Grow Up Already

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 15, 2015

My daughter, who has been out of high school for nearly a year now, is working as many hours as her employer will give her, and is furiously seeking a 40-hour a week gig, gets this question even more than a typical kid her age: “So, are you going to college?”  When she answers, “No,” it’s almost like throwing a bucket of ice water on the questioner. They stand there in abject horror at the prospect of her wandering around this big ol’ world without an “education”. Oh, the horror!

She handles it with grace every single time. I’d have already snapped and gotten snarky, but she just smiles sweetly and nods politely. She already has more life skills in that department than some gainfully employed adults out there. I know that people really do mean well, but folks, I have some big news that may not have occurred to everyone out there: college isn’t for everyone. In fact, I’ll add to that: growing up isn’t for everyone.

Her daddy and I worried that by graduating early she was going to grow up too fast. And while she is far more mature than most young adults her age or older, she is doing a fabulous job of enjoying her youth. She budgets her money, spends wisely, doesn’t party, shows up to work on time, goes above and beyond with virtually everything she does, is nice to small children and the elderly, is a sucker for cute puppies, and is more responsible about getting oil changes than her mother is. But she is also silly and sometimes forgets to turn off the coffee pot. She gets distracted playing with her pet mice sometimes and forgets to unload the dishwasher. She borrows my earrings and forgets to return them. She is a responsibly irresponsible young adult and while sometimes I get aggravated and think, “Is she EVER going to grow up??” I then take a step back and answer myself: “Man, I hope not.”

Just this past week our son applied to the Electrical Technology program at the vo-tech. At 16 he thinks he wants to be an electrician. But just a few months ago he wanted to be a child psychologist. Heck, he may pursue Underwater Basketweaving before it’s all said and done. The only thing we’ve ever told our kids regarding their futures is that whatever it is they decide to do, do it with everything in them. Be the best dogcatcher or chef or homemaker or doctor they can be. There’s a lot to be said for happiness and so many of us are so worried about being grown up, we forget to be happy. So whether my kids cure cancer or make sandwiches for a living, I just want them to be happy while doing it.

Because of her boyfriend’s schedule, Abby and her new beau had to celebrate Valentine’s Day a few days early this year. Paul was already in bed and I had just brushed my teeth when they got back from their “romantic” date. I heard them giggling as they walked through the dining room, stuck my head out the bedroom door to see the two of them, arm in arm, walking toward me with Groucho Marx glasses  complete with plastic nose and a nifty contraption that allowed them to blow giant plastic “snot bubbles” out of their giant fake noses. When they saw that I saw them, they both busted up in hysterical laughter and Abby said, “Mom! Are these not THE coolest things ever!?” I just nodded my head and thought, “Not really…. but you are, kid.”

We put far too much pressure on our kids to “grow up” when we all should be spending more time wearing silly glasses and forgetting to make our beds. My advice to everyone, no matter your age: Stay young, stay silly, chill out. Blow more snot bubbles. Okay, well, alright, not literally. Don’t do that. Please. At least not around me. 

'Tis the (flu) Season

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, on February 8, 2015.

Our son had his wisdom teeth removed last Wednesday. We left our youngest in the capable hands of her older sister while we took the boy to Joplin and back again (sans four teeth). We got home, got him settled in, and I no more than took a deep breath to center myself when here came my baby girl with this pitiful look on her face. “I feel bad. Like, real bad.” Her main complaint was a headache and I figured it was just stress over worrying about her brother (with whom she fights and fusses with almost hourly, yet adores him endlessly) so I told her to take some Tylenol and go lie down. By evening her throat was sore and she was running a low-grade fever. The kid is a strep magnet and I figured that’s what it was. She slept with me that night because she was whiney and pitiful and I’m a sucker when it comes to my kids being sick.

The next morning her fever was over 102 and she was just generally miserable. There were tears. It was awful. So I left the swollen and narcotically medicated boy in the still capable hands of the oldest sister so I could run the girl to urgent care. Typically we get in with little wait, but when we pulled in Kady groaned loudly at the number of cars in the parking lot. She felt so rotten by then and we were both hoping for a quick in and out. I mused that maybe they just had extra staff working. Wishful thinking: the waiting room was full. We found a spot in a corner and she pulled out her iPad and I, a book. I noticed she was pulling her shirt up over her nose and thought, “Aww…she is so thoughtful, she is trying to keep her germs to herself. What a sweet kid.” Then she sent me a text message that said, “The guy next to me stinks like a dirty butt. And my nose is stuffed up! It’s bad, Momma. Can we move please?” The only chairs left were over in the area closest to the toys, the area I like to call Viral Chernobyl. Or The Place We Don’t Sit Because It Usually Smells Like Poop and There Are Boogers On Everything.

This is where met an adorable little tyke with curly hair, a fetching smile, and, as his mother loudly announced, “a funky rash on his hands and feet.” Oh, holy antibiotics, Batman, the little fella was probably incubating a hefty case of hand, foot and mouth and he wanted to be my friend. And he licked everything. in. the. waiting. room. Except my daughter and myself. I gently placed my hand on his forehead when he came at us, tongue at the ready.

Fortunately we were called back soon after we moved, but only for them to swab her, then they sent us back out. Over the last 20 minutes of our wait there were a few times I saw spots because I had held my breath for too long.

When we finally made it to an exam room the nurse told us she was positive for Flu type B. Kady promptly busted into tears. The doctor hugged her. She got a script for the good codeine cough medicine and I think if she would have asked, Dr. A would’ve bought her a new car or at the very least, a puppy. I just bought her a Sonic slush and tater tots. And even though she was a veritable Petri dish of viral cataclysm, I let her sleep with me again that night. I also came perilously close to Vitamin C toxicity before her fever finally left five days later. I’ve also decided my new signature fragrance for the rest of the winter is Purell with a hint of GermX and some Lysol undertones.

Not So Super

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, February 1, 2015 

Every week the ad-matches are sent to me in an email. I always pay extra attention to the ads on shopping week and noticed there was an inordinate amount of soda, crackers, cheeses, Velveeta, RoTel, chips, hot dogs, and party type foods in the ads this week. I thought it was strange, because it’s not July 4^th, but then I remembered: this is Super Bowl weekend.

Or at least…I think it is.

I seem to remember a lot of football-ish type things showing up in my Facebook newsfeed and my kids have been talking about Katy Perry and wondering if she’ll have a wardrobe “malfunction” as others have in years past. I don’t pay much attention to such things. I don’t like football.

There. I said it. I live in Oklahoma and I don’t like football.

I don’t like a single thing about it. I attend one, maybe two, football games a year and only because my niece and nephew are in the band. I was our band’s drum major in high school and Mr. Medders would get frustrated with me because he’d be into watching the game, cheer for a touchdown, then realize that the band hadn’t struck up the school song – because his drum major was visiting with her neighbors, friends, and anyone else who would join in. We finally struck up an agreement that when they got close to the touchdown place he’d give me the high sign so I could at least put a pin in my conversations long enough to lead the band. When Mr. Wall became director my Senior year I had to train him as to my I-only-attend-football-games-because-I’m-forced-to ways and we worked out the same agreement as his predecessor.

Now that I am a recovering extrovert and don’t enjoy chatting as much as I once did, I just pretty much sit and sigh, shift uncomfortably on the bleachers, shell out concession stand money to my children and husband, and text anyone who will text back. If I had a smart phone I could at least play Words with Friends or something, but as it is, I just start down my contacts list and try to remember which of them won’t (willingly) be at a football game and thus be too engaged to text me back.

I don’t understand anything about the game. It has never made sense to me. I know that a bunch of dudes encased in plastic, foam, and spandex capri pants smash violently into each other over an oblong leather ball. I know that they get six points for a touchdown, one for a field goal, and three for “running it in”, whatever that means. I know that sometimes refs throw little yellow hankies on the ground and I am fairly certain those hankies have nothing to do with runny noses. The players touch each others’ rear ends a lot and coaches throw clipboards on the ground rather angrily at times. I have also seen the strange tradition of dumping a cooler full of iced Gatorade over the head of the coach at the end of a game, a behavior that baffles me because I know just how doggone expensive that stuff is. People in the crowd yell, “COME ON D!” and I wonder why A, B, and C are being left out. I have repeatedly asked someone to explain what “1^st and 10” means and no, the explanation of “1^st down with 10 yards to go” doesn’t help. Down where? Yards of fabric?  And if they need to “go” maybe they should ask the ref to throw down a hankie so they can have a potty break. It’s a foreign language I care not learn, thankyouverymuch.

So Happy Super Bowl Day to all you sportsy weirdos. We’ll chat again in March when I’ll be as mad as a hatter while I scream “DEFENSE, BOYS!”

Ohhhhh wait…..I just go that whole “COME ON D!” thing. Heh. Who knew. Anyway, go enjoy your cheese dip and your baffling ballgame. I’ll just be over here playing Words with Friends. 

A Woman My Age

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on January 18, 2015

I am swiftly approaching my 42^nd birthday. As in, so swiftly it’s mere days away. Aging is one of those things you really have no choice in. I mean, to be alive is to age. Wow, that sounded wise. Maybe it’s because with age comes wisdom. Again, profound. I’m on a roll!

Your first birthday is always celebrated because you’re cute and you smear cake everywhere. Turning five means Kindergarten is soon and the Tooth Fairy will start visiting. Turning 10 means you’re finally double digits. 13 ushers in the teen years. 16 means a driver’s license and a newfound freedom. Turning 18 is no big deal unless you just get really excited about voting – and gambling. Turning 21 is major if you like to partake of alcoholic beverages or would like to carry a concealed weapon. After that it’s pretty much a decade-by-decade big deal. You turn 30, you mourn the end of your 20’s – that carefree time of irresponsibility and perky boobs. You turn 40, and I’m finding that means you get to know your doctor better. My husband, who is 10 years my senior, says 50 is depressing and fat. Heck, I’m already depressing and fat, so I’m not sure if that means turning 50 will be a cinch for me – or if it means I’ll die.

I had called my dad last week to give report from my latest medical procedure and related all the woes of the visit. Basically, it boils down to this: I’m falling apart. And Dad only confirmed that by imparting this bit of wisdom on me: “Everything changes at the age of 40. It’s like you had a warranty and it suddenly runs out.” I have things drooping, sagging, slowing down, and some outright quitting on me.  I’ve been gray-headed since I was 28, so that hasn’t been a big deal. That one’s early-onset and hereditary for me, unfortunately. But the older I get, the more medical conversations begin with, “Well, for a woman your age…” It’s this constant monitoring of levels, concentrations, and counts makes me feel like a guinea pig in a laboratory. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful I have a nurse practitioner who cares about me and my health, but I guess I just wasn’t prepared for how sudden this change came on.

All in all, though, the reality is my health is actually quite well for a not-quite-42-year-old woman as portly as I am, but I just notice that lately I creak and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies in the morning. The kids get a large amount of amusement from watching me walk after I’ve been sitting awhile – seems that until I work out all the stiffness, I walk like my late Granny Glenn. I have found myself saying, “If I eat that this late I’ll be up all night.” You know, like your grandma used to say when you asked her to make popcorn for you to eat while watching Johnny Carson. My stylist does any amazing job of coloring my hair so the gray-camouflaging blonde lasts as long as possible, but she keeps hinting I may need to consider coming in more often than every six months. She’s amazing, but I probably shouldn’t put so much pressure on her. Also? I never knew how life-changing bifocals could be.

These days, I’m in need of more calcium, more sleep, more fiber, and more moisturizer. . I could power a small island nation with the energy that comes from a hot flash. The first thing I do when I open the paper is check the obituaries – to make sure I’m not in there. And while I’m thinking about it, some of those hot flashes make me wonder if those tabloid stories of spontaneous combustion have anything to do with being “a woman my age”. 

Bargaining for Cobbler

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on January 11, 2015

This past week was our first week back to school after Christmas break. To say we “eased” back into it would be an understatement. On Monday I had a medical procedure done that took longer than it would have for any normal person. Then I needed to pick up some groceries. The kids worked on school while I was gone, but by the time I got home I was exhausted and the math I had assigned kind of got … postponed. On Tuesday a homeschooling friend of mine and her kids came over for a visit. Coffee drinking and chatting was way more important (and fun) than math. On Wednesday, the youngest had an orthodontist appointment, but I declared that when I got home we WOULD do that math. Wednesday was really cold, remember? So yeah, when I got home I was chilled and grumpy, but absolutely determined to do math with both kids.

Then my son, who may have a future as a lawyer, began pleading his case about how our Christmas break was significantly shorter than many of his homeschooling compadres and how if we jumped into a full schedule so quickly there might be a fair amount of emotional trauma inflicted on their delicate psyches. His little sister was nodding her head in agreement, like a little bobble-head dog you put in the back window of your car. I wasn’t swayed even when they began batting eyelashes. But then, his next appeal hit just too close to my heart to ignore. “How about I bake that peach cobbler for you? I’ll trade you math for Home Ec!” And that’s where my walls came down. The last time he baked a cake, he was so stressed at the end he swore he’d never bake again and if that meant never eating cake ever again for the rest of his life, he was okay with that. I want all three of my kids to leave this house knowing their way around a kitchen and possessing some basic culinary skills. His offer was a breakthrough in my mind. We shook on it and I walked out of the kitchen.

He stood there with his jaw on the ground. “Uhhh…aren’t you going to like, help me?” he queried. “No. You made this deal. Happy ….uh, cobbler-ing, my little Keebler elf.” And then I went off to put my feet up and munch on some bon-bons. Actually, (after explaining what a Keebler elf was) I ran to my desk to put the final touches on my lesson for co-op class this week and thought very strongly about putting in some earbuds. Not for music, but to discourage questions and let him bake the cobbler on his own without my help. But then I remembered my first cake-baking experience at age 14 when Mom asked me to bake a cake for her to take to a church party. I had assured her I had it under control because I had like, a whole nine weeks of Home Ec I under my belt. She got home to find me bawling with a very gnarly looking cake sitting pitifully next to me. I didn’t want my 16 year old son to someday have to tell his therapist about the peach cobbler that scarred him for life.

He did ask a lot of questions, but he baked the cobbler on his own. I heard him doing a Guy Fieri impression at more than one point talking about how he pretty sure this cobbler was “gonna be off the chain” (even though he doesn’t even like cobbler). I also heard him give the baking powder a good old fashioned Emeril Lagasse “BAM!” into the bowl. He seemed to enjoy the experience this time and now I can rest easy knowing that his future therapy sessions won’t cover the topic of culinary abandonment maybe as much as the fact I likened him to a small fictional woodland creature that bakes goodies in a hollow tree.

Past, Present, Future

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on December 28, 2014

‘Twas the night before Christmas Eve and all through the house were four teenagers, a TON of noise, and the sounds of “A Swamp Christmas” on one TV and video games on the other.

Well, at least that’s how it was at my house.

I had cleaned the house from top to bottom all day and planned to spend the entire evening binge-watching “Dr. Who”, but at 5pm my husband announced that he needed a snack food for his department Christmas party. I swear to you, sometimes it’s like he’s a 2^nd grader who forgot to give me a note from his teacher a week ago. He pitifully said he’d just go get some Little Debbie cakes, but the crazy overachieving person inside me exclaimed, “Well, I never! He thinks he can just take store-bought cakes to a party and besmirch your good name! This will never do!”  One might think my inner me is dignified and speaks in a British accent. Truth be told, she is a haggard woman with flour smudges on her face, aching feet and very, very dry hands. And she sighs a lot. Pretty much, she’s a lot like the outer me.

I was out of vegetable oil for the cornbread. And I needed another cake mix and frosting for the cake balls my inner me insisted on crafting for my husband’s party. And we were nearly out of milk – I needed that for the potato soup for dinner AND Christmas morning gravy. So with a sigh I asked my husband to run to the store. I started the potato soup – but my daughter’s boyfriend and my son don’t like potato soup, so I started making hamburgers for them. Then my youngest daughter wanted me to teach her how to make cornbread. Another sigh escaped from the outer me.

After dinner (the cornbread was great, by the way) I started in on the cake balls. And as I stood in my kitchen listening to my three kids and the boy in love with my oldest daughter make an inordinate amount of noise while playing Dig Dug on the Playstation, I thought about Christmases past.

Paul and I had three Christmases without children. They were quiet, serene events. Then in 1996 we began our relationship with Ol’ Saint Nick and his yearly nocturnal shenanigans. Now gone are the days of tiny, sticky fingers and precariously constructed gingerbread houses. We sleep past 5am now. 

No one gets that excited about icing cookies anymore. They didn’t seem too preoccupied with the trees or presents under them these days either – there was no peeking and shaking and repeated threats to stop. touching. those. presents. All the trees have been decorated evenly and all the way around for several years now. We said good-bye to the days of us buying our own presents and sticking nametags on them from the kids. Now, with driver’s licenses and trucks, they did a lot of their shopping on their own. This is the first year I had no idea what I was going to open on Christmas morning. This year we scheduled family gatherings around work schedules and boyfriend’s family gatherings. And this year I didn’t threaten a single child with placement on the naughty list. This was our first Christmas in our new house after 13 in the last house.

I know that the time is coming that my little birdies will flit away from the nest and that will usher in the return of quiet, serene Christmases for who knows how many years. Then, with any luck and maybe a pinch of Duggar fertility (although with far less intensity) we will again have tiny, sticky fingers around the house. The ornaments will again be haphazardly placed on only one side of the tree and only as high as their little arms will go when they help decorate my tree.

Ebenezer Scrooge was haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past, present, and future. I, however, am not haunted by ghosts – I am merely reminiscent, exhausted, and hopeful. 

One to Another

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on December 21, 2014

Ephesians 4:32 says, “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you.” (KJV) As I sit here at my computer on a very quiet Friday morning, I am pondering the very idea of kindness.

A few weekends ago I had a humiliating experience at an area Walmart. I won’t go into detail, but let’s suffice it to say that the person who was the humiliator went way beyond where he should have with what I’m sure he thought were clever quips and “jokes”. However, to a momma on a limited budget every day of the year, Christmas is just simply a very financially stressing time. My father was two days away from having part of a cancerous kidney removed and I was scheduled to go out of town to be with him – my stress level was already maxed and threatening to exceed its limits anyway. I left the store in tears while he grinned at his cleverness. Why couldn’t he have just been kind?

Just yesterday my mom, sister, and I spent the day trying to finish our Christmas shopping. The three of us hadn’t had a day out together in….well, I couldn’t tell you because it had been so long. In the 13 hours we were in Joplin we saw a menagerie of folks, from all walks of life, in just about every demeanor possible.

We had doors held open for us – and doors left to close as we struggled to get stroller, bags, and selves out of the drizzling rain quicker. A few folks saw we had dropped a bag or box and stooped to pick it up and hand it back with a smile. As I was holding a pile of bags back in an attempt to avoid an avalanche of plastic and purchases, my sister was trying to shove a gigantic parcel into back of the car. A box slid out and hit the ground with a thump. I made eye contact with an approaching woman and smiled. She looked down at the box that had fallen, looked up at us doing a comical disaster avoidance drill, looked away and walked on like we had suddenly become invisible.

Once as I was again trying to keep bags from sliding onto the wet pavement and Sis was trying to gather up the three carts that we had just emptied, a woman saw Sis heading toward the door with the carts, opened the door as little as possible to slip in, then let it close, never looking back. I saw the incredulous look on my sister’s face,  but before either of us could exclaim our amazement, a woman with a giant smile quickly ran to the door to hold it open and wish my sister a Merry Christmas.

I have thought of the quote by Ian Maclaren quite a lot lately. “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” How often do we get caught up in our own struggles and schedules, worries and whinings and forget that there are others that have it worse than we do?

I am glad I didn’t lay into the young kid behind the register at Walmart. First, two of my kids were watching my reaction. Second, he was as well. While I probably should’ve held back my tears and instead spoke kind words, at least I didn’t call him the names that were bouncing around in my head. 

As I sat fuming in the car on the way home that night Mr. Maclaren’s quote nudged me gently. What if that kid had just gotten his butt chewed by a supervisor? What is his dad has cancer as well? What if his dog had been run over just that morning? I don’t know what his battles were that day, but his need for kind words from me was greater than my need to call out his rudeness. He was fighting his own battles.

So, all that being said, have a Merry Christmas, Constant Reader – and be kind, one to another.

15 Chocolate Chips

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on December 7, 2014

‘Tis the season to think about family, traditions, and the things that give us a big ol’ case of the holiday feels. I’m not particularly nostalgic as a general rule, but there is something about this time of year that even makes my Grinch heart grow three sizes on occasion.

As I type this, my kids are participating in one of their favorite holiday traditions: watching “Home Alone”.  I guess because this movie takes place around Christmas time it gets lumped into the Christmas movies, although, there is nothing about this movie that warms the cockles of my heart or makes me feel less Grinch-y inside. In fact, about the only thing that happens when I watch that movie is that I feel slightly more inclined to want to bash my head against a wall. Yet, my kids look forward to it being on ABC’s “12 Days of Christmas” television lineup every year. When I was a kid, our big thing was to watch the Bass-Rankin stop-animation classics like “Rudolph” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and “The Year Without a Santa Claus”.  The Peanuts Christmas special was cause for Jiffy Pop and hot chocolate. My kids got those movies on VHS when they were little and I guess we broke the magic by giving them access to them any time they wanted. Hmm…maybe I should consider buying “Home Alone” on DVD….

Up until this year, if you were to ask my kids what the most memorable part of the holiday season is at our house, they would answer: when Momma goes bonkers and starts griping while we drag out the decorations and trees until everyone is grumpy and usually Kady cries and then Momma goes to her room with the door shut for the rest of the evening. I’m not going to say that the past 13 years have been super duper shiningly loving and serene, but hey, it’ll be a hoot for them to talk about what a crazy person I was when it comes time for my memorial service.  Strangely enough, I didn’t raise my voice even once this year. It was nice. Weird, but nice. I think I’ll try it again next year. They seemed to like it.

 I bake all year around, but more so here at the holidays. From the time the kids were little, any time I made chocolate chips cookies I would set a pile of chocolate chips for each of them on the counter. It kept their little paws out of the dough and no one could say one got more than another. I always counted out 15 chips for each – enough to look like a ton to a child, but not enough to hype anyone up too much. Last week I decided to make cookies and the weirdest thing happened – no one was underfoot, no one asked to crack the eggs, no one asked to help stir, no one was even paying attention to the fact I was loudly crinkling the chocolate chip package in an effort to get their attention.

I carefully counted out 45 chocolate chips and divided them into three little piles. And then I hollered, “Kids!” I heard footsteps approaching the kitchen punctuated with some sighs and a grumpy, “Whatcha need?” I said not a word, just busied myself with dumping the remaining chocolate chips into the dough. When I knew they were all in the kitchen I stepped back from the counter and heard, “Yesssss!”, “Chocolate chips!”, “Hey, that’s MY pile!” as they scooped their treats into their hands. And boom, just like that, they were gone and out of my kitchen once again.

Then that big ol’ boy of mine snuck back in, kissed my cheek and said, “Really, Momma. Thanks.” And then one daughter came back in with a hug, then the other with a kiss and a squeeze. All over 15 chocolate chips. Yeah, those Christmas feels. They got me. 

A Pre-Thanksgiving Adventure

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on November 28, 2014 

Last Wednesday I had an eventful day. I try to cram as many things into a trip to town as possible because we live so dadgum far from everywhere. On that particular day I had a doctor’s appointment and I also had to pay a bill, renew my car tag, drop a Netflix disc in the mail, stop at Braum’s for my mother-in-law, and go to Walmart. Keep in mind this was the day before Thanksgiving. Yeah. Talk about an unfortunately-timed errand day.

The trip to pay the bill was completely uneventful (the only thing that day). My doctor’s appointment had one small adventure that my mother made me promise to not share with you in print, Constant Reader. Maybe it’s the fact that it involved a urine specimen cup. Seriously, though, if you run into me at Walmart hit me up for the story. It’s too good to not share – and frankly, it’s a great story told better in person anyway.

After the doctor’s appointment I went straight to the tag office to renew my tag on the ‘Rango. I had my renewal card, insurance card, and check ready to go when I stepped up to the counter. The woman who helped me displayed Ninja-like skillz as she took my documents and handed me my sticker all in about 30 seconds. Score. I was smiling as I ran into an adorable Spiderman, his little brother, and his mom as they, too, were on their way into the building to experience tag office nirvana. As I got into the car I remembered I had forgotten my grocery list on the fridge. I called my oldest and asked her to read it to me. As Abby was reading off “paper towels” she heard me ask hatefully “EX-CAH-USE ME??” I said that because at that precise moment a man opened my passenger door and started to get into my car. Bless his heart, he was as startled as I was and apologized profusely. Note to self: don’t forget your grocery list so you won’t have to sit in a parking lot to have it read to you and get not-really-carjacked by what appeared to be a really nice man.

After my hands stopped shaking, I (locked my doors) finished getting my list. Then I dropped the Netflix off at the mail box in the tag office parking lot and drove off toward Walmart. It wasn’t the usual mid-day crowd – there were more people, more teenagers, more frowns, more grumbling, more chaos. All-in-all, though, it wasn’t too bad. I did some pre-Christmas gift scoping-out and scored some four-packs of Play-Doh for $1.

After leaving Walmart I stopped at Braum’s to pick up a gallon of milk for my mother-in-law where the clerk told me they had sold 1,000 gallons of milk already that day – and I believed her. She giggled at my astonished expression, then apologized and said, “Well, maybe only a hundred…” Maybe the Walmart crowd addled me more than I had thought. I shook it off and decided I needed a Sonic Route 44 strawberry water to clear my head. Sonic was without power, so I had to wait a bit. Finally, everything was back online and with drink secured and sitting happily in my cupholder, I then headed out of town via the truck route.

A Miami police car pulled out behind me. As soon as I stopped at that first stoplight I saw him pick up his radio and I knew he was going to pull me over. After the second stoplight I thought that maybe I was wrong. Then he got me. For a burned out brake light.

So in the spirit of the holiday I was about to celebrate the very next day, I had but one thing to say about last Wednesday: I was thankful when it was over. Here’s hoping your Thanksgiving holiday was lovely – and far less adventurous. 

About a Boy

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record on November 25, 2014

As I write this, it is the wee hours of Thursday morning, November 20^th. It was right about this time 16 years ago that my husband and I arrived at Freeman Hospital. We had traveled mostly in silence, the quiet occasionally broken by, “Do you think he’ll look like Abby?” or “What color eyes do you think he’ll have?” The other would answer and the silence would resume. I was terrified. Not about the labor or delivery, but about the condition of my heart.

About halfway through the pregnancy with my son I was driving to Joplin with my mom. My then not-quite-two-year-old daughter was in the back seat, jabbering incessantly about probably nothing, kicking her little legs, and pointing at things out the window. Some question Mom asked about the baby, or how I was feeling, or maybe about the crib bedding prompted me to tears. She, knowing my propensity to bust out into random, unexplained crying, wasn’t all that surprised at all, but gently asked, “Kristin, what is wrong?”

It was then that I said the words I hadn’t been able to say out loud, but had been holding inside for months. With tears streaming down my face I said, “Mom, what if I don’t love him like I love Abby? I mean, I love her so much my heart is full. I already love him, don’t get me wrong, but…..how on earth can I ever love another child the way I love her?” By then I was sobbing, embarrassed that I had uttered such awful words. My mom, such a wise, wise woman, reached over and patted my leg as she said, “Oh, honey. You won’t love him like you do Abby. It will be different. But you really don’t need to worry about having enough love. A mother’s heart is equipped to do a lot of stretching. Of course, you feel like your heart is completely full with love for Abby, but here’s the thing – the second that baby boy is born, your mother’s heart will instantly grow so all the love you have for him can fit. Don’t worry, honey. You’ll have plenty of room.”

At 11:56am on November 20^th, 1998, a 7lb 7oz boy named Sam entered this world quickly, loudly, and dramatically. I think he was born right before the noon hour so he wouldn’t miss lunch – and he’s been eating constantly ever since. He was a screaming, dark-headed thing with a very crooked nose when he entered this world. The nose straightened itself out, but the screaming lasted for years. He was our second child, our first (and only) son. He ate voraciously, made a lot of noise, slept little.

Now at 6-foot tall, he likes to rest his arms on top of my head and state, “You’re short.” Ha. Yeah, that never gets old. If you ask him to do something for you it’s “Yes, ma’am” as he jumps to his feet. He loves to joke around and make stupid faces. It’s impossible to not laugh around this kid. He’s got a heart for God and a passion for helping others.  And when he gets tickled about something, his laugh is what makes my heart happy.

And Mom was right – like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that blessed day in November, 1998. There was no difference in how I felt about him and my worried, 25-year-old heart had plenty of room for two children – which was good, because little did I know my 28-year-old heart was going to undergo construction for an add-on just a few years later.

So, Happy Birthday, to my dear Sammy. And to all of you driving the streets of Miami and the surrounding area roadways: If you see a big red Durango with a license plate reading RDNKDVA and a zombie family and “STUDENT DRIVER” sticker on the back, well, wave first, then get out of the way. Whether it’s him or me driving, it’s probably just best you move.