it's the coaches' wife's life

Welcome to my world, it's a heckuva life,
dreaming of verticals and fast forty times.
Sweating in the stands and chasing babies on the track
Waiting for the players, giving pats on the back.

Falling to sleep with Tony Franklin in my ear,
We're dropping the Wing T and using his gear.
Running the spread and it's changing our game,
If i start screaming "Trips", please, i'm not to blame.

It's the coaches' wife life, rah! rah!
It's the coaches' wife life. ree! ree!

Rolling into the fieldhouse at six thir tay,
Bringing supper to the coaches cause they work on Sun-Day.
Watching film and drawing plays, and watching film again,
Maybe they'll be home tonight by nine, maybe ten.

Feed the kids at 6 and reheat the stuff at eight
Doing phone interviews on our dinner date.
Kids keep calling us and No, they're not ours--
"Can you move me to receiver, Coach, I'm gonna be a star!"

It's the coaches' wife's life, 4th and 10,
It's the coaches' wife's life, let's do it again.

The kids get special prizes every time that Daddy's late
T'shirts, athletic tape, leftover food is great.
Riding the tractor, rolling dummies down the hill,
Coaches kids are used to the cheapest of thrills.

It's the coaches' wife's life, punt and pray
It's the coaches' wife's life, day to day.

Praying every Friday,and wishing for a win
the pressure's always there and i'm only a fan.
Reading the papers, hope the sports guy was cool.
Help us out, dude, we're an up-and-coming school.

My fridge is a shrine to the teens in red and black,
My cupboards are stacked in case the players attack.
The closets are stocked with every shirt you can imagine,
My favorite one reminds us to "Eat, Pray, Win!"

Heading to the banquet, it's the end of the year.
Walk in 15 minutes late, and what do I hear?
A bouquet of roses and a shout out to me,
10 weeks of heaven's worth it, cause they're so pretty!

the coaches' wife's life, playoff hopes,
the coaches' wife's life, there's always next year!

Senior Night

"No scores are known?
Then look down field,
There in the twilight sky the numbers run and blink
And total up the years;
Our Sons this day are grown."
Ray Bradbury

Senior Night. Hard to believe another season has come and now is almost gone. Certainly things aren't ending the way we hoped they would. If most of us (even the wives;)had our way, we'd be playing next Friday, and the next, and on into December, and Christmas shopping would take a back seat to playoffs; and Senior Night would be just a small step in closing things down. But things don't always play out the way we wish, and tonight ends what for some parents and players began 10 or 12 years ago: 40 pound linebackers swallowed by shoulder pads intended to protect them; awkward quarterbacks with tiny arms looking for open receivers who aren't quite sure what route to run; and little boys on the sidelines who have more interest in mud puddles than pile-ons. Things have certainly changed. Forty pounds linebackers are now vicious assassins with 5 o'clock shadows, and the little boys who played in the mud watch the game eagerly for their sign to run in.

I watch these boys, who were freshmen when we got here, taller, stronger, and so much different in just four years. The high school freshmen are now soon-to-be college freshmen and their priorities and goals will change and they will leave all of this behind and take with them what they need to know to be as successful after high school as they were in high school. When I see them, that's exactly what I see, success. Good grades, talented musicians, skilled athletes, responsible teenagers who are role-models to the kids who wear their jerseys on Friday nights.

No one promised them a 10-0 season, no one promised them a play-off appearance or a scholarship with their name in the paper. Unlike rec league, there's no trophy at the end of the season for every kid on the team. But they played the game anyway, practicing in the scorching heat, lining up in the coldest of rains, and limping through a play to get the first down. Sometimes they get what they deserve and sometimes they don't. When they don't it's easy to point fingers, assign blame, and dig up excuses. It's easier, though, to look at what they are promised and what they leave with once the scoreboard turns off and the stadium lights go dark.

They leave with friends, teammates who can only understand what it's like to win a game no one thought you would win. Teammates who know what it's like to stop a ranked team on 4th and 5 when everyone thought they'd score. Teammates who feel the pain of a loss no one was prepared for. Teammates who share the same locker room stories, road trip stories, and inside jokes that no one else would appreciate.

They leave with a work ethic that says you don't quit when things get tough or don't turn out the way you want. They leave with the discipline of pressing on when things aren't going your way and people aren't on your side. It's tough to play a game when the crowd isn't cheering for you. It's the same in life. That's what they leave with.

What's really important, though, is what they leave behind. Tonight is senior night, the time to celebrate what these players have accomplished and part of what they accomplish will be what they have taught the underclassmen. If next year's team can say that their determination, their pride for their team, their hard work came from watching their senior leaders, then that's a legacy.

"What was less is now, incredibly, more!
Man, then, is the thing
That teaches zeros how to cling together and add up!
The cup stood empty?
WEll, now, look!
A brimming cup."

Coach Enters Chili Cook-Off, or that man is in my kitchen!!

Fall is one of my favorite times of the year, next to summer of course. Nothing, not even Christmas, beats sun, sand, beach, pool, etc. Fall brings football, Halloween, the half-marathon, and plenty of other fun things, so I get excited at the first sign of school buses and falling leaves. This year our church held a fall festival the day of Halloween and one of the events of the day was a Chili Cook-Off. Well, coach wouldn't be working that day, so he decided he would enter a chili of his own to be judged. Now, let me just preface the remainder of the blog with this: the man doesn't cook. Occasionally, he will throw steaks on the grill, or fry an egg sandwich out of desperation; but really that's the extent of it. It's no flaw in his character, he is simply a busy man with a stay-at-home wife to do such things.

So let's set the stage. The day before the festival, Coach presents to me a grocery list of all the things he will need to buy for his never-before-made chili. In all seriousness, he is prepared to buy approximately 20 items, 15 of which I tell him we already have in the pantry, you know, the things we women folk call "staples." I whittle his list down to a mere $10, and once he returns he is ready to cook. One would think that this being "his idea" and "his chili" would mean that i just sit back and watch the Ole Miss game while he stands over a hot stove, stirring and chopping. One would be wrong.

His first mistake is to open the cabinet doors looking for the necessary pots and pans. Did I mention that this is "my kitchen?" With a toddler in the house, there is a definite method to the madness that is my kitchen. One cabinet holds only things that are safe for Tate to pull out, rearrange, or sit in. Other cabinet doors, the ones with child safety locks on them, are a bit more tricky. His first choice of cabinet was one of the locked ones. Things get a little hectic sometimes, what with trying to unload a dishwasher with a baby sitting on the door, and then pulling out the things i have just put in a cabinet. So most unloading moments go something like this: Baby sitting on dishwasher door, steak knife in hand, me grabbing pots and pans and throwing them, thrusting them, stacking them, and shoving them into whatever opened door is available. Then securing baby latch lock just seconds before baby reaches cabinet doors to undo all that hard work. Occasionally there is an errant handle sticking out but somehow i've managed to afix the baby lock and all is well in the world for the moment. (Knife has been wrestled from toddler and placed in its official place).

So when Coach opens, rather roughly, the baby-locked cabinet and pots, pans, and skillets come flying out to his feet, he is not a happy cook. This is my cue to return to the kitchen and aid in whatever way as to keep him from using language that would make Ozzy Osbourne proud. Need I remind everyone that frustration does not make for a happy cook, can I get a witness ladies? So once Coach has his things in place and I have been assigned my duties (it's a no-go on the Ole Miss game by this point) of cutting onions, bell peppers, garlic, and the other mystery ingredients that will make this a shoo-in to win, it's time to clean all of these things: knives, cutting boards, separate bowls for each ingredient until it's time to combine them. He did it just like Rachel Ray and all those other "professional" chefs who cook for a living, and have SOMEONE ELSE clean up for them. He was enjoying this a little too much.

Fast forward a couple of hours and I'm back in the kitchen, my kitchen remember, and I'm taste-testing, oohing and aahing over this chili he's created. Now I don't mean to sound bitter, because it was pretty good. But just for fun I'd like to see him create Chili (or anything for that matter) with a baby in a high chair, begging for something in baby talk, a 9 year old at the table doing 4th grade math, and another who wants to read to me while I'm cooking so he can get outside and play. NOW, make me some chili, Coach. And while you're at it, throw some cornbread in the oven to go with it.

Whew! All I can say is that the Chili was really good, but unfortunately, "our" chili as he agreed to call it, did not win the cook-off, and he took it a little hard; losing is never fun, no matter what the competition. But I think we both learned a lot from this weekend. For him, church cook-offs are not region games; they're meant to be fun. For me, come hell or highwater, do whatever it takes to keep that man out of my kitchen unless he is unloading take-out bags.

I Love You, Coach!

Road Rules: Yes, I'm RUnning--Got a problem with that?

Dear Cars and Drivers,

It's Jennifer, the girl you passed on the road this morning. I was the one running, ponytail swinging in the wind, visible breaths coming from my mouth in the cool crisp air. You know, the one, you almost hit but got lucky and looked up from your cell phone just quickly enough to swerve and miss me. You don't scare me, though; you're not the first SUV to send me jumping to the edge of the road, but you got me thinking. Maybe we need a little bit of an introduction and maybe a few ground rules, just to make the roads safer for me and less liable for you.

First of all, yes I am running. By choice. I set my alarm, rolled out of bed and into my tennis shoes for the enjoyment of a workout, not to be taunted by 2 ton machines driven by distracted drivers.

Secondly, I am on the road because if you'll notice, there are no sidewalks. Our town did not earn the honor of "Best Places to Live and Workout" in Runner's World magazine, and so I'm expecting you to share the roads. If there were a sidewalk i would certainly use it, but i'm not going to stay home because there isn't one.

And yes, i may be pushing a stroller and Yes, there is a real baby in there. No need to slow down and rubber neck as you pass us. ANy idea how much a babysitter goes for these days?

One word for you-- Texting. Need i say more? There are laws against it because we already have statistics. I don't want to be one more statistic and I'm sure you also don't want to make headlines for striking a woman pushing a jog stroller b/c you were reminding your spouse to TIVO your favorite show via ILLEGAL text.

McDonalds. It's called fast food because you can get it quickly, not because you are supposed to drive fast while you eat it. Let's leave it at this. If you have to steer with your knee in order to consume your Value Meal, you are literally one knee jerk away from making my husband a widower. And he's a big guy.

A little consideration, please. I'm not asking that you go out of your way to give me the whole lane to run in, but really, if it's 6 am and you are the only car on the road would it really kill you to move into the center lane so that my obituary doesn't read "Died while running," or "fought a Buick and lost."

And just a little warning. You may not be able to see it, but I do have my cell phone with me and I wouldn't even hesitate to call the police and share with them your tag number, your estimated speed, or your extracurricular activities I spot as you careen past me.

Now, isn't that easy. We can all agree that a little courtesy on both sides of the road will go along way in encouraging others to take up running, walking, or cycling as a pasttime. If we can do this, maybe then we WILL be chosen as one of those cities that magazines praise for their safe roads, considerate drivers, and low obesity rates. And when you pass me and I wave, I'm just being friendly. Wave back, or better yet, just smile. Keep both of those hands on the wheel:)

Lots of Love,

The Girl in the Nikes

A Coach and His Player

I think i'm like everyone when it comes to Friday night football. Nothing beats an evening with like-minded people, pulling for the same outcome, encompassed by the sights and sounds of high school football. Few people, when asked, could accurately describe the atmosphere that surrounds a friday night on the field, in the stands, or tailgating in the parking lot before the game, though most would give a valiant try. Much as we like, words just don't do it justice. Despite that, years later men recount their days on the gridiron with as much detail, passion, and pride as the boys who actually played in the game the night before. To them, the picture in their heads is as clear as it was twenty years ago. Often, their stories sound very similar. And that's a good thing. It's nice to know that no one can take away our moments and our memories, even if they're only in our heads.

The next best thing to our actual memories are the photographs that capture a moment that may never come again. When our memories fail us, when words just aren't enough, we can flip to the photos and all of a sudden we're back to a season, a game, a place we thought we'd left behind. We remember a friend, a coach, a teammate, and a moment that defined us. And sometimes a picture pops up and answers an often-asked question and explains something that some people have never understood, until then.

I'll admit, when i first became a coach's widow, er wife, I really had no idea what i was getting myself into. Sure, i expected practices every afternoon, and of course the big game on Friday. I was ready for that, and excited to be a part of it. But the rough stuff? Let's just say it's a live and learn kind of thing. The first time you hear your husband's name shouted from the stands with an epithet and not a cheer, it hurts; and the second and the third . . .? nah, it doesn't get any easier. Fortunately, skin gets thicker as the games add up. And as the games add up, so too does the real picture of football. How many times do our coaches give rides home to kids who wouldn't play football if they didn't? How many times do coaches hand out lunch money to kids who may not eat that day? How many times do coaches open their homes to boys who, at that particular moment, have nowhere else to go? I'll say it again--that's the stuff I was totally unprepared for. Yet, THAT'S the stuff that I love the most.

A couple of years ago, I attempted to answer an oft-asked question about the coaching profession. Why would anyone put in the hours, put up with the criticism, the uncertainty of a career determined by teenagers, for what equals out to less than minimum wage? Sure, it sounds great going into it. Teach a couple of classes, math or social studies maybe, then spend the afternoon calling plays, leading drills, and blowing the whistle. Sit back at the end of the day and watch the film, making notes while sipping a glass of sweet tea from the comfort of the recliner.
Ha! If only the job were that simple, yet the game really is. Take a group of young men, share with them your knowledge, inspire them with your passion, and teach them to respect the game. In between that, teach them to catch a pass, throw a ball, read a defense, run a route, and handle wins and losses with equal grace.

When I first saw the picture on the left, it hit me. There's the answer: Why do coaches spend more time with each other than their own families? Why do they stay up late writing reference letters for kids they haven't seen in two years? Why do they take a fall sport and turn it into a year round job? Because some day one of those boys will call and ask you to be the best man at his wedding. Because one day the kid you put your arm around will show up at the field to watch you coach the state championship game. One day the kid you were toughest on will come back and thank you for not letting him quit. One day the kid you thought hated you will tell you he hopes one day that HIS kid will play for you.

Thanks, Abbey, for the great picture from Friday night. We have no idea what is being said between those two, and that's the point. Some things are better left between a coach and his player.

What Mom Really Means

Last week i wrote (vented) about words and phrases that Tucker and Tanner frequently use that, how shall i put this, drive me nuts. Well, i figured that if i were going to dissect their language and all the hip, new things kids are saying these days, it would only be fair to analyze my own vocabulary, all the unhip, old-fashioned things we moms keep repeating. After thinking long and hard about this blog, and all the important statements, questions, commands, complaints, etc, I should address, i realized that this will not only be good for Tucker and Tanner (and one day Tot), but billy might also really benefit from a deeper understanding of many of my utterings. What really got me started was at dinner tonight as i'm serving up chili in bowls. The utensils are on the table, the drinks have been poured, and the condiments for chili within arm's reach. Coach looks at me and says, "Do we have any onions?"

Now let me just set the stage. It is thursday night, after 8:00. the three of them have just returned from football practice and it is almost the end of a very busy week: practices, revival, bootcamp, homework. I, too, had just returned from a shopping trip with a less than willing partner who decided that since i wouldn't share my chick-fil-a coke with him, not only would he not eat his nuggets but he would also scream the whole way home, the whole 17 miles from exit to exit, screaming despite the radio and the music HE likes, despite the windows rolled down and the wind whipping through his golden blonde hair, despite my promises of his own drink when we get home.

Ahem, back to the onions. What Coach really means by asking if we have onions is "I want onions with my Chili." So what Mom really means when she says, "no we don't have any" is, you have a better chance of growing hair on your head right now than getting me to cut onions on a Thursday night at 8:15. So that led to this and all the other WMRM's:

What Mom Really Means When . . .

I ask you, "Tucker are those your shorts on the floor in front of the TV?"
WMRM: PICK those shorts up and do with them whatever needs to be done!

I ask you if you want me to help you study for your test.
WMRM: Bring me your study sheets we are GOING to study.

Has anyone checked the mail?
WMRM: somebody/ anybody has about 5 seconds to thrust a handful of junk mail and bills into my face.

Is Tate in there?
WMRM: Basically the same as the above. SOMEONE put a hand on that baby and get him out of the toilet, off the kitchen table, or away from my wallet PRONTO!

This is your school project and it's your job to do well on it.
WMRM: You and i are working on this project together buddy, b/c don't you realize that if you turn in some piece of crap project the teacher is going to think I"M the one who is lazy and uncreative. your name may be on the posterboard, but my reputation is at stake.

"Hey, let's do something different for supper tonight. that sounds fun, right?"
WMRM: Daddy is working tonight and you boys are stuck with me, so basically it's whatever i can find in the fridge/freezer. now smile:)

Don't stay out too late tonight--film can wait."
WMRM: I'll see you about 4:00 this morning after you've watched film, done laundry, and eaten God only knows what after midnight. Just be careful coming home:)

And finally, You boys are killing me!!
WMRM: Despite the fact that i rarely get a moment of rest, diapers never go away, and homework is sometimes a nightmare, I couldn't imagine my life without y'all!

More Panther Football???

"Can she pleeeease stop writing about Panther football?" I know some of you are saying that right now, but y'all i just can't help it. It's getting to be that time of year, High 5 Sports is on, the Falcons are at training camp, the practice fields are full every afternoon, and Jackson County football's cup is overflowing! So y'all bear with me one more post; it's football season and there's a lot to be excited about.

My faithful blog followers already know that a couple of months ago I started a little prayer for the Panthers, praying for their summer sessions and for a winning season. I talked about how God had brought us here, kept us here, and is working His will into everything that happens here. I know many of you are also praying for our boys and our coaches and community, and y'all I think it's working.

I also shared the news about a month ago that money and scholarships had been provided to our program so that our entire team could go to FCA camp and experience an environment where Christianity and Football go together. In case you haven't heard, several of our players gave their lives to Christ at that camp, and if you ask the coaches, most will tell you that they came back as a different team. No doubt a stronger, smarter, wiser team than they left. That was just the beginning.

Not long after they returned from FCA camp, the coaching staff held a football camp for little boys. Pre-registration forms had the coaches expecting approximately 50-60kids. Pretty good number, we thought. Night one saw over 100 future Panthers show up to sweat it out on the practice field just like the big boys do. The next three nights the coaches worked their magic and put on a camp that set a precedent for all other camps that follow.

It doesn't end there. The first official week of practice came and went and saw close to 90, yes 90, players covering the practice field. The same school that fielded 40 boys the first year we showed up now has to order more equipment and jerseys to suit everyone up. Players from other counties have moved in and joined the team, kids who have been students at JCCHS for the last couple of years are now first-time Panthers on the gridiron, and the faithful few who have worn the Panther jersey since they were freshmen are now our senior leaders. Good things are happening.

Today was picture day and senior picnic at Hurrican Shoals, a Panther tradition as long as we've been here. Ninety-one players lined up for the team picture this morning, and over 200 players, parents, coaches, and family members celebrated the beginning of the season tonight at the park with a covered dish cook-out. These weren't parents dropping their kids off only to pick them up later. These were parents who brought casseroles, chips, and lawn chairs and did the whole meet and greet thing, biding the time til they can share the bleachers on Friday nights. Exciting things are happening.

It's kind of like a puzzle, I guess. You ask for one big thing in the beginning, say a winning season. And little by little, things start happening, one piece here, one piece there, until finally they all fit together and in the end you realize you got what you asked for. Sometimes it takes a little time, a lot of patience, and of course, a lot of work. At least that's the way I hope it works. Either way, it's pretty cool to watch how God keeps dropping those pieces down for us. I guess it's up to us, though, to put them together and make the final product happen.

So Y'all keep on praying and watching for the pieces to fall!

Help! I need a play pen, and No! I don't mean an activity yard!

I'm beginning to see why play pens are on almost every baby registry from Target to Babies R Us. I'm also beginning to wonder why I gave mine away. I'm thinking of all the things i'd be willing to trade to get that bad boy back and give myself a little bit of peace and a lot less clean up time. If you've been to a baby shower lately, a deluxe model play yard almost always tops the list. But nooooo, I had to be one of those moms who wasn't going to limit her babies. Uh uh. What kind of mom would i have been if I had corralled all of their curiosity and inquisitive nature? I couldn't force them to play with ACTUAL toys that were made for them instead of the contents of my wallet. Nope, cruel and unusual punishment. Something back then told me play yards made for bad moms, so i gave away that little piece of heaven to the first available taker, promising not to think badly of the one who so desperately took it off my hands.

OK, that was nine years and three babies ago, and after cleaning up an entire loaf of bread from the carpet (again)and fishing an unused roll of toilet paper from the boys' potty, I'm questioning my sanity and counting the dollar bills in my wallet, searching the house for the best way to rearrange what we now have to make it fit an oh-so-marvelous square of plastic and netting. I mean, I should look at the positives, right? Think how much concentration time Tate would have to actually put all those shapes into the correct openings on the little canister if he weren't free to wander the house. He would be able to link all those plastic beads together to make a . . um . . . umm . . . to make something creative. I could actually leave the pennies on the floor and not have to lean over to pick them up after a long day of Step classes and vacuuming (oh who am I kidding, i just suck those copper coins up the Dyson, anyway). But the bathroom door wouldn't have to stay shut, and i wouldn't have to hide the toilet paper in the basement. The bottom two pantry shelves would actually have FOOD on them. I wouldn't worry about the resale value of our house if I added a top lock to EVERY door in here.

But it's not just for my sanity and a decrease in housework that a play pen, er yard, would be a great asset. There are safety issues to consider. Tate can now reach the door handles and since he only has to pull down to open the door, he's been beating me to the mailbox every afternoon. Cords dangle from every end table, and the big boys aren't always meticulous in picking up their Legos and Magnetix pieces, definite choking hazards. His little fingers can also reach the top of the kitchen counters, so that loaf of bread, hot pan handle, and cell phone charger dangling just centimeters from his reach really don't stand a chance. Kind of like me in this argument.

I'm pretty much the only one on Tate's side here, considering that Daddy's cell phone went missing about three months ago and Tate was the last person seen with it. But as much as I can envision a CLEAN house, with no pots and pans to stumble over, no shampoo bottles in the playroom, and no late night remote control searches before Pawn Stars (can you imagine if it were SEC season yet?), I just can't let myself do it. As crazy as it sounds, (and really haven't i proven myself just that already) I enjoy finding destruction and room remodels as I round the corners to areas i haven't been in lately. Plus, I would never have gotten the awesome photograph of him surrounded by toilet paper on the bathroom floor if he had been "penned in." I would never receive special gifts like toothpaste, alarm clocks, and DVD's on running a 50 defense if he were spending the afternoon in a box.

I'm sure there will come a time when penning in one of my children will be more tempting than it is today, when my main goal in life will be to protect them from the grown up world: first date, driver's license, first curfew violation,(gulp) college. So even though my body is forever in bend-over-and-pick-up position and my work load is on the rise, I'm glad I didn't stick those babies "out of the way;" i would have missed out on so much.

For Better or For Worse

I love summer for so many reasons: vacations, beaches, pools, no schedule to follow. I also love that summer always brings with it lots of weddings, and of course, lots of memories. I know some people roll their eyes at the sight of another heavy stock invitation to nuptials at sunset, but me? I start looking for a babysitter right away. There's nothing better than sitting with the man of your dreams (who happens to be sweating miserably in his tie)and watching two people promise before God and family to do everything you two have been doing for the last 11 years.

A few weeks ago, Billy and i celebrated our eleventh wedding anniversary. A week before that we attended the wedding of a young couple who were embarking on the same journey we were celebrating. As we watched them together, pronounced man and wife, exiting the chapel arm in arm, I could remember being them, young and with no idea of what being married really meant. I'm amazed when i look back at how much has happened in those 11 years. The things that have grayed my hair and given me the lines on my face, I never could have imagined that day in the church. I wish I could figure out a way to give out advice to those young marrieds, but really, who wants to listen to an old woman with three children wax poetic about the ups and downs of marriage. Would they listen?

One of the ironies of getting married is that everything is planned out and executed so perfectly and the wedding goes off without a hitch. Marriage is never like that. Stemware gets broken, fine china chips, and flatware disappears and turns up later in the sandbox. Wedding pictures fade and get misplaced, dresses don't fit anymore, and the top layer of the cake you saved in the freezer goes unnoticed because SOMEONE came home from football practice exhausted. The fancy wineglasses stay on the top shelf for fear of little hands, and no one even remembers who caught the bouquet.

Everything that seemed so important in the engagement months starts to fade away and real life, and love, starts to settle in. Bills arrive, babies arrive, moving trucks arrive. New friends come and old friends go; football teams win and then they lose. Cars break down, babies get sick, and there never seems to be enough time. The more you plan, the less control you seem to have. And yet, that's the beauty of marriage. Despite the monotony of monogamy, every day is something new; something you don't know how to handle and yet you somehow figure it out, together. You buy your first house, signing papers that make your hands shake. But you do it together, two signatures, not just one. You bring home the first baby from the hospital, hands still shaking and hearts swelling with pride and praise, praying that if you don't do it right, at least maybe he will, because we're a team.

That's how you make it eleven years, 35 years, 50 years. If you're lucky, you wake up every morning next to that same person who looked so handsome in the black tuxedo, the one who still changes the oil in your van, who brings home take-out when you're just too worn out to cook, and goes outside to throw the football with the boys even though he's too tired to stand. As long as OUR boys can see what makes a marriage work, I guess i shouldn't worry about doling out all that advice to the young couples. They'll figure it out on their own, just like we do.

Real Moms Have Stretch Marks

It's funny. In a world with endless tragedy, sad stories, and disasters that fill the news pages, i still manage to get up every day and lead a pretty great life. Movie stars are crazy, singers are lazy, and no one is a good role model when the video tapes come out. And yet, despite the fact that The Bachelorette never finds lasting love, I sleep well at night, laugh a lot, and have so much to be thankful for that i often lose track of my blessings.

I'm not rich, I'm not famous, and no one really cares what happens to me outside of my family and friends. I drive a mini-van, I do my own grocery shopping, and I spend most of my vacations within the continental United States. I change diapers, scrub toilets, and i jump on the trampoline for fun. I am solely responsible for cooking and feeding four people EVERY day. And because of (not despite) all this, I consider myself one of the luckiest people on the face of the earth.

How? some people may ask. For the last nine years i have been blessed to call myself a mom. Now, that doesn't get a lot of attention, unless of course, i'm a recovering meth addict who's now a great mom, or a movie star/model who manages to "do it all" in addition to a fabulous career. No, the regular moms who drive car pool, make tuna casseroles, and spend so much time doing laundry that we decorate the laundry rooms a la Southern Living, don't elicit a lot of fanfare. But those people who think that the face of a real mom is found on the covers of People and Redbook, have no idea that regular, average, run-of-the-mill moms pretty much have the world on a string.

When you are a mom, lonely is a word that doesn't even register in your vocabulary. Can i get a witness? Bathroom, shower, telephone conversations, grocery shopping with balloons attached to my cart for the sake of a little sanity--all are conducted with my entourage in tow. Dinners out (even at chick-fil-a) with a baby on the lap and a utensil in one hand have become the norm for how to eat and cook. And who can forget bedtime? I know i'm not the only one who more than once a week winds up with an extra person in the bed. Yeah, and if I don't return your phone calls, you already know why. And if you don't call me, well, let's just say my feelings aren't hurt and i'll look forward to your phone calls when Tate starts kindergarten. Like i said, i can't even imagine being lonely; and i really don't want to.

I am never at a loss for quotable material,either. In fact if i were smart i'd walk around carrying a mini tape recorder so i wouldn't miss a thing. Just yesterday, Tanner came in to tell me that he'd never be able to take a shower or bath again (serious face). He'd suffered some sort of cut or bug bite that kept him from immersing his foot in water, so cleansing via water was out of the question, forever it seems. And in another very serious conversation, Tucker was asking if people from Mississippi are called Mississippians. "Well, what are Mexicans called?" Tanner now wants to know. And they think they can't make me laugh!

Honesty. I've already written about the brutal honesty that comes from tucker's mouth, but really it never gets old. At Silver Sneakers the other day, i was putting out one of our exertion charts and talking to one of my members at the same time. Tucker came in and asked what I was doing with it. I told him it was kind of a list of rules, and right there, in front of my over 55 member says, "oh yeah, old people like to follow rules." Swear to it y'all.

I can't mention honesty without throwing in a little bit of lying with it. When your kids tell you they want a WII not for themselves, but because they have yoga and other aerobics things for me, i have to laugh. Similarly, when they spot a gorgeous celebrity on the cover of one of those very magazines i scoff at and tell me "she" looks just like me, i marvel at their attempt.

I guess what it boils down to is that i've just seen one too many shots of Britney and her kids, and all the other stars who really put shame to the term of mom that i can't stand it anymore. Real moms ROCK, and deserve the credit that gets heaped too many times on the lame excuses who don't know what it's like to sit up at night with a sick baby or watch the same Barney video so many times you hum the songs while out for a jog. Seriously, i know i'm not the only one who has looked around the room to discover that she's watching Phineas and Ferb and the children are nowhere to be found.

So kudos to all the real moms who work, cook, chauffeur, clean, and still manage to read books, run races, have dates with their husbands, and vacation at the beach without having their every move documented for America's enjoyment. Even bigger kudos to those same moms who actually realize how lucky they are and are enjoying every loud, sticky, sleep-deprived moment.

The Wonder Years

I know it was a bittersweet weekend for Mississippi, a big win for one team, a big loss for another. I may have been gone for 9 years and I may live almost 500 miles from home, but my roots run deep. I swear the only reason i pay such a ridiculous price for TV is so that if MS State or Ole Miss is playing footbal, basketball, baseball, or water polo, i can catch the game; and I'm never so proud as when i wear my Ole Miss or Ms State t-shirt (yes, i have both)in a sea of Bulldog red.

I'm proud of my home state, yes, and it has more to do with just football,(though i do think it is a grand sport:) I get all giddy when i check out a magazine and see some aspect of the Magnolia state highlighted. Just today I had some free time to read my Southern Living out on the back deck and was thrilled to see that as they were highlighting the Best of the South, Mississippi and its famous Mississippians stole the show for the amazing music. Specifically, it is the music of the Delta, the legendary Blues singers who honed their talent from the way of life that is so typical of the flat farm land that stretches along Highway 61.

Awww, all of a sudden I'm a little homesick. I lived in the Delta, very briefly, and drove that highway so many times i knew every bend and bump in the road. Sadly, I remember, too, that I couldn't wait to leave the Delta, head down 61 one last time and never go back. Did i not know then what I know now? Were there no articles on the music, the history, the family relationships that prevail in small towns along the river?

I was too young to appreciate the culture shock of a town that doesn't change much, where the high schools are staffed mostly with teachers who are former students, or neighborhoods whose streets sound off like alphabetical listings in a phone book. Nope, I couldn't see it, and as soon as life opened another door we packed our things and floored that U-Haul down that same highway one last time.

Well, as it often does, life has a funny way of turning things around on you, and seven years later we found ourselves in a another new town, eerily similar to the one we fled so many years ago: high school students checking us out at the grocery store, churches filled with great-grandparents and their kids, grandkids, and finally their great grandkids, one redlight only on the way to school, the closest mall 30 minutes away. Yes, I'd been here before, but this time . . . surprise of all surprises, I LOVE it! I am smarter now(older, too), aware that it is the little things in life that make a city a home, and not just some place you live until the next door opens and the moving van shows up.

And for a coach and his family, new doors open up all the time. Plenty of doors have opened (and closed) for us, and realistically many more will in the future. So even though i regret the impulsive me who didn't appreciate what i was leaving behind in the Delta, I can now say that wherever we go, whatever each new town holds (or doesn't), I cherish each person, each road I run, each little quirk it holds, because you never know, the town you once ran from just might turn into the place you're running to.

I know this is hard to believe (or maybe just hard to stomach, again:)), but I love football. And it's not just the game and the season and all the hoopla that surrounds a Friday night, but I love the whole lifestyle that comes with being a coaching family. I'm sure I've complained numerous times about how late Billy works at night and the incessant phone calls about lawn mowers, team physicals, and weight room shenanigans, especially when i was a young wife just learning the ropes; but after many years of living this way, I have alot to brag about. And tonight, i think i'd like to share:)

First of all, can we say T-SHIRTS!!!! I am a walking advertisement for everything from orthopaedic foot care to the new Gatorade flavor to the best sporting goods stores around. I am never at a loss for a shirt to run in, do housework in, or parade around Kroger in on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Next, there are now online sites that allow moms to find babysitters who are qualified, responsible, and available at a moment's notice. I've never needed a site such as that. Let's just say that cheerleaders line up to keep an adorable infant (as do some of my favorite Panther moms) and when the big boys get too big for girl babysitters, the best thing is a babysitter who can throw a spiral in the backyard and come inside and play Madden till it's lights out. And that whole responsible thing? Word travels fast around high school halls, so any undesirable candidate has been eliminated before she even applies. SOmetimes gossip IS okay.

It gets better. During the season, I very often open the fridge on Saturday mornings and find leftovers from Friday's pregame meal. Now, if that isn't a pleasant surprise for a weary mom on a busy weekend, I don't know what is. Tucker and Tanner don't even care what it is, as long as Daddy brought it home and they know that the players ate it, it's a keeper. Which means whether i want to eat it or not, supper is already cooked and i can sit back and watch the Georgia game (somewhat) uninterrupted.

There are plenty more reasons to love this life: tickets to the Georgia games, endless samples of deodorant, prewrap, and shaving cream, and old jerseys that become costumes whenever necessary. An open track to run on with nobody to tell me i can't bring my jogstroller. And then there are those little moments when God reminds us that he's never far from the action. My friend likes to say that when we want something, sometimes we have to just be patient and wait for God to "show out." Well, today, he not only showed out, he did cartwheels and back handsprings.

In just a couple of weeks, Billy will be taking his team to FCA camp at West Georgia College. Though it is a team activity, the players must pay for their own trips. Reality check: the economy stinks and some kids (and families) just don't have the money. So Billy has been stewing over this for weeks. How to get all of his players to a camp that no one should have to miss out on. He prayed, e- mailed, and made numerous phone calls. Little bits came in here and there, but still we had several players who still needed scholarships. As we were heading to Lake Lanier Islands with the boys today, the "showing out" began. Billy got a call from a guy who wanted to help him with the scholarships and miraculously was able to offer the money that Billy would need to insure that EVERY player would attend what has been rumored to be a "life-changing" camp. We couldn't believe it. Billy had called this guy hoping he would be able to help with 2 maybe 3 players and instead will provide for 13!!!!!
All together, Billy has had people step up and offer enough money to allow 27 boys to attend camp, boys who otherwise would be staying home.

We drove in AWE the rest of the way and enjoyed our afternoon in the sun, reminded again that miracles do happen. Just can't wait to see what the next miracle is that God has in store for our PANTHERS!

Things you should NEVER tell your mother!

As a mother of three boys, the word "no" comes up quite a bit at my house, in my car, and at every venue in Jackson county.
"No, you can't do your homework after practice."
"No, you can't take Tate down the street without me."
"No, you can't stay up to watch the new episode of Zack and Cody."

You get the picture. Unfortunately, it's not only i who frequently throws out the N-bomb; no, Tate has figured out that little word and though he can't say it yet, he KNOWS what it means and usually tries to ignore it whenever i use it.
"No Tate, stay away from the catfood."
"No Tate, hands don't go in the potty."
"No Tate, don't touch Daddy's phone, computer, remote, . . ."
And yet he does them all anyway, smiling the whole time.

And then there's the other two loves of my life, Tucker and Tanner. They give me as many no's as i give them.
"Have you brushed your teeth?" NO
"Are your shoes tied?" NO
"Are you wearing shoes?" No
"did you bring home your study sheet?"

So between me, Daddy, Tucker, Tanner, and Tate, No is one word we don't need any help with. Unfortunately, there are others, little retorts that sometimes make me shudder when i hear them. Phrases and responses that have mysteriously (thanks, Disney Channel) popped into my young boys' mouths. I try to warn them at first, hoping that after one stern look and threat of dismemberment, they won't ever use them again. My looks must not be so bad, because they keep popping up. So here goes: Top Ten things you should never say to your mother. Pass them along. Post them on your fridge. Warn the youngsters of today that had WE ever uttered these quirky remarks to our mothers and fathers, we would have been picking our switches from a backyard bush so fast our heads would have already spun.

10. (as we are getting into the car), Do we need shoes?

9. (as we are getting into bed for the night), "OOh, i need a posterboard!"
when? "tomorrow!"

8. (At the dinner table), I don't eat this.......... oh, really????

7. (when asking if a friend can come along), But his mom already said yes!

6. (after i do a smell check after bath or shower), you didn't say to use soap!

5. Y'all never let us . . . (when asking permission for something they
KNOW we'll never agree to.)

4. Mom, you are the coolest, best mom in the whole world (when asking permission for something they KNOW we'll never agree to.)

3. Mom, stop that; you're embarrassing me!!!! (When i'm walking through school saying hello to their friends, or when i'm dancing in the car to Cupid Shuffle.)

2. Mom, why do your arms shake like that? (while he points to my dangling tricep) Boo Tanner!

And finally, the one response these days that can turn an otherwise happy-go-lucky Mom (who had her run for the day) into a hot-tempered, finger-pointing, punishment-issuing drill sergeant:

1. Hold on!!! (when i ask you to take out the trash, bring me your homework, play with your brother, or stand on your head and spin, I mean now!!!!) I am too old to "hold on" and you are too young to even exercise that phrase.

Well, I feel better:)

America's Finest

I had it all planned out. I was going to write a blog to all the graduates, a few words of advice to the seniors of 2010. AFter filling in at the high school in the fall of 2008, and after finishing 3 seasons with this group of football players, I felt like I knew a lot of the guys and girls who walked across the graduation stage. And i have to say, I like ALOT of the those students and will miss seeing a lot of those faces. So, a blog was in order. My plan was to dish out some common sense wisdom, you know, "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," or "There's no such thing as free." Things like that. Also, little hints that I've picked up, mostly from my own mistakes. For example, don't buy the cheap shoelaces; they cost a dollar for a reason. And for the college bound: Just because you can stay out all night, doesn't mean you should. Same goes for fast food. Just because they have a dollar menu, doesn't mean it's good for you.

I had it all planned out. And then, we saw Charlie. He was eating dinner with his family and came over to tell us he was getting ready to ship out. Suddenly all that advice seemed pretty silly. His shipping out was no surprise; we'd known for a while that he was joining the Marines, but that was when he graduated. That was back in the fall when he stumbled into the classes I subbed, finishing off a snack before the bell rang, when he begged me to let him play trashcan basketball after the test with old scraps of paper. That was back when he was running for touchdowns on Friday nights. That was when he was a kid. Yep, all those words about too many Big Macs and late night fraternity parties seemed pretty silly directed to a boy who might be headed off to a war in the desert.

He's not the only one. Another one of our players has already shipped out. I don't know where he is and I don't know what six weeks of boot camp is like. What I do know is they didn't HAVE to join. They signed up to do something that most people wouldn't, couldn't do. They traded backpacks and textbooks for machine guns and ready to eat meals. They gave up dorm rooms and video games for combat boots and heavy artillery.

They spent twelve years as America's future and with the switch of a tassel, they became America's finest. It's hard to believe that the boys whose faces I can still see, sitting in the bleachers listening to morning announcements, eating lunch with their friends in the Panther cafe, and racing down the football field, are now the men who protect our country and defend the freedoms that most of us take for granted. That the boys who just months ago donned cap and gown now command respect and applause as they pass through airports in their dress blues. It's humbling to know that men and women fight every day so that we can do the things we love; it's even more humbling when that soldier is a young man you coached or taught.

If I could slow time down, I would, let them and us have one more season, one more summer of innocence, youth, and ignorant bliss. But I can't, for them, me, or my own boys. So all I can do is pray for them, be proud of them, and offer one dose of advice as they "ship out": take care of yourselves!

God Bless Charlie, James, and ALL of our soldiers!!!

children and fools

One of my favorite bible verses has always been, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." I grew up in Sunday School, taught Sunday School, and now send my children there every week. I believe in that verse and i try to follow that verse. But another proverb that i stumbled upon recently is gaining more weight around my house the older my children get: "children and fools speak the truth."

Tucker is a talker. I mean a drown out the radio, 20 questions, analyzing movies as a toddler kind of talker. Forget the typical first born characteristics--quiet, reserved, organized--he headed straight to the 3rd child qualities, namely "most likely to become a game show host." So to say he tells it like it is is an understatement. Ever since he started watching the Braves, he's been a Brian McCann fan, so much so that he's begging for catcher's gear for Christmas already. Well, last summer, out-of-nowhere, he told me that i had "Brian McCann legs." Hmmm. . . What can you say to that? If he weren't my child i could have come up with plenty of four letter expletives and maybe a face slap. But i think he kind of meant it as a compliment, so I just smiled and said, "Thanks, buddy"

Seething and self-conscious, I headed to the full-length mirror to check it out. No offense, you rich, young Major League catcher, but the last thing a 35 year old pregnant woman wants to hear is that she has the legs of a man who squats for a living. Unfortunately, my job requires me to do squats and lunges in a room surrounded by mirrors, so that Brian McCann "compliment" keeps ringing in my ears. Thanks, Tucker!

Mothers Day rolled around this year and Daddy and the boys decided to buy me a gift certificate to have my hair done. Again, Tucker wasted no time in letting me know that i wasn't quite up to par with how he thought i should look. I envisioned a nice cut, similar to what i usually get, and maybe some highlights resembling my natural color. He had other plans: "Mom, you need to get blonde hair AND you need to start wearing glasses. YOu'd look alot better!" Wow! tell me how you really feel, son.

His honesty and candid remarks aren't just limited to how I look. One night Tucker had obviously met someone from a divorced family and had lots of questions. I tried to explain it as best I could, how kids might live with one parent most of the time, and visit the other parent on weekends. It didn't take him long to decide who he would choose if that were to happen to him: "I'd definitely live with Dad cause he gets tickets to the PeachBowl and Georgia games and mom doesn't." Wow, all those nights rocking a sick baby, nursing ear aches, and changing wet diapers and i'm sold out for sideline passes to an organized brawl in the big city.

One of my favorite times that he "tells it like it is" is when he makes fun of how I run. Running is important to me, and it's something i like to think i do pretty well. To him, though, imitating me as i head up the hill to our house is a riot. "I'm Mom," he shouts, as he tilts his head to the side and dons an intense glare on his face. He's even better when he laughs at me after sneaking a peek at me teaching my Silver Sneakers class. "One, two, one, two," he screams, as he attempts a rather lazy grapevine. hey, what happens with me and my senior citizens behind closed doors is my business!! He thinks i'm a hilarious goofball; and tells me!

He's only nine. I'm not sure how much more of his truth i can stand. But maybe i'm looking at this all wrong. Though he acts like a third child quite a bit, artsy and comedic at the same time, he IS a first born child and they are also known to be pleasers, always trying to make others happy. This is the child who won the Citizenship Award in his class. Maybe what he meant by Brian McCann legs was that I have toned, muscular legs. Isn't that what i work out for? And maybe I WOULD look better with a new hair color. I had lots of compliments when i had my blonde highlights. And seriously, what boy doesn't think his Daddy is the coolest? Maybe i'm the one with the problem, not Tucker. I'm assuming the worst, that all his comments are just a pre-teen waiting to let loose on his parents; when really all he's doing is trying to make us happy.

The more I think about it, the more I like that verse about children speaking the truth. Tell me more, Tucker. The truth sounds pretty good coming from a 9 year old:)

Prayer for the Panthers

Strolled/jogged around the track at Billy's school this morning, and well, this is what came to me after 7 miles:)

Dear God,

You've been with us from the very beginning: the interview in a town we'd never heard of, the phone call from Mr.Lancaster, the huge ABF moving truck with our lives loaded in it(that it seemed like we'd just unpacked), the heartbreak and tears(mine) over leaving our current home and friends. You were there when our house sold in 5 days and we slipped seamlessly from Mississippi residents to Georgia homeowners with a little cash in our pockets. You were there when the older man at the new church looked at Billy and said, "What made you take that job?" You were there for it all and I guess that's what made it OK to pack up and move again and start over AGAIN in a place where we knew NO ONE! The Bible says "where You lead, I will follow." Well, we're here.

Well, God, I have a request. The Bible also says, "Ask and it shall be given to you." It's been three seasons and there's no other way to do this but to come right out with it. Lord, I'm praying today for a winning season for the Panthers. Be with the players as they hit the weight room early mornings on their summer break. Assure them that the work they trade for sleep will pay off this fall. Be with them as they endure the wind sprints and conditioning that will prepare them for hot nights in full pads against boys who may be bigger or faster than they are. Bless the receivers with quick feet as they glide down the emerald green grass. Give them long arms and tight grips as they pull in passes from their quarterback. Guide that very quarterback as he surveys the field, sizes up the defense, and delivers a game winning pass. Give the linemen tough feet as they dig their toes into the ground, pushing, shoving, and protecting. Keep them strong even though theirs are the names that rarely get called. Be with the safety who gets beat on a pass route, and give him the confidence boost to go back on the next play and intercept. Calm the kicker who sometimes carries the game on his shoulders. Help him boot that pigskin straight through the goalposts, and protect him as he is carried off the field on the shoulders of his teammates. Be with the coaches whose heavy feet pace the sidelines they mow themselves, who carry a heavier burden than most people can understand. Encourage the boys who stuck with it, even when it was hard, when others gave up on them, and are finally seeing some light in the distance.

You see, God, we've had it rough here the last several years, or so i've been told. The teams who came before us have suffered the losses, the games that "build character." But now, Lord, it's time to win. Our boys know what it's like to work hard and improve. To continue when others quit. To lose in the last few minutes, to lose in the first few minutes. They know what it's like to read the paper and hear the praise heaped on surrounding teams. Lord, I just think it's time to see the right people reap what they sow. Let the boys who buy into a work ethic, follow when asked to follow, and lead when expected to lead, experience the thrill of victory. Let them hear the roar of a crowd who plan their weekend around 7:30 kickoffs. Let them read about themselves in the paper, with words like "upset," and "playoff."

Thank you Lord for football as we know it: summer workouts, cool fall nights in the bleachers, cheerleaders chanting, and marching bands marching. Thank you for pep rallies, homecoming, tailgating, and signing day. And Lord, if we could add play off game to that list, I'd consider this an answered prayer.

In Jesus name,

Jennifer

P.S. -- Lord, i'm pretty sure i can get you a sideline pass to that play off game. Just sayin'.

Answer to the Prayer of Jabez

I love Sundays. If i'm lucky, Daddy watches all 3 boys and I go for a nice run before church, all by myself, no stroller, no bikes to keep up with, just me and my miles. Today, Daddy lay sleeping in bed, still recovering from spring football and i didn't have the heart to wake him just so i could get my fix. So i loaded up and prepared for a stroller workout: bottles, paci, toys, diaper and wipes, water babies sunscreen. We were off and as we were walking out the door, tucker asked if he could come along on his bike. My run was beginning to take shape as an "oh well, maybe later," kind of thing. But Tate was excited to have Tucker beside us, talking up a storm and we hadn't even made it down the hill.

Tucker is always asking me to tell him stories, remind him of things from the past, or write about him in my blog. i'm not sure if this is what he had in mind, but today i witnessed one of those moments that will become "one of those stories." We decided to head to the track where it's easier to push a stroller with a 25 pound baby. Well, here's when Tucker became my hero. Instead of logging my miles behind a baby jog, Tucker offered to take Tate and play with him under the Magnolia tree. I was on my own!!! Free to run--ALONE!!! Every lap around I came back to them and they were laughing, giggling, practicing Tate's walking, playing chase, and bouncing on the high jump mats. Tate didn't cry for me once. What a perfect morning, and running had nothing to do with it.

There's an ineffable amount of joy in watching your children laugh, seeing them happy. A parent is only as happy as his saddest child, but today we were all on the moon. Not only is there joy when all our kids are playing together, but for us there is also a lot of irony in watching those two play; that is the baby Tucker did not want. To say that he was distraught when he heard the news of a new baby doesn't even begin to describe that night. He left the table, locked himself in his room, and eventually asked (quite seriously, i'm afraid) if we could take the baby to an orphanage. Tanner, he insisted, was the only brother he wanted. My joy was squashed. How could i do this to my first born child, hurt him so, not even consider his feelings? Not even a sonogram was going to fix this. (Tanner you might ask, well he took it much better. As if to prove himself the "good child" said, "I don't care if we have another kid." That was it and marched off to play DS). HOurs later and a trip to Home Depot, Billy had saved the day. We would totally redo tucker's room in a Georgia theme. Problem solved? ehh, not quite. He still wasn't happy, but atleast he was talking to me.

I think about that night almost every day, because the baby Tucker didn't want is practically being raised by Tucker. Ever since I brought Tate home from the hospital and Tucker felt comfortable enough to touch him and hold him, he's been an ever present fixture in Tate's life. He picks out his clothes each morning, helps with bathtime, makes sure i have the camera ready for all the big moments, shares his snacks with him, scolds him for putting things in his mouth, and races to his bed each time he wakes from a nap. Tucker has been just as excited at each of Tate's milestones as I have from crawling, getting his first tooth, and now his first steps.

God is good, and i am fortunate enough to see it every day. For those of you with only one child right now, experiencing the unbelievable excitement in everything that child does, let me tell you. You know you are blessed, so thankful that God has allowed you to be a parent, bestowed upon you the most awesome responsibility and privilege imaginable. Now, imagine that joy ten fold, a hundred fold, even greater than that. That is what I am part of every time Tucker and Tanner play with Tate.

Several years ago, Billy began reading and repeating the Prayer of Jabez, following the author's advice on how to ask God to bless our lives and do great things. The prayer goes something like this:

"And Jabez called upon the God of Israel saying, "Oh that You would bless me indeed,
and enlarge my territory. . . so God granted him what he requested." God always answers our prayers, just not always in the way we think He will. Not too long after he brought that prayer into our lives, Tate was born.

Now if that isn't an answered prayer, I don't know what is:)

Watching a Miracle Grow

i know i've written about Tanner already, but after the news i got this week i just couldn't help myself. I came home from a crazy but typical morning and sat down with tate to check my e-mail-- a message from Tanner's teacher: his CRCT (state test) results. Before i clicked on the message, i couldn't help but think about a 1 pound, 13 ounce baby boy, a baby born 15 weeks early and all the fears we once had.

The doctors didn't beat around the bush with me about Tanner's future. A host of problems awaited him, if he survived. And for 17 weeks, he kept us wondering. He couldn't seem to breathe on his own, though the doctors tried often to wean him off the different oxygen machines he had available. He couldn't tolerate breast milk or formula through his feeding tube and was forced to rely on nutrition through an IV. Ironically, the nutrients in that IV were so strong that after too long they would begin to take a toll on his kidneys and liver. The amount of oxygen he needed caused the blood vessels in his eyes to grow, threatening to cause his retinae to detach. Surgery was definitely a possibility. He couldn't stand having a ventilator down his throat, and when he was strong enough would wind his tiny fingers around the tube and Yank!, just enough to pull it out and cause distress and monitors to sound, subsequently leading to paralytic drugs and morphine to ease the discomfort. Perhaps most frightening was that all that oxygen would very likely cause some damage to his brain, and cerebral palsy was a condition that loomed over our heads. He had to get better; We had to come to grips with the fact that the very things that were keeping him alive were also damaging his tiny little body.

But then, after 17 weeks of tubes, machines, pokes and prods, Tanner came home. It was as if one day he just decided it was time to get better and go home. Before they would let him go home, though, the doctors ordered 5 brains scans(they wanted to be 100% positive); they found NOTHING, no damage, no brain bleeds! Was it a miracle? We had certainly prayed for one, but would Tanner fare as well in all the other areas where preemies struggle?

Flashforward 7 years to the e-mail from Mrs. Matovina informing me that Tanner has EXCEEDED in all areas of his tests!! The baby who was predicted to need speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy blew the test out of the water (my words, not theirs:)). The baby we were just glad to LEAVE the hospital with reads chapter books above grade level. The kid who tried to break the record at the NICU for longest stay made a 100 on his Math benchmark earlier this year. The kid who never needed the Oxygen machine they sent us home with plays baseball and football and rides a Razor scooter with reckless abandon, like a kid trying out for the X games.

Was it a miracle? Do miracles happen today? It's funny how we take a word and change its context. "It's a miracle I passed that test!" or "It's a miracle we won a game." The word is so loosely thrown around that maybe i'm a little guilty of taking MY miracle for granted, but I'll never, ever forget what we all went through for 17 weeks, on pins and needles, waiting for something to happen, waiting on a miracle. Today, Tanner is a typical kid who does typical things a 7 year old does. He disobeys, he talks back, he laughs alot, he helps alot, he loves alot. It's easy to forget that we were so close to losing that precious baby, that I could have been one of those moms who as Erma Bombeck says,"had to give a baby back." I get goosebumps just typing those words. So whether he exceeded the standards or simply met them, whether he strikes out or hits a home run, I'm just relishing every moment, sitting back and watching my miracle grow.

What I Really Want for Mother's Day

So I just got back from a stroll/ bicycle ride/ scooter ride through town with all three boys. I could tell by the looks of the people who passed us that perhaps I was crazy, or maybe that was pity in their eyes as I jogged behind the stroller, chasing after Tucker on the scooter and Tanner on his bike, yelling for them to "stay to the left! stay to the left!" The temperature was almost 90, there were no sidewalks, and once you get into town, there's no turning back. Forty-five minutes and two BIG hills later, we were home, sweaty, thirsty, and maybe a little grouchy. Perfect way to start Mother's Day, right?

Every mom knows there are highs and lows, good days and bad ones to being a mom. Today's excursion counted as both, one moment we were having a great time, sampling the honeysuckles and having races, the next we were arguing over which road to turn on. But Mother's Day is supposed to be that one day of the year filled with nothing but Hallmark moments and Kodak smiles. According to the advertisers, we should be opening diamond necklaces, eating at coat and tie restaurants, and having a mani/pedi while listening to Yanni. That's all well and good, but i'm a little more low maintenance and a lot more realistic than that.

Luckily this year, Billy asked me to make out a schedule, hour by hour, of how I'd like to spend my mother's day. No problem, but it got me thinking of what would make a perfect mother's day, not just tomorrow but every day.

1. a loooong run, with no cell phone, no time to be home, and no worry that Tate will have his dirty diaper while in Daddy's care. Daddy has a very weak stomach.

2. a great tan and no more "baby weight" in a swimsuit that i actually like.

3. No spills for a whole day. Especially Kool-aid on a just mopped floor.

4. Laundry-- I don't even mind doing it, but not having to walk through all 12 rooms of this house looking for(and smelling for) what is dirty.

5. Cooking-- I don't mind cooking, but not having any up-turned noses would be great. Tell me that you LOVE Mamwich and Ruffles for supper. Don't ask me what else you can have:(

6. No trampoline-rule breaking. Come on guys, you know the rules. 2 at a time, no wrestling, no pushing or shoving. Keep your clothes on. Don't make me say it again.

7. No neighborhood referreeing. Look, if you can't get along with the kids next door, just don't play with them. Unless there is bloodshed, do I really need to get involved?

8. No Disney channel sitcoms and preferably no references to them either. Zach and Cody are sending our kids to hell in a handbag, and I think i've had enough.

9. Could we just once know where our shoes are when it's time to leave? just once, guys? and speaking of shoes could you tie them on your own???

All that would certainly make my day a little easier, but I never signed up for easy. I signed up to be a Mom and what I really want for Mother's day, oddly enough, is for nothing to change. I wake up every day to snotty, drooly teeth-coming in kisses as i fight with Tucker and Tanner for Tate's attention. He loves his Mom, but Tucker and Tanner are giving me a run for my money. I'm always first to hear the latest elementary school jokes, I have a front row seat to the best sporting events in town, and I never dine alone. Heck, I never do anything alone. And according to their Mother's Day poems and compositions, I'm pretty awesome. So I guess I already have what I really want for Mother's day. They're 9,7, and 10 months old and Hallmark cards and diamonds can't touch what they give me every day.

Thank you, God for the awesome privilege of being Tucker, Tanner, and Tate's mother.

Back to School!

I hear it, sometimes everyday, sometimes every other day. But I hear it, ringing in my ears and getting my little mind to thinking. What is it? It's a little reminder that pretty soon it will be time for me to go . . . Back to School. It's similar to the biological clock that women hear. Mother Nature's gentle reminder that it's time to start planning for a family. Only with me, it's Father Finance and it's a silver whistle blowing in my ear instead of a clock tick.

When I finished college with a Master's degree in English, the natural thing for me to do it seemed was teach. And so I did. And I enjoyed it until Mother Nature did call and i chose my kids over other peoples. But I guess I always figured I would go back one day, step foot in the classroom and pick up with Romeo, Juliet, Faulkner, and all my other favorites. I look back on my few years in the classroom with fond memories, squeamish moments, great stories, and lots of "wonder whatever happened to that kid?" I covered lots of bases, the 12th grade summer schoolers who were either super smart and graduating early or had failed English before and needed it (desperately) to graduate. I read a great paper once on the Bubonic Plaque by one of those scholars. I then taught the ninth grade babies who were the low men on the totem pole and weren't afraid to befriend the teacher, hopeful to have as many friends in their corner as possible that first year. I was privy to all the hot gossip in the freshmen world. I also "experienced" junior high and spent a year with 7th graders that wasn't nearly as long as I thought it'd be going in.

That mix of ages, races, genders, etc. has given me plenty to talk about over the years. I remember the nose bleed to end all nose bleeds. If I had been a squeamish teacher they would have found me out cold,face down on the dirty tile in the junior high boys' bathroom. Luckily, my stomach was and is strong and I remained composed as i called for the janitor and the attendance lady. I remember the sweet little girl who couldn't ever remember to do her homework but after I got married never once called me Miss Carter again. Several years later as I ran on the treadmill, I watched that same girl on the Maury Povich show, pleading with a psychic to tell her who killed her mother. To this day I hope for the best for that little girl. Perhaps my favorites, though, were the little boys who, despite the number of detentions, sentence writing, and extra assignments, always came in each day with the same smile for me. They may have hated me the day before, but they were the perfect examples of forgiveness. My favorite 9th grader was a Chris Rock look alike and act-alike who couldn't keep himself out of trouble. Detention after detention eventually led to suspension, but he came back and never once acted like he blamed me for it, though I had been the issuer of many of those detentions. I left town after that year, but I like to believe that he, and all my other boys, chose all the right roads and are men I'd be proud of today.

But, and this is a BIG BUT, that was 10 years ago!!! Surely things have changed in 10 years. Teenagers didn't have cell phones back then. Now it seems like every little girl has an I phone and a Louis Vuitton bag by the time she's 13. My students turned in hand written essays, and I didn't have a computer at my desk. Did we even have the internet???? Luckily for me, the whistle-blower set up for me a long term sub job at his school last fall. I'd get to dip my toes in the water after so many years as a stay-at-home mom. Before i dove back in, i'd get a chance to see if teaching was still all it was cracked up to be back then. i won't lie either. During those at-home years, I wondered what life "outside the classroom" would be like. I wondered how I'd handle a sales meeting, a product pitch, and a day spent entirely with adults.

Well, let's just say it didn't take me long to realize that high heels and hose are overrated. Lunch in the cafeteria is just as satisfying as one at Applebee's, and Prom and pep rallies are still FUN! I won't be dropping Tate off at daycare anytime soon, but when the whistle blower blows again, i'll be ready. I'm sure i'll write plenty of detentions for texting in class and the students will probably have to show me how to do a power point, but as long as the halls are filled with the jokesters, the athletes, the kids who read Steinbeck but won't admit it, the kids who stand out for looking a little different, but deep down are just the same, i'll be ready to go back to school. Now, what will I wear????

The Hardest Job in the World

As i was scraping melted blue crayon out of the dryer(my very new dryer, purchased in February), I couldn't help but recall everything else i had done that day. Get a manicure, watch a good movie, soak in a hot bathtub-- none of that came to mind. Instead, my brain filled with images of spilled kool-aid, the effects of the baby in the bathroom(think mascara on the bathroom rug), and more spilled kool-aid on a just-mopped floor at dinner. I still had lunches to make for the next day, clothes to dry, fold, and put away (once the crayon was removed), and it was 10:00 already. When i walked across the kitchen floor, dirt stuck to my feet, reminding me of another task yet to be completed. Whew! That Calgon commercial from the '80's popped into my head. "Take me away?" Yes, please!

Everyone knows there are days when life gives you a break: the kids don't fight, supper seems to prepare itself, and everyone goes to bed on the first try. Unfortunately, those days are sometimes few and far between, and the norm is a 2 practice night, right in the middle of supper time, with homework and laundry waiting on you as soon as you pull in the driveway. If we're lucky, there's a "love you, Mom" or a base hit that for a split second makes you forget about the Home Depot bill waiting to be paid and the garage that is a disaster area. Nobody said it would be easy and once you've lived it you've earned the right to say, Motherhood isn't for sissies! I've seen Facebook entries, bumper stickers, and refrigerator magnets that list a mom's duties: nurse, chauffeur, judge, jury, cook, tutor, referee, coach, motivator, role model(?), and the list goes on.

Some days, the toughest part of being a parent involves the self-restraint to not "jerk a knot" in the head of a 7 year old with an attitude. Some nights, the toughest job is to "divide" myself between three little boys who want their mom's attention, all at the EXACT SAME TIME. Stinks, huh? It gets worse: watching your child strike out at home plate, struggling with word problems on the math homework, not being invited to THE birthday party, or being the new kid in a classroom full of old friends.

I ache with every Lego creation that falls to the ground and shatters into pieces, destroying hours of work and imagination. My heart sinks with the essay written in barely legible handwriting that doesn't win the county competition. How could I leave out the sick days and nights, when all a mom can do is hold a sick head in her lap and promise that he'll feel better soon.

But by far, the toughest part of being a mom is being a disciplinarian, doling out punishments for accidents, poor judgment, and sometimes pure laziness. It stinks having to send a child to school without his homework because he forgot to put it in his bookbag, knowing full well he will have to move a puppy and lose some of that much anticipated recess. It stinks making a child miss a fun day because the rule was, "talk back to your mom and you lose your privilege."

No one wants to be the bad guy, especially when being the good guy is so much fun! The "thanks, moms" and the "you're awesome's" make a day so much better than a huff and a puff and a slammed car door. But I want Tucker, Tanner, and Tate to be the students that all teachers dream of, and if that's going to happen, then i must stick to my guns and follow the words of wisdom that are so readily available to me. Sorry Dr. Phil, i don't mean you. I'm referring to the Bible and the verse that sticks in my head every time i have to wear the mean hat: "Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it." So here's to many more years of tough love and maybe a support group for moms who haven't been swept away yet by the Calgon.

things you might hear at my house

Life is pretty busy, not just these days, but all days. Waking up each morning with the goal of having three boys fed, dressed, cleaned, and out the door by 7:30 each morning leaves little time for anything else. Once we get home from school, we immediately start homework, with Tucker and Tanner doing totally different things, which, keeps my brain and ears pretty occupied. Then it's on to supper, laundry, referreeing the afternoon activities, and on to baseball/football practices and games. I'm not complaining, i love my life; i'm just saying that when i stop and think about it, I do alot and sometimes don't realize what's going on around me.

A couple of days ago, Tate went down for a nap and I headed to the back deck, ready to relax and take in some sunshine. The big boys were playing with some friends in the woods,close enough that i could make out most of their conversation. With no i-pod, no magazine, and no cell phone, i was privy to their world. They had no idea I was even paying attention to them, but within minutes, I had this awesome glimpse into their world AND into them.

I guess what first got my attention was Tanner calling for a time-out. "I gotta go to the bathroom!" Tucker's unsympathetic response: "Just go in the woods!" And I never saw him come into the house, so I guess we'll just leave that one alone. Well, after that I was all ears. I love to hear them play, army this time. Fake battles mixed in with a 3rd graders knowledge of WWII and Vietnam. Team work and camaraderie ensued as each pair of boys attacked the others and protected their own men at the same time. THIS is why i don't want them watching TV! I kept listening until Daddy brought the no-longer-sleeping baby out to me--my cover was busted, but it lasted long enough to get me thinking.

Between Tate's babbling, Daddy's cell phones (yes, i said phones!), and my constant mothering (not nagging, mothering), Tucker and Tanner mange to keep the conversations flowing. And it's safe to say there's no telling what one might hear at my house or in my van. The tooth fairy came last night and Tanner was eyeing his dollars, so he informed me that Washington didn't smile for his picture on the dollar bill because if he opened his mouth his fossil teeth would fall out. You're right! I said. Gotta watch those "fossil" teeth. We've also had in depth conversations that included Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby and what I would do if I were, say, trapped in a coal mine with a one-armed ghost. Would I run? would I fight? Ooh, they go straight to the tough questions.

It's not always the cute stuff that I hear if I really listen. Too often, I've heard the remark, "Why do we have to brush teeth? It's not even a school day!" Or "Mom, it doesn't matter if I wore it yesterday. It's still clean." Then there are the more frightening things I hear. "Mom, what would happen if Tate ate cat food?" I err on the side of caution and don't assume it's just a hypothetical question.
Perhaps most exciting and disturbing are their plans for the future. They both have plans to watch Freddy vs. Jason when they turn PG-13. Umm, as soon as they get their driver's licenses they have plans to buy a motorcycle and a Mustang, the kind that make really loud noises when they go by. Here's hoping they change the legal driving age to 20!!! And as he places me in handcuffs and under arrest, one informs me he wants to be a policeman when he grows up. Umm, the kind who get shot by angry drug dealers or the ones who sit at desks? Please say the ones who sit at desks!!!! Another can't wait until he's old enough to join the Army and fly planes and fight like Raif and Danny do in Pearl Harbor. Yikes! I pray that by then peace breaks out across the world. Not too long ago, their conversations were about salamanders in the bathtub and yellow and red dump trucks. I'm getting old and so are they.

I'll continue to listen, but I suspect what i'll hear more than anything is a whisper saying, "slow down. You're growing up too fast!" And because they're boys, they won't listen.

Spring (football) is in the Air

It's happening again. The temperatures are heading into the 80's, the daylight is stretching too close to bedtime, and the boys are dirtier than ever. The Braves are playing, grills are smoking, and Daddy has been on the tractor for the last two days.

I noticed it starting to happen yesterday, though I suspect that the season has been creeping up on us for some time. I had supper prepared-- hot meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes, sweet carrots, three little boys, and no Daddy. He traipsed in just moments after i had set the table, little pieces of grass sticking to the ankles of his socks, tan lines where his hat had been, and the odor of grass and gasoline surrounding him. No question where he'd been, but i had to ask. "Cutting my grass." Make no mistake, Jackson County taxpayers. Your dollars may have paid for that field, but that field belongs to Daddy.

And that's how spring football starts. Field maintenance, a few coaching clinics, and some film watching from last season. Though it takes Daddy away from us more than we'd like, I like the beginning of football season, spring and fall. You see, Dads, er, coaches work their butts off during the season. a full day of practice with players and coaches, film-watching, phone calls on something new he just saw, and more film before bed. A seven day work week has to suffice only because there's no such thing as an 8 day one. So when there isn't a game on Friday to devote his time to, what's a coach to do? I'll tell you: drive his wife crazy. He brings all that energy and passion home. All of a sudden the closets need reorganizing and the gutters need to be cleaned. He's taken a keen interest in helping plan the meals he'll now be in attendance for. He wants to know if the appliances are running smoothly, does the vacuum lose suction, should we resod the yard or just add some mulch where it's needed. It's exhausting having him home after so many months of being gone. Please understand-- I LOVE my husband, i'm just unselfish enough to share him with a world that needs him: high school football.

It's not just to get Daddy out of the house that I love football season. I love football and everything associated with it. I suppose it's because I really have no other choice, but still. I was a typical football fan growing up. I caught bits and pieces of the Saints on Sundays, cheered from the bleachers on Friday nights, and generally had no idea what was going on out there. Marry football, though, and in no time I'm screaming for the ref to call clipping, praying we punt and don't go for it, and criticizing the quarterback for not reading the defense.

Forget baseball, basketball, soccer, even tennis (which i love), things just aren't right around here unless there's a game to look forward to this weekend or practices to get them ready. Less than a month from today, the players will line the field every afternoon for two weeks, running drills, memorizing plays, perfecting their blocks, tackles, and pass routes. We, the faithful families, will watch from the hill, waiting for the right play, listening for the compliments, and biding the time until the "real" season starts. When the water girls work on their August tans in between water breaks, the coaches' kids litter the sidelines, tossing balls with the "injured reserves," and the coaches watch months of work and preparation come together under a hot afternoon sun. When the spring quarterback returns 2 inches taller, the once timid linebacker plows through the line, and the kid I helped with an English paper earns the title of Captain. Hurry back, football. We miss you!

A True Southerner

I just finished flipping through an old Southern Living while Tate took a nap and my casserole simmered in the oven. As most everyone knows, the defining magazine of our region thoroughly covers the basic three in a girl's life: food, gardening, and home. I'm a little distraught; despite the formative years under my mother's tutelage, I'm not doing too well living up to the ideals of a Southern woman. There's nothing growing in my backyard, not flowers or tomatoes, I don't like sweet tea, and there's not a thing in my house with a visible monogram. I used to have a beautiful silver wine stopper (a wedding gift) with our monogram, but last time I saw it the boys had it out in the backyard, so I don't think that counts.

I don't know where I could have fallen off the wagon. I took piano lessons, sang in church, and remember coming home from my mama's house many times with little clippings from one of her beautiful plants, visions dancing in my head of my own potted plant spilling over its plastic container and dripping toward the ground. I'll never forget pulling up to her house in the summertime, her porch beckoning with greeenery and other brightly colored foliage that took my breath away. This was a place where flowers and plants went to get in shape, the Gold's Gym of geraniums. This was the plant world on steroids. Yet today, my front porch sings quietly with only two ferns, and I bought them already grown and they will likely be there only a matter of months until the sun and lack of love cause them to die. Strike one!

If there's another rubber-necking moment that happens quite often to this Southern girl trying to prove her roots, it's the moment when I mention at a tea, luncheon, or wedding rehearsal that I don't drink Sweet Tea. And yes I capitalize it because that's how important it is around here. McDonald's will give you a large sweet tea for only a dollar. Ask for a large Coke-- $1.69 please. And before anyone asks me if i've tried it, Yes, if only accidentally. And No, it wasn't love at first sip. Strike two!

Finally, despite the plethora of monogram and specialty shops on every corner of small town USA, I have NOTHING in this house marked with our initials. All three of our children are boys and Billy is FIRMLY opposed to little boys wearing monogrammed outfits, so that's a definite no. Moving into the bathroom. The most I can say about our bath and hand towels is that they are black and red and work with the Georgia theme I had planned. The kitchen is no better. I'm lucky if I can find a kitchen towel when I need one. Most of them leave the kitchen wrapped around a freeze pop in the hands of a 7 year old. Strike three!

So what's a girl to do? Should I read more Southern Livings? Take better notes when I'm at my mom's house? Suck it up (literally)and order a tall glass of Sweet Tea, just to save face? Actually, the more I think about it, I may not be so far off. I did pay attention to a few things growing up. When I'm out for a jog or pushing Tate in the stroller, I wave at everyone who passes. I take a pound cake and chicken enchiladas to neighbors and friends at every birth and death; and I love the tradition of a new Easter dress every year. I've taught enough vacation bible schools that I'm a legend in the craft room.

Maybe there's still hope for this Southern girl. I'm still young. Who knows? One of these days Billy may come home to find me sitting in my garden, surrounded by hydrangeas and azaleas, wearing a monogrammed apron, and sipping a sweet tea.

You know you love your husband when . . .

i'm a little ashamed to admit this, but while folding laundry today, i watched the dr. phil show. Today was a great day to watch, considering that the topic was how much free time moms REALLY have these days. Stay-at-home moms, especially are enjoying approximately 30 hours of free time per week. Free time was defined with examples such as getting a root canal and checking e-mail. Hmmm . . . No one made mention of the fact that although we may enjoy a few minutes to read facebook or chat with the neighbor, we are often called upon at 3 0'clock in the morning to change diapers, give medicine, or just PLAY! We very often unload the dishwasher at midnight and pay bills while the rest of the house sleeps.

The best part of the show, though, came when a husband came on to complain that his wife doesn't keep the house clean enough, despite the fact that she is home all day with two young children. He seemed to enjoy pointing out the dust that was gathering and the toys that cluttered the floor. Of course he made no mention of the fact that his children were happy, healthy, well fed, clean, and generally on track each day to grow up into wonderful little people. Not even a mention! Well, all i could think was, "thank God for my husband!" Never once has he swiped a finger across a picture frame and turned his nose up. Never once stumbled over a Tonka truck just to make a point. So, as a thank you to him, tonight's blog is a tribute to him and how much i love him and how thankful i am to be married to him and not some whiner on the Dr. Phil Show.

You know you love your husband when:
1. you make EVERY pasta dish with angel hair pasta, b/c that's the only kind he likes.

2. YOu open prayer each night with, "Lord, please help my Panthers!"

3. You decorate the bedroom around the African blanket he has to sleep with
each night.

4. date night is watching Pawn Stars on mondays before bed.

5. his wardrobe consists of Panther clothes, long-sleeve, short-sleeve, windsuits,etc. And you don't mind that he wears it EVERYWHERE!

6. you buy cat food for the cat he has "adopted," and you don't like cats.

7. you move 5 times in the first 8 years of marriage.

8. you let your husband buy all 3 houses, without seeing them until the moving van pulls into the driveway.

9. YOu move the graduation stage, the heavy, wooden graduation stage, and all the metal folding chairs, off the football field the morning after graduation so they won't ruin his grass.

10. YOu know more about Sean Hannity than most people should and conservative is an understatement for the both of us.

But most importantly, You know your husband loves YOU when:
Despite 2 college degrees and the potential for a boat in the backyard, he lets you be a stay-at-home mom for 9 years because, deep down, he knows it's what makes me happy.

quiet down cobwebs!

I'm stealing this quote from my cousin, but it's says everything:

So quiet down cobwebs,
dust go to sleep.
i'm rocking my baby
and babies don't keep.

Today was a perfect day to keep the vacuum in the closet and the dirty clothes in the hamper. Not only was it a beautiful 72 degree day, but it was Tate's 9 month check up at the doctor. After spending an hour and a half waiting to see the doctor and hear him tell me how wonderful my son is, we came home and hit the streets, mom on foot and baby in stroller. Seriously, who can stay inside and dust bookshelves or fold underwear when there isn't a cloud in the sky? Certainly not me and Tate.

Pushing Tate in the stroller takes me back 8 years ago to a different baby, but one who looked alot like this one. Tucker and I moved to Cobb county when he was a newborn and I knew no one. I can't tell you how many hours we logged together under an early morning sun, round and round the track at daddy's school. Most of the time Tucker was so cooperative, taking it all in. Occasionally, though, he wanted some attention and I would carry him in my arms for a couple of laps and we would talk until he was ready to go back in the stroller, usually for a nap. Fast forward to today, and that "baby" is a third grader who climbs trees, listens to his i-pod, and has a girlfriend!!

What happened to my newborn who graced us with his presence this summer? The one who looked soooo tiny in the same jogging stroller that he now sits up in? The one who got carted around from Tucker's football practice to Tanner's football practice, back and forth to the Y, and passed back and forth from brother to brother during Scooby-Doo marathons on the couch? That baby who spent many hours in the bouncy seat watching us eat and do homework is now pulling out my pots and pans, turning over garbage cans, and trying to play on my computer. He's the fastest crawler i've seen in a while and now he's standing up and practicing for those first steps that will take him to a new category that i know i'm not ready for. He's babbling, DaDa and MaMa and everything in between. My babies are all growing so fast. Cliche, yes, but "where did the time go?" Tucker will be 9 in just a few weeks; Tanner is 7; and Tate is a nine month old. Somehow, 9 years seems to have gone by just as quickly as 9months have.

So it's true, and we all know it. Babies don't keep. They grow into dirty little tree climbers, tired little athletes, snuggly movie watchers, and someday big boys who will rather hang out with their friends than watch American Idol with me. So laugh if you will-- i'm rocking my baby to sleep, selfishly stealing sunshine afternoons just the two of us, and waiting just a few more minutes before putting him into his crib. Because babies DON'T keep. And there are two sleeping in bunk beds down the hall that remind me of that every day.

happy valentines day, Tanner!

Two years ago when tucker was a first grader, his teacher had a great idea for celebrating Valentines Day. The parents were to compose a letter to their children, send it in, and they would open it and read it on valentines day. What a special idea-- an opportunity to sit down and put all those random thoughts, special moments, little quirks on paper. That letter may have been the easiest thing I've ever written, and it was so fun and was so appreciated by Tucker that I thought I would definitely do it for Tanner when he was in first grade. Well . . . Valentine's Day of Tanner's first grade year has come and gone and no letter. So it's a litte late, but here goes . . .

Happy valentine's Day, Tanner! I don't even know where to start. The second baby is supposed to be the easy one, but you let us know EARLY on that that would not be the case. You skipped the whole 9 months thing and were delivered at 25 weeks, spent 17 weeks in the hospital, and didn't come home until we knew infant CPR, how to read a chest X-ray, what a pick line is, and how to attach a pulse Oxygen monitor and an apnea monitor to a fragile body that weighs less than 2 pounds. But then. . . they let you come home and I was more scared than i was the first time I brought home a baby. From there, though, you grew and grew into a Tough little army crawler who could hold his own with anyone. And much to my surprise, you were easy.

You were easy and sweet, but you were/are also tough, and gosh you love to snuggle and according to some people "give the best hugs!" You aren't afraid to stand up for yourself, but you could also rock for hours and never wanted to be put down. I watched more 80's reruns during your naptime those first two years, but looking back, I'm glad I didn't put you in that baby bed each afternoon. We had 17 weeks to make up for:-)!

Then came the toddler version of tanner. Your wardrobe for about 4 years consisted of costumes or pajamas. Bodybuilders at Gold's Gym eyed us as we walked in each morning, curious as to what the day's choice would be. I marveled at your individuality and your complete lack of care for what people thought. You're still that way today!

I love that you care for others so much. Your preschool teacher told me often of how you kept their special needs student "on task," never wanting him to get in trouble. You cried when Simon was mean to a contestant on American Idol, and you asked if you could get some of your money out of the bank to buy your neighbor friend a bike. You love doing chain prayers at night, giving and receiving Two-armed hugs (one arm hugs just aren't the same), and you love, love, love your brothers!!

YOu are a Lego-building, trampoline jumping, bike riding 7 year old now, who takes my breath away every day. You love to joke, ride your scooter, watch Scooby-Doo, and hang out with ME, even when Daddy and Tucker are at the school with the big boys. You always say it's because you don't want me to be lonely--and I love that. YOu are what every Mom dreams of and I know that whatever you choose to do in life, you will be the best at it. I Love You and am so proud to be your Mom. Happy Valentine's Day!