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.

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.

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.

Fifteen

Fifteen is a good number.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're Moving on Up!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Happy Mother's Day, Mimi!