Dear Tate,
Could you please stop squirting my shampoo into the bathtub? This is bottle number three and it's starting to get expensive, not to mention extra "bubbly" as I finally make it into MY bathtub for a nighttime relax. Of course, that's probably what you had in mind, I'm just not doing my part by inviting you in. Hmmm.
Oh yeah, and while we're at it, CD players and DVD players take ONE, count it, ONE disk at a time. Trying to listen to/watch more than one at a time does not bode well for the entertainment systems, my budget, or Daddy's blood pressure. Same goes for the WII console, but we've already paid that Nintendo bill, so really this should just be a refresher.
Moving along. When you wake up in the middle of the night and it is I you desire, scream once and then give me a minute before you scream again. I am old now and waking up and descending the stairs in the pitch black take a little time. I promise I hear you and I'm on my way. Find Pooh Bear and count to 10 (you are amazing!).You don't have to wake Daddy and the rest of the crew; just be patient and our late night cuddle and gab session will begin shortly.
One more thing and we'll close this week's agenda. As stinkin' adorable as your little bottom is, we must, I repeat MUST get into the habit of wearing underwear. I know it's your house, your sanctuary, I know you are almost, almost potty-trained, I know you're feeling alive and free and all that other good stuff, but you are also totally naked and I fear that if we don't nip it in the bud right here, we could be in some serious trouble come preschool. So just remember, when you have to go, go in the potty. And before you return make sure you're wearing pants.
Lots of love forever,
Mommy
PS-- Tucker and Tanner: you're next!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Dear Coach
Dear Coach,
My heart hurts for you. That's all I can say right now. With every interception, every fumble, every incomplete pass, my heart hurts and my stomach turns. I know it's silly. I know there are people out there without jobs, without homes, people who struggle to put food on the table, and my heart hurts from watching a football game. Silly. It's only a game, they say. But it's not. It's more than a game.
It's where we live and how often we move. It's who our kids are friends with and where we put down roots. It's where we go to church and who our kids want to be when they grow up. It's more than a game.
It's more than a job. It's potty-training a toddler in the field house because that's where we spend so much time. It's riding bikes around the track while Daddy lines the field for the game. Family time, we call it. It's falling asleep at night with HUDL in my ear and arranging our summer vacation around the GHSA dead week. It's hours and hours and hours of film, white board, chalk talk, and pep talk. It's more hours than most people could possibly imagine and it hurts to lose. The stands fill up, fans cheer, and then, win or lose, they go home to enjoy their weekend. Coaches take it all home with them, into the weekend, and back to the gridiron on Monday with a whole new resolve.
I wish I knew what to say to you when I see you on Saturday morning. I wish I had magic words that made the knot in your stomach go away, but there's not much this sideline cheerleader can say and I know that all too well by now. But I know you, and I know you'll be back at it tomorrow, planning, scheming, rearranging, and hatching out new plans for Monday. I swell with pride when I watch you coach those boys who are like sons to you. I burst a little more when I see you off the field with them, talking to them about their grades in school, their attitudes with their parents, their girlfriends-- stuff you don't get paid to do. But none of that matters on Friday night and some folks will judge you by the score on the scoreboard. Hopefully one day they will see what I see.
No, it isn't just a game, and it isn't an easy job. But sometimes I think the hardest job is being the one you come home to.
My heart hurts for you. That's all I can say right now. With every interception, every fumble, every incomplete pass, my heart hurts and my stomach turns. I know it's silly. I know there are people out there without jobs, without homes, people who struggle to put food on the table, and my heart hurts from watching a football game. Silly. It's only a game, they say. But it's not. It's more than a game.
It's where we live and how often we move. It's who our kids are friends with and where we put down roots. It's where we go to church and who our kids want to be when they grow up. It's more than a game.
It's more than a job. It's potty-training a toddler in the field house because that's where we spend so much time. It's riding bikes around the track while Daddy lines the field for the game. Family time, we call it. It's falling asleep at night with HUDL in my ear and arranging our summer vacation around the GHSA dead week. It's hours and hours and hours of film, white board, chalk talk, and pep talk. It's more hours than most people could possibly imagine and it hurts to lose. The stands fill up, fans cheer, and then, win or lose, they go home to enjoy their weekend. Coaches take it all home with them, into the weekend, and back to the gridiron on Monday with a whole new resolve.
I wish I knew what to say to you when I see you on Saturday morning. I wish I had magic words that made the knot in your stomach go away, but there's not much this sideline cheerleader can say and I know that all too well by now. But I know you, and I know you'll be back at it tomorrow, planning, scheming, rearranging, and hatching out new plans for Monday. I swell with pride when I watch you coach those boys who are like sons to you. I burst a little more when I see you off the field with them, talking to them about their grades in school, their attitudes with their parents, their girlfriends-- stuff you don't get paid to do. But none of that matters on Friday night and some folks will judge you by the score on the scoreboard. Hopefully one day they will see what I see.
No, it isn't just a game, and it isn't an easy job. But sometimes I think the hardest job is being the one you come home to.
Friday, September 2, 2011
A Tale of Two Brothers
I can't help but wonder as I'm cleaning bedrooms today, how in the world did I end up with two children, 19 months apart, who are so TOTALLY different from each other? I have a third child, but his exact habits and disposition aren't quite written in stone yet, so I'll hold off on him until he starts school. When that day comes, I'll analyze him like any good mother does, but for now, he's safe.
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
I started in Tanner's room, because, let's be honest, his is the easier room. Upon entering I see that his bed has already been made, throw pillows placed perfectly at the top: two reds surrounding a white-- ahh, symmetry. His throw rugs, one football, another basketball shaped, are lying on the floor, not crumpled into little balls in the corner (I've seen it done before). His floor is lacking in any strewn around clothing items, because, and I swear this is the truth, he asked me for a clothes basket and that is where he deposits the dirties. In order to get to the clothes basket, I push the door shut just a little and notice that the shoe organizer I bought for him holds all of his shoes, each one with a MATCH!! No dirty cleats on this floor, no lonesome flip-flop, unwearable for lack of a mate. He has a separate drawer for underwear and socks, T-shirts and Under Armors in another, and Sunday clothes (yes, he does have them) hang in the closet. I weep a little as I exit this 8 year old's sanctuary and turn left into . . . TUCKER'S ROOM!!!!!!
Oh, where to start? First, the bed is not made, and not only is it not made it looks like wolves wrestled in it all night. Most beds require only a straightening of the sheet and comforter, fluffing of the pillows, and replacing of the throw ones. Not this bed. The comforter is wrung like a handkerchief in a nervous man's hand; one pillow is UNDERNEATH the bed, and the throw pillows didn't even fall close to the edge of the bed frame. It's as if he practiced quarterbacking at midnight using his satin accessories. As far as shoes go, there isn't even a hanging shoe compartment, and we usually begin each day with a "search for Zigs." Socks live for days underneath the bed, crumpled in corners, and yes, underneath the pillow until I go hunting for them after a 7 sock laundry load. The clothing situation is no better: football practice starts early at our house as we search for girdles, long socks, and the perfect practice shirt. This room is painfully free of any organization, no sock drawer, no folded t-shirts, no Easy Button.
Seriously, though. It isn't as if I took each one aside as toddlers and instructed them separately on how I like things done. They were with me ALL THE TIME, how did one pick up on my habits and the other follow the dad who was away coaching much of the time. (No offense, Daddy, but you DO NOT make your bed, and I have been known to pick up clothing from the floor. Just Sayin'). Does that mean that cleanliness and organization is genetic, that nothing I do will make a difference in what kind of husband each one becomes? Was all that motherly instruction for naught? Could I have just as easily taken them to the mall and dragged them from store to food court and back? Would that have been just as fruitful?
But the most important question comes now: Should I just throw caution to the wind and let Tate become whatever he is genetically determined to become? Are there more important things to teach a 2 year old than to throw away his trash? Or pick up his puzzle pieces? Of course there are. How to be kind to each other, how to say "please" and "thank you," how to respect others and especially folks older than them. They open doors, say excuse me, pray each night before bed, and never forget to tell me that they love me. Maybe their differences aren't so big after all. Maybe the ways in which they are alike are waaay more important than the ways in which they differ. Maybe they were listening to me after all. . .
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Oh What A Lovely Game!
As a good football wife (at least I hope I've earned that moniker), I've gotten used to the phone and its incessant ringing and permanent place in our household, at least during football season. I can do homework with the boys, tidy up the kitchen, direct children to baths and showers, all while picking up bits and pieces of football conversation as its hums through the house. I know which player runs the fastest 40, the players who took off a couple of plays last game, whose got the biggest gain in bench press so far, and whose GPA is off the charts. I'm used to the information, although I have no use for it other than to impress those fans around me as I deliver stats at just the right time in a game. For example, when player X breaks free of a tackle and races into the end zone, I can quickly mention the extra time he's been spending on speed tracks and all of a sudden I'm qualified to write for the paper. So, point being, there's a lot of football talk that goes on at my house. I guess I just didn't realize that some of that player discussion covers their off-the-field stats as well.
"Did you know Player A lives with his uncle?" I asked coach as we rehashed the game this morning. "Yeah, it works out best for him," and he goes on to regal me with the same facts and details I picked up last night in the stands that I had planned to reveal to him. Coach picked that same kid up most mornings this summer for workouts, always remarking what a great kid he is. I never guessed he might have a reason to be otherwise.
Through the grapevine that is the bleachers, I found out last spring one of our players was really struggling in a class, butting heads with the teacher and getting nowhere with his grades. I came to coach again with this "new" information, hoping to open his eyes to a need. This time, "yeah, we've got him taken care of. He comes to me during my planning period and gets his work done. He doesn't have to fuss with the teacher and he can concentrate on his work. He's doing better now."
One doesn't have to be a genius or a stadium gossip to know that there are plenty of kids these days who don't have "typical" family situations, moms and dads in the same house, or even parents who encourage them to participate in sports. Thus, many kids choose not to play sports either because they don't have the money, they don't have rides to and from practice, or they have to work to pay for their own meals, decisions no teenager should ever have to make. Again, the magic of eavesdropping: I overhear the coaches discussing the transportation schedule for the week. Coach (insert any coach's name here) takes the kids home Monday, next coach on Tuesday, next coach on Wednesday, until all players who need rides are safely deposited on a door step each evening after practice. I find out, too, that coaches are feeding their position players at their house on the night before games, and coaches are calling in favors from friends and churches to scholarship kids who can't pay player fees, but NEED to be part of a team. All this ON TOP of coaching 82 kids determined to have a winning season.
With each new season and with each new group of kids, I learn more and more that things aren't always what they seem. The kid who struggles in class and doesn't respect his teachers is the 15 year old who goes home and shoulders the burdens of an adult. The kid who won't look anyone in the eye and doesn't want a relationship with the coach is the one who needs a relationship the most. There are players who go to school, practice, wash their own clothes, hold down part time jobs, and take care of younger siblings, things some of us don't expect but also can't comprehend.
The same goes for the coaches. The coach that everyone says is heartless and only out to win is driving someone's kid to the doctor right now. He'll be sitting in on a parent teachers conference later this week, minus one parent. The defensive coordinator who yells too much and demands the unrealistic knows that Player A will only succeed if he is pushed. The coach whose head everyone wants at the end of a losing game prays for his players and his own duties and responsibilities as a coach.
Lord, help us all to remember that what we see isn't always the true picture and to try to see and love everyone, kids and adults, players and coaches, as You do. Open our hearts wider than our mouths.
Amen and GOOOOO Panthers!
"Did you know Player A lives with his uncle?" I asked coach as we rehashed the game this morning. "Yeah, it works out best for him," and he goes on to regal me with the same facts and details I picked up last night in the stands that I had planned to reveal to him. Coach picked that same kid up most mornings this summer for workouts, always remarking what a great kid he is. I never guessed he might have a reason to be otherwise.
Through the grapevine that is the bleachers, I found out last spring one of our players was really struggling in a class, butting heads with the teacher and getting nowhere with his grades. I came to coach again with this "new" information, hoping to open his eyes to a need. This time, "yeah, we've got him taken care of. He comes to me during my planning period and gets his work done. He doesn't have to fuss with the teacher and he can concentrate on his work. He's doing better now."
One doesn't have to be a genius or a stadium gossip to know that there are plenty of kids these days who don't have "typical" family situations, moms and dads in the same house, or even parents who encourage them to participate in sports. Thus, many kids choose not to play sports either because they don't have the money, they don't have rides to and from practice, or they have to work to pay for their own meals, decisions no teenager should ever have to make. Again, the magic of eavesdropping: I overhear the coaches discussing the transportation schedule for the week. Coach (insert any coach's name here) takes the kids home Monday, next coach on Tuesday, next coach on Wednesday, until all players who need rides are safely deposited on a door step each evening after practice. I find out, too, that coaches are feeding their position players at their house on the night before games, and coaches are calling in favors from friends and churches to scholarship kids who can't pay player fees, but NEED to be part of a team. All this ON TOP of coaching 82 kids determined to have a winning season.
With each new season and with each new group of kids, I learn more and more that things aren't always what they seem. The kid who struggles in class and doesn't respect his teachers is the 15 year old who goes home and shoulders the burdens of an adult. The kid who won't look anyone in the eye and doesn't want a relationship with the coach is the one who needs a relationship the most. There are players who go to school, practice, wash their own clothes, hold down part time jobs, and take care of younger siblings, things some of us don't expect but also can't comprehend.
The same goes for the coaches. The coach that everyone says is heartless and only out to win is driving someone's kid to the doctor right now. He'll be sitting in on a parent teachers conference later this week, minus one parent. The defensive coordinator who yells too much and demands the unrealistic knows that Player A will only succeed if he is pushed. The coach whose head everyone wants at the end of a losing game prays for his players and his own duties and responsibilities as a coach.
Lord, help us all to remember that what we see isn't always the true picture and to try to see and love everyone, kids and adults, players and coaches, as You do. Open our hearts wider than our mouths.
Amen and GOOOOO Panthers!
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Real Housewives of the YMCA
Like any good reality TV fan, I have tested the waters of MOST of the reality shows out there. Proud? Not at all, in fact I'm a little ashamed; but we can't change who we are so I just embrace it and roll with each new season and all it has to offer. The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Bachelor Pad, and The Apprentice all merit a late night wrestle for the remote with Coach, but there are some that just don't deserve the space on my DVR: The Hills, Swamp People (or something similar to that name), Ice Road Truckers, and I have to include with the swampers, Desperate Housewives of ANY CITY. I tried, really I did, but I just can't get into it. I mean, really, does having money and wishing for stardom make every lady crazy and mean? Because that's the picture we're getting from New Jersey, Beverly Hills, and yes, even the ATL. I know plenty of Real Housewives, heck I am one, and none of them act the way those ladies do on Bravo.
For example, real housewives actually ARE wives, not divorcees, girlfriends, or worse.
They actually have houses, not hotel suites, condominiums, or swanky pads paid for by who knows whom.
At the Y, it's less about style and more about sweat. Most of the couture we sport has a built-in sports bra. And there's not a whole lot of champagne and wine sipping going on all day. We need WATER in those water bottles!
I've never seen a real housewife flip a table; they do flip tires, though.
We don't race to brunch at chic little hot spots where the paparazzi congregate, we race to get the best treadmills for an hour long run.( Now sometimes that DOES get a little ugly, right Shelby?).
Real Housewives at the YMCA don't meet for tennis lessons with foreign tennis pros named Enrique; Real Housewives of the YMCA are stuck with me teaching cardio tennis and brandishing Coach's whistle!
Real Housewives of the Y clip coupons and drink free coffee in the Y lobby because, love it as they do, Starbucks does NOT have childcare. The Y, does!
Those same housewives drive minivans, tote diaper bags, and DON'T show up for a great spin class with a face by Merle Norman. Imagine wiping down THAT bike!
And finally, except for the realization of an expired coupon for cereal or a filled up spin class, I hardly ever hear the Y ladies swear like sailors. I can't hear a word of the TV ladies' ranting and raving and hissy fits (they only have those in Atlanta,) for all the bleeping Bravo has to do. So at the end of the episode I'm not REALLY sure whose side I'm on anyway. Oh well, until the Y starts offering a group class that teaches hair pulling, swearing, and furniture tossing, I guess I'll have to find some other reality show to fill my Housewife boycott. That shouldn't be too hard, huh? Oh, and we won't have to worry about any awkward camera shots in the locker rooms. Whew!
For example, real housewives actually ARE wives, not divorcees, girlfriends, or worse.
They actually have houses, not hotel suites, condominiums, or swanky pads paid for by who knows whom.
At the Y, it's less about style and more about sweat. Most of the couture we sport has a built-in sports bra. And there's not a whole lot of champagne and wine sipping going on all day. We need WATER in those water bottles!
I've never seen a real housewife flip a table; they do flip tires, though.
We don't race to brunch at chic little hot spots where the paparazzi congregate, we race to get the best treadmills for an hour long run.( Now sometimes that DOES get a little ugly, right Shelby?).
Real Housewives at the YMCA don't meet for tennis lessons with foreign tennis pros named Enrique; Real Housewives of the YMCA are stuck with me teaching cardio tennis and brandishing Coach's whistle!
Real Housewives of the Y clip coupons and drink free coffee in the Y lobby because, love it as they do, Starbucks does NOT have childcare. The Y, does!
Those same housewives drive minivans, tote diaper bags, and DON'T show up for a great spin class with a face by Merle Norman. Imagine wiping down THAT bike!
And finally, except for the realization of an expired coupon for cereal or a filled up spin class, I hardly ever hear the Y ladies swear like sailors. I can't hear a word of the TV ladies' ranting and raving and hissy fits (they only have those in Atlanta,) for all the bleeping Bravo has to do. So at the end of the episode I'm not REALLY sure whose side I'm on anyway. Oh well, until the Y starts offering a group class that teaches hair pulling, swearing, and furniture tossing, I guess I'll have to find some other reality show to fill my Housewife boycott. That shouldn't be too hard, huh? Oh, and we won't have to worry about any awkward camera shots in the locker rooms. Whew!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Do Not Like this Fifth Grade Math!
I do not like this fifth grade math, I do not like this 1/3 plus 1/2.
I do not like a decimal place-don't want him to see my confused face.
I do not like notations expanded, I cannot do this single-handed.
I do not like these tests they time; I'm better with words and how they rhyme.
I do not like parentheses, they bring me to my weakened knees.
I do not know quite what to say: "We'll wait for Daddy, go ahead and Play."
I do not like this afternoon ache, my head explodes between each break.
I do not like to have to cheat, but a calculator is hard to beat:-)!
I do not like to have to lie, but "I promise you'll get it if you try!"
I do not know what I will say, when logarithms come home one day.
I do not think my teacher friends will mind, if i facebook them a hundred times.
I do not want their teachers to say-- Did his mom not take math back in her day?
I do not want to disappoint my kid, so I'm studying the number grid.
i do not want to be so shunned, because I got stuck on problem # one.
I do think I will start the prep, for 5th grade word problems and all those steps.
If I start now there should be hope, and MAYBE soon I can conquer Slope!
I do not like a decimal place-don't want him to see my confused face.
I do not like notations expanded, I cannot do this single-handed.
I do not like these tests they time; I'm better with words and how they rhyme.
I do not like parentheses, they bring me to my weakened knees.
I do not know quite what to say: "We'll wait for Daddy, go ahead and Play."
I do not like this afternoon ache, my head explodes between each break.
I do not like to have to cheat, but a calculator is hard to beat:-)!
I do not like to have to lie, but "I promise you'll get it if you try!"
I do not know what I will say, when logarithms come home one day.
I do not think my teacher friends will mind, if i facebook them a hundred times.
I do not want their teachers to say-- Did his mom not take math back in her day?
I do not want to disappoint my kid, so I'm studying the number grid.
i do not want to be so shunned, because I got stuck on problem # one.
I do think I will start the prep, for 5th grade word problems and all those steps.
If I start now there should be hope, and MAYBE soon I can conquer Slope!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Happily Ever After
Celebrating the first year of marriage is always a big deal: flowers, romantic dinner, the top layer of the wedding cake. Add a decade or so to that and the cards are a day late, the kids don't go to Grandma's, and supper is usually something like spaghetti. Hallmark and the people who sell and teach pole dancing would like us to believe that option 2 doesn't work, that anniversaries should be romantic, adventurous "Days of Our Lives" type material. But I for one say that a marriage that can handle two-a-days and spring and ground turkey is one that lasts. And, be patient with me, I have proof.
This year, as a treat for 12 years of wedded bliss, Coach planned a trip to Puerto Rico for the two of us: no kids, no cell phones or computers, only perfection. For a brief couple of days, I actually bought into the plan. I got excited and started dreaming of picturesque images of me and Coach on a brown sand beach, riding jet skis, maybe even some bareback horses, hanging by a kid-free pool, and walking hand in hand through the streets of San Juan. He He, who was I kidding? Here's that proof I promised you.
On our THIRD attempt at making a flight, I and the not-so-patient Coach finally boarded Delta for our long awaited trip. Upon landing in San Juan, the pilot announced the awesome temperature of 89 degrees! Woo hoo, we thought. Quickly we discovered the reason for the comfy temps: rain. In Puerto Rico. On our anniversary trip. Strike 2! We pressed on, though, swayed by nothing, this 12 year couple determined to have fun. We made it to the car rental company, with no insurance card (my fault), and after TWO hours on back roads along the coast of Puerto Rico, tracing and retracing our routes, we finally made it to our resort. Whew, as much as I would love to continue this by lamenting our awful rest of the trip, I just can't. Coach and I laughed our way through our remaining days, reminded with each snafu of the previous 12 years and all those other little snafus that make us, us.
I remembered the black labs who chewed through our air conditioning unit during what seemed then like the hottest summer on record.
The time we tried to paint the back bedroom together and after only a few hours of together-time decided we just "don't work well together."
I recalled the move to Olive Branch and Coach and his lovely bride(ahem, me) unloading the RIDING LAWNMOWER off the moving truck. (Do I look like I can lift a ton?)
We moved five times in the first 8 years of marriage. On the up side,I can seriously now pack a house in a weekend!
Or the time I lost the two black labs and we had to explain to Tucker that the police came and got them and they work for the government now.
I can't forget 17 weeks of a baby in the Intensive Care Unit and how our daily lives revolved around hospital visits, blood donations, and meeting with Neo-natologists.
We joked (once we got him home) that we wouldn't let him do ANYTHING until he was 18 years old and paid off:-)
Yes, folks, proof that life is not always bouquets and beaches; and sometimes the love that lasts is the one that laughs!
Happy Anniversary, Coach!
This year, as a treat for 12 years of wedded bliss, Coach planned a trip to Puerto Rico for the two of us: no kids, no cell phones or computers, only perfection. For a brief couple of days, I actually bought into the plan. I got excited and started dreaming of picturesque images of me and Coach on a brown sand beach, riding jet skis, maybe even some bareback horses, hanging by a kid-free pool, and walking hand in hand through the streets of San Juan. He He, who was I kidding? Here's that proof I promised you.
On our THIRD attempt at making a flight, I and the not-so-patient Coach finally boarded Delta for our long awaited trip. Upon landing in San Juan, the pilot announced the awesome temperature of 89 degrees! Woo hoo, we thought. Quickly we discovered the reason for the comfy temps: rain. In Puerto Rico. On our anniversary trip. Strike 2! We pressed on, though, swayed by nothing, this 12 year couple determined to have fun. We made it to the car rental company, with no insurance card (my fault), and after TWO hours on back roads along the coast of Puerto Rico, tracing and retracing our routes, we finally made it to our resort. Whew, as much as I would love to continue this by lamenting our awful rest of the trip, I just can't. Coach and I laughed our way through our remaining days, reminded with each snafu of the previous 12 years and all those other little snafus that make us, us.
I remembered the black labs who chewed through our air conditioning unit during what seemed then like the hottest summer on record.
The time we tried to paint the back bedroom together and after only a few hours of together-time decided we just "don't work well together."
I recalled the move to Olive Branch and Coach and his lovely bride(ahem, me) unloading the RIDING LAWNMOWER off the moving truck. (Do I look like I can lift a ton?)
We moved five times in the first 8 years of marriage. On the up side,I can seriously now pack a house in a weekend!
Or the time I lost the two black labs and we had to explain to Tucker that the police came and got them and they work for the government now.
I can't forget 17 weeks of a baby in the Intensive Care Unit and how our daily lives revolved around hospital visits, blood donations, and meeting with Neo-natologists.
We joked (once we got him home) that we wouldn't let him do ANYTHING until he was 18 years old and paid off:-)
Yes, folks, proof that life is not always bouquets and beaches; and sometimes the love that lasts is the one that laughs!
Happy Anniversary, Coach!
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