Herdmanity

It took my kids 12 minutes tear through their gifts and make our living room look like a bomb went off at 5:30 am.  They opened every. single. package.  Even the gum - which was dried up and stuck to the bottom of the trash can that I later scraped out.  This is the first actual Christmas that we’ve been home as a family all day on Christmas Day.  Apparently, we have trained them to hurry so we can get in the car and leave.  Maybe we need to work on that.  And, because I didn’t know what to do with myself either, I started packing up the decorations - not everything - just a little garland and a couple of wreaths to give myself a little clarity.  I finished the takedown when we got back in town, except for baby Jesus.  I have a real hard time putting him back in the box.  So, for the last week, I have left him out to enjoy after the rest of Christmas is gone.  That’s the part I really like anyway - you can have your red and green and that dead tree, but give me a good nativity.  And, I’ve decided to keep a few reminders out this year.  Couldn’t hurt and I think the rest of the mess really gets in the way of what matters.  

Among the other events this season, Kate and I stole a Sunday afternoon out to see “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever” at one of the local theaters.  It’s one of my favorite stories - I remember my mother loving it too and reading it to her class every year.  It’s a lovely story of the Herdmans who sabotage the church’s perfect Christmas pageant with their raw and uncensored lack of baby Jesus knowledge.  The church people are appalled and judgmental the poor Herdman kids who just want the free food.  But, somewhere in the middle of the chaos and they figure it out and can’t help but be mesmerized by the miracle.  

I think I love the Herdmans so much because I can relate.  My people look more like Herdmans than church people most of the time.  I watch as other people’s kids say “cheese” on command and when I try to take a single picture of my kids in front of the Christmas tree at church, they are pinching and hitting like a bunch of nuts.  Right in front of the sanctuary.  One day during the break I was working from home and as I typed, our puppy was pulling Kate in circles around the kitchen table by her footed pajamas.  And, nothing beats Bailey training the dog to howl using an air-horn app on the iPad.  In addition to the usual, “did you brush your hair, teeth, flush, etc.?”  I’ve said things like, “take off the roller skates before you go up the stairs,” “I don’t think the dog likes being pick up by his neck,” “no, you cannot shoot the BB gun at the fence,” and, “how did you not see the mud until after you were rolling on the ground?”  We’ve done our best to entertain with movies, outings, and friends, but after some particularly challenging moments, I officially declared to Stephen that I was out of parenting about mid-day on Saturday.  Fortunately, they survived the next 12 hours with little guidance and I am happy to report that they are still alive. 

But there’s another thing about the Herdmans that I really like.   They come with no expectations, no pre-conceived notions of how Christmas should be, and yet they give more to the story than everyone else.  We all watch at how everyone else is on their best behavior, continuing on with their rehearsed lives, and the Herdmans, with their dirty clothes and filthy mouths stumble upon a miracle - the same one that He gave to everyone else.  So, as I think about the new year and what I’d like to accomplish, I remember the Herdmans.  I think about how imperfectly perfect my children are and how completely imperfect and inadequate I am.  I vow to enjoy how unrehearsed they are and how I can laugh with them as they navigate through a world where expectations vary in every direction.  I think about how even when I miss the boat, and have to apologize, they still climb in my lap and have unconditional love - because that’s the boat I didn’t miss.  I will continue to try and prepare them for this world by explaining why it is important to say thank you and I’m sorry, wear pants in the winter, exposing them to the tough and uncomfortable, explaining why dry erase markers should not be used to decorate clothes or furniture, why coating a toothpick with wax or a band-aid will not prevent it from catching on fire, and why some people will always have more/less stuff/opportunity/fun activities than they do, but never more love.  I will use lines like, “if so and so jumped off a bridge, would you?” and “it’s hard to put the toothpaste back in the tube.” (thanks, Mike).

I intend to take the time to reflect before I react.  I’m not one to set lofty goals because so much of my life has been consumed with survival but I think I can handle reflection.  And, maybe in the midst of it, I can teach my children to do the same - reflect on what you have, reflect on what you have to give, reflect on what the cost will be to yourself and others, before you react rather than tearing through life like gifts on Christmas morning.  Now, we won’t get this right all the time but I’m giving it a shot. 

A week from today will mark the 10 year anniversary of my gift of motherhood.  It is without a doubt the single greatest gift that God gave - to me, to Mary, to the world.   Motherhood has fueled my survival, my sense of humor, my tenacity, and my capacity to love beyond what I could imagine.  God knows what you need and He prepared this tool for me way before I knew it was a tool.  I’m leaving baby Jesus out of the box - at least one, probably the one with the broken arm - as a gentle reminder of my humanity, my Herdmanity.  After all, Jesus loves the Herdmans just as much.

Happy New Year! 

Love, 

The Herdmans. I mean, the Jessops.

Our coconut cake adventure.  I enlisted expert help from my lovely and nearly perfect Aunt Wilma.

Bailey's book from his party book swap.  A good sense of humor will carry you far.

Christmas Party Kate

Four.

Seven months is what the statistics read.  
Four years is where I am.  

Four years.  

I just read my first journal entry from four years ago - actually 3 years and 11 months because that’s when I got the guts to write it down.  I realize that I didn’t start from the beginning.  And, since the beginning is just as miraculous and adventurous as the rest, it seemed like a proper time to share.

There’s a handful of folks who remember this day four years ago - where they were and what they were doing.  For me, it would be my first of many attempts at trying to keep a calm exterior to hold in the Jello inside.  I handed my 5 year old a Lego set from the Target check out I had stashed to keep him occupied so I could process.  I poked a pacifier into my drooly little 2 year old’s mouth so she wouldn’t whine because I couldn’t possibly handle it.  The entire earth was spinning but my world had come to a complete standstill.  I don’t know if they ate that night but I somehow got through bedtime and curled in ball and sat without sleeping for the next 24 hours.  I looked at my life without me in it and didn’t like what I saw.  I tried to imagine how I could possibly teach my children what they needed for life in the next seven months.   

My first visit to a cancer clinic is forever imprinted.  They took my picture, took my blood, stuck a needle the size of a coat hanger through my lower back, and attempted to take my dignity with it.  It was like airport security - sitting elbow to elbow with other cancer people, removing clothes, the pat-down, waiting for the next step to xray your luggage, but instead of looking at the contents of your suitcase, you’re looking at your insides and counting your tumors on the screen wondering how that even happened.  I left with the words, “This is not good, but it doesn’t have to be hopeless” and instructions to go home, pray, and find somewhere else to get treatment.  Not only did I get bad cancer but I got bad cancer with no good treatment options and absolutely none in this town. Nice.

And here’s where it started to get good.  Well, the good part can only be seen in reflection, but it is very good.  My first appointment with Vanderbilt was January the 5th - a month away. When you’ve got that many tumors floating around, yesterday is not soon enough and a month is enough time to spontaneously combust - if not from cancer, from anxiety.  We started with the clinical trial website from the US government and called every cancer treatment center in the US with anything promising or open.  I was not mentally prepared to spend months in California or New York away from my children but I prayed for an open mind and assurance that our decision would be the right one.  

Everyone pointed us to MD Anderson in Texas so Stephen set his sights on that and sweet talked some lady into an appointment on December 27th at 8 o’clock in the morning.  That Christmas will certainly never be forgotten.  We booked last minute flights on the busiest travel day of the year in what would be the middle of a winter storm.  The beginning of God’s provisions poured in and our travel expenses were completely covered.  We did a good fake imitation of Christmas for our kids, but mostly we all sat around on staring and waiting for Monday.  And, while everyone was taking down their tree and watching their kids play with their new Christmas toys, we were on a plane to get after some tumors.  

The trip was nothing if not one comedy of errors after another.  The fear, exhaustion, and impending doom got the best of me and I took that opportunity to check out.  I was absolutely no help to Stephen who thankfully was in control.  We got off the plane in Atlanta and walked by the window and both commented on how it was snowing, then sat down for our connecting flight.   It was canceled.  Of course it was.  Stephen looked at me for signs of panic and got nothing.  Considering what I was facing and what I left at home, I was kind of ok with sitting in the airport.  He was apparently not after all of his work to get me the appointment and I am assuming won us a seat on another flight because my dramatic cancer story trumped everyone else’s need to get to work the next day.  We landed in Houston at midnight - in a different airport on the other side of town.  We rented a car and because he’s awesome, he pulled his GPS out of his suitcase and drove us an hour to the hotel.  

The appointment was equally as awesome as the trip there.  We walked through the main lobby of MD Anderson and were totally creeped out.  I met the nurse, she asked about my symptoms, and wanted a recap of the last 16 days. She was not exactly upbeat.  Her comments were “well, it’s not everywhere, so you’ve got some time” and “It’s a tough battle but some people do better than we think they will.”  I would have bolted right there if I could get to my clothes. The doctor came in and reviewed my case, explained the trials he had which equalled about one that I could possibly do anytime soon or another option of biochemotherapy which I interpreted as, “we’ll try chemical warfare on your body and let’s just see who wins.”  And, the icing - you’ll need a brain MRI before we can do any of this.  Of course I do.  I’ve managed to have cancer 16 days before somebody realized they haven’t looked at my brain.  I immediately got dizzy and had a headache.  

The MRI was scheduled for the next morning and there was some talk about biopsies and consents which I think in the end, we might have left before we got to that part.  We spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the sea of people in a shopping mall in the midst of after Christmas sales and trying to process the information we had just heard.  We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant because that’s all there was in that town, and we went to our hotel where I had a complete and total meltdown about what someone might think be going on in my brain.  Stephen told me to take a sedative and go to sleep.  So, I did.  That’s when the hotel caught on fire.  Literally.  There were firetrucks and sirens and a full evacuation of people in their pajamas standing in the parking lot.  We sat in our car for an hour and a half, freezing.  Unbelievable. This is how God likes to speak to me - loud and clear.  

The next morning, I got my first ever brain scan, put my jewelry on, and didn’t pass go.  We headed to the airport 5 hours early because we had no where else to go and didn’t want any more Mexican food or medical advice.  And, that’s when I saw the boot.  The big boot in the sky, that is.  I told Stephen to take a left and because he was now afraid to ask, he did.  “Pull over, I’m buying some boots.” Maybe it was my crazed eyes, but he just said he’d wait in the car.  I’m sure he was becoming even more concerned about the brain scan after this incident.  I walked into 10,000 square feet of Wranglers and boots.  I picked out a pair of Tony Lama’s with little stars on the side - it was after Christmas so there were only two choices in my size.  I bought them, put them on, and threw the box away in the parking lot.  Goodbye Texas, hello boots.  

The short of it is, my brain was fine.  Still is, most days.  I rescheduled my Vandy appointment to exactly the same day that it was in the first place but with a different  doctor, my doctor, who agreed to see me on an off-clinic day only because his oncologist friend in Houston that I had just met, asked him to.  It was the first of many ways God would provide assurance and peace and the first of many realizations that this would never be quick, cut and dry, or in any way easy.  My first meeting in Vandy was different, maybe because it was the third time I’d heard it in a month, but mostly because it was right.  

It was foreshadowing for dummies.  God would say, “Hey, this is what it could look like” and then give us what we’ve got.  My first oncologist could have tried to treat me here instead of shipping me out.  I could have been in Texas for a month at a time, or for weeks a time, but instead I was 3 hours away - day trips that began and ended with seeing my kids.  I could have struggled with which trial to pick, but instead, He closed it at exactly the time I had to make the decision, leaving me with one choice. After that failed, He opened the door to another choice.  And, when I ran out of choices, He took care of the rest.  I could have been paralyzed.  Or worse.  But instead, He put the tumor just on the edge of my spinal cord so it could be removed.  I could have had other leukemias, but He gave me one with a drug to treat it.  I could have had invasive squamous cell or more melanoma but I got a nose job.  The drugs could not have continued to work.  But, they did.  They do.

And, as for the boots.  I wore them proudly.  Still do.  To every appointment, to every scan.  With hospital gowns, to church, wherever.  They are not magical by any means but they did hold me up a time or two.  They might be a little powerful, like a cape.  They make a little clicking noise on tile cancer floors that lets people know I’m coming.  Their heels make me stand a little taller.  The verses on the bottom remind me to repeat what I know is true - the Lord will fight for me and He has plans for me.  And, really they just look cool - even cooler now that they are broken in.   They were definitely the best thing that came out of Texas.  

So on this day, I will celebrate.  For a life that is more than promised, more than deserved.  For the 5 games of Uno that I played with my kids before bed last night, and the little boy who is now almost 10 but got out of his bed to kiss me goodnight one more time.  For the picture I took last week of my husband taking my little girl to a dance where she spent more time waiting in line for candy than dancing.  For the school plays, the choir programs, the constant dialogue of this and that, the animal facts, the jokes from a developing sense of humor, the made-up dances, the obsession with the SEC, the persistent husband with the tattoo of my name, and for the Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cake that I put my four candles in.  

I will celebrate four years.

Happy Cancerversary!

latest caring bridge post

latest caring bridge post

what thirty-seven looks like...

“How old are you?”

Thirty-Seven.  

“I’ve got ties older than that.”
One of my favorite quotes from my daddy.  He’s said it all my life and I think I might need to go clean out his tie closet but it always makes me laugh. 

There were moments in my life when thirty-seven seemed unattainable.  There were moments when I’m sure I thought thirty-seven was on the older side.  And, now I think thirty-seven is just grand and maybe slightly young.  But, young is a relative term.  The thirties in general are deemed too young to do a lot of things such as have cancer or lose a parent.  And they are also deemed too old for a lot more things like wearing leggings as pants, throwing tantrums in public, and hanging out in college bars.  I looked down at my wrist 4 years ago and saw an armband stamped 33 with my name on it and a diagnosis that pointed more toward subtraction of years than adding.  I was definitely too young for all of this.  

I got a very interesting phone call the other day that kind of jarred me into thirty-seven.  

“Mrs. Jessop?”
Yes?
“You participated in a research study at Vanderbilt a couple of years ago and we periodically need to update our data.”
Yep.  Sure did.
“Well, I was just calling to see, um....well, if you are still alive.”
Yes ma’am.  The last time I checked  I mean, I would actually say very much so since I answered your call.
(awkward laugh and silence)
“Well, thank you.  And, I’ll call back in about three months to check on you again.”
Ok, great.  Well, I hope I answer.

So many thoughts on this conversation:  a) you might want to think about tweaking your script a little b) I’m guessing I’m the only one of my friends that gets phone calls like this, and c) I really AM very much alive.  

In honor of this poor sweet lady who clearly volunteered (let’s hope she wasn’t getting paid) to make phone calls to see if the study participants still have vitals, I thought I would summarize the way I look at life at thirty-seven:

1. I live completely and totally by the Serenity Prayer.  The accept part sometimes comes after thinking I might could change it and trying but still I’m faster at accepting and have a better attitude
2. I wonder why jeans were ever made without 2% spandex so you can squat down.  
3. I buy fruit snacks, Pop Tarts, and Oreos because they are good and I like them.  I also can't resist a pronto pup. 
4. My prayer request list is full of people with cancer and people who have lost a parent or sibling and while I’m thankful that I’m not on the list, I grieve and empathize as I pray for them because I’ve been there.
5. There is an exact replica of a salamander in my car that is riding in the floorboard.  I see it all day long and he looks real and like he’s riding there and hanging onto the carpet.  I don’t move him because he makes my think of my son and how he would catch him if he was real. 
6. I tell my kids that life is not fair, that someone else always has more, and that they ALWAYS have more than someone else.  And, if they question that, I drive them to the parts of town where I work. 
7. I hold a small warm puppy that I got for my kids but realize that he is really mine to mother and that he better be glad he’s cute when he wakes up and poops on my floor.  
8. I spend the afternoon of my 37th birthday in a pile of magazines cutting out pictures for a fourth grade novel project, hours hot gluing tiny marshmallows to styrofoam to look like an igloo, and another hour collecting items for a lake habitat that will fit inside a shoebox and will surely be saved forever under someone’s bed.  
9. I ride in the passenger side of our jeep on the way to watch our son play baseball, and catch a glimpse of my signature on my husband’s wrist and know that he really is my favorite person and my biggest fan. 
10. I purposefully expose my kids to differently-abled people so that they learn to be sensitive to their needs and to give them empowerment and not fear.
11. I spend $6.99 on hair dye in the grocery store because I saw grey hair that probably came from trying to figure out how to get my son to love reading and my daughter to spell correctly, or maybe just thirty-seven. Besides, $8.99 was highway robbery.
12. I have no less than 10 hand made birthday cards displayed all over my house made by my precious little girl because she loves to draw and loves her mommy.  They even have turkey hands because I love those too.
13. I schedule my oncology appointments around my vacation, not my vacation around my oncology appointments.  
14. I have at least 10 people that I could text and they would drop what they are doing and help my family, anytime, any day and I would do the same for them.
15. I used to be embarrassed of the fanfare of blowing out candles in a public restaurant, but now I pack my own candles, my own personal cake, AND a lighter, because, IT’S ON.
16. I’m driving down the road and find myself crying for a few minutes on my 37th birthday because I wonder what my mom would say to me today.  I almost hear her and can see her walking through my door with the chocolate cake with chocolate nut icing, from scratch. 
17. I look at my daughter and see my exact profile and look at my son and see my exact eyes.  I give thanks for who they are and that they are mine.  
18. I still think Hootie and the Blowfish is good music and at 37, I am one inch from the stage, singing every word to every song and catching picks from the band.  My ears ring for 2 days because I’m 37.  
19. I volunteer in my daughter’s classroom every week to listen to children read.  She hugs me no less than 6 times while I’m there.  It’s worth my time.
20. I am not afraid to lay it out there.  Even the ugly stuff.  Everybody’s got it. 
21. I would likely get the same satisfaction from 30 minutes of alone time in Target with a Starbucks as I would an island getaway. 
22. I meet people everyday who are struggling.  I remember my own struggles and how no one could ever see all the way through me, and no one knows what I encountered before I saw them that day but it’s not their fault, and how I don’t know what others have encountered.  I think of this when they check me out at the grocery counter, sit by me in the hair salon, or before I knock on their door.  Everybody’s got something. 
23. I am still trying to figure out what kind of mom I am because it’s not a dance mom, play mom, baseball mom, or Disney mom.  
24. A guitar and an amp are pieces of furniture at my house.  I have more of them than furniture but they are a lot louder. 
25. There are a million fingerprints on my back door from the million kids that come in and out of it everyday.  As I clean it, I remember when they were all on the bottom half and now I have to clean the top half too.
26. I wonder if I’ve gotten to the point where random people see me they ask each other, “Isn’t she the girl with all that cancer?”
27. I give thanks for the scars.  They gave me life.
28. I set entertainment expectations low for my kids.  This way, they are pleasantly surprised when things are extra fun but mostly I’ve learned that they prefer simple over grand and time over money.
29. Research is not just about sitting in a lab.  It’s about saving people’s lives. I get it.  
30. If I were to sit in the smallest chair in my home at any given moment, both of my children would still try to sit in it with me.  
31. I ask myself how much it matters before I say yes.  Or no.  
32. Box macaroni is still good.
33. I know that sometimes cute earrings can completely change your day.  And your outfit. 
34. I am totally entertained by life, the people in mine, and the people that make it happen.  
35. I can’t live without text messaging.  It allows multi-tasking, an outlet for one-liners, and my coordination has greatly improved.  
36. I know that God really does have a sense of humor.  Or I do, and I’m comfortable enough to laugh at all of this mess. 
37. On my 37th birthday, I got gifts, cards, well wishes, cakes, messages, candles, and singing voicemails, but nothing compares to the silent high five that my God gave me and whispered, “You made it.  We made it.” 

This is Thirty-Seven. 
Thirty-Seven is good.

“You don’t have to live forever, you just have to live.” - Tuck Everlasting (from my fourth grade novel project). 

KJ

My mom at 37.  Lovely.

Blame the Mayans

I remember fourth grade like last week.  Because, it was. Only this time, I’m 36 with 2 kids, a job, a husband, a house to clean, and bills to pay while I cook dinner and try to figure out what exactly the Mayans did for us.  By the way, it was calendars - they had calendars, and they watched the sun move to see what time it was and knew a lot about math.  So, the Mayans are to blame, really, for the rows of days we live by, filling the squares with this and that, and taking kids here and there according to what the square says.  

They’re back in school - Glory to God in the Highest, and blessed are the poor in spirit all at the same time.  I’ll openly admit that I rejoiced on day one.  The reasons are many.  I had completely had it with watching them lounge in front of Disney channel with ratty hair and too short shorts.  I was tired of hearing the pantry door slam 20 times an hour before dinner, and very tired of the “everyday is Saturday.” mantra.  But, one hot day in August, those kind people in the public schools opened their doors to stimulate my children’s brains and bring back the order.  I am grateful.

However, the shift from nomadic life to blue collar worker comes as a bit of a shock.  I’m stirring dinner with one hand and calling out spelling words while making sure that the one has been appropriately borrowed.  We are full-on, full-speed, knee-deep into school, schedules, and calendars.  And, about every other day, Kate still asks, “do we have to go to school this day?”  There are things I have not missed - the folders, the papers, 2 sets of sign up sheets, please signs and returns, and please reads, and don’t forgets.  It all came back to me on the first Tuesday when I saw those green folders.  The anxiety over the stacks to sift through - to keep, to toss, and the unsure pile.  I undoubtably will toss a keeper so the unsure pile just grows.  It’s so confusing.  There’s the signing - one needs papers signed, both need agenda books signed, one needs conduct signed or my kid will do the walk of shame to sign the book and advertise the mom fail of the night.  

Then it’s on to the first grade spelling.  Mercy.  As soon as I laid eyes on the “challenge list” the first time I knew we were in trouble.  I tried to find common ground in the rules of grammar with no avail.  “Take” has a “k” but “picnic” and “attic” have “c’s,” and “blonde” has an “e” on the end because it just does.  We’ve done all the computer games, mock spelling tests, write the words 3 times each, and she STILL spells them how she wants to every single time.  Spelling with Kate is a lot like Groundhog Day.  Next, I sit down with a math worksheet and a boy and try to help figure out how many ways other than the right way you can get the answer to 4 times 6.  After a quick glance at the “suggested” websites to enrich learning, it’s time for multiplication timed drills, study guides, and we head to bed for the 20 minutes of required reading.  No wonder so many schools are failing.  

When the lights are out, I clean out the backpacks for anything I missed and to make room for the next day’s paper piles and find treasures like these...

"Bracelets are fun to put on and other jewelry."

And this one:

Apparently, they were were making safety posters.  Note that the box is not checked with approval by the teacher.  Later that night, she said, "Never cross the street without an adult....hmmm, I should have used that one.  It's way better than never jump on your mom."

This child is definitely beating her own drum.  She is also a self-appointed expert on the countries of Africa and India.  “Did you know that Rumanda has a lot of people?  It is a city in Africa.  There are lots of nice things there.  The people there have jobs and they are happy.”  All of this information is coming from the pages of Tina Fey’s book while I’m standing in a store return line.  She swears she speaks 3 languages.   

There’s this conversation:

“I can speak other languages.”

me:  “Really?  What do you speak?”

“I know African and Indian.”

me:  “Oh, is that right?  Where did you learn those?”

“Well, you know, I’m from another planet than you.” 

me:  “Really?  What planet are you from?”

“Well, I’m from Africa, then I moved to India but I got tired of that so I moved to Nashville and now I live in Germantown.”  

“Interesting.”

And, the boy - so many growing pains in fourth grade.  He’s no where close to grown or responsible but it’s the age where you realize that he’s closer to middle school than kindergarten and you are torn between doing it all for him and letting him figure it out.  It’s semi-painful to watch the turmoil but you realize it will be more painful later if you don’t let him flounder a little now.  So, you start having real and honest conversations about choosing friends, things in life that aren’t fair, and how adults sometimes act like children.  On the one hand, you are thrilled when logical decisions and observations come out of his mouth but on the other, you want to be sitting on the couch with his chubby legs wrapped over yours naming the trains in the Thomas the Train catalog.  

As happy as I was to know they were back in school with friends, structure, and brain stimulation, I will admit to being a tiny bit sad on the first day when I went upstairs to make their beds and pick up toys.  The sheets were still warm from their interrupted sleep and Kate’s dollhouse had furniture spilling out on the carpet lawn from their “picnic” from the day before.  Bailey’s legos were on the floor and my iPad was on the Sports Authority website.  I just left it.  Because, a few short hours they would return, with all new information about who they sit next to and who they didn’t see all summer, who had a weird haircut, and what color shoes everybody had on.  And, I would realize all over again that it really is a gift to watch them grow and change and to know that by the end of the year one will read well and the other will be writing short stories and doing long division.  Both will see their friends every day without me having to arrange it, she will continue to so her own thing, and he will automatically take on the responsibility of looking out for her, and she will be both thrilled and annoyed that he tells her what to do.  

If you are me, you give yourself a high five each time you walk your kids to a new school grade and count your blessings as you count the steps into the building.  You remember when those lanky legs could barely be seen between the shorts and the ankle socks and when that mouth that’s sounding out new words was holding a pacifier.  You choke up when you see your daughter march down the hall to audition for the school play because you know she’s got more confidence than you ever did, and when you son gets an award because someone besides you thinks he’s terrific.  You call out spelling words for the 10th time this week and dig deep into the culture of the Mayans,walls of plant cells, and common core, because you made it to first grade and fourth grade, one more time.  

My favorite "kindergarten ready" picture

First day. 2011.  The magic was over in kindergarten.  He's terrified, and she's carrying a baby doll.  

 First grade Bailey and first grade Kate.  Note the stark contrast in my children. 

First day, 2010. 

She insists on a backpack to walk him in and can hardly wait 2 more years for this.  

First day, 2014.  

He is making sure she looks ok to be seen with him and she's trying to get ahead of him.  

2014

Just after they've left - the remnants of homework, paper signage, breakfast, baseball practice, and my keys that I won't be able to find later.  

for the Carport Queen

For my entire life, I remember having what my mom referred to as a "carport sale."  It is now referred to as a garage sale, I assume because here in suburbia we all have garages that close up over our cars and back in Mississippi, we had a carport that was open to wave at the neighbors.  This is certainly better in my opinion as much of my young life involved time spent under a carport - eating watermelon, shelling peas (watching other people shell peas), swinging (because good carports have swings), talking, and listening to it rain in a fold out lawn chair, something my daddy considers as sacred as a national holiday.   I learned very early to appreciate this activity. 

But, at my house, the carport was used several times a year for a sale.  And, people I'm going to tell you that my mama knew how to do it.  My parents even built a carport onto the house that I grew up in because it didn't come with one.  It had an attic above it and she would climb those pull down stairs 2 or 3 times a year and drag out whatever in the world she had down to that carport to sell.  My daddy would tie twine along the sides of the posts of the carport for a clothing rack and there she'd go.  She had plywood boards over boxes for tables, a sharpie, and a roll of masking tape and we'd go to town pricing stuff.  She'd send daddy to McDonalds because cooking was out of the question and she couldn't leave "the sale."  Sometimes my little 10 year old self would be left to watch "the sale" while she went inside for a minute and I'd get worried that I would have to start naming prices, especially when it was stuff my daddy had pulled out like vehicles, riding mowers, or old tires.  We'd have random people trying on clothes in our house, stuffing their feet into shoes that were way too small, and the whole time my mama was telling them how great they looked in so-and-so, and how they really needed to buy the navy blue one too.  And they did.  If they asked how much something was, she said, "oh, a dollar," or "I'll take a dollar," or "how 'bout a dollar."  And, at the end of the day, the woman would have several hundred dollars and what was left, she'd send my brother back up those pull down stairs to save for the next "sale."  

Today I had my own sale in my garage with a couple of friends and ironically it happened to coincide with Carport Sale Queen's birthday.   I pulled stuff down from the attic, stickered it, hauled it, displayed it, moved it, priced it, and moved it some more.  I found myself arguing about $3 for candlesticks with some old man in a Mercedes.  Guess that's how he got it.  At the end of the day, I still don't hold a candle to her but I did make a little money and other people had to haul off my junk.  The city kept taking our sign so we had to alternate people sitting down at the end of the street holding up the sign - we figured it was harder to move people.  Dang codes.  We got lots of compliments on creativity and some people stopped just because of our sign models, one which was my husband.  The difference in me and my mama is that at the end of the day I had Stephen haul it all to Goodwill because I'm not taking it back up to save for another "sale." Carport Queen, you can have that one.  I'm one and done.

The kids an I celebrated the rest of mom's birthday with our balloon send off.  I started this tradition a few years ago as a way to help hang onto memories and talk about things she liked.  Kate was really into birthdays, and parties, so perfect.  Birthdays are happy, birthdays have balloons, birthdays have parties.  I like to keep it simple.  We've really enjoyed this and it's something the kids are starting to look forward to.  The first year was the beach, because we happened to be there and because she LOVED the beach.  Last year, I let Bailey pick and he picked the baseball field where he played Coach Pitch because we all know she would have been at all the games she could.  Perfect.  And, well this year, we had a plan but it got a bit derailed after the "sale" but I think it turned out perfectly.  They picked their Uncle Ed's who has a fantastic yard full of treasures and a pool.  It was 97 degrees.  These kids are brilliant.  

They picked red balloons this year in honor of Nana's favorite color.  It never fails that every year the ladies at Kroger ask if we're having a party and I tell them, "well, yes we are."  We actually managed to make it to the said destination without popping or losing one this year.  We were looking for the perfect spot when I spotted the big ole chicken.  No doubt that was it.  My mama loved a chicken.  She decorated her farmhouse with rooster lamps, canisters, and other Southern farm apparel.  They were tasteful chickens, and really who doesn't love a good old egg laying bird.  She even had a Vera Bradley bag in a chicken pattern that she kept important papers, medicine, catalogs, that she needed to carry with her.  Reference was made to "my chicken bag" whenever I asked where some so-and-so was.  With that big chicken as our backdrop, they sent off those birthday balloons.  Well, sort of.  One kind of got stuck in the tree and a hummingbird tried to eat it.  Nobody freaked out so I figured we'd all come a long way.  I'm sure a big gust of wind will eventually send it on its way.  

After all, somebody's always late to the party.   

Mom's 60th birthday 2008.
Notice that she's nowhere near or interested in the cake, yet completely delighted in
holding Kate and watching her grandsons blow out her candles. Also, note the rooster lamp
directly behind her head.
She was never late to the party. 

Since I'm late to the blogging party, I included our last 2 years of videos too.  This is where I realize how big my kids are.  Look at their itty bitty legs barely sticking out of those shorts on the first one!  

Bless the nest

Earlier this week I spent four hours in the dark.  Life was going along just great.  Disney channel blaring, clothes in the washer, dishwasher running, leftover chicken in the oven, 2 out of 4 using the wi-fi, lights ablaze all over the house.  The wind blows and the lights go out.  Shoot. 
My people freak out.  The dog vibrates, the kids look at the radar on my iPhone.  The questions start. “What will we do if it doesn’t come back on?”  “We can’t even watch TV!”  “What will we eat?” “There’s nothing to do!”  This was in the first 30 seconds.  
I see the wind start blowing, Stephen and I lower the umbrella and then watch the wind blow our 20 trees.  I stand at the door fielding the questions but my mind goes to the mama bird and her nest in my fern in my backyard.  I remember that she flew out when we walked outside.  To occupy his mind I tell Bailey to keep an eye on the fern and our baby birds as it sways back and forth like a pendulum on the arbor.  I wonder if I should intervene and take it off the hanger or just leave it alone.  I imagine how silly I would look out there holding a fern steady in the middle of a storm and think of how my mom always said not to interfere with nature so I let it swing.  I wonder if the mama is in it and if she’s gripping her little bird feet tight to the nest she had built or if she is watching from the fence and hoping her nest would sustain the rocking so those egg babies don’t roll out.  I think about how I’m certain I’m the only one thinking about baby bird eggs right now.  
We all pack up in the car to go to a restaurant across town where they have lights and warm food.  We see friends and all talk about how they too had to go out because of no power.  Tragic.  We return home with our bellies full and our house dark.  Stephen gets on his iPhone with 3G.  I light candles, get a flashlight and sit down with my stack of magazines.  Glorious.  No laundry - can‘t do it, can’t even see it.  I read an article on Sheryl Crow surviving cancer and living with a brain tumor, 3 broken engagements, 2 adoptions, a bunch of Grammys, a ranch with hired people to call and check on her kids at school during a storm, and how she is thriving at 52.  I read about her lumpectomy and radiation and think, “wow, I had a lot of cancer, wonder what the article would say if I was her.”  I write that article in my head.  
I take my flashlight and give my girl a bath in the dark and think of how brilliant she is for asking for her headlamp because she “doesn’t like to carry stuff.”  I dig in the junk drawer for triple-A batteries because I’m that prepared.  This buys me another article because her brother who secretly thinks she’s ingenious is now borrowing her light and looking through his dark room for his so he can build legos.  
He resorts to playing a game on the iPad that’s still got a charge and she crawls in my lap and asks why I’m not scared.  I tell her, “It’s just a storm.”  I borrow the headlamp and pick up a decorating magazine, enjoying the flicker and scent of beach, lemon zest, and leftover Christmas cinnamon, and freshly shampooed hair.  It’s still dark, I’m still sitting, she’s asleep but jerks when it thunders so I keep holding.   
And, just like that, the lights come on.  It’s all like I left it 4 hours ago.  The TV flashes on, the toys are in the floor, the dishes are in the sink and the clothes aren’t dry.  I’m sad.  Truly sad.  I remember how it was 30 seconds ago when it was dark and I didn’t have to make excuses for sitting and reading a magazine with a borrowed headlamp. 
I check Facebook because that’s the best way to snap myself back into technology and see that people in the neighborhood are taking a poll to see if other people were in the dark and talking about whether their food in the fridge might spoil.  I hear sighs of relief from upstairs so thankful that the lights are on so they can go to bed for Pete’s sake.  I blow out the candles, turn on the dryer, clean up the kitchen, make coffee for the next day to come on the automatic timer. 
I think of how good we have it.  How God tries to show us by turning of the lights so we can only see His path, sometimes dimly lit and sometimes smelling like last Christmas.  How he makes our nest strong enough to withstand the rocking from the storm.  How He teaches us as mothers to grip our babies with our tiny bird fingers but when we don’t make it there in time, He teaches us to wait patiently and watch from the fence so we can watch Him work in the storm.  I think about my storms.  I think about how He’s held the nest steady and how the sides are built just perfectly high enough to protect my 3 eggs from the rocking and let me watch from the fence.  I thank Him.

I pray for another power outage.

   

Same God that moves mountains