​I know what I'm getting ready to say here is often seen as a pretty controversial topic, especially in the community where I live. To many it's very divisive, and some folks don't even like the word said aloud in these parts. Please don't tell Emory I am stating this publically, as he is on the other side of this issue, but luckily it hasn't done irreparable damage to our marriage as of yet. I can't help myself.

I love SNOW!​ And I'm so excited about the prediction of a nice, heavy amount of it here in Boone this weekend. I've always liked snow. Growing up in Raleigh we didn't get nearly as much as this kid wanted. Sledding down Caledonia St. with my brother and our friends was a rare but awesome childhood treat. Not to mention the snowball fights and snowman creations. One time we even built a hillside luge during the biggest snow of my childhood. And then as a parent I got to watch snow fun through the eyes of my own kids. My love of snow was made even stronger. 

As a grown-up I still get extra excited at the mention of it in our forecast. I suppose part of it is because of that learned childhood feeling of a promise of a snow day/no school day, as well as the wonderful memories of mine and my children, but I think now it has more to do with my dad...for two reasons. 

First, when I was a kid he would drive his work van down our sledding street to pack it down to make it faster, which we kids loved (but I'm sure annoyed some of the neighboring, working adults). I can still picture his big smile knowing he was the hero of Northclift subdivision. And second, when our little family moved to Boone over ten years ago, whenever my dad called from October through March he'd ask if we had gotten any snow. Even in the last year of his life, when his body was slowing down and his mind followed a similar path, he never neglected to ask me if we had any snowfall recently.  

So I'm always going to like it. Funny thing is now I imagine that my dad knows it's going to snow here well before it's predicted. Somehow I feel like he's put in a good word for us snow fans this weekend. Thank you, Dad!

The Real Cost of a $3 Milkshake

After downing a delicious "large" chocolate milkshake (which we all know is really the old extra-large size, we just don't call it that anymore) at lunch today, I decided my penance would be a longer, harder-than-originally-planned run in the afternoon.

And it wasn't going to be just any old run. I had decided early in the morning that today's would be another triple J (a Jungle Jane Jog, where I hike, run, jog through one of the amazingly pretty but often hilly and rooty mountain trails). And this time I just had to make it more difficult--see aforementioned over-sized, ill-advised dining choice.

It started out great, mostly because the initial terrain was mostly a mix of easy downhills, some level spots and minimally rooty. For about a mile plus I was loving it. Into mile two the slope started to rise quite a bit, as did the rock outcroppings and root heights. Note that this was also an out-and-back trail, so it dawned on me that however far I traversed one way, I had to return the same distance.

Occasionally I encountered a hiker or two, most who would smile or say a word of encouragement. because, mind you, this really is more of a traditional walking trail than a speedy style one. 

Well into the second mile, I noticed a pattern among the passersby...the older hikers (my age and up) would generally offer me friendly nods or bewildered smiles, whereas the younger ones would beam at me, most the time offering an encouraging phrase or cheer. Perhaps they were just in shock that a woman of a certain age could still run, and on a hilly course at that.

At my estimation I was past mile 3 mile and realized it really was time to turn around, but that's when I crossed paths with three adorable, very supportive college guys. As I jogged in place so they could safely pass, they asked me how much further I was planning to run and warned me that the next section was "straight up!" (maybe they were considering if they ought to follow me a bit to see if I should require CPR). At first I thought Oh, they are in awe of my speed, my effort, my skills. 

But quickly I recognized their real concern was witnessing someone's mom (a lady old enough to be theirs) keeling over near Grandfather Mountain and so were compelled to warn me of my demise if I should continue going upwards.

Of course instead of heading back, I took their thoughtful fret as inspiration to keep on going (wasn't I just telling myself two minutes ago it was about time to turn around?!?). So on I went for about another mile. It was tough.

After awhile I looked at my watch and realized I had gone well further than planned (and had served my dessert punishment). I started my descent, sometimes light jogging, some easy walking. But the entire time I was delighting at what I had done, even though at that point my belly did not share that sentiment. 

Finally, I saw the parking lot in the short distance (and thank the good Lord, the bathroom) and I mused...

Was it another great JJJ? Yes. Probably my best.

Are those sweet college kids smarter than me? Yes, they are.

Was it worth defying those well-intended whipper-snappers? Heck yes.

So will I be able to walk tomorrow? Heck no.

Should I have eaten that HUGE milkshake at lunch? DEFINITELY! 

And by then I was running to the bathroom, but I was still smiling.

Daydreaming with My Daughter

Watching my dad slowly fade from this Earth over his last few years were some of the most excruciating of moments in my life, but some of the best too. My brother and Mom and I would work together and talk together and sometimes even get mad at each other as we would try to determine the best course of action, the wisest way to ease his pain, give him some breathing relief and comfort.

I remember the last few times I was with him, it was just me and him together, and I'd put on music either he or I or both of us liked and just sit near each other. For him it was often The Platters or an old "real country" musician. For me it was usually the Avett Brothers or yes, some old "real country" musician. It's coming up on the second year anniversary of my Dad's passing. And it's still hard to believe he's gone sometimes.

He comes to me in my dreams often, and it's like he's really there. When I wake up from one of those dreams I try so hard to go back to sleep and recapture that place where we were together. But after multiple attempts, I've realized I can't will myself to go back to sleep to that special space we just shared, nor can I will him back to life.

There is one thing I can do though that brings something of him back to me when I'm awake. And it's usually when I'm working with my hands, something he was so amazingly good at.

The other day was one of those moments. And the extraordinary thing was, I got to experience it with my daughter. She had received a really cool hammock chair swing for her birthday which we decide to finally hang up. That swing had sat in her room corner on the floor for months, and I'd think to myself If Dad was here he'd have it up in five minutes. So rather than look at it for one more day on the ground I told my girl that we were going to do it ourselves and that Pop would be so proud of our work when we were done. We got out our tools for the task: electric drill, screwdrivers, bits and stud finder (a new tool tool that she and I would giggle about every time we said its name). It looked like an Ace Hardware grand opening in her bedroom.

We measured for accuracy three times to ensure we had the right hidden beam in the ceiling. I told her that was what my dad always did, measure at least twice before cutting. Then we checked how high and how far from the wall, something else dad would have done since he didn't just do it, he did it right. When we were through (it had taken us about 35 minutes) we stood back together and looked at that chair in the air, both of us grinning at the good work we had done. "Pop would be so proud of us for our good work today," I said. And then she looked at me eye-to-eye and smiled and said, "Yes, he is." And I felt him in that room as sure as he was really standing there, and I was so glad to be awake.

Tis the Season for Snow and Dog-Doo

I get some of my best thinking done while I'm doing a mindless task. Yesterday it was while scooping dog-doo from the play yard. Did I mention she's a big dog? I had plenty of time on my paws.

I was thinking about how cleaning up after our pets is normally one of the kids' chores, but like so many other families with the back-to-school busy-ness, and me with some extra time during the day, I did this terrible task for them. I was curious how long it would take them to notice I'd done this job (I'm betting awhile).

A recent conversation popped into my brain as I tried to remove yet another extra-large poop patty from the ground. It was with a woman whom I don't know well who was sharing about how "sooooooo busy" she and her family are. Oh, with ALL the school sports and sooooooo many after school activities--there was a long list.

Part of me wanted to say, "Aren't all those optional events that you guys are choosing to do that are causing you to be sooooooo busy?" I think I already knew the answer. Along with that I also had the friendly suggestion, "Hey maybe why don't you ask your kids which of those extra-curriculars are the most meaningful to them?" But I'm pretty sure I had that one figured out too. Of course instead of offering my witty wisdom, I just smiled and nodded and made some mild remark about her probably having well-rounded kids with such a wide variety of scheduled electives. After all, she wasn't looking for parenting tips.

What I was thinking about was a thought that's been growing in my mind since I became a mama... I suspect that in an effort to make your kid stand out so others too can see this bright, beautiful, talented star that you know them to be, often a parent can feel overly compelled to show off their virtuoso with others. Being over-busy is just a by-product.

One of Tyler Durden's memorable maxims to his faithful, fighting followers seemed so unkind and wrong when I heard it uttered in Fight Club nearly two decades ago:

You are not special. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

Now he was speaking to his growing army that he wanted to break down so he could build them back up. THAT is a message that most kids have never heard in their early lives. Quite the opposite in fact. Many youngins today (and I'd suggest the last two generations, including mine, and my own children) have heard many variations on You can be whatever you want to be! You're amazing and special and wonderful!!!

I hated that book/movie line and didn't believe nor try to understand it (even when the then still young, still cool, very sultry Brad Pitt said it). It went against everything I believed and had been told since I was a kid who'd been instilled with self-worth.

But you know what? I'm getting older and now that I'm a parent, I'm starting to think his words aren't so cruel and crazy. I just think they need some elaboration.

To most, you are not special. To many, you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake.

But in fact you are a beautiful and unique snowflake, but so is everyone else in this enormous snowfall of Life.

That's what I wish I could have shared with that other sooooooo busy mom. But I'm too tied-up scooping poop.

A Birthday Gift from Heaven

Today's my birthday. My husband bought me a present that I asked for after I saw it a few weeks ago. I thought it would be a great addition to our dining room and wonderful piece to store some old treasures--an old primitive style hutch. I convinced him to let me have it a little bit early because I knew there was some work to be done on the old wooden cupboard. I wanted to be able to enjoy it, complete and displayed, on my birthday. Little did I know, that well-loved piece of furniture would be the catalyst to an even better birthday surprise.

I finished up the fixes and sanding on Friday, so Saturday I started to find things to place inside. During my cleanup and sorting of items, I discovered a simple, white tablecloth, one I hadn't looked at in years. It was a clever idea my mother-in-law had for our wedding day. She'd purchased it for our guests to write well-wishes on so that we'd have those to read in years to come. I had placed the signed cloth in the same container as my other ones, and all but forgotten about it since the summer of 1999.

When I rediscovered it yesterday I could barely recall us sitting down to read the thoughtful messages (since the day after our wedding at least). It was so fun to reflect on the kind notes, some of which had been scrawled by folks no longer close in our lives, while others were penned by friends and family we still see regularly.

My heart raced when I recognized my dad's handwriting. He passed away the week after my birthday last year. I slowly read each word, and smiled imagining him thinking about what to say to me and my new husband. It was a thoughtful, loving note, one that I know likely held the most heartfelt words.

The last line before his closing was priceless...

Count on me anytime.

Oh how I love and miss my daddy. How did that sweet little stinker somehow manage to give me the best birthday gift all the way from heaven?!? The reminder and promise of unconditional love.

This is going to be a great year. Thank you, Dad.

A Good Hair Day

A futuristic account of a very special women's upcoming day...

As the sharp scissors snip-snipped and the beautiful gray-white tendrils gently fell to the ground, so did her tears. Some of them flowed as happy ones, thinking how he’d always loved her long hair, something she knew that was important to him, so it became so to her, one of the many things he found beautiful about her, something he’d remembered about her, even in his last days. So she’d kept the longer length the past few years, even though she preferred the ease that a shorter style afforded her.

Most of the quiet weeping at the start of her hair appointment was from the sadness. Sadness that he was gone.

Her hair dresser paused and asked if she was okay. “Oh yes,” she said. “You’re doing great,” she reassured her, so the cutting continued.

She allowed herself to drift back. It had been a long goodbye--something that she was mostly thankful for because it allowed many of those who loved him to see him and be with him at least one more time. And it gave her many opportunities to be with him too, to be his wife--despite the fact that so much of the last months were spent simply providing for his simple, everyday needs (the ones most take for granted). Even though in the end it became almost unbearable at times, watching him cough so hard, sometimes gasp for air; the harder part was his confusion coupled with the sadness and longing and questions for it to be over.

She knew she’d done her best to care for him. She was almost sure of it. She’d fed him carefully and gave his many meds, held his thin hands, snuggled in his single hospital bed set up in their living room, trying to reassure him when he needed it, gotten up multiple times so many nights to be sure his coughing fits ended up in comfort and sleep--it was a very long list of caregiving--of which she didn't complain.

More soft gray fell and along with it suddenly tears turning to joy and pride. The kids were so proud of her, amazed by their mom and her efforts to help their dad. She smiled picturing them when the nurse was sitting there with the four of them. She was so glad there was a witness who observed their confession, their profession, that she was the strongest woman they knew, and that she had done well. She really needed that, and they knew it. She also pictured the funeral day when her son further acknowledged that she had been amazing this past year especially; the congregation even clapped.

But then the sadness briefly returned. The tears that told of the moments long gone of a special motorcycle trip, memorable times with their best friends to Atlantic City, championship bowling nights, classic card games with another favorite couple, refereeing one-handed wiffleball, visits to see their awesome grandkids, and so many other special times. They had done these things together, the two of them. A couple.

"I'm done," the stylist announced, startling her to the present. She looked in the mirror, staring at the newly-shorn lady.

“It’s short, isn’t it?” she gasped, but not to her hairdresser.

“It’s perfect,” she heard. And she smiled with dried tears, looking at the image of a beautiful woman still.

Wise Words from My Favorite West Virginian

There was a phrase my dad would use when he noticed a person was feeling rather haughty and too pleased with his or her self. And while he didn't coin the expression, it sure left an impression on me to this day.

When I first heard him say it I thought it was soooooooo funny because, he used the word "poop" and I would giggle loudly. As I got a little older I thought it was an odd saying since I took it literally. Then, when he'd utter it when I was a tween I was just embarrassed by the quote, mostly because I didn't fully understand it, but also because it did sound oddly gross. (Who tries to smell their own poop, after all?!?) Over the years though, and especially now that I'm a mama, I totally get it.

This summer before my son's first ever "real" tennis match, I saw he was pretty nervous. I told him not to be since he was really supposed to lose anyway. A nearby parent spoke to me when my son was playing and asked me why I told him he'd likely lose. I said that it was because he was younger and less experienced than his opponent. But also because while I am my children's #1 fan, they are not always going to be number #1. Even after my explanation, she still didn't seem to approve of my parenting style.

We live in a time where our kids can buy The gear, go to The camp, and get The coach if they're parents are willing to pay the money. Many of those young athletes think they are The best. To me, that's not how it works, and I don't want my children thinking that way.

Don't get me wrong. I do want my kids to be "winners," and I think they are both incredibly wonderful. I remind them they can be whatever they want to be, but I also want them to be good "losers" too, with a realistic approach to life. Because they WILL lose sometimes. They will even work hard at a goal and still not reach it on the first or second or twenty-second try. That's life sometimes. And I want them to learn to be gracious, good sports on the court and off--and way beyond the playing field.

As I further reflect on my dad's famous phrase, I'm starting to suspect that God added the stink from the beginning so that we all got the hint, even our adoring parents, that even though most of us come into this world with ten tiny toes and a smile that melts many hearts, shortly after we share a big stink-bomb in our baby britches as a sign that we are not perfect. (But yes, still "fearfully and wonderfully made.")

So to my two amazing (but not perfect), growing children, as your good ol' Pop taught me, your poop does stink...and don't worry, that's just how it's supposed to be.

True Tests of School Success (hint: it's not EOG prep)

School's been out for over a week now, and this is normally when the end-of-year festivities have quieted down enough to where I can actually reflect and consider the past school year with the students I work with.

There are many stories and incidents that have popped into my mind, but there's one recent experience with a special student that's been stuck in my head.

It happened on one of the last days of school (which is partly why I recall it so well, but I think the more lasting impression isn't due to the timing but the thoughts it left me with). This boy whom I've had the joy to work with in a small math group since November almost knocked me over in the hall. He was literally bouncing on the tops of his toes, his small frame shaking with excitement. His teacher had just revealed his math and reading EOG scores to him.

"Do you know? Did she tell you? Do you know what I made?" he was practically squealing.

Playing dumb, because I knew it meant more to him to reveal his special surprise than for me to show my prior knowledge of his test scores, I asked him to tell me his results.

"Two fours! Can you believe it? I just wanted to pass. I was hoping for threes, but I got fours...in reading AND in math! I can't believe it, can you?"

I looked at his large, proud smile and matched his with my own.

What I wanted to say to this bright, kind-hearted boy was something that had nothing to do with his recent testing success, as he saw it. What I wanted to do was tell him how amazed I was that he had overcome so much this school year: starting at yet another new school, navigating his way through a less than stable home life, very gradually learning to share his insights with his new teacher and classmates, no longer hiding his answers in our math group like he did when we first started working together, not having to blink back his tears on the days he didn't seem to understand something the first time, eventually feeling comfortable enough to explain his ideas and strategies (even when they were different than the others'), and then the day he felt like showing his celebration dance when he was the first to "get it right" in our group. I didn't want to talk test scores, I wanted to celebrate the new-found confidence he'd discovered this school year that goes way beyond two test days. I resisted the urge to tell him he was way more than a pair of fours, that he has more bravery and insight than some adults I know, that he has a caring heart, and clever wit and is going to do amazing things in his life.

But here he was, grinning ear-to-ear with his news. So I just hugged him tightly and said, "Yes, we knew you could do it." And I think that was really all he wanted to hear that day.

My Other Big Brother

Steve, my half brother, died suddenly two weeks ago. Since then, I've been trying to write about him. Thanks to my brother Boyce's words today, I am now able to...

We had all just been together when Dad passed away in February. I feel so fortunate that we were with each other for that treasured time.

As you sat across from me, sitting in Dad’s chair, I had to remind myself several times that you weren’t him. You two have always looked so much alike. As you both got older you seemed to favor each other even more. The soft, salt and pepper hair, kind eyes, generous smile, and still such a handsome face.

Like Dad, you had struggles and trials in life, including an unfair start in some ways. But like him, you turned out to be a strong, giving person. And there are so many who are the better for that.

Even when you spoke it was like talking to Dad. Not just in your West Virginia drawl, but also as you told about what was going on in your life, but especially as you lit up like firecrackers sharing about your girls and grandkids, just the same Dad would do when talking about us--full of pride and love.

Thank you, Steve, for giving us that moment when we could all feel together again, all near Dad. It wouldn’t have been the same without your presence.

I wish so much that you could sit among us in that chair again. And if you could, I’d tell you that even though on paper you were my half brother, you sure weren’t “half” anything to us.

You were a whole husband

A completely devoted daddy and poppaw

An entirely-loved son

A totally-awesome brother

An all-in worker

A full of life friend.

And now that you’re gone from this earth, we all wish you the wholeness of peace you deserve, dear man. We love you.

My Memorial Day

I sat on the porch today spending much of the afternoon celebrating Memorial Day simply, recognizing the privilege of watching my daughter and son laughing and swinging together on the hammock in the backyard. I was reminded that my list of blessings is so big that they cannot be counted.

My next thought meandered to my dad, as I considered the graces granted in my life. He who has already lived longer than his COPD and Dementia diagnoses would have suggested. He who lives on, because battling through life is no longer necessary.

Since my dad (thankfully) lived through his time in combat, he technically is not celebrated by the country today for his military time. But like many Americans, I sort of lump Memorial Day and Veterans Day together, but not out of disrespect for those who have lost their lives during their service. The reason is two-fold. First, two days is not nearly enough time to recognize the many men and women who have served and those who are actively serving for us. And secondly, my dad still defends his country nightly. Often it's through his recurrent, disturbing dreams as he continues to fight for his life and mine and yours.

The blessing I ask for today for him is for restful sleep, free of bad dreams, and full of Goodness because, you my sweet daddy, and so many others like you, deserve it.

Another Loving Mother

One of my dear friends held a fundraiser this week to increase awareness about Childhood Apraxia of Speech http://www.apraxia-kids.org/ . It was a great evening with many wonderful people attending to support her and her family's journey, and also hear about about this frustrating speech disorder.

Like all the attendees I learned much about apraxia and the need for ongoing research to find a cure. But the most important lesson I took away was that while this impairment is strong and challenging, it cannot even touch the amazing force found in a parent's love for her child.

While my friend's youngest son (along with many other precious children--since it's being diagnosed more often) daily battles with finding his words, he is a most fortunate one because his voice is already being heard. That's not only because he works so hard every day using his precious, positive spirit during his rigorous therapy sessions and at-home practice, but also due to the crucial fact he has a mom and dad who have a love for him that is way more powerful than this thing called apraxia.



Here's a few ways that we can all help...
http://www.apraxia-kids.org/how-to-help/donations/

Two Years Later, A Blog Post (worth the wait, I hope)

Much has been said about timing and waiting. There are thousands of phrases taught from our parents, some come from sermons, while others are just classic wisdom that teachers, musicians, or other everyday sages felt the need to impart, knowing that most humans need continuous reminders (my hand's raised) to remind, encourage, even warn us about the frustrations and pitfalls of impatience. Some of the most famous sayings that come to my mind are . . .

Good things come to those who wait.

The waiting is the hardest part.

Tough times never last, but tough people do.

If it's worth having, it's worth waiting for.

My friends and family know that we've had our own hurry-up-and-wait game for the past four and a half years since moving to Boone. While holding out for our old house to sell and then searching for the past year for the happiest home for us, looks like our patience will pay off.
How's it worked out? Well, I personally couldn't have scripted it any better. It's a long special story, worthy of a cold beverage on a pretty covered porch on a warm day (come on over in a few months after we're moved in and I'll tell you the tale).

This week and in past months, I've reflected repeatedly on a pretty well-known timing quote: Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails. So why was I made to wait for what seemed so long? I've asked that many times. Was it to give me my extra share of that "gift" that I wasn't given naturally? Perhaps, because I have told my story of waiting with many of you. I'm not sure of all the why's behind the wait, but I do know many lessons have been learned. And on top of that, I've even met new friends because of it--what a wonderful present as a result!

As my husband and I look for the fast-approaching hurdles to jump through--less than a month from closing on our new home--another kind of wait begins. I already know I'll have to tell myself more than once Patience, young grasshopper. While we're collecting boxes, crossing our fingers through inspections, appraisals, etc., I get to play the waiting game again. But now I'm praying that things will slow down---because we sure have a lot of packing to do. But don't worry about me this time because now I know...

Time is on our side, yes it is.

Love in Bloom

Yesterday while eating my lunch out on the deck on a warmer-than-usual Boone January day (see my related post), I spotted several tender bulb shoots all over our flower garden.

My first reaction (which occurred to me almost immediately was not much different than your average loving mother) was to run inside and find some fabric sheets to cover the premature shoots, so I could protect the coming flowers who clearly have not seen the end-of-week forecast calling for real winter weather. As I stood up to retrieve the coverings, it hit me like a the infamous Boone Blizzard of '93 that by covering them, I would only be prolonging the inevitable, as we have plenty of winter days ahead. So although my motherly, well-intended efforts would help initially, covering these stems would prove a futile effort, unless I could commit to doing it A) without smothering them by shielding them too long or too much, and also B) be willing to become a constant weather watcher and attend to the flowers with spring gardener fervor.

Guess you might be able to tell that my children came to me this week, each dealing with something that I so wanted to (and could have) just cover up and fix for them. I wrestle with my maternal monster--don't worry, she's not particularly scary, she just sometimes has difficulty determining when to let the kids handle things on their own, when to quietly step in, when to gently assist, when to strongly intervene, or when to completely take over. Do I cover up my own blessed blossoms and make everything all right? Or do I trust myself and my husband to give them the tools and let them use them (even if it means that often it takes longer for them to find their solution)?

Well, for now, I've decided to leave the premature blossoms alone in the deck-side garden (though I know I'll be watching them). And this week I'll do my best to allow my children to tend to their own gardens, as long as they don't forget they've got this old, loving florist who does consult work no matter the season.

It's taken me over 40 years, but now I  FINALLY  understand why she's called Mother Nature.

Walking in a Wacky Wonderland

On his way out the door to yet again hit the October snow with his full six-year-old force, my son turned back to me and announced in his cute toothy grin,"This is the BEST winter EVER!" While he knows the calendar still shows fall, he and my daughter think this unexpected Frosty-making weather is GREAT!

I decided to fight back the urge to tell him that he better get used to this kind of wacky winter weather because even the springs up here in our mountain home will soon start feeling like summer. Our climate has been drastically changed--and unfortunately this cannot be explained away as just some unusual weather pattern or cycle that the earth is undergoing. But these changes in the environment are a consequence of his parents, grandparents, etc. living frivolously and casually on this beautiful planet that God made. I wanted to tell him that on behalf of all the people that came before him and his sweet sister that I was sorry for what we had done and that we wish we could take it back and start over by being better stewards to this gift of Earth. I wanted to warn him that he and his brilliant friends had better quickly find a way to reverse the damage we had done--if that is still possible.

But instead, I agreed with him whole-heartedly and said that yes, this was truly was the BEST winter ever and watched him run out into the white wonderland.

I'll just have to do my part on Earth while I can, teach my children what they can do, and keep the hot cocoa coming in October.

And So It Begins . . . Again

Crying a lot has always come quite easy to me--it's sort of a family trait on my dad's side. So last night when I was trying to go to sleep I wasn't surprised when the first tear fell. For I knew that this morning my youngest would be walking into his new kindergarten classroom.

Almost exactly two years ago I penned my first blog entry. It was prompted by my daughter's first day of school and the emotions and events of that day. It sure seems appropriate (and rather therapeutic) to write this now.

I value crying. It is good for us. Our bodies, minds, and spirits need us to shed tears. I think Jim Valvano said it better than I . . .

If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.

Boy, Jim, you got that right.

We walked my son in this morning--my husband, his big second-grade sister, and me. My eyes burned all morning, but I fought back the family tradition of letting the floodgates open, at least so much as others could see. I wanted to be strong, especially in front of my son, who had already mentioned (approximately 3,647 times) this summer that he preferred not to go to kindergarten, but if he had to go to school he'd feel much better being in his sister's class so they could be together.

All summer I had been concerned about my little hesitant school boy. Of course I have passed along the extra crying gene, so he shed many tiny tears in anticipation of today. We rehearsed all summer the classic lines of how school was great, he'd do just fine--all the typical positive reinforcement a family can give.

I completely understand my son's cautious feelings. My pre-kindergarten fears wore well into school. In fact, I recall crying well into first grade most days after my mom dropped me off.

I am pleased to say that when we took him in the well-decorated, kid-friendly classroom, he was brave and happy and smiling that wonderful pleased-with-himself grin. After his teacher showed him around the room he was still just fine. And when his loving entourage left, he paused, asked me for "just one more hug" and went back to his bug puzzle.

But lucky for me, I had left his extra school supply bag in my car, so I HAD to return to his classroom to give it to his sweet teacher. Of course, he still looked happy and was really having a ball, and barely noticing me.

So he's been at school about two hours now. And although I'd win an award at next year's family reunion for my wet, red eyes, I am so proud to know my little guy was able to break the tradition--at least for today.

A Whale in Your Tale

I got caught in a lie one day with my young son. Well, not actually a lie. I'd prefer to call it a euphemism. You know, a way to say something that is somehow unpleasant by glossing over the actual meaning. Please don't misunderstand, my intent is not to confuse or hide the truth from my kids. But on occasion I find it fun to add humor to the inherent unpleasantness of some bodily functions and generally gross behaviors. A lot of us do it, especially when talking to young ones, I think. But on this summer day, I learned that it can backfire, literally.

This particular incident happened when the kids and I were on our play set. To set the scene--I was struggling to balance on the two-person glider swing, a device clearly not intended for anyone equipped with anything larger than a toddler tush. Then out of nowhere, a funny, loud squirty sound (that would have made my Uncle Joe puff up with pride) came from my co-pilot son, followed by an over-the-shoulder glance and impish smile. "You got a buffalo in your britches?" I asked. (In our house when someone let's one go, one of us--normally me--poses this question, normally inserting whatever large creature comes to mind. Buffalo are a popular favorite, followed by dinosaur and giraffe--the larger the animal the better.) Of course, the stinky little man denied it, grinning like the Cheshire cat that he is.

After a short delay, he owned up to his rotten rear rip. Then after a short pause with furrowed brow, puppy-dog eyes, and tilted head he asks me in all seriousness, "So how DO the animals get up your beezer?"

Ugh. . . caught in my foolish fib, my tall tale, my cockamamy expression. I stammered. I winced. I tried to think quickly. So how do I explain the process of the ol' passing of gas to my preschooler? As I tried to imagine the internal human anatomy, particularly focusing on the guts and beyond, I couldn't help but envision a smiling, chubby rhinoceros staring back at me as it made its way through the intestinal tract.

"Well, honey. Actually there are no animals up there. It happens because, well, you see, they start when, well, it, I mean they . . ." How did they happen exactly?! There, I was just a hangin', trying to articulate just the right explanation, the perfect description of how a toot truly transpires. And I was a little stumped on what words to use, what details to share. How did I give an honest and informative answer after seriously confusing my sweet son? What would make sense to his young developing mind which I had previously supplied major misinformation?

After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, while attempting to draw a few pitiful diagrams in the sand, he squealed with delight, "Gotcha! Mommy, I KNOW big animals don't come out of there!" now rolling in hysterics with his big sister who was also reveling at the idea of their mom squirming for an explanation.

I was reminded of a few good life lessons that day. Like my kids are smarter than me. It's good to laugh at yourself. Honesty is the best policy. So while I have not completely dropped my use of colorful accounts of certain foul functions, when someone lets one slip, I still stop short of asking "Who farted?" Which, truth be told, still somehow sounds more vile to me than having a mammoth pop out of your butt.

The Gift of a Girl

While sitting on my husband's cousin's bed slightly dazed, I looked around the room at the typical teenager guy posters and smattering of displayed sports memorabilia. I snuggled my little baby daughter, often caressing her cute chubby cheeks. She nursed on, completely unaware of the swirling sadness all around her. I couldn't imagine going into the other upstairs bedroom-to be where another sweet girl used to lay her precious head almost every night of her short sixteen years on Earth.

I wasn't alone. My husband's aunt sat nearby me in disbelief and raw sorrow as she talked about how hard this was going to be on the family. She was especially concerned, as we all were, about how her brother- and sister-in-law could go on after the death of their child-their only daughter. With each mention of that word I remember pulling my then only cherished child closer, trying NOT to know what it would be like. I could not comprehend, nor did I want to. How could I? My daughter had only been in my life for six months. We were just starting to get to know one another. I was learning her habits, she was learning my voice. We were in awe of each other, for very different reasons. I was her main source of love, nurturing, and nourishment. She was my new hope, inspiration, and my, well, new everything.

I only met my husband's cousin a few times, but she is the kind of girl who leaves an impression. A fantastic smile, full of life, and unique, gorgeous eyes that you simply would have to see for yourself to understand. My most significant memory of her was when she caught the bouquet at our wedding. Her face bright and proud, as many of my single girlfriends looked on and tried to be polite that a "tweener" had caught the bridal flowers instead of one of the ready-to-finally-get-the-ring young women. I remember laughing inside and thinking, Good for you, girl. Way to go after what you want! I was impressed at her chutzpah (not to mention her cat-like reflexes).

So I sat on the bed of the brother who had just lost his little sister days before, and all I wanted to think about was that great flower catch. At least for that instant. I wanted to bathe in the beauty and wonderful moment she gave me and the wedding guests. Crying tears of joy cradling my own daughter, I also cried tears of pain for someone else's, while I prayed that her parents would be able to both cover and fill themselves to overflowing with the thousands of unforgettable and amazing memories she left for them.

Love for My New Florist

I used to hate them, I mean absolutely abhor them, so much so I wanted to kill them every chance I could. I got such satisfaction when I ripped one up out of the ground--my unfriendly outdoor foe--the dandelion. Whenever I spotted one in our yard, I'd practically trip over myself to go grab the garden tool which twists the pesty plants up, roots and all. Heaven forbid if I ever caught one in my flower or veggie garden. Bye-bye, you good-plant-obliterating, water-stealing sucker!

But as with so many other things, one of my children has again helped changed my perspective and shed some new light. Since we have been staying at my husband's parents' house till our own off the mountain sells, we have not planted a full-size garden here, just some simple container planting to scratch the garden growing itch for now (and a pretty effective way to keep weeds at bay). However, I have been blessed with blossoms in a different way--a dandy way. Throughout this spring my son has been bringing me these large frilly yellow flowers that he finds. And he is so excited and proud each time he presents me with a dandelion. As his chubby hand grips each one, he announces "For you Mommy." Then he usually reminds me that he knows that they are my favorite color. And because of his gorgeous gifts, I have another favorite flower.

What's even better about this is that when I recently mentioned to him that "some people" actually consider dandelions to be weeds, he simply shrugged then said, "They're still pretty," and ran off to pick me some more. Oh yes, beauty can be found if you are willing and open to it AND choose not to let others define it for you.

So of course now whenever I'm out driving in the country or running downtown and see a patch of dandelions or even a single dandy bloom, I no longer feel ill-will but rather a big fat goofy smile emerge--yet another present to add to the growing heap that my children continue to give.

But what will I do next spring when we have our own yard and (YES!) our own gardens again? Hhhmmm . . . guess I'll be reading and rereading this blog post (and as a backup, hiding my cool weed tool in the shed from my sweet son).

Spring Snow Day

After walking my daughter into school this morning to deliver the class snack, I was struck--and yes, I mean literally PELTED by the most enormous, gorgeous, fluffy white clusters of snow! They were awesome, in fact, they are still falling now (so I better hurry up and write this, as they may be calling off school any minute.)

Then as I sat in my car to get it warmed back up, I glanced across the parking lot and was struck even deeper. One of the second-grade teachers was outside with her students catching these giant white flakes from the sky. While looking at them I could not help but see an image of what the delighted and dancing Israelites must have felt like so long ago as they awoke to discover the much-needed manna that had fallen around them.

These kids (and even perhaps more so their teacher) were dancing around with all eyes looking upward. It was a celebration of the awesomeness of nature--a true science lesson they will not soon forget. When their Moses led her snow strutting crew with their collection of white puffs on paper sheets, I smiled as they skipped back into the classroom with their frozen treasures.

We've been in Boone for seven months now, and I haven't blogged since then. Although there have been many things to share--both good and well, challenging--today's scenes and images are just what I needed, and so wanted to share them. And I am thankful.

Thank you, teachers, for providing what our children need. In a time of questionable economy and world disaster, in a time where teachers are enduring through substantial criticism and blame, I say thank you to the educators who stick it out each day and continue to teach real lessons to our children. Here's to the millions of "snow days" happening in classrooms all over the world today.

Lessons in Liquor

I wonder if my dad remembers this story. Although vascular dementia has taken much of his short-term memory, I am often amazed at what his mind can recall. Think I'll ask him at our next visit . . .

It was awfully early on a Saturday morning when I was abruptly awoken by my dad who was standing in the doorway of my room. I jolted upright. Oh no! I thought. What time is it? I've got practice. A surge of headache ran up the back of my brain, forcing me to lie down again.

I looked back at Dad who was now smiling at me, still leaning against the doorjamb. "How you feeling this morning?"

"Oh, just fine, Dad. Just need a little more sleep," I fibbed.

"I think you've got soccer this morning, don't you?" He turned away and headed toward the kitchen. I could tell there was something more he wanted to say, so I drug my aching butt out of bed and followed him to the dining table.

"So, you're tired, huh? Maybe that's what you get for staying out all night," he added.

"Aw, Dad. It was just a bunch of us seniors getting together to hang out. You know, in a few months most of us are gonna be at different places. I want to spend as much time as I can with them." My head was screaming at me as each word came out, but I thought I was hiding my hangover pretty well.

"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about." (Important back story: if you know my dad, you know that besides making a corny crack or gentle tease, he's never been a real Chatty Cathy. And if you don't know my dad, then I should also tell you that while he worries a lot about his kids, he left most of the difficult child-rearing discussions for my mom.)

"I don't mind you saying all your good-byes to your high school friends from around here, but I do mind seeing that large box of empty liquor bottles tucked away in your room." I braced for the worst.

Dead silence. My dizzy head tried hard to picture the events of last night. Had fun, hung out with friends, drank a little bit--well, more than a little bit, well, more than I should have since A) I was pretty new to alcohol, B) because I was underage, and C) who I am I kidding, 26 letters is not enough key points to state why it was dumb for me to be drinking . . .

I did have a hazy recollection at the end of the night of announcing to the group that they could not leave the bottles behind. "We must recycle them!" I said with passion (and a few Dixie cups of vodka mixed with red kool-aid). Guess the only redeeming part to my story is that I was green before it was officially cool!?

But yes, I did actually utter those words. And even crazier, I had collected the bottles of cheap whiskey, vodka, gin, etc. and stuck them under the empty cutout beneath my desk . . . in my bedroom! (Apparently I had not thought through the discard phase of my recycling plan.)

"Oh, Dad. Yes, we were drinking some last night. I know it was dumb. I DID have a DD, I promise!" I spat out. "I just took the bottles home so I could, could, well, recycle them. They were going to get tossed out," I added, feeling stupid, a little ashamed, and mostly dumbfounded that I was having this conversation with my dad.

My loving, devoted dad looked at his youngest child and with complete seriousness said, "Sweetheart, there's a few things you need to know about drinking. Most of them you'll learn on your own. But for one thing, you have no business drinking Wild Turkey (bourbon). Ladies drink Southern Comfort." Then he left the room.

As I sat there with my mouth agape. I knew there was so much more that my dad wanted to say to his youngest of four, but he didn't need to give me another speech on underage drinking. He had said so much more in those few sentences than any well-intended D.A.R.E. officer, pleading pastor, or the average overprotective parent. Now a mother myself, I realize that he probably wanted to wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me safe in my room until I was a better-prepared grown-up. Instead he knew I was going to face decisions and choices in the years to come that a ranting, raving father could not fix that morning.

Thanks for the advice, Dad. I still smile when I see a bottle of Southern Comfort-even though I can't stomach the stuff. And just so you know, Daddy, another lesson I've learned since our first drinking discussion . . . real ladies drink well-crafted beer (in moderation).