A Love for the Game

For as long as I can remember, college football has been a staple of my recreational diet. From donning the white and gold cheering on my Dad's beloved Georgia Tech Yellowjackets to living in Starkville, Mississippi and rooting on the Mississippi State Bulldogs during my younger years. My parents instilled in me a love of the game. Not just the pomp and circumstance but the actual game itself. I took pride in being one of the few girls in my circle that could tell a spread offense from a run and shoot and knew that a shotgun formation had nothing to do with firearms.

Along with the knowledge and appreciation for the game came a passion for the experience itself. To me, nothing holds more promise than a crisp Fall day on a college campus filled with a sea of fans wearing their team's colors, enticing aromas wafting up from BBQ grills, footballs flying through the air and the faint sound of a drum line in the distance. I'm energized by the excitement and anticipation of a solid match-up and do my share in making as much noise as humanly possible to try and affect the opponent's mindset or ability to hear the call. And, I am equally saddened if my team comes up with an "L" in their column at the end of the day. But someone has to lose. That's just part of the game.

But, for the first time in my forty-two years on Earth, I am feeling a little disappointed in the sport that I love so dearly. This past weekend's much-hyped Iron Bowl where my Alabama Crimson Tide played the Auburn Tigers for a chance to go to the SEC Championship lived up to the expectations of all (well, at least in the hype department anyway). Besides having a pretty hefty case of bronchitis, I was like a skittish cat the entire game. Maybe my intuition had kicked in once again-- who knows? Sure I threw high-fives when we'd score but I was otherwise on pins and needles a majority of the time. Then came THE PLAY. The game was tied at 28-all with one second left on the clock and we attempted a 57-yd field goal for the win. And, when it fell one yard short, it happened to fall into the arms of a very athletic running back who ran 109 yards down the field to secure the Auburn victory.

I was heartbroken. Stunned. Speechless.

Do I question a few of the calls made by our coaching staff leading up to that point? Perhaps. Would it have changed the final outcome? I have no idea. What I do know is this:  it is JUST A GAME. And the disappointment I referenced a moment ago has nothing to do with the outcome of the game but instead the level of vile, offensive, derogatory, vicious  and just downright hateful verbal attacks that have occurred since the clock hit :00.  To be fair, this includes verbal attacks by Alabama fans towards coaches and one of the kickers as well as hate-speak from fans of other teams that had no dog in this hunt whatsoever.

There is simply no excuse for fans being so nasty to members of their own team because of a loss. This includes booing, insults and even worse in this case-- death threats. But as for other fans resorting to insults based on stereotypes, this is an obvious, but often-overlooked fact:  every fan base has classy fans as well as the crude and obnoxious ones. Every fan base has a spectrum of socio-economic backgrounds and people with varying degrees of dental insurance. So it saddens me to read statements about Bama fans being nothing but inbred, mullet-wearing, toothless idiots. Criticize the coaching decisions, the play calling even the uniforms if fashion is your fancy but let's keep it classy. Let's focus on the fact that in a split-second national championship dreams can be dashed and players on both sides of the field played their hearts out last Saturday.

The Alabama Crimson Tide had a spectacular year and this year's Iron Bowl, as gut-wrenching as it was in the end for the boys in red, was college football at its finest. And, for that reason, I will dust off the pom pons next year, load up the tailgating supplies and head back to Tuscaloosa to start all over again. Because as much as college football can trample my heart, I couldn't part ways with it no matter how hard I tried.

Roll Tide.

Giving it a (Pinter) Rest...

During a discussion on transparency tonight at small group, we discussed how people often exaggerate themselves to others. I immediately answered "by acting like their lives are one big, perfect Pinterest board."

I, of course, would be the THEIR I was referring to.

Like a lot of folks, I do surf sites like Pinterest looking for yummy recipes or decorating ideas. Sure I do. But I also admit to feeling the bombardment of how "pretty" my life should be. How organized my home should be. How coordinated my wardrobe should be. How clean my house can be. Those images feed into the part of me that craves acceptance and approval and any reason to not feel like a schmuck on a daily basis.

But that's not the real me. So, I think the best thing for me to do would be to create the Real Katie Pinterest board. Images divided into the same kinds of categories:  Housekeeping, Cooking, Wardrobe, Organizing, etc. Real-life images of my home would be posted. You know, like the ring in the boys toilet upstairs or the baskets of un-put-away laundry in my laundry room. Need socks, boys? Why look in your sock drawer when Mommy has these baskets downstairs conveniently loaded with your clothes. I know the socks aren't matched up but who can resist a little underwear treasure hunt every now and then, right?

And let's not forget about the real-life-Katie organization board. There's the picture of the empty boxes in the pantry floor so I'll remember which snacks we're out of (why make a list? A stack of empty boxes is so much more...um...effective?) There's the stack of items on my desk I need to file away and the drawers of my bedside table which contain random papers, magazines and an astounding assortment of pen caps that would rival any museum collection. Not that there are actually museum collections of pen caps but if there were, this one would rival it. You betcha.

Although the cooking thing is getting better, I won't even touch the real-life wardrobe Pinterest board as most of my clothes are sequestered in a storage facility waiting to be unpacked sometime before the youngins graduate high school.

The bottom line is that any picture of a cake that might have been made at 10:00pm the night before a fall festival is a rare moment in an otherwise unorganized and procrastinatory (is that even a word?) lifestyle. It will be the anti-Pinterest... designed to make you feel OH-SO-MUCH-BETTER about your own life.

Cause I'm me. In all my unorganized, undomestic, chaotic glory. It ain't pretty most of the time but its who I am.

So y'all excuse me while I go dig out some pajamas from the laundry room. I'm plum beat from all the sheer awesomeness I've exhibited today. ;)

Goin' Bananas for Some Dessert Y'all

Every now and then I'll actually tap into my southern roots and produce a meal of home-cooked veggies. Tonight it was slow-cooked Northern beans with ham, fried okra (thinly sliced and fried in cornmeal), marinated carrots and potato salad (both of which were hijacked from my inlaws' church homecoming Sunday). Oh and cornbread. Not Jiffy-type cornbread which is sweet and easy to make. Oh no-- the real stuff. (Insert me turning up my nose here. So much for my southern roots).

Although veggies are yummy and all, I found a new dessert recipe that is hands down, slap-your-Mama-or-someone-else-really-special-to-you good. I had to share the recipe because IT IS THAT GOOD. I stopped at one serving because I am Clearly A Picture of Restraint and Willpower but it is now sitting there atop my stove beckoning me, whispering to me in its sweet little cobblery voice to partake of just one...more...bite. 

But I resist. Instead, I race upstairs to the computer to share this recipe with you. Yes, folks, I am that selfless. Or full. OK, it's because I'm full. But, nonetheless, here's the recipe:

Banana Bread Cobbler

Banana Bread Cobbler

1 1/2 cups self rising flour

1 cup granulated sugar

1 cup milk (OK, I might have used half n half)

1 stick butter, melted

3/4 cup packed light brown sugar

1 stick butter, softened

1 cup old-fashioned oats

1/2 cup chopped pecans

3 ripe medium bananas, sliced

Vanilla ice cream, if desired  (If desired?!! Oh recipe, you crack me up.)

1.  Heat oven to 375. Spray 2-quart baking dish with cooking spray.

2.  In bowl, mix 1 cup of flour with white sugar and milk with whisk until just blended. Stir in melted butter and pour into baking dish.

3.  In another bowl, mix brown sugar, the remaining 1/2 cup of the flour and the softened butter. Mix with a fork until crumbly, Stir in oats and pecans . Arrange banana slices over batter then top with oatmeal crumb mixture.

4.  Bake 50 minutes or until golden and bubbly (covering with foil last 10 minutes to prevent excessive browning if necessary). Serve warm with BLUE BELL HOMEMADE VANILLA ICE CREAM. (or whichever brand you prefer. If there is any other brand. I heart you Blue Bell).

5.  Say a silent prayer of thanksgiving that you read this blog post and made this dessert. Savor. Get seconds. Be happy. :)

Enjoy!

Science Project or Wednesday Night Supper: The Canned Salmon Virgin Speaks

I hate salmon.

There's no beating around the bush on this one, folks. It's just plain, well, YUCK.

However, my oldest child loves salmon and requested it for dinner so I broke out in a full panic. The only thing I could think of was this salmon croquette thingy that my Mom made when I was a child. Trust me, I can stomach just about anything if it's coated in some yummy bread crumbs so I thought I'd give it a whirl.

But that's when I made a startling discovery. The recipe called for two cans of pink salmon. So naturally I'm thinking I will be opening the lids to find fluffy pink chopped salmon waiting eagerly to be transformed into perfect little salmon cakes. 

Um, no.

The first line of the recipe should have tipped me off:  "remove skins and large bones from salmon."  HUH? I didn't charter a flight to Alaska and snatch this ingredient out of a cold stream... I bought two cans of the stuff at Kroger. Why is it calling for me to field dress the fish? I was bewildered. Then I opened the cans. 

:: insert gagging noise here ::  

From the top it looked like an organ contained in a jar in my 7th grade science class. But, then I dumped it into my mixing bowl. What awaited me there was part horror show, part organ transplant special on Discovery Health. The slimy carcass that awaited my attention in that bowl was horrifying. A slippery black and silver skin was dripping off an oily rounded blob of fishy smelling meat with little bones sticking out everywhere. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I had to be on camera. This was surely a prank. I opened the bulbous glop of meat to find a crumbly center "spine" that disintegrated into hundred of little bones with the slightest touch.  I do not remember my Mom dealing with this while the Carol Burnett Show played in the background. She made it looks so easy. Thinking about the meal tradition I was carrying on for my child, I perservered.

I guess it took me about 10 minutes to remove all the bones and achieve a bowl full of fluffy, pink, ready-for-breading salmon meat but it was worth it in the end. Once the patties were made up and breaded and sitting in the oil in my pan, I felt the presence of my Mom in an unbelievable way. Mashed potatoes and peas rounded out the straight-outta-1977 menu complete with a lime jello mold made my Jacob and me. She was very much there and it cemented my transition to motherhood as I imagined her standing at the stove making the same meal for me.

I still do not like salmon. But it was well worth a little bone-picking and patty-making to bring a smile to my child's face (and to see him clean his plate to boot!) Finding new things to cook every night has certainly been a challenge for this recovering restaurant-four-times-a-week gal but I'm pleased to say that Salmon Croquettes might have to make a return appearance. I may see if I can pay $10/can to start off at the pink and fluffy stage but hey it's baby steps!

"BONE" appetite, y'all.

One Part Peanut Butter, Two Parts Love

Since I made the decision to be a stay-at-home Mom, there have been several times when I have glimpsed my own mother's hands when doing seemingly trivial tasks. Cleaning off a counter top, folding a dish towel... but none more so than making an after school snack for the boys this afternoon.

I met the bright yellow bus that carried my youngest son at the end of our street and slung his Angry Birds backpack over my shoulder as we made the short walk home. We had no sooner passed through the front door when Jacob sprinted into the kitchen to choose an afternoon snack. Little did he know several of the items we had purchased at the store the day before were ingredients for a very special snack I wanted to share with him.

When I was his age, my Mom would take a box of saltine crackers, spread them with peanut butter and let me plop a marshmallow on each before broiling them to a golden brown color. Then, she'd take a spatula and smoosh down each one into a yummy smores-like snack-- fresh from the oven.

As I gathered the items we needed, Jacob looked at me curiously and asked, "what you doin' Momma?" "

"We're making a special snack your Grammy used to make for me when I was in school, " I replied.

His eyes lit up like Christmas trees and he jumped up and down eager to help with the assembly process. One by one, we smeared peanut butter on a cracker then, just like I had done as a young girl, he delighted in sticking a fluffy marshmallow in the center of each cracker. The oven hot and ready, we placed them on broil and watched in awe as the crown of each marshmallow transformed into the perfect golden brown I remembered as a child.

Now I'm fully aware that this treat is not some gourmet culinary discovery. "Inside smores" (as I call them) have been around since the beginning of time I'm sure. But the beauty of this moment was the realization that I was walking in my Mom's footsteps. I was as excited about making my son an after school snack as I had ever been about any 5-star hotel I had visited or perk I had received as an event planner.

Because, there at my feet was one of my greatest accomplishments, scooping off a now-melted peanut butter cracker with perfectly-roasted marshmallow goodness smooshed down on top. Sure I was not dressed up and I hadn't earned a nickle all day to put into the bank. But on a Monday afternoon, I channeled the love and energy my Mom once poured into me and my sister by making the seemingly simple things special.

And to this girl, that makes life as sweet as an ooey gooey peanut butter cracker.

Mother's Day 2013: The Little Things

I knew as soon as I logged in that my Facebook feed was going to be a barrage of Mom pictures, sentiments and status updates. For a brief nano-second I actually considered staying off the site for the day. But, I quickly realized that it is not the celebration of mothers on one special day that makes me miss my Mom so much, it is the little parts of every ordinary day where her presence is missed.

It's funny to me the things that I remember and miss about her most. The most vivid image that has stayed with me lately is the slant of light that would pour out of her "recovery room" each night. Living in an old antebellum house, my parents were blessed with enough "empty" space that Mom was able to create her own getaway--a Mom cave of her own--where she surrounded herself with her favorite things. Paintings, pictures, music, books and of course her big comfy chair with a side table and lamp for reading. She called it the "recovery room" during her battle with cancer because that was her place of solace and relaxation. On most nights, I'd find her there curled up in that chair, her legs tucked up underneath her reading and munching on a bag of Skittles that she always had tucked in the drawer of her side table. And, although I didn't realize it then, I found immense comfort in this scene.  That little slant of light in a darkened hallway was a sign that she was there if I needed her. If I needed to chat or simply steal a goodnight hug (and maybe a few Skittles in the process). I miss that very much.

I could recount a blue gazillion things I miss about my Mom but the hole I feel the deepest lately is needing her advice and guidance in my own motherhood journey. The fact that she never knew either of my boys is mind-boggling to me. As I watch their personalities develop, I see things that she would love about each of them. Jacob's tender heart and shy mannerisms would endear him to her while Daniel's quick wit and humor would thrill her to no end. But on those days when the normal frustrations of motherhood wreak havock on my already tired brain, I would give anything to pick up the phone and talk to her-- if only to find out I was the same exact pain-in-the-rumpus to her as a child.

So many memories flood my mind today. Yellow daffodils, lemon ice box pie, John Denver and Neil Diamond blaring on the stereo. Vanilla Fields perfume and big floppy purses. The Carol Burnett Show playing as the smell of hamburger steak wafts in from the kitchen, the familiar whir of a sewing machine and the sound of her laughter as she watched a favorite episode of Seinfeld or Designing Women. And, perhaps my favorite sound of all...the way she would sing my name "Kate-a-laaaa" when she needed me.

I celebrate all those things today. But, most of all, I celebrate the thing that Pat Trotter did better than anything else in her life... she was a Mom. She was my Mom. And I miss her so very much.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. This Skittle's for you.

Unexpected Sunshine

As I wove my car in and out of the various lines of traffic, navigating the bustling streets of Nashville on a Tuesday morning, I rattled off my to-do list in my head and sang whatever song randomly appeared on my iPhone. But as I cruised up the ramp which would lead me into downtown, it hit me. Like the proverbial "ton of bricks" an overwhelming need to talk to my Mom took hold of me.

In the ten years since she's been gone, I've often felt melancholy and wished that I could pick up the phone and call her or share a particular milestone or happening in my life. But this was different. This was a numbing, urgent desire to talk to her, to hear her voice. After her death, I found a book titled Motherless Daughters by Hope Edelman. One passage really stuck with me as she described a time many years after her mother's death. She was simply crossing an intersection and was suddenly gripped with grief. In her words:

“When a daughter loses a mother, the intervals between grief responses lengthen over time, but her longing never disappears. It always hovers at the edge of her awareness, prepared to surface at any time, in any place, in the least expected ways.” 

As I turned off the ramp onto Broadway, my mind flooding with thoughts of all the many things she had missed over the past decade, the playlist switched to its next song. As soon as I heard the opening notes, tears welled up in my eyes and began to spill over onto my cheeks. "Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy...." The sound of John Denver's voice quickly faded into that of my mother's. It was the song she used to sing to me as I would fall asleep. I could actually hear her voice as I drove through downtown towards my office. It was as if she were wrapping her arms around me and speaking to me with those lyrics I had been marinated in throughout my childhood.

"If I had a day that I could give you
I'd give to you a day just like today
If I had a song that I could sing for you
I'd sing a song to make you feel this way..." 

She was there. She was listening to me talk about the stresses of my job and raising a family. She was counseling me on love and loss and fear and contentment and all of the things I struggle with on a daily basis. She was flopping down her oversized purse on my couch and sitting with her legs tucked underneath her ready to listen to all the thoughts I wanted and needed to share.

I am blessed with many dear friends with whom I can open up and share life's challenges. And, I like to think that I've done pretty well trying to balance and be a Mom without the guidance and wisdom of my own to reply upon. But sometimes I long for her input and counsel, for the touch of her petite, yet strong, hands on my arm providing what I'm sure she always considered unwelcome motherly advice. Perhaps that's why her presence was so strongly felt on my drive to work this morning.

It was a nice visit and, as I made the last turn into my office, I wiped the tears from my eyes. With a little help from my Mom and John Denver, I had a renewed feeling that it was all going to be okay.

Unexpected Joy and Plastic Eggs...Life is Good.

I just found myself in one of those rare life moments when I was overwhelmed with happiness. Sheer joy. Did I win the lottery? No. Did I open the front door to find my sister on a surprise visit from Florida? No. Did American Idol host Nicki Minaj finally get her roots done? No.

Instead, I found myself standing in the living room in my old terrycloth robe holding a jumble of men's shoes, a flyswatter and a race car watching my two boys giggling and laughing as they searched for the Easter eggs that my oldest Daniel had hidden for his brother. Clad in a t-shirt and running pants with a crocheted elephant hat on his head, my youngest Jacob took to the hill in our backyard with the might of a mountain climber on a once-in-a-lifetime expedition. An Easter basket shaped like a basketball draped over his forearm, the excitement in his eyes was heartwarming. As was the joy with which his older brother encouraged him along, dropping hints to help him find the big purple one stuffed with a Hot Wheels car or the grand prize-- the gold egg that lay perched on the front windshield of my car.

You see, this week has been trying to say the least. Job stress, some behavior issues with Daniel at school, Keith traveling and me single-handedly keeping the Kleenex Corporation afloat with a yucky head cold, I awoke this morning with a sore throat and a foggy brain. But as I was picking up around the house, I caught a glimpse of the boys playing together and genuinely trying to make each other happy. Words can't explain what that did for this weary Mama's soul.

Sometimes, it's the little things that bring the greatest joys. Sometimes it's the unexpected rays of sunshine that pour in through a window at just the right time. And sometimes, it's the laughter and giggles of two sandy-haired boys--one in a yarn hat, the other smiling proudly at the fun he had created--that makes life so sweet. It didn't take a trip to Disneyworld or even Chuck E. Cheese for that matter to generate those smiles. It didn't even take me telling them to go play outside or to be nice to each other. This moment was a gift... a slice of brotherhood in which there was no arguing or fighting. Just two kids thankful to have each other on an otherwise dreary Saturday morning.

Unexpected joy. Doesn't get much better than that.

To Jacob on your 5th Birthday...

The familiar patting of feet-on-hardwood grew closer as I heard the squeals of excitement. "I'm FIVE today! It's my burt-day and I'm five today!" A huge grin appeared on my face as my youngest ran into my arms with an air of celebratory glee.

"Are you SURE you're five," I inquired playfully.

"YES! I am five and I am a big boy and today is my burt-day and we're gonna get doughnuts and take them to my school because one of my friends cannot eat peanuts and doughnuts do not have peanuts in them so we're gonna stop by Krispy Kreme and get some doughnuts for my burt-day!"

((deep gasp for breath))

His excitement was contagious. My mind traveled back to 2007 when there was another type of excitement in the air...one most foreign to me but palpable all the same. Jacob's birth mother had gone into labor and was at the hospital. It was happening. This new addition to our family (that we had just learned about three weeks prior) was coming into the world and, consequently, our hearts. And the scariest part? It was completely out of my control.

I had been nesting since getting the call on November 9, 2007 that we had been chosen by birth parents to raise their child. It was all at once unexpected, thrilling yet frightening to know that in a matter of weeks I would be the mother of a newborn--a fete I had yet to experience. In 20 days we had notified the world, furnished and decorated a nursery and accumulated enough infant outfits to clothe a small country. Now it was happening. She was giving birth and I was petrified at the possible heartbreaking outcome that lay before us. Would she change her mind? Would all of this preparation--both physical and emotional--be for naught?

November 29, 2007 was possibly the most grueling day of my life. Knowing that your future lay in the hands of a young woman who was understandably going through a staggering range of emotions was impossible to fathom. So I waited. I cleaned. I walked. I cried. I paced. The hours began to curl in on each other as I eagerly anticipated some word from the adoption agency that he was here and that he was O.K. Each time the phone rang I would leap out of my skin only to be disappointed at each well-meaning call from concerned friends and family.  Finally, at 5pm, the call came that he had arrived and was a beautiful fuzzy-haired boy weighing 8 pounds 2 ounces. My excitement was tempered by one small question... when would she sign the papers? Round 2 of the agonizing wait began and did not end until 10pm when we got the call we had so desperately awaited:  SHE SIGNED. The emotions of that day are forever burned into my memory. The fear, the elation, the uncertainty... all so life-shattering at the moment but distant as I swung my now-five-year-old around in celebration of his big day.

Five years later, I am in awe of this child whom my heart has fallen for hook, line and sinker. This once-shy clinger-of-the-pantleg is blossoming into a bold, confident little boy eager to absorb all the many things happening around him. His baby blues sparkle with the perfect combination of mischief and sweetness and his ever-expanding vocabulary amazes me daily. His passion for the little things in life is something I hope to emulate as I try my best to see the world through his eyes. The joy he exhibits in receiving a cup of strawberry milk is equivalent to winning the lottery for most and his gentle heart endears him to all those around him. Not without a stubborn side for sure, Jacob provides just enough boyish challenge to make the sweet parts that much sweeter. He's all boy and I couldn't be happier.

When I answered the phone that fateful November day, I never dreamed my heart could possibly expand to love another child as much as I loved my first. Boy was I ever wrong. Jacob, you teach me daily that kindness and gentleness will take you far in life. You teach me that being a mother is by far one of the most rewarding jobs I could ever have. But, most of all, your spirit teaches me that there is no hurt, no pain and no sadness that a hug and a little strawberry milk can't fix. I love you and am so glad that God chose me to be your Mommy.

Happy 5th Birthday sweet boy.

It's All How You Spin It...

Well, she's gone and done it again.

A friend of mine Darlene has been through a mine field of trials since her battle with breast cancer began over a year ago. She has, as you would expect, had her share of ups and downs and days where I'm sure she felt less than inspired, motivated or even hopeful. But, through it all, she has never ceased to amaze me with her optimism and graceful handling of her circumstances.

This attitude has been ingrained in her kiddos as well as evidenced by a recent post on her CaringBridge journal about her daughter Riley Grace. At a recent Father/Daughter dance, she and her Dad Brandon were learning the steps to a waltz. When he seemed to lose track, Riley Grace looked up at him with wisdom beyond her years and said "if you get lost-- just spin me." In her post, Darlene declared that as their new motto... when we lose our way or seem to get not know the steps, let's just spin and enjoy the dance!

I love this more than I can say.

Regardless of what it may be, we all have struggles that we deal with in life. Sure, some may be health-related or more tragic in nature but we all have times when the road doesn't seem as smooth as we'd like it. That's where I am right now. And this morning, as those unwelcome feelings of overwhelm and doubt seeped in, I felt hopeless as if things would never smooth out again.

And that's when I read Darlene's words. And that's when the tears began to flow.  I am usually such an optimist and a glass-half-full kinda gal. Why couldn't I see past my own struggles and realize just how blessed I am?

So thank you Darlene and thank you Riley Grace for words that made a huge impact on me today. I want to dance. I want to spin and sing and enjoy every note of this song as long as it's playing. Sure there will be ups and downs but the key is always looking for ways to soak each day for all it's worth.

Spin, I shall.

The Boys of (Almost) Summer

Through the back patio doors, I sat and watched. Yes, I had a car to clean out and a garage to reorganize. But this seemed far more important.

 Being the mother of two rambunctious boys, I endure countless hours of bickering, fighting, teasing...you name it. The soundtrack of my house is often a cacophony of a television blaring, footsteps running on hardwood and screams. Not this afternoon. The boys had their friend Asher over to play after church and I had the privilege of witnessing children at their finest and most innocent.

There, in a backyard where the late afternoon sun dropped long shadows on the dark green grass, I delighted in watching three boys play a game of baseball. With nothing more than a couple mitts, a ball and a bat, they took turns pitching and swinging and, upon any form of contact, took off running for imaginary bases that seemed to be in a different place with each turn at bat. What warmed my heart the most, though, was the simple joy with which the three interacted. There was no fighting, no arguing, no wrangling for whose turn it was. Instead, I watched as an older brother helped a younger brother including kissing a hurt finger from a stray pitch. Giggles erupted as they chased each other trying to tag for the out and the uncorrupted joy on their faces was a sight to behold.

It reminded me of the beauty of friendship and just how genuinely fulfilling it can be. I remembered the days of playing flash light tag or hide 'n seek in the back yard while my parents visited with other adults. Or endless days lacking technology but filled with hours of just being a kid-- filthy clothes and hands but enough memories to last a lifetime.

I'm so glad I took the time to watch the boys play today. What a sweet reminder of why being a parent might not be the worst job in the world ;)

Focusing on the Good Stuff

It's so easy to let our minds get stretched and twisted and focused on things that steal our joy. So, for the past couple days, I have really tried to pay attention to the "little stuff" that makes me smile. It works wonders:

Making pancakes with a four year old
and having him tell you it makes him feel special

The smell and sound of the rain
as it pours outside an open sliding glass door

An unsolicited kiss and hug from my 10 year old son

The same child vacuuming the dining room without being asked

Laughing out loud at a tweet

Song lyrics that hit the spot

Red jellybeans

The happiness on my child's face as I made him
a ghost from 2 pieces of Kleenex

Dancing to 80's music as I clean house

Picking up the phone and hearing a friend
say "Girllllll...." as she starts in on a story.

Seeing how excited your son is to have
his Daddy take him out for a "Man Breakfast"

and... being blessed with another day
to appreciate all the little stuff in my life.

Onward to the weekend...

Saving the Best For Last

It's really not even possible to sugar coat a day like today.

As the largest street newspaper in North America, the twice monthly paper releases we conduct are vital to the distribution of each new issue produced. It's the first time our vendors--all homeless or formerly homeless individuals--get their hands on their new product to take to the streets of Nashville. It's a very important day in the life of our organization. But today was one of those days when Murphy's Law kicks you in the head and then laughs at you just for spite.

In short, we had to relocate to a new area of the church where the release is held because of an art project consisting of handmade birds perched on lines strung across the front of the sanctuary. And even the best laid plans don't prepare you for the unexpected hurdles: record high temps outside and an AC unit trying to keep up, volunteers calling out, printers not working, the power (and thus the microphones) going out...you name it. Needless to say it was one of the afternoons you just heave a deep sigh and keep on chuggin. But there's a bright spot in this whole scenario and I wish my tired brain would allow me to recall his name.

After serving hundreds of familiar faces--some gracious and some in their usual state of ornery--we finally called the last numbers to come through the line to purchase their papers. And the very last person to come through was a new face--a vendor trainee--participating in his very first paper release. He was short in stature with rosy cheeks and sandy blonde hair and his awe at the assembly line we had constructed to distribute over 12,500 papers in just a few hours was apparent on his face. As the very last person to be called, he had every right to feel grumpy or impatient; instead, he was a refreshing reminder of the reason we do what we do.

As he pulled out a few wrinkled bills to pay for a handful of papers to sell, he grinned and thanked me and said, "This is all very new to me. Thank you so much."

And with that, all the tension between my shoulder blades and every ounce of frustration I had felt over snags that were beyond my control melted away. This guy was genuinely excited about the simple blessing of having a job.

And suddenly, I became very grateful for my own.

Real joy comes not from ease or riches or from the praise of men, but from doing something worthwhile. ~Wilfred Grenfell

Another March 13

March 13 reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Carl Sandburg:

"The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on."

It always seems to sneak up on me but once it's here I feel the silent weight of it perched on my heart until March 14 rolls around and then it simply moves on.

If I look back at my blog at the different ways I have observed the day my Mom died it is as varied as the colors in an early morning sunrise. There are some years I am more upbeat and reflecting on all the quirks that made her the fabulous woman and mother that she was and then there are those more melancholy writings where the longing for her in my words is palpable.

2012 seems to be one of those years.

Unable to sleep last night, I lay there struggling with a pretty big decision in my life. What advice would she give? What insight would she shine into the situation to make clarity seem even remotely possible? She knew me like none other. And even though I sometimes pushed back against her advice out of sheer stubbornness, I always knew it was the best path to take.

But, she also raised me to be a strong woman able to weigh the pros and cons of any situation and arrive at a sound (most of the time) decision. So, I'll channel that today. I'll also crank open the windows, let the breeze blow in and saturate my senses with the sound of bird songs, the gentle dance of bright yellow daffodils, the smell of fresh cut grass that she loved so much and the peaceful cadence of clouds floating by in a perfectly blue sky. She thrived on the simplicity of these things.

That's how I know she is still very much with me. No March 13 can take that part of her away from me.

Tyson

It started out as a normal day. Well, as normal as a day where you have to unload 40,000 newspapers off a truck by hand can be.

Then I met Tyson.

You know, there are people in life that kinda knock your socks off and remind you of all that is good about living and breathing and not taking a single second of life for granted. There are people whose smile brightens up a room and whose presence simply makes you feel better. Yep, he's one of those people.

You see, Tyson was going about his life when on June 10, 2010 he and his father were in a horrific boating accident that nearly claimed their lives. His Dad was in a coma for two weeks and Tyson 99 days. His family was told he would never walk or talk again and that he would most likely remain unresponsive. Yet here he was, sitting across from me at lunch after helping unload and stack 40,000 papers. He also is finishing his degree in chemistry at UT Chattanooga and is getting married to his longtime girlfriend next June. He is, without doubt, a living, breathing miracle.

There are many things in the story of this young man that are shake-your-head-how-can-that-be-possible things. Like how did he survive 45 minutes with no oxygen after his windpipe was crushed? How did the abscess in his lung disappear when doctors said it could not be attributed to any medical intervention that had been performed? He is the first one to admit that it is nothing short of a miracle and I believe this to be true.

But what struck me most about Tyson is the joy he pours into others. Even after my brief time knowing him, I felt blessed to hear his story and see the smile spread across his face when discussing the things he loves in life including his fiancee Jenna. It made me thankful for all the little things I take for granted. It reinforced for me that anything is possible and that our lives can change forever in a moment's notice.

But, more than anything, it made me grateful to have crossed paths with this amazing young man. Thank you Tyson for your smile, your optimism and for blessing me with your story.

I am forever changed.

Tis the Season to Build My Own....

The Sunday afternoon smell of fresh-from-the-oven peanut butter cookies, worcestershire pecans and hot apple cider fills the air while the sound of a crackling fire and the The Polar Express provide the perfect soundtrack for this day.

I love this time of year. There's always something to look forward to. From checking the mailbox to see the spit-shined images of our friends and family in the form of Christmas cards to hearing the familiar strains of a favorite carol sung in harmony...some of my favorite memories involve Christmas and the weeks leading up to this holiday.

But, along with the good come the more bittersweet moments. As I sat in church this morning, we had a time of prayer with a beautiful version of Amazing Grace played in the background. I could not contain my emotion. Tears welled up in my eyes and poured down each cheek as I thought about my Mom and how much she loved both that song and Christmas in general. It evoked in me that longing for her, for my childhood...for the sound of the Beach Boys Christmas album blaring and the smell of cherry walnut bars ready to come out of the oven. It's that silly little angel that would spin by the heat of the candle flame and the chubby little ceramic Santa that was always perched on an end table next to a sprig of holly. It's the wrapping of gifts with her showing me just how much to snip off the end before I taped it down and it's the familiar bulge of the orange in the toe of my stocking. These are things I remember. These are the things I miss this time of year.

Perhaps that is why I now try to create those same sort of smells and sounds and traditions with my own boys...so that one day they, too, might have specific memories of this holiday. But right now I am feeling more selfish than that. I am wanting to be the kid. I want my Mom to walk out of that kitchen and tell me she has a big pot of vegetable soup and cornbread ready for our viewing of The Christmas Story or It's a Wonderful Life. I want all the pieces of the gingerbread house (or my holiday season) to be lovingly laid out for me with a bowl full of frosting and all the perfect candies for decoration organized into neat little containers.

But it's not that easy. I am the grown-up. It's my turn to make the soup and buy the presents and create the sights and sounds of this holiday for my little ones. And instead of just missing her and wanting to curl up in the fetal position, I will channel her energy and her spirit and love of all things Christmas and create memories of my own. It's time to decorate my own gingerbread house. As imperfect as it may be with its leaning walls and sticky peppermint wreath on the door...it is still my own.

Now where did I put that recipe for cherry walnut bars..........

I Bigger!

The swift cadence of the hurried footsteps coming down the hall was my first tip-off that a little boy was aware of the significance of today. "I BIGGER!!!," he shouted as he made the turn from living room into front hallway just steps from our bedroom door.

In my groggy stupor I smiled at the innocent belief on his part that he had, indeed, grown at least a foot overnight. "Happy Birthday, Jacob!" I whispered as he jumped up on the bed like a surfer mounting his aquatic steed and exclaimed "I BIGGER, MOMMY! I FOUR!" The jubilant tone of his voice was no match for the mile-wide, now-four-year-old grin on his little face.

As I reveled in his pre-dawn aging celebration, I found it hard to believe it had been four years since that day. A day when a young woman went into labor and when a slightly older woman sat in her home just north of Atlanta and cleaned and cried and worried and paced and cleaned a little more and double checked the closet in the newly-painted upstairs nursery so tightly jammed with newborn clothes that nary a Q-tip would have fit in there...a day when two families would be forever intertwined even though they might never speak or see each other again in this life...a day when a phone call from the adoption agency saying "he's here!" would bring the slightly older woman to her knees with tears of relief and panic and joy and simultaneous sorrow for the young woman facing a wrenching decision. November 29, 2007 indeed was a day of deep emotion and celebration and prayer and thanksgiving all wrapped into one.

Now as she watched his big four year old eyes sparkle and patted the soft chestnut colored hair on his head, she was overcome with a wave of celebration of her own. From the marks on the laundry room wall tracking his amazing growth spurt this year to the incessant questions about life that now spewed forth from his talkative little mouth, this child had blossomed. He was BIGGER! in every sense of the word and she was proud to have played a role in the spunky little fella's development.

The sense of importance about his getting "bigger" was not lost on me, either. As the younger brother to a very smart and rambunctious brother six years his senior, this milestone was a signal he was surely catching up (and ironically, in size, he actually is). But there were two much-greater benefits of this birthday than trying to be like his brother or giving his Momma a reason to reminisce...

"Mommy! Now that I BIGGER I can wear those shoes that are lighting up in there can't I Mommy? And can we get cupcakes with the rings in them for my friends, Mommy? Since I BIGGER today???"

Yes, sweet boy. Because you're BIGGER.

****************************

I love you, Jacob.

Happy 4th Birthday.

Love, Mommy

How Do You Make Brown and Other Burning Life Questions

My 3 year old son had been alone in the bathroom with me for a grand total of 2 minutes when the bombardment began:

• What is this? (opens my bottom cabinet, pulls a tampon out and holds it vertically with an ever so inquisitive expression)
• Why do you put this in your eyes (picks up bottle of contact solution)
• Why do you put on the make-ups?
• When are we going to da movie feeter?
• Did you know Skyler's Mommy died and went to Heaven?
• Where is Heaven, Mommy?
• How do you make the color brown?

My head, still reeling from a week long headache, could not comprehend the magnitude of what must run through my child's brain on an ongoing basis. His big blue eyes implore me to answer each and every question to his satisfaction. But sometimes I just don't have the answers.

Like how in the heck do you make brown anyway?

But what I am most thankful for is the fact that he digs. He plunders. He wonders and asks questions and wants to know every detail about everything in his path: what it is, why it is there, how does it work and will he have one "when he is the parent?"

And even on nights when my brain thinks it cannot soak in even one more question...I am grateful for every inquisitive bone in that child's body.

Keep the questions coming my child. Well, all except the tampon ones. I need a few more years to formulate an answer for that one.

2:34 am.

The darkness envelopes me as I step out onto the deck. A strong breeze whips through the bare branches and the bushes give off a "sizzling" sound in its wake. The wood is damp beneath my feet as I tiptoe about searching for just the right spot. Arms crossed to huddle against the wind, I reach my destination in the back right corner...

...and I breathe.

The wind picks up and the moist air reminds me of the beach. I close my eyes and suddenly I am standing on a balcony as the surf rolls in. The stray crickets I hear become seagulls and the breeze is now whipping off the water instead of the rose bushes below me. My skin is no longer chilly but instead soothed by the cool touch after what must have been a lazy day of lounging in the sun.

I am there. And yes, it's 2:34am but I am at the beach so it doesn't matter. No school bus to race for, no meetings, no responsibilities. Ahhhhhh.

But reality soon hits and I return to my own bed where sleep eludes me.

At least there won't be sand in it, though.

There's always an upside. ;)

Music to My Ears

As I pulled away from the Nashville airport, tears were streaming down my cheeks. No, I had not just experienced some tearful goodbye with a loved one. Quite the opposite. These were happy tears. Tears of earnest appreciation for the compliment I had just received. I knew I'd want to write about it but I didn't -- and, to some degree, still don't-- know if I could find the right words.

I met Lee Stringer on the first day of a conference I had planned and immediately I knew he was somewhat extraordinary. He oozed wisdom and his life experiences only added to his credibility. As a former crack addict living under the 109 platform in New York City's Grand Central Station, he had endured the most profound of life's stress-inducers: addiction, homelessness, poverty and hunger. And as I listened to his story on the way to the airport, I suddenly felt the urge to drive him to New York instead...to soak up every nugget of wisdom pouring forth from his lips. The only response I could muster was "you...you are amazing."

That's when he blew me away with an observation so touching that I will never forget his mannerisms as he said it or the cool tone with which he spoke. He said "Listen to me. I want to tell you something." I wasn't sure where he was headed, but I knew I would hang on his every word. He continued, "I have been watching you this week. And you are an amazing event planner. You are an outstanding people person...you are incredible at what you do." And before I could thank him, he continued..."But it is not WHAT you do that makes you amazing, Katie. It's how you do it. You plan events and you live your life....with music." As he uttered the word music his clinched fist opened up in a starburst fashion and I was speechless.

You see, music to me is soul-soothing, uplifting, emotion-evoking stuff. It possesses the power to transport me to places I've been as well as places I wanna be...it carries with it a sense of purpose, of communicating feeling. In short, it moves me. That's why Lee's comment made such a big impact on me.

I have struggled recently with a job transition that was not of my doing and a feeling that my eight years of service to them was swept under the rug at the end. But, fresh on the heels of that came this smaller meeting along with a feeling of genuine appreciation by attendees and fellow staff alike. It was refreshing and timely...and then came Lee's observation.

Little did that man know what an impact he made on me. It is no secret that my love language is words of affirmation and his words not only affirmed me but moved me to the core. I love what I do and I love the people I do it for. And as I pulled away from the airport, tears streaming down my cheeks, I realized someone had actually seen me. The me I want to be.

Believe me, it was music to my ears...and to my heart.