Where There is Great Love, There are Always Miracles- Willa Cather

In case anyone is wondering what a baby born 15 weeks too soon looks like, here is a glimpse. They offered me just a peek before they whisked him off to get him looking like this.


In case anyone is wondering what a baby born 15 weeks too soon who stays in the NICU for 17 weeks and becomes the "nurses' pet" looks like on the day he goes home, check this out. He's wearing a preemie outfit, but after staying almost 4 1/2 months and celebrating four major holidays in the hospital, the outfit wouldn't fit-- the neck wouldn't close in the back!


In case anyone wonders if a baby who weighs so little at birth and suffers from a staph infection, double pneumonia, and months on a respirator has any "bonding" issues once he gets home, this picture should clear that up.


And in case anyone is wondering what a baby who scared the living daylights out of his mother for 17 weeks looks like eleven years and many pounds later, check out this guy:


Pretty darn good looking if I do say so myself. But I would be remiss not to mention that a baby who weighs just 1 lb 13 oz doesn't come home this healthy and happy without lots and lots and lots of prayers (from folks near and far, people we knew and many we didn't), an awesome group of nurses who loved on him when Billy and I weren't there, and a Neonatal staff that to this day holds a special place in my heart.

Happy 11th Birthday, Tanner! You take my breath away:-)

3 Kids and Counting

I need to preface the following post with this information: the events of this incident took place at the Jefferson High School stadium, a mere half mile from my house. Mapquest it if you will--Jefferson Stadium to Ashebrooke Way. Half mile, 3/4 at the most.

Secondly, no football players were harmed in the writing of this post.

Most of you know that Tanner was born 15 weeks early, weighing in at a whopping 1 pound and 13 ounces. Sounds like a set up for weakness if you don't know preemies; but those of you have a little experience with kids who were tube-fed, hooked up to heart monitors, and downed antibiotics like they were candy know that setbacks and roadblocks make for some really tough kiddos. They're pretty stubborn, too, but that's a post for another day.

Tanner not only fit the preemie mold, he perfected it. Slip in the bath tub and slice open your chin? No problem. Just run laps around the ER waiting room on a rainy Friday night until they stitch you up. Ramped the scooter up the wrong curb? Rub some dirt on it and catch back up with the rest of the neighborhood. I mean, the kid went barefoot for the first 6 years of his life, practically, and had the scabbed up, scarred toes to prove it. Bullies didn't stand a chance with Tanner, either, as one of our McDonald's playground lunches proved. Apparently some kid had no intention of including Tanner in his hide-and-seek-with-the-plastic-toy game, which prompted this reply: " You're just mean. If it were my toy, I'd share with you and let you play, so who cares!" Umm, yes, yes, I was proud. So you see, Tanner is just kind of that way. Things roll off his back and he is pretty much easily contented, a kid of very few words.

Which brings me to Saturday, October 19th, a Saturday I know I, and especially Tanner, will never forget. Tanner's team finished their season with a home game and a 52-0 blowout of a local rival. Along the way, Tanner had some great blocks and caught a pass in the end zone for an extra point. I was pretty proud and watched from the bleachers as he and Coach K and Tate celebrated when time ran out. After what I'm sure was a rousing pep talk and rally for our play-off berth, I headed up the stairs to my car with Tucker and watched confidently as the other three walked out the other gate to Dad's car.

As always Coach beat me home, and I ran in the house to tell Tann what a great game he played. I looked first in his room, but saw no Tanner. I checked the bathroom and TV room downstairs and still no Tanner. I scaled the stairs as quickly as I could manage and headed to the back bathroom where I heard the shower running. But still no Tanner, just the Coach.
"Where's Tanner? I want to tell him what a great catch he made."

Seriously, at this point I still thought he was in the house, backyard, somewhere on Kirk premises.

"Tanner came home with you," was the last thing I heard as I flew down the stairs as only a pregnant mom could do and high-tailed my mini-van back to the stadium. I'm pretty sure my tires screeched and the neighbors may have thought that Kirk #4 was on his way.

What I found was as heartbreaking as a 1 lb 13 oz baby in the NICU. Tann had apparently given up on us and had begun the long walk home, still suited up in shoulder pads and cleats, his head hanging and tears and sobs heaving from his worn out little body. I hadn't expected this of my tough, thick-skinned ten year old. I expected anger, sure, and maybe a little well-deserved aggression, but tears? "I'm sorry" wasn't going to cut it, and I realized nothing I could say would make up for being forgotten, as if he weren't already aware of this thing called Middle Child Syndrome. I was horrified.

But just like every other obstacle, every other setback, every other letdown he faced almost 11 years ago, he bounced back. Within minutes he told me not to feel bad, not to worry about what happened.

"It was an accident, Mom," he offered, and though I had gone speeding from my house to make things better for him, he was the one who made things alright for me. "But maybe you could get me a milkshake anyway?"

All I know is when 3 Kirk kids becomes 4, we will be counting heads every time we leave the house, leave a restaurant, leave a ballfield, you get the picture.

Why Most of my Friends wear Sports Bras and Ponytails

In those rare, quiet moments when no one is screaming, no one is crying, and the pots on the stove aren't boiling, I like to sit back and think about my life and who I am and where I come from and where I'm going. Just kidding. When that happens I grab whatever book I'm reading and head to the back deck! I pretty much know who I am, where I come from, and who really wants to know where they are going? Isn't that the fun of life--a little mystery?

But if I ever were to ponder deeper things, perhaps one of the things I would examine in depth would be the fact that the majority of my friends are people I've met at the gym, or people I run with in the insanely early (or hot) hours of a weekend morning. It's really no mystery that the girls I like to spend my time with are, well, a lot like me.

1. I NEVER feel self-conscious about showing up at the Y or the track wearing no make-up. Some of these people have seen me after teaching 4 classes in a row, after an afternoon outdoor Bootcamp, or at the end of 26. 2 miles on a December day that was unseasonably warm.

2. The gym is the only place a pregnant lady can do burpees, bleachers, and bicep curls with the heavy bar and not get those questionable stares from folks who think I should have my feet up and a wash cloth on my head for the remainder of my 9 months. In fact, I can always count on some of those ladies to look straight past my swollen belly, and in a dead serious tone, tell me, "I need you to kick my butt today!"

3. I'm not a shopper. I'm not a luncher. What I am is a busy mom with not much time for socializing; so if I can meet some friends, chat through a 10k training run, push someone through 25 laps in the lane next to me, or work a little gossip into a good Spin Mix class, I'm all for it.

4. On those rare days when I do have a little extra time, what better to do than hit the pool deck for a small dose of R and R with those very same ladies who don't really care how I look in a swimsuit. So what if I'm pregnant and still wearing my two-piece?

5. I really don't need Pinterest. In my little group of fitness friends, I have a horticulturist, a biologist, a bartender, a nurse, grandmothers, retired school teachers, and so many more. If I have a question, I can pretty much count on getting an answer (or two or three or four).

6. I say this in the nicest way possible: some people just don't understand how good a nasty, stinky sweat can make you feel. When your pony tail needs to be wrung as badly as your t-shirt does, and you always keep a towel in the trunk because you're worried about sweat stains on your car upholstery, you've hit pay dirt. And when you find other ladies who know, I mean really understand that logic, you've struck gold.

So you hang on to them. Miss them when they're gone. Swap babysitting services when needed. Pray for them when they need it. Party with them when you can. And of course, call them out on Facebook when they miss one too many sweat sessions. Because deep down (because they are just like you), you know that's what they'd want.

Count Your Blessings

So I took this picture last Saturday after Tucker's first football game as a Dragon. We walked away with a win, me trailing my 4 (soon to be 5) boys and I was lucky enough to be cognizant of the photo opportunity that strode in front of me. I mean, seriously, how often do I have all of them together, headed in the same direction, no one acting like a goofball, for a photo? Not often, so I quickly pointed and clicked. I only got one shot before they realized what I was up to, but I have to say I'm pretty happy with the one I got. So much so that I posted it on Facebook, made it my cover photo, and NOW I'm writing about it. Because as they say (or sing), "every picture tells a story, story." And this is ours:

1. That's my whole world right there, walking to the car after a Win. Count your blessings, name them one by one: Three boys, 2 wins, 1 handsome husband, 0 worries. At this point, I don't care where my cell phone is, how much I weigh, what we're having for dinner, or what time we will get home. Five Kirks in one place= one happy Mom!

2. There's Coach K., obviously discussing the logistics and statistics of what just occurred in the last two quarters he got to see. He only saw the second half because he'd been busy coaching Tanner's team an hour away, and as soon as that game was over the two of them flew like bats out of Jackson County to make it in time to see Tucker. It's hard to keep a proud Dad away from a season opener, even harder when that Dad has coach blood running through his veins.

3. Then there's Tucker, my first born, my baby, y'all, walking next to his Dad looking not too terribly much shorter than his 6'3" dad. How in the heck did this happen? He's blocking bigger kids, catching long passes, tackling on the goal line, and wearing expensive receiver gloves? Weren't we just tossing the Nerf ball in the backyard yesterday? Isn't this the baby who fell asleep in my arms every Friday night as he watched his Dad coach and coax high schoolers to a win? Oh well, if he has to grow up, he's growing into something I'm mighty proud of.

4. And Tanner. Tanner and his team had already cinched a 33-0 win and Tanner had shed his gear for the sake of cooler temps. But Tanner, unbeknownst to anyone, without a command or a reminder from Mom or Dad, acted as the perfect big brother, reaching out to walk hand-in-hand with Tate as we got closer to the parking lot and the danger of cars leaving for the day. How can you not love a 10 year-old who doesn't think twice about hand-holding with his baby brother? Not to mention that he's the same 1 lb 13 oz baby we weren't even sure would be allowed to play contact sports. My heart melts a little each time I look at that shot.

5. Finally, we have Tate, who unashamedly loves Daddy a wee bit more than he loves Mom right now, and even as a 4 year old, he recognizes that the cool place to be is with his Daddy and "the boys." And yet, he, perhaps noticing that Mom isn't in view, looks back to check, not to hold hands with me, not to invite me into their world, but to reassure himself that though he can't always see me, I'm always there. And you know what? I'm okay with that.

Because that right there? That's my world.

Dear Pre-K Teacher,

Dear Pre-K Teacher,

I've only met you once and really know nothing about you, yet here I stand, delivering my just-recently-turned-4 baby to you for an entire school day. That's 7:40 until 2:30. That's a long time. That's breakfast, lunch, and naptime. That's almost 7 hours of his day, and I'm letting you have it.

I know you are a good teacher, a loving and kind teacher. I checked you out. I also know you are busy, that you have 21 other 4 year-olds with specific needs and distinct little personalities. I know you know what you are doing and that you've done it all a hundred times. I know you have great ideas and cool stories and fun things planned for the whole year.

Again, I know you are busy, but can you do me a favor?

When Tate smiles, will you make sure you smile right back at him?

When he laughs and shows his pretty little baby teeth smile, will you laugh with him?

Will you listen to him tell you all about fire trucks and firefighters and ladder trucks and pumper trucks?

Will you ignore the pants he's wearing with the hole in the leg, because they're his favorites and we all know we need as many favorites as possible on the first few days of school.

Will you listen to him tell you how far he can swim and then imagine that sweet little boy in a shark swimsuit as he jumps into the pool full force, legs kicked up behind him and big blue goggles protecting those baby blues?

When he has a rough morning because he's tired, not used to the routine, missing his dad or brothers, will you hug him for a minute or two? It's hard to go from having hugs all day to none at all. Even big kids (and adults) need hug sometimes.

Will you teach him to love school, to anticipate the ending to each story, to marvel at numbers and letters? Will you remind him to be kind to everyone and to follow the rules and raise his hand?

Will you promise me he won't get lost in the crowd? That he won't just become a number or a name on the tag of his backpack? That his distinct little personality will not only be recognized but appreciated. That when you look at him every morning you'll see the fire fighter wannabe, the super star swimmer, the boy who wears a whistle around his neck and cleats on his feet and walks in his Daddy's footsteps as he coaches, patting players on the head just like Daddy does.

Will you see him as the gift from God that he is, even when his boy-ness is almost too much to bear? Will you see him as the blessing he is to us and now to you, even on his uncooperative days, of which I'm sure there will be many? But most importantly, will you love him like I love him, on those days when you are the next best thing to Me?

Sincerely,

Tate's Mom

"Here's to you my little love, with blessings from above."

Okay, so he's not so little, but here's to 14 years of putting up with my cooking, finishing each meal with a "thanks, Babe, that was great," whether it was frozen fish sticks or a crispy pot roast. Of course, he knew when he married me that Rice Krispy treats were my forte, so he was at least mildly prepared.

Here's to walking me through becoming a real football fan, not just a professional tailgater. To turning this what-a-great-catch girl into a bonafide fan who sees holding when the refs don't and notices the awesome block by the "what's his name lineman" that everyone else missed because they were watching the hot shot running back.

Here's to lots and lots of Saturday mornings on baby and boy duty while I met my friend for a long training run. Here's to hauling those same boys and babies to every finish line so that no matter when I crossed the finish line, ALL my boys were cheering for me. Especially the St Jude race when it was still only 35 degrees by the time we finished. Oh, and that Saturday that the Georgia-Auburn game happened to be at the Exact. Same. Time. as the race.

Here's to solo movie watching for more than a decade. Because if there's one thing I'm not (next to a cook), it's a movie watcher. Someone has to come up with a pretty good plot to keep me up past midnight, and so far Bruce Willis and the Diehard crew just haven't done it. And he's Ok with that. Now.

Here's to moving five times and loading and unloading and driving that U-haul pretty much on your own, cause Lord knows, public schools don't pay for a coach's moving expenses. Along those same lines, here's to house hunting, choosing the best, and signing papers for three houses ALL BY YOURSELF in different states, praying the whole time that by the time I saw it and it was ours, I'd love it!

Here's to the teacher and the coach you are. Here's to the grown boys who still call you Coach. Here's to the nights you come home so tired, so late. Here's to the boys at home who wait, soaking up every ounce of you that's left after 15 hours in the classroom and on the field.

Here's to you my Love, for 14 years of living with me, loving me, laughing with me, and listening to me. Here's to 50 more years of baseball, football, and basketball games and practices; of Vacation Bible School and summer football camps; of new houses and new schools; of new babies and grand babies; of more education and bigger jobs; of big trips to celebrate milestones and small weekends just to relax; to starting kindergarten and graduating high school; to all the things that God puts in our future.

Here's to you, and to me, and to the boys who complete our family.

Here's to you, Coach, and today and 14 years of countless good and those all-but-forgotten bad (sorry Tanner--17 weeks in the NICU is hard to forget) moments that have made the days since July 31, 1999, the best years of my life.

Happy Wife, Happy Life

A few days ago, as I was prepping the Silver Sneakers CD and getting ready to hit the mic, one of my sweet members ambled over to me and announced with a 16 year old girl's grin, "Today is our 59th wedding anniversary!" I immediately congratulated them and asked my usual question of all the sage folks in my group: "What's the secret?" Her answer was God, and I couldn't agree more. But as I thought about my handsome groom and our upcoming 14 year anniversary, I started thinking of some of the other little secrets that help to make a marriage work. Now I realize 14 years is a far cry from 59 years of material, but Coach and I must be doing something right. So here goes . . .

Why I Still LOVE Coach Kirk, or how to have a happy marriage:

1. He makes me laugh. Seriously, even if it means watching awful, horrible, terrible episodes of The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, or even Bachelor Pad, he's right there holding the remote, fast forwarding, rewinding through the questionable parts, and calling people douche bags so I don't have to do it.

2. He works hard. Like really hard. He gets a lot of slack sometimes from people who don't understand that because he works hard for our family, I want to fix his lunch, type his papers, and wait up for him after a long game or work night. I've seen too many episodes dating all the way back to Donahue and now Dr. Phil of women who want respect from their men and men who want to be served by their women to know that too many people don't understand that love means doing for others, but we do.

3. He feeds the homeless. No I'm not talking about working at a food bank or a soup kitchen. He actually stops at intersections and gives either money or food to those down-on-their-luck folks whose situations have come to roadside begging. How can you not love someone who loves the "unlovable?"

4. It's not his money, it's not my money. It's our money. Which is perhaps scary to some people, but to me it says, "we're in this together. I sink, we sink. You swim, we swim." I wouldn't have it any other way.

5. He dreams big and encourages me to do the same. Were he not a dreamer, we would never have moved to all the great places we have lived, and never would we have met the people who are now lifelong friends. I probably would never have run a marathon, finished a triathlon, started a blog, or dared apply for a college job. In his eyes, I can do anything. In my eyes, he is my hero.

6. He forgives. Yes, I do things that require asking forgiveness, and sometimes he even forgives me without my asking. That Bible in the front seat of his car isn't just for looks. Every morning he invests a little time to continue becoming the man of God he strives to be, and I am just one of those people lucky enough to benefit from what he reads.

7. He knows how to change a diaper, warm a bottle, and run the vacuum. I know how to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, and kill any spiders, wasps,or snakes who threaten our domain. Point is, nothing is entirely his job or entirely my job. We are a TEAM.

8.He LOVES his kids. He also isn't afraid to discipline them and expect big things from them. He practices tough love, but I've seen him "go to bat" for his kids in a way that puts this Mama Bear to shame. Tag-Team Parenting, we call it.

9. I LOVE to run. He LOVES to bench press the equivalent of a defensive lineman. I LOVE to read books in bed at night; he DVR's Wicked Tuna and pushes play just as I'm removing my bookmark. He does his thing; I do my thing. We don't have to love the same things and be together all the time. It still works. We still work.

And for that I am thankful. I am thankful for the fourteen years, three houses, three (almost four) children, multiple jobs, various cars, snow days, beach days, pool time, sports time, family time we have had. I wouldn't change anything, wouldn't add anything, wouldn't take any do-overs.

And I pity the young, aerobics instructor who asks me in 45 years what the secret to a successful marriage is. Maybe I should go ahead and just print this now and save her the trouble of an old woman bragging on her still-sexy 80 year old stud. She'll probably thank me:-)

Week in Review

Seems like so much funny, good, awkward stuff has happened this week that I should probably write it down. I mean, a week that starts off with the following question from a SS member has to be a good one: " has anyone ever told you that you look like Brooke Shields?" Seeee, this is why I love my job!

It got better from there. I got my official job offer from Piedmont College to teach this fall: Rhetoric and Composition first term and and Literature and Composition second term. I know. I'm a nerd. Billy reminds me all the time. Love this job, too.

Today, after teaching 3 classes, playing tennis, and swimming 20 laps, I wearily walked in to teach my 4th class of the day to hear: "oh you're subbing? I love it when you sub!" I perked right up and I swear my muscles stopped aching. At least for the 45 minutes of the class, anyway:-)

Following the class, one of my members asked about the kids, then expounded on what she saw in Tucker's future: Senator. Hmmm? "Yep," she says. "With that personality and smile (not to mention those baby blues), he's a shoo-in to be a leader of people." I guess I'm not doing a half bad job, based on that assessment of one of my three kids.

On another awkward note, I got my new driver's license in the mail, and after glancing down at it, Tucker says, "no offense Mom, but your head looks kinda big here." Umm, none taken?

And for the big finale, the final she-bang, Tate and I killed a snake. Or, I killed the snake and he stood by and cheered me on as I went all psycho with my shovel. Imagine me huffing and puffing with each thrust, yelling, "Gotcha, Gotcha" until the poor thing coiled up into its severed pieces and surrendered. So far Tate has had no adverse reactions to what he witnessed. Fingers crossed. I thought running a 10K got my adrenaline pumping. That was nothing compared to chopping up an (innocent, I found out later) intimidating creature trying to slither his way into my garage and my life.

So, as summer gets under way, I can't IMAGINE what's in store for the Kirks. No doubt there will be a lot more of the good, the funny, and the just plain awkward. Stay Tuned, Y'all!

"If you bungle raising your kids, I don't think anything else you do well really matters."

I have no doubt in my mind that my mom loved every minute of being a mom, even the rough times. I never doubted that 3 kids within five years was her master accomplishment, her dream come true, her purpose and her gift. I don't know how she did it sometimes; she had no help-- no grandparents, no money for babysitters, only a husband who worked often and hard. But she never complained. I never doubted that finagling private school tuition, carpooling, cooking hot breakfasts, packing lunches, and whipping up Cracker Barrel meals each night was her forte. I once heard an intern at her office ask her what she had wanted to be when she got out of school. Without hesitation she answered, "A Mom." I'm so glad she did.

Yep, I didn't then and I don't now have any doubts that what must have been long years, long days sometimes were all that she had asked for and she wouldn't have traded it for anything. And this Mother's Day 2013, I hope three little Kirk boys will say the same thing.

I hope they know that spending every evening at the baseball field, football stadium, or basketball gym until way past bedtime is so much better than American Idol or Duck Dynasty reruns.

I hope they know that every brown bag lunch I pack is packed specifically for each boy. I take the time to make each one's sandwich just as he likes it, with snacks particular to each T. And when they tell me how good their lunch was at pick up, I feel like a million bucks.

I hope they know that report card day, test score day, awards day are days that make me giddy.

I hope they know that carpooling with elementary school jokes echoing from the backseat makes me giggle more than some of the best Facebook posts.

I hope they know that their sweet faces at night, once they've drifted off to sleep, are enough to wipe the slate clean, forget the "rough" parts of the day, and focus only on those precious little personalities.

I hope they know that every pitch in the backyard, every stray ball to the shin I take, I take with joy. I could pay someone to teach you how to pitch, shoot, or throw a football. But I'm too selfish for that.

I hope they know that folding their first Power Ranger undies to middle school boxer shorts reminds me that time is moving quickly. When I see that the youth large t-shirts have been replaced by an Adult Small, I have to catch my breath.

I hope one day when I've added grandmother to my roles in life, my tall, handsome, grown up boys can look back with confidence and say, "My mom loved being a Mother." And then launch into some great story of the four of us, doing something that at the time seemed small, but was big enough to become a memory.

Tater Tots

Oh Tate, I haven't written about you in quite a while, which doesn't mean you haven't been doing anything blog-worthy. On the contrary, perhaps it's because you are doing SO much these days that I just can't wrap my brain around it all.

I mean, just this week while I was out running and Daddy and the boys worked in the yard, you figured out that Yes! you can pour yourself a bowl of cereal, milk and all. No adult help needed.

You recently determined that cleaning your room is "boring." Unless of course, Daddy has called and there is a prize involved. I have other words for cleaning your room, but I shall keep them to myself.

You have so many favorite songs that it's hard to provide for your musical tastes. I did manage to get a copy of "Apple Bottom Jeans" that we can play repeatedly in the car, atleast until I get my hands on "Thrift Shop."

You figured out how to order videos on my Kindle Fire and now we, ahem, you are the proud owner of 4 new cartoons. I, ahem, am paying the credit card bill. Oh, and I appreciate the impetus to learn to swtich on the Parental Controls. I had a nice long chat with the guy at Amazon.

You like girls! So much so that I'm getting tired and a little confused some days with the amount of role playing that goes on in the car, in the house, and at McDonalds. I guess it was inevitable that with two older brothers sporting girlfriends of their own, that you would choose one (or two) for yourself.

While I was busy watching Tucker pitch strikes and Tanner knock down grounders at shortstop, you managed to trek your bike all the way up the big hill at the ballpark and once at the top, careen down at topspeed, walkers beware. From the bleachers, I could only watch and pray as you hit your brakes right at the fence of the batting cages. Then? You did it again!

But I guess what stands out the most lately is your incessant desire to go to school. I explained to you the process of turning in our papers and waiting to hear if we were chosen for the Pre-K program. However, upon turning them in (the last day possible, no less) you politely asked the receptionist if you could see your classroom now. She just giggled. You, of course, were serious. We haven't heard any news yet, but that hasn't stopped you from asking every day if the school has called.

Don't you realize that if you go to school you can't wear pajamas and firehats and firejackets every day? Don't you realize that lunch at the McDonald's playground will come to a stop? Don't you realize that the teachers will send you home with work to do? Tests to study for? Letters to trace? Don't you realize that you can't nap when you want, where you want, and with the Blankie you want? Don't you realize what this means?

I won't get to help you pick which pajama shirt to wear or whether to wear the red, black, or yellow fire hat. I won't get to hear you talk about what you and Leena played on the playground. I won't have anyone to go to Kroger with me. I won't have a lunch date every day. I won't have to tell the burning building story every day on the way home from the Y. I won't have anyone to point out every Coke truck that passes. I won't have you.

I already had to send my other two best friends off to school. Do I really have to do it again?

Blue Eyes Smiling

On July 31st of 1999 I married the prettiest blue eyes I'd ever seen and thought I was the luckiest girl ever. A year and half later, I gave birth to another set of pretty blue eyes and became the luckiest Mom ever. Tucker, you were 40 weeks, 8 pounds 4ounces, and 21 inches of perfection, wrapped up in a tiny hospital blanket and cap. Twelve years later, you are still the picture of perfection, only now a 90 pound 4 foot tall version of perfection clothed in Nike and Under Armor. I can't believe how fast the years have gone and also how much we've done together in those twelve years.

We went strolling EVERY DAY, cruising the streets, the neighborhoods, the sidewalks until we'd waved at every neighbor, petted every puppy, and pointed at everything we found interesting.

We read books, cuddled up in the recliner with a sippy cup in your hand, cold can of Coke in mine. Ahhh, joy.

We counted dump trucks in the afternoon, pointing as each one passed the house, enjoying the comfort of our canopy swing underneath the tree.

We navigated the waters of fall football together, each of us jumping when we heard the front door slam, a sure sign that Coach was home for the night. We traveled to every high school in Cobb County, wandered through the stadiums, trekked up the bleachers with a diaper bag and a baby on my hips, and cheered on Coach's team until you drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the cheerleaders' chants.

We welcomed a baby brother and visited the hospital EVERY day until it was time to bring that new brother home. You introduced him to everyone at Wal-Mart and Kroger as Gigi, Lord only knows why.

We played on the deck and in the back yard. From tricycles to battery-powered cars to finally your first small bike, we raced and rolled the hours away, imagining dirt bike tracks and Nascar races in your future.

Then we moved, and you found new friends and kindergarten and baseball and flag football. You rode your bike without training wheels, went to birthday parties, and became Daddy's biggest fan and first assistant coach. You drew up plays for him and placed them all together in one big notebook to help him get ready for spring football.

And we moved again and nothing fazed you, not the distance, not saying good-bye to your first best friends, nothing. You took Jackson County by storm and made it your home and tackled challenges that some adults couldn't handle, let alone a 6 year old.

You wrote stories in school that made me laugh and gasp and swell with pride; you brought home honors on Awards Day for academic success and citizenship; you were baptized at church.

We brought home ANOTHER baby brother, and you took to him like a pro. You set the Big Brother bar pretty high and continue to do so every day. You babysit so I can get in a quick 5 miler, teach Tate about technology, and I'm pretty sure you deserve a t -shirt that says, "If mom says no, ask Big Brother."

We vacationed at the beach and I was thrilled to find that I had given birth to a person who loves the sun and sand as much as I do. We make new memories every summer at the best beach house in Destin, where you've gone from playing in the sand to riding the waves to bungee jumping at The Track.

And now you are turning twelve, breezing through middle school, soaking up all things history (your favorite subject), and mowing down batters from the pitcher's mound. And you are still Daddy's biggest fan.

I hope you know that we will always be YOUR biggest fans, and that on April 11, 2001, you were officially the most perfect thing I had ever laid these green eyes on.

3 Sausage Patties and a Waffle

Yesterday was one of those days you couldn't have scripted any better than it already was. The sun shone, the temps rose into the 60's, and Coach took the day off. I taught my two fitness classes at the Y, then headed out to the car to find a texted picture from Coach of him and Tot at the Waffle House. The message included the line: "3 sausage patties and a waffle." The smile on Tate's face was priceless, and it had nothing to do with sausage. If I could have captioned it, it would have read: "Me and my daddy ate at the Waffle House." Ahh, happy Tate, happy mom!

I like to think I count my blessings every day (you know, they're right under my nose most of the time), but yesterday was different. It was like everything good in my life was highlighted with a bright yellow Sharpie. Like the sun's rays were pointing right on the four people who make my life sweet. Perhaps subconsciously I have chosen to block out certain moments from that day, but I don't recall any fighting, no missing jerseys or socks, no last minute homework assignments, no pre-teen sass. Nothing but the memories that I've tucked away in that special place, saved up for one of those days when the clouds inside are as dark as the ones outside. Waffle House was only the beginning; my sun shone all day, even when the moon came out and the sky got dark.

With Coach at home for the day, I headed to car rider line solo and once I had Tanner picked up, I invited him to take a walk with me around the lake behind the school. He seemed a little hesitant at first, but then he happily agreed and we headed that way. Almost immediately after we started, he reached down and grabbed my hand, and yes, folks, that is how we walked. Thirty minutes of hand in hand swinging, talking about girlfriends, milkshakes, and the baseball game that night. You know, the important stuff. Never once did he flinch, pull away from my hand because of a passing car, a neighbor checking the mail, or a sweaty palm. I once ran a 5k on those very same streets we were walking, even won the women's division, but I can assure that when I remember that course, it won't be for the 23 minute PR.

Later that evening we headed out for baseball, Tanner and Coach to their 6:00 game, and me chauferring Tucker and Tate to Tucker's 7:30 game. On the way there, Tucker indulged me in a little 6th grade drama. It wasn't much, of course, but what I got was some kid criticizing Tucker about his baseball skills and his performance on the mound. As steam escaped from my ears and my top threatened to blow, I calmly (thank you, Jesus) reminded him that to respond to another person's cruel remarks would only make him look as petty as the offender. I suggested the old shoulder shrug and a subtle "whatever, dude." Then I silently prayed that his confidence would remain strong, that the advice I'd given him would prove correct, and that he'd pitch a H*** of a game.

And pitch he did! Despite cruel winds and frosty temperatures, Tucker pitched his second win of the season, garnered his second game ball, and without even trying, put to rest any ugly rumors that he doesn't deserve to be on the mound. After his 10th strike out, this icicle-laden mom mustered the energy to hobble to the dugout to hear the team's rally after that one-run win. Sure, I was proud of him for his pitching and his hit, but I was perhaps most proud when I heard him congratulate the kid who had earlier in the day criticized him behind his back. Yep, his biggest critic was a teammate, and my 11 year old had the confidence, the forgiveness, and the character to commend him on a great hit.

Oh, and I haven't forgotten person number four who makes my life sweet. As much fun as it is to watch my boys play ball, it is just as awesome to watch Coach pace behind the back stop, question the ump's bad calls, and do his own coaching from behind the plate. And when a slight smile manages to escape his mouth after an awesome catch at first base by Tanner or a strike out on a change up by Tucker, it is then that my cup runs over!

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner

Several years ago, when the boys were younger and first started playing sports, there were a couple of seasons where the idea of not keeping score was suggested and encouraged. You know, teach them to love the game, not to worry about winning or losing. Well, you know that didn't fly in our house, and after every hit, basket, or run into the end zone, our boys would look over at the sidelines and ask Daddy, "Who's winning now?" Of course, the correct score would fly off Coach's tongue faster than the "non-competitive" parent could shoot us a glare. In our opinions, someone always comes out ahead-- just a fact of life. And the sooner our boys realized that sometimes they would carry home the W, sometimes they would walk away with L, the better. Having a dad whose profession and livelihood rest on the amount of wins and losses per season probably sends a stronger vibe to win, but in all fairness we try to teach that age-old lesson of how to be a good loser; and I know firsthand about losing; being the only girl in a house full of guys means I lose A LOT of battles, some I thought I was sure to win, but that was 15 years ago.

Fifteen years ago, Coach was busy finishing school, working part time, and fishing whenever he could squeeze it in. That meant the entire responsibility of decorating our then-home fell on me. Color me Happy! Every room looked the way I wanted it. Every color scheme was mine. Every Southern Living concept played out in various places throughout our 3/2 ranch. I also had some set-in-stone ideas for when we had kids--precious outfits, pastel nursery decor, long, wispy curls falling at the neck of a baby blue smocked jon jon.

Fifteen years have passed and the scoreboard clearly insists that I am not leading this race.

Who's walking away with the W? Hmmm...

Once upon a time, I had a beautiful wicker trash basket in my kitchen. It had its own liner that folded out over the top with the word trash embroidered in blue. Now? On one of his many trips to Home Depot to buy trash cans for some spring football drill, Coach found a great deal apparently and brought one home to us. For our kitchen. To replace the wicker one. I resisted, he persisted, and eventually I folded, as right now in my kitchen sits a gray industrial-sized trash bin that requires me to buy lawn and leaf bags to fit it.

Back in the day, after a long day of teaching English, Spanish, or maybe some kick butt Spin class, I liked to retire to my bed, glass of water in hand, and the remote set for anything resembling "Designing Women" reruns, Kardashian chaos, or even some trashy E! news. Now? I find myself asking questions about Tuna, King Crab, and auctioning off storage sheds. I find myself using first names of fishermen, logging truck drivers, and men who mine for gold. My questions even sound sincere.

Those precious little boy outfits I envisioned while fat and miserable at nine months preggo? Didn't happen. Coach wasn't too keen on "sissy" looking boys so nary a knee sock ever graced my T's chubby little legs. Not a single smocked Strausberg captured by Olan Mills. And those curls? The first mention at Kroger or Sunday school of how pretty our boys were brought out the clippers; thus, the buzz cut became the official hair style of the Kirk boys. No Beiber bangs being slung around here- the proof is on the photo wall.

I guess after so many years of "losing" to a crew of four who outnumber me on just about every decision from supper to movie night to where to hang the flat screens, one(me) gets used to it and losing doesn't really hurt too much. I mean, I love the Louisiana red necks we watch every Wednesday night; the buzz cut hair really does show off the incredibly beautiful blue and green eyes on the three Ts; and even I will now admit that the bigger garbage can means fewer trips to the outside bin to unload. But there's just one battle I swore I wouldn't lose-- one I was prepared to fight til the death for--one change I feared would truly define me.

At some point I must have waved the white flag, surrendered as graciously as only a Southerner could do. The walls of our home once boasted wrought iron pieces, black and white baby portraits professionally framed, and antique pieces that surprised me on anniversaries and birthdays. My special order window treatments matched the throw pillows on my sofa sectional that cozied up to to the antique table my Mama Carter passed down to me. Now? Deer. Or more specifically, deer heads hang from places on my walls that should be reserved for canvas paintings of things I saw on Pinterest. But they are there, and there they shall stay.

Why? I'd love to say it's because Coach won and I lost, and that's pretty much how it looks. But it's about more than winning and losing and competing and beating someone else and being the last one standing on the mound with stained pants and shoulder pads ripped out of jerseys.


At the end of the day, life is all about compromise; so is love. Besides, second place isn't so bad, especially if the guy you walk off the field with is the one carrying the first place trophy.

Because you can always hang that trophy on the wall:-)

Life with Pinterest

Y'all, whatever did we do before Pinterest? I pity our parents who grew up in a world lacking in free exercise tips, 1000s of chicken recipes, dollar store crafts, and pictures of places that only Brad and Angelina can afford to visit. Not to mention the inspirational quotes that keep me smiling as my children destroy the house, keep me running every morning despite the dastardly temps, and encourage me to add a little sarcasm to my Facebook posts, text messages, and face to face conversations.

How ever did they do it? My mom had to shell out 38 bucks a year for a Southern Living subscription to figure out how to rearrange her decades old furniture, all while her perfectly seasoned pot roast simmered on the stove for HOURS. Nowadays, thanks to innovative pinners who share their wisdom via social media, moms can "fake" the taste of an hours long piece of meat and decoupage a trash bin find to make an old dresser look like an antique piece of art. Talk about living the good life-all for the measly price of monthly internet connection:-)

I must say it didn't take me long to develop a slight little addiction to all that pinning has to offer. When I tell the boys to leave me alone because I'm "pinning," they start putting in requests for decadent brownies. When Coach comes home to an unfamiliar meal on his table, he immediately asks, "Pinterest?" My girls at the gym look at me with glazed eyes when I tell them we are trying something knew. Most of them (fellow pinners) will just sigh and ask, "OK, which Pin is it?"

But after many months of a Piniful (plentiful, piniful, get it?) existence, my rose-colored glasses are getting a little foggy. I mean, sure, who doesn't want to be the perfect Mom and spout a timely Bible verse for every parenting moment? Who doesn't dream of popping out perfect, original(oh, the irony) valentine goodies for the kids' classes? I don't know any girl who doesn't want to walk into her closet and come out sporting a kick a** outfit with the stuff that has been hanging pre-pregnancy. But how much is too much? Just how AWESOME are we supposed to be?

Here, A few of My Favorite Pins:

25 things Moms should do with their boys. What a GREAT idea, but unfortunately our quality time these days boils down to me with my hands on my hips, pointing to piles of clothing and an unmade bed, shouting something like "we aren't leaving this room until it is spotless!"

The Mom pooch. What a relief to know that the pooch at my belt has NOTHING to do with my Coca-Cola addiction. There was, in fact, physical trauma in those three pregnancies that requires more than just crunches and cutting back on sugar. So although it isn't an excuse for muffin top, at least it's a REASON for muffin top.

Victorian character captions. Most of these pictures capture dapperly-dressed men and women, dancing around and suggesting that I a)drink more wine b)critique everyone's grammar c)drink more wine and
d)defriend anyone who doesn't do a, b, or c.

Baking soda uses. Seriously? Baking soda is one of the cheapest things I can pick up at the grocery store, so I'm all in. But I'm a little concerned with the fact that the same thing that whitens my teeth and eliminates toxins from my body with a bath soak is the same stuff that can take the red sharpie out of my carpet. Oh well, at 99 cents a box, I'm stocking up.

Of course, I'd be remiss not to mention my "lists," the little reminders Pinterest offers to suggest that as a wife and mom I'm not quite up to par. According to my boards, I have things to do with my kids, things to do with my husband (in case after 15 years I'm at a loss), things to do before I go to bed every night (we're talking squats and lunges; nothing to do with the husband here), and a delightful list of foods I promise not to eat for a month, which will insure that I'll look good but everyone else will be living with a witch.

So maybe I don't Pin every day like I used to, but there's still plenty to be gleaned from Pinterest. While I'm scrolling through ideas, hints, and suggestions on how to improve my life, I can look around and see see that my life is plenty Pinworthy already. It's the boys wearing mistmatched clothes eating Kraft mac n cheese from bowls I did NOT make myself that assure me of it.

LIfe with Boys

After a particularly rough day cleaning a house that resembled a men's dorm room, I started thinking about all the ladies who, like me, live in a male dominated house. Scrolling through my facebook friends, I found more than ten friends who qualify as the lone lady in a house full of boys, the Queen Bee, so to speak, in a very sticky beehive. This actually gave me some comfort to know that for every errant sock I scooped from the pocket of the pool table, another mom was scooping something just as stinky. So for today, I'm recapping some of the things that moms-in-a-house-full-of-boys experience. And please, if I leave anything off, let me know.

1. Wet toilet seats, or wet floors around the toilet seat

2. Lego's in the refrigerator

3. Baseball gloves on the kitchen counter-- I've learned to work around them

4. A freshly folded load of laundry and no youth sized undies?

5. Lego's in the vacuum cleaner

6. Sticks- big sticks, little sticks; sticks that look like pistols; sticks that have been whittled; stick are everywhere, even the washing machine

7. Oxiclean-- it changed my life, y'all

8. Frogs and earthworms-- it's been almost 12 years and I'm still not ok with those two things

9. Lego's under bare feet

10. Torn shirts and pants- how does a boy wear a brand new shirt to school and come home that same day with a rip?

11. Bare chests- surely I'm not the only one who has to issue a warning to put on a shirt before coming to the dinner table

12. Mud, dirt, dust-- the dirtier the dumptruck, the better

13. (Gulp) The F word-- I can't even write it, but why (and where) does every little boy learn to say *art before he can say his own name?

14. Ridiculousness-I have been indoctrinated into the world of Rob Drydek; and Tate asks in all seriousness if he can watch adicolus when he gets home. Because what could be more fun than watching STUPID people?

Of course, I wouldn't trade my house full of boys for anything, and I know there are sooo many more examples I could add to the list. But if y'all ever see me with a toad frog in my hand or hear me utter the F word, you'll know the boys have won; and my Gail Pittman pottery is being used for target practice with the new BB guns Daddy brought home.

Life with Coach

It's funny. My husband, Coach, has given time, money, talent, and so much more to a profession that can stab a man in the back quicker than he can glance at his playbook. He dreams in HUDL, charts plays while he watches college football, and never stops looking for ways to improve what he does. And he does it all knowing the knife could slash at any time. He also does it all with the support of one grumpy wife and three amazing boys who think their dad is the best coach ever. Those three future players live not just for Friday nights, but for weight room sessions, spring drills, and bus rides on Friday. For a young boy, not many things can beat riding to an away game with a bus full of stand in big brothers. Our boys learned to crawl on game fields; they have ridden more tractors than some farmers, and one has been know to fall asleep clutching a pigskin. It's life with Coach, and we wouldn't trade it for anything.

So when someone questions his motives, doubts his interests as he sets about securing a future that will allow those three boys to continue down the path they've known for so long, I get a little angry. Sure, coaching is a tough profession. No one likes to see his Dad's name slandered in the paper. No one likes to hear negative comments after a particularly tough loss. But nothing is better than standing on the sidelines when time runs out and Dad's team is the victor. Nothing beats being part of a team that practices together, wins together, and sometimes loses together. Nothing is better than a phone call from a former player letting us know that he is leaving us tickets for this weekend's college game. So to suggest that being a coach's kid or a coach's wife is somehow sub par, and that to subject us to it is selfish, well, let me invite you to take a walk in our shoes.

Hours are long during the season, but the boys get to spend a good bit of that time at the field, in the field house, in the weight room watching their dad work. Not many professions have a "bring your kid to work" day every day. Ours does:-)

They have the privilege of watching their dad yell, whistle, and demand the best from boys who aren't much older than they are. They also get to witness the laughs, slaps on the back, and video game playing that happens with those same boys off the field.

They sit in on study hall sessions where coaches insist that their players excel off the field as well as on the field.

They learn what it means to buy into a work ethic; that playing football is more than just throwing and catching a ball. It is studying playbooks, watching film, and LISTENING to a room full of coaches.

And because they have always been coach's kids, they know that time is fleeting. That time runs out in games, just as it does in certain towns and schools. They learn to invest in a place and in people, even though they might not be around for the breakthrough. They learn to look forward to new things, new people, and new places, because if there is one thing we have all learned from being at many schools in many years, there are good people everywhere.

Life with Coach includes lots of things, and moving vans are one of them. And we wouldn't trade it for anything.