When You Find Your Name

Many moons ago, I worked part-time at a small community center. During one of the events, as I sat at the front desk, an older woman took a break from the noise of her party and sat in the lobby with me. After several minutes of silence and staring at the snack machine, she started talking to me.

She wanted to know my name and who I was from home and if I was married…stuff like that. I told her that I had just gotten married a few weeks before. She asked me what I thought of married life thus far, and I answered with the first thing that popped into my head: It sure is tricky getting used to a new last name!

I think she was surprised and maybe a bit entertained by the answer, and she promptly told me to imagine what it would be like when I turn as old as her and have spent more of my life with my married name than with my maiden.

I can’t imagine!

To date, I’ve spent 79% of my life with my maiden name and 21% of my life with my married name. Interesting.

The farther I get from using my maiden name, the more foreign it sounds to me.

And then my sister found this interesting link for a location in Paris that boasts our name.

I know from research that my paternal grandma has shared that my father’s heritage is approximately 98% German and 2% French: vielen dank and s’il vous plait passer le pain.

So I suppose it is no surprise that my old name is floating out there in Paris somewhere. But how fancy? I think of my old name as more of a pasture next to a butcher’s shop name; not a streets of Paris, France name.

And did you click the link and look at the picture yet?

I definitely don’t ever anticipate any old name of mine sharing space with a POOL, for cellulite’s sake!

So, Piscine Molitor. It’s a swimming pool. A fancy one.

Not a stock tank. Not a dirty river. But an actual location for family fun, clear and clean and beautiful, built in the thirties. As I scroll through the pictures on the memorial website, I can’t shake the odd feeling of seeing our name on the outside of this building.

Is it us? Am I from them? Or is it totally unrelated?

Did those specific Molitors multiply and marry and scatter and travel and land in my backyard? It’s a daunting thought.

It WAS an absolute bathing mecca, with piles of changing rooms and striped umbrellas. At first, there was no roof. And then a roof was added. A covered, indoor pool.

Just like at The Holiday Inn.

They even ice skated on it. I don’t guess I have to mention that’s yet another sport that I’ve never tried. Are you kidding? To be broken, sprained, AND cold, all at the same time?

Je vais passer.

There’s even a picture of two athletes in Molitor-emblazoned uniforms, standing in the water.

(And if you’re wondering why on Earth I’ve got pictures of me and my boyfriend on here instead of the pool and the people, it’s because I have no idea how to post pictures that I don’t own without getting in trouble. So instead of historically accurate pictures, you get B and me in front of the old schoolhouse where we met as babies.)

I mean, get outta here. I can’t even walk through the sporting goods section in Academy without getting a heat rash.

But there they are, hanging in the pool, competing, being strong, and strutting around the glamorous pavers.

I think I’d like to go there. To see it firsthand and to stand in front of it and have my picture made. I realize it doesn’t look the same as it did then, but I’m a sucker for this sort of thing. What if I end up standing exactly where some great great great great relative stood, right before they opened the doors to the public for the first time? What if some of the swimmers – ATHLETES – were Molitors, too? And what if they were any good?

That might mean that I can do more than I think. That might mean it’s in my bones…I just don’t know it. That might mean that I’ve shunned a sport – a legacy – all because I don’t look good in a Band Aid-sized slip of stretchy material.

Or, it could just mean that my relatives were mad-skilled in business and knew opening a pool would be a really good idea when Paris got hit with its next heat wave.

Either way….

Confidence in Motherhood: Fleeting, at Best

I’m linking up again today with Erin from Blue-Eyed Bride, and the topic is Confidence in Motherhood. And here’s what I have to say about that: it’s totally hit or miss, and in my case, mostly miss! Even when everything is going right, you know I’m still worrying and fretting. If not about what’s right in front of me, then about what’s coming around the bend.

Have you ever seen "Say Anything?" It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, and Lloyd Dobbler says, while talking on the phone and pacing the bathroom: "You start out depressed, everything turns out a pleasant surprise."

Not that I’m depressed or nearly that serious, but maybe I think if you worry about the worst, then it won’t happen, and boy, won’t that turn out a nice surprise!

And speaking of great "Say Anything" quotes: "A pen. I gave her my heart....she gave me a pen."

I have a friend who called me an uptight parent once, and I know I’ll never forget it. She was stating the obvious, I’m sure, because I over think everything. Uptight has kind of a negative connotation, but it’s probably highly accurate.

Here’s the thing: I fully feel the weight of my responsibility to my girl EVERY SINGLE MOMENT. When I’m home and with her, I’m not acting worried or talking negatively or stressing. I’m just sticking to our routine and playing and having fun and creating memories with her. But I spend a lot of time when I’m not around her planning, thinking, praying, wondering, reading, researching, and did I mention PRAYING? I write the prayers. I say them in my head. I say them out loud. They are tattooed in a force field around her.

I’m telling you, never have I talked to God more than since having a baby. He is in my head. I talk to Him constantly. When I wake up, my first words are to Him. When I’m up in the night, He’s the one I’m talking to. When I’m finally lying down, He’s the one hearing the last thoughts and pleadings of the day.

I’m not crazy. I know there’s no way I can do this on my own. It is totally out of my hands.

And sure, oftentimes, the prayer ends like this: “And please obliterate all the scorpions. Amen.”

My girl? She’s so good. She’s sweet and calm and gentle and smart. And I have no idea if that’s just because of who she is, if that’s because of what we’ve done since Second #1, or if that’s because of a blend of the two, but I’m not taking any chances. I feel like I can’t drop the ball now.

Then again, who do I think I am? It has nothing to do with me or her daddy. It’s all Him.

This is not me with my baby. This is me with my goddaughter. Her mom appears very laid back to me when it comes to parenting. She is the antithesis of an uptight mama. We are at opposite ends of the spectrum. At least, it seems to be so from the outside looking in, and I kind of envy that.

But in a healthy way.

Because I know that I can and will never be that way. So I celebrate for her and just go ahead and brace myself for what’s to come on my end. It will be fine. Every family is different. Every situation is different. Every baby is different.

So even if I’m not confident in every choice I make and every plan I write out, there are other things that I’m very confident in that go along with this ride:

- Sometimes, Daddy knows best.

- Whichever way a family lovingly does it is the best way.

- I will continue to chat up God at every turn. Both for my sanity and B’s.

- There will be good times.

- There will be bad times.

- Memories will be made.

- It will all far-surpass our expectations.

- I will keep Blue Bell in business.

- And I will eat too many cheese puffs.

Who let the dogs out?

Approximately seven years ago, I was sitting on top of a very tall horse named Floyd, when a man with a long ponytail, shorts, and Birkenstocks walked up to the horse, leaned his hand on him for support, and began to propose something absurd to my husband.

This man’s attire is only notable because we were “backstage” at a ranch rodeo. Dust swirling around us from the dozens of horses milling around, bright lights blinding from the arena, and the dizzying smell of horse plop.

Plop really seems the nicest way to say it in writing. I think I’ll start using that word from now on….

In other words, he was one of those things not like the others. And to be fully candid, I was not astride a horse because I was about to bust through the gates and perform some sort of feat of ranch riding sorcery. I just got tired of standing around, eye-level with horse bottom, while waiting for B’s team to get their turn.

Floyd was my lawn chair.

So back to the details of the proposal that changed our lives…for at least a year. Maybe slightly more, maybe slightly less, who can say for sure. I’m writing this well past the time period, for the sake of family record-keeping, so “close enough” will have to do.

Although I do remember this all started the very first weekend in June of 2007, because the very next weekend was our first wedding anniversary, and we had plans to celebrate. When Doc asked B about coming out the next weekend to look over everything, I saw B start nodding his head yes. I’m pretty sure I shot some friendly reminder daggers at him: “Don’t you dare schedule something for our first wedding anniversary.”

I’m subtle, if nothing else.

He quickly backpedaled and explained our plans, and they decided to meet the following weekend.

Doc owns and runs a veterinary hospital for large and small animals. He’d recently moved locations and built a new facility and needed help with building custom pens both inside and outside. And my husband welds. And they have been acquaintances for quite some time. And there you have it.

The first job B was tasked with was welding custom kennel fronts for the inside of the clinic. He spent untoward hours planning, prepping, welding, configuring, and sweating over this project. He admires this man a great deal and considers him a friend, so he was honored that he would choose him for a project of this magnitude.

Little did he know how magnificent it would become….

And now I’d like everyone to brace themselves properly for pictures that are bound to offend your eyeballs. They were taken with a black, plastic camera wrapped in yellow paper.

Remember those? When you advanced the reel to the point where it just wouldn’t stop, you knew you’d filled the entire length of film. This warranted a trip to Wal-Mart or someplace equally bright, so that the entire camera could be stuck in one of those envelopes where you’d fill in your name, address, HOME phone number, and whether or not you preferred singles or doubles. After sealing the envelope shut, the entire package got dropped in the bin. Down a black hole full of birthday parties, weddings, vacations, and maybe one welding job.

And maybe keep in mind that these pictures were taken before Doc had everything cleaned up and painted. Having the kennel doors welded was one of the very first steps, so these pictures show an area far from finished.

After these small animal kennels were finished, B moved his entire operation outside, where horse pens, chutes, and runs needed building.

I spent a lot of hours laying across the front seat of the Dodge, reading books, doing crossword puzzles, and bickering with the summer heat while B welded and then re-welded.

By the time I was able to take pictures of the pens and traps outside, I had a digital camera, so here's hopin' those pictures won't offend so much...whenever I get around to telling about them.

I don’t know what it looks like to someone who doesn’t weld or hasn’t watched something like this as it’s being made, but it’s no easy task. There’s a lot of measuring. There’s a lot of wearing starched, long-sleeved shirts and helmets in the hot, hot sun, sweating off a lot of weight. There are flying sparks that burn holes in your shirts, catch your cell phone on fire, and scorch your skin. There’s a lot of heavy lifting and holding pipe in place.

The arm-muscles that result from all that heavy lifting and pipe-holding are nothing to scoff at; I’m just sayin’.

I’m very proud, obviously, of the work that Brady did here. When I drive by the clinic and see dogs being walked on the weekends, I know they’re staying in those pens, and I wonder how they like them. I’m sure it’s really thrilling for them to hear the clang and bang as the door shuts on them. There’s no way they’re getting’ out of one of those pens.

These kennels are going to be a stop on the tour I plan to take Katie on one day, titled “All the Things Your Daddy Built.”

Quote of the Day

"Katie, what are you having for breakfast at Grandma's house this morning?"

"Creamed corn and toast."

~ Overheard from an imaginative toddler with a penchant for corn.

Quote of the Day

"Is he towing you?"

"I'm following Fred Flinstone here...I thought if I gave him a little push, he could rest his feet for a minute...."

~ Overheard between two sisters late for work - one a serial tailgater.

Bless You

See these beautiful yellow weeds? I mean flowers? I love the way they look, blanketing our pastures during certain times of the year. And horses never looked lovelier than when standing in a field full of wild weeds. I mean flowers.

But you know what else these flowers are good for, besides a pastoral backdrop?

Allergies. Sneezing, running noses, crying, hacking, wheezing, and NOT SLEEPING.

I myself have never been plagued with allergies. But before you get all “not fair” on me, I should mention I’ve more than made up for it with my level of tripping, falling, migraines, and general “There must be rain in the forecast” malaise.

My husband, on the other hand? Yes, he carries the allergies. Especially after shredding, mowing, or doing just about anything else that involves grass or weeds, and it looks like he has shared this gift with Katie.

We were getting ready to leave the house Monday evening for dinner to celebrate my mama’s birthday (a tax day birthday – lucky her!), and somewhere between the back door and the suburban, Katie’s nose started running. It didn’t stop again until – oh wait. It hasn’t stopped yet….

On Monday night, there was zero sleep for the weary. We all took turns shuffling from the rocker in her room to our bed to the floor in her room to her bed to the bathroom…sometimes Daddy’s turn, sometimes mine.

[Dear Universe…thanks for gifting us with this sleepless night when B was home.]

It’s amazing what transpires during the middle of the night, in the dark. Things that would seem so weird during daylight are suddenly normal and fine. I heard myself twice utter the phrase: “Drop that Minnie doll, please.” And it was almost spooky watching my little short person roam from her room to the bathroom in the dark, nothing but a shadowy figure trailing a pink blanket.

When she wanted to try sleeping in my bed, we did it. When she wanted to sleep in the chair, we did that, too. When she pointed out that my pajama pants were on backwards, I turned them around and thanked her.

In the past, when she’s had a cold, a few things have eased her a bit, such as putting out the humidifier, loading up on Pedialyte, slathering VapoRub on her chest or the soles of her feet, and propping her bed up at one end by putting big bath towels under the legs of the bed. Out of everything, I think this little bit of elevation makes the most difference. So at about 3:30 AM Tuesday morning, as B and I both got up to check on her when she started crying and coughing, I stood there holding her and swaying and asked him, “Think we should go ahead and put the towels under her bed real quick?”

He said he didn’t think 3:30 AM was the best time to be doing that.

And then he walked out of her room and closed the door.

I guess that meant it was my turn.

I didn’t think 3:30 AM was the best time to be a comedian.

I’ve included these family pictures that my sister took, because who wants to look at a sneezey-kid and a pile of tissues, a pot of Vicks, and one of those nose-suckers? Not me…although a certain 2 1/2 –year-old sure is cute even WITH a red nose. I can’t wait to wipe the pile of “sicky tools” right off the bathroom counter in one dramatic arm movement: “We’re done! You’re well again!”

And then we’ll limbo right out of the bathroom; her new favorite dance move.

And then I’ll REALLY know she’s all better, because she’ll tell me: “I can smell supper! I can smell the food! Can we eat NOW?!” When the appetite is back, she’s back!

A Frosty over the Console: Almost Like a Daiquiri over the Chip Bowl

My first link-up.

I feel silly.

It’s just like junior high, only without hair-sprayed bangs.

The funny part is there’s a good chance that my sister is the only one that will even know I “linked-up” to something.

I hope I do it right.

***

Blue-Eyed Bride is hosting, along with three other bloggers, the third in a series of posts about building each other up, and who couldn’t use a little of that? This week is about remembering yourself in the midst of motherhood…or any other life-altering, all-consuming stage a girl might be going through.

These are my thoughts, along with a few pictures of the roads leading to and from Piedmont. Because all roads leading to Piedmont are happy roads. And all roads leading from Piedmont on your way to work are laden with tractors and construction.

***

At 31, I had my baby. This was a little late by most standards, which means I had plenty of time to watch friends and cousins get pregnant, have babies, and disappear into the misty jungle of diapers and bottles and pack n’ plays.

I really took note of the mamas that made time for date nights, vacations without kids, and girls’ nights out. I thought, “Yah, that’s probably what I’m gonna do. That looks like a really smart idea.”

Except I don’t.

Not because my brain doesn’t know it’s smart to get some away time. Not because I don’t have grandmas and grandmothers and aunts that would love to babysit. Not because I don’t have a husband that would gladly keep the baby and make it happen for me.

It’s because I can’t. It hurts my heart. It’s so very, very HARD. I work, so I’m already away from her somewhere around 40 awake hours a week. FORTY. That’s a lot of hours.

That’s too many hours.

So when I’m not at work and could be having a vacation or a girls’ night out or a date night, I don’t.

That’s when it kind of hit me that all those mamas I watched having time away from their babies are stay-at-home mamas. They need those breaks like they need air and toilet paper. That’s their ONLY break.

I already get a break every weekday when I get on the road for my commute to work. I might listen to music or a book on CD. Or I might listen to NOTHING. To blessed silence. All the long way to the big city.

And then I work hard and make hay while the sun shines.

Which means I get as many errands done on my lunch hour as humanly possible, so that when 5:00 rolls around, I am SPRINTING to the parking lot. I gotta get home. The clock is ticking down the minutes of awake time I get before bedtime.

So yah. The “me time” isn’t necessarily always fun and relaxing, as a rule. Plowing through Target for dog food and toothpaste, standing in line for stamps, hauling horse feed from Coop, and waiting at the bank drive-thru isn’t quite the same as going to the movies or drinking fruity drinks over chips and salsa, but it’s what you make it, right?

So I listen to music and books while I drive. I play on my phone when I’m sitting in parking lots. I take plenty of car naps on the days when there are no errands. I sit and read. I sit and write. I talk to my husband or my sister or my mama or my baby on the phone. I spend $1.07 at Wendy’s and get a chocolate frosty.

Why does it feel illegal to sit in a vehicle and eat ice cream by yourself?

After re-reading this, I might possibly start running circles around the suburban, too, to work off ice cream calories.

But let’s not hold our breath on that one.

Sometimes, I just sit and stare out the windshield.

Thankfully, it’s a rare occasion that I’m staring at the business end of a shredder.

Winter's back. And she brought her own horse.

Well, it appears that Spring has decided to crawl back under the covers, leaving us with temperatures in the 40’s, rain, and a little bit of yuck.

As one might imagine, this weather is the perfect backdrop for all kinds of outside calamities. And one wouldn’t be disappointed….

Twice in the past two days, I have found myself outside, in the cold and rain, chasing or herding a rogue horse. All in my work clothes, mind you. If there’s one thing you don’t want to be wearing as you chase somebody else’s horse around in the deep mud, it’s your work clothes.

Target flats don’t really have the traction for that.

You might be wondering why in the world I didn’t change out of my work clothes first. And that would be a really valid question. One of the times, I was on my way to work, and no way was I going to go inside, change, chase the towering wench down the driveway, and then go back inside and change again. I was already running late, obviously. My story was way more credible with wet shoes, frizzy hair, and mud spots, anyway.

The evening before that, it was more of a “hurry up” situation. I did stop halfway through and switch into mud boots and a jacket, but it didn’t seem to help me very much. I still couldn’t pen her.

Quite naturally, B wasn’t home while this was happening. Stuff like this only happens when he’s at the station. Same with the baby getting sick: that also only happens when he’s at the station.

Universe, what are you trying to do to me?

To keep myself from cursing the fire schedule, the horse, the weather, the fact that we’re even doing this breeding thing and keeping other horses in the first place, and the current political state of North Korea, I just kept picturing B in a white button-down, telling me thank-you and how much he appreciates me sloshing through quicksand in his absence.

That worked for a while. Right up until the mare ran by me so fast and so close that mud splatters landed on my cheek.

The cheek my baby touches.

The one that I slather sunscreen and blush on everyday.

I can’t even let myself think about what all was mixed into that mud. Suffice it to say, just him in the white shirt was no longer doing it.

The hula hoop helped.

But only just a little.

***

I’d reveal how she got out in the first place, but I don’t wanna throw B under the bus with the details of how he accidentally left a barn door ajar.

Oops. Too late.

We had a really good time at Dan and Candy’s Hawaiian-themed couples’ shower three months and eight years ago. I brought my own Sonic vanilla Coke. Because hello. Sonic? Crushed ice? Don’t mind if I do….

That, and I didn’t have to worry about anyone asking if I wanted some Hawaiian punch or a glass of lemonade. Gagging at a party is not attractive. Much like walking around with mud on your face.

A Smattering

Happy spring, three days late. Katie’s been asking for the “spring song” at bedtime every night. Most of the time, when she asks for a song, she really means a story. So I tell her the story about Mama, Daddy, and Katie going to bed one night when the weather was cold and rainy and gray, and the next morning, they wake up to sunshine, warm weather, birds chirping, grasshoppers hopping for the cats to pounce, and baby horses running; spring has sprung.

She loves that story, and who can blame her? She asks, “Will we pick up sticks?”

“Yes, baby, we will pick up many a stick.”

What can I say: I’ve turned yard work into fun and games. She asked me one afternoon some weekends ago if I could “help her with this field work.”

Well, mercy yes, honey. Lemme load up the mule and hitch the wagon.

Speaking of functioning out of our time element…last weekend, we took a road trip to the other side of the moon – aka Houston – to pick up a part for B’s truck. On the way home, baby girl had a bit of a diaper leak that resulted in wet britches. So her ever-resourceful daddy just tied ‘em to the back of the trailer…said they’d be dry by Hempstead! Katie’s 12-year-old self was suitably mortified, but her 2 ½ year old self only said, “Daddy, silly ol’ you.”

Right on, sister. Own it.

That’s the beauty of a toddler. She has no fear, and she has no idea about worrying what other people think or say. Why can’t we all hold onto that? It gets wrecked somewhere along the way….

Last Sunday, one of her church lady friends was whispering hello to her and asking her how she was doing during the preacher’s announcements. In answer, she bellows proudly, for God and all the angels to hear: “HI! MY NAME NAMED TIANA!”

Well of course.

We’ve never even seen the Tiana movie, yet here she is claiming her identity. Loudly. Right in the middle of church, grinnin’ like a loon. And yes, she always says her name is “named” __________. Fill in the blank. It could be Tiana, Cinderella, Katie Becker, or Shashushie Lay. That last one translates into “I’m just gonna make something up right here to confuse you and test your ability to keep a straight face.”

I almost didn’t post some of these pictures, as much as I love them, because they showed our house from before we redid the outside with new siding. You think Katie worries or cares about that? No, I doubt it. She only cares if there’s iced animal cookies inside that old, chippy house. The paint makes her no matter, unless it’s flaking in her snack bag.

But I’m trying to be like Katie. To not care about that sorta “how does it look” stuff. She has confidence and is happily just experiencing everything around her, taking it as it comes.

While we were eating our BBQed sausage on the porch the other evening, I told her, “Look…your Sandy-pony is watching you.”

She confidently replied: “That’s because he’s my best friend.”

Of this, I have no doubt.

My sister took all of these pictures in October of 2011. She always takes our pictures for our Christmas card, and these are some of my favorites that we didn’t use.

Shout out to B for getting prettied up in the middle of October for pictures, of all things. He likes taking pictures almost as much as he likes listening to me quote Designing Women through donkey laughs. Which is to say: not at all.

[Reese: “Who do all these bags belong to?”

Suzanne: “Oh. Those are my cosmetic bags.”

Reese: “No one's that ugly.”]

And shout out to Sister for running around in the wind for a while, dodging nosey horses and cats, all just to take our picture. And for listening to me ask, “How did that REALLY look? Is my pooch showing? Is Katie actually smiling? Are all these piles of manure gonna be in the picture?”

And those of you that saw the card already know that YES, the steamy piles will DEFINITELY be in the pictures.

Do people still give shout-outs?

Anyway…B looked good enough to eat, Katie thought it was just another day outside, and my sister didn’t need to take a nerve pill halfway through. I’d call that a success.

By Arm and Neck Alone

He can try to avoid the camera, but I can pick him out of a crowd. All I have to see is that neck and those forearms.

I Heart Comics

Well said, brother.

WELL SAID.

Nothing Says Love Like Petty Theft

Ah, Valentine’s Day. What other day has so much power to depress a woman, fill her up with hopes of romance, or cause her to recoil at the copious amounts of pink, red, fluff, and I Heart You messages?

Let me just tell you I’m pretty sure I fall into that last category. By nature, I am far from sappy…unless it involves my baby. Because get serious. Have you seen her? Or heard her? I can’t help myself.

All the Valentine sticky gooey is completely lost on me.

However.

The first Valentine’s Day after meeting The One, I suddenly sure cared a whole lot.

Would he remember? Would he do anything special? I mean, he was really busy avoiding schoolwork and riding all the horses and working outside and stuff. And roping.

When The Day rolled around, he called me up and asked if I wanted to go roping with him. This was not unusual. We’d leave College Station, head to his hometown to saddle and pick up his horse, and then make our way to the ropin’ arena where one or more guys would be, ready to release the steers for a night of, well, roping.

The first few times I went along, I sat on the fence and just watched in rapt horror/amazement. It’s not like I hadn’t seen roping before, but it’s different when it’s your one true love, and BOY HOWDY, do they pick up some speed while in pursuit. And the night always ended with some fool trying to ride a steer.

Good, clean, six-year-old fun.

Then, after a few trips, I became the official “chute-worker.” I sat on top of this rusty contraption that used to be painted blue, and I pulled the squeaky lever to let the steer out when they were ready for the next one. At first, I was flattered and felt all kinds of “cool cowgirl,” but the wonderment quickly wore off as my rear end fell asleep from perching on top of the old wooden seat. Those guys were ruthless bosses, too, by the way. Heaven forbid you need to climb down and find a bathroom in the middle of the pasture or stretch your legs that fell asleep two hours ago.

Once this newness wore off and I learned how to politely decline with a dainty “No way, man,” I fell comfortably into my routine of sitting in the truck or in a camp chair while reading or coloring.

Because if they’re gonna ride steers like they’re six, then I’m gonna color like I’m six.

Notice there’s no mention of playing on my phone – that’s because PHONES DIDN’T DO THAT BACK THEN.

Anyway. I thought this Valentine’s Day would be like those other ropin’ days, but when we got to his house, it wasn’t saddles and tack we were loadin’ up; it was a scratchy woven blanket, some hand-picked white flowers, and McDonald’s. To Piedmont we went, for a picnic…with Boudreaux as our chaperone. He alternately shared french fries with B and me.

It was his favorite Valentine’s Day ever.

Mine, too.

Now, lest you think we stuck to something so tame and normal, I feel the need to point out that we ended the night with a trip down a famous street in his hometown: Stacey Street. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.

It’s the only one that’s spelled right.

Have I told this story before?

I feel like I’ve told this story before.

Although he hasn’t been arrested yet, so I can only assume I haven’t.

Next thing I know, we’re parked by the curb, and he’s monkeying that sign down.

It’s followed me everywhere…from the apartment in the “city” to the house in town and back out to Piedmont.

Where it still hangs.

See it?

I bet the new renters are really gonna appreciate it when they look up from their couch one day and notice a street sign in their front yard.

Luckily, my husband monkeyed it way up in that tree the same way he originally got it down, so unless they want to start scaling, they’ll never reach it.

I just don’t want them to forget me, and this sign will be a handy reminder.

He Kinda Started the Blog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

But when we are certain of sorrow in store

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and sisters I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Rudyard Kipling

This Looks Safe

“I’m gonna be careful.”

That’s what Katie says every time she leaves me for another room. She’s reassuring me during these days of change and independence-gathering. I think our roles somehow got reversed. She is reassuring me.

“Don’t worry, Mama…I’m being very careful.”

And she kind of looks at me with a serious face and puts her hand out, to symbolically stop the worry. In the name of love.

I get this same gig whether she’s walking into the next room to see where Cinderella is or whether she’s crawling up on the hope chest to get on the bed. There’s no discerning between a true sense of peril and just every day ambling.

And I must admit: I think it maybe works a little. I return the serious face and say, “Okay. Thank you.” And on we go.

Perhaps I’d felt a little better this day in Piedmont if my husband had looked at me before ascending the Bobcat of Doom, hand raised in symbolic worry-stopping, and said, “I’m gonna be careful.”

But no. He just loped into the bucket of the Bobcat and told his buddy: “Get me up as high as you can.”

Wiser words were never spoken.

And then he decided that he needed two hands for the job, so he had his buddy bring over a ladder for him to transition to, so that the aforementioned buddy could then launch HIMself up into the stratosphere with a medal wand of fire that shot sparks. And what a friend he must be…only one of them can wear the helmet to protect their eyes and face from the welding rod. You see who won that Rock, Paper, Scissors….

The Year Was 2005

The year was 2005. I lived in town, and I didn’t have a clue that B would be asking me to marry him a few months later. I'd been out of college for four years and in the rent house for one. Life was good, easy, and full of sleep. (Everything relates back to sleep once you've had a baby and stop actually sleeping.)

And this boy.

This boy was almost 2-years-old.

Little did I know on this day of sprinkler play that over 7 years later, he would be sitting on my living room floor, out in the country, playing princess puzzles with my very own baby girl.

He’s so grown now. Such a BOY. He and his daddy have been coming out to the house lately to hunt deer, practice shooting, and to work on a deer blind they’re building with B.

Of course, Katie states with all excitement and assurance that “they’re building Tangled’s tower!”

I’ve tried telling her that the girl’s name is Rapunzel, not Tangled. Tangled is just the name of the movie, but sister’s not listening. The long-haired blond is Tangled, forevermore.

Anyway, it makes me happy to see them playing together. He’s the sweetest thing to her…he caters to her and is kind to her and ever-patient. He tells her how smart she is and even told her “not to touch this leather thing on my belt, because it’s a knife sheath! Knives are not for little girls.”

Thanks for drawing her attention to it.

But who can blame him? He’s just basking in the glow of all these new manly abilities to hunt and shoot and fish and smell bad. Kind of reminds me of when I started toting around one of my first purses – it was pink, of the HOT variety – and it had this little embroidered strip of flowers across it. It was flat and rectangular, and I can still feel it in my hands.

I’d schlep it to Grandma and Grandpa’s house every day during the summer, with all the necessities. One day in particular, I remember packing a Fred Flintstone Maze & Puzzle Book and an orange.

Like a navel orange from the grocery store.

I bet I was warning everyone: Careful around my purse. There are girly necessities inside. Like produce and word finds.

All this to say that I can't believe how fast time is passing. Kids are great - or is it horrible? - markers of time. I would have never noticed the passage of seven years before. But when you can see these small people growing and changing, so fast, right before your eyes? You can't ignore the seven years anymore.

And let me also say that I feel absolutely ridiculous typing "kids," because I still feel like one. I don't feel that I've been authorized for Adulthood yet. Maybe when I start having a hankering for S.A.S. shoes and supper at 4:30 in the afternoon....