Sweet Home Chicago...Part 1

Hi Readers! I am writing to you from my hometown (one of many) Chicago.  Here I am plopped down in my in-laws backyard, wearing grungy, mud stained sweats and an "Athens, I love you!" t-shirt, with my hair in a sloppy pony tail.  A nice neighbor just gave me a funny look from his backyard and said, "um...who are you?"  Just wanted to give you a visual. 

If you read one of my recent posts, you might remember that I was anxious about returning to Chicago after She and I parted on such lousy terms.  When we left, my hubby was looking for work and our family had survived two of the worst years ever.  We're talkin' like Biblically bad.

After all my hemming and hawing... all my bitching about how I would never leave Georgia again...something happened.  I prayed about this trip and whether or not going alone was a great idea for a lady with anxiety issues and two kids.  When I finally accepted my inlaws' generous offer to fly us home if I would ONLY just pin down a date, a strange kind of calm settled over me.  I actually started to get excited about the trip.  That's a big deal for me, people.  You see, my strategy for dealing with unpleasantries is usually just to avoid them all together.  Kind of a "we shall never speak of this again" philosophy.

Silly me.  God always has way better plans that I do. 

As we were leaving the house to make the long trek to the airport, my husband said, "I'm so nervous about your trip! How come you aren't nervous?!"

"I dunno. But I feel good about it."

The flight was uneventful.  It was actually the couple of days before that were a little scary.  My almost six year old came down with an awful virus that gave her a 103 degree temp just 48 hours before we were supposed to leave.  Usually this means that she will have the fever for several days before it breaks, and that my four year old is a walking time bomb, just waiting to combust with the same germs.  I wrung my hands as I called the airline and asked what it would cost to move the trip back a week.  Just a simple matter of $800, the rude representative told me! 

So, we prayed.  I knew that my in laws would just die if we had to cancel.  Sure enough, Savannah woke up Tuesday morning just as healthy as she could be!  Thanks, God. I read my trashy paperback and listened to the girls' animated chatter all through the flight, occasionally shushing them when one of the Barbies got too melodramatic.  As we landed, my six year old looked out the window and said in a hushed voice, "Oh, Chicago, how I've missed you!" At that moment, I had no doubt that this trip was going to be special.

My four year old, however, had her doubts.  As we stepped out into the hot sun, wheeling our bags across traffic to reach our pick up point, Lilah said, "I'm not sure this was such a good idea!" She still looked undecided when we pulled up to Grandma and Grandpa's house, but all that disappeared when she lept into her great grandmothers' arms as they greeted her.  It was a sweet reunion!

 

 

The next day, we loaded up the car and Grandma, Grandpa, Savannah, and Lilah set out for Wisconsin Dells.  Having spent the better part of my childhood in the South, I never had the privilege of doing the "Dells." Apparently, this Wisconsin kiddie heaven is packed full of resorts that offer everything from massive water parks to roller coasters to zip lining and mini golf.  I missed out!  Here's what is not in Wisconsin...

ME!  That's right.  Since our family will be doing Disney in the fall, I said no thank you to the Dells experience.  You see, I wanted to give Grandma and Grandpa an opportunity to fully enjoy their bonding time with the kids without any parental distractions!  I know.  I am just selfless like that. 

If you are a stay at home parent or just a parent, period, you may appreciate the incredible gift that my in-laws have given me.  Almost three days of being kid-free!! If you say that you have never wished for that then you are a liar, my friend.  They even left me a car, dude.  I feel like I'm sixteen again...only I don't have any desire to raid the liquor cabinet or throw a party.  Just give me a good paperback and some PEACE and QUIET. 

The first thing I did with my freedom is visit my friend, Jessie.  Jessie and I have been the best of friends ever since I was dropped in her lap as a rookie music teacher in our old school district.  She looked at me like, "What am I supposed to do with this?" I looked at her like "a deer caught in headlights," as my former principal referred to me.  She quickly showed me the ropes and gave me a kick in the ass whenever I insisted that I could not do this or that.  Today, she is the Godmother of my four year old and my dear friend. 

First on our agenda was some time with my sweet brother in law.  I had not seen his kind face in exactly a year, and it was so good to just sit with him and share a laugh.  He is a rock if I've ever met one and never fails to inspire me.  When he first saw us he said, "It's so great to see you! You guys look so happy and pretty!" Now THAT'S how you talk to a girl. Jessie and I made our next stop at Rock Bottom Brewery, where I indulged in some truly awesome lobster and shrimp tacos...heaven.  We followed this culinary delight up with another kind of delight.  Jessie peer pressured me into seeing "Magic Mike", the new movie about actor Channing Tatum's short lived career as a stripper.  Okay, that is a bold faced lie.  I totally pressured her.  It was...entertaining...you know, if you like that sort of thing.

Today, my little loaned car took me to see my good buddies, Kristen and Jeannie.  Jeannie and Kristen are two of my college friends...you know...from the second college I attended.  Like I said before, I had some growing pains, okay?  Anytime you put the three of us together in a public place, we get odd looks.  Why?  Because we are seriously loud and obnoxious!  My mouth actually gets sore from talking and laughing so much.  Here's what I love about old friends: they are just so authentic.  They have seen all your hangups and warts and they love you anyway.  Our chosen rendezvous location was Cooper's Hawk Winery.  Kristen and I were members of a delightfully nerdy book club that used to meet here and we both developed a craving for the winery's delicious sangria.  Yum!  While we were there harassing the other patrons with our obnoxious conversation..."No! Channing Tatum does do all of his own dancing!  You don't know what you're talking about!", I got a lovely surprise. I ran into an old co-worker/friend from a past life...the one before kids!  He and his wife are expecting their first child and he was grinning from ear to ear (the best). 



Now, is where the paperback and peace and quiet come in.  The silence is strange at this hour for one who is used to final bedtime pleas and a dog that is itching to be walked.  Strange, but nice. Hubby, if you are reading this, your wife is sorry that you are lonely and tired...so don't be too jealous of my fun here in the Windy City!  After all, it was your idea, sweetie. 

The Pot Stirrer

Have you ever had one of those weeks that God just stuck His big hand in and decided to stir the pot a bit?  I am reminded of the old spiritual, "Wade in the Water," that promises:

Wade in the Water
Wade in the Water, Children
Wade in the Water...God's gonna trouble the water

Boy, does he ever!  Notice I said promises rather than warns.  To me, a warning has a scary connotation to it...like "Oh crap...here comes a Mack truck!"  kind of thing.  But a promise...a promise is something special, full of potential that you didn't know your life had.  

Yeah, I'm getting rather philosophical here (yawn).  

If you saw my last post, Moonbeams, you know that I was in a funk last week.  After I posted that little nugget, my friend Kristi sent me an "All you alright? Anything I can do?" email.  Isn't that the best?!  How great is it to have people that "check in" with you, just to see how you're doing?  


My deepest desire has often been for God to make me different...a less obsessive, neurotic, more chillaxed version of myself.  As if He is a fast order cook that I can send my personality order to.  As if He did not know exactly what he was doing when he knit me together.  


Here's where the pot-stirring comes in.  You know how you read or hear something one time and it just kinda sticks?  I was flipping through the Bible and I found this great scripture that stuck like white on rice and I wrap it around me like a soft blanket when things are rough.

And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don't know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words.  Romans 8:26, New Living Translation (2007) 

What a gift!  I really believe that. When I am too weary, disappointed, weak, etc... the Holy Spirit knows my heart and does my praying for me.  

This week, when I was not feeling the Kate-love, God interceded and literally blew my mind by the precious souls he placed in my path. So much of life is the every day, doldrums of ordinary life.  It's about putting one foot in front of the other and doing what needs to be done.  So, when someone or something is placed in our path like a breath of fresh air, we need to sit up and take notice!

A few days ago, I spoke to my college roommate, Kate, who is newly single and enjoying her life as single lady and mother.  We have stayed close through the years, largely due to her efforts (I'm embarrassingly slow about returning phone calls) and our deeply rooted shared history.   Kate knew me when I didn't know how to work a washing machine or write a check and she held me as I cried hysterically (seriously ugly) while my mom drove away from my dorm. We don't get to talk as often as we'd like, but when we do...look out!  We talk until our cheeks are sore from being pressed up against the receiver.

Inevitably, we always get on a roll about the old days, like two old ladies reliving the glory days.  Only, they were not so glorious for yours truly.  Oh, hell no.  More like the worst growing pains experienced since Sybil!  I said as much to my dear friend, who lived with me for four years, and her response left me humbled.  She said, "Don't ever say that!  Those were wonderful years.  They were incredibly hard, and sometimes painful, but I wouldn't trade them for anything.  You know why?  Because I was with you!  And you loved me when I wouldn't let anyone else."

Wow.

I have often wondered why "the best years of your life" were the worst for me.  But, Kate, (as usual) gave me some brilliant perspective!  If for nothing else, I think I struggled through those painful years, so that I could have the honor of sharing my life with the incredible ladies of Meredith College.  We may have drifted apart in the craziness of marriage, babies, and careers but I will love each of them until the day I die...Debi, who was my constant movie date and cake eating companion, Sarah, who let me use her head as a human canvas on which to practice my hair cutting skills, Colleen, who giggled and turned red every time she walked in on me in my underwear, Meredith, who could make me laugh so hard I'd pee myself, and Kate, who mothered me and made sure I didn't nap through my classes.  I could go on and on, but you get the gist.

We laughed, we fought, we cried, and we broke all the rules together.  It was glorious, indeed.

Today, I cherish the times when I can hear about their busy lives and see what amazing women they've turned out to be.  My good friend, Kate, has become one of the most inspiring people I know.  She's had every reason lately to be pissed off or bitter, but instead she just oozes compassion and love.  We do not share the exact same faith, but I am inspired by her beautiful spirit and her ability to see the beauty in others, and point it out to them.  What a gift!

Thanks, Meredith girls, for getting me through "the best years of my life".   I wouldn't have survived without you. 

 

Moonbeams

Last night I was burdened by a heavy heart...feeling exhausted and overwhelmed.  Do you ever wish you could just stop feeling everything so strongly?  Maybe that's just me.  I wear my heart on my sleeve, for sure.  It's like I have this constant radar running on overdrive, with the sole purpose of making sure everybody around me is all shiny and happy.  Who died and made me Dona Reed?  (Yikes! Is she actually dead?) It's exhausting trying to be the best wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, etc on a daily basis.  And here's the kicker...nobody's expecting me to be the best anything!  That's just an expectation I came up with all by my lonesome.  

Everybody who matters to me accepts me just as I am. 

Sometimes I think it must be nice to bumble through life like an insensitive schmuck... clueless about what everyone around me is thinking or feeling.  I don't want to be a total a-hole, just oblivious enough to not always be looking over my shoulder for trouble.  Somewhere along the line,  life taught me that the world is not a safe place; that it is not to be trusted.  By young adulthood, I came up with this great plan.  You see, all I have to do is foresee any problems that may arise in the near future and FIX THEM!  Whew!  

Simple, right?  Not so much.  Because life is unpredictable and so are people.  We don't get to know how long the good stuff is going to last and when trouble is going to rear it's ugly head.  In a lot of ways, the need to "fix" or "take care" of those around us is a biological, female thing.  Someone smart once told me that women are the obsessive nurturers that we are because of all the oxytocin that is coursing through our veins.  Ladies, have you ever wondered why the house can be falling down around you, while your kids are lighting matches, and your husband, dad, or other male figure can't quite figure out that he needs to do something about it?  

Bless their little hearts! If you are from the South, you know that this is more condescending than endearing.

Men don't have all that oxytocin coursing through their veins so they need someone (with a vajayjay) to say, "Hey, there, Sport!  You want to jump in and do a little micromanaging?" I have fully adopted this theory because the alternative theory is that they just don't give a damn that the sky is falling.  I don't like that one so much.

Now, if they still stand around scratching their heads after you have made your request, then you may reserve the right to be thoroughly annoyed.  

So, I guess I just wish I was more like a man...or maybe like my kids. When I look at their sweet, little faces I sometimes ponder what it is that makes them so beautiful to me.  It is a quality that goes far beyond the good looks they have inherited from their lovely mother.  No, it's as if they are all lit up inside and at any moment they could just shoot little moonbeams out of their fingers and toes. Could this magic be from their relatively carefree existence? Can you even remember what it was like when your biggest problem during the day was that you lost out on dessert because you gave the dog half your dinner again? I can't! It must be so great to never keep anything bottled up!  My three year old is either laughing or crying 90% of the day. 

How do I get back there again? Don't quite know.  I think it falls somewhere along the lines of living in the moment; you know, carpe diem and all that crap.  Pretty sure it involves spending a little less time staring at my phone and computer screen, and more time staring at those sweet faces.  Last night was a good start.  Hubby is such a great person.  Before bed, he prayed for me.  Not out loud; he's not a public prayer kind of dude.  No, he sat next to me in the bed and prayed for me silently. When I got out of bed this morning, running on way too little sleep, I felt...lighter, buoyant.  He may be on to something big! 

We're not talkin' moonbeams yet, but it's a start, right? 

 

Can You Go Home Again?

 

Can you really ever go home again? Will it still feel like home?  My cousin, Annie, A.K.A. Peach Prenni recently blogged about her trip back to Kansas City, which was home to her for several years.  She is a Georgia grown girl who has come back home, just like me.  The very fact that we live two miles away from each other on Hog Mountain Rd., which is the name of the town that our ancestors lived in two hundred years ago, is a bonafied miracle, if you ask me.  Well, she had a beautiful life in Kansas City for several years, but the last couple of years there just plain sucked.  I'm using her words here.  

Friends, that is a great way to describe the last two years that we lived in our Chicago suburb home.  It sucked.  Big time.  At the risk of sounding crass, let's just say it blew.

   
So you can understand why my heart beats a little faster and my stomach churns at the thought of getting on a plane with my two kids and going back...home.   There was a time when just thinking about it actually incited me to hyperventilate.  After Hubby got a job that relocated us to Georgia, I experienced a strange kind of post traumatic stress disorder for the first couple of months.  Here I was all happy go lucky, looking for the house of our dreams,  living a stone's throw from my best friend, and I would be hit, out of the blue, with the overwhelming urge to curl up in the fetal position and cry.  My blood pressure sky rocketed and I began experiencing debilitating migraine headaches every week.  Wanna know my theory about that? I think that sometimes, your body waits until it feels "safe enough" to break down.  Once you're in the clear, all hell breaks loose!

Exactly one year later, my brain has settled right down and is feeling oh so cozy in my new surroundings. I feel...safe.  (Don't want to say that too loud!) My wonderful in-laws have been out to visit us at least two or three times.  We, however, made no plans to visit.  After their last trip down south, my mother-in-law cornered me as she was leaving, "Promise me right now, that you will bring those kids to me!"  

"Ummmm....okay." 

We were overdue.  Clearly.  Several phone calls ensued in which she begged me to pick a date (any date!) this summer.  Finally, on Mother's Day, I caved.  It became clear that Hubby would not be able to take any more time away from work due to summer and fall vacations, so I would be the one to go home with the kids.  After a great deal of hemming and hawing, the flight arrangements have been made.  My sweet mother-in-law finally just bought our tickets...how can I say no to such generosity?? 

The date is soon upon us...we are just a couple of weeks away!  And I have made a decision to not allow my anxiety about the past color my trip.  Because you don't throw the baby out with the bath water, right? Annie's blog inspired me to create a list in my head of all of the beautiful things I love about Chicago (you know how I love lists!)

1.) For starters, my husband's incredible family.  They are truly survivors who have been through SO MUCH and just keep on trucking.  They are far and away the most generous people I have ever encountered and they love my kids as much as I do.  I know that I do not deserve the unconditional love they have shown me, but I gladly accept it.  

2.) My short list of very special friends.  Jessie, who showed me what it means to be a teacher at my first "real" job. And who constantly offered to take off work so that she could entertain my kids when we were in a state of crisis.  Lisa, who did not bat an eyelash when things were just awful and kept me and my kids distracted with play dates two or three times a week.  Our neighbors Sharon and Jenny who were the best of friends and gave Savannah the chance to have her first "best friend".  Kristen, who invited me over too many times to count for a glass of wine, appetizers, and let me talk for hours on end.  And my college buddies Jeannie and Jen, who met me for a drink or a piece of pie just to cheer me up! When I think about these people I just want to weep with gratitude!  

3.) Finally, our church.  When we could not have been any sadder, a big ole' church plopped down just a block from our house, like manna from heaven.  After the first service I attended at Four Corners Community Church, I greeted the Senior Pastor on the way out the door by saying, "I feel like I was starving and I just got fed.  Thank you!" Though we weren't there for very long, the work that God is doing through people there left a lasting impression.  My family will always be grateful for our time there.  

When I contemplate all of this, I am truly excited to be coming home.  Because it was home for a time.  It was the place where I fell in love for the first time, married my husband, graduated from college, started my career, birthed my children, and bought our first home.  Don't you think all of those incredible milestones should outshine any bad times that we had there?  Here's hoping!  See you soon, sweet home Chicago. 

 

Greetings from Paradise

 

Hi Friends! If this were a postcard, it would say “Greetings from Paradise!” 

If we are friends, dear reader, you know that Atlantic Beach is my version of paradise.  My family has been coming to Mema’s beach cottage since I don’t know when; at least thirty years before I was born, and every summer since.  This little cottage has seen more than its share of hurricanes, loose shingles, and water damage, and thanks to Mema, who has grudgingly and faithfully written checks for the frequent repairs, she still stands, like a beacon that calls us back home.  With my Dad being in the newspaper business, we moved around quite a bit when I was a girl, about every five or six years.  I did not mind because it was all that my brother and I knew, but when that happens, you learn not to get too attached to any particular home or town.  They say that home is where the heart is, and if that is the case, then my home is surely the beach house.  It is where my love affair with the South began and where I hope it ends. 

God forbid, I should meet an early demise, (the poor girls would have such bad hair) do me a favor and remind Hubby that I do not want to be laid out like a stuffed turkey for all to admire one last time.  No siree! Just drop me off at the crematorium and take my ashes to Shackleford Banks, on the Crystal Coast.  Take a walk around the tiny island until you find the wild horses who have lived there since Spanish ships wrecked off the coast in the 1600’s and they swam to shore.  It is a majestic thing to stand in their presence, like being with Spanish royalty. Then, take a stroll back to the sound, where the water is as calm as a bath and as the sun sets, dump me in, real quick like, so you don’t get caught (awkward!). That is ceremony enough for me.  

Baby "Prince" of Shackleford with his Mama

I’m sorry but that just needed to be said.  If it were up to Hubby, I’d be laid out for a three day (yes, I’m serious) Macedonian sob fest.  I know that he is just terrified that he’ll end up in the ocean somewhere! Don’t worry babe…I’ll make sure you go out Macedonian style, but I am not wearing black for a year. 

So what do I love most about the place that holds my heart?  These days, I love revisiting the old beach traditions with my little girls.  Savannah is the daughter who has been cut out of the same cloth as me.  Just the other day, my little girl with an old soul joined my mother and me for an expedition to downtown Beaufort.  Beaufort was recently voted the coolest small town in America! Lemme just say that I loved Beaufort before it was cool.  Last year, one of Blackbeard’s ships, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, was discovered off the Crystal Coast (which boasts more ship wrecks that any other part of the United States) and some of the pirate’s knickknacks were exhibited at the N.C. Maritime museum in Beaufort.  This sparked a pirate obsession with Lilah and Savannah, who LOVED the ridiculously overpriced pirate show presented by a motley crew of local “actors” (I use this term very loosely), one of which had a great rack that she was NOT afraid to show off.  The aging, alcoholic grandpa in the back row was a huge fan off her “treasure chest".  That's all I'm saying about that!

This year, we girls hit the town for the Beaufort Historical Society Old Homes and Gardens tour.  Let's talk about just how nerdy I am…I have done this tour too many times to count, along with ghost tours (very cool!), pirate tours, treasure hunts (in 100 degree weather), and carriage rides.  It just never gets old! 

Some of the interesting folks that may or may not still hang around Beaufort are the Confederate spy, Emeline Pigott, who regularly smuggled enough knives, boots, and guns to fill up a large suitcase in her petticoats for the boys in grey.  Or the genteel Southern housewife, who killed invading Union soldiers and decided to bury them in her backyard (sensible!) You don't mess with a Southern lady's china or pearls! If you are in the mood to hear about some of the more eccentric characters of Beaufort’s history, you can visit The Old Burying Ground, which boasts being one of oldest cemeteries in North Carolina.  You will see a child's tombstone, covered in toys, which are left lovingly for the little girl who was buried in a barrel of rum. She was the daughter of a couple who immigrated to Beaufort from London in the 1700's.  She begged her father take her with him on a voyage to London so that she could see her homeland,  and she died of fever on the trip back home. The father, having promised to bring her home to her mother, preserved her body the only way he knew how…in a barrel of rum and that is how she was buried. 

My youngest, Lilah, is not old enough to appreciate the history of Beaufort or the Crystal Coast, but she does love to visit the Aquarium, which is one of the largest in the state.  Lulu loves the beach for all of the reasons that my cousins and I did as children.  She loves the perfectly still, warm water in the sound at Shackleford Banks, where she and her little floaties can swim with confidence.  She loves the beautiful shells that you can collect on the island’s shore.  She loves digging in the sand until her bathing suit looks like a loaded diaper and she is caked with sand up to her eyes.  And after a long day of swimming and digging, she loves to indulge in a piece of fudge from the The Fudge Factory or some rock candy from The General Store.  Alright, that last part might be me. 

Everyone should have a perfect place that holds their heart like no other.  If you haven’t found yours yet…it’s time for a road trip!  Pack up the kids (or the dogs) and some comfy clothes and drive until you feel like a crazy person…mumbling to yourself about how you are never doing this shit again.  Then, fall in love with someplace new.  It doesn’t have to be luxurious.  You just have to do it with someone you love.  My paradise is the salty ocean air, a marathon of trashy paperbacks from the used book store, fried seafood that inevitably gives me the runs, and the smell of my children’s sun kissed skin.  What is yours??

 

 

When I Grow Up...

Here are the three bumble bees.  That name suits them perfectly because they never stop buzzing unless they are asleep.  Even as I tuck Savannah and Lilah into their shared pink bed, they are still going a hundred miles an hour; Savannah asking me why her hair is brown, where we go when we die, and how many days until we go to Disney World, while Lilah is thinking about all the things she'd like to tell God tonight..."Thanks for this nail polish, but it's starting to chip, so could we please repaint them tomorrow?" The ham in the middle is their cousin Laine, who is never far from the action.  She is quite a character! The other day I accidentally stepped on her foot, and she went home and told Mommy, "You see this? See it?! That is what your friend Auntie Kate did to my foot!!"

They are more than enough to keep a girl busy.  But lately, I have been having an identity crisis of sorts.  It happens to the best of us.  I felt this overwhelming urge to have another child.  Like this biological desire to have more kids, but my head kept telling me, "That's crazy! You can't afford one! Like your husband isn't stressed out enough already!" Let me just add a footnote and say that even if we give it the old college try, it is really hard for us to get pregnant.  It works best when there are laboratory instruments, injections, awkward ultrasounds, and enough hormones to impregnate a horse involved. But since we were lacking...oh...say ten grand, we tried for awhile on our own.  Or I should say, I tried real hard and poor Hubby just went along for the ride because he would do anything for me.  If it weren't for my reproductively challenged body, I'd be like Michelle Dugger, only really grumpy and minus the homeschooling. 

But I never stopped to ask God what he thought of my plans.  And I never really considered what Hubby thought about them either.  It's a given that he would love a basketball team of kids, just like me, but he is the one who has always been the grown up in our relationship.  He says annoying stuff like, "Maybe we should pray about it before jumping in." or "Maybe we should work on our credit card debt first." Ugh!! Are you implying that I don't know best?! Rude.

Poor guy.

So this month, when my grand plans did not work out, (shocker!) I tried something new.   I lay in bed and said, "Thank you." Thank you because His plans are so much better than mine.  Then I told Hubby that I was ready to get off this crazy train, and he breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank God." Isn't it amazing to be loved so well that someone would willingly sacrifice their own wants and needs just to make you happy? But that's not the way that love should be.  It's my job to look out for him, and his job to look out for me.  Hubby never learned to take care of himself (basic human needs like food, water, and sleep elude him).  I however am an expert at self preservation (people, I could teach a course on it) so I have to offer him some encouragement in this department.

Where does that leave me now? Well, if God wants us to have another child, He'll just have to divinely intervene and make it happen.  We sure don't do anything to stop Him.  My heart tells me that this is it, and two perfect babies are all we get.  

By the way, if I were reading this six years ago, when the odds were stacked against us ever conceiving, I would have punched this blogger in the face.  Really, lady? Two healthy little girls aren't enough of a miracle for you.  But, really.  Do miracles ever get old?  Do we ever say "Oh! None for me, thanks.  I've had my miracle quota for this life."  

My mama taught me that instead of moping about what you can't have, you make a new plan.  So that's what I've been up to.  It is multifaceted and quite intelligent so let me break it down for you:

1.) Pay attention to what your husband needs.  He, after all, is a member of this household too, Your Excellency.  

2.) Introduce yourself to God again.  Hello, remember me? This may begin by singing a few songs in the car and talking to him BEFORE you are about to slip into an unconscious state.  

3.) Redefine your future as a woman.  You WILL sing at a church again.  You WILL either get your Doula certification or Kindermusic certification within the next year. 

4.) Quit trying to shove stuff that won't fit into a God shaped hole. You'll always wind up empty. 

 Yesterday, I met a woman who has six children and went back to school to get her esthetician certification at the age of 37.  Now she owns her own business.  I am fascinated by women who reinvent themselves after thirty.  My own mother paved the way for me by going back to work in her fifties after a twenty five year hiatus (it just took that long to raise us).  Now, my Dad cleans house and cooks, while she works full time.  

What is your plan going to be?  Who do you want to become?  I am dying to know so drop me a line!

Let Your Freak Flag Fly!

Okay, so there are two things you should know about me if we're going to be friends.  One, I am a big nerd.  Oh yeah, big time, baby.  Particularly about history.  I should have been born in another era, for sure.   And two, I am a music fanatic.  I love me some vintage rock n' roll. 

I will never forget the day that I found out Elvis was dead.  I was about five and my Dad had given me his collection of 45's, which contained the likes of Crystal Gale (rockin' hair!), the Supremes, the Oak Ridge Boys (Elvira anyone?), and then there was Elvis.  Holy Cow, did I fall in love.  I deluded myself into thinking that he was an actual member of the family and that we would meet some day after one of his concerts.  Herein lies the problem...he had been dead for awhile.  I asked my Mom when we'd be going to a concert and she looked at me like I had two heads. "He's dead!" she said.  Nice tact, Mom.  My five year old heart was broken and I never got over it.  I pretty much know every lyric that he ever sang.  Just try me! My cousin Jamie and I actually performed for the family as Elvis twins, passing out scarves and sloppy kisses to our fans (sorry, Jamie).  


More evidence of my nerdiness: I was singing Patsy Cline songs by the time I was eight in full pink suede, fringed glory.  Oh yes!! There are videos of me traveling around Florida as a Patsy impersonator in Star Search type competitions.  And you know what? You can still catch me singing "Walkin' After Midnight" around the house while vacuuming; minus the fringe.  Sadly, it no longer fits.   If it did, I would find a way to wear it.  My love affair with Patsy began when I saw the biopic, "Sweet Dreams," at the ripe old age of 9.  Jessica Lange made Patsy look so bad ass.  I decided right then and there that I too would learn to swear like a sailor, and learn to growl and yodel as well as Patsy.  My Mom was psyched when I started saying, "People in hell want ice water, but that don't mean they get it!" with squinty eyes and a southern accent. 

You see, I have always had the heart of a honky tonk angel. My secret desire is to sing at a bar, preferably one where people line dance and there are peanut shells on the floor.  It's a far stretch from my opera training, but a girl needs to have a dream, right? I ain't no Patsy, but that won't stop me from singing.  


Final documentation of my nerdiness: I am a little cuckoo for Cocopuffs when it comes to the Civil War.  Like I said, I do not belong in this era.  There is NOTHING more thrilling to me than to pour over the census records from 1860, or wade through files of Civil War military records.  My family has been in the U.S. for a long-ass time, so I have dug up some incredible documents and stories over the years about my ancestors.  I just about seized up the other night when I uncovered some military records on an amazing website called Fold3.  Fold3 contains millions of American military records dating all the way back to the Revolution.  Sadly, my ancestors fought on the wrong side of the War of Northern Aggression (Ha!) but I find the South's complete dedication to a morally bankrupt cause astounding.  My forefathers literally starved, endured dysentery, lost limbs, and went home with Typhoid Fever all because they believed that God was on their side.  There is a lesson to be learned here: pride cometh before the fall!

So that's me.  Freak flag flyin' high!  You know what the best part is about having lived long enough to be comfortable in your own skin?? You can embrace your inner freak and rejoice in what makes you...you.  So hoist your flag and find your bliss! 

And if you're really, really sweet, I may let your hear my inner Patsy one day.