My Deep South Grandma

This weekend was a rather bittersweet one. We got to spend two whole days with my extended family in South GA (read: the land of gnats, sweet tea, and peanuts). It was 85 degrees there, while up on our mountain it was probably more like 68. But, we adjusted to that. My hair, however, did not. But, I digress. Back to the somewhat bitter part of this sweet weekend of aunts and uncles and cousins and sweet tea. I think this may warrant a new paragraph.

My eighty-five year old grandma Margie was placed in ICU on Thursday night and around 2:30am we almost lost her. The next day, the doctor on duty proclaimed her a "miracle" and commented that there must have been some serious praying going on (yep). As my parents were driving through the night to get there in time to say what they thought would be goodbye, I was having to bide my time up here on this mountain and found myself remembering all kinds of things about my grandma that I hadn't thought about in a while. The heavy weight of believing that I would probably never hear her gloriously southern voice again made my throat tight and my nose stuffy. I don't cry much, but Thursday night was a tearful one.

So, in honor of Marge, as my uncle affectionately calls her, I thought I'd mention a few things about my grandma that I find endearing and wonderful. Here goes:

My grandma is a whopping 4'11 and shrinking. But, what she doesn't have in height, she makes up for in being feisty. She's a serious (and I mean serious) Braves fan. She knows what Chipper Jones is having for breakfast on his off days. Grandma has lived in the same part of GA for 85 years, but she's been to every state in the Union (including the ones that aren't contiguous). She's also been to Europe. I find it incredible that a woman who didn't have indoor plumbing at different times in her life has seen more of the country/world than most of us who've moved 23 times.

My grandma has the best southern accent you've ever heard. She also has endearing ways of saying certain words, for instance, nauseating becomes noiseating. Grandma makes the sweetest tea you've ever tasted and on its second day in the fridge, you can use it for syrup on your pancakes. Yum. She can also cook up a "mess" of salmon (she'll pronounce the "l") patties, mashed potatoes, collard greens, hoecake, creamed corn, turkey dressing and giblet gravy. You'll have to loosen your belt after that one.

Grandma loves bacon and Hardee's and her "girls" who she goes to water aerobics with. If you've spent any time with her, you know that she's usually got a diet Dr. Pepper and a bag of Cheetos in her purse. She's extra-extraverted and loves being the center of attention, which works out well because she's got a quick sense of humor.

She sends a card at every birthday, the kind of card that has about four pages of very poetic, very Helen Steiner Rice, sentiments. But, they always feel personal and you know that she stood in the card section of Rite-Aid for about 20 minutes picking out the perfect card for you.

My grandma loves Jesus. She's at church every time the doors are open. She sings alto in the choir and loves her Pastor Dan. On Thursday night, when they thought she was almost gone, my aunts and uncles and my parents (who made it there in the middle of the night) all stood around her bed and sang "Amazing Grace." She sang too with the little bit of voice she had left and a tear running down her cheek. I'm sure she was starting to wonder what it was going to be like to see Jesus and maybe give my sweet grandaddy a long-awaited hug.

My grandma is my last grandparent. I'm thankful that at 33 I still have one of those. I could hardly hold it together last Saturday morning when I went to visit her at the hospital and realized an answer to prayer was happening when she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I hadn't thought I'd hear that voice again on this earth. It was so incredibly good to hear it again.

She's still in the hospital, but she's getting more and more of her spirit (i.e. feisty) back. They're hoping she'll get to go home tomorrow. I'm wishing I was going to be there to see her walk back into that familiar house and maybe turn on the Braves game and settle into her chair with a new crossword puzzle.

I won't ever forget this past weekend and what it felt like to see and hear her again when I thought I'd lost her. I'm more than grateful for a little more time with my Braves-loving Margie.

That's Very Pinteresting

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm attempting to have a little time to myself, which in my normal reality is about as rare and possibly non-existent as a unicorn. Time to oneself is a little hard to come by when one has a small boy in their care in addition to living in a 950 square foot house. But, said small boy is snoozing in his room and said husband is watching football and will be snoozing before too many more [insert random football terminology here} have taken place.

I've been a little distracted lately and haven't made my way over here to my blog as often as I'd like to, despite its fancy new design. (Thanks to Carolyn V). If I were someone who didn't feel any moral compunction about lying, I would tell you that the aforementioned distractions have included visiting widows and orphans, adopting animals from the local shelter, cooking meals for the homeless, growing organic vegetables and reading my Bible late into the night. BUT, because I am, or try to be, an honest woman, I will tell the truth here and possibly give you reason to avoid me at Bi-Lo next time you see me. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you can decide for yourself.

About a month ago, I discovered something. It was unassuming and even a little hard to figure out at first. But, it didn't take long before I had gotten the hang of it and every time I thought about it, while I was washing dishes or grocery shopping or putting Sam down for a nap, I felt a tiny twinge of excitement. Usually, I'd be sure to get the toys put up, the dishes washed, the laundry done, my emails checked, etc. before allowing myself to go there, but sometimes, the pull was too strong and the temptation too overwhelming. Before I knew it, with chores undone and phone calls unreturned, I would find myself, hours later, still pinning. Pinning, you ask? That's right. Pinning.

Perhaps you're unfamiliar with Pinterest. And maybe it's better that way. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can visit my page here: http://pinterest.com/darar/ It's hard to explain the draw of Pinterest until you've experienced it yourself, but be forewarned, once you start pinning, there's no turning back, my friend.

Essentially, Pinterest is a catalog of images that you can select, or pin, to a page that collects all your personal favorites. In the magical world of Pinterest, you'll find photos of food, fashion, travel, home, art, etc. Basically, it's an online folder for stuff you like to look at, dream about, hope for, and possibly covet (but, that's another whole issue).

There's something fantastic about being able to peruse perfect bathrooms and comfortable living rooms and dreamy kitchens for hours upon hours. It's hard to pull myself away from the plethora of neurotically organized linen closets and pantrys (anyone know the plural of "pantry"?) and bookshelves. Who knew that you could organize all your books by color or label all your pantry items with chalkboard magnets? Pinterest is heaven for those of us with slightly organizationally compulsive natures.

I confessed to my husband this morning that I "love" Pinterest. He wasn't shocked, maybe just confused by this sudden admission. It's been added to my list of daily website visits, along with Facebook, Yahoo and embarrassingly enough, People.com (that was actually hard to confess.)

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to have to deal with some coveting/discontentment/comparision/identity issues at some point and find that Pinterest may have a little (or a lot?) to do with these. But, for the moment, I can't tear myself away from all those lovely Mason Jar table settings, DIY birthday party favors and handmade skirts with secret pockets.

An intervention may be necessary before too long, but I'll worry about that later. Right now I have some pinning, I mean, laundry to do.

The Samster

Maybe you've found yourself casually wondering what Sam's up to these days. I thought you might have so I figured I'd update you on the little guy and the plethora of ways he's keeping us more than just a little busy lately. I find myself occasionally flipping (clicking?) through the pictures on my phone and being reminded of how very, very small he was mere months ago. And, now he's this energetic (i.e. like he had a Red Bull for breakfast) little person that on rainy, waterlogged days like this one, attempts to climb every piece of furniture, empty every kitchen drawer, and push every button I never knew I even had. BUT, despite all that, I am more than a little head over heels for this sweet boy and wouldn't trade a second (except for maybe that unfortunate diaper incident we had yesterday) with him for anything.

Here's a little of what he's been up to lately...

The Unexpected

This post has been simmering for a while and now that Sam is happily tucked away at Mother's Day Out, I have a little time to write a few things down. I really should be driving myself to the grocery store right now, but in the interest of sharing my life and facilitating a bit of procrastination, I think I'll do this instead.

I had a lot of ideas over the past couple months for what this post would eventually be called. "Bun in the Oven" was one thought, and then there was "Sam's a Big Brother!" which felt too obvious, and I briefly considered the Amish favorite "In the Family Way." None of those seemed to be as clever or as interesting as I needed them to be. Luckily, I held off and didn't write that post despite the fact that I was dying to so that I could atleast confess to someone how many Krystals I'd eaten in three days and all the hormonally-induced reasons why that calorie-laden tragedy had happened. But, instead, I waited.

And then something sad happened a couple weeks ago that we were not very prepared for. We're still wading through it and I have a feeling we may not ever completely be able to wrap our minds or hearts around what we've just experienced. Essentially, the baby we thought we'd be grafting into our lives come next spring isn't coming. And there really aren't any good or satisfying explanations as to why.

We've been pretty sad lately and to be honest, I've been a bit of a hormonal train wreck of sorts, but time passing has made things better and we continue to be reminded of how blessed we already are with the little family that we have. I think Sam has been hugged within an inch of his life these last couple weeks, as if he wasn't already the most hugged little boy to ever breathe. The weight of how intensely fragile and precious and fleeting life is has hit home and we are keenly aware of the MIRACLE it is to have even just one healthy child.

If I haven't talked to you lately and you're reading about this on a blog during your lunch break or between cleaning the bathroom and folding laundry, I hope you don't mind that I've just mass communicated something I would normally tell you in person over coffee or on the phone. It's been a strange thing to know how to tell anybody about what's happened and yet it's been hard not to shout it from the rooftops because it's all I can think about lately. I'll admit that blogging about something so personal seems a little inappropriate and even a bit crazy, but it's also a relief because I can say all the things I want to how I want to without having a minor breakdown on your shoulder, potentially in public, which I wouldn't like at all.

The upside of this is that the pregnancy hormones that make me someone who eats Krystals for breakfast and lives on the sofa 24/7, those have made their exit and left me feeling like a normal human being again. This experience has also made Matt and I that much more aware of our need for community and our desperate dependence on our Creator for pretty much everything. I think it's even made us more patient with the constancy of Thomas the Train in our living room and the occasional meltdowns our little guy has over not being allowed to play with scissors and other such household weapons.

We are so thankful for the encouragement and the prayers and the hope that we have been offered through the friends and community who have cared about us in the midst of this. I'm really hopeful that this part of our story will help Matt and I be better parents to Sam and better friends to others who are walking through a hard season like we're in right now.

And, after this is all over, I can't help but already hope toward the possibility of other babies in our family and that Sam will finally get to wear that Big Brother shirt he's got hanging in his closet.

Romans 8:28a- And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good.

Ode to the Red Couch

Once upon a time I owned a beautiful red couch. It was the first legitimate piece of new furniture I had ever owned and when it was shoved (and I do mean shoved) through the narrow door of my studio apartment for the first time, I was in love. With a couch. I read many a book, took many a nap, had many a late night conversation, watched many an episode of Felicity, ate more than my fair share of frozen dinners, and laughed and cried and daydreamed on that big red couch.

The red couch came with me when I moved into the apartment that would be Matt's and my first home. It fit just right into the new place and I loved evenings when Matt would be on one end reading a book and I on the other end reading my book while cookies baked in the oven or the tea pot whistled in the nearby kitchen. Early on in our marriage, we did have a small incident which involved a red pen being left out on the red couch...without it's top. This was a low moment in our marriage. It took a little while for me to get over the red pen situation. But, I turned the cushion to its other pristine side and went on with life.

A few years later, and a few places of residence later, we had a baby boy named Sam. Maybe I've mentioned him before. Anyhoo, during the first eleven months of his life, our couch was in storage as we lived with family during a major job hunt by the hub. So, the couch was spared from spit up, diaper leaks, bottle spills and the like. I'm sure it sighed with relief in its storage unit.

That brings us to today. Not much has happened in the way of disaster spills or major mishaps in the last nine months of Sam's co-existence with the red couch. There are a few grape juice stains, although rather faint considering the red fabric. And there are some other odd smudges that I think forensics would prove are yogurt and possibly peanut butter. But, other than those and a few raisins between the cushions, the red couch has been relatively unscathed by the Samster. Until today.

I've discovered (in a stroke of brilliance and possibly negligent parenting) that if I give Sam a sippy cup of juice and turn on Thomas the Train, I can take a shower and get ready without having the whole upstairs ransacked. This way I can get ready in roughly thirty-five minutes or less rather than two hours or more. And so, this morning, dreaming of all the outings we could take ourselves on if we got ready early and headed out, I gave Sam his juice, I turned on Thomas the Train, and I went to take a shower.

First mistake: I decided against putting Sam's shorts on this morning and let him just wear his t-shirt and diaper for a bit. I didn't think that would be a big deal and he might even like the extra mobility.

Second mistake: He'd already seen this particular Thomas the Train episode a few times and apparently, it wasn't really that stimulating anymore.

Third mistake: I gave Sam his third sippy cup of the morning as I headed off to the shower.

And so, as you may have guessed, I came back to find Sam wearing only a t-shirt. No diaper. Along with a big grin. I quickly scanned the room for any unpleasant items or "incidents." At first, I thought I'd caught him early enough and then...there it was. A big, wet puddle in the middle of my red couch. Essentially, Sam had taken off his diaper, settled into the comfy couch and just let it flow.

Siiiiiiiighhhhhhhh.

No mall, no library, no anything for us this morning. Just frantic re-diapering and then attempting to give my red couch back some of its dignity. Currently, the cushion covers are drying in the sun and later I'll do some steam cleaning. But, I don't think my red couch will ever be quite the same.

I suppose it could be worse. I could own a suede couch the color of sand. Or Sam could have done more than just a number one in this situation. So, I will just let it go and determine to never let Sam go without his shorts again. Ever.

Moral of the Story/To-Do list: Duct tape Sam's diapers on next time, cut him off at two sippy cups, and hunt down one of those plastic sofa covers my great grandma used on her couch back in 1978. Done.

Four Years and One Sam Later...

I just ate the last Magnum bar while clicking through the profile pictures album on my Facebook page. Before I go on, have you had a Magnum bar yet? If not, drop what you're doing and run (seriously, run) to the grocery to buy a box of these. I mean it. You'll thank me. Back to what I was saying about flipping through the past five years of my life recorded in digital images and stored on a social media site. It was a little like watching my life flash before my eyes AND at the same time seeing those same eyes acquire new wrinkles every twenty-five pictures. Sigh.

But, despite having been made more aware of my increasing age and wrinkles, I feel reassured somehow after having watched the last five years flash by in a series of candids. It's easy to forget the life that I've lived and the people that I love sometimes when I spend my days at home seeing only Sam and the occasional meter man/UPS man/Jehovah's witness. It's easy to forget that there have been a lot of good things and a lot of good friends that seem to fall through the cracks of my heart a little with each passing day of stay-at-home-mom-ness. This may sound like a complaint, but it's not, really. Just an observation.

In the last twenty minutes of perusing the massive online photo album of my life, I saw myself transformed from a single girl working with college students to a girl getting engaged to her dream man, to a girl walking down the aisle of her front yard and then living the married life here, there, and everywhere. And then there was that same girl putting on thirty pounds over ten months and then forty-one weeks later welcoming a baby boy named Sam who subsequently took over our lives and my Facebook profile pictures. And now here we are with a twenty-month old in a new city, in a new house with a new life. It's a little breathtaking looking back to see where we've been and the somewhat long and winding road to now.

And so, I'm reminiscing here at the kitchen table, thankful for a life full of Matt and Sam and friends and family who love me and whom I love. In the midst of that reminiscing, I'm reminded how these last five years of my life have been made so much lovelier by the man who surprised me with a proposal almost four and a half years ago in a Swedish castle one cold winter night. And then four years ago today, I married him on a hot, August evening at my parents' house with the people dearest to us looking on.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend and favorite human being.
You are a dream come true.

Mason Dixon meets a Yankee

So, I'm attempting to enter into a blogging/essay contest hosted by Real Simple on the subject of "Who Am I Most Surprised to Be Friends With?" This is my original essay, which I then had to pare down to 300 words for the contest. I had 178 extra words. Argh. Editing oneself is always difficult because we hold our own words so dear, which is something my journalism professor used to remind us of in class. Turns out, she was right. Who knew I would have trouble editing out the word "unmistakably" simply because I had written it. Anyhoo, here's my entry:


I grew up with a very imposing portrait of General Robert E. Lee gracing the wall of our family home. The General was something like a great-great-great uncle whom I had never met but knew a whole lot about. Our family's annual vacations almost always included some variation of a Civil War memorial/battlefield/museum. And, now, even as a slightly more cosmopolitan adult, I still vaguely believe that a southerner is able to feel the impact of crossing the Mason-Dixon line much like the family dog crossing the electric fence's boundary at the edge of the yard.

When I was barely nineteen, I watched the tall pine trees of my home state of Georgia disappear as the plane I had boarded slipped into the horizon, headed for Colorado and the camp I would be staffing for the next three months.

Soon after arriving in Manitou Springs, a quirky mountain town with a flair for the unusual, I was unpacking my bags in the "penthouse" of the old, un-air-conditioned hotel that housed students and staff. Before long I had been introduced to my roommate for the summer and, lo and behold, she was from Michigan. A real live Yankee. Her accent and mine could scarcely fit in the same small room together.

It didn't take long for me to realize that ours was to be a somewhat uncomfortable roommate situation. There was an icy tension in our 100 degree room at the top of the hotel. Eventually, I was traded like an unpopular baseball player and found myself a few floors down with another roommate, also from Michigan, but with a bit more love for those of us who said "y'all" and "fixin' to" with frequency.

Within a week or two, the most unlikely thing happened. My former roommate and I found ourselves working the same kitchen shift and couldn't keep ourselves from having a really good time. Before long, we were attached at the hip and the old tension that had pushed us apart seemed to have melted away like so much peach ice cream at a Sunday school picnic.

Our unspoken reconciliation did find us confessing to one another at some point that summer how at first, she had unfairly assumed I was a "redneck" and I had just as unfairly assumed she was a "rude yankee." We laughed at our foolishness and spent the rest of that summer with arms linked. We parted ways in September with tears, she to her cold northern state and I to my warm southern one.

Coming back to the South after having been gone for a while is much like being the returning prodigal son. This time, however, I had glimpsed a life outside the humid, peach-scented world I'd grown up in and it didn't take much to carry me back to Colorado two years later for another summer of camp.