Sunday, November 12, 2023
Friday, May 28, 2021
Scores and Scales
Many years ago, Billy and I were members of a local gym which frequently hosted member appreciation days. On one of those afternoons, a friend and I wandered around sampling smoothies, enjoying 5 minute neck massages, and taste-testing new protein bars. As we polished off the last of the smoothie, I noticed a young, fresh-faced trainer offering to show me with a "new" gadget what my body fat percentage would be. Yikes! Tucker and Tanner were only toddlers, so I wasn't too far removed from pregnancy and baby weight. I'm not sure that is a number anyone would want to know; however, I had been working really hard at the gym, running and taking classes while the boys hung out in the child care room. Maybe I would be pleasantly surprised. Maybe this would just continue to encourage what I was already doing. Alright, I decided. Let's do this.
I walked up to the young, fresh-faced trainer and told him I wanted to "take this test" and find out my body fat percentage.
"Sure," he smiled back. "I just need to get a little information from you first."
"Sounds good," I said, maybe with a touch of regret.
"Ok, how tall are you? 5'9", 5"10"?" he asked, ready to punch it in on his new gadget.
I giggled. "Uh, no. I'm 5'7"."
"Oh, ok. And weight. What are you, 115, 120?" he asked in all his youthful wisdom.
I giggled even more. "No, but let me stop you right there. If I look like I'm 5'9 and 120 pounds, I don't care what my body fat percentage is." And I walked off. I was happy with what I had been told and realized I didn't need a number on a machine to solidify that feeling. And just what if? What if that number hadn't lined up with all my hard work and my 5'9" image? What might that have done to me and my fitness journey? Would it have put a damper on all that hard work I'd been putting in?
A few weeks ago, my students took their state tests, a piece of cake for some, but a stressful time for others. You see, our classrooms are filled with some of those students who put in the hard work and the time: the "extra" work at school that not everyone else is doing; they go to tutoring, do extra homework at night, raise their hands during lessons. They're superstars, all of them 5'9" and 120 pounds. But, unlike my fitness test so many years ago, they didn't get to simply walk away with those achievements and numbers that they work their butts off for daily. Unlike me, they had to take the test, to punch in the numbers and wait for "the gadget" to tell them what I already know and see every day. Sometimes, those numbers lie. They don't measure and can't show the potential I see every day. Sometimes, gadgets stink.
I'm proud of all my students, but sometimes, I wish, like I did so many years ago at the gym, they too could turn and walk away from the test, taking with them only the words of affirmation they hear from us teachers every day. No scales, no scores, just the words from me that I hope they will remember today and so many years from now: "You are not a score! You are not a number! You are amazing!"
Monday, September 28, 2020
Funerals and First Basemen
My dad died when I was nineteen, and though it's been 30 years, there are little things, and people, I vividly remember about that time. I remember the cars lining the street of our neighborhood that afternoon; I remember Amy Lott's mom pulling up in her little blue minivan with a big tray of food; I remember Cathy from the church, stationed at the kitchen phone, fielding calls from folks as the news made its way around town. I remember standing in the receiving line for almost two hours at visitation, meeting and greeting and accepting words of sympathy and condolence from folks I knew and some I didn't. I remember a lot about that week and that day. One thing I won't forget is the blond, sun-glassed lady rushing in at the last minute of visitation, apologizing profusely for being late and for being dressed in Khaki shorts and tennis shoes. I can still see Nancy Trimm, explaining how she had just seen the obituary in the newspaper and knew if she hurried she might just make it. We couldn't believe, after so many years, she was there, and I had no idea at the time what an impression it made on me on what it means to be a friend. I remember that flustered entrance, her words, and the face that hadn't changed in the many years since we had last seen her at the ball park.
Mom and I spent many summer evenings on warped, wooden bleachers, Nancy taking her spot beside us as we watched little boys take grounders and throw errant pitches. I wasn't very old, but I was allowed to be part of the conversation that went on between the moms and relished my time there. Nancy's son and my younger brother had somehow managed to be teammates from T-ball to buddy ball and on into little league, so without really knowing it, there on the splintered second row, she became a part of our past, a part of my childhood, and a reminder that people come into your life for reasons; sometimes, we just don't know the reason until we're standing in the visitation room of a funeral home and someone goes out of her way to show you that she cares.
Yesterday, we spent 12 hours at the ball park. Yesterday, there were tents and canvas chairs and coolers iced down with waters, Gatorades, and Frog Togs. There weren't any rickety, wooden bleachers, but there were a lot of Nancys, moms (and dads) who love my first baseman and look out for him as if they shared a last name. They cheer when my boys do well, check on them when they get hurt, share snacks when one is hungry, and grab a phone to catch pictures of your kid coming across the plate after a Home Run! So when folks look at us like we are crazy because our schedule is dictated by year-round youth sports, I just smile and keep on packing my cooler. I know one day, one of those parents might just show up unexpectedly when I, or my kids, need a Nancy the most.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
I like it #4!
Like many parents of multiple kiddos, some days I just don't feel there is enough of me to go around. I have teenagers who want to talk about football practice or school or college visits while my 5 year old needs help finding the words "of" and "the" on soup cans. On the worst days, I worry that I am shortchanging one or all of them. I fear they will look back and remember having to earn my attention. So, I tiptoe into a dangerous world. I imagine life with one kid and one kid only. Dinners with only 3 at the table; no spills; no lefties bumping elbows with the person in the next seat. Laundry would happen only once a week. The grocery bill would be practically non-existent. Finally, there would be no competition. No shouting to be heard over another brother. No laps or couches to push another from. No yelling "Shotgun" as they race to the car. No one competing to read the "ABC" book while another does math problems at the table. No pleas from me to "let your brother finish and then I'll help."
Last week Tate competed in his first basketball game of the season. And because we are a big family, he had a big cheering section rooting for him in the stands. Every basket Tate scored, every steal he made, every rebound he grabbed was followed by claps and stomps and hoorays from me and Dad. But the biggest mouth on that bench was Tucker. Over and over, for four quarters, he clapped and whistled and repeated, "I like it #4!" Tate heard him every time and managed to glance our way when he did something special. Very quickly, my fears of anyone being shortchanged because of too many siblings was extinguished by another "I like it 4!"
Relief.
Reassurance.
With just four words from Tucker.
I stepped quickly out of that dangerous one-child world and back into mine. I like it here. I like the noise, the chaos, the mountains of sweatpants and jerseys. I like the chatter, the crowded table, and their needs that sometimes only I can meet; but I know now that when I can't meet those needs and there isn't enough of me to go around, they have each other:
Shouting from the stands; bumping elbows at the table; shooting hoops in the driveway; eating cereal late at night -- all the big stuff.
Last week Tate competed in his first basketball game of the season. And because we are a big family, he had a big cheering section rooting for him in the stands. Every basket Tate scored, every steal he made, every rebound he grabbed was followed by claps and stomps and hoorays from me and Dad. But the biggest mouth on that bench was Tucker. Over and over, for four quarters, he clapped and whistled and repeated, "I like it #4!" Tate heard him every time and managed to glance our way when he did something special. Very quickly, my fears of anyone being shortchanged because of too many siblings was extinguished by another "I like it 4!"
Relief.
Reassurance.
With just four words from Tucker.
I stepped quickly out of that dangerous one-child world and back into mine. I like it here. I like the noise, the chaos, the mountains of sweatpants and jerseys. I like the chatter, the crowded table, and their needs that sometimes only I can meet; but I know now that when I can't meet those needs and there isn't enough of me to go around, they have each other:
Shouting from the stands; bumping elbows at the table; shooting hoops in the driveway; eating cereal late at night -- all the big stuff.
Thursday, November 7, 2019
Joy
“Yet love revives as we spin homewards. Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now. But life goes on and on we go, spinning along in a violet light.” Walker Percy, The Moviegoer
Life does go on, and on we go, celebrating milestones and mourning the passing of childhoods that just don’t last long enough. Joy and sadness have come at me like a prizefighter this week, accompanying the rollercoaster of a ride that is senior year, all smashed into one final week of high school football.
Joy has come to me every morning in his texts, thanking me for what the touchdown club has gifted the seniors with that day: lunch, breakfast, goody bags, t-shirts. Sadness comes, too, with all that it represents: success, closure, a finale. Today, joy overwhelms me with a picture from last week's game and a shoutout in the local newspaper. Sadness sneaks up later with the invitation from the school in Ohio. Joy wraps me tightly when the little boys play touch football in the living room, Tucker refereeing as seriously as if he were wearing stripes. Sadness sucker punches me later when Truett asks if Tucker will come home to visit after he goes to college.
Tomorrow we travel away for our last matchup, the seniors' last night representing Indian football. Joy will undoubtedly consume me as I watch my number 7 take to the field, white towel hanging at his waist, ankles wrapped for protection, helmet tucked under his arm as he marches to the 50 yard line for his final role as Captain. Joy grabs me, shakes me, hoots and hollers with me at every touchdown, every complete pass, every run for positive yards, but today it screams at me, louder than ever: "Stop! Look at him! Look at what you've done! You did good." And I know we have.
Tomorrow night, I will shoo away the sadness. There will be no room for it as we celebrate the boy who changed me, taught me, stole me and holds me captive to this day. Tomorrow night, sadness will wait its turn. It will come, I know, probably as we make the drive back to Dahlonega, trailing a school bus full of boys who will step into the next phase of their lives when they step off the bus for the last time; but it won't come before I soak up the sights, the sounds, and the emotions of one last glorious Friday night.
My hope, my wish, my prayer is for him and his teammates to go out as winners, to do what they do best one last time, to enjoy their abilities, to make one last memory that will live forever, one more touchdown pass, one last race down the sidelines, one more snapshot of eleven boys spinning along in a violet light.
Life does go on, and on we go, celebrating milestones and mourning the passing of childhoods that just don’t last long enough. Joy and sadness have come at me like a prizefighter this week, accompanying the rollercoaster of a ride that is senior year, all smashed into one final week of high school football.
Joy has come to me every morning in his texts, thanking me for what the touchdown club has gifted the seniors with that day: lunch, breakfast, goody bags, t-shirts. Sadness comes, too, with all that it represents: success, closure, a finale. Today, joy overwhelms me with a picture from last week's game and a shoutout in the local newspaper. Sadness sneaks up later with the invitation from the school in Ohio. Joy wraps me tightly when the little boys play touch football in the living room, Tucker refereeing as seriously as if he were wearing stripes. Sadness sucker punches me later when Truett asks if Tucker will come home to visit after he goes to college.
Tomorrow we travel away for our last matchup, the seniors' last night representing Indian football. Joy will undoubtedly consume me as I watch my number 7 take to the field, white towel hanging at his waist, ankles wrapped for protection, helmet tucked under his arm as he marches to the 50 yard line for his final role as Captain. Joy grabs me, shakes me, hoots and hollers with me at every touchdown, every complete pass, every run for positive yards, but today it screams at me, louder than ever: "Stop! Look at him! Look at what you've done! You did good." And I know we have.
Tomorrow night, I will shoo away the sadness. There will be no room for it as we celebrate the boy who changed me, taught me, stole me and holds me captive to this day. Tomorrow night, sadness will wait its turn. It will come, I know, probably as we make the drive back to Dahlonega, trailing a school bus full of boys who will step into the next phase of their lives when they step off the bus for the last time; but it won't come before I soak up the sights, the sounds, and the emotions of one last glorious Friday night.
My hope, my wish, my prayer is for him and his teammates to go out as winners, to do what they do best one last time, to enjoy their abilities, to make one last memory that will live forever, one more touchdown pass, one last race down the sidelines, one more snapshot of eleven boys spinning along in a violet light.
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Brothers
These two look so much alike, and every day it seems, my 9 year old acts a little more like my 18 year old, too. The funny thing about that, for those who may remember, is Tucker didn't want Tate: "Tanner is the only brother I want," his 8 year old self protested when we broke the news of another Kirk joining our crew. It was a rough night that night, but I don't bring up that story much, because for all the tears Tucker shed that night, the relationship between these two managed to not only survive, but thrive these last 9 years.
We played baseball today, Tate and his 9U Indians, and as any good travel ball mom does, I watched from behind the plate when he pitched, strolled the 1st base side when he was there, and paced behind the dugout when he stepped into the batter's box. I've done it that way for years, from Tucker's first years as a 1st baseman to Tanner knocking down grounders at second. As I moved from spot to spot today, the only thing that differed from those first years was my cell phone. Normally, I would have ignored the ring during a game, but I knew it was Tucker calling, asking for score updates and how Tate was doing. When I told him Tate was pitching, his immediate reply was "send a video." And he hung up. Expecting the video. So I sent it. "Nice," he texted back. And that one word made my day more than it probably would have made Tate's.
Tate might not come right out and say these exact words, but he wants to be just like Tucker, whether it's football, baseball, or a good hair cut. During the high school games, whether Tucker is on the mound or in right field, Tate manages to pull himself away from the siblings playing wall ball to come over and ask me how Tucker is doing. As a 9 year old little boy, he can't commit himself totally to the game at hand, but he does care enough to check in and make sure that at home that night, he can offer up a "You pitched good tonight" to his big brother. Same for Tucker-- he couldn't quite pull himself out of bed this morning to make it to an early game, but he wasn't too tired to check in.
Tate knows his mom and dad are proud of him on days like today when he hit a home run and a triple and made some good plays in the field, but when he gets in the car and immediately asks to call Tucker, I think it means a little bit more to hear it from him.
Tuesday, April 10, 2018
Mothers are All Slightly Insane --J.D. Salinger
Clichés stink!
But they're true.
Time flies.
The days are long, but the years are short.
Being a mother is the world's hardest job.
They're all clichés, but they're all true. And Tucker's 17th birthday is a big, shining reminder that time has FLOWN by and my first born son, the one who propelled me into motherhood, now drives a car, has a job, and receives college mail daily.
His 17th birthday reminds me of those long days, when Daddy was coaching football, and two-a-days and film-watching and away games meant some days were longer than others. But then the 6'3" kid walks into the kitchen and those long days fade into really short years.
Remembering the last 17 years solidifies the idea that motherhood truly is the hardest job in the world. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Does he need to go to the doctor? Can he eat that food yet? Why is he crying? Why is he struggling with reading? Will he make the team? Why is he hanging around with that kid? Is he old enough to go away for the weekend with the church? Hard questions for first time parents.
At least I thought those were the hard things. Now, driving to school in the mornings. Driving home late at night after ball games and work. Taking the ACT and SAT. Dating. All BIG things that add up to late nights and gray hair.
And pride. And joy. And mature conversations. And laughs. And daily reminders of the little boy, the long days, the happiest years, and the best that is yet to come.
I like J.D. Salinger's take on motherhood, definitely not a cliché, and I'm sure most mothers would agree that we are all slightly insane.
It is my badge, a tattoo, a proud mark to celebrate the boy who made me a mom. The boy who made me, me.
But they're true.
Time flies.
The days are long, but the years are short.
Being a mother is the world's hardest job.
They're all clichés, but they're all true. And Tucker's 17th birthday is a big, shining reminder that time has FLOWN by and my first born son, the one who propelled me into motherhood, now drives a car, has a job, and receives college mail daily.
His 17th birthday reminds me of those long days, when Daddy was coaching football, and two-a-days and film-watching and away games meant some days were longer than others. But then the 6'3" kid walks into the kitchen and those long days fade into really short years.
Remembering the last 17 years solidifies the idea that motherhood truly is the hardest job in the world. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Does he need to go to the doctor? Can he eat that food yet? Why is he crying? Why is he struggling with reading? Will he make the team? Why is he hanging around with that kid? Is he old enough to go away for the weekend with the church? Hard questions for first time parents.
At least I thought those were the hard things. Now, driving to school in the mornings. Driving home late at night after ball games and work. Taking the ACT and SAT. Dating. All BIG things that add up to late nights and gray hair.
And pride. And joy. And mature conversations. And laughs. And daily reminders of the little boy, the long days, the happiest years, and the best that is yet to come.
I like J.D. Salinger's take on motherhood, definitely not a cliché, and I'm sure most mothers would agree that we are all slightly insane.
It is my badge, a tattoo, a proud mark to celebrate the boy who made me a mom. The boy who made me, me.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
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!
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!
Monday, November 6, 2017
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!
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.
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!
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
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!
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!
Saturday, May 13, 2017
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!
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!
Monday, April 10, 2017
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.
/
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 3, 2017
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!
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!
Saturday, August 13, 2016
🎵🎵 Oh Happy Day🎶🎶
" all our lives we've tried,
And often found contempt for us.
So on we hied to lesser gods, who treat us less as clods
And more like men
Who would be kings a little while." Ray Bradbury
Cue the music! It is indeed a happy day around here. Football is back in all its fabled glory. Last night high schools hosted pre-season scrimmages, today middle schools jamboreed, and rec fields hosted pint size players taking their first snaps and making their first tackles. Aaahhh, football, we've missed you!
Football isn't just a pastime around our house, it's a way of life. Tucker and Tanner learned to walk on fields freshly mowed by their Daddy; they sprinted their first hundred yards on a field painted by some dedicated dads on a late Thursday night; they blew their first whistle to a group of eager high school boys. It's in their blood, just as it is in their Daddy's.
Today, at approximately 10:00 am, Tate went under center for the first time. He completed his first "game" pass, ran for his first official yards, and felt the first of many hits from a kid whose birth certificate is still in question. He and his teammates, most donning helmets and shoulder pads for the first time, took their first steps on what will hopefully be a long road of sweating, sprinting, and sucking it up.
See, today was hot. These seven year olds played in their first jamboree, and they played two back to back games underneath an unforgiving sun and a relentless humidity. And they couldn't quit. And they couldn't sit. And they couldn't retreat to the stands or the parent tents when they'd had enough. They had to play on. They had to sub for a teammate who needed a water break. They had to sip, sip, sip and head back for more. They had to block; they had to tackle; they had to run when they weren't sure their little bodies had any steam left in the engine.
Today, a group of seven year olds finished what they started. It wasn't easy. We watched as pre-game giggles and sideline horsing in game one turned to flushed faces and somber looks of "how much longer?" in game two. Football isn't easy, and it isn't for everybody, and some of those players may decide one day to bow out gracefully. But today they got a glimpse of what all the grown up coaches, players of yesteryear remember so fondly: teamwork, touchdowns, time-outs in a huddle with secret codes and words in a language only they understand.
Few things are better than being part of a team. Few things last the way football's lessons do. Long after 7u football ends, long after high school Friday nights are yearbook memories, long after the pads and helmets have been put away and the trophies and pictures are left to gather dust, little boys and big boys alike will remember the joy, the pain, the frustration, the triumph of a Saturday morning win, a Friday night loss, a deep in the trenches tie on a colder than cold night.
When they take a test, start a new job, lose a friend, move to a new town, struggle with something no one else understands, football will be there, coaching them up, urging them on, yelling from the sidelines, "don't you quit on me!"
And those boys, men by then, will smile, snarl their lips, dig their feet a little deeper into the dirt, and press on until they reach the end zone, the goal line, what ever theirs might be. They'll finish what they started.
I'm so glad my boys play football. I'm so glad Tucker and Tanner and now Tate and soon Truett have been introduced to a sport that demands so much of them, requires the best of them, and gives so much to them in return.
Oh yeah, and that Coach over there, I'm so glad he introduced ME to this lovely game of offense, defense, and special teams and made me not only a football wife but made us a footballfamily!
And often found contempt for us.
So on we hied to lesser gods, who treat us less as clods
And more like men
Who would be kings a little while." Ray Bradbury
Cue the music! It is indeed a happy day around here. Football is back in all its fabled glory. Last night high schools hosted pre-season scrimmages, today middle schools jamboreed, and rec fields hosted pint size players taking their first snaps and making their first tackles. Aaahhh, football, we've missed you!
Football isn't just a pastime around our house, it's a way of life. Tucker and Tanner learned to walk on fields freshly mowed by their Daddy; they sprinted their first hundred yards on a field painted by some dedicated dads on a late Thursday night; they blew their first whistle to a group of eager high school boys. It's in their blood, just as it is in their Daddy's.
Today, at approximately 10:00 am, Tate went under center for the first time. He completed his first "game" pass, ran for his first official yards, and felt the first of many hits from a kid whose birth certificate is still in question. He and his teammates, most donning helmets and shoulder pads for the first time, took their first steps on what will hopefully be a long road of sweating, sprinting, and sucking it up.
See, today was hot. These seven year olds played in their first jamboree, and they played two back to back games underneath an unforgiving sun and a relentless humidity. And they couldn't quit. And they couldn't sit. And they couldn't retreat to the stands or the parent tents when they'd had enough. They had to play on. They had to sub for a teammate who needed a water break. They had to sip, sip, sip and head back for more. They had to block; they had to tackle; they had to run when they weren't sure their little bodies had any steam left in the engine.
Today, a group of seven year olds finished what they started. It wasn't easy. We watched as pre-game giggles and sideline horsing in game one turned to flushed faces and somber looks of "how much longer?" in game two. Football isn't easy, and it isn't for everybody, and some of those players may decide one day to bow out gracefully. But today they got a glimpse of what all the grown up coaches, players of yesteryear remember so fondly: teamwork, touchdowns, time-outs in a huddle with secret codes and words in a language only they understand.
Few things are better than being part of a team. Few things last the way football's lessons do. Long after 7u football ends, long after high school Friday nights are yearbook memories, long after the pads and helmets have been put away and the trophies and pictures are left to gather dust, little boys and big boys alike will remember the joy, the pain, the frustration, the triumph of a Saturday morning win, a Friday night loss, a deep in the trenches tie on a colder than cold night.
When they take a test, start a new job, lose a friend, move to a new town, struggle with something no one else understands, football will be there, coaching them up, urging them on, yelling from the sidelines, "don't you quit on me!"
And those boys, men by then, will smile, snarl their lips, dig their feet a little deeper into the dirt, and press on until they reach the end zone, the goal line, what ever theirs might be. They'll finish what they started.
I'm so glad my boys play football. I'm so glad Tucker and Tanner and now Tate and soon Truett have been introduced to a sport that demands so much of them, requires the best of them, and gives so much to them in return.
Oh yeah, and that Coach over there, I'm so glad he introduced ME to this lovely game of offense, defense, and special teams and made me not only a football wife but made us a footballfamily!
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Food, Football, and the Four Horsemen
No matter how hard we try, time marches on. Some days faster than others, some days (much) slower than others; but time never stops and it never slows down. If we're lucky, on the days when we stop to catch a breath, count the years, and consider all we've accomplished, we catch ourselves in a smile.
Today, Billy and I are celebrating 17 years of marriage. Seventeen years of "I do." Seventeen years of sooooo much more than just words and cake and pretty dresses and handsome men. Seventeen years of learning, compromise, change, trust, mortgages, kindergarten registration, baseball tryouts, drivers permits. Seventeen years of soooooo much good-- seventeen years of smiles and laughter and messes and big fat belly laughs because the only other option was tears.
Today, I'm stopping to catch my breath, count my blessings, and tally up those seventeen years of food, football, and four amazing boys we get to call our sons.
I have to put food first because I feel like I've been cooking for two decades straight. Who knew, so many years ago, how much food 5 guys could go through in a week? Certainly not me. I feel certain Kellogg's and General Mills will be calling me any day now to see if my household will become a "test house" for all their new products. If there really is a Big Brother, he not only knows what goes on here, but is probably shaking his head at the cereal bowls, spoons, and sheer amount of milk I go through daily!
It's not all head banging on the kitchen counter every afternoon, though. Some of my favorite memories exist simply because I made an extra batch of Rice Krispy treats one afternoon or because we decided to stay home and grill out instead of heading to a restaurant. i do hope when I get to the big Kroger in the sky that there's a yellow piece of paper and a total of all the money I spent feeding these growing boys ( and maybe a few of my favorite cashiers up there, too). And Cokes, definitely Cokes. But I digress.
There's no way I can even begin to grasp how much impact football has had on us and our family. I think the first "real" tears Tucker ever cried was when his Dad's team lost a nail- biter. He stayed up that night and wrote his dad a note, professing him the greatest, smartest football coach ever-- win or lose. Then he taped it to the wall where Coach would see it first thing when he came home that night. The boys have chosen football games over friends' friday night birthday parties and learned to crawl on the field house floor while Coach graded film from the night before.
Football has moved us from house to house, community to community, school to school, and neighborhood to neighborhood, introducing us to some of the best ( and maybe a few of the worst) people around. Our boys were all welcomed with field house baby showers and babysitting offers from the best moms from offense and defense.
Football has allowed our family the joys of winning big games and celebrating together afterwards; Football has also taught all of six of us how to handle defeat on the field and off; what to brush off and what to let sink in; how to move on after the death of a young coach/friend; and how to put everything into perspective. The past seventeen years has all been wrapped around football, and we are better for it.
Finally, the best part of the last 17 years runs us ragged, football to baseball to wrestling and basketball. They eat me out of house and home, keep my washer and dryer on repeat cycles, and have given me a new appreciation for spring scent bathrooms cleaners and deodorizers. I have come to accept frogs and salamanders touching my skin. I can throw a pretty good spiral most days. And I buy every pair of pants and jeans with the full expectation that they will make it about a month before they come home with a hole in the knee.
Congratulations to my best guy, and happy anniversary to us. I look around at all we have accomplished and I like what I see: 2 quarterbacks, a wide receiver, and a determined little brother. I see more messes, more ridiculous belly laughs, more falling Christmas trees, more Friday night lights, more Saturdays on a diamond under the sun, and more good than bad.
I see you and me looking just as good as we did back then. Maybe even better😉
Most importantly, I see you and me, still together, still putting up with each other, still smiling while we do, still counting our blessings, and marveling at this crazy life we call ours.
Today, Billy and I are celebrating 17 years of marriage. Seventeen years of "I do." Seventeen years of sooooo much more than just words and cake and pretty dresses and handsome men. Seventeen years of learning, compromise, change, trust, mortgages, kindergarten registration, baseball tryouts, drivers permits. Seventeen years of soooooo much good-- seventeen years of smiles and laughter and messes and big fat belly laughs because the only other option was tears.
Today, I'm stopping to catch my breath, count my blessings, and tally up those seventeen years of food, football, and four amazing boys we get to call our sons.
I have to put food first because I feel like I've been cooking for two decades straight. Who knew, so many years ago, how much food 5 guys could go through in a week? Certainly not me. I feel certain Kellogg's and General Mills will be calling me any day now to see if my household will become a "test house" for all their new products. If there really is a Big Brother, he not only knows what goes on here, but is probably shaking his head at the cereal bowls, spoons, and sheer amount of milk I go through daily!
It's not all head banging on the kitchen counter every afternoon, though. Some of my favorite memories exist simply because I made an extra batch of Rice Krispy treats one afternoon or because we decided to stay home and grill out instead of heading to a restaurant. i do hope when I get to the big Kroger in the sky that there's a yellow piece of paper and a total of all the money I spent feeding these growing boys ( and maybe a few of my favorite cashiers up there, too). And Cokes, definitely Cokes. But I digress.
There's no way I can even begin to grasp how much impact football has had on us and our family. I think the first "real" tears Tucker ever cried was when his Dad's team lost a nail- biter. He stayed up that night and wrote his dad a note, professing him the greatest, smartest football coach ever-- win or lose. Then he taped it to the wall where Coach would see it first thing when he came home that night. The boys have chosen football games over friends' friday night birthday parties and learned to crawl on the field house floor while Coach graded film from the night before.
Football has moved us from house to house, community to community, school to school, and neighborhood to neighborhood, introducing us to some of the best ( and maybe a few of the worst) people around. Our boys were all welcomed with field house baby showers and babysitting offers from the best moms from offense and defense.
Football has allowed our family the joys of winning big games and celebrating together afterwards; Football has also taught all of six of us how to handle defeat on the field and off; what to brush off and what to let sink in; how to move on after the death of a young coach/friend; and how to put everything into perspective. The past seventeen years has all been wrapped around football, and we are better for it.
Finally, the best part of the last 17 years runs us ragged, football to baseball to wrestling and basketball. They eat me out of house and home, keep my washer and dryer on repeat cycles, and have given me a new appreciation for spring scent bathrooms cleaners and deodorizers. I have come to accept frogs and salamanders touching my skin. I can throw a pretty good spiral most days. And I buy every pair of pants and jeans with the full expectation that they will make it about a month before they come home with a hole in the knee.
Congratulations to my best guy, and happy anniversary to us. I look around at all we have accomplished and I like what I see: 2 quarterbacks, a wide receiver, and a determined little brother. I see more messes, more ridiculous belly laughs, more falling Christmas trees, more Friday night lights, more Saturdays on a diamond under the sun, and more good than bad.
I see you and me looking just as good as we did back then. Maybe even better😉
Most importantly, I see you and me, still together, still putting up with each other, still smiling while we do, still counting our blessings, and marveling at this crazy life we call ours.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Life is short, the years rush past, A little boy grows up so fast
I'm almost a month late for my birthday post about my super special third son, but with four boys in my life, late is the new early for us. We spent another glorious week in Destin as Tate celebrated being 7 years old and being lucky enough to spend each of those birthdays on the beach. Seriously, how lucky can one get? He rode go carts at The Track, saw Finding Dory, and had his birthday request for spaghetti served up with a side of DP. He opened all of his cards from his family that arrive in the mail and finally got to see his BIG present from Mom and Dad-- and it didn't disappoint. He drove his RC car all around the house and condos and flipped it, rammed it, and may have even taken out a toe or two of mine, all in the name of birthday fun. He finished off his big day with a late night swim, a bike ride with his brothers, and plenty of hugs and kisses from me!
So now that I've relived Tate's big day in detail, I'd like to "relive" Tate in detail and make a little running list of all the blogworthy qualities etched in my mind the last seven years.
First, it wasn't all sunshine and roses-- that baby would. not. sleep. Ever try having a newborn during a stressful football season? I wouldn't recommend it. Many nights when Coach K. had had a particularly trying week of practice and/or had a rough game looming, I took to the roads at odd hours of the night to get the crying, whining, angel out of earshot. Not sure what happened, but that night owl sleeps like a boss and has made those famous words- this too shall pass- my mantra.
But once we cleared that hurdle of sleeplessness, the sun did shine and the roses bloomed and they're still blooming and shining as I write this!
Oh what an angel, what a doll, what a precious, precious child I've been entrusted. This child makes the sweetest gifts (even if it's not your birthday), he loves to help in the kitchen with pancakes and cracking eggs, he loves to share (namely my phone, my cokes, and my money😉), and he takes care of his baby brother Truett better than anyone I could have trained. He changes diapers, fixes sippy cups, finds the perfect shows on TV, and has become the name most called for in the mornings!
What I think I love most, though, is that this child never stops talking. Like, never. Like, #howdohisteachersdoit? #ihaventfiguredouthowtohushhim. Either way, we have all learned to love the constant questions, the constant observations, and the constant conversation from the backseat. I see great things in the future from this little guy, based simply on the fact that his questions STUMP me sometimes. Some days, ok, many days, he comes up with something either so deep or so scientific that I can't even FAKE a good answer. More often than I'd like to admit, I've resorted to a simple, "I don't know, buddy," or "let's google it when we get home."
I guess maybe it's the fact that I have a son heading to high school in a couple of weeks that's swift kicked me in the pants and made me realize that we only get so many of those back seat conversations, so many early morning breakfasts, and so many evenings snuggled on the couch watching some HORRIBLE Disney or Nickolodeon comedy that they find hilarious. It dawns on me a little more each day that we only have so many years when they really are shorter than me, slower than me, and not as strong as me. I watched from a distance the other day as the oldest two boys threw the football, and from where I stood, they were not the little boys in the backyard I knew, but real teenagers practicing for something big.
Now that he's seven, Tate begins HIS football career in tackle football and will slowly start chasing those big brothers on the field and in all the other things that they get to do but he's always "too little" for. I thinks it's hitting me with the school year coming and the football schedules on my calendar that I may wake up one day and watch from the top of a hill, not my little boy in the backyard, but another teenager who is taller than me, faster than me, and stronger than me, following in so many footsteps before him, hurrying to become them.
For now, though, I have a chatty, curious seven year old who likes to throw the football with his mom and, for now, thinks I'm a pretty good receiver. And I'm holding on tightly to that. And to him. And to the other two perched on the edge of the nest, anxiously waiting for their turns to fly.
So now that I've relived Tate's big day in detail, I'd like to "relive" Tate in detail and make a little running list of all the blogworthy qualities etched in my mind the last seven years.
First, it wasn't all sunshine and roses-- that baby would. not. sleep. Ever try having a newborn during a stressful football season? I wouldn't recommend it. Many nights when Coach K. had had a particularly trying week of practice and/or had a rough game looming, I took to the roads at odd hours of the night to get the crying, whining, angel out of earshot. Not sure what happened, but that night owl sleeps like a boss and has made those famous words- this too shall pass- my mantra.
But once we cleared that hurdle of sleeplessness, the sun did shine and the roses bloomed and they're still blooming and shining as I write this!
Oh what an angel, what a doll, what a precious, precious child I've been entrusted. This child makes the sweetest gifts (even if it's not your birthday), he loves to help in the kitchen with pancakes and cracking eggs, he loves to share (namely my phone, my cokes, and my money😉), and he takes care of his baby brother Truett better than anyone I could have trained. He changes diapers, fixes sippy cups, finds the perfect shows on TV, and has become the name most called for in the mornings!
What I think I love most, though, is that this child never stops talking. Like, never. Like, #howdohisteachersdoit? #ihaventfiguredouthowtohushhim. Either way, we have all learned to love the constant questions, the constant observations, and the constant conversation from the backseat. I see great things in the future from this little guy, based simply on the fact that his questions STUMP me sometimes. Some days, ok, many days, he comes up with something either so deep or so scientific that I can't even FAKE a good answer. More often than I'd like to admit, I've resorted to a simple, "I don't know, buddy," or "let's google it when we get home."
I guess maybe it's the fact that I have a son heading to high school in a couple of weeks that's swift kicked me in the pants and made me realize that we only get so many of those back seat conversations, so many early morning breakfasts, and so many evenings snuggled on the couch watching some HORRIBLE Disney or Nickolodeon comedy that they find hilarious. It dawns on me a little more each day that we only have so many years when they really are shorter than me, slower than me, and not as strong as me. I watched from a distance the other day as the oldest two boys threw the football, and from where I stood, they were not the little boys in the backyard I knew, but real teenagers practicing for something big.
Now that he's seven, Tate begins HIS football career in tackle football and will slowly start chasing those big brothers on the field and in all the other things that they get to do but he's always "too little" for. I thinks it's hitting me with the school year coming and the football schedules on my calendar that I may wake up one day and watch from the top of a hill, not my little boy in the backyard, but another teenager who is taller than me, faster than me, and stronger than me, following in so many footsteps before him, hurrying to become them.
For now, though, I have a chatty, curious seven year old who likes to throw the football with his mom and, for now, thinks I'm a pretty good receiver. And I'm holding on tightly to that. And to him. And to the other two perched on the edge of the nest, anxiously waiting for their turns to fly.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Irrational Love and Delight: a birthday blog
Yesterday's sermon at 12 Stone Church, the 2nd in a series called Parenting through Proverbs was the perfect message for a mom getting ready to celebrate the 15th birthday of her first son. Admittedly, this birthday stirs emotions that haven't stirred in a while, with a driver's permit in the near future, a part time job on the horizon, and spring football with the high school happening SOON! I can't really put into words what parenting is like, considering that we are at four different stages right now: I'm teaching one to drive and another to go potty, sometimes simultaneously. But I do know that, Tucker, you make this thing called parenting worth every crazy minute.
One of the things the preacher mentioned yesterday was how fast time moves. The days really are long, and the years really are short; and they're busy, and they're messy, and they're consumed by friends, school, sports, homework assignments and projects, and somehow, some way we as parents attempt to throw in life lessons, discipline, tough love, direction, advice, and wisdom enough to send them out into the world safely and with a good conscience and morals and convictions and more. The preacher then asked the question, a question that perhaps gets lost in the middle of all I just mentioned: when our kids look at US, looking at them, do they see disappointment or delight?
Oh, the delight! In every year, every grade, every sport, every smile. So much delight! Every Christmas, every birthday, every little moment I had alone when we would steal off to the grocery store together. New delights, when we shopped for school clothes, new baseball gloves, every new friend you make. Unimaginable delight, when you held your baby brother Tate for the very first time, when you babysit your baby brother Truett with cartoons and piggyback rides and secrets not meant for mom and dad.
Oh, the delights still in store for this mom who today celebrates your amazing birth, your amazing personality, your gentle spirit, your quirky sense of humor, and your FANTASTIC taste in music!
I chose this poem because I love the words this dad has for his daughter, and even though it is written to a daughter, I think they are words every one should hear. So listen, ignore, absorb, roll your 15 year old eyes at me. Just know that I love you with an irrational love that can't be defined with just words, but for an English teacher mom I think these are pretty sweet words.
To a Sad Daughter
by Michael Ondaatje
All night long the hockey pictures
Gaze down at you
Sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded
Cuts and wounds
-- all this pleases you.
O my God! You say at breakfast
Reading the sports page over the cereal
As another player breaks his ankle
Or assaults the coach.
When I thought of daughters
I wasn't expecting this
But I like this more.
I like all your faults
Even your purple moods
When you retreat from everyone
To sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say like
I mean of course love
You who feel superior to black and white movies
(Coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)
Though you were moved by Creature from the Black Lagoon.
One day I'll come swimming
Beside your ship or someone will
And if you hear the siren
Listen to it. For if you close your ears
Only nothing will happen. You will never change.
This is the first lecture I've given you.
You're 'sweet sixteen' you said
I'd rather be your closest friend
Than your father. I'm not good at advice
You know that, but ride
the ceremonies
Until they grow dark.
Sometimes you are so busy
Discovering your friends
I ache with a loss
-- but that is greed.
And sometimes I've gone into
My purple world
And lost you.
One afternoon I stepped
Into your room. You were sitting
At the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window
And sun spilled over you
Like a thick yellow miracle
as if another planet
Was coaxing you out of the house
--all those possible worlds!--
and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.
I cannot look at Forsythia now
Without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately
Into the wild world
And your real prize will be
The frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
Break going out not in.
How you live your life I don't care
But I'll sell my arms for you,
Hold your secrets forever
. . .
Don't recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon's
Yellow suburban annunciation. . .
Forget the poem if you will, but know that your mom loves you forever.
One of the things the preacher mentioned yesterday was how fast time moves. The days really are long, and the years really are short; and they're busy, and they're messy, and they're consumed by friends, school, sports, homework assignments and projects, and somehow, some way we as parents attempt to throw in life lessons, discipline, tough love, direction, advice, and wisdom enough to send them out into the world safely and with a good conscience and morals and convictions and more. The preacher then asked the question, a question that perhaps gets lost in the middle of all I just mentioned: when our kids look at US, looking at them, do they see disappointment or delight?
Oh, the delight! In every year, every grade, every sport, every smile. So much delight! Every Christmas, every birthday, every little moment I had alone when we would steal off to the grocery store together. New delights, when we shopped for school clothes, new baseball gloves, every new friend you make. Unimaginable delight, when you held your baby brother Tate for the very first time, when you babysit your baby brother Truett with cartoons and piggyback rides and secrets not meant for mom and dad.
Oh, the delights still in store for this mom who today celebrates your amazing birth, your amazing personality, your gentle spirit, your quirky sense of humor, and your FANTASTIC taste in music!
I chose this poem because I love the words this dad has for his daughter, and even though it is written to a daughter, I think they are words every one should hear. So listen, ignore, absorb, roll your 15 year old eyes at me. Just know that I love you with an irrational love that can't be defined with just words, but for an English teacher mom I think these are pretty sweet words.
To a Sad Daughter
by Michael Ondaatje
All night long the hockey pictures
Gaze down at you
Sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded
Cuts and wounds
-- all this pleases you.
O my God! You say at breakfast
Reading the sports page over the cereal
As another player breaks his ankle
Or assaults the coach.
When I thought of daughters
I wasn't expecting this
But I like this more.
I like all your faults
Even your purple moods
When you retreat from everyone
To sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say like
I mean of course love
You who feel superior to black and white movies
(Coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)
Though you were moved by Creature from the Black Lagoon.
One day I'll come swimming
Beside your ship or someone will
And if you hear the siren
Listen to it. For if you close your ears
Only nothing will happen. You will never change.
This is the first lecture I've given you.
You're 'sweet sixteen' you said
I'd rather be your closest friend
Than your father. I'm not good at advice
You know that, but ride
the ceremonies
Until they grow dark.
Sometimes you are so busy
Discovering your friends
I ache with a loss
-- but that is greed.
And sometimes I've gone into
My purple world
And lost you.
One afternoon I stepped
Into your room. You were sitting
At the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window
And sun spilled over you
Like a thick yellow miracle
as if another planet
Was coaxing you out of the house
--all those possible worlds!--
and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.
I cannot look at Forsythia now
Without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately
Into the wild world
And your real prize will be
The frantic search.
Want everything. If you break
Break going out not in.
How you live your life I don't care
But I'll sell my arms for you,
Hold your secrets forever
. . .
Don't recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon's
Yellow suburban annunciation. . .
Forget the poem if you will, but know that your mom loves you forever.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Good Guys Wear Jerseys
I saw a facebook picture the other the day that kind of got under my skin a little. I let it go. Then, it rolled through facebook again a few days later with several likes and shares, and I thought, okay, I can't let it go again. So here goes:
The picture was a suggestion that a hero isn't a guy whose name is on the back of his jersey, but a guy who defends his country. This isn't a bash of our soldiers-- in fact, I wish I could adequately thank all those who serve or served our country with more than just "thank you." Rather, it's a chance to say that heroes wear all sorts of uniforms: dress blues, jerseys and shoulder pads, and plenty of others.
Two nights ago, the quarterback for Clemson, playing in his biggest game of his career so far, was captured on camera wearing a wristband that simply says, Pray4Eli. I bet Eli thinks he's a hero. I wonder if just by seeing that a sophomore qb, with the weight of a National Championship on his shoulders, took the time to add that bracelet to his uniform, made an 8th grade boy's fight with cancer a little bit easier, at least for a night.
Speaking of that Clemson quarterback, when he was nine years old, another guy who wore his name on the back of a jersey for a living, stepped up and furnished the house that his single mother helped build through Habitat for Humanity. It wasn't the first time that Warrick Dunn had bought a house or furnished a house for a single mom and her family and it wasn't his last. I'm pretty sure Deshaun Watson is just one name on a list of many who think Warrick Dunn is a hero.
J.J. Watt who plays for the Houston Texans is a you tube sensation for his aggressive plays on the football field, but he's got just as many videos of him visiting kids who struggle with being bullied and kids who spend their afternoons at after school facilities.
Finally tonight, I saw that Tim Tebow is planning more than 200 proms for students with special needs. Tebow has been praised and criticized as a football player AND a Christian, yet he continues to live his life serving God and serving others.
See, yall, good begets good. Kindness begets kindness. Heroes beget heroes.
And it doesn't matter if you run for touchdowns, hit home runs, or fly fighter jets. Or if your name is on the front of your shirt, the back, the sleeve; whether it's a first name, a last name or a nickname. It doesn't matter. The other things, though, they do.
The picture was a suggestion that a hero isn't a guy whose name is on the back of his jersey, but a guy who defends his country. This isn't a bash of our soldiers-- in fact, I wish I could adequately thank all those who serve or served our country with more than just "thank you." Rather, it's a chance to say that heroes wear all sorts of uniforms: dress blues, jerseys and shoulder pads, and plenty of others.
Two nights ago, the quarterback for Clemson, playing in his biggest game of his career so far, was captured on camera wearing a wristband that simply says, Pray4Eli. I bet Eli thinks he's a hero. I wonder if just by seeing that a sophomore qb, with the weight of a National Championship on his shoulders, took the time to add that bracelet to his uniform, made an 8th grade boy's fight with cancer a little bit easier, at least for a night.
Speaking of that Clemson quarterback, when he was nine years old, another guy who wore his name on the back of a jersey for a living, stepped up and furnished the house that his single mother helped build through Habitat for Humanity. It wasn't the first time that Warrick Dunn had bought a house or furnished a house for a single mom and her family and it wasn't his last. I'm pretty sure Deshaun Watson is just one name on a list of many who think Warrick Dunn is a hero.
J.J. Watt who plays for the Houston Texans is a you tube sensation for his aggressive plays on the football field, but he's got just as many videos of him visiting kids who struggle with being bullied and kids who spend their afternoons at after school facilities.
Finally tonight, I saw that Tim Tebow is planning more than 200 proms for students with special needs. Tebow has been praised and criticized as a football player AND a Christian, yet he continues to live his life serving God and serving others.
See, yall, good begets good. Kindness begets kindness. Heroes beget heroes.
And it doesn't matter if you run for touchdowns, hit home runs, or fly fighter jets. Or if your name is on the front of your shirt, the back, the sleeve; whether it's a first name, a last name or a nickname. It doesn't matter. The other things, though, they do.
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