Back off, Psychologists, I Like Social Media (even the Selfies)

Several years ago, I sat in bed most nights watching as Coach Kirk filtered through his Facebook pages, reading and commenting while I peeked over his shoulder. He exchanged messages with former teammates, now-grown students he once coached, and cousins he's grown up with. More than once, he offered to set me up my own page(The man does not like people reading over his shoulder). I declined, thinking this whole Facebook thing was just not me. Weeelll, almost 5 years later and I admittedly LOVE me some Facebook. Granted, it took me all of those five years to figure out how to post a blog, upload a picture, and all of the other good stuff, but now it's game on!

So imagine my dismay to find that some of my favorite Facebook categories are being criticized by other Facebookers as well as fancier folks with Ph.D's behind their names. Well, it just doesn't sit well with me that people don't like social media sites, especially my two faves, Pinterest and Facebook.

I literally wake up anticipating what all my friends have been doing while I was wasting time sleeping. I usually find excessive pins on exercise routines, Paleo meals, and simple stuff like pictures of the kids at last night's baseball games. I don't know about y'all but the people I follow on Pinterest and the folks I allow as friends on Facebook are there because I ALLOW them to be; so when these people talk, post, or pin, I listen.

Yes, I know counting and posting miles to Facebook may seem mundane and excessive to some people (non-runners,cough, cough), but I. LOVE.IT! Somebody has to set the standard for the amount of miles per week, someone has to inspire me, because let's face it, pushing that jog stroller is a whole other ballgame. So I expect, nee, need some real life people doing real life running to make me feel like I'm not crazy for putting the weather shield on the Jeep jogger and heading out in the snow or rain.

Along those same lines are people who are criticizing pictures of FOOD! What? Anyone who cooks, prepares, or manages meals for a living (every mom, right?) gets to that point where she is simply at a loss for what to fix for hungry family members every single day! Why are we going to hate on people who take the time to snap a shot of their plates, pots, or fire pits when all they are really doing is sharing some ideas on what to fix next. Heck, I live with one of those snap-a-pic-of-the-Egg guys and his photos always have plenty of likes. I mean, your picture has 100 likes of a smoking Boston Butt, you must be doing something right. I for one say, Thank You!

Now they want to tell us that people who take Selfies are arrogant and narcissistic? Wait just a cotton pickin' minute! Now, I will admit that I don't think I've ever taken a selfie or am planning to anytime soon, but let's don't discount the ones we see on Facebook. Some days, a gorgeous selfie of a good friend may be the only inspiration I have to put on make-up that day. In my head I'm thinking, if she can do it, so can I! And while that person is busy posting a flattering picture, we secretly get a glimpse of how the rest of her world looks: unmade bed, messy bathroom, dishes in the sink. Just another glimpse of normalcy. That right there is reason enough to continue the selfie craze!

But seriously, some of us aren't lucky enough to live in the same town where we grew up, with the same people we grew up with. Some of us are long drives away, and phone calls just aren't enough. Some of us are far removed from the places and people that feel like home; so to be able to share our lives with those people and have them share theirs with us, all for the price of an internet connection, is something not even the best cartoon caption can express. I have watched my nieces and nephews grow up because of social media. I know that friends from way back when are healthy and happy and doing jobs that they love! Again, all because of social media.

But perhaps most importantly, some of us had friends and family in the direct line of the storms that came through this week. Some of us were comforted to read and see that little damage had been done to our hometowns, to find that while the tornado passed right over a loved one, it didn't touch down. Some of us, seeing something discouraging, were urged to call and check in. But all of us, after the damage has been done, are humbled and grateful for those whose lives were spared, who lost property but survived; and of course, all of us are hurting and praying for those who were not so fortunate.

So back off Facebook critics! There is enough hate in the real world and still a lot of good in the cyber one.

T-Ball and Tackles

Well, it was T-ball at its finest yesterday. Saturday was Opening Day around these parts and after watching his big brothers play every sport under the sun for the last 4 years, Tate finally stole the spotlight at his first T-ball game. He "earned" the honor of being the Braves' first baseman and kept runners and balls at bay for three solid innings under a rather warm March sun. And as adorable as he was in his uniform, there were a few other "situations" that kept parents, grandparents, and siblings giggling for those same 3 innings.

Our Braves took the field first, everyone (ok, some of them) in baseball-ready position. The Red Sox started the line-up with a stocky four-year old who hit one to the second baseman. His impressive hit was trumped by the fact that as our 2nd baseman was fielding the ball, our rightfielder TACKLED him, and held on until both boys were lifted and separated by coaches. The volunteer coach who happens to coach football for a living was quite impressed, though only I recognized it (15 years of marriage will do that for you.) This tackling fiasco happened a couple other times until the coaches did some switcheroos and surreptitiously moved the aggressive right fielder to left field where so far no balls had ventured.

Ours wasn't the only team with entertaining little players. The Red Sox boasted a right fielder (what is it with right field?) who, in the middle of a live ball scenario, would stop. drop. and roll. Apparently his pre-K class had done some fire safety prevention and this was fresh on his mind, because it happened several more times amid teammates bumping into each other and one incident where the entire team cleared the infield and bolted to center to retrieve a hard hit ball.

Of course with both teams there was the usual playing in the dirt, chasing bugs, and our littlest player who kept checking on Tru K. in the stroller (he loves babies, says his Mom). We were also asked several times how much longer do we have to stay here and "do we get a snack?"; all good and typical questions from first year athletes, as this is NOT my first rodeo and Coach Kirk was quick to point out this would NOT be our last.

All in all it was a great day doing something we all love, and I can only imagine how much fun we will have when Tru K. gets his turn at sports. Heck, they may be drinking Muscle Milk and running bleachers by then, but that will only serve to make it that much more fun.

Besides, four years will be here before we know it!

Yipes! Stripes! I'm a Stereotype!

Last week my friend Marsha updated her blog with a post on the limited Southern stereotypes the media tries to pin on us. One would do well to know Marsha in order to understand her logic and thinking on this matter, so here's the abridged version. Marsha is the girl we all want to be when we grow up. She pledged at Ole Miss, lived in London for a short time, and married a handsome football star. Oh, and she's also a published writer, an attorney, and a judge. That's right, a Judge-- as in sits on the bench, bangs a gavel, doles out sentences, fines, and such. She also squeezes in the role of Momma, too, so what she writes holds a lot of weight with me for all the above reasons (I just so happened to marry a handsome football star, too, but I assure you, readers, there's more to it than that).

The gist of her argument was that no one should try to put any Southern girl in a corner, let alone one that has me wearing camouflage and sitting in a deer stand. I don't do that. Neither should anyone suggest that I NEVER go anywhere without a face full of Merle Norman. Far too many Kroger employees have seen me at my worst to try to fit myself into that Southern girl stereotype. So while I totally agreed with her ideas on Southern girls being too unique, too educated, too diverse to pigeonhole, I couldn't help but think that although I don't fit into a corny, Cracker Barrel-t-shirt Southern girl stereotype, there may be a stereotype that I do embody.

If anyone asks me what I "do," my first response is "I have four children." So that makes me a mom. I've been a room mom, team mom, and currently hold the moniker of soccer mom, complete with the cool, new age mini van sporting a 26.2 bumper sticker on my back windshield. On any given day, my minivan typically holds baseball batbags, school backpacks, an emergency stash of healthy snacks and juiceboxes, and a Tervis tumbler in my cup holder so that I can get my required 8 glasses a day.

Before I head home to pack processed-free lunches for my honor roll-achieving, public school-attending kids, I squeeze in a great work out at the local YMCA or meet the ladies for a good sweaty tennis match or maybe go for a run pushing my perfect baby in the Jeep jogger. I, of course, am dressed in all Nike dry wick, so as to avoid any unnecessary chaffing (and maybe look good while I'm at it). Coach loves to taunt me with lunchtime texts that say, "How was your serve today?" or "don't forget your sunscreen." Methinks those messages are riddled with sarcasm, but what do I know? I am networking, exercising, and learning valuable tennis tips I can pass on to my children should we ever join "the club."

I am guilty of sooo much more than this as I find myself putting myself into this suburban stay-at-home stereotype, but I'll finish with this: Yes, my kids wear new clothes on Easter Sundays; yes, I always send in homemade goodies when it's my day for snacks, and yes, I think Girls' Night Out is underrated and overly necessary, wine or no wine(but please, someone, bring the Cokes). So while I'm not the typical Southern belle, stalking anyone's deviled egg plate or secret pound cake recipe, I am currently fundraising for whatever teams my children are playing on and diligently rounding up some of those Southern Belle types who like to sit around and read good books and share good recipes and call it a Book Club. And if being that Stereotype is wrong, y'all, I don't want to be right.

Two's Company, Three's a Crowd, and Four gives you the Line in a 4-3 Defense

Almost exactly 4 and a half years ago, Billy, Tucker, Tanner, and I brought home what we thought would be the final member of the Kirk family. Tate was and is a blessing and has made us laugh, cry (he throws Lego's sometimes), and give thanks daily for turning this family of four into a family of five. Tate was the icing on the cake, the final chapter in my child-bearing years. Well, you know what they say, if you want to make God laugh tell him your plans for the future. I guess we spoke too loudly of the "last" child, laughed a little too loudly when folks asked if we would try again for a girl. Because God not only laughed, I'm pretty sure he giggled, smirked, and may have even cackled when we brought home this 4th bundle of boy home to make our family of five a family of six. At 5:46 am on January 2, the world stopped for just a tiny second and we laughed, smiled, giggled, wept, and gave thanks for the best "surprise" in life.

So once I got over the shock of being pregnant again and Billy and I got over the shock of starting over again with diapers, sleepless nights, and a fifth jog stroller, we were pretty happy. Two boys are fun, three are more fun, and for a football family like we are, four boys gives you just enough players for the line in a 4-3 defense. And really, isn't that the important stuff?

So now, just two weeks in,I find myself packing a diaper bag instead of a Gucci bag, completing my miles behind a Baby Jog, and spending 3 am blogging instead of sleeping. Truett has already stolen my heart, wrapped three little boys around his little fingers, and even has Daddy prepping for the day when the Falcons' defensive line sports 4 jerseys that all say Kirk. Surely that guarantees me a suite on the Georgia Dome 50 yard line or at least a spot in a Campbell's Chunky Soup commercial.

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.