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

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


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


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


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


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

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

3 Kids and Counting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why Most of my Friends wear Sports Bras and Ponytails

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Count Your Blessings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because that right there? That's my world.

Dear Pre-K Teacher,

Dear Pre-K Teacher,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Tate's Mom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Wife, Happy Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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