am that they are happy and how nice it will be to have that extra room in the house and most likely ramble on the way I am rambling now, but inside we will both know the same thing: Life as I knew it will never be the same.

Except for one thing,

If those kids will think of me the way I think of you now, then I am in for one of the greatest rewards life has to offer. I don't just love you, I admire you. If I can give you no other gift on your birthday, I can at least let you know that. You are one of the strongest women I know. I think of you as my best friend. These miles that separate us only served to prove the one thing that I know for sure:

I am nothing without the presence of my mother in my life.

Happy Birthday, Mom, a whole day early.

And P.S.

You really do have a gift in the works. I just get a little behind on things. I think I get that from you. =)

Happy It Stinks To Be Single Day!

At least that's what I've heard it called this week by no less than four women, two men, and one rather sarcastic cartoon character.

Ahhh... Valentine's Day. Another day/holiday/event for women to shamelessly try to out do one another on "what a great man" they've got. Bleck. If you've got to facebook it, instagram it, tweet it, text it, or otherwise... maybe that man ain't so great every other day of the year.

There was a time I was into all that. There was also a time when I was young, immature, and seventeen. Now all I see is stores bathed in pepto-bismal colors four days after Christmas and endless commercials for flowers, cards, teddy bears, and cake. Yes, cake. I saw one local ad the other day informing me that if I really loved that special someone in my life, I would show it with their signature strawberry-layered cake. Of course, that cake will set you back about forty bucks, but hey... that's just three-quarters of a tank of gas anymore, right?

Anyway.

Maybe I'm jealous at the core.

(deep soul searching at the moment)

No. I really don't think I am. I know the husband loves me with or without that five-dollar Hallmark card. He loves me with oil changes and new tires and a little pond with a trickling fountain outside my kitchen window. He loves me by filling a bubbling-massaging thing for my tired feet when I complain that they hurt. He loves me by fixing fluffy omelets filled with cheese and extra pepper because he knows I can never fold one on my own and keep it whole. He knows I love him by the dresser drawer filled with clean, rolled socks and neatly tri-folded underwear.

I aim to please.

I watch my kids encounter their own dilemmas with this heart-shaped, drippingly sweet, lace-trimmed day. One wants to pull off the perfect surprise. One wants to find money hiding in the couch. One wants to sleep through the day. I can relate on all three accounts, Valentine's Day or not. I just hope they can see through all the fluff to know that love and tenderness and putting someone else first should be a priority on any day, not just the day that Wal-Mart tells us it should happen.

How in the world this turned into a ramble about Valentine's Day, I have no idea. That was really not my intent. I suppose I was just thinking on the way home that even if I wanted to get something, I could not. The five dollars in my purse is destined for a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, not Valentine chocolates. Even so, I can do better with a container of Hershey's cocoa powder in my cabinet than anything I could find on a shelf at Walgreens. The family will be treated tomorrow, regardless of my feelings surrounding another over-commercialized day on the calendar.

Any day's a good day for chocolate.

Please, Load My Kid Up On Sugar And Send Them Home To Me

Normally this time of year, for the past four years, I get a little depressed (don't laugh). Maybe not so much depressed as in I can't face the world, but depressed as in mildly bummed out. I've blogged about it... you could probably look back and find at least one December post dedicated to this little stinker of a bug that sneaks up on me the week or so before Christmas.

The School Christmas Party.

Okay. Tacky or not, I loved the whole party in the classroom concept. Selfish or not, I adored the whole give the teacher a gift tradition. I miss the night-before-rush to fill all my own little red and green paper bags or plastic snowflake-themed cups with things like pencils and chocolate and candy canes to give out to the class. I miss sitting at my desk while my beloved students stood in line to watch my reaction when they ceremoniously presented me their individual gift.

Good Lord, I'm gonna cry.

And you all know it's not the gift, right?

I've still got the coffee cups and the hand-drawn cards and somewhere, I've still got the shark's tooth. Any number of my former students could walk through my house and see, though they might not remember, their own gift hanging on my wall or sitting on a shelf. From third grade to eighth grade, I really enjoyed them all.

Yep. It's that time of year again.

I think in honor of The School Christmas Party, I'm gonna fill a basket with candy canes and go visit some of the classes I've been substituting for... where I know it's party day... and where there's bound to be cupcakes and cookies and kids wildly out of control.

I think that's a splendid idea.

My New Favorite Turkey

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone and as much as I was dreading it, I have to admit that it was beautiful. It was just the five of us as planned, but I'm no fool... I was very thankful to have a family for whom to prepare a meal. We sat down to a candlelit table shortly after the noon hour, the husband said a prayer that was heart-wrenching to me, and the kids dutifully answered the mom-forced question of What Are You Thankful For? The kitchen was spotless by two o'clock and the rest of the day was spent in comfy pants in front of the television. As we turned in for the night, the husband stopped to hug me and simply said, "Thanks for taking care of me today."

In my book, it doesn't get much better than that.

My New Favorite Turkey

a thawed twelve pounder, cleaned out, rinsed and patted dry

rub (inside and out) with kosher salt, lemon zest, and rosemary the day before

stuff with quartered onions (unpeeled) and lemons and fresh thyme the day of

brush with melted butter; sprinkle with kosher salt & pepper

roast (uncovered) at 450 for forty-five minutes

kick down to 325 and start checking temperature after the first hour or so

rest for a good twenty minutes

Happy Thanksgiving (Then & Now)

According to my Thanksgiving Week Plan (yes, I really do have one of those on my fridge) I should be setting the table and baking pies by now. Oh well. It can wait. I became slightly distracted by our now-working computer while I was cleaning the shelves above the desk. Good thing I haven't made it to Pinterest yet... I might never make it to the kitchen.

Instead I found myself dusting a framed picture of my brother and me at my wedding and thinking back to times long gone. It was a Thanksgiving Week such as this one twenty years ago that my husband and I had what could loosely be referred to as our first date. Basically we ran into each other on a Friday night and the rest is history, but the timing of that chance meeting is rather unique, not to mention a good reminder that God always has a plan.

That was my first holiday (not counting the Fourth of July and Labor Day) that I was away from my family. I was in the Air Force, in the states, but still too far from home to make the drive. To say I was depressed and homesick would be putting it lightly (gee... I haven't changed much, huh?) and I was not looking forward to a holiday feast on base. A supervisor of mine took pity and invited me to share a Thanksgiving meal with his family. I took him up on it and ended up making it a sleepover. They had small kids, I was like a big kid, and the stash of Disney movies took us well into the night. Later that evening, by now a Friday night, we all went out for dinner and that's where I recognized somebody I thought I knew. Like I said... the rest is history.

You know, I hated not being home that year and yet I was right where I needed to be.

There's not a whole lot more I can say to that.

Happy Thanksgiving to my family who will be together this weekend.
My parents. My brother and sister in-law. My nieces and great-nieces.

Happy Thanksgiving to my friends, both near and far.

Happy Thanksgiving to the family who shares these four walls with me.
You are so worth all the cooking and baking that's about to take place.

It's time I got started.

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.

Where Did I Put Those Candles?

Tomorrow our little girl turns fourteen.
Our baby. The youngest. The last one to come aboard.

I was thinking about her last night. It took exactly thirty-six minutes for her to make her entrance into this world. That should've been a sign. She's never been one to delay what needs to be done. She gets that from my grandma. She can cook, sew, and organize just like my mom. She reads constantly, is a good writer, and wants to be a social studies teacher. I suppose she gets that from me. She's got big plans and more ambition than she realizes. She's her dad all over again.

She is something else.

I was reminiscing out loud yesterday about those early days when we first brought her home and the middle visibly cringed. He knew what I was going to say before I ever said it. How protective her brothers were! The oldest, around four at the time, came to me and asked if the middle- who would have been two, was suppose to be in their baby sister's bed. In I went and there they both were... her, just weeks old and sound asleep and him, one of her big brothers, carefully keeping watch at the other end of the crib. Anywhere that baby went, they were sure to follow. That relationship may not be as obvious now, but I can assure you it's very much alive.

We knew she was going to be our last. I made it a point then to try my best not to rush the years. I hope I didn't complain too much about the bottles and diapers and toys scattered everywhere, but knowing me, I'm sure I did more often than not. Even now I look around and see stray charger cords and crumpled pop tart wrappers and random plastic lids missing from random plastic bottles. As long as there are kids in the house, they are going to make their presence known. My mom has reminded me not to rush this part either. She says once they move on, the home is never quite the same. I'm gonna trust her judgment on that one even as I look forward to evenings that don't combine the smell of tuna fish sandwiches and microwaved popcorn.

That is a smell I will not miss.
That and hair in the sink and snide remarks made through closed doors.

But the sight of the three of them together?
Now that's a sight that never gets old...
No matter how many birthdays we celebrate.

No wonder my mom likes those family pictures so much.

Dear Dad,

This is probably one of my favorite pictures of you and me. For the first time in my life, I was finally on my own and working a real job and having to take care of my car myself. I was miles and miles and hours and hours away from home and feeling rather grown up.

But, boy, was I ever glad to see you.

I think you have been there for every big event in my life. I don't remember the early years so much, but I know you were always there cheering me on at ballgames and letting the coaches know when they led me astray. You watched me graduate from high school after spending all those years circling my grades with your ink pen and lecturing me on life. You visited me in basic training and managed not to laugh too hard at those awful glasses Uncle Sam made me wear. 

You walked me down the aisle.

There are times when I wonder why we have the struggles we do in this life. Sometimes it feels that life is so unfair, that other people will always have more, and that I'll never know what debt-free feels like. But then I take moments like this and think about all that I do have and suddenly I feel like I am the luckiest girl in the world, that I have more than other people dream about, and that the feeling of debt-free could never compare with the feeling of being loved.

I would be wanting if it were not for my parents.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Tony and I don't exaggerate anything when we tell you how much you mean to us. I know you have your own struggles, but never doubt the kind of father you have been and still are today.

You are loved.

Her Shoes Sparkle

I make it a point not to display too many pictures of my blossoming teenage daughter on the world wide web of strangers, but, well... tonight IS the big night of the first dance. We arrived at the river just in time for every other mother with a camera and their own blossoming teenage children and a definite agenda to snap as many photos as the setting sun would allow. My meager little Canon PowerShot from way back when was no match for the monstrosities some of these women were lugging around, so I mostly stayed in the background and did what I do best.

Observed.

I watched girls the same age as my daughter made up to look like they were pushing twenty-one. Teased hair, heavy make-up, low-cut dresses, and four-inch heels made me mourn their lost childhood. To be fair, these girls were not in the majority and they were few and far between, but the contrast was obvious. My girl? She was sporting her sparkly Vans (that's a basic sneaker to us not-into-brand-name people), simple black dress, classy hair, and jazzed-up earrings.

But then again, I am her mom.

She WAS the best looking one there.

She went with her "he's just my friend" date, received her first corsage, and just about made her mother cry. As they were leaving for the dance, her dad snatched her up and with one arm around her, whispered in her ear long enough to make the others who were waiting turn around to watch. It was the most touching moment ever. When I asked him later what that was all about, he simply responded with "just a little information about boys and dances."

And to think I had to make him tag along.

May you always sparkle, daughter of mine. =)

A Repeat Of A Good Thing

Some things just cannot be repeated, but should be shared time and time and time again (and I'm not talking about those annoying inspirational sayings I find on facebook on any given day).

Did I just use "annoying" and "inspirational" in the same line?

Anyway, in thinking about Good Friday,  I went back to what I wrote last year. My thoughts have not changed. I cannot improve or alter what has already been written.

He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

And Good Friday is still one of my favorite days of the year.

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(originally written Friday, April 22, 2011)

Good, Good Friday

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation

 and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Psalm 51:12

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning thinking about my salvation, the bible my grandma gave me, and a cup of coffee. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen and realized it was, in fact, only 2:00 a.m., I decided maybe that cup of coffee should wait. Seeing as how there's no school tomorrow and the only alarm set belongs to my hard working man of a husband, I fully intend on sleeping in. I'll enjoy that coffee then.

I sit here, though, with a bible my grandma gave me. My mom's handwriting on the inside cover says 12-25-80. It does indeed show its age. My name embossed in gold on the front is just about worn off, threads can be seen sticking out on the spine, and the overall feel to it is just plain flimsy. There's post-it notes sticking out, cards about missionaries inside, and a random drawing the middle one made. Me and my bibles are a funny thing. I know I'm blessed to have so many; I don't take that for granted. Each one is special and each one hard to part with; in fact, I think I've only parted with one in my whole life and that was for my brother some time ago. Letting go of that bible was like letting go of me. It's personal. You want to know something about me, look in my bible.

(And if you don't like writing in a bible, then I'm afraid you might not like me. I write, highlight, underline, put squiggly marks... anything to help me remember something I know I need to remember. I use to think this was wrong until I saw my grandma do it. And we all know if Grandma did it, then it must be all right).

Anyway, my current bible is held together with duct tape. Tacky? Maybe. But replacing my Amplified would be like replacing my right arm. I'm just not ready to make that step.

And so I sit here thinking about bibles and my grandma and a time many years ago. The year of 1980 was a big one for me. I was ten (double digits, you know) and one Sunday night I followed my family to an altar in church. I remember crying because everyone else was crying and I remember repeating the words of a salvation prayer.

Yes, I believe Jesus died for my sins.

Yes, I know, in fact, I am a sinner.

Yes, I believe His Blood was shed for me.

Yes, I accept His salvation.

I didn't fully understand then what a beginning that would be. I certainly did not live a squeaky clean life. My teenage years are a blur. My family did not have a stellar church attendance record. I only went to church camp once and never had any desire to go back. There weren't many things in my life that were consistent because I tended to make everything complicated (and this has nothing to do with my parents, Dr. Psychologist), but there were three things that were always there:

My grandma.

My bible.

My salvation.

(Do you notice the common theme that always seems to run through my ramblings? My grandma is always there. Living on. Living forever. Living through me. I sure hope her reward is great).

My twenties came and I found myself in basic training crying out to the Lord once again. He was there. My thirties came and I found myself deep in a marriage with three little kids and I cried out to the Lord. He was there. Now just at the beginning of my fourth decade on this earth, I cry out to the Lord on any given day (teenagers, you know). He is there. Please don't take this wrong when I say Good Friday is probably my most favorite day out of the whole year. I know it's a somber day that we mark (as Christians) in that Jesus was so cruelly treated and beaten and crucified.

But if it were not for Good Friday, I would be lost. We all would be.

If it were not for Good Friday, there would be no Easter Sunday.

If it were not for Easter Sunday, we would have no hope.

I believe Jesus Christ was born of a virgin,

Was crucified on a cross for forgiveness of sins,

Resurrected on the third day,

And is indeed coming again.

My bible says it. It's highlighted, underlined, and surrounded by squiggly lines.

My grandma said it. I'm going to meet her in the clouds one day.

And that's all I need to know.

Have a good, Good Friday.

My (Two) Favorite Roles In Life

Some days I take a trip down memory lane for no particular reason, and some days I walk that path intentionally. This morning I have been sorting through pictures as I think about the birthday of my oldest niece- which, by the way, is not the best idea when you are already behind schedule due to the inconvenience of a time change. If there are two girls in this world that I think the most of (not counting my own, of course), it would be these two pictured here.

This photo was taken long before these two became the mothers of their own little baby daughters, but it just so happens to my favorite one of the two of them together. While I was wishing the oldest a happy birthday this morning, I thought about that day I was sitting in a junior high algebra class when I was given a yellow post-it note announcing that I was a new aunt. From that moment on, I was hooked. I know that I know that my brother had to be sick of seeing me at his place, but come on... how do you resist a sweet baby girl who shares your middle name? Then the second one came along some four years later and I was in love all over again. My claim to fame with her is the time I rescued her from the Great Flood of 1990.

Okay... a slight exaggeration on my part, but my sister-in-law was there.
She can back up my story even if nobody else believed us at the time.

I really do love being an aunt.

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And because I am who I am, I just can't fight the urge to not share these pictures as well. It's been quite a few years since the kids were this little, but some photos just make you smile.

I love being a mom, too.

What Valentine's Day Is Not...

a dozen roses.
a box of chocolates.
a mass-produced card.
a set of diamond earrings.
a heart-shaped balloon attached to a teddy bear.

Sure, all that stuff is sweet and makes us feel all tingly and special on the inside, but what about the other days of the year? I'm thinking about all those flat tires and mandatory oil changes and clogged drains and the hideous spider on the wall that the man in my life takes care of so I don't have to. Or the time a mouse was in our bedroom and the husband stuffed towel barriers under the doors and chased that little rodent with a broom until he triumphantly removed it (much to my delight) in the middle of the night. He battled slimy slugs in one house, got ambushed by smelly ladybugs trapped in a vent in another house. He's changed out fifty-year old sewer pipes and more nasty toilets than I can count on two hands. He put in a ventless gas log system because wood smoke makes my eyes burn. He tinted my car windows so I wouldn't be so hot in the southern heat.

Yes, he's given me all the above Valentine paraphernalia at one time or another in our nineteen years (minus the balloon and teddy bear combo; he's just not that kind of man). He surprises me with unexpected gifts every now and then (like my pink bike from last year), but most of the time, it's just those day-to-day tasks that remind me I am the special one in his life. You can't buy that feeling on any Walmart shelf. This year, however, I think my daughter must have got a hold of him because he presented me with flowers on Sunday, a card on Monday, and a pair of earrings Today. He got a hold of her right back, though, when she found a card with her name on it propped up on the computer desk this morning. You want to make any teenage girl feel special? Give her a card that unfolds to a big heart and signed by her daddy. I don't know what he wrote in there, but by the smile on her face... well, that man did good. Real good.

People either love Valentine's Day or they hate it. They either know the history of it or they don't. Doesn't really matter to me. Those flowers wilt and get tossed; the chocolate becomes something we have to battle later on. That spider, though? He knows not the day on the calendar.

I'm counting on my valentine to be prepared all year long.

Confetti Between My Toes

So the new year has begun. I'm exhausted already.

We stayed up too late with good times and good friends followed by the booming thunder of fireworks that popped and sparkled till well after midnight. The kids, most likely one in particular, covered the living room floor with confetti and had a horn blowing contest from the front porch with the people across the street. We still made it to church with time to spare this morning, had a filling lunch afterward that pretty much did me in, and drifted home with zero motivation.

The confetti is still on the floor.
The tree has yet to be undecorated.
And I think there may still be leftover (last night) pizza in a box on the counter.

I could really care less.

This is the last day of spring-like weather and windows wide open for at least a week or so. The wind is already starting to pick up bringing with it colder temperatures. I'm thinking all the mess that surrounds me will still be there tomorrow. A roast in the crock pot is sounding like a good plan. Of course, that means I'll have to find time to change out of these pajama pants to troll the aisles of the grocery store. That might be the biggest challenge of my day.

Life is pretty good, though, for this first day of January.
The message this morning was encouraging and timely.
And the Atlanta Falcons are off to a scarily awesome start.

Positive thinking, people.