Fifteen

Fifteen is a good number.

Today, Tanner turns 15, the age of driver's permits and tiny tastes of independence. Our second ray of sunshine, our second mouth to feed, our second legacy, our second chance to prove we've got this parenting thing down pat turns 15 today and I'm in awe that fifteen years ago, I stole a brief glance at my 1 pound 13 ounce baby before they whisked him off to the NICU to save his life.

I remember it like it was yesterday, though it wasn't. November 16, 2002, was a long time ago. It was t-ball and flag football ago; pre-k and losing the training wheels ago. Mastering state tests and getting baptised ago. It was many, many needle pricks and blood tests and visits to Atlanta to see Dr. Felner ago. It happened four houses, three schools, and plenty of friends ago. Your miraculous birth occurred 15 Christmases, 15 summer vacations, and 15 football seasons ago.

November 16, 2002, was a long time ago, long enough for the baby who required oxygen and antibiotics and round-the-clock care to become a young man who catches rides home from football and wrestling with a friend; long enough for him to have homecoming and formal and bow ties and size 10 shoes; long enough for him to be as tall as me and as typical as a 15 year old should be. Typical--when he was born we prayed for typical, but were warned, prepared for the opposite.

Fifteen years is a long time, but it will never be enough time to show thanks and gratitude for all the answered prayers on this one's behalf. I can never part with all of the Get Well cards and church prayer lists that flooded our mailbox for those seventeen weeks in the NICU. Great things were asked for him and today, because he is healthy and smart and strong and happy, great things are asked of him. Most days he obliges! He is a respectful student, a good friend, his brothers' keeper, and a special son.

Fifteen years ago our Tanner was born, 15 weeks too early. If not, we would have celebrated his birth in February and missed out on being able to count our biggest healing, our greatest answered prayer in November, the month of thanks and giving, but especially thanks.

Thanks for boys and messes and loud noises and broken dishes and "Sorry Moms" and dirty bath tubs and typical brotherly behavior.

Fifteen is a good, good number, y'all!

We're Moving on Up!

November is here and with it the breath-taking leaves, winter sports, and a sad farewell to football season. It always makes me sad to see an empty football field, super quiet and such a change from the chants of cheerleaders, the music from the band, and the clashing of shoulder pads from my numbers 11 and 4. But this year, November also marks our 4th month in our new hometown, our new schools, and our new jobs. The closing of three months of practices, workouts, and games in heat, humidity, rain, and cold seems like the perfect time to recap all that has happened since we changed addresses and team mascots, on and off the field. This family has been BUSY making its mark, and I couldn't be more proud of my football family.

First of all, the boys took the news of a move to a new town like champs! Tucker and Tanner chucked their old school colors and took to sporting the purple and gold everywhere they went. They made morning workouts all summer, played summer baseball and basketball, and made friends within weeks. They had great varsity and JV seasons and made my Thursday and Friday nights full of fun from the stands. They have found a great youth group where they spend most of their Wednesday and Sunday nights and have plans to go on a mission trip next summer. They've been invited to birthday parties and cleaned up nicely for HOCO.

Tate, as always, follows closely in the footsteps of those two big brothers. He met his football team a few weeks before school started and now looks like a kid who's been an Indian since birth. He pretty much runs the high school (after hours, anyway) and isn't afraid to tell someone, "my dad's the principal." He comes close to getting too big for his britches some days, but he always manages to rein it in before that happens. This month he will make his musical debut in the school play as the Blue Shark. He remains a friendly, fun, easy-going kid who seems wholly unaffected by the move.

Truett is my right-hand man these days, traveling from gym to gym, bootcamp to bootcamp, practice to practice most days of the week, toting weights, jump ropes, and medicine balls to help me out. He'll be a personal trainer one day, simply by default. He, too, loves his daddy's school, the lunch ladies there who spoil him with slushies, and the limitless rides on the Kubota and golf cart. Not much is better for a boy who's almost 4.

Finally, our coach, er, Principal Kirk loves his post as the chief of the Indian Tribe. His campus looks immaculate, his faculty rocks, and the students seem pretty happy with the laws of the land. If you ask him, he'll tell you he pinches himself most mornings as he pulls into the school to begin his daily tasks with morning bus duty.

To quote Dr. Phil (ACK!!!, forgive me), a mother is only as happy as her saddest child. These boys are making my mom job easy peasy. Their days are filled with friends, sports, activities, games, chatter, a full house most weekends, and some extra kiddos who call me Mom.

Yes, November brings colder days, darker days, and the end of our favorite sport. But this November has brought a great big Thanksgiving for new jobs and opportunities and resilient boys who see the glass half full and the world as their oyster.

This November I am so thankful for a husband who isn't afraid to say yes, and a God who says, "Trust Me." We did, and He is Good!

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

I can't help but wonder, based on the title of one of my favorite books, was Dr. Seuss a coach/educator? Did he pick up and move his family and belongings every time the sun changed positions? Had he purchased more houses in 10 years than most people do in a lifetime? Did the post office cringe when Mrs. Seuss showed up at the counter to have everything forwarded again?

I'm not sure if the much loved writer ever wore a whistle around his neck or turned in lesson plans every Friday, but he sure was on to something when he penned that book. And if you're familiar with even a little of it, the man is speaking directly to our family.

"oh, the places you'll go
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting,
So . . . get on your way."

The Kirks are well on our way to starting our next chapter in town number 6, adjusting to the traditions of school number 9, saying good-bye again to hundreds of much-loved friends, and hoping for big Hello's from our newest friends-who-become-family. It's kind of exhausting just thinking about it, but it's what we do. Oh, the places you'll go!


We have been to great places. We've been to not-so-great places. We've waited with baited breath for school board votes and written resignation letters at midnight. We've learned from the best and the worst, walked away with the good stuff and left the bad stuff behind with the rest of the trash at the curb. Oh, the places you'll go!

And here we go again, this time in Dahlonega. Home of the Lumpkin County Indians. Home of the University of North Georgia. Home of Gold mining. Our home now. Tucker and Tanner and Tate and Truett's place.

"Oh the places you'll go!
There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored
There are games to be won.
And the magical things you can
do with that ball will make you the
winning-est winner of all!"

So, thank you, Dr. Seuss, writer, poet, teacher(?), coach(?), for pushing us, writing for us, and reminding us of ALL of the magical , wonderful, fabulous places we can go!

If I had to label my mom as a private or a public person, I would definitely brand her as the queen of privacy. She's pretty low-key, low-maintenance, and I think (hope)I may have inherited a little bit of that from her. So while she's not the type to air dirty laundry or even get involved in someone else's, she does, after 44 years of mothering 3 kids and grandmothering 10 grandkids, deserve a little public praise; and while she doesn't have Facebook or even know how to navigate the internet to FIND this blog, I'm going to share, not air, all the praiseworthy qualities the brothers and I, and anyone else who knows her, know best.

The one thing everyone knows about my mom is that the lady can COOK! The old saying is that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I don't cook, so I had to lure my man through my mother's cooking. And . . . it worked! Billy has a hefty list of favorites my mom has made famous. When I had my babies and she made plans to come out and "help," her to-do list always began with a grocery list for a trip to Kroger and a calendar of which meal she would cook for which day. Once that was taken care of she could move on to holding, rocking, and spoiling the newest Kirk boy.

Mimi can take the most mundane piece of meat, most everyday meal and make it something special. She cooks the way her mother cooked, and the way her mother cooked before her. I'm sure the recipes contain some ingredients that the FDA and AMA warn against these days, but I figure when one is in Mississippi or when Mississippi comes to visit, it's rude to ask questions and best to assume that the delicious ingredient in all of her dishes is simply love, not lard.

My mom has great taste, too, and not just in food. She loves her music and always has it playing when she's in the house. There's never been a time when the morning didn't start with the radio playing, and I remember eating breakfast every morning before school with the local DJ spinning songs, issuing traffic updates, and warning about the weather. Unfortunately, for as much as Mimi loves music, according to her, she wasn't blessed with a singing voice. Instead, she hums. No matter the song or the company in the car (i.e. my friends), she kept the beat and hummed along, turning it up when the kids in the back got too loud. Uncle Justin and I have had many good laughs imitating her and her favorite artists. I can't prove it, but that MIGHT be what led to Justin's and my performance of "You're the One that I want" that truly puts John Travolta and Olivia Newton John to shame.

The forty-three years I have been blessed to be her daughter have all given me great examples of how to be the perfect lady. Mimi taught Sunday School as early on as I can remember, carrying 80's teenagers to the local McDonald's and then pulling out her SS teaching materials as they breakfasted on biscuits and McMuffins. She led the snack suppers on Sunday nights, and I vividly remember racing from the choir room to the family life center with the other children's choir members to see what Mrs. Sue had put together for supper before we headed to MYF.

My mom is tough and able and capable, proud to mow her own lawn, sweep the leaves, and handle as much of the household chores as possible. She is also funny, amiable, and gentle, as evidenced my the many, many hours she's logged in her swing or her rocking chair, a baby wrapped in a blanket, folded over her shoulder. She nails the Sunday church hat look and made handling three kids on a Sunday morning look easy breezy. She could yell at the umpire for a bad call that lost us the game, and then turn on the biggest smile as she passed out post-game snacks to disappointed shortstops and pitchers.

Mimi did the impossible when becoming a widow at the age of 44--she picked her head up, threw her shoulders back, and managed to continue doing the whole parenting thing solo, insuring that all three kids finished college and moved into adulthood with a gentle knee in our backs.

She amazes me every time I get to talk to her. She's funny, clever, and has her fingertip on the pulse of the entertainment world-- she still loves good movies, handsome tennis players, and, of course, music.

I love that even though I am almost 43 years old, she still finds situations that she handles delicately with me, as if she were discussing information with a child. I recall one phone conversation we had that lasted almost 45 minutes. As we were closing it down and saying our good-byes, she threw in the now famous phrase: "oh, and I'm having some surgery tomorrow. I'll call you later this week and let you know how it went." As if this would sufficiently close out our conversation.

I'll be celebrating Mother's Day with my four boys tomorrow in Georgia, and she'll be celebrating in Mississippi with the brothers. Her porch will be swept and the yard will be mowed. She'll be sitting in her swing underneath the big tree in the front yard when they pull into the driveway. I know they'll be raving about her cooking, and I hope someone mentions her humming abilities.

Most of all, I hope one day those four Kirk boys will gather on a Sunday in May, and laugh and giggle and point and praise all the good things they remember about me. Maybe they will laugh at how I had to go for a run every Saturday morning, addicted they like to call it. Maybe they will remember all the lunches I packed with the things that they didn't like but I swore they did. Maybe they will laugh at my choice of reality shows that I record and watch when everyone is asleep. Who knows?

But I hope that I am building the same around-the-table, laugh-until-you-cry, only-my-siblings-will-get moments that have made my privacy-loving Mother worthy of the most public praise.


Happy Mother's Day, Mimi!

Where Have you Gone my Blue-eyed Son?

I remember the first time I heard that song by Bob Dylan. I was a young teenager with no idea what it meant to have a son or be a mother or change diapers or lose sleep because of a little one; but I never forgot the song and twenty something (thirty?) years later, not only do I have four sons, but I find myself asking that very question about the first born, "where have you gone my blue-eyed son?"

You see, even though he's still my son, he's turning 16 today, waiting patiently to become a licensed driver, and counting the days, hours, and minutes until he gains the freedom and independence he thinks he's ready to tackle. He's heading into manhood and maturity, and moms don't have a big place there. Which leaves me asking, searching, "where did the years go? where did my little tow-headed, blue-eyed strolling buddy go? when did he ditch the Jeep Jogger and start eyeing the big car?"

How did he go from writing letters to Knowshon Moreno and Matthew Stafford on Saturday nights to texting and face-timing friends?

When were Dragon Tales and Arthur replaced by Madden 2016 and Call of Duty on the Xbox?

How did the little boy I used to walk hand in hand with to children's church start going on ski trips with the youth group without me????

When did our Saturday and Sunday rituals of cartoons, pancakes, and ball games become weekends at the lake with a friend, only to make it home Sunday night to shower and get ready for school the next morning?

When did my waist-high, coach pitch baseball player become a 6ft, 2in uniformed lefty throwing strikes and earning W's?

When did his tiny Nikes become spikes meant for the big leagues? When did his appetite rival his Dad's?

Where went the afternoons at the pool playing tips and having cannon ball contests? Now he's old enough to be the lifeguard.

What happened to the ball boy who trailed at his Daddy's feet on Friday nights? Now he's throwing touchdown passes and handing off pigskins with a smile and the words to his fast-footed receiver, "take off!"

Don't get me wrong. As much as I miss the days when home was his first priority, his world, his comfort zone, his unwavering resting place at night, I LOVE the man he's becoming.

The little boy who first made me a mom and taught me what it means to love unconditionally, selflessly, forgivingly still teaches me. He's teaching me patience, how to trust, how to let go, how to judge less, how to control my emotions, how to bite my tongue, how to let him learn through his own failures, how to be firm with consequences, how to love from afar.

The wise ones tell us that we as parents have done our job when our kids are ready to head out on new adventures, meet new people, challenge themselves, drive alone, consider a college not in driving distance, without us.

I know he's ready. I'm pretty sure I'm not.

But I have a few more years to prepare for what's next, and he has a few more lessons to learn and a few more to teach me, I know.

So until then, I'll fix his Salisbury Steak whenever I can; I'll watch him coach first base for Tate's 7u team; I'll take pictures at Homecoming and watch him laughing with his friends; I'll soak up as much as I can and store it away.


And at some point, I'll pat myself on the back and give Dad a pat on the back, too, for a job well done. And I'll remind us both that if we did it with this one we can do it with the other three.

Not that that will make it any easier. Growing up isn't easy, but it's even harder to watch.


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I Think I Found a Real Love

Nineteen years ago, my then boyfriend surprised me on our first Valentine's Day together with tickets to the musical Carousel and a delicious dinner at a Japanese steakhouse. Yesterday, my then-boyfriend/now-husband and our first born came home at 8:00 (seems baseball practices don't celebrate VD) and ate the heated up remains of our taco bar. Two hours earlier, I shared chicken and refried beans with the two youngest and watched an episode of Paw Patrol I think I've seen 20+ times. Not quite as glamorous as the first Valentine's, but I went to bed last night with a contentment that sums up the last 19 years. As usual, there were no flowers, no cards, no chocolate or balloons. As usual, there were loads of laundry waiting to be folded and put away; there were busy bathrooms and showers and the smell of Axe seeping from under the doors; and by 10:30 there was quiet and four healthy and happy boys snoozing in rooms all around us, the best reminders of romance and love and hard work and ultimately success.

I'd never take anything away from those folks who go all out on February 14th every year. I enjoyed all the pictures on Facebook last night of fancy desserts and the pictures from the Daddy-Daughter dances the previous weekend. Sometimes I imagine a dressed up dinner date to a nice restaurant (read: anything not fast food), just me and the hubs without phone calls, texts, or timeouts; but real love and dedication don't usually appear in high heels and suit and tie, at least not for us.

Real love usually comes when son number four has flushed a toy down the toilet for the second time and Daddy has to remove the entire porcelain throne for extrication. This comes usually after an overflow or two, so while Daddy works there, Mommy washes loads of towels downstairs.

Real love happens half way between Gainesville and Jefferson when a gray van and a gold Camry meet to swap kids and head in opposite directions, promising to text updates and pictures from each other's locations.

Real love happens when Dad is at the Region basketball tournament all night with four kids so mom can run a marathon in Birmingham.

Real love is changing a tire in the rain.

Real love is up all night with a sick kid.

Real love is two teenagers (and their hormones/attitudes) in the house and a toddler who destroys everything.

Real love has nothing to do with one day of appreciation and recognition, but 365 days of "good morning," "love you," and "don't forget your lunch is in the fridge."

Real love has nothing to do with the biggest balloon, the biggest proclamation of love, or the biggest mark up on roses, but everything to do with little gestures, little reminders, and little eye rolls, smirks, and secret glances that only HE understands.

Real love usually shows up when romance wears thin, when bank accounts are lowest, when jobs are most stressful, when children are most challenging.

Real love is toilets, car trips, and travel baseball. Real love is two pounds of ground beef and no leftovers. Real love is mismatched socks, fights over Swiss Cake Rolls, and bed time battles.

Real love is that quiet house at 10:30, a fist bump and a kiss, and the channel set to Diesel Brothers.

Hallmark can have February 14th. I'll take real life and real love any day. I'm pretty sure I've found it.

It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World!

Several years ago, as a mom of three boys, I wrote a nice little piece trying to adequately shine a light on what life is like when Mom is outnumbered 4 to 1. I wrote about dirt, mud, Lego's everywhere, baseball gloves on my kitchen counter, and learning to throw a spiral. Fast forward a few years and I'm outnumbered 5 to 1, seemingly insurmountable odds for an old, tired Mom; but I do my best. I try to handle every situation with grace and aplomb, leaving tiny examples of parenting prowess along the way.

Ha! Kidding! I'm just trying to keep them all fed and the house somewhat presentable for when the Directv guy shows up! Either way it's still a crazy, wild, stinky, busy, male-dominated existence, and believe it or not, I can't imagine Kirkland any other way.

1. Toys. There are still Lego's everywhere. I actually think my feet have become accustomed to the feel of sharp plastic digs in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, I find them in the fridge, the washing machine, and of course, the sofa.

2. Dirt. There's still a lot of it, but now it's embedded in baseball pants and football jerseys, tracked in on the bottom of the cleats of a left-handed boy who played a double header and out of sheer exhaustion forgot to leave them in the garage.

3. Food. The incessant demand for full tummies has only increased as the mouths have multiplied and the older boys have added inches to their bios. I bought two bags of chips, three bags of Goldfish, and a 16 count bag of string cheese on a Friday afternoon and by Sunday they were ALL complaining that there was no food in the house. Speaking of Goldfish, the pretzel kind to be exact, someone forgot a bag of them in the bathroom????? Not exactly what I was expecting when I went in to pick up dirty laundry.

4. Sports. Tate hung a mini Nerf basketball in my living room (my Living room!) and now my Haverty's ottoman serves as the jump off for slam dunking. Aaannndddd, basketball isn't even our signature sport. What we do have are footballs, and they are everywhere: backyard, frontyard, minivan, Camry, bedrooms and bathrooms. We toss footballs in the pool, we catch passes on the couch, we run for yards around the kitchen and living room and back, all with the prelude "mom, watch this!" That same ottoman gets moved around quite a bit for wrestling matches and we don't even wrestle for sport! The ottoman's matching couch has become the go-to for flat-footed box jumping and the arm now shows the wear and tear from that. I will not be purchasing new furniture any time soon.

5. Gadgets. I can remember when the VCR/TV combo was the extent of entertainment for the boys. We moved on to the Nintendo DS, and lost those and found them; took them away for punishment and returned them. The boys grew and so did technology, and they scored Ipod touches and finally phones! And we lose them and find them; take them away for punishment, then return them. Tate and Tru aren't far behind, and although they do not OWN Iphones, they operate them as if they invented them.

6. Noise. I think it goes without saying that we could in fact be known as the Loud House, if not the Loud Family. We had a friend come by one day to watch some football, and, having never been in our surroundings before, continuously asked Billy, quite politely, "is it always like this? you know, so . . . busy?" What I think he was trying to say was, "Dude, this place is Nuts!" Was I offended? No! I quite often tell Billy I feel like the Ringmaster of a three ring circus, one ring of acrobats (kids hanging upside down from something), one ring of lions(someone always yelling and pawing the air), and one ring with a juggler (me- with my daily planner, school lunch supplies, and a load of laundry on my hip).

I remind myself often that there is a special place in Heaven for moms of boys; I can't help but wonder, though, does that mean there will be lots of pink, ring-free bathtubs, and stink-free toilets? Will the kitchen clean itself and the fridge contain all the foods that I like? Will there be peace and quiet and crumb-free carpets? Will my clothes be free from the stains from a sticky-fingered hug? Will I go to the bank and not have to pray that a child doesn't pull a fire-alarm(3/4 of mine have done that)? Will I be able to read a book without interruption or watch a tv show with out hitting the pause button?

I hope not. As tempting as all that sounds, I wouldn't know what to do with myself.



I'm just not me without them.

Truett Kirk, Linebacker, 3rd Season, Team Kirk, 40 pounds, 2 Feet Tall

Around our house, we can't celebrate the new year without celebrating a birthday. On New Year's Day 2014, after a week of Peach Bowl fun and activities and a great game between Duke and Texas A&M, we settled in for a quiet, boring evening. Billy had brought home with him a touch of the stomach flu and had already retreated to the bed, so I had begun preparing a small supper for the boys and me. And that was the end of that quiet, boring New Year's Day of 2014, and essentially the end of any other opportunities for quiet or boredom at our house, in 2014 or the years since.

After a night of labor, the typical New Year's Day staff changes(think 10-15 nurses), and my doctor returning from a ski trip just in time, Truett Harris Kirk joined Team Kirk at 5:46 am. He was, as Dr. Goggin had said throughout my whole pregnancy, a "good Looking boy." He is still a good looking boy, but he's a whole lot more than that now. He's mischief and mayhem, kitty cat chaser, mess maker, and 100% boy. He's Tucker and Tanner and Tate made over again. Basically, he's the perfect addition to our team.

When Tate joined our family, we were jokingly reminded that we were leaving man-to-man defense and heading into zone, and pretty much, "Good Luck with that!" Now that Truett makes it two parents versus 4 kids, I feel like we've left the zone behind and are playing a full-on tackle football game without any refs, instant replays, or time-outs. There. That just about sums it up. We've got too many men on the field some days, blocks in the back, encroachment, and nobody there to throw a flag. Now imagine the ESPN highlight reel that plays over and over: same chop block, same missed field goal, same missed signal from coach to quarterback, on replay forever and ever, or at least for another 15 or so years.

Alas, we are a football family, so I always have a whistle or two on hand; I'm learning when to expect the fake pass or punt, and improving my 40 yard dash time has gotten me to some serious situations in just the nick of time. Luckily, Daddy knows all the plays and can corral the squad most of the time, and when we finally get to sit back and watch those replays decades from now, I suspect they will look less like NFL hard hits and cheap shots and more like an innocent game of flag football, a beautiful mess of little ones on a mission to become men.

So as our newest recruit begins his third season and settles into the offense, I hope and pray he is watching the bigger boys, learning from his frequent penalties, and growing with each punishment, workout, and timeout. I also pray that God is guiding these two coaches who are responsible for the kind of player he becomes, both on the field and off. I pray that I find the perfect play call for every situation that arises and call it at just the right time. I pray often. I pray especially that I will be wise enough to appreciate the chaos, the noise, the messes, the aftermath of a good time with a busy, big family, because there's nothing more sad than a quiet, lonely football field during the off season. I pray daily. For him. For me. For us. For Team Kirk.


Happy 3rd Birthday to the 6th member of our team-- here's to a future filled with championships, milestones, trophies, awards, and rewards. Here's to becoming the player/person you were born to be!