Saying Goodbye to Chattahoochee Bend

Well, it was a great week of camping with my fellas. We hung out with friends, relaxed and just generally enjoyed getting away for a few days.

A few more pics to wrap up the week:

The Chattahoochee River...very peaceful.

What Daniel and I call the camoflauge tree. Parts of the bark actually look like camo. Pretty cool. Here's a close up

Me and the D man looking for a hiding place for a letterbox we 're making...

Think we found a perfect hiding spot !

Packed up and heading to the house...

Later. :)

S'more Friends Come to Visit

A day that started out with a thunderstorm ended up being beautiful and ending with laughter, friends and a breathtaking sky full of stars.

We also gained neighbors... our friend John and his son Evan. They are our camping buddies and the boys play great together.

My friend Tammy and her daughter Ella came to hang out again and then her hubby Jerry joined us for dinner after work. We cooked out, solved the world's problems then (attempted to) made S'mores. Each marshmallow that met an untimely death in the fire was met with more laughter. We're clearly in need of some trainin'. Just sayin.

As soon as our company left, all the men folk crashed so here I am with my thoughts, my blog and 10 uneaten Hershey bars. Sometimes being a night owl has its perks.

Night y'all.

A True Break from Winter

74 degrees today. Really???  Weren't we just iced in with no power a week ago?? Well today was a far cry from winter's grip as my friend Cindy and her boys came to hang out with us.

Spent some much-needed girl time with Cindy and the boys played, played, and played some more. :)

Cindy and I made s'mores for the boys and I had to take a picture of her attempt. It was tragic, y'all. (Caution: the photo you are about to see will be disturbing for true s'mores lovers.) Needless to say, we laughed for quite a while over that one.

Just before sunset, the boys and I went down to the Chattahoochee River and listened to the wind in the trees, the crickets in the woods and the fast moving water below. We then shrieked like school girls and ran to the car when we thought we saw a bat. Ah, the great outdoors.

Nice Weather...Is it Really You?!

Today's weather was cool, overcast and perfect for camping. We had our first visitors of the week-- my friend Tammy and her daughter Ella. The kids played hard all day and Tammy and I enjoyed just having time to catch up.

After they left, the sun slowly slipped away and we grilled out hamburgers as the sound of crickets nearly drowned out the music coming from inside the camper. All in all, a great day of camping....

Sunshine is Good for the Soul

Today is a spectacular day with sunshine, a light breeze and 63 perfect degrees. There's a playground just up the hill from our campsite so the boys and I decided to get outside for a little fresh air. It was GLORIOUS. We laughed, climbed, swung (swang? swung??) and had a blast. 

 

Came back to the camper and picnicked outside while playing a game. Their smiles say it all. (And I mighta smiled, too) ;)

Blogging Remotely... And I Do Mean REMOTE-ly

Greetings from the middle of nowhere, y'all.  Not wanting to end my streak of periodic posting (periodic is even stretching it) I found an app for Blogger on my phone. Just think...the two or three people that follow this blog won't have to go so long without hearing from me now! :)

Well the boys and I are camping at Chattahoochee Bend State Park this week for their winter break so I'll try to post about our adventures here.  I'm not sure how pictures will show up on here since they're coming straight from my phone but here goes:

The boys playing games as I cook dinner...

Two monkeys invaded my bed this morning

Quiet morning time while the boys play in their room

More later....

Catching Up...

I did say I was going to be on here every day, didn't I? Oops.

This is a random post about random things until I can get back into the habit of posting every day. So, here goes:

Random Item #1:  Winter Wonderland, Cabin Fever and Such

Well The Storm Tracker Doppler Deluxe Wizometer 3000 on the news said it would be a whopper of a storm and they were right. A few inches of snow was pretty but it only hid the layer of thick ice underneath making travel impossible. Add to that no power for six hours and it makes for a nice little dose of cabin fever. And Monopoly by flashlight, folks? Never again. :)

The back yard the first morning... serene and peaceful when the sound of branches cracking didn't fill the air :)

The gas grill not quite ready for a cookout

My new mantra

Solo cup art ice sculpture

Family togetherness at its finest

Random Item #2:  Be My Valentine (Kindergarten Style)

I helped organize Jacob's Valentine's Day party and of course I get the honor of manning the Cookie Decorating Station From Hell. I am truly a glutton for punishment. Take a relatively sane 42 year old woman, stick her in a chair that belongs in a dollhouse surrounded by 10 or so Kindergartners at a time that are already hyped up on sugar. Insert into this scene of horror tubs of frosting, popsicle sticks and jars of colored sugar, sprinkles and cinnamon heart candies and you have a recipe for disaster.

And don't let the angelic face below fool you (Jacob, not me) :)  As you can clearly see, his sprinkle to cookie ratio is clearly in favor of toppings. After a few kiddos taking the lid off and dumping an entire jar of rainbow sprinkles out on the table and screaming in delight as they swing their arms through them sending colored morsels through the air, I hereby bequeath my title of Momma Most Easily Suckered Into Manning the Cookie Table to someone more emotionally qualified. 

And that's all I've got for now, y'all. More later.

Ice, Ice Baby

Pardon the title but I had to. I just had to.

Well, the ice has cometh and we are sequestered here in the house and pretty soon I'm going to be forced to clean something. Games have been played, chips and dip consumed and now I have no choice but to try and be productive. OK, maybe a little later.

But, in the meantime, here are a few pics:

Bushes frozen solid with a coating of ice

Some of the the smaller trees glisten with ice-covered branches

Pine tree limbs weighted down with icicles

Cassie riding out the storm in her usual position... relaxation. :)

Who Needs Facebook Anyway?

Apparently me.

I knew I was sinking way too much time into an online social networking site but I truly underestimated the impact that leaving Facebook would have on my psyche. The moment I deactivated my account, it honestly felt like I no longer existed. Disturbing thought, eh?

You see, I used to blog here all the time and had a decent following. I enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow bloggers and even developed new friendships in what I found to be a fairly tight knit community of folks that enjoy writing as much as I do. But life got the best of me and I slowly disengaged from the process of recording my thoughts as I was sucked into the world of instant gratification. Why post on a blog that few, if any, people will read when I can wax poetic on a status update and receive instant feedback and quips about my clever wit or amazing parenting skills?

Well, it's simple. On Facebook, I was able to paint a portrait of who I was without having to include a lot of the not-so-pretty stuff about my life. Sure a blog can serve the same purpose but, for some reason, I feel less compelled to make it "pretty" on here. And believe you me, life isn't all that pretty for me right now. I also found myself never able to put my phone down for fear of missing a message, not knowing the lunch choices of my friends or, God forbid, not finding out what character I would be on Downton Abbey and why. (By the way, I was Mrs. Hughes which is kinda cool except WHEN will she and the head butler Carson ever expose their feelings for one another?!)  I digress.

How much will I delve into the struggles I'm experiencing right now in a public forum? I'm not sure. But what I can say is I'm going to be on here every day. And I'm going to be real. And even if no one but me is reading this...well, that's ok, too. I will continue to write because that's what I do.

As for Facebook. I won't pretend that I'm not having big-time withdrawals. A major winter storm is impacting Atlanta right now and I would love to see pics posted by friends, updates, conversations about snow totals, etc. But I continue in my self-imposed darkness because it's what I need to do.

So if by chance you're reading this, my apologies for one of the most boring blog posts ever. But you know what? I'm pretty boring sometimes. And someday I'll realize there's nothing wrong with that. :)

For the Love of the Game: It's Not Easy Being An Athletic Powerhouse

I'm not sure what made me think that, at 42 years old, I could don a pair of cleats and go whip my two boys in baseball. But, that's exactly what I thought. I even backed up the smack talk with a picture on Facebook of my cleats with the message "Bring it On!"

I'm not changing the subject or anything but did you know that there are different levels of calf muscle injuries?

That's right. CALF MUSCLE INJURY.

You see, my competitive ju-ju was flowing as Jacob and I were in the lead 6-1 against Daniel and our golden retriever Cassie. Yes, I am bragging abut beating a dog in baseball but let's not get bogged down in the details. So, I step up to the plate, tap the mud off my cleats because that's what we ball players do. Then, in an oh-so-impressive display of athletic prowess, I swung the plastic yellow bat and connected with the tennis ball sending it sailing against the neighbor's fence -- which was clearly an in-field homer.

::insert slow motion sequence here. The fans leap to their feet. Daniel watches the ball soar over his head as I sling my bat to the side and take the first step of my victory lap around the bases (aka the frisbee, the cardboard box top and the lid to a skillet)::

And as I planted my left foot in the still-saturated-from-snow dirt, I pushed off and heard a POP! as a sharp pain shot through my left calf and I dropped to the ground. Yep, you guessed it. Pulled (hopefully not tore) the muscle in my left calf. The boys rushed to my side and in a touching display of compassion and concern exclaimed "does this mean we can't play anymore???" It was a Hallmark moment, really.

You know, when I first posted the smack-talking picture of my cleats on Facebook my pal Ed kindly responded with something about me being an awesome Mom. Then came the comment from my friend Debbie asking what time she needed to bring the Advil. I nearly died laughing as I called her with my leg elevated on a bag of frozen peas. It was no surprise to her that I had sustained a career-ending injury and she laughed with me at the prophetic nature of her comment.

Perhaps I should stick to the crafty stuff and remember with fondness the glory days of sending one over the fence, of rounding the bases as the crowds roared and my team poured out of the dugout to meet me at home plate. Of course, I'm guessing you can't remember things that never happened, huh?

What happened today was a 42-year old woman talked smack to her kids then injured herself and writhed around in the mud in pain before resting her leg on a bag of frozen veggies. If it wasn't so pathetic, I'd probably refrain from laughing. But I can't. And when I'm walking again in 7 or 8 months, I'm sure the call of the game will draw me back out there again.

What can I say? Once a pretend ball player, always a pretend
ball player...............

Shower Quest 2014: A Foaming Hand Soap, a Paper Towel and a Dream

This really was not supposed to be a difficult task. I am 42 years old and have showered independently for 30+ years. Why have a complete breakdown in my comprehension of the fundamentals now? Isn't it like riding a bike? Once you get the hang of it, it kinda sticks with you. You know, like old pieces of luggage or the lyrics to Hopelessly Devoted To You.  I overshared, didn't I? If your answer is "yes"... buckle up. You ain't seen nothin' yet.

The year was... oh heck, this happened today. TODAY. Even though we have a camper with a fully-outfitted bathroom, I was feeling a bit outnumbered by boys...a couple of whom were especially rambunctious and so I decided to journey up to the nearest bathhouse to shower, dress, do my make-up. The works. And, because we are some of the only idiots that decide to camp in the dead of winter, I felt certain I would have the place to myself (which I did.)

So off I drive to the bathhouse with the essentials in tow:  clothes, make-up/toiletry bag, hair dryer, brush. I'm all set. I walk into the expansive women's side and proceed to spread out my things secretly relishing the quiet. No echos of a handheld gaming device within earshot and I hadn't heard the word "poothead" in at least 10 minutes. I might as well have been a princess in my castle high on the hill.

But, princesses would most likely have some sort of staff member that would remind them that when showering one's body, one usually needs some sort of towel item with which to dry off one's body upon exiting said shower. But I didn't. And when did I realize this? Well, as soon as the water had gotten just the right temperature and I was naked as the day I was born. Now, if you must know, I agree with you. I should NOT have to have a servant to remind me that I need a towel when showering. But that is totally beside the point. Or not. But still.

So this is where you get to participate in my story. Like one of the cool books from when I was in my teens, you get to choose which path the main character should take at a crucial juncture in the story.

Choice A:  Character realized her oversight and, in a mature and preferably modest fashion, gets dressed, gathers her things and drives back to the camper where she runs in, grabs a towel and returns to the bathhouse to shower with a proper drying sequence afterwards.

Choice B:  Character realized her oversight and, because she is too lazy to get her things and drive back to the camper and she's already undressed and the water temp is JUST RIGHT OH YES IT IS, she wraps her jeans around herself (yeah that worked about as good as you're thinking it did) and runs like she's on fire across the bathhouse to the towel dispenser and, while trying to hold a pair of jeans around her with one hand, proceeds to dispense thin, campground-grade paper towels praying to the heavens that no one walks through the door. She then scurries back to the shower, drops the jeans, drapes the wad o' towels over the curtain (because that won't call attention to her lack of preparedness) and begins to step into the shower.

Well, which one did you choose? Clearly the correct answer for MY story was A. (insert wild, hysterical laughter here). If you are reading this blog because you have known me for at least five minutes then you picked B right off the bat.

OH BUT IT GETS BETTER.

You didn't think my oversight stopped at the towel, did you? Of COURSE not. Although clothes, and make-up and brushes and hairdryers (and even towels!) are important, a shower just really isn't serving its full purpose without....soap...or shampoo? Yes. I seriously drove to a bathhouse to take a shower and the ONLY two things I forgot were a towel and shampoo. I even amaze me sometimes.

So.... because the wrapped-in-jeans scenario was mildly stressful to say the least, I throw on my long shirt and dance across the cold tile to one of the hand soap dispensers and proceed to pump, pump, pump this MASSIVE heaping of FOAM into my hand. I raced back to my shower looking as if I was running with a tiny white dog or the top of a lemon icebox pie in my hand. I close the curtain and am forced to soap up my dry head of hair so I can successfully remove the clean shirt I was planning to wear without the result being a sleeve full of soap.

You know, there are days where I have wrangled a thousand people to ensure the success of a big event and there are days when I just have no idea what my name is. This must have been one of those days. But I must say, the paper towels did the job and my hair even seemed a bit bouncier than normal. Maybe I've stumbled onto something???

My friends will indeed declare this as a "Katie Story" because they claim these things only happen to me. Even so, I think next time I'll stick to the little bathroom in our camper where all the "essentials" are within grasp.

Wonder if that foaming hand soap is only sold in bulk???

Sweet Memories: A Tribute to Di

My grandfather would have been 105 years old today.

That boggles my mind.

George Dewey Lightsey was my Mom's father and, even though I only had him in my life until I was 13, I remember him as the best grandad that ever was. The entire time I knew my Mom's folks, they lived in a 700 square foot house in Robertsdale, Alabama. I have written about their home before and how many of my most cherished childhood memories were made playing with Fisher Price people on the roots of the magnolia trees that shaded their little backyard.

Because I lost him as a young girl, the memories I do have of "Di" as I called him are not great in quantity; however, they are as rich and vibrant as if he were standing here today. He was a bit older than other grandfathers but was as playful as the boy next door when it came to my sister and me. Many a time as we ate spaghetti, he would "crank" a long strand of sauce-laden noodles into his mouth by spinning his fingers in a circular motion beside his head and making a loud slurping sound. Much to the chagrin of my prim and proper grandmother, the result was always a rim of sauce along his upper lip that he delighted in licking off as my sister and I giggled.

But what I remember the most about this man-- more than his garage filled with old license tags nailed to the wall and slightly eccentric collection of gourds suspended from the ceiling; more than his warm smile and twinkling eyes-- is the love he showed to my grandmother. Frances Lightsey was a dainty and utterly-proper lady with perfectly polished red fingernails and regularly-coiffed beautiful white hair. He treated her like a queen and doted on her with an adoration rare after so many years of marriage. Even sleeping in twin beds next to each other, they would fall asleep holding hands across the space separating them. After fifty-plus years of marriage, they were very much partners and very much in love. And, fittingly, I lost them both in my seventh-grade year proving that not even death could keep them apart for long.

Happy Birthday, Di. I miss you and would give anything for my own children to sit in your lap and giggle at your endearing goofiness. And although I have now gone thirty years without seeing you, I can close my eyes and you are there. Thank you for the happiness you imparted on my childhood. I lost you too soon but I sure was lucky to have you for a grandfather.

Sweet memories indeed.

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.