Because I Said So

Resolution Blues

2012-01-01T14:19:00.000-08:00

While many of us spend this first day of 2012 pondering ways to improve ourselves in the new year, I tend to look back on 2011 and wonder what went wrong. As I review my list of last year's resolutions with dismay, I see that once again, I accomplished.....not one. My resolve to blog more faded as quickly as the ink on the coupon mailer in my front yard storm drain, evidence of yet another resolution gone by the wayside. Never could manage to get that thing all the way inside the front door, never mind actually cutting, organizing, then remembering the coupons. My clear-cut, specific, goal-oriented resolution to simplify, well, that one dissolved into frenzied chaos before I could manage to get the Christmas tree out the front door all while trying to avoid spilling thousands of dried pine needles. It was clearly not a banner year for resolutions.

Looking back, it's actually pretty easy to see why I failed. I mean, simplify, what does that mean exactly? Simplify what? How does anyone accomplish anything without a plan? When I reflect on the past year and look past the failed resolutions, though, I see that I achieved pursuits I didn't even have the foresight to include on my yearly list of failed attempts, I mean, New Year's resolutions. For instance, I shaved over one minute off of my mile time this year, running one in 8:45, instead of poking along at 10:00. That didn't require haphazardly scribbling down a list of well-intentioned goals at the beginning of a year, when, let's be frank, I was probably still coming down from red velvet cake and chocolate-butterscotch fudge-induced haze. It took waking up one summer day and declaring, "I am tired of being slow; today is the day I train harder and run faster," then, somewhat begrudgingly, dragging myself out of bed at 5 a.m. and hitting the treadmill, increasing my speed each week. Self-discipline and a plan.

I also notice my list of non-resolved endeavors for 2011 also includes creating and running a successful tutoring business (along with my awesome business partner, who fell in love, married, and moved away, but that's another day's tale). With no business background or knowledge, just a plan, grit, determination, and a lot of God's grace, I ran a successful business in 2011 with promise of an even better 2012. Two on a list of many: my sweet baby girl completing a successful first semester of kindergarten, my little man learning his alphabet and numbers through 20, small successes that built into quite a banner year.

And here I am again, contemplating my list of resolutions for 2012, wondering why I bother, but deep down, I know why. It's hope; it's the hope that accompanies the thrill of standing at the threshold of a new start, of a new year, of a new list of endless possibilities, including the prospect of getting it right this year, and if I fail, there's always next year. And this year, if I fail, I know from looking back, that there will be an entirely different list, one that is created in response to the day-to-day adversity that propels us to achieve without actually writing it down on January 1st. I am also reminded of Phillipians 1:6, "that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." That God himself, who could perfect us immediately, chooses to refine us through daily challenges, which include both successes and failures. So, this year, I will resolve yet again, not because I believe I'll accomplish without fail, but because I can dream and hope and know that life is a process that doesn't always require success. Perhaps it's in the failed lists of new year's past that we create new lists, real lists that truly do improve who we are and teach us what we really hope to become.

Sporting Moments

2011-07-02T17:21:00.000-07:00

Some people measure life in hours, some in years. For me, much of my life can be measured by great sports moments.

I was sitting in the floor of my parents bedroom on October 14, 1992, when Francisco Cabrera hit the game winning single in the bottom of the ninth of Game 7 of the NLCS to score David Justice and Sid Bream. I quickly moved from rocking back and forth, holding my knees and biting my nails to squealing and jumping then to being shushed by my mom, who had just finished putting my youngest sister to bed.

Three years earlier, almost to the day, I was sitting in the same spot watching the Giants play the A's in the World Series when the San Francisco Earthquake of 1989 struck. The rocking back and forth and biting of nails for much different reasons this time. I remember the relief when I learned that my cousin, who lived in San Francisco, was safe and sound.

I can tell you on exactly which lap my dad would fall asleep each Sunday while watching the NASCAR race together, and I can recount the countless conversations where my dad reminded me of why Dale Earnhardt was the best driver to ever shift the gears of a stock car, each lap a reminder of why I loved watching races with my daddy.

I was sitting on the couch next to my mom on March 28, 1992, when Grant Hill threw a pass to Christian Laettner in the final seconds of the NCAA Finals with 2.1 seconds left in overtime. Laettner's last second jumper moved the Blue Devils one point ahead of my beloved Kentucky Wildcats to a 104-103 victory. My mom was there to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

On Saturday, October 28, 1995, my sister and I jumped up and down embracing as the Braves finally won the World Series. Three years later, on September 8, 1998, Amy and I sat in the floor of our apartment watching in awe as Mark McGwire hit the home run that broke Roger Maris's single-season home run record. Regardless of the questions that later surrounded McGwire, my sister and I, who rarely missed a Braves game or historic baseball moment, will never forget that moment.

My daughter Anna was born during half-time of the Kentucky- LSU basketball game, which I watched right up until delivery, then of course, quickly forgot was being played once they placed her in my arms. What can I say, her baby shower theme was Kentucky Wildcats, complete with a basketball cake!

On January 10th of this year, my kids donned Auburn orange & blue and cheered their hearts out for the Tigers, right up until they just couldn't cheer anymore and fell asleep on the couch. My husband and I continued the cheering, a roller coaster ride of emotions. The night finally ended with my husband and I tearfully embracing as time expired, and Auburn stood victorious. Without saying a word, we sprinted upstairs for the toilet paper and erupted into laughter as we attempted to roll the large oak tree in our front yard.

This morning, when my husband mentions that the Tour de France begins tomorrow, I smile and grow excited. For three weeks, after we tuck the kids in for the night, my husband sits in the floor of the den, back against the coffee table, while I curl up on the couch. He turns the television to Versus, and we watch as Andy Schleck and Alberto Contador battle for the yellow jersey. While Bob Rolle and Phil Liggett share stories about the riders, I also listen intently as my husband explains why some riders wear green jerseys and some polka dotted, something about rookies and kings of the mountain.

Then, it hits me, that, sure, I love sports, but it's not necessarily the thrill of the competition that speeds my pulse, it's the stories shared while watching, the experience of spending time with those you love as you watch your favorite team prevail against great odds, a reminder that maybe you, too, can defy odds. Who remembers where they were when what's-his-name won American Idol? But who doesn't remember where they were when Auburn or Alabama won a National Championship or the Braves finally won a World Series? Who doesn't remember what they were wearing that day, or who they were embracing when the winning touchdown, basket, or run was scored? It's why when we're sharing that great sports moment with someone who, perish the thought, isn't a sports fan, we always mention that we were with our dad, sister, husband, son, or daughter, because they're really the reason the moment was so special, so memorable, and I think for most of us, that's the reason we're sports fans.

Amazing Love

2011-04-18T12:22:00.000-07:00

My Sunday school class has decided to examine a language that is at times as familiar and comfortable as a favorite pair of slippers and is at other times as uncomfortable and foreign as a faraway land. The language of love, more importantly what the Bible says about this language we all think we speak with fluency until we see the hurt in the eyes of a spouse or our child and suddenly we're struggling to make sense of how our expression could have been so misunderstood. And we see that maybe we're not speaking it so clearly, after all.

I have been blessed to be able to teach this unit of study and have loved researching love, more specifically, Agape. Not that I hold any authority on the subject or even know how to teach it adequately, but I do know I've experienced Agape and am excited to explore how to allow God to express His love through me more consistently. Following our first class, I sat in the choir loft listening to our church organist play "The Old Rugged Cross" yesterday and realized it was the first time I'd heard that song since I was a little girl sitting in the pew of Liberty Hill Baptist Church between my grandparents and mom. It was before the days of church nurseries or childcare, and my mom would write us notes or create goblets and swans out of gum wrappers to entertain us during the minister's spirited sermon. It dawned on me that this was Agape in action. My mom cared so much about our faith that she was willing to sit and entertain four children for over an hour just to set an example of the importance of worship.

Not that I was daydreaming during my own church service, but I couldn't keep my mind from contemplating how little we truly manage to practice an Agape kind of love, so I decided to post my notes from the Sunday school lesson yesterday in hopes that they might encourage someone who is finding someone in his/her life a little tough to love or who just needs to understand that our heavenly Father is always showing Agape, if we'll just receive it or to encourage moms who might grow weary of always setting that example for our children. Take heart; one day when you least expect it, they'll recall, appreciate, and share the lesson.

Speaking the Father's Language

“What is Love?” “What’s Love Got to Do With It?” “Love Stinks” “Love is Blind” “Love Hurts” “I’ve Got Your Love to Keep Me Warm”

Perhaps your thoughts on love mirror one of the above statements, or maybe you have a few more to add to the list. The quest to define love has led to wars both inside and outside the home. Wherever you currently stand, it’s hard to deny that as Christians, we are called to take off the blinders put on by society’s love expectations and to put on the Holy Spirit and love in a radical way. So, what exactly does that mean? What is Christian love supposed to look like? To truly understand what biblical love looks like, we need to examine the different Greek words for love.

When many of us think of love, we picture that floating-on-clouds-feet-not-touching-the-ground-butterflies-in-the-tummy-can’t-think-of-anyone-or-anything-else kind of love. That kind of love is Eros. The word actually means “’longing or desire’ and is a selfish love that asks what can I get for myself?” (53)

Another Greek word for love is Philos. Think brotherly love, as is Philadelphia, city of brotherly love (unless the Phillies just won the Series then it can be pretty ugly). It can also be defined as love among friends. In 1 Peter 3:8, we are called to “love the brethren.” The word used for love here is philadelphos, from the word philos (friend) and adelphos (brother). (57) In light of the season, interestingly. Phileo can also mean “kiss” and is the Greek word used when Judas betrays Christ with a kiss. In other cultures a kiss on the cheek denotes friendship.

We are going to focus on the other Greek word for love, which is Agape. Agape is “divine love that is propelled by the highest interest, where we are called to surrender to an act of God’s spirit which results in obedience.” (59) Agape is not an emotion; it is a response that can only be accomplished through the power of the Holy Spirit. We see Agape used in Christ’s commands for us to love; we see it in Christ describing his own love for us. Agape is the word used for love in the following verses. 1 John 4:16, 19- We know and believe the love God has for us. God is love, and he who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. We love because God first loved us. We are capable of responding in Agape because God first “Agaped.” How did He first demonstrate Agape. Well, while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

John 3:16 states that For God so loved (agape) the world, that He gave his only son that whosover believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. We also find our command to Agape in Mark 12:31 “Which commandment is the greatest?” Jesus answered…..The Lord our God, the Lord is one; and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ In these verses, each time you see the word love, Agape is the Greek word used.

And we see Agape in Galatians 5:22, the Fruit of the Spirit verses and that brings us to the heart of our discussion (get it, heart). When we receive Christ, the Holy Spirit takes up residence in us, and as a result we are told that we not only have great power, the power of the living God alive and at work in us, but we are also called to conform to Christ’s likeness through the power of this Spirit at work in us. That just means we are to die to the flesh, to the self, and grow in the Spirit, to allow the Spirit to work in us. The result of that working is the producing of fruit, the fruit of the Spirit, which is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. This is what walking in the Spirit should look like in our lives. Note the fruit is singular; it is all of these qualities combined into one fruit, they must work together to be fruitful or productive, which is why I will be defining a few of those qualities that really seem to go hand-in-hand with achieving agape for those in our lives who often make us cringe.

A few notes here: love is agape. The word for patience, which will be important in our later discussion of how Christians are called to love, is Makrothumia. Makrothumia means “to be long suffering, self-restraint before proceeding to action, the quality of a person who is able to avenge himself and refrains from doing so.” (119) This differs from another biblical occurrence of patience, think Job, which is hupome. Hupome is where we get our word hope and means perseverance. Makrothumia involves patience with people, while hupome involves patience with circumstances. We’ll definitely see the difference in our discussion.

Now, back to Agape. Question, when you think of love and the Bible, what verses immediately come to mind? Think weddings, think weddings, think weddings. Did you say 1 Corinthians 13? That is what I was hoping would come to mind! This is often referred to as the love chapter. I am going to challenge you to see it in new light. This verse tells us what love (agape) is and what love isn’t. It also can be seen as qualities, I believe of God, because as we learned in 1 John 14:19 God is Agape.

WHAT LOVE IS

Patient

Kind

Rejoices in Truth

Keeps no record of Wrongs

Protects

Trusts

Hopes

Perseveres

WHAT LOVE IS NOT

Boastful

Jealous

Proud

Rude

Self-Seeking

Easily Angered

Delight in Evil

Failure

First of all, understand, 1 Corinthians 13 isn’t written to married couples. It is written to Christians. We are not just called to love our spouses in this manner; we are called to love our enemies in this manner. Yes, in Matthew 5:44, where it says to love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, the word agape is used there, too! So, this is written to Christians who are commanded to Agape all as Christ Agaped us!

Allow me to quickly make a few comments on the specifics of some of the words in this list. Here patient is makrothumia. Remember our definition of makrothumia??? Enough said. We are called to practice makrothumia.

Kind is from the Greek word chresteuomai which means to show oneself useful.

Pride. Hmmmm. I believe this is the one that most prevents us from loving as we are called to do so. Again, my thoughts, but let’s examine how pride can ruin a relationship. “You just don’t know him.” “You can’t possibly expect me to see things as she does.” “It’s not me; you just spend ten minutes with her, you’ll see.” I am right; you are wrong. I refuse to see that it might be me and even if it isn’t….hmm….you get the picture. We are called to not be proud, to…gulp….swallow our pride, our ego, and humble ourselves in love. Our King washed the feet of his disciples, which I imagine is the modern day equivalent of cleaning their toilet, perhaps. For it to be such an example of humility, it must have been a task that most would try to avoid, yet he performed it in love. The Son of God came to serve in humility. For more on what pride can do, check out Psalm 10:4- in their pride, the wicked do not seek God. How about 2 Chronicles 26:16- we are told outright pride led to King Uzziah’s downfall. Proverbs 11:2 tells us pride brings disgrace, humility wisdom. In Daniel we learn King Belshazzar was stripped of his glory and throne due to pride, he fell into the hands of the Babylonians when he failed to heed the writing on the wall. Pride, an unwillingness to let go of our own notions of how it should be, an unwillingness to yield. (my own definition.)

Okay, now that I’ve revealed that pride in relationships is something I struggle with…..I’m done with my sermon to self. Love does not seek self. Does not seek self. Christ clearly did not seek self at any point of his earthly ministry. He sought our best interest and still does. Isn’t so much of our inability to not show agape rooted in our on self-interest, in our, my, desire to stand up and say, “Look at me. Look at what I can do! Me! Please see and affirm me!” In our desire for affirmation, to feel important, to be somebody, we step on others in the climb upward. Love, true agape, isn’t about me. It’s about you; it’s about Him!

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth and it always protects. The Greek word for protect is stego and it means “to cover in silence.” (65) I love the image Beth Moore painted of this concept in her study Living Beyond Yourself. Love “does not expose the faults of others. When we exercise agape toward an individual no matter how well we know him or her, we would not expose his or her faults to others (even if they “deserve” it- my note). It is the word picture of covering an individual with such a cloak of love that the fault cannot be seen.” (p. 65) What an image! What if we practiced that in our marriages and friendships and just in our relationships in general? Takes humility, doesn’t it.

“Agape is divine love that originates in the heart of God….expressed through us to others” (66) Hopefully, through understanding the concepts from Love Languages in the next few weeks, we can be more cognizant of our own expression of agape and how to be sure that is the kind of love we express in all of our relationships. I challenge each of us to Agape and am willing to step out on a limb and say it’ll change your life, Christ will change your life when you allow Him to show you how to love!

Sources: Blue Letter Bible online and Living Beyond Yourself: Exploring the Fruit of the Spirit Beth Moore

Lessons from My Closet

2011-03-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

Something about our annual garage sale transforms me from "mild-mannered-I didn't even notice that four-foot pile of toys in the den mom" to "if it's not nailed to the floor it must go wild woman." This odd pre-sale ritual does not exclude my own closet, either. This year, though, my closet cleaning did lead to a bit of self-discovery.

Some of my discoveries were the rather mundane, "Gee, I REALLY love cardigans." Perhaps, it's their versatility. Short-sleeved, mid-sleeved, long-sleeved, they finish any outfit with grace, but who needs over-20? Yes, there are over 20 because when I stopped counting at 20 there were more still hanging in the closet. Ahh, but who doesn't love a cardigan? There's something very neighborly about them.

I also have some odd, "maybe it's time to call the producers of Hoarders" obsession with 3/4 length sleeve boat neck t-shirts. I think I figured this one out, though. I don't have to worry about frightening anyone when I bend over to pick up my toddler at the library when he says, "Hold you, mama." Everything is nicely covered, and they are quite flattering. They, like cardigans, tend to be my fashion security blanket.

As I dig deeper into my closet, I also began to dig a little deeper into my personality. For instance, I have a shirt I bought early in my relationship with my husband. I don't wear it anymore, but each time its number is called for inspection on closet-cleaning day, I can't seem to toss it in the garage sale pile. Is it an odd memento of a younger, freer couple who stood at the threshold of the unknown, excited about our future together? This time, I pull it carefully off the hanger, try it on, realize I'll never be able to wear it again, and think, "It's only a shirt." As it lands on the ever-growing pile of clothing, I don't feel the usual tinge of guilt. After all, my son just kicked his big sister, so that takes away a bit from the reverie.

After I get A and C a snack and allow them to play in the pile of discards, I return to my trip down memory lane and find a few items I've had since high school. Upon discovering these, I briefly think about scheduling an appointment with a counselor. Surely there is some deep meaning here. But, I can still wear them, or at least I will be able to after I lose five pounds. I realize, though, that my weight is just about the same as it was in high school. Hmm...could it be that no matter how much weight I lose, or how many miles I run, that the reality is giving birth to two amazing children has changed my body, and it will never be the same as it was in high school? That, somehow my torso is even longer than it was pre-pregnancy, and that many shirts couldn't have just shrunk in the wash. Would I want my body to be the same, though? I am stronger and fitter than I ever was then, so I again contemplate letting go....of everything except.....oh, after all, it's just clothes....and I still have to decide how many red cardigans I really need.

The Pants Wars

2011-03-14T12:54:00.000-07:00

"Mommy, C's not wearing pants." This has become less of a verse and more of a chorus in our house lately, a chorus that repeats more often than that Justin Bieber one you can't seem to get out of your head.

I'm not quite sure when my son's deep disapproval of diapers and denim began. Perhaps it was the first time he realized that a buff bum was immediate removal from the crib at nap time by a panicked mommy, who had visions of potty and even, poop, being tossed about the room. Not that I'm squeamish, but it's tough enough to keep just a "neat" home with two five-and-under sweethearts without the added help of nap time antics. Maybe he just likes the free feeling of not having elastic constrict his cute toddler tummy. Whatever the reason, C does not like to wear pants, or shorts, or pajamas, or anything really.

And if chasing my son throught the living room with a pair of pants in hand, trying to re-diaper him before he can leave anymore gifts on the floor isn't bad enough at home, now the ritual has become public. While shopping with my sweet baby boy one morning, I am looking through dresses when I hear someone politely say, "Ma'am, he's taken off his pants." I look down in the buggy just in time to see C unstrapping his diaper. I smile sheepishly, mumble, "thank you," then redress my son. "You must wear pants in public, buddy."

"Why, mommy?"

"Because."

That's the best I can do at the moment. I've since come up with elaborate explanations as to why we need pants from because mommy says you must to we've worn pants since the fall of man in the Garden, Little Buddy. Apparently none of these are good enough for my sweet boy because when he woke just this morning, his sister ran in his room at the first sound of his little voice and sang the chorus that has grown so familiar in our home, "Mommy, C's not wearing any pants!"

Not So Nap Time

2011-02-10T12:37:00.000-08:00

C has developed a curious strategy for avoiding naps. And quite frankly, it's working beautifully.

The day I discover that nap time will no longer be a simple routine, C seems to go down as normal, shouting his usual, "night-night, mama," as I quietly tiptoe out of the room and close the door. As I walk downstairs to play with his big sister, I can hear him chattering and singing, his normal self-soothe routines. About ten minutes into Chutes and Ladders, though, I hear loud shouts of "help, mama, help!" Not overly alarmed, but curious, I peek my head into his room and expect to see his puppy or night-night on the floor. That was the optimist in me; instead, what stands before me is my son, completely naked (which he had not been when I placed him there) pointing to the floor, showing mommy where he had pottied into the floor through the bars of his crib. I am greeted by a, "Look, mama. I did it." I couldn't have said it better myself. By the time I clean him, his bed linens, and the floor, I realize nap time is over, so throwing my hands up in defeat, I take C downstairs so he can play games with A and me.

Not wanting to make too big a deal out of the previous day's nap time debacle, the next day I follow our normal nap routine. Two books, followed by singing: Jesus Loves Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children, and He's Got the Whole World in His Hands, complete with verses about Lightning McQueen, Mater, Thomas, and Percy because as the song says, He's got the whole world, and that includes toys. I rock him for a few minutes then place him in his crib, say "night-night," and quietly exit the room. Ten minutes later, I hear, "Help, mama." At least he's consistent. Curious as to how consistent I rush upstairs, open his door, and see diapers everywhere. I am so baffled by all the diapers that I don't notice at first that my little exhibitionist has again stripped down to his birthday suit. "C, what are you doing?" I ask. "Look, mama," he says looking over his diaper display proudly. "Were you trying to change your diaper all by yourself?" Again, I take him out of the crib, and this time, changing my strategy a bit, put him in his zip-up footie pajamas with the button at the top. I clean up the diapers, placing them in the diaper holder hanging on the side of his crib and for a second, contemplate moving it. That can wait, right now my nap window is shrinking, and A is downstairs eager for time with mom. I place him back in his crib, cover him up, and whisper "night-night" over my shoulder as I am closing his door. Twenty minutes later, silence, and one sleeping toddler.

A few days later, thinking surely my once eager little napper is through his jaybird phase, I prepare him for his nap. This time I stay upstairs for a few minutes, just to see if I can hear any of the commotion, so I can quickly intervene. After a few minutes of silence, I walk downstairs to watch a movie with A then as if on cue, I hear, "Mama." With more urgency, "MAMA!" "Oh, dear," I wonder and walk upstairs not knowing what to expect from my boy. I open the door to find him lying in his crib, still covered up, holding his puppy. Thrilled, I say, "Night-night, buddy." He throws off his blanket, stands up and says, "I done, mama, I not tired." Shaking my head, I pick him up, and once again, admit that I've been outsmarted by a two-year old determined not to miss whatever adventure he thinks mom and A are currently having downstairs. Oh, well, as a famous, probably exhausted, Southern woman once said, "tomorrow is another day."

I Resolve

2011-01-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

This year I resolve to write more. It has been almost a year since I last blogged, and I miss writing. It's a part of who I am and what I love to do, and it's absence has left me feeling a bit incomplete. I'm not quite sure why I've taken such a hiatus; it wasn't planned. I'm sure part of it is time, but I think more realistically perhaps part of me is afraid that someone might not like what I say. Ridiculous, I know, but maybe I haven't felt as free to write what I'm thinking, so I've just chosen to remain mum on things I've really yearned to give voice to. So, I guess I'm also resolving to be me, hopefully, entertaining, frank, yet funny, thought-provoking and at times, hysterical, at least that's the goal. God has blessed me with a gift of and a love for writing, and it's time I exercised that gift for myself and for my audience of (let's be optimistic) ten, granted most of those are related either by blood or marriage. So, this year, I resolve to write!

I also resolve to worry less, stress less, and simplify more. I resolve to let go of those things that clutter, rather than enhance my life or the lives of those around me. I resolve to learn how to say, "No," respectfully and kindly. I resolve to be more "in the moment" with my husband and children and not let the concerns of what I "should" be doing interfere with the only thing in the world worth doing at all. I want my children to look back on their time home with mom and say, "I don't know when my mom cleaned the house. She was always playing games with us or playing dolls or playing ball." I want our time to be meaningful, special, magical, even.

I resolve to be a better wife; to be more fun, to relax, to be less serious, and to take myself less seriously. More smiles, fewer scowls. I resolve to stop comparing myself, my parenting, my athleticism (stop laughing), my business sense, my "successes", my fill in the blank, with those of others and to stop worrying about what others think. Galatians 4:5 in The Message reads, "Make a careful exploration of who you are and the work you have been given, and then sink yourself into that. Don't be impressed with yourself. Don't compare yourself to others. Each of you must take responsibility for doing the creative best you can with your own life." I love that, and I resolve to do just that this year. Finally, I resolve to let go and let God.

How Lovely Is Your Dwelling Place

2010-02-09T08:25:00.001-08:00

I am a woman, so it might not come as a groundbreaking revelation to discover that I have struggled with body image. Who am I kidding? Struggle is a mild understatement, declared all-out war on my body might be a more apt description. In high school and college, I would spend months eating nothing all day, or sometimes would allow my self a pretzel and glass of water. My 5'8" frame, at one time, carried a mere 108 lbs. Looking back, it was not attractive, but to me, thin meant beautiful.

What led to this trip down memory lane? My morning bible study. I'm completing a study written by Jennifer Rothschild, who, this morning, focused on what we say to ourselves about our body. Hmmm...what do I say to myself about my body? For years, I beat myself up for eating too much or for not working out enough. I derided my lack of self-control and discipline. I even prayed for help to make it to my idea of an ideal weight, influenced by airbrushed pictures of models who had live-in chefs and personal trainers. I spent a lot of time consumed with.....myself. And I discovered that obsession with body image is really an obsession with self. How selfish?!

I've since made peace with my body. It's been a long, hard road fueled by prayer, by bible study, and by learning about what this body is truly capable of regardless of its weight. (I also quit reading fashion magazines.) As a matter of fact, after running and training for marathons and having two children, I now view my body as a magnificent miracle capable of so much. There are still days I fret too long in the mirror about cellulite or wrinkles. But my goal is to no longer judge my body for its appearance; I'm learning the art of moderation in both food and exercise and have discovered that life is about so much more than weight and inches. It's about so much more than me.

And because of my study today, I'm learning to look at my body in yet another light. I've long been familiar with the following verses: "Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?" 1 Cor. 3:16 and "Or do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?" 1 Cor. 6:19. And very often, when studying these scriptures, the lesson has centered on drug or alcohol abouse or on taking care of yourself but rarely have I been prompted to think about these verses in light of body image. Today, I was challenged to also view my body as God's dwelling place. The place God chooses to house his Holy Spirit.

Rothschild tells the story of discovering another verse to medidate on in light of the above two while sweating it out on her treadmill. She heard, while working out, this from her bible on tape: "How lovely are your dwelling places O Lord of hosts!" Psalm 84:1. So, let me get this straight. My body is a dwelling place for the Lord, AND it is lovely. Lovely. No matter what it weighs, how cut my abs and biceps are, or no matter what size jeans I wear. My body is lovely because it is the dwelling place of God. What freedom is there in that!

It pains me to see so many wonderful women of all shapes and sizes live and die by what the scale or some label in their clothing says. We are so much more than that; we are mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, women who nurture, love, give, and have so much to offer no matter what we look like. Most importantly, we are God's handiwork.

No more self-loathing. It's about Him, not me, and there are no brownie points in heaven for beating myself up. When we self-hate, we still center on self and put down the place Christ chooses to dwell. Of course, the flip side is loving ourselves too much, but I don't know too many women who over-love their bodies. Being in the place where I am completely obsessed with self, in a loving or hateful manner, in any capacity, is a lonely place to be.

I am finding the realization of my body being a temple of the Lord and applying that to how I view and treat my own body to be such a life-changing discovery. Of course, because of that realization, there is a responsibility to care for our bodies but with common sense. Something I lacked all those years ago. I've discovered like so many things in life; it is about finding balance and about focusing on the Creator of my body, not my body itself.

Meal Time Fun

2010-02-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

Dinner seems like it would be a pretty benign experience. You make a meal, you serve a meal, you eat a meal. Ahhh...but add a few sweet little ones into the mix and mealtime becomes more of an adventure, full of unexpected surprises.

When A was C's age, she was still eating baby food, and even when she started solid food, it was mostly discovering what items she would actually put into her mouth and eat. I think by the time she was 18 months, we had actually convinced her to eat 8 different foods. C, on the other hand, has been eating solid food since he was 9 months old and would have started earlier, if we had allowed him to. He loves to eat. Of course, now eating has become a game where C drops his food in the floor, looks over his high chair, looks up to you, then back down to the floor, points and says, "Me?" "Yes, buddy, you dropped it." "Me?" Repeat process.

C eats a little earlier than the rest of the family, since he can't seem to wait until dinner is served. Normally, we'll place him in the dining room floor with some toys, while we eat dinner. Recently, though, C has learned a few new tricks from the family dog. Begging. He crawls up to me first, pulls himself to a standing position, points to my plate, and begs, "Me?" Being a good mom, I hand him vegetables. He promptly lowers himself to a crawling position and makes his way over to his father. "Me?" Not satisfied with dad's selection, he finally crawls to A's chair, pulls himself up and repeats his plea, "Me? ME!" Usually, his sister giggles, but I'm sure she's more than eager to unload a few pieces of broccoli or carrot.

A is a different story. Her favorite response to an offering of veggies or a "questionable" new food is, "Not right now, Mommy. I'll try it when I'm older." To which I usually respond, "One bite rule or no dessert." "No zert, but I don't like broccoli." You get the picture. I'm just waiting for A to let me know the appropriate age for eating creamed spinach and broccoli with cheese. I'm not holding my breath that it will be anytime before her 16th birthday.

The real meal challenge is that our dining room is adjacent to the kids' playroom. My husband and I spend most of our time corraling children back to their seats. But, I'm counting that as enough extra calories burned for "zert," preferably ice cream.

New Workout

2010-02-06T08:34:00.001-08:00

The Mercedes Marathon is next week, and I can't run. I had wanted to run the half with my sister, who is running her first half, but my IT band has said, "NO!" I was okay with it until I started hearing people talking about 10 and 11 milers and training runs, and I'll admit, I turned a little green with envy. I know, how could someone be envious of someone else running 10 miles, but as a runner, there's something about training and knowing the reward is crossing the finish line of a marathon. I thought after taking off a year from running, I'd be able to train with no problems, but it seems right now, four miles is the magic number then my IT band begins to shout, "STOP."

So, to ease my non-training blues, I decided to try a new class at the gym: Boot camp. That's right, boot camp. Scary name and yes, scary class. I haven't felt as awkward as I did in this class, since sixth grade, when I had Annie Orphan curls, braces, my limbs were long and gangly, and I was actually wondering why I couldn't get a date to my first dance. Then when a poor guy agreed to attend the band dance with me, I rewarded him by wearing a white sweater with sparkly silver threads, on which my mom decided to sew a sequin saxophone, because, hey, I played the alto saxophone in band. I completed the ensemble with a silver skirt and white and silver granny boots. I don't recall a second date. Anyway, haven't felt that awkward again until I walked into boot camp.

The first thing I see is a very fit instructor with a whistle, who appears to have actually conducted boot camp out in the real world, shouting commands. "Grab your weights, do 1 lap of walking lunges, then 1 lap on the track. We'll do four repeats." I hope by repeats he doesn't mean repeating the entire process four times. He did. I return from my last lap winded with my legs already shaking. A glance at the clock revealed we were only ten minutes into the class. "Yipee!"

I can't really remember what happened after that. I'm pretty sure there were tortuous sit-ups, not regular crunches, but some sort of angling and pulling your knees to the side while lifting your torso off the ground. And there were push-ups, yes, lots of push-ups. I stumble up from my last push-up to hear, "Now we're going to do burpies." "Did he say hurt-mes because that's exactly what he should have said." From burpies we move on to squat jumping jacks right into triceps dips with leg lifts. Repeat three times. And now I actually see him demonstrate the following for our next move. He squats low and proceeds to do bicep curls from the squatting position. We follow and don't stand until we've done three sets from the squat. At least we weren't "supposed" to stand. By now my body is screaming and there are still 15 minutes left in class. I'm quickly learning lifting your son out of the crib does not count as an upper body workout.

I finally finish my first boot camp experience and am walking out the door, when the instructor runs up and hands me a t-shirt. You get the prize for working out the hardest today. (Apparently, prizes are common in boot camp class, or else I can't imagine many people would attend.) What?! There's a prize! Is the prize for working out the hardest or because the instructor felt sorry for me because he thought I was going to pass out? I'm not sure; all I know is I survived, and if I can walk by next Friday, I'll try again.

A Sentence Off the Old Paragraph....or something like that

2009-09-10T18:09:00.000-07:00

Once a quarter, I entered my elementary school with a little extra bounce in my step because I knew that day was the big day....the day I waited eagerly for all fall, winter, or spring. The day my teacher handed out the Scholastic Book order forms. The only other days that could fill my heart with such glee were Library Day and Book Fair Day. My small hands would eagerly grasp the newsprint flier, where I would hug it close to my chest before poring over each choice, each possibility. I would then carefully select two or three books, whatever my parents would allow, then I would hand my order into the teacher, counting the days until my new books arrived. No, I'm not kidding.

When my daughter brought home her first Scholastic order form just days ago, memories came pouring back, and I saw my younger self in her excited eyes. "Mommy, look."

"Oh, Pumpkin, we can order books."

"I want that one, Mommy," is her reply. Oh, look at that, she already has one picked out. She points to a book with a large bus on the cover. "And that one, Mommy, Clifford."

"Let's see," I say, wanting to see how much the books cost. "You can pick out three books, okay." I mean, it is the first time for her to experience the Scholastic Book form, the latest titles at reduced rates. I love you, Scholastic people.

A studies the order form intently, excitedly calling out all the possibilities. I explain that she'll get these forms several times a year, and each time we can maybe order at least one book. She finalizes her selection, and I fill out the form and write a check. I realize this is one of those exciting parenting moments I've looked forward to sharing with my daughter: her taking a real interest in something I remember doing as a child. And her love of reading, just like her mom, will be a bond we can always share. Just wait until I tell my little bookworm about library day and the book fair. Hmmm...is C at the age now where I started reading to A?

Comments from the Checkout Gallery

2009-09-09T12:23:00.000-07:00

After spending much of the Labor Day holiday tackling the thrilling task of cleaning out closets, I realize I have nothing planned for dinner....and it is quickly nearing 7 p.m. Travis, my sweet husband, has been keeping the kids busy playing while mom completed her closet, so I figured he would not mind if I went to the store alone. "I'm going to the grocery store," I holler into the playroom, as I grab my purse. "Mommy, I want to go." I look down to see my eldest scrambling to find her flip-flops. "Okay, sweetie," then to my husband, "I'm taking A with me."

A and I arrive at the grocery, list safely at home on the counter. I grab A free cookie from the bakery, and off we go, perusing the aisles, trying to come up with something quick for dinner. We finish our shopping, and I begin the search for the shortest check-out line.

A who has been giggling at mom's goofy antics, is still in a silly mood. A normally says one of three things when we greet passersby: "Good morning, Merry Christmas, or ARRRGH. This time she chose the latter. A suddenly lets out a loud, "ARRRGH!" at the lady in front of us. "Oh, my," is the woman's initial shocked response, but it seems the lady is just warming up. Granted, the screaming is annoying, but unless you have a bad heart, it is probably not really going to hurt you. I turn A's chin to my face, and firmly say, "Pumpkin, we don't scream at people." To which the lady responds, "Yes, apparently she does." Surely, she jests. I just continue unloading my cart without saying anything. But she doesn't stop there, no, the woman continues, "Someone really wanted some attention." I feel color creeping into my cheeks, warming them from my embarrassment and growing irritation, but I've been trying to allow God to cultivate the fruit of the Spirit in my life, namely in this situation gentleness and self-control, so I just quietly unload my groceries without saying a word.

I mean, really, what would I say? My daughter is three, if she's still doing this at 7, we'll talk. She skipped her nap and is hungry. Please tell me your not being serious. Maam, if you knew what self-doubt fills so many young parents already, would you be making me feel like I have no control over my child. Or how about, what really did you accomplish or plan to accomplish with your commentary? I just protectively stroke A's hair and softly explain to my daughter that it really bothers people for someone to yell at them, and that she should say hello instead or even, Merry Christmas. The woman leaves without saying anything else, and I finish checking out. A and I hurry out to the car, and I drive home, where I immediately call my sister for some reassurance that my daughter isn't the only child in the world that is trying to find her voice and express it, sometimes a little too loudly.

Words of Wisdom

2009-08-31T19:05:00.000-07:00

A has become quite the comedienne, so I thought I 'd share some of her words of wisdom.

While playing Hungry Hippos one day, A decided she would be the pink and orange hippos and mommy could play the green and yellow ones. About two minutes into the game, A puts her hand on the green hippo and says, "Mommy, the he's not hungry anymore."

A has been taking Spanish at her new pre-school. One day after school, I was asking A if she was learning any Spanish, yet. I said, "Have you learned hola, como esta, bien?" She interrupts me and says, "Mom, I'm not Dora."

We were watching a commercial for the SpinBrush, and A says, "Look at that, mom." "It's a toothbrush," is my response. Without missing a beat, A says, "That's not a toothbrush, it's a teethbrush." She's got me there; it does brush more than one tooth at a time.

After church, I was asking A what they talked about in her new Sunday school class. "Did you read about Isaac, Abraham, Moses?" I asked. "Moses," she replied. "From the liver Bible." "The liver Bible? You mean the Living Bible." "Yes, Mommy. The Livin' Bible."

After our morning run, A is sitting in her carseat singing Veggie Tales, when she stops, and says, "You're huge, mommy." "I'm huge?" Her response, "That's okay. I like my big mommy." Later that day, though, out of the blue, she says, "You're not huge anymore, mommy."

Later that day, she told a clerk at Wal-mart that she was a "hoot." I tried to exlpain that she meant she was funny but realized that probably wasn't much better, so I finally just assured her that it was not an insult but a compliment.

I can't wait to hear what she'll come up with next!

A Day in the Life of a Stay-at-home Mom

2009-08-31T18:12:00.000-07:00

At 6:00 a.m. I hear C whimper. By 6:15 it is a full-fledged cry. I stumble into his room, pick him up, and carry him back to my bed, where I attempt nursing while sleeping. I drift off and worry about dropping him, so I give up on trying to get 10 more minutes of sleep. T gets up and turns off the alarm, why we actually set the alarm, I'm not quite sure. He trudges down the stairs and within minutes my sleepy little girl wanders into our room, her blonde hair ruffled from sleep and her hands full of books, blankets, and teddy bears. "I want pancakes, mommy, after I watch George."

"Okay, sweetie," is my reply. I grab a few of her books with one hand and walk downstairs holding C with the other. I turn on Curious George and put C in his exersaucer, so I can prepare breakfast. My son looks up at me like I have placed him in prison instead of a wonderland of toys. Dell, our retriever, looks longingly through the sliding glass door. Perhaps she and C can communicate somehow about how mean mommy is for trying to eat breakfast. T comes downstairs, says his good-byes, and leaves for work. After A eats, I sit down beside her as she watches Sid the Science Kid and eat my oatmeal. After breakfast, we get dressed, load the car with snacks, juice, books, and head off for our morning jog.

At least today, I will be jogging with a stroller that has both tires inflated. I discovered just how difficult it is to run with a flat tire last week, not one day, but two. A and C both try to out-whine each other for the first 2 1/2 miles and then both settle in for the second-half of our run with C even drifting off to sleep. I even get a few comments about how cute A looks reading her book.

After our run, it is back home to prepare lunch to take to T at work. We drive to the office, where I prepare lunch then sneak away for a few seconds to check my email at T's desk. T has to get some work done, so A, C, and I go home. I put C down for his nap and A and I play a game for about five minutes, when Connnor begins to cry. I attempt to get him back to sleep but to no avail, so I give up and A, C, and I read books in A's room until they begin to fight over the one must have book out of about five hundred. "Do you want to go to the park or the library?" I ask A. "Where is the park library?" she asks. Trying not to laugh, I explain that I meant we can either go to the park OR the library.

She chooses the park, so we go to the playground, then to the grocery store, where again, A and C enter into a whining contest. C wins, so I unbuckle him from the stroller and carry him. My cell phone rings as I am checking cartons for a dozen eggs that are all intact. My boss is calling to see if I can be on stand-by to tutor in two hours. I call T who still has to mow our lawn and the office lawn, but he says to tell my boss okay. I call him back and go home to unload groceries and prepare dinner. Fortunately, I don't have to tutor, so I feed C, give A and him baths, and start dinner. A plays happily with Thomas the Train, while C tries to scale the barstools or pull all of my cookbooks off the shelf. I distract him about 30 times when T finally comes in the door about 6. He tells me he needs to go to Lowe's after dinner to get something to fix a leaky toilet. I try not to scream. We eat, T leaves, and C finally falls asleep in my lap.

I put C in his crib, and A and I find the Country Music Festival on television. Sugarland is singing and A says, "Let's dance, mommy." I want to say, but I just sat down for the first time today. Instead, I get up and twirl and jump and dance with my little girl. Travis walks in the door and goes upstairs to fix the toilet. A and I continue to sing and dance until we realize we've waken up C. I rock him back to sleep, brush A' teeth, and let T take over the bedtime routine. It is after 8 p.m. I clean up the kitchen and try to catch five minutes of alone time before bed, where I will spend fifteen minutes studying the bible and fall asleep while saying my prayers.

Despite the chaos, the exhaustion, the feeling of never getting anything accomplished (things like basic hygiene), I have never regretted my decision to leave my teaching job to stay home with my children. Because I know that while my daughter's face lights up when we race at the park or play Chutes and Ladders for the 1,000 time today, that in about a week, she'll be too cool to hang out with mom. And while I grow weary from keeping C away from the stairs, from chewing on flip-flops, and from pulling his sister's hair, I know that my little crawler will soon walk, then run, then in a few months may possibly be suiting up for the Auburn Tigers.

Like what I think the Proverbs 31 woman shows us, life is a series of seasons, and right now, I am in the season of mommying two precious little babies, and too soon, I will be in a different season, the season of parenting school-age children, then middle schoolers, then high schoolers, and then I'll be letting go. Already, my infant boy is an eight-month-old crawler on a mission to explore every corner of his world. I love watching him examine an object, spot something else, crawl eagerly to that object, and before he even reaches it, he's already eyeing the next adventure. And A is learning so much, so quickly, I can barely follow her excited chatter as she talks about school, friends, and her new Sunday school class. I'm crying just thinking about how quickly the seasons pass, so with that perspective, I cherish the twirling, the building of pillow caves to be crashed in by little brother, the races at the park, and reading the same book one million times because so soon, they won't ask anymore. They'll be too big. So even though I sit here exhausted, I thank God for blessing me with this parenting season and look forward to each one and what joy it will bring.

A Little Encouragement

2009-08-22T11:25:00.001-07:00

I love being a mom for millions upon millions of reasons. One of the many joys of parenthood are the sweet little voices of my children as they encourage and affirm. Like when A sees her daddy running and excitedly cheers, "Go, daddy," then turns to me and proudly says, "My daddy runs fast." Today she encouraged her mommy, who does not run fast.

The Hill looms before me like Everest. I have no idea how long this hill really is; I just know when you stand at the bottom with a desire to run and a double jogger filled with two children and books, it is quite intimidating. "I can run this," I tell myself. I haven't run a hill since having C, so this is my first time in over a year and a half to run up anything steeper than a speedbump or maybe the curb to TCBY. I begin to push and slowly trudge up the bottom quarter of the hill. Maybe I can't run this, yet. My legs are already aching from an attempt to do Tae Bo a few days earlier.

"All right, Pumpkin. Mommy's going to need your help getting up this hill." A understands Mommy needs encouragement and does not intend for her to get out and help push the stroller. "You can do it, Mommy," she says. I begin to run again all the way to the half-way point. I stop and look up. The hill is steep and I can feel my heart beginning to pound. "Keep running, Mommy. You can do it," my daughter cheers from the stroller. "You're right, sweetheart. Mommy can do this."

I take a deep breath and with determination try my best to sprint the last half. I can only imagine what I must look like. I can't seem to get my heels down and am running mostly on my tip-toes. A car passes by slowly and the driver rolls down the window and shouts what I think is, "What a feat!" That's what I hear at least. Of course, he could have been shouting, "Pick up your feet." But I am encouraged nonetheless. I finally crest the hill and hear A shout, "You did it, Mom." We both say, "Yea," then I add a, "thank you, God and thank you, A for encouraging mommy." We run back down to the bottom of the hill; C sleeping soundly through our entire run. I look back up and realize that the hill probably isn't more than a quarter of a mile but for A and me, today, we conquered Everest.

First Day of School

2009-08-13T15:50:00.001-07:00

Stomp. Creak. Stomp. Creak. I hear A 's footsteps on the stairs. "Good morning, Pumpkin!" I exclaim. "It's the first day of school."

Thud; Something (I think her blue bear) hits the ground; Stomp; Stomp; Stomp; Door slams: This is her response. Uh-oh. Not the response I was anticipating. I walk upstairs with C on my hip and open her door. A is sitting on her knees with her head laying on the bed. "I not going to school."

"Why not, sweetheart? I thought you wanted to go to school." The tears begin to flood, and I watch a tantrum unfurl. I truly have no idea what to do.

"I'm not going to school. I not wanna go to school," she sobs, heavily. I walk over to her closet and pull out a few dresses.

"Hey, sweetie, why don't we pick out what you're going to wear today?" A opens the drawer and begins to throw all of her clothes out into the floor. I put C on the floor with a toy, sit down next to him, pull A to my lap, put my arms around her, and begin to rock her, while stroking her hair. "Calm down, deep breaths, big breath," I say. "Why don't you tell mommy why you don't want to go to school?"

"No," is my response. This isn't exactly how I pictured the first day of school, but things don't usually tend to go the way I picture them. I say a small prayer for wisdom and try to remember if I've read about how to dissolve back-to-school fears in a magazine article or book. Can't recall.
Ah-ha. A loves Chick-fil-A as much as mom. Sure it's not textbook, but hey, it might work.

"Pumpkin, do you want to go to Chick-fil-A for a special first day of school breakfast?" She turns to look up at me and stops crying.

"Chick-fil-A" she musters pitifully. "Umm-hmm," I say. "You know, A , it's okay to be nervous about school. That's how you feel, nervous. You aren't sure what to expect, are you? That's scary." How profound is mom?

"I want chicken rolls, mommy." So much for my profound wisdom. I help her get dressed, pick up C , and walk downstairs. A follows us, in a much better mood. She almost seems excited. She even lets mom take some first day of school pictures. Maybe she just needed to express some fear and frustration the only way she knew how. Of course, I would have preferred expressing frustration without completely emptying the drawers, but I try my best to empathize with my baby, I mean, big girl.

After a trip to Chick-fil-A, we head to carpool, where we eat breakfast while waiting in line. I point out the playground, some people we see that A knows, and talk school up in a big way. A is growing more excited, and I breathe a sigh of relief. And, yes, I'll admit it; I wouldn't have been devastated if she had just refused and we'd waited until next year. But as I watch her get out of the car and walk into the school, I know how much fun she has waiting for her in the classroom, and I am filled with an enormous amount of pride, proud that she expressed frustration, took a big breath, and went to school despite her apprehensions. That's my girl. I can't wait until I can tell her just how proud I am of her when I pick her up in four hours. I look back at my sleeping baby boy and know it won't be long until his first day of 3K. Sigh...

Back to School for the First Time

2009-08-11T09:54:00.001-07:00

When they handed me my beautiful baby girl and I cradled her gently against my heart, I never imagined how quickly that sweet infant would be a sweet three-year-old. Well, here we are, and A is getting ready to start 3K. Mom has mixed feelings; A has one emotion: ready. I didn't plan on sending her to school until 4K, but when she heard all of her friends were attending school, she wouldn't hear of it. She must be in school, too, mommy. So, I caved and signed her up. Today, we met the teacher and needless to say, we were memorable.

I unload A and C from the car, and we walk up the stairs to the church that houses A 's school. We are met by the school's director, who is a friend and the director of our own church's nursery program. "What's wrong with C 's face?" she asks. Oh no, what is wrong with C 's face? I look down to see him rubbing his eyes, he removes his hands, and I see welps around his eyes and nose. Dell! "He touched a toy the family dog had been playing with then touched his face. Dell's dander makes him itchy." Not even in the classroom and I have one child who looks like he's broken out in hives. The other is hiding behind my leg.

We get to the door of her classroom, and A plants herself even more firmly behind my leg. "Come on sweetheart, let's meet your teacher." She doesn't say anything, but quietly walks over to the book case. Some other parents and children are already in the classroom playing. A 's teacher comes over to us and kindly introduces herself to A . Without saying a word, A makes her way over to some matchbox cars and begins playing quietly. I talk to a few parents and explain why my son's face is so red. I make my way over to the sink and rinse the Dell residue from C 's face and hands. The redness starts to diminish, so I try and find something for him to play with while A meets her new classmates.

"She took my green car!" A wails. I never really know quite how to handle this when it isn't a close friend or her brother, so I offer, "Why don't you let your new friend play with it for two minutes, then you play for two minutes. Let's take turns." Her "new friend" offers A a green truck, which quickly goes flying across the room. "A ! She was trying to be nice. Please pick up the truck and say thank you." A 's new friend and her mom get up and move to the table to speak with some other parents and their children. I will not be expecting a play date call immediately. I let A continue playing and grab a plastic hammer from a bin for C to play with. "I don't know how she keeps things clean." I overhear then notice some parents watching my son put the toy in his mouth. Seriously? I take the hammer from C , grab a wipe from my purse, sanitize the hammer, and put it back in the toy chest. I stand and walk around with C trying to make conversation with other parents. So A 's throwing cars, C r, whose face looks like he has a frightening disease is chewing on toys, and I want to ask, "Can we go out, come in, and start over?"

Many of the parents leave and I give A the "we leave in two mintues warning." Her teacher and I talk for a few minutes and she asks if the visit has alleviated any of my apprehensions. "It has for the most part. I just worry a bit about how A is going to interact with the other children at first. She can be so empathetic, but she doesn't love to share. Of course, she's three." I repeat "she's three" just to remind myself that her behavior is completely normal. Her teacher nods and agrees that A will do just fine. What mom doesn't worry about her child's first time in school?

C begins to grow impatient, so I take A by the hand, direct her to say good-bye and we head to the car. A doesn't even acknowledge her teacher, but once we walk out the door, she begins to talk excitedly about the mural on the hallway wall, and by now, C r's sweet eyes are almost back to normal. We get to the car, and she really opens up about her room and her teacher and when she gets to come back. And I know once A is comfortable and school begins, her teacher and classmates will begin to see her as I see her: sweet, kind, brilliant, funny, loving, thoughtful, assertive, and wonderful. I take a deep breath and realize that although, I'm not quite ready for her to begin school, she can't wait to start, so I brace myself for lesson 1 of one million in letting go.

Obstacle Course

2009-08-06T13:28:00.000-07:00

Once you've run a marathon, it's hard to stop. (Running marathons in general, not that specific marathon.) Something about the thrill of training and pushing your body to its limits drives you to keep striving to complete more races, faster. After a 1 1/2 year training hiatus, I have decided to run a half-marathon in December in honor of C 's birthday and a half in February in honor of A 's birthday. Two halves make a whole, right? I realize this endeavor, though, will be met with challenges not faced in my last training regiment; challenges like training with two children and a double jogger.

Challenge # 1 Getting to the track
"All right, Pumpkin, let's go." I coax A out the door, while holding C on one arm and my purse on the other. I have just finished loading books, snacks, a sippy cup, my water bottle, and sunscreen into the car.

"It's too sunny."

"Then get your sunglasses." I walk out the door to put C into his car seat. A comes out onto the porch. "Come on, sweetie, let's go."

"It's too shiny," she musters in her most pitiful voice.

"How about you close your eyes, and I'll carry you to the car? That way you won't see the sun so much."

"Okay." I start the car and back out the driveway. One mile later, we arrive at the track. "No, don't turn off Veggie Tales." I refrain from rolling my eyes and whining myself and wait patiently for "Message from the Lord" to end. I unload the stroller then load it down with at least five books, snacks, my cell phone, Walkman, sippy cup, water bottle, and a toy for C . Then I buckle A and C into the stroller.

And....we're off......and make it at least three feet when I hear, "I want my snack." I hand A her snack and start to jog.....and make it three more feet when I hear, "I want my juice." I try to hand A her juice while running without falling and decide to play it safe. I stop the stroller, hand her the cup, wait for her to drink, put it back in the stroller and start my run. By the time we get to the half-mile marker, C is snoozing and A has settled into a book. I just hope reaching into the storage section of the stroller 50 times for books, water, and snacks counts as ab work.

Challenge # 2 Connor's nap
When I resumed running after giving birth to my sweet boy, he didn't immediately settle into a stroller nap. No, I was usually the woman sloooowwly pushing the double jogger with the howling baby. Once I made it to the half-mile marker, if C were still awake, I'd take him out of the stroller, place him in the front carrier until he fell asleep, then I'd ease him back into the stroller and finish my run, A waiting sweetly and patiently the entire time.

Now naps are routine, but there are no guarantees. Take, for instance, two days ago, when running down the trail, my little ones and I were greeted by the clink-clink-clink of a jackhammer. Of course, a jackhammer. Why wouldn't there be a man with a jackhammer in the middle of the Greenway? C , jolted awake, began to whine. Big sister, though, came to the rescue with entertainment (silly faces), and he was occupied until we got back to the car.

Challenge #3 Rainy Days and Detours
When it rains, the trail floods. When the flood recedes, there is mud, lots of mud. After a particularly rainy stretch, I give it a few days then decide to attempt running the trail, hoping to find ways to avoid the really muddy areas. We park in a new spot, which A noticies immediately, and enter the trail from a drier area. I jog down onto the path, where I am greeted by a woman walking. "The trail is under water up there." "Really?!" I exclaim, surprised. That particular area never floods. "Yes, but you can go see for yourself if you want to," is her curt reply. "Thanks," I respond. It's not that I didn't believe her. My "really" was more an interjection of surprise. We turn around and run through the parking lot of an office complex, which happens to be next to a fire station.

Now, we detour by the fire station whether it's muddy or not. Even when I try to keep on the trail, I am usually halted by a voice shouting, "Fire truck, mommy." What can you do? I just count it as extra training.

Challenge # 4 Heat
Really, what else can you say but, it's hot in August in the south. Real hot when your running. Fortunately, not so much when your lounging comfortably in the shade of the stroller.

Benefits
The benefits of hauling twenty pounds of books, snacks, sippy cups, and water bottles to the trail and hoping that my two sweethearts will sit or sleep patiently certainly outweigh the burdens of the challenges, though. While taking detours, I've shared with my daughter the amazement of seeing a flock of geese waddle around before taking off in beautiful flight. Her face shining with excitement as she exclaims, "Goose, mommy, lots of goose." We've seen the brook babble quietly on water stops. A , C , and I have watched firefighters wash the fire truck and new puppies test the limits of their leashes. While running, I've leaned over the stroller and read to A her favorite books, albeit a little winded. Me, not the books. I've overheard A and giggling as A 's silly antics entertain her brother, so her mommy can finish a 45 minute run. And, I continue to be amazed by how what I so often perceive as inconvenient stops are really opportunities for God to reveal small jewels of wonder.

And through this all, I am hopefully teaching my children small lessons about setting goals and accomplishing them and am teaching them a lot about discipline, faith, and perseverance. And they, too, are teaching mom; teaching me about patience and finding joy in the "little" things.

Humble Pie

2009-07-04T11:11:00.000-07:00

Sweat drips off my ponytail and slides down my back, where it hits the waistband of my shorts and is absorbed. It's barely nine o'clock, and the heat index has already soared to 100 degrees. I run, trudge, really down the greenway searching eagerly for the mile marker. C is sleeping and A reads. Finally, I see it, just past the bridge. Four miles! I have run four miles!

While it might seem a small accomplishment to someone who just 1 1/2 years ago ran an entire marathon, it is my first four miler since having C . And, I did it despite the heat. I step across the line painted onto the trail and raise my hands, "Praise God." Then begins my little celebration. I dance a few steps, while thinking, "I am Mommy; hear me roar!!! I did it; I did it; I'm awesome." I'm so excited that I even call my husband from the trail. "I ran four miles today," I exclaim breathless from my celebratory dance. "That's awesome," he responds, knowing how much that little accomplishment means to me.

Then I see something up ahead that catches my eye. A woman running with a double jogger similar to mine. She is pushing two children about A 's age, maybe a bit older. AND she has a dog. She is running with two children AND A DOG. I just ran with two children. My golden retriever is home lying under the table on the patio wondering if she could actually dig under the patio for cooler ground. I lower my head and nod sheepishly as she passes, hoping that if she saw the celebration dance that perhaps she thought I had just run 50 miles, not that it really matters what she thinks. "We're not there, yet," I say as she passes, and honestly unless Dell starts running herself probably won't be for a long time. She smiles....Ms. Superfit....and I realize that whenever you pray for a more humble attitude, God answers, sometimes right in the middle of you puffing up your chest and shaking your tailfeathers. And while I believe God celebrates my accomplishment with me, I think there are times I need to be reminded that my ability and accomplishment come from His grace alone:)

Colossians 3:12
So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.

A Beachy Perspective

2009-05-23T10:25:00.001-07:00

When I was in high school and college coming to the beach meant hours at the track trying to get in a few last minute runs to improve the appearance of my legs. It also meant hundreds of crunches and ounces of cellulite cream. To make matters worse, the walls of the condo my parents rented for our annual beach trip were covered in mirrors. Why anyone would do that I have no idea. I recall catching glimpses of my bikini-clad-self in the endless array of mirrors and immediately stopping to do squats or lunges. Vain and a bit pathetic, I know.

Now, I hit the track for a much different motivation. And, I thank God that he gave someone at Land's End the wisdom and ability to create the Miracle Suit. Available in one piece styles and black! I also thank God that He has brought me to the other side on a battle with body image and self-esteem. My beach preparations and perspective are much different and much happier these days. Instead of worrying about my thighs, I drive my husband and children crazy applying sunscreen to every spot that might even possibly see sun. I worry about undertows and rainy days and rarely give my abs, a little strectched from two pregnancies, a second thought. After all, they are tucked in safe and sound underneath the strategic folds of my miracle swimsuit.

I sit on the beach holding C , watching A and T jump in the surf. Grabbing my camera, I run down to the water's edge to shoot some action photos of my adorable swimmers. A young girl in a black bikini catches my eye. She has the "beach walk" down perfectly, and I notice her cast a quick "do they notice" glance at some young men sitting on the sand. Then she suddenly seems self-conscious, and I notice she isn't smiling nor does she appear carefree. I turn my attention to the hundreds of other women on the beach who are like me. Not quite our ideal weight, wearing one pieces in all the possible shades of black, madly snapping photos of the thousands of cute things our children are doing at that moment. Jumping, splashing, toes in the sand for the first time. And we are all wearing the beach's most imporant accessory: huge, silly, happy grins. And while it's been a long journey for me personally, words cannot describe the elation I feel in that moment of complete freedom from self-consumption and worry about me, my body and how it looks in a swimsuit.

Note: T asked A what the best part of the beach was today and she replied, "You." T asked, "Daddy was the best part of the beach?" A responded, "Yes, Daddy. You're the best." Melt my heart!

Things You Don't Want to Hear While Running

2009-05-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

Running. My favorite hobby. Really, it is. I love the feel of the pavement under my feet, the labored breathing, the rush of endorphins after a long run that make you feel like anything is possible. The reality is lately running has become more of a chore than a joy. With the rainy, rainy, rainy weather (did I mention the rain?), working around nap schedules, and just trying to get motivated through a haze of sleep deprivation, running has become something else to check off the list of daily duties. But I'm ready to move beyond that. After stepping on the scale, I am reenergized with a new level of motivation....a high level of motivation. So today, I loaded up the stroller and my two angels and hit the trail, where I discovered that there are several things you'd rather not hear while running, especially when you are trying to find running encouragement, not running discouragement!

1. There is a snake up ahead.
Determined and as I mentioned earlier, motivated, I reach the start of the trail with happy children. I notice an older lady sitting on a park bench, dabbing sweat onto a towel. She makes eye contact, nods, and says, "There's a snake up there. I tried to scare it away, but I don't know." "Okay, thanks." I slowly proceed while thinking, "A snake. A snake?! Is it coming back? How big was the snake? Where was the snake EXACTLY?" I decide to go ahead and run since there are lots of other people, who warned, continue to run and will hear me scream and come to my rescue. My eyes frantically comb the sides of the trail most of the entire run until I hear one disgruntled stroller passenger begin to express his frustration and grow distracted. Fortunately, no snake ever appears.

2. Run, mommy.
"Run, mommy." I hear A call as I trudge along. "I am running, sweetheart. Been running for several minutes."
"Then run faster!" she calls. I'm running as fast as I can behind a double jogger holding over 50 lbs. of children, two pounds of snacks, and ten pounds of books. If I were running any faster, passersby would be phoning the paramedics. I shrug and keep my "blistering" pace up for at least two miles, when I hear it. Faint at first, but growing stronger.

3. WAAAAA!
C begins to cry. Loudly. I made it to the two mile marker running, unfortunately, it is two miles back to the car. C 's discontent is now leading to A 's. Soon both children are whining, crying, and yelling. So, I unstrap C from the stroller and into the front carrier and walk, quickly, stopping every few minutes to tell A to sit back before she falls out and to pick flowers to add to her stroller floral collection and to gently bounce C in an attempt to calm him down. Forty-five minutes later we arrive back at the car. Yea! Four miles- ninety minutes. Must be a new record for my running speed.

Despite the challenges, though, I did it. One more workout. Another challenge. I thank God for giving me the ability to run, the opportunity to run, and tell myself something I do need to hear. "Good effort." I look at my children, who are now content, and smile, hoping they are learning a little something about perseverance from their mommy and her effort to continue a hobby she enjoys so much.

New Addition

2009-05-04T06:39:00.000-07:00

Welcome my beautiful nephew, R! 6 lbs. 10 oz. Praise God for a beautiful baby boy. Children truly are a gift from the Lord and such an amazing joy!

High Expectations

2009-04-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

I walk down the stairs to the gym nursery. A occupies one hip, while my elbow cradles C 's carrier, complete with his 20 lbs. I sign big sister and baby in, put A 's shoes in her bin, and place C s carrier on the floor next to another baby, whose mom is chatting with the nursery worker about bottles. The mom and I smile and nod and comment on how cute our little boys look chatting with each other. Our children appear to be about the same age and the same size; the mom and I do not....appear to be the same size.

She looks like she just stopped by the gym for a workout after a quick warm-up of running the New York City marathon. I am wearing, not one, but two bras to hold up the extra nursing weight I am still carrying up top. You can see the faint outline of my soft tummy from beneath the two t-shirts I've chosen to wear to cover up the two bras. I am back in my old running shorts, but the spin shorts I wear underneath will never be seen alone in public. No, running shorts over bike shorts for at least another six months. Wow! is all I can think. How does anyone lose their baby weight that fast?

As a runner, I know I'll eventually be back to pre-baby figure. I did it last time, and quite frankly, I was in no hurry, but since I've joined the gym, I've noticed a disturbing trend. At least it's disturbing to my "holding on to those last ten pounds for dear life" frame. So many moms are strutting back into the gym six weeks after giving birth looking like they never even had a contraction. I see and hear moms talking about how quickly they are getting back into their pre-baby jeans. I can't even find my old jeans. Am I supposed to be back to my old size 6/8 four months into my baby's life? Is this the expectation? Let's see. I'm not a pro athlete, not a supermodel, not a.....what other profession requires women who've just given birth to look like they did the day they found out they were expecting.

I didn't really notice or think about it with A . Could it be I didn't really leave the house until A was six months old? And even then it was for walks around the park until she turned one year, and I started training for a half-marathon. Now that I've joined the gym, I was feeling pretty good about.....showing up. I didn't realize that women actually manage to show up like they never missed a day. I even worked out during pregnancy, but I've still got ten pounds left. I like to blame them on the fat my body REQUIRES to make breast milk.

The truth is, although I am blogging about it, I'm really not unhappy with my ten pounds. I'm actually quite excited about the progress I've made. This far into A 's first four months of life I was still in maternity pants some days. I think I'm more sad for the women who feel the pressure to look like Heidi Klum two weeks after birthing a miracle and blessing. I've got the rest of my life to worry about losing ten pounds, if I even want to. I will just find another marathon to train for and watch the weight melt away as I manuever two children (fifty pounds) in a stroller up and down the track. Right now, I'm going to jog around and see if I need to add another bra.

A Walk in the Park

2009-03-24T12:30:00.000-07:00

I am walking down the trail with a sense of urgency. A is in the double-jogger, whining, "I waaant a snack," after just having eaten her snack minutes earlier. C is strapped to my chest in his front carrier wailing loud screams of agony. He's just gotten his tears, so his sweet, little face looks even more pitiful than usual with all the tears streaming. Despite the loud yells that not even top walkman volume can drown out, I am calm, smiling at passersby, who I notice are all looking down as if to avoid eye contact. I can't imagine why. Oh, and did I mention that the stroller has a flat tire?

Let's go back to the beginning of the jog that started with such promise.... I arrive at the track with happy children. A grabs her new book and C snoozes quietly in the stroller. My run seems easy, and I quickly fall into a nice stride, when I notice the jogger seems awfully difficult too push, more difficult than usual. (Understand my three month old son weighs 15 lbs. 6 oz.) I look down to see the right-side tire is almost flat. "Awww man," I moan. I call T , who assures me that it will not damage the tire to keep on running, so I continue. Then I hear, "Mommy, I need juice."

"Mommy forgot your juice, and you just had something to drink."

"I need to potty."

Not now, not now. "You just pottied two minutes ago, sweetheart." I really think it is her attempt to go back home, so I keep running. If she asks again, we'll turn around. She doesn't mention it again.

Three miles, I make it three miles, non-stop. Truly a milestone, considering the horrible shape I'm in. Getting back into marathon shape with two is much more difficult than it was with one. But, what a fun challenge it presents. My celebration is cut short, though, when I see A leaning over her brother. "A , stop that, he's sleeping. Do not wake him up!" Or what, I think. It's too late, though. C opens his eyes and in minutes is crying. The crying escalates until we get to the half-mile marker where I unfasten his seatbelt and fasten him into the front carrier that I actually remembered to put into the stroller. I think this is might be a small example of what Paul meant when he wrote about perseverance producing character, etc.

And here is where you found us at the beginning. My desire to get back in my old clothing vs. my sanity. I pick up the pace even more (at least my angels motivate me to push harder at the track), and we finally make it back to the car. I unload cranky kids into the car, where A stops whining and C stops crying. I wrestle with the stroller and finally bodyslam it into its folding position and hoist it into the car. I can only laugh and remind myself that parenting isn't for the faint of heart.

Side note: My little pumpkin cracks me up. She is learning to sing along with the radio, and it is the cutest thing ever. She's memorized most of the Veggie Tales songs, and when her daddy is listening to the hair band channel on XM. She'll say, "I like this song; turn it up." :)

Library Lunacy

2009-03-04T12:15:00.001-08:00

I love the library, being surrounded by books, marvelous books. Yes, little brother, your sister is a nerd to the core. I love the feel, the smell, the look of books, opening one for the first time, wondering what story is waiting to be told. My dream is to one day own a quiet little store that sells rare books, located, of course, in a lovely, southern coastal resort town. My husband, I'm sure, would love this retirement plan.

So imagine my surprise when everytime I take my daughter to the library, she absolutely falls apart. What is it about books and story time that causes my angel to suddenly morph into an uncontrollable, oh I don't know....toddler?! Last week, it was spitting at the librarian. The week before she yelled at children who weren't dancing the "bean bag dance" appropriately. We've pushed, shoved, run down the stairs then back up them with mom trying not to drop baby C , but today, today was the one time I actually wanted to become a book and hop quietly on the shelf.

A walks in, proudly displaying her Wiggles big girl panties for anyone who wanted to see. I, carrying C in his 14 1/2 pound glory in his 15 lb. pumpkin seat, stumble in trying to pull A 's dress down, a complete nervous wreck, wondering if she is going to actually use the potty or her Wiggles undies. A jumps in and starts singing, then spots the big yellow bus taped carefully to a table, obviously a prop for story time. While all of the other children sit quietly, my little force runs to the bus, hits it and runs back to me, repeat 100 times. I jump up and down trying to catch her while also trying to keep C happy and occupied in his carrier. In the midst of this chaos, I am also sporadically trying to maneuver A to the restroom so she doesn't wet in her big girl pants.

First trip to the potty, she freaks out over the tubing from the self-cleaning apparatus.

Second trip: "Let's go to the other bathroom," I suggest. So, C and I escort her to the other, smaller, lower potty in the next room. "I not like big potties."

"It's the only one sweetheart. We have to use it."

"NO!" she yells.

"Please," I plead. "Don't use your pants." I am already trying to figure out how to discreetly clean the carpet.

"No big potty!" I take her by the arm and lead her back to story time. She looks up and says, "Mommy, I wet my pants." ARRRRRGH! (in my head, of course).

We walk over to my purse, where I have trusted no one will bother it while I run in circles through the library trying to tame my eldest or take her back and forth to the potty. I grab new underwear and am ready to take A back to the potty. I look up to discover that my sweetie has taken off her underwear, lifted her dress, grabbed a diaper, laid down in the floor, and is saying, "Put on a diaper mommy." I am looking for a hole that fits three and wondering why they still allow us into the library.

I quickly put on A s diaper with one hand, while holding C with the other. A calms down. I think a lot of her angst and rowdy behavior was due to nervousness over the whole potty thing, so I give her a big hug and kiss and tell her that I love her so much and am so proud of her for trying to wear big girl pants out and about and tell her to go play with the other kids. The rest of the time runs smoothly until we are on our way to the car, where A runs out the entry way to the children's library while I am collecting C and books. She manages to get on the elevator, and I manage to stick my foot up to keep the door from closing and hop on with her. That elevator normally takes five minutes to travel from the first to second floors, but not today, no, not today. We leave the library, where I breathe a great sigh of relief and wonder if I should take A out for paintball or rock climbing instead. Maybe one day, she'll feel the quiet thrill of a day at the library. And if she doesn't, that's okay, too. I love my girl for her unique, adorable, energetic personality even if it does leave me with wrinkles and gray hair way before my time:) (She is a ton of fun, if you can just keep up with her.)

What I Need Today

2009-02-18T14:08:00.000-08:00

C 's eye's light up as I lay him in his crib; his little sideways grin spreads across his face and his legs begin to kick in anticipation. "Okay, buddy, here they go. Mommy is going to make the Tigies dance." I crank the crib mobile and the tigers twirl to the Auburn fight song. His kicks grow even more excited, and I feel my eyes well with tears as I admire how sweet he is and think about how blessed I am.

"I love you very much, Mommy." A says sweetly.

"I love you very much, too, Sweetheart."

"You're the best!" A shouts as she races downstairs to play with Thomas. I continue folding laundry and think about how amazing she is.

I needed that this morning because in just a few hours my day seemed to quickly unravel. My goals for the day, simple, workout and bake a cheesecake for tonight's church dinner. Of course, they included playing with the kids and taking Toot to the library, but that's a given every day, at least the playing part.

Today, though, I haven't worked out, and it's almost five. I haven't even bathed. Children have refused to take naps and absolutely wouldn't hear of actually napping at the same time. My part-time employer called to say he wouldn't need me to tutor this weekend, after all, despite us needing the money. Meltdown after meltdown, tantrum after tantrum, frustration after frustration ensue until I am sitting in my car crying, after removing A from a spitting episode during storytime. She and C are both wailing in the backseat, and I wonder how I have failed so miserably at parenting. Surely unhappy children mean that I have somehow let them down.

A 's not even three and already I second-guess every parenting decision I make. It's like the future of her well-being hinges on every second's interaction. And, am I giving C enough time? I feel like that sweet little man gets put in a bouncer everytime his big sister so much as sneezes.

I love my children more than breath, but right now I need to know that it is okay to not love every minute of parenting. That there will be some days where it seems tiresome and mundane.....I feel like a wretch for even thinking it. I need to know it's okay to snap, "Just go to sleep already," and A 's self-esteem won't be damaged. I need to know it's okay to ignore her sometimes, and it's okay to want to just sit and hold C while she watches television. I need to know it's okay to want to scream and jump up and down like a two-year-old, not actually do it but just want to. I need to know that I am a good mother because I love my children more than life and am willing to sacrifice career, comfort, sometimes, sanity and so much more for them. I need to know that it's okay to not know what to do when your child spits at the librarian. I need to know that everyone else knows how wonderful, delightful, beautiful, amazing A and C are. I need God to reach down and wrap His arms around me, dry my eyes, and let me know that I'm on the right path, that I'm doing what I need to right now, that He is the only perfect parent.

A walks downstairs from her nap that she finally agreed to take, her hair askew, eyes still sleepy. "Hi Pumpkin."

"Hi, mommy," she mumbles. C is napping, too, finally. I pick A up and cuddle her close. "You want to snuggle bunny."

"Mmm-hmm, but me want a snack first, two M and M's and a piece of chocolate." She hugs tighter. I bet you do, I think. I smile. My affirmation. She loves me. C loves me. Despite millions of faults. They know, too, that they are loved no matter what. And I love that moment of parenting just like I love the frustrating moments for what they do to me, as a person and as a parent. Those are the moments that refine me, and the more I allow God to help me react the way He wants me to the more it helps me grow. He knows that's what I need more than anything.

The Look

2009-02-16T13:03:00.000-08:00

"No! That's my princess Spaghetti-Os!" A wails, reaching dramatically for the cashier, as one might reach for a prized possession being ripped from grasp.

The cashier avoids eye contact and continues scanning groceries. Good move, considering that any engagment at this point might prove explosive. "Mine!" A 's cries escalate. C is nestled soundly in the front carrier. How he is sleeping throught this current spectacle, I have no idea.

"A , stop it." I search my mind desperately for some parental wisdom on grocery store meltdowns. Didn't I read what to do on a bumper sticker in traffic? Ahhh....bringing your undernapped, hungry toddler to the grocery store at five p.m. always results in the same outcome no matter how many times you try for a different result. Yup, that was it.

As I berate myself and try to talk A down, I see it. Slight at first, but growing in intensity at the same pace as A's escalating tantrum. THE LOOK. The disapproving, why can't you control your child, eyebrow raising, lips-pursing look, cast your way several times, so you get the message loud and clear that because your 2-year-old is screaming in the grocery store, that you have somehow failed as a parent. That look, cast authoritatively by a bystander who has all the parenting answers, apparently!

Red-faced, I turn away, apologize to the cashier, and start to hightail it to the car. The bagboy, God bless him, offers to help us to the car. I agree, and as he pushes the cart outside, A screams, "No, my mommy push. My mommy."

"He's helping, Pumpkin. Let's tell him thank you."

The brave, or perhaps crazy, young man unloads the cart and begins to leave when A reaches out, "No, green buggy, come back."

"That is not your green buggy. It belongs to the store. Let's go home and eat Princess noodles."

"Princess noodles?" She calms down. I wearily climb into the car, where A a's behavior has suddenly become as good as gold, which is the way it is 95% of the time. On the way home, I begin to contemplate the look. What good does it do? I wonder. If the purpose is to utterly humiliate and encourage me to feel like a parenting failure then mission accomplished. If it is designed to stop the tantrum, then it does not work, and don't you think I'd be doing that if I could. My goal is simply to purchase the items on my list and leave, not ruin anyone's shopping experience.

And why....why would you want to make someone feel that way? If you've had children, it's shameless. Are you so far removed from toddlerhood that you've forgotten how hungry, tired 2-year-olds behave? Dont' get me wrong? I'll quickly remove that file from my brain, as well, but never so far that I resort to humiliating frazzled moms with my glare of disapproval. If you have yet to have children, how about a little sympathy? Wouldn't an I've-been-there-look with a reassuring smile do so much more. For crying out loud, I have a 9-week-old strapped to my chest, a two-year-old screaming melodramatically in the cart, and did I also mention that I had not had a bath in 2 days? Seriously?!!! Not the time to judge my mommying.

I arrive home, unload children and groceries, and heat up princess O's for A . I recall my prayer earlier for a more humble heart. I guess few things teach humility like my grocery store drama, unless it is falling in Target. I smile, slowly feeling my sense of humor return and say a prayer for parental guidance. Why don't I ever think to pray in the heat of battle? It's always after and usually for forgiveness. How do I expect my kids to learn when God has to teach me the same lesson a thousand times?

Replaying the meltdown in my mind, I wonder how I should have reacted. I meekly scurried by, head down. What I really wanted to do was glare back and stick out my tongue, but I am almost certain that would have sent to wrong message to A and C. I think about how overwhelming it all is-discipline, parenting. The love part is easy! but the rest.....whoa. If I'm going to let a look get me down, perhaps I'm going to need a heavier dose of perspective. I realize it's not really even about the look; it's about my own fears and feelings of inadequacy, how I don't have all the answers or strategies, especially when it seems that everyone else does. Sometimes I wonder if I have any answers. I decide to forgive the look lady and move on....as evidenced by my blogging about it:) If anything, tanturms and the subsequent looks they provide usually drive me to my knees in prayer, and I figure that's a pretty good place for a parent to be anyway.

Off Target

2009-02-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

How difficult could a quick trip to Target be? Right? They even have an automated door! With 2 little ones in tow, all I have to do to enter is push the cart right up to the doorway, and voila! the door does the rest. Of course, that is after I put A's shoes back on, place C in the front carrier, and lift A out of her car seat and into the cart without her kicking her brother. That has become easier with practice. The real challenge begins once we enter the store. Let's just say on this trip it brought me to my knees.

My mom, A, C, and I enter the store on a mission to find a birthday present for A 's friend. Nana takes C and heads for the shoe aisle, while A and I dash to the toddler clothing. It is half-past naptime, and C's tummy will be rumbly in less than 20 minutes (shout out to Pooh!).

"Which dress should we get, Lucy?" I ask A . I present her with a black and white dress or a pink dress. "This one or that one?" I playfully hold them up one at a time, over and over.

"That one," she says pointing to the black one. "And this one for A ." She grabs the pink dress and hangs it on the cart.

"Who said you were getting a dress?" I ask while laughing.

"Pink for A and black for Lucy."

"Okay," I agree. "Let's find something else to go with the dress. How about a bow?"

My mom wanders over to us with C sleeping, but I know any minute he'll be gnawing on his fists. "Let's go to toys."

I stop to look at outdoor toys when A starts to climb out of the cart. "Hold you," she says draping her arms around my neck so suddenly I lose my balance.

"Not now, Pumpkin. Stand right here beside Mommy." I place her on the floor, where she immediately darts down the aisle toward the main door. "A !" I shout. C is safe with Nana, so I sprint after her, my heart in my stomach. What if I don't find her, and she begins to wander on her own? Or worse, what if she gets out to the parking lot?

I see her, blond hair bouncing, giggling uncontrollably while she darts in and out of aisles. "A , get back here now."

I sprint faster, finally catching up to her. We're running side-by-side, when I reach to grab her. She shoots in front of me and we collide. Bodies fly through the air. A hits her bottom-nice padded diaper breaks her fall (maybe there are benefits to not being potty trained). My body, on the other hand, decides to land with all its postpartum weight on my knees. A bounces. Mom thuds. "Ow." I whisper through deeply inhaled breath. I look over to A who clearly doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She searches my face intently looking for some clue on how to react. All she sees at this point are grimaces and gasps for air.

When the initial pain stops, I look to my daughter and simply motion her to me. At this point, I'm not even concerned that I, in all my grown-up glory, have just taken a dive in front of all Target's mid-day shoppers. No, my focus is on my little escape artist. A cautiously walks over to me. "Help mommy up," I whisper. She hesitates. Most likely because I'm six times her size and the logisitics are too much for her 3 year-old brain to calculate. I manage to sit up, compose myself, and pulling her closer, calmly say, "We don't run from mommy. EVER. You and mommy could get hurt (as evidenced by my inability to walk). You could get lost or hit by a car or taken from mommy, daddy, and C ." I search for another more dramatic, frightening, serious calamity, but none comes. Plus, at this point, I'm trying not to cry or laugh.

With throbbing knee, I finally stand, take A by the hand, and march her back to the cart. On the way, a clerk has the nerve to ask if we need help finding anything. Does he not see my expression? "No, thank you," I nod, while thinking I found her. I lift A and put her back into the seat of the cart and buckle her in. To which she has the nerve to protest, "No buckle mommy. No buckle in." Did she not just see her mommy fly through the air, hit the floor, and not even raise her voice? Don't push it missy. I remain silent, while reminding myself that I am the one who decided to bring my unnapped toddler shopping. I push A back to the toddler section, where I grab a cute t-shirt for the remainder of Lucy's gift and walk to the check-out. My mom and C follow. We pay, leave, and I put A into her seat, remind myself she is exhausted, and stroke her hair. We head for home, and before I get half-way there I hear my little sprinter snoring in the back. I just smile and rub my aching knee.

Double-Teamed

2009-01-24T18:54:00.000-08:00

"A, C is not a doll."

"A, please stop trying to pick up your brother."

"Pumpkin, babies don't eat cookies."

"You can hold him when Mommy finishes feeding him. But we only hold C when Mommy is sitting beside you."

"A, please don't attack your Aunt C....Aunt A.....stranger who is admiring the baby."

A loves her new brother. Loves to smother him with kisses, cuddles, hugs, as much love as she can shower on him in one day. Just ask Aunt C who was literally sacked when A decided to run at her full force in perfect takcle formation shouting, "That's my baby brudder; put him down!" In fact, anyone who touches C besides Mom or Dad gets the same warning, "My brudder." I think she's afraid someone is going to take this little treasure away from my possessive darling. It's quite the opposite reaction from what I was expecting. I spent my entire pregnancy concerned, obsessed really, that A would feel left-out, overwhelmed, unhappy about having a new sibling. How would I ever help her adjust? She's adjusted just fine; it's mom who is having a hard time figuring out how to attend to the needs of two very different demanders, while meeting her own basic needs.

I've learned that I can never turn my back on my sweet daughter, literally, never. I tried once, just once so far, sprinted to the restroom for a quick 30 seconds, while C was down for a nap and A was in her room, absorbed in a book, at least I thought she was. With the door open and my ears tuned in to the slightest noise, I quickly washed my hands and dashed into C 's room to find that my almost-three-year-old daughter had scaled the outside of the crib and was in bed with her napping brother. I still can't figure out how she managed, first of all, to climb the crib, and second, how to do it that quickly. She was sitting there shouting, "Wake up, C. Wake up." Couldn't she do that from outside the crib?

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!!!!" Yelling will wake up the baby I remind myself. "A!" I whispered as forcefully and loudly as you can whisper, while whisking her up out of the crib. "Do not ever do that again. You can break the crib; you can break your brother; you can break a leg." Flustered, I just continue to say, "no, no, no" over and over. I can't even dash to the restroom. Where I managed A with two hands, I now need at least 8. And an extra set of eyes wouldn't hurt either. People warned that one is so easy; two is so hard. Sure, I thought. How can it be that difficult? Mmmmm.....laugh it up, all you who warned me....I get it now. I'm thrilled that A loves her brother so much, but until my little man is able to at least sit up on his own or probably, more realistically, run, there will be no rest for the weary. Who needs to shower, go to the restroom, eat lunch...

While I may sound....overwhelmed....I'm loving it. Everyone also told me that you will think about how much you love your firstborn and wonder if there is ever a way you can open your heart to feel that much love for another child...and you do. I fell in love with C as instantly as I did A . God just gives parents an infinite capacity to love their children, and next to being married to my amazing husband....motherhood is the most wonderful earthly treasure I've ever experienced, and now it is just twice as wonderful!

Theory on SEC Basketball

2009-01-24T18:47:00.001-08:00

The SEC looks like the bottom of the pack when it comes to college basketball, but I have an interesting theory that might make this season seem a little more promising. I propose that it's really not that bad.

Kentucky, my Wildcats, began the season playing like a team that had butter for fingers, considering their dismal turnover rate. What was it, like 30 turnovers in the North Carolina game? But, thanks to Meeks's amazing play, did you see the Tennessee perfomance, Gillispie's team is looking a bit like the Kentucky of yore. Ten 3-pointers in one game....over 50 points. Meeks gives this die-hard UK fan a glimmer of hope for the Cats.

Arkansas. I know they're 0-and whatever in SEC play, but they beat the highly ranked Oklahoma and Texas teams in the same week.... So maybe, just maybe, since Arkansas has dropped 5 straight, including being blownout by Auburn, the SEC is tougher than once thought. I mean this is the same team that beat some tough non-conference opponents and looked like they might be poised to make a tournament run.....

I'm just saying...While Florida is the only ranked SEC team currently, surely Kentucky can't be far behind, and if given a chance to play in the tournament, who says an SEC team couldn't make a run?

Thoughts on Miss America

2009-01-24T18:38:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in weeks; I have a new baby and this is what I've chosen to write about. T is putting A to bed, and I am sitting watching the talent portion of Miss America with C sleeping and sighing on my lap. And I'm thinking I could have never been Miss America because of the talent portion. I know you might be thinking the talent, really, that's all that was stopping you.....yes, there are other reasons I could have never been Miss America, swimsuit namely, but what would my talent have been?

What about those of us who have no performance talent? Are we not capable of being Miss America? Does cooking five items on four eyes of the stove, while changing a diaper with one hand, reading a book, putting a Belle dress on with the other hand, and maintaining sanity count as a talent? I don't sing well enough to use it as my talent in the pageant. I can't dance, I don't play any instruments well, do they do anything else in the talent portion? I can run long distances and teach and write. Can I write an essay on stage while humming Veggie Tales?
I didn't think so.... Oh well, guess I'll neve be Miss America.

It's A Boy!!!!

2008-12-17T12:12:00.001-08:00

Please join T, A and me in welcoming C to the family! He weighed 8 lbs. Thanks to all who have sent well-wishes and prayers. We just want to thank and praise God for this special miracle and addition to our family!

Potty Mouth

2008-11-26T14:08:00.001-08:00

Potty Training. Who knew it would be more challenging than nursing, sleepless nights, whining.....I can go on. We were moving along just fine until my belly started to grow and now that the bump is larger than my firstborn, the no's have become even more adamant. My daughter is still in the refusal stage, but it seems we're moving to a new stage, the excuse stage. Perhaps she is trying to spare mom's feelings by stopping complete refusal and trying to reason with mommy as to why the potty just can't be used. Below are some of my favorite excuses:

1. When we're out and the only potty is a big potty, I hear, "It's just too big mommy."

2. Also with big potty, "I'm scared."

3. Yesterday she cleverly stated, "I can't mommy, I have gum in my mouth." Apparently, she can't chew gum and do other things at the same time. Guess she gets that from her clumsy mama.

4. "I'll do it after Veggie Tales, after bath, after I eat, after I read my book, after I'm finished with my college finals..... Okay, I made the last one up, but I don't doubt if she hears it, she'll use it.

5. "I too little, mommy."

6. "I a baby, not a big girl."

7. When peer pressure is in play, I hear, basically, "So." Not in words but in actions.

Is it wrong to find comfort in the fact that she is not yet 3? I think I'd have an easier time teaching her to read before her third birthday. Like all other things, I'm just going to have to leave this one at the throne of God and depend on Him to do the rest!

Counting Down

2008-11-09T13:38:00.000-08:00

Six weeks and counting....I think.....my original due date was December 21st, moved back to December 12th, but according to my doctor's math at my last visit is back to somewhere around December 21st. So, I am expecting a baby's arrival sometime in December. Overjoyed, overwhelmed, overly-exhausted.......all of those. Right now, I am riding a sea of emotions, cresting waves of intense happiness followed by valleys of "what in the world am I doing?" and usually evening out with smooth glassy moments of complete calm. Repeat cycle as many times as the ocean in a day.

When I was pregnant with A , I remember coming home from work, waddling slowly up the stairs to the nursery, sitting in the new yellow glider my in-laws had given us and contently rocking back-and-forth, daydreaming about my impending arrival of joy. Truly, not a care in the world. I didn't worry about labor; I didn't worry about what kind of mother I'd be; I wasn't fretting over wether or not I'd master breastfeeding. I simply experienced blissful contentment, enjoying the prospect of possibilities that lie ahead. Not so much this time.

Now, I'm lucky if I can find a moment to waddle to the restroom alone. My beautiful, sweet present joy is a feisty, fiery, spunky, bundle of unstoppable energy who demands every ounce of her mommy. Blonde pigtails bobbing, she jumps from place to place and has absolutely no desire to discuss the bump in her mommy's middle, other than to point out how uncomfortable it is when she is trying to lean back on me for story time. I admit in embarrassment that I've not so much as even started thinking of names for our new arrival. I haven't had time to just sit and think about our new baby, and it pains me. Other than a few gentle pats on my tummy when the little one kicks; I 've barely even begun the bonding process. With A , bonding began with a positive pregnancy test.

Am I unhappy about this pregnancy? Absolutely not! I am overjoyed, but like all second-time moms, I'm sure, I'm more concerned with how my first baby is going to handle it than with how wonderful it is going to be to rock and hold an infant. I've not truly allowed myself to enjoy and bask in this pregnancy like I did my first because I don't want to take anything away from the baby who is already here. Will I always feel this way? Everytime I sit nursing my newborn, will I feel guilty because I'm not reading to A or playing with her or just enjoying her? I tell myself that I am one of billions of mothers who have had more than one child, and I know it will all be okay, but right now, I'm honestly having trouble looking past my pregnancy. Seriously, could I be more pathetic..... fretting over wether or not I can adequately parent two children. Don't Jon and Kate have 8 and that Arkansas family have 18?

So many of the blissful daydreams I had while waiting for A 's arrival have come to fruition. I am mother to a beautiful, lively, sweet toddler who has exceeded even my wildest expectations, a true blessing from God. And I know whatever the future holds, however hectic and erratic it might seem the first few months, His grace is enough to carry us through, sustain us, prepare us, and help us parent both of our joys with unending amounts of love. I just hope that I can be as much of a joy to them as A has been to me!

The Thrill of the Patch

2008-10-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

Trees cast eery shadows across the field where disfigured pumpkins lie in wait. An old train howls hauntingly in the distance. Suddenly, a hollow wail pierces the air, "NOOOOO!" A blonde head bobs by, arms outstretched, knees crumpling to the ground as she yells, "Come back tractor!" Thus, the scene is set, complete with all the trappings of our yearly pumpkin patch drama.

Allow me to back up to the beginning. When afternoons become crisp and blue skies brilliant, I begin to bug my husband about taking A and me to the pumpkin patch. Since last year's outing was so full of drama, we decided to try a new, closer pumpkin patch. Change of scenery, plus a cool train ride. What two year old can resist trains?

The morning of our adventure, I'm awakened by A peering at me over my pillow. "Thomas, mommy. No, Percy. No, Gordon," she finally decides.

"Morning, pumpkin," I mumble. "We're riding Thomas today."

"No, Gordon."

"Is he the blue one or the green one?"

A doesn't answer because she has taken off downstairs eagerly anticipating our train trip to the pumpkin patch.

To save time, I have printed out our tickets, so when we arrive, an hour early (as requested by the museum) I expect that we will present our tickets to the man in the boarding uniform and pick our seats. No, no. T must stand in line and transfer my paper tickets into real tickets while I try to keep A from running up and down the tracks and into oncoming traffic. Forty-five minutes after our arrival, we board the train.

Any inconvenience is quickly forgotten when I see the huge grins on A and T's faces and hear the whistle wail, signaling, "All Aboard!" The train pulls out of the station, and we are on our way. An honest-to-goodness, real train. We have chosen the open-air car and except for a crispness in the morning air and a few sprinkles of condensation, the ride is beautiful.

Twenty minutes into the ride, we see a huge jack-o-lantern sitting in a shady field. The Great Pumpkin we later learn. A small vineyard borders the "pumpkin" patch and free-standing pumpkins, apparently purchased from a real patch are littered throughout the field. Travis, A , and I exit the train and decide to let A jump in the big, bouncy thing. Ah, how naive we are. Since the field is wet and rather muddy, kids are leaving their shoes on to jump. Not A . No, that is breaking the traditional rules of bouncy things, and she is not going to break the no-shoe rule, plus she is wearing, difficult-to-remove, difficult-to-put-back-on boots. T and I debate with her that it is truly all right to wear her shoes. Finally, T gives her bottom a small, encouraging nudge into the bouncy thing and A , still distraught about wearing her shoes, begins to wail. I am standing on the side, peering through the net, so I can keep an eye on her. A stumbles to where I am standing, trying to avoid being pummeled by jumping pre-schoolers, and wails, "MOOOOMMMMY!"

"Honey, please get her out of there." T extracts A from the tiny entrance, and we decide to head to the hayride. A , though, is still trying to remove her boots and won't hear of it. But, alas, the hayride is attached to a tractor, and well, I did grow up in the country, so my blood flows in her veins. Meaning, she loves tractors. We get in line for the hayride, and in a repeat of last year, we just miss getting on that particular ride. A bursts into tears. (Keep in mind, we did the 10 a.m. train ride to avoid I-need-a-nap drama.) Her father walks her over to the grapevines to see if they can see any grapes, while I wait in line. After five-minutes-that-seem-like-thirty, the tractor comes back and we take our turn on the hayride. We exit with a smiling daughter and decide to go pick out our pumpkin.

As T and I inspect pumpkins, we hear a shriek and see a small, blonde girl go running by with outstretched arms. A has apparently noticed the hayride is still going, and she isn't riding. She shouts "NO!" and falls to the ground in despair, screaming, "Come back, tractor!" Her face is pinched and red and tears are flowing freely. Other pumpkin patch patrons walk by her crumpled, despairing body, look down, and smile. T and I, not so much. We fight the urge to turn and walk in the other direction. "Whose child is that?!!!!" But, since we all came on the same train, everyone is aware that the adorable blonde mourner belongs to us. T picks up our future Academy Award winner and walks over to some picnic tables. I go purchase chochlate for A (I realize it is misspelled but if you don't say it the way she pronounces it, it loses something.) Finally, we hear the whistle to board the train and make our way back to our seats.

On the train ride back, A crawls into my lap and snuggles next to my chest. Granted, half of her body is hanging off because of my ever-expanding tummy. I put my nose to her hair and kiss her on top of the head. Suddenly, I am reminded of why we, every year, take on trips that makes us uncomfortable or vulnerable to drama or that are sometimes inconvenient. Because, God always provides that moment, that moment when you know exactly why there is no where else on earth you'd rather be than in that place with your daughter in your lap and your husband next to you holding your hand. That moment that you wish could last forever because, even though everyone witnessed three breakdowns in fifteen minutes, you are in that space feeling utter bliss.

All too quickly, we are back at the station and getting into the car ready to go carve our pumpkin. A decides it will need a happy face, and we head home, where we discover that golden retrievers love pumpkins, but we'll save that one for later....

The Potty Not Traveled

2008-10-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

A walks into my room carrying a pair of Elmo underwear and holds them up proudly. "Elmo panties, Mommy."

"You can't wear your Elmo panties until you start using the big girl potty."

She turns, exits, and returns moments later carrying a pair of Dora panties. "Dora, Mommy?"

In my mind, I roll my eyes and laugh at her budding reasoning ability and intellect. "All right, smart girl," I say. "You can't wear ANY panties until you use the potty. Panties are for big girls who use the potty every time."

"I want to wear my Dora panties!" she screams, voice escalating with each word.

"Well, let's go potty," I say. I take her hand and walk her to the bathroom. She sits, fully clothed, on the toilet and looks up to make sure Mommy is watching. "We need to take off your diaper first."

"No! I don't want to potty."

"Okay, but you can't wear the panties." I walk downstairs and leave my two-and-one-half-year-old writhing and whining on the bathroom floor. Moments later she comes downstairs wearing her Dora panties over her diaper. I just shrug my shoulders in defeat and start to make dinner.

So goes potty training at our house. As a former teacher, I could bring thirty seventh graders to complete silence by just raising my eyebrow. Students who'd narry written their names without whining were creating essays full of plot twists and conversational nuances. Kids who'd complained about reading the homework assignment off the board suddenly begged to go to the library for one more book. Certainly, all the result of God's gift of teaching. Somehow, though, that ability has not yet translated home to a feisty toddler, a potty, and big girl pants.

Defeated and frustrated, I've almost abandoned the idea of potty training A completely. Okay, I don't want a kindergartner with diapers, so I'm sure I'll pick it up again sometime. With the baby coming, I'm now beginning to worry about potty regression if I ever do manage to encourage her to use the toilet again. Have I mentioned that she still uses her pacifer? Yup, we've not begun to scale that mountain.

Yet, A does know and recognize all her letters. She can count to twelve. Must be something about eggs and doughnuts. She is a voracious scanner of books, who simply loves to learn. And, after thinking about my teaching years, I've come to realize that those students didn't turn into readers and writers overnight. It took months, sometimes the entire year, of patience, prayer, and dedication on my part and dedication, motivation, and learning on their part. Perhaps, I'm trying too hard too fast with A.

She does understand that Mommy's belly does indeed contain some sort of weird, moving item that is already taking up some of HER space on mom's lap and will soon completely disrupt life as she knows it. Her safe, solo world will soon be shared with something unknown that cries and nurses and takes her mommy's attention away for several hours a day. Perhaps not using the potty is her last vestige of control in a world that suddenly seems much less certain. If I take the time to get behind her eyes, I suddenly see how frightening this big girl stuff can seem when it all happens so quickly. So, instead of immediately feeling like I have the word FAILURE tattooed on my face when someone asks if my child is potty trained, I think I'll remove the focus from my own feelings of inadequacy as a parent and instead shift my concentration to A's perspective. Maybe this potty training process will go much more smoothly once I do.

More of the Same for the Tigers

2008-09-15T09:51:00.000-07:00

Let's hope Auburn's offensive line treated the defense to breakfast Sunday because they certainly owe them something. After self-destructing Saturday night against Mississippi State, it looks like Auburn could be facing some of the same offensive woes that plagued the team last season.

As I watched the game, I was struck by the mistakes, the looks of confusion, the complete lack of execution displayed by Auburn's offense. I'll be the first to admit that when it comes to x's and o's, I am not an expert. But I am enough of a fan to see that their interpretation of the spread offense looks more like a group of random guys who decided, "Hey, let's get together and play football tomorrow." And, if no-huddle is meant to make the game go faster, there were times during the game that I'd rather been watching paint dry or water boil. It really seemed like the longest game in NCAA history.

It seemed that whatever Tony Franklin was calling wasn't working. I kept waiting for Tuberville to take the reins. Seriously, if it didn't work the first time, it probably isn't going to work the 40th time. Fortunately Paul Rhoads's defense seems to be strong and able, but I have serious concerns that Auburn either currently doesn't have the personnel to run Franklin's offensive scheme or Franklin's offensive scheme isn't translating well at Auburn. Either way, there's a lot of work to do on the Plains.

Ohio State vs. USC

2008-09-12T13:33:00.000-07:00

The match-up of the year is Saturday, if you believe the media-hype, only three weeks into the season when Ohio State travels to USC for the "collision in the Coliseum." Yes, like snowstorms and other weather disasters, this one even has a name. I know you'll be surprised to find out that I just don't get it.

I don't get the love affair with either school, especially the current one with Ohio State. You'd think that no other teams exist, or at least, no other teams could possibly be in contention for a national championship. Since Ohio State doesn't seem to have what it takes to show up for the big games, I'm going to personally give USC the edge in this one. Ohio State looks sluggish and with the recent injury to Beanie Wells, it looks like they'll be short one important player. If USC wins, they will certainly be presented with the National Championship Bowl Game rose, inviting them to compete for the title. Don't be surprised to see the "collision" in the Coliseum become a collapse in the Coliseum, a disappointing end to the over-hyped frenzy building up to the game.

NCAAF Week 2

2008-09-06T15:19:00.000-07:00

If style matters in college football, and apparently it does, then Ohio State deserves a drop in the polls. I mean, come on, if Georgia can drop from its number one perch without a loss shouldn't Ohio State fall for allowing Ohio University 145 rushing yards against its defense? In this season long chase for a make-believe college football championship, a bad day should equal a drop in rankings.

Seriously, my frustration with the BCS has led me to develop a bizarre rooting system of my own. For instance, I always pull for the SEC because I was reared on the SEC, I'm a southern girl, born and bred, and I love it. That being said, because I long for the ineptness of the BCS to be revealed more and more each year, hoping in vain that someone will come to their senses and create a playoff system that matters, I usually pull against ranked teams. Why? Sheepishly, I say, I think the pollsters are a wee bit clueless in many of their rankings and rather enjoy, perhaps too much, watching that be revealed. Unless of course it is a well-deserving ranking for an SEC team. Hey, I never said it made any sense. But, let's take the example of BYU vs. Washington, I didn't really no who to root for. BYU was ranked 8th, but I like the little PAC-10/SEC rivalry that seems to have developed, so I wasn't exactly wanting Washington to win.

The point is, with the current system, it just really doesn't matter except for end-of-season bragging rights, because truth be told, fans are left feeling empty when the national champion is nothing more than a "favorite" who had a good-enough season. Without losing one game or playing a "real" opponent, Georgia lost its number one postion because it never really "had" it to begin with. Pollsters just couldn't justify placing Ohio State number one after 2 BCS Bowl defeats in a row, or a USC who lost to Stanford the previous season. Georgia had been on an end-of-season roll and had handily defeated a highly touted Hawaii team. USC pounded UVA in week one of this season, so finally, a reason to jump Georgia.

Yes, I realize that in the grand scheme of things college football matters....not at all. It is thousands of kids doing what they love for adults who, let's face it, should really get a more productive hobby. But wouldn't it be nice to give those kids, all those teams that really deserve it, a real shot at a real National Championship?

NCAAF Week 1- As I See It

2008-09-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

It seems that after a summer-long love affair with the SEC, the thrill is already gone. After last night's Tennessee loss to a PAC-10 team for the second year in-a-row, I'm sure the thrill is now probably dead. The SEC enjoyed a brief stint as media darling with 4 teams in the top 10, including Georgia's ranking of number 1, and while the rankings haven't changed much, there seems to have been a shift in the national media's attitude.

While listening to FSN radio, ESPN radio, and watching most games on various national television stations, I could hear it in the voices of the announcers as they crowned, after just 1 week of play, USC and Ohio State the most talented teams in the nation. Georgia, it seems, is headed for a fall, and over and over I heard their number 1 ranking questioned. First of all, who ranked Georgia number 1? Hmmmm.... and second, the week prior, Florida, LSU, and Georgia had all been wearing the most-talented crown. What happened in one short week? When push came to shove, was it just too difficult to truly admit that the SEC could really be the best? Florida pummeled a Hawaii team, that just the year before was in a BCS bowl. Alabama scored 34 points on the ninth ranked Clemson Tigers. Was Ohio State's 43 points over Youngstown State (aren't they a junior college) that much more impressive?

Brent Musberger, on ABC's Saturday night telecast, was saying that until proven otherwise, yes the SEC is the best conference, but he seemed to like the Big 12 to rise to the top. As he was saying this, his co-worker for the evening, Kirk Herbstreit broke the news that Arkansas State had just defeated Texas A&M. Yes, I laughed.

Look, I clearly see that Ohio State and USC are talented, clearly. But, after one week of play, why are we already ready to crown them National Champions? Have you seen Ohio State's schedule, outside of a tough match-up against USC? USC is in a PAC-10 with some talented, dangerous teams, some. UCLA showed last night that they're a team to be reckoned with. Granted, Tennessee made a few hundred foolish mistakes, but a W is a W and UCLA looked good in the second-half. I just wish we could take a more patient wait-and-see attitude with declaring teams best in the nation. Who knows when injuries can decimate a team? We've already had some scares at both Georgia and Ohio State. And based on what I saw Saturday, just on what I saw Saturday, shouldn't Florida and Alabama be in the running? It seems "until proven otherwise" the media's crush on USC and Ohio State is back on.

By the way, Auburn has some serious work to do on its offense, Again!

Miss Independent

2008-08-28T12:04:00.000-07:00

"Good morning, sweetheart. Let mommy take off your jammies and change your diaper."

"No mommy; A do it."

"Let me comb your hair."

"No mommy; A do it."

I stand back and watch A do it the exact opposite of how Mommy would do it. Her hair is now sticking straight up from being combed backwards, and she is still wearing her pajamas and wet diaper. We get to the stairs, and my daughter lifts her arms. "Hold you mommy." It seems the only things A doesn't want to do are walk and use the big girl potty. We've not even made it to the breakfast table, and I've heard her sweet voice say, "A do it" about ten times.

When my little girl was an infant, describing her with the word needy would be an understatment. I could barely leave her side for seconds without her exploding into a powerful cry. Any babysitting offers normally lasted about five minutes before I was called by a panicky voice telling me that A could not be consoled. I remember longing for the day that she would become just a little more independent.

That day came too fast. Just last week, our little girl joyously received her big girl bed, and I wistfully wondered where my baby had gone. Her daily chorus of "A do it" reminds me of just how quickly she is growing into the big girl she so longs to become. (Apparently in her mind, though, big girls wear diapers.) Her independent will and lack of mastery in many of those do-it-yourself skills lead to daily battles. She's demanding to do it on her terms, while I still want to do it on mine. And truth be told, maybe I'm not quite ready to let go of some of those tasks that I find so endearing, like picking out her outfit for the day, brushing her hair, and putting on her little socks. Plus, it goes much more smoothly and quickly when "Mommy do it." But just like it's A 's job to grow up; it is my job to allow her to do just that.

Dorothy Fisher wisely said, "A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary." I'm not sure who Ms. Fisher is, but she beautifully summed up the purpose of parenting in one succinct sentence. How hard, though, is it not to encourage our children to lean, when we as mothers are born nurturers. I struggle to allow A to try things on her own and learn more about her world on her terms; it means that she needs me less and less. Yet, I understand the importance of my job as the one who makes leaning unnecessary, and just as hairbrushing and shoe tying are important roles, so is being the one who teaches A how to do it successfully on her own. That only comes by allowing her to no matter how inconvenient it may be at times.

T, A, and I are watching the Olympics and eating chocolate chip cookies, when A gets up from her spot and walks over to her daddy. She takes his empty plate, says "A do it," and walks into the kitchen. She then comes back and gets my plate to do the same.

"Thank you!" I exclaim proudly. I hope this part of the "A do it" phase lasts long into the teenage years.

"You welcome," she says triumphantly, obviously pleased with the results of her efforts.

I watch A return to her place in the floor, her eyes riveted on the competing athletes. Perhaps she is dreaming of her own Olympic debut, and like Michael Phelps, whose mother allowed to swim in the deep end on his own, and Shawn Johnson, whose mother allowed to swing unreserved from the uneven parallel bars, I realize that allowing A to cautiously do things on her own may not be such a bad thing, after all. Sure, it makes mommy sad to see her little girl growing so quickly, but at the same time it thrills me to know she is so eager to try and to learn. I love watching her eyes flash when she recognizes her letters, or watching her little chin lift with pride when she kicks the ball in a straight line. After all, isn't this what God has called us as parents to do?

Flawed Systems: The BCS vs. Women's Gymnastics

2008-08-20T18:13:00.001-07:00

American television audiences sat stunned as they watched Chinese gymnast Cheng Fei take the bronze medal after crashing to her knees in the women's vault finals. A beautifully landed vault by Alicia Sacramone placed fourth. Mere hours later, we once again gasped in disbelief when Nastia Lukin lost the gold medal on uneven parallel bars to He Kexin after receiving the same score. Even if you overlook the fact that the gymnast might not even be old enough to compete in the Olympics, to the casual observer it is obvious that the scoring system contains glaring flaws. While watching the credibility of those Olympic judges tumble, I was reminded of another championship-deciding system that also carries some of the same frustrating flaws: the BCS. It seems that women's gymnastics actually does have a little something in common with college football.

In both college football and gymnastics, the past carries weight in the present. Before the first ball is snapped or the first somersault is spun, teams and athletes with past success are automatically given an advantage. USA Today's pre-season pollsters give Michigan entry into the top 25 despite the fact that they are breaking in a new coach and are recovering from some stumbles last season. Why? Because they're Michigan. Even though they've recently failed to come through when it counts, Ohio State is sitting pretty at number 2 or 3, depending on which poll you count. USC and Oklahoma are again near the top for the fifth or sixth year in a row. These rankings set up the race for the championship before nary a play is made. Those teams enter every season with a national championship advantage that is very difficult for lower teams to overcome simply because they've done well before, very often despite the previous season's performances. In women's gymnastics, judges, too, are aware of the "favorites" before the opening ceremonies are completed.

There are no tie breakers in either sport. There is no slugging it out on the field or in the gym to see who really is the team on top. For Nastia Lukin's uneven parallel bar tie, it went to the computer. Let's take away this score, throw this score in the mix, add a cup of sugar, a tablespoon of butter, and voila! looks like the Chinese gymnast comes out on top. Football is basically the same recipe. Let's take this poll, a little of that poll, a coach's vote here, a reporter's vote there, and boom! these two teams play for a National Championship. Sorry, Football U. you're schedule wasn't as "difficult" as Number One University.

Subjectivity. In sports where a championship is the goal, where one team or one person strives to prove their dominance in the sport, their unarguable, undeniable worth of being declared the best, subjectivity plays too large a role for the result to be taken seriously. There is no true number one. Pollsters decide, often disagreeing, throughout the season who should be first, second, etc. in college football. In gymnastics, judges often score the same routine with vastly differing scores, despite there being a set formula for difficulty and deductions. Human judgment decides in a big way who gets a chance to play for the prize. And as any of us who are human can tell you, it is very difficult to separate bias and emotion from our decisions no matter how hard we may try.

While I don't really care that much about women's gymnastics, other than pride in my country and a disdain for cheating in any sport regardless of who's playing, it is upsetting that there isn't a more objective scoring mechanism. How about gymnasts all do the same routine? Judges will have a consistent look at the same elements. Or perhaps judges could actually follow consistently the guidelines set for point deductions.

Now, I do care about college football and am growing weary of seeing worthy teams sitting on the sidelines watching a less worthy team play for a national championship simply because they're popular and happened to play in a conference that, let's face it, didn't prove too formidable. Popularity shouldn't decide national championships. This isn't homecoming; it's football. The BCS doesn't work. Is it going to take an undefeated USC left on the outside looking in, yet again? Or will it be Ohio State's undefeated season that leaves them playing for position number 3 in a Rose Bowl that causes those conferences who refuse to let go of the past to examine the realities of a playoff system? But hey, boys, it's the Rose Bowl....

Would the playoff solve all problems? No. But at least teams would be given an opportunity to decide it on the field and not let an objective computer filled with subjective information decide. The BCS is broken and only a real-live grind it out on the field playoff is going to fix it, IF our goal is to crown football champions and not homecoming teams.

Maybe Next Time

2008-08-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

When I came down with pneumonia weeks prior to my first marathon, I was disappointed. When I broke my ankle just a few weeks before the third marathon I'd trained for, needless to say, I was disappointed. But to pretend to know the disappointment my husband feels at having to turn down an opportunity to travel across the Atlantic to compete in the World Championship Duathlon because of injury is absurd. I can't even begin to know the gravity of that kind of letdown.

T qualified for the run-bike-run back in April when he competed in the Powerman . Unfortunately, this past Tuesday, he made the difficult decision not to get on a plane to Belgium because a nagging pain in his hip, one that kept him from running, was not improving. A few weeks before our departure date, during a training ride on his bike, T had crashed trying to avoid a dog. Plus, my theory is that his body was also physically exhausted from a grueling months-long training program.

T trained all winter to compete in a half-Ironman. He raced that in May then jumped right into another tough training program for this race. As any long distance athlete can tell you, that sort of training quickly begins to take its toll on your body.

I would just like to say how proud I am of the way my husband has handled this. Those who know him best understand his disappointment at not being able to compete, but he has not worn that disappointment at all. He accepted his injury with grace and even commented to me how there are Olympic athletes who train their entire lives and are forced to pull out of the biggest sporting event of their lives right at the last moment. So he is truly keeping it all in perspective. A faith in God and a trust that He knows all and is in control of all also keeps T's disappointment short-lived and his focus on the next phase of his athletic endeavors. I love you sweetheart and am proud of the man, father, and athlete you are!

Nesting

2008-08-09T15:23:00.001-07:00

Apparently, I have entered the phase of pregnancy known as nesting. Since I'm not quite a bird (as evidenced by my growing appetite), I have been referring to this portion as the "Everything Must Go" phase. And I mean everything, from tupperware to weeds to picture frames to clothing. It all seems to be getting on my nerves. If the only light of day an item has seen is when a tiny ray escapes into the open closet door then it must go. (My mother just gasped in horror.)

I'm actually enjoying the nesting part. It has really motivated me to clean, clean, clean and simplify, simplify, simplify, and apparently speak in threes. My poor unwitting husband, whose injury kept us homebound instead of Belgium-bound (more on that later) has become an innocent victim forced by his horomonal wife to wield a screwdriver and hammer on a weekend when he should be biking and running. My daughter, though, is delighted to see what treasures make their way into the floor. It seems that adding another member to the family forces you to actually make a little space for that person.

It is all a transition from cluttered to clutter-free, from baby A to big girl A, from mom of one to mom of two. I sigh as I prepare to move the crib to the new nursery and replace it with a "big-girl" bed. Before the new baby arrives, A's room will be transformed, hopefully "pappy" will be forgotten, and my toddler will be using the potty instead of diapers. Our lives changed so much when A came, in wonderful ways words can't express, and now that we've found our groove and things seem "normal", baby number 2 is coming to change our lives, once again in more wonderful ways. Nothing prepared us for the changes A would bring, and I'm sure we will never truly be prepared for this next phase. At least the house will be all cleaned out and ready.

Headed to Belgium

2008-08-04T07:12:00.000-07:00

T and I are headed to Geel, Belgium for the World Duathlon Championships, where T plans to run 13 miles, bike 56 miles, and run about 6 more miles. Injury is leaving wether or not he'll actually compete up in the air, but we plan to make a fun pre-new baby get-away out of our trip. A will be spending time with both sets of grandparents.

While I am thrilled to be going away for a European vacation with my husband, I know I'll be a little homesick for my sweet girl. T and I will be returning from Belgium on our anniversary, so that makes the trip even cooler. Please pray for ours and A's safety and a safe return home. Also, please pray for our little one due in December that mom will take the necessary travel pregnancy precautions. And please pray that God will give T strength and health in competition, if T decides to participate. And of course, that T and I will be witnesses for Christ in all we do.

Thank you! and I'll be sure to post tons of blogs about T, A, and my adventures when we get back.

Random Thoughts

2008-07-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

I love being a mother. Sometimes I need to remind myself, usually when I'm holding a kicking, screaming A upside down during a "meltdown" always in public, while someone is commenting, tongue in cheek I'm sure, about how when our kids get in trouble at school one day, they'll know it involved A saying, "Let's try this." Encouraging for a mother, huh:)

My pumpkin is feisty and a natural-born leader. If I can rein those great traits in for good and teach her to be a leader for Christ, not the other guy, I'm actually happy that she isn't overly shy or a wallflower. I know that given the right direction and tons of prayer, that she'll be a strong little girl who can influence others for good.

That being said, I wanted to share a few of those sweet, tender moments that her father and I capture at home, when she isn't out telling the world that I'm "mine mommy" or her best friend is "my Lucy." She's just proud of us!

Last night, when we were finishing up some chocolate chip cookies in our den, A came by, unprovoked, and took mine and her father's plates to the kitchen, where she placed them on the counter. She also had on a cute t-shirt with sparkly lettering. When you asked her what was on her shirt, she replied, "Sparcles." I couldn't get enough of her saying that word.

She also is taking very good care of her baby dolls and will speak so quietly and sweetly to them, always telling them, "I be right back" then blowing each a big kiss. My daughter is truly a sweet, adorable girl, and I love sharing those moments with her. So next time you see us at the grocery store and she is yelling to you, "Not yours, mine," remember that when she isn't learning the use of possessives, she is doing good deeds in her own sweet way.

Mercury Rising

2008-07-24T10:19:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at the computer when I heard a hissing sound and loud pop outside on the porch. When I went outside to inspect the cause of the noise, I noticed broken glass from the thermometer. Apparently, the mercury had risen so high, so fast, that the thermometer just exploded.

Okay, I just completely made all that up; I don't even own a thermometer, but as hot as it has been the past few days, that could certainly happen. The termperature has climbed to the century mark and walking outside is truly like walking into a humid oven. Why your oven would be humid, I don't know, but if it could, it would feel like my front yard. I say all that to say that my running during pregnancy dream has become just that, a dream, nightmare really.

When I found out I was expecting, I experienced a sense of excitment. This time I had no broken ankle, no out-of-shape lungs. I was in the best shape of my life and ready to run during all nine months. I just forgot to factor in the extreme heat and humidity of southern summers. They're hard enough to bear when you aren't carrying around another person, while pushing in a stroller a thirty-pound toddler. I know, I know, women run during pregnancy all the time, but do they live in the south? No, I'm convinced these women, I only read about but never actually see, live in Minnesota or Seattle.

Truth is, I could run, but I just don't feel that it is safe for the baby. Maybe I'm being overly cautious, but when God places the care of a developing fetus into your hands, that is no small task. So, I've resigned myself to long walks, spin, pre-natal Yogalates......and lots of naps. Honestly, I'm rather enjoying the break from training and (get ready to laugh here) racing. I've forgotten how comfortable and enjoyable a stroll can be. It's nice to not feel the overly-driven, super-competitve urge to push myself. While I think stretching what I once thought were my limits is good for me, it probably isn't the best idea during pregnancy or heat waves. And I find that I'm now having dreams of my post-pregnancy comeback half-marathon and quite content waiting until after the baby is born to reach that goal.

Tour de France

2008-07-16T12:21:00.000-07:00

For about three minutes, the Tour de France captured the interest of Americans, as they tuned in to see if Lance Armstrong would ride victoriously through the streets of Paris for the seventh time. That interest might have only been for about sixty seconds had Armstrong's story of triumph over cancer not been so amazing. Not that seven Tour victories isn't amazing in and of itself, but doing it after defeating cancer is that much more impressive. Let's face it though, cycling doesn't capture the hearts of Americans without a story like that and even then it's the athlete, not the sport.

In my household, thanks to my husband's love of cycling and the Versus channel on Charter 212, the Tour captures our attention four hours a night for the three week duration of the bike race through France. I'll admit I've been a hard sell, but after two years, I'm as captivated as my husband. The athletes are both fascinating and impressive, and yes, even the commentators are witty and entertaining. I say this with slight embarrassment....I even know them by name. I'm such a Tour geek!

In my favorite sport, baseball, a player stumps his toe or sleeps funny on an airplane and is immediately placed on the DL. In cycling, a rider breaks his wrist or slashes his leg and gets right back in the saddle, literally, and finishes climbing the peaks of the Pyrenees. Very often he will go on to win a stage the next day while nursing the soreness of his injury. Did I mention he will also usually finish the grueling three week race? Grueling might be too weak a word.

Watching these cyclists ride a hundred miles a day for twenty-one days, either up mountain peaks or in sprints, gives one a whole new respect for the term athlete. And while I realize the sport has been plagued with doping scandals, the desire to clean it up has given cycling a new life, especially in this year's tour. It has even led to the creation of teams dedicated to recruiting anti-doping advocates who are cyclists. (say that three times fast) I'm not trying to recruit you into becoming a fan of the sport, but there is something to be said for the intensity of the race coupled with the stunning European scenery. And one only has to drive through the streets of a large town on Saturday morning to see that interest in cycling is certainly rising.

With two new American teams, Garmin-Chipotle and Columbia, and an American contender for the title, this might be a good time to tune in again. American cyclists Christian Vandevelde currently rides in third position, much to the surprise of Tour experts. If another American rides victorious in Paris, could it possibly peak our interest for four minutes, this time? I guess we'll just have to wait and see.

Birthday Girl

2008-07-09T12:54:00.000-07:00

I sit surrounded by fifty singing toddlers. A sits in my lap, gripping my thumb tightly, her pacifier bobbing up and down with intensity. Classic signs of A -nervousness and who can blame her. Being led by an incredibly silly man with a guitar, the fifty-plus bounding bundles of engergy are attempting to place their thumbs on their head, while at the same time trying to place their elbow on one knee, while also attempting to place the other knee to their ear. The man with the guitar, doing the same, suddenly falls to the floor, and the over fifty toddlers I've mentioned once or twice all jump up while peals of laughter echo throughout the halls of the library.

It is the morning of my thirty-third birthday. If anyone had mentioned to me ten years ago that I would be sitting, pregnant, in the floor of the library with fifty children, their parents, and my adorable two-year-old watching a children's musician attempt to lead a mass game of Twister, I would have laughed hysterically. If anyone had said to me that I would be a stay-at-home mom, I would have rolled my eyes and kept on walking. No, I had other plans, like becoming a successful writer and perhaps assistant editor of a magazine, living in New York, of course. Yet, somehow, here I am celebrating my birthday with an army of strangers under the age of 5, and I seem to have acquired a vastly different definition of success, thankfully.

Despite the occasional struggle with loneliness and isolation, I love staying home with A and have no regrets. When people say, "Oh, I could never do it, I'd lose my mind," or, "I would be so bored; I need to feel like I'm contributing or accomplishing something," or "I need adult interaction," I just think, "it's not really about me right now." That's after I unruffle my offended feathers. Not contributing, huh, what exactly am I doing then? Anyway.....

Yet, today, on my birthday, I must admit, I'm feeling a bit loneseome. Despite my getting A and I all dolled up in dresses, bows-for A , makeup and nicely styled hair-for me, and necklaces-for both of us, (hey! it's my birthday) no one here seems to know its my birthday, nor do they seem to care. Of course, how could they? My siblings and parents are at the beach, my husband is working, and my daughter seems to think it is still the previous day and her father's birthday, "not yours, Mommy." None of my friends have called. And, perhaps I'm just feeling a little down from the cocktail of pregnancy horomones and summer heat, but I'm a wee bit glum on my birthday. How can that be? It's my birthday!

I've always loved birthdays. For me it's a magical day of endless possibility. A day of surprises, flowers, balloons, phone calls, well-wishes. Am I too old for skating rinks and birthday candles (I'm not a fire hazard, yet)? I refuse to believe it. For me birthdays will always bring a twinkle to my eye and spring to my step and the fact that anyone as blessed as I could be down is true nonsenese. The people who matter most have called, my parents, siblings, aunt, grandmother, mother-in-law, husband. T even took A and me out for a delightful lunch. I get to spend the day with the coolest toddler on the planet. And the one who matters the most did this:

For [God] created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made,

Your works are wonderful,

I know that full well. Psalm 119:13-14.

With that being said, how could you feel anything but special and loved on your birthday?

A Little Disappointed

2008-07-07T12:53:00.000-07:00

I am a bit disappointed. See, I've been trying to get my freelance writing career off and running, but it seems to be more just off, and perhaps standing. It's certainly not running.

I've always been told, you're a good writer; you should do this for a living. And, I've always wanted to, but lately, I'm wondering if that's the best thing to do. Have the compliments gone to my head, and I'm really not that good? Mom, have you been pulling my leg? Am I too prideful? Who knows?

I've submitted a few articles, that I thought were decent to a couple of magazines. One was a local magazine. They've all been rejected as not a right fit for our publication. I can handle rejection. I modeled some in college and I didn't date much in high school (actually I took best guy pals to all the dances, including prom), if you know what I mean. Rejection isn't new to me. But, if I can't even get published in a local magazine, sheesh.

Perhaps it's pregnancy hormones getting me down. My husband did point out that it was just a few rejections. I don't know. Instead of dwelling on it, I'll just keep submitting, pray for guidance, and see what happens. Maybe God is telling me to focus on different magazines or maybe He's saying this isn't the right time and I need to focus on my daughter and pregnancy and try writing later. Or maybe I just need to develop a little perseverance. I feel like God places passions in our hearts for a reason; I just need to figure out how to use that talent for His glory.

Instead of leaving on an icky note, I wanted to share some funny things A is saying, now that she's talking more and more clearly.

If you ask her what is in mommy's tummy or what mommy is having, she says a puppy. Sometimes she will say kitty-cat. Imagine her surprise come December? or Ours!!:)

Also, now when she leaves the room, she says, "Be right back, Mommy. You stay here." And she smacks her lips, like MMMnnnn, as though she's sending you a kiss.

Really, who needs a writing career, when I've got that blessed gift each day. She'll be off to kindergarten before I know it and I'll have plenty of time to write and submit...except that the little one will only be 3.......but I'll have twice the stories...

Homework Humor

2008-06-25T12:42:00.001-07:00

I had just put A down for her nap and settled into my bible study homework. I am studying Kelly Minter's No Other Gods and was reading the following phrase from the Introduction! of chapter 2:

Even when you have grandiose plans, spiritual plans....things can unexpectedly turn....because there will always be a million nagging tugs on our time and attention, and somewhere in the middle of all the tugging it is essential we build a fortress wherein only God, His words, and our heart exist together for a time. It cannot happen accidentally. (34)

When I heard loudly from the next room, "Puppies! Puppies!" (my daughter's beloved stuffed bunny).

I ignored the whimpering and tried to focus on the words I was reading.

"Puppies! Juice, Mama, Juuuuiiiiccee...!"

Again, I ignored her. Eventually, she'll settle down and sleep.

"Mama? Mama? Juice! Juice!" The cries grew louder. Remembering we'd been out in 97 degree heat just minutes earlier, I dog-eared my page and ran downstairs to get her water. I walked in her room, retrieved Puppies from where she'd been tossed in the floor, and watched A guzzle a large amount of water.

"White pappy," she whined.

"You've already got blue pappy, now night-night."

"Whiiiiite pappy!"

I gave her the white pacifier and rocked her to sleep. After placing her in her crib, asleep, I returned to start chapter 2 of my study. Determined to at least get through the first page.

Articles for Second Time Moms

2008-06-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

I am a voracious reader. Absolutely love to read. If there's nothing new to read, I will find myself reading the cereal box or even the back of an Elmo DVD. While I enjoy reading for leisure, most of my reading is to learn more about a topic of interest. Lately, that topic has been pregnancy.

With my first pregnancy, I read everything I could get my hands on, but since I've forgotten most of what I've learned, I find myself re-reading many of the books I bought during my first pregnancy, especially those on fitness. What I've discovered, though, is that most books and magazines target the first-time mom, leaving those of us on our second pregnancy with little new information. "What could possibly be different about the second pregnancy than the first?" you might be asking. Where do I start? For one, you are balancing the needs of pregnancy with caring for a feisty, curious, endlessly energetic toddler. Since authors of pregnancy information seem to be at a loss for what to write to second-time moms, I have a few suggestions for some possible articles.

1. How to chase your toddler up the down escalator without allowing your newly burgeoning "bump" to knock you off balance, catch your toddler with one hand, and gracefully exit the escalator without falling, toddler in tow.

2. How to keep your 2-year-old from riding her tricycle into oncoming traffic, running into oncoming traffic, jumping into the deep end of the pool, etc. without going into labor.

3. The best way to sneak your utterly exhausted pregnant body a nap while simultaneously exhibiting enthusiasm during the 400th viewing of "Sesame Street Sings Karaoke."

4. How to snuggle with your sweet toddler when she no longer fits onto your lap (and not because she's the one growing.)

5. How to explain to your two-year old that Mommy does not feel like nor can she physically manage to bend over and push you on your toddler car up and down the neighborhood street for hours.

6. Why calories eaten off your child's plate don't really count during pregnancy.

7. Why it's okay to feed your child chocolate and pizza for dinner three nights in-a-row because you no longer have the pre-pregnancy energy or brain power to construct an argument that makes everyone happy.

8. Bible-study for pregnant moms who want to spend their child's naptime sleeping, but know they desperately need to use it for prayer and devotion to maintain their own strength and sanity.

9. Yoga for two, make that three. Your toddler will always awaken from naptime about the time you get the yoga mat down.

10. Advice for Dads. How to make your pregnant toddler mommy's job a little easier. Suggestions include treating her to a day at the spa.

I'm sure there are more topics that need to be covered, but this would be a good start!

If I Could be Like Dad

2008-06-11T11:50:00.001-07:00

Ahh....isn't it sweet when little girls long to be just like their daddy. Especially when dad decides to mow the lawn shirtless. Need I say more?

Real Sports Hero

2008-06-05T11:28:00.000-07:00

When I was home from college for summer break, I remember clearly looking forward to curling up each evening on the couch in my parents' den and watching the Braves game, uninterrupted for hours. No classes, no tests, no deadlines. Just the pure thrill of summer baseball. Sometimes my siblings would join me, unless they had dates. (Fortunately, for me, my husband saw through the supergeek exterior.) But normally, I watched alone. For me, no matter what was going on in my life, I knew that almost every evening on TBS, the Braves would be there. Skip, Pete, Don, and Joe became like family friends. "That ball is hit hard. It's going, going.....and caught by the second baseman." It was like comfort food during a time in my life when things never seemed certain.

Much has changed over the past year for the Braves. No longer are they on TBS. The network has now opted to show reruns of Family Guy and Everybody Loves Raymond. (I hope that's working out for them.) When I turn the channel to Fox Sports South, or whatever it is, I now only see Joe and some red-headed guy. Mark Lemke has moved from second base to the radio booth, and Ron Gant is now host of the pre/post-game shows. What has remained constant, though, are two players who have earned my respect more as each year passes, Chipper Jones and John Smoltz. And we learned yesterday, that Smoltz could possibly be hanging up his uniform for good. Season and possibly career-ending surgery looms heavy on the horizon.

As someone who resists change, I've weathered the recent changes to the team rather well, but my heart was heavy yesterday upon hearing the news. John Smoltz is more than a pitcher; he's a phenomenal pitcher, but he is also a class-act, who quietly breaks records then eases gracefully from the spotlight to focus on family and charity. While I'd cringe watching Greg Maddux drop the f-bomb when a pitch didn't go the way he'd intended, I'd admire Smoltz's poise and character. A Christian, who doesn't just "talk the talk," he truly lives his faith and has earned the respect of players and coaches everywhere. In his own words, "I’m still going to go out and give it all I’ve got. I just don’t play for the records or the popularity anymore. I play for no one other than the Lord now and when you play only for Him it really removes the pressure you once had and you can go out and have fun and work hard"(Serving Christ Through Baseball,Cash, 1999).

In an era where performance enhancing drugs have become more common than sunflower seeds in the dugout, Smoltz has always played by the rules. His faith in God and in the purity of the game have earned him quite a career, not only as a starter but also as a closer. He is the real deal, a true American sports hero. And while I realize he might be back next year as a lefty, I just wanted to say kudos to John. It has been a real pleasure to grow up watching you pitch with such grace, elegance, and character.

My Sweet Girl

2008-05-27T05:39:00.000-07:00

After attending a Memorial Day swim party, where T and I spent much of the day telling A, "no," "stop," "We don't hit, A," and putting her in timeout twice, I arrived home feeling guilty that maybe we are too hard on her. After all, she is only two. And, at home, much of what she was doing, I wouldn't have considered true misbehavior, but for some reason when there are other children and parents involved, you feel like if you don't do something, you aren't "parenting" appropriately. Of course, I couldn't let A clock her friend in the head and not do anything, or hit adult guests, eat off a chip and put it back in the bowl, but seriously, did I mention she's only two. For some reason, I think our expectations as adults of children often exceed reality.

Anyway, I just felt like I sometimes write a good deal about the challenges of parenting a toddler, and today, I wanted to write about how truly wonderful it is to be the mommy of a fantastic two-year-old. Every morning, I look forward to A's little feet running to the bedroom door (after her dad gets her out of the crib), opening it wide, and climbing into bed with Mommy for "snuggle bunny" time. She crawls in next to me, looks over and says, "Morning, mommy" and grabs my hand.

I love how when I am sitting in the floor with A putting together puzzles, reading, or coloring, she'll get up and walk around behind you, throw her arms around your neck, and then pat you on the back and say, "Hi, mommy." Sometimes she'll hug extra hard and say, "sqeeze," which means squeeze. When T and I are working in the yard, she always has to have sunglasses and gloves, just like mom and dad, and she always pushes her bubble mower right behind her daddy when he mows.

She also says the sweetest and funniest things. When I put on my bathing suit for the beach or the pool, after hearing her father one day call me "hot mama," she always looks at me and says "hot mommy." Hilarious and her attempt to both be like her daddy and be super sweet. She's also really into trying to share. She gives bites of her food away, always makes sure an unattended sippy cup immediately makes it back to its owner, and gives you the crayon that is the same color as the one she is using, so you both have blue, red, or the color of the day.

When I think about how wonderfully blessed I am that God allows me to be the mother of this little girl, I am simply overwhelmed with joy and gratitude. Sure there are spills, marks on things that aren't paper, like the walls for instance, and whiny, grumpy moments, and while I write about these too often and fail to reflect on the wonders of parenting, I can't express strongly enough how much I love being A's mother. And I know I'll feel the same way about our new baby. Parenting is tough, really tough, and you want so much to do it right, whatever right is. All I can do is trust God to guide T and me and spend more time enjoying and thinking about all the rewards that come along with giving it your true all.

On the Run, Okay Jog

2008-05-23T13:55:00.000-07:00

I am not Paula Radcliffe.

Many of you are probably saying, "duh?!", while others are asking, "Who?" Ms. Radcliffe is the British marathon extraordinaire, who managed to run 7 to 8 minute miles while 7 months pregnant. I like to refer to her as superwoman! I planned to run throughout my second pregnancy, but when I concocted this brilliant plan, I was not yet pregnant. As with all great ideas, I'm sure it sounded brilliant at the time. After burning up the track today with 12 minute miles, a heart rate of 155, and incredible nasuea, it doesn't sound like as much fun anymore.

Seriously, I do plan to try and continue running with this pregnancy. I like a challenge, and since my doctor has given his okay, and I know it is safe, I think it will be fun to push my changing body, ever sluggish as it may be. But, it is so much harder now that I am expecting. My heart is racing before I even begin, and I feel like I am literally trudging my growing body through sludge with every step. Add to that the stroller, and I really just feel like whining. "It's toooo haaarrd!!!" Since we're trying to break our sweet girl's habit of whining, I try to keep my own to a minimum, but the frustration of having to back off so much to keep my heart rate in the safe range and the added difficulty of just being pregnant is bringing out the whiner in me.

What is wrong with me? I see pregnant women running all the time with a spring in their steps and a smile on their faces. I almost passed out when upon finishing a 10-K with a decent time, a woman at least six months along finished not too far behind me. And I wasn't expecting at the time! I've read stories written by women who raved about their ability to run right up until delivery with no trouble. Are they serious? Was their run really a fast walk with a bit of a kick? Who knows?

I think I've just decided that attempting to work out during pregnancy, much less run, is of great benefit to the baby and me regardless of the intensity. I pledge during this pregnancy not to be so hard on myself, to quit comparing my current fitness level to my pre-pregnancy fitness level, to stop comparing my pregnant running self to the expectant sprinting of professional atheletes, and to just enjoy the fact that pregnancy allows me to take it a little easier. Before I know it, A and her new brother or sister will be begging for mom to make the stroller go faster, and I'll be back to my sprinting shape in no time.

Iron Man

2008-05-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, 13.1 mile run. I stare at the numbers in awe, mouth gaping. A runner only, and having completed one 26.2 mile race myself, I still look on at the athletes surrounding my daughter and I and feel incredibly intimidated. I couldn't imagine running 1.1 miles after spinning for 60 minutes, much less biking 56 miles and then running a HALF MARATHON! In a few short hours, my husband would be testing the limits of his physical endurance by pushing his body 70.3 miles along with 1,300 other incredible athletes.

It is an incredibly warm day, and after three hours riding in a car, A and I, who have both apparently had a run-in with melted chocolate, decide to walk around the expo instead of waiting in line with T. A is running and screaming, shouting no to anyone who stops to comment on her cuteness. I'm beginning to think with A 's antics plus the fact that we have chocolate all over the back of our shorts and A's shirt, that keeping us from embarrassing T, might actually be a more difficult feat than the half-Iron. So, I take A to the lobby to wait for her daddy. The sweltering weather does not look like a good indication for the next day's race.

A and I sleep through the early morning wake-up call and miss seeing T off for the big day. Fortunately, his dad accompanies him to the start of the swim. T's mom, A, and I hurriedly get ready, though, and wait for the phone call to let us know that T is out of the water and on his bike. The heat and humidity are already high at 7 a.m., but the clouds block the sweltering rays of the sun. I say a small prayer and hope that T can get through the run before the sun breaks through the overcast sky. Papa calls to let us know that T is finished with the swim and should be passing us shortly on the bike. I breathe a huge sigh of relief (sharks, hundreds of people swimming in the rough surf at once), and A, Gigi, and I run outside to cheer for T. He zooms by on his bike looking strong and content.

Just a few hours later, we are able to watch him pass back by on the bike, and we rush toward the transition to see him start the run. By now, the sun is breaking through the clouds. The temperature is easily 85 degrees. My husband smiles and waves, as he passes, though, so I push the worries to the back of my mind, for now. After a 1 hr. 30 min. finish in the Mercedes, I plan on trying to make it back to the transition in about 1 hr. and 45 min. The time passes quickly, at least for A and mom. I coat us in sunscreen, and T 's parents, A , and I head back out to the finish line to watch for T . We have a lime green sign with sentiments of our support ready to wave when he passes by.

The heat is oppressive and the worry begins to creep back into my mind. The first aid golf cart has made several trips to the course, and it has been more than two hours since T started the run. We each take turns leaving our shady spot to go watch for him. Finally, I see his bright yellow shirt. "Here he comes!" I scream to the others, and we all crowd the street waiting to watch him cross the finish line. As I see him, I am suddenly overcome with emotion and pride and begin to cry. I squeeze A 's hand, lean over, and whisper, "That's your daddy little girl. That's your daddy."

T looks exhausted, and I know it has been tougher than any of us could have imagined. I am so overcome with pride knowing what he has just accomplished that I just embrace him. He's done it, a half-Ironman, and he finished in the top 1/3 of the competitors. After a shower and lunch, he tells us about how tough the bike ride was with the wind and how miserable the run was with the sun and heat, but I know he, too, is proud of his accomplishment. Just a few hours removed from that race, though, he is already talking about what he could do differently next time and starting to plan for a full-Iron. Like a true athlete! I just smile and think of how I can support him even more this time. I just ask that he waits until after our new little one arrives, so we'll have an even bigger cheering section.

Raving Cravings

2008-05-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

Pregnancy cravings. ARRRGH! Pregnancy cravings. How could someone who just wants to sleep all day be so hungry?! And not just hungry, no, it is a fixation on a certain food that borders obsession. Saturday it was Panera bread's Smokehouse Turkey. Sunday night, taco salad. My husband wanted to grill out for me on Saturday, and I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from making sure his meal plan fit my craving of the day. We had grilled chicken and it was wonderful.

I have actually convinced myself that peanut M & Ms are good for me. Seriously. And I assure you that will not be the only junk food that rises in nutritional merit during this pregnancy. No, there will be others, like cherry-chocolate ice cream. It has the antioxidants of chocolate plus the fruity benefit of cherries! Did I mention that ice cream has calcium?? I'm still working on how I can up the nutritional value of barbecue and hamburgers. Isn't pork the new chicken?

Just shy of ten weeks, and I've already gained five pounds, despite running, spinning, and chasing A . Oh well, as long as oatmeal raisin cookies qualify as health food, it looks like I'll be in for quite a weight loss plan once the baby gets here. I think training for a marathon did wonders last time, and just imagine how many calories I'll burn running with two babies!

Memory Lapse

2008-05-14T07:54:00.001-07:00

I was in labor for 13 hours with A , so I know that I've been pregnant before. Yet, for some reason, I seemed to have blocked all memories of pregnancy from my mind. I'm beginning to see why.

I had forgotten how the scents of coffee, ice cream (yes, ice cream has a scent), and cut grass made my stomach churn. Although cloudy, I do vaguely recall being too exhausted to cook, clean, workout, or even get out of bed. And did I mention the 24 hour a day nausea. I apparently blocked that memory, as well. Add to the mix an energetic toddler, and I am literally walking around in a foggy haze. I have to write down when I take my vitamin, so I don't take it twice. How sad is that!

It appears that all I do have the energy to do is eat. Was I this ravenous with A ? My fifty pound first pregnancy weight gain should answer that question. I am trying to be good and pry myself off the couch for runs and spin, but wow, it is hard to ignore the hunger pangs. And while I'm sure an apple or grapes would suffice, for some reason it must be barbecue or hamburgers. My body will accept nothing less. Sorry, Dr. , it looks like you might be getting on to me again this time about the weight gain. I did lose it last time, though.

Right now, my clothes are becoming snug, but I'm still not showing. The casual observer might assume that I'm just adding a few pounds, most of which have gone to my belly. I really want to pull out stretchy waistbands, but I don't think it is time, just yet. Ahh, the first trimester.

And while I have blocked much of the first pregnancy discomforts from my mind, I do remember why it is the most wonderful experience. The second trimester does get better, less nausea, more energy. How often does your body get to experience a true miracle? And, at the end of that nine month body-altering adventure, God blesses you with the most wonderul little person you ever imagined, and that makes every pound, every minute of nausea, every second of exhaustion worth it!

Christmas Surprise

2008-04-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

"A !" I scream running down the stairs, my legs rubbery and unsteady. "Come on, we've got to run a quick errand."

I load A into the car, jump in the driver's seat, and sit there, a bit shaky. "Is it really possible? And so quickly?" I put the car in reverse and head to Rite-Aid.

Allow me to back up for a moment.

My fingers have been numb and tingly, feet, too, so I schedule an appointment with my neurologist, who wanted to do an MRI. He assures me that he isn't concerned and this is just a precaution. A few days later I call the nurse to ask if you could have an MRI while expecting.
"I don't think it's likely, but possible, barely possible." I tell her.
"I'll just need you to take a pregnancy test the Friday before the MRI to make sure," she says.

So, the Friday before, the scheduled-MRI I grab a test left from back when we were trying for A. The instructions say plus-pregnant, minus-not. Simple enough. Once the time is up, I check the test. A faint, pink line is crossing a bold fuschia line. Faint, that's how I am feeling right now. Is that a plus, or not? Maybe it's a mark on the test because it is so old. I use another test. The same faint pink line appears. That is when I grab A and head for the drug store. I need to be 100% certain, which for me apparently means it needs to actually show the word pregnant on the test stick.

A and I rush into Rite-Aid like a whirlwind. I run to the test, grab the one that is the most idiot-proof, and race home, okay, more like drive the speed limit home while my stomach churns uncontrollaby. Is it nerves or do I suddenly have morning sickness?

Once home, I bound upstairs, slipping a few times, take the test and nervously wait the three hours, really, minutes, it takes to show up. And there it is, the word PREGNANT, just like that in all caps. I'm pregnant. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I do both. A walks into the bathroom, bewildered at her hysterical laughing, crying mommy. I pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, and just sit there kissing her head and rocking her, not sure how to feel, yet. Two years and two months of just A and Mom all day, two peas in a pod, and for some reason, I feel like to be elated would be cheating on her.

Of course, I am thrilled to be expecting. Travis and I talked about it and both agree A needs a sister or brother, but wow, it all seems to be happening so fast. I didn't expect to be taking positive pregnancy tests until July or August, but here it is, a blessing beyond measure, and I sit crying, tears gently rolling down my cheeks onto my confused daughter's golden hair. "Mommy's okay, baby, just emotional."

I dry my eyes and call T. "Hey, I have news." I can't tell him over the phone.
"What?" he asks.
"You'll find out soon enough."

I look at A. "How can we tell Daddy creatively?" I feel myself getting excited. I jump on the computer and try to find out how to calculate the due date. December 21st. "We need a Christmas theme." I decide to wrap the news in Christmas paper and wait for Travis's confused look. He finally gets home from work and opens his gift. "What's this?" he asks. "Merry Christmas!" I shout. "We're getting a December visit from the stork." I embrace my husband and find myself feeling a twinge of excitement. I am going to have another baby and this time A gets to come along for the ride. I'll continue to let you know how that goes.

Traffic Violations

2008-04-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

I got my first ticket. At 32, I received my first traffic ticket. For speeding, no. For allowing A to jump in the front seat unrestrained, no. For "running" a stop sign, yes.

My local police, out cleaning up crime, was hiding at the bottom of a hill with a birdseye view of a three-way stop, where he could catch us S.U.V. suburban stay-at-home moms trying to get home quickly, but safely with our napping toddlers before we missed that critical window of opportunity that allows us to get them into the crib without waking them up, thus giving us the valuable free-time required for cleaning, laundry, and sanity. When I think hardened law-breaking criminals, I think stay-at-home mommy.

Apparently, when I came to the stop sign with absolutely no traffic on the road, I made a snap-decision to turn instead of go straight. I really thought I had come to a complete stop before turning. I drove right by the motorcycle cop without thinking that I had done anything wrong. Did I stop and count to, I don't know, ten. No, but I did stop the vehicle from moving for a brief moment. So, imagine my surprise when he turns around to pull me over. Napping A , loud, very scary, sarcastic, kind of mean, tattooed policeman, flustered mom. I tried to keep my voice down so A wouldn't hear her mommy and wake up, so I didn't say much to the officer, and no I didn't cry or try to get out of it. But, really, how about a warning?! A, "be more careful maam, and let's come to a complete stop for a few seconds next time." No, I got a "you ran a stop sign didn't you?" Despite my desire to say, "no, I didn't, and do you have to be so mean," I instead politely hand him my license and insurance and sit quietly while he "writes me up." $133. Do you know how many Elmo DVD's or diapers that would buy!!!!??

Am I mad because the officer was doing his job? Despite the HEAVY sarcasm above, no. I'm mad at myself for "breaking" the traffic laws. I really try to abide by all laws, even traffic laws. I usually drive the speed limit or just a few miles above. But, I guess I'm not trying hard enough, so if you're behind me at a stop sign, just be prepared for a truly exaggerated stop! And yes, I'll be the "granny" driver in the silver SUV.

Step to It

2008-04-06T15:03:00.000-07:00

It is a dark, stormy afternoon, wind howling, rain driving, you know the rest. A is refusing to nap. Okay, maybe she can't sleep for the tremendous thunderclaps shaking the house. Whatever the case, mom needs a break, so I cover A with a raincoat and run to the car, where we brave the howling wind, driving rain, and tornado warnings and drive the quarter-mile to the gym. I drop A off in the nursery, which is snuggled safely in the basement of the gym and go to check the schedule for group exercise. Step Circuit. Mmmm, it might as well say advanced hip-hop for all my coordination and skill. Well, I'm here now, so since I've braved the weather, surely I can brave a little humiliation and damaged pride and give step a try.

Immediately, I realize I am in over my head. Within seconds of my warm-up, Katie, our instructor, shouts, "Around the world." Around the who? I wonder, while everyone else in the class steps and lifts their knees in perfect rhythm. I just jump around in circles trying to figure out how around-the-world should actually be performed. Step is a lot like dance, and love dancing I might, that doesn't mean I can do it.

Apparently, we are going on a trip because the next move is a "carry-on" (I think) with lunges. Ooh! Lunge, I know that one. Carry-on, no clue. Again, I jump around, looking more like a baboon than an athlete and finish with a few lunges in the opposite direction of everyone else. All these steps....arrrgh....I can't keep up. My favorite workout dance is running and it only has two steps.

As soon as I feel like I'm learning the routine, Katie adds about ten new steps. I spend half the class facing everyone else and trying not to laugh. Who does she think I am Janet Jackson? I assure you I dance more like Tom Jones, but when I look at the clock, I am amazed to find that the class is almost over. Trying desperately to keep up with step circuit sure makes the time fly. Finally class is over, and I manage to scrape my pride off the floor and head down to the nursery, where I'm told A has been slapping and shoving other children. Pride back on floor. This time I cover my head with the raincoat and run with A to the car. Maybe we'll try the gym again on Monday?!

Diaper Dandy

2008-04-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

I must admit that I dread nap time more than A. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't look forward to two hours of mommy-alone-time, which normally includes cleaning, straightening, meal-planning, and o.k., sometimes the occasional nap or mindless magazine. No, I dread the daunting task of getting A to actually fall asleep in her crib and stay there. Yes, I have a confession to make.... after two years, I still need help getting A down for her nap. Either the rocker, if we're home or the car, if we're on the way home from T's office. What I don't undertand is why dad can lay her down in the crib with nary a peep. My mother-in-law and mother can also do it. But me, nope, not a chance. When I try, A is transformed into a shrieking, thrashing toddler-beast unwilling to be calmed.

But today is going to be different. Today is the day Mom is going to stand strong and not run back into the room to comfort, rock, or hold crying A. Yes, today, today will be the day that I place A gently in the crib, softly say, "night, night" and never look back. (Can you hear the dramatic super-hero music, too?) A's cries will no longer be my kryptonite.

And that is just what I do. After lunch, A and I walk up the stairs hand-in-hand to her darkened room. I strain through the dim light and manage to read one pre-nap book, while gently rocking my girl. I then lay A in her crib with Cookie and Puppies and walk out of the nursery. A immediately stands up and begins to cry. "Night, night," I say from beyond the crack in the door. "Mommy is going downstairs."

"Downstairs?" she asks in a small, whiny voice.

"Night, night."

"No night, night," she counters.

I close the door, tip-toe downstairs and begin to mop the kitchen floor. A's cries soon fade to silence. A few minutes pass and no sound. I've done it. She's napping; I'm cleaning, and it only took five minutes. I walk to the office and decide to take a peep on the monitor. My shoulders slump as I watch my short-lived moment of victory turn quickly to defeat. A isn't sleeping. No, she's standing and dancing in her crib. Is that her victory dance? "Mommy can't make me sleep," I imagine her saying while chuckling that dastardly cackle from the cartoons. I'm certain she's rubbing her hands together, concocting some plot to destroy nap time forever.

"What should I do?" I think to myself. What would super-mommy do? I'm sure I do the exact opposite because I walk back upstairs to her room. She smiles and points, "Mommy." I must admit; it is nice to always be treated like a celebrity.

"You're supposed to be napping." I notice a diaper in the floor. How in the world did she reach the diapers? I wonder. Defeated, I pick A up and get ready to either rock her or drive her around the neighborhood. Then I notice her hiney is as bare as the day she was born. "A!" I half-whisper, half-shout, "Where is your diaper?"

She giggles and points to the, thankfully, clean diaper in the floor. "Diaper," she says proudly.

"A, that is not funny."

A giggles louder and lifts her dress to show off her bare bottom. She's so proud to have stripped her way out of nap time. (I really hope this is no indication of aptitude for a certain career.) For fear that I am about to be victim to a quick sprinkle, I lay her in the floor and grab the diaper. She looks up and smiles. "Mommy, no diaper."

"I know, baby, no diaper." Suddenly, I do what no parent should ever do in the face of defiance. I erupt uncontrollaby into giggles. I mean, come on, you must admit this is pretty funny stuff and rather clever. Of course, this means, that A will now attempt to foil all nap times by removing her own diaper, but I'll figure that out later. Right now, I have to go warm up the car....

Faith Matters

2008-04-01T11:26:00.000-07:00

Easter evening, after putting A to bed, T and I were flipping through the channels on television trying to find something to watch. Baseball had not started and there was no basketball being played, so we were at a loss to find anything for our viewing pleasure. T landed on Fox news, where Sean Hannity was hosting a special on Mysteries of Faith, so we watched for a little while. One of the segments was "first-hand" accounts of heaven and hell, both quite compelling, but the hell was especially horrifying and disturbing, and as we watched I got the sinking feeling that people I love could possibly be on the path to hell. I know, wow, heavy, but it's true, and I have not been able to really shake that feeling, since.

I guess that's why I felt compelled to blog about it, to get it off my mind and onto paper. Since Anna has hit the terrific, yet sometimes overwhelming, and I'll admit, every now and again, terrible twos, I've been doing a lot of self-examination as a parent, and I've been thinking about what my most important responsibility is as a parent, and that's easy. My number one desire for my daughter is eternal salvation, and T and I are doing all that we can to lead her on the path to Christ. I think examining yourself as a parent also causes you to examine your own self and your own faith and beliefs and then to say, "Am I living my faith in a way that proves to my daughter that I believe it?" In a world where truth seems relative and spiritual gurus and Oprah try to tell us that there are many paths to God and eternity, the truth is there is one, and it is my job to be sure that A knows that. John 14:6 states that "I (Jesus) am the way and the truth and the light. No one comes to the Father except through me." It is pretty clear-cut, and it is an easy truth to teach A, as her parents.

But what about the other people I love, who I fear are lost. Why is it so difficult to share a faith that is so wonderful, a truth that is so abounding in love and eternal bliss? I don't have the answer except to say that, shamefully, I guess I'm afraid of what other people will think. My husband and I serve our church and share our faith with youth and young adults, but witnessing to the willing isn't difficult. It's those who don't know or refuse to hear that I worry about. So that is why I am sharing it now in the medium that I know best. There is a wonderful gift that God has given us and that is salvation through his son Jesus Christ. Just attending church and acknowledging God's existence won't secure it. Being baptized as a baby, yet never confirming that act isn't enough. You must understand that you are a sinner. Romans tell us that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. You must then believe that Jesus is the son of God. Salvation is an act of faith. You must then confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and through prayer invite Him to forgive your sins and into your heart. Then live your life for Him. Simple, but powerful, and I believe the best decision you'll ever make.

Resources for questions:

http://www.family.org/
http://www.lproof.org/

Parental Pursuits

2008-03-26T10:18:00.000-07:00

I am encouraging A to help her friend Emily clean up their toys when A grabs Emily's shirt and pulls hard. The tug is accompanied by a look that clearly reads, "Back off." "A!" I admonish because using the middle name always means business. "That behavior is unacceptable!" (Right now my brother is saying that using phrases like unacceptable is my first problem.) The nursery worker who'd been keeping both girls also witnesses the interchange and remarks, "She's been doing that all day."

Okay, how exactly do I respond to that? Crawl under the table. Say, "Yup, that's my girl. She's feisty." Smugly shrug it off while responding, "Don't look at me. She takes that from her daddy." Instead, I just sigh, pick up my toddler, and for the hundred millionth time explain that we don't hit, pull hair, or shove. Oh, A.

It seems that lately my daily exchanges with A sound more like this:....

"No, A." "Stop, A." "Don't do that, A." "Dell isn't a horse." "Please stop dumping Dell's waterbowl onto your head." "Don't throw that." "Stop pushing Sara." "We don't hit Lucy. She won't visit anymore." "A!"

...than I care to admit. When I was younger and daydreamed about being a mommy, I always pictured myself radiant, calm, long, blonde hair, flowing skirt, chasing my giggling golden-headed cherub through a field of flowers. (Stop laughing. It's my daydream.) Half of my dream came true. I got my golden-headed cherub just as I imagined she'd be: sweet, loving, adventurous, wonderful. But when did I go from cool, Breck-girl hippie mom to short, choppy-haired, drill seargant. I spend more time barking negative commands than laughing and cooing.

Why? Am I trying to parent to everyone else's expectations? Am I expecting too much from A? I mean, I can't take her to the park and just idly watch her hit or pull hair. I can't allow her to pull the dog's tail off one hair at a time. When she throws the plastic blender and pots from her kitchen onto the floor because mommy's busy cooking dinner, shouldn't she then pick them up? Is my own fear of what others might think driving me to place unreasonable expectations on my two-year-old? Am I completely insane, or do other mothers worry about these same things?!!!

What I don't want is to create a little girl devoid of exuberance, creativity, and zest for life. I want my little girl to explore with glee, to test the waters, to try it all, to savor every wonderful blessing God has given us, but with proper limits. I've always heard that parents tend to be too hard on the first child, setting that child up to later have unreasonable expectations of herself. I swore I'd never do that to A , but am I? I rue the day A ever begins to think that mommy is impossible to please. But, I do want a well-disciplined child with impulse control, a strong moral compass, and good decision-making skills. How do I strike that delicate balance?

The truth is I demand a great deal from myself, which is both a blessing and a curse. I also like having all the answers and knowing that they're the correct ones. So the great frustration with parenting, is that it leaves me with no answers, yet I still demand that it be done correctly. It has to be; my daughter's well-being depends on it. (I think Robert Frost wrote a poem making fun of people like me.) The greater, more frustrating paradox is that there is no one right way to rear a child. No one has all the answers, no one except God. So instead of lamenting on this blog, I should probably be on my knees in prayer, and I do strive to be a prayerful parent. Fortunately, I also have a friend who is investing in a good pair of knee pads for all of her parental praying. Maybe she'll let me borrow them.

When it all comes down to it, I love A, more than I ever even dared daydream. As I write this with one hand, my baby is nestled against my shoulder still groggy from her lengthy half-hour nap. She is wonderful, talented, and real. In my mommy daydream, I only got as far as catching my little one and twirling her. I never imagined how sweet her voice would sound when she says, "help mommy," while holding up her bike helmet and knee pads. Or how wonderful it would be when she sighs, "Uv you mommy." Nor did I imagine the reality of parenting, like where she was actually pulling my hair and shouting no as I spun her around. I also never imagined the depth of love, the heart-wrenching desire to do it right, to ensure that Afeels loved, appreciated, special, yet to also see to it that A knows how to contribute and make others feel loved, appreciated, and special.

I know that the terrible two's are short-lived and hopefully so is the hair-pulling stage, although we're now on month six! Three years from now, we'll be in the "Mommy can't let go, won't stop crying on first day of school" stage. I'm also beginning to realize that I don't have to figure out how to parent all in one day, even though that would be nice. I also don't have to do it like everyone else. So I guess I'll do the only things I can: pray (tons), love (that's the easy part), trust God to guide me, and just take it one day at a time. The unknown is part of what makes parenting such a great adventure, and I wouldn't trade that for anything. I can only imagine what a basket-case I'll be during the teenage years?!

Food Fight

2008-03-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

A typical mealtime conversation in my household:

"Want some cantaloupe, sweetie?"

"No, no loop."

"How about some yummy apple?"

"No!" Arms folded, nose scrunched in disgust.

"Pumpkin, it's apple. I can't name a soul that doesn't like an apple."

"No appuh, mommy." Apple now flies to the floor landing precariously on the cantaloupe already in the floor. It totters before falling onto the hardwoods. My dining room now resembles the aftermath of a middle school food-fight.

My hands fly up in surrender. "Fine, but one day you're going to grow tired of pancakes, peas, and strawberries."

Repeat above sequence three times per day, seven days a week.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. The experts said it would be different, and I believed them. While pregnant, I was adventurous, just as I was told to be by my ob-gyn. I ate salmon, black beans, squash, mangoes, whole grains, spinach. I was the bungee jumper of adventurous eating. And, the adventure continued right into nursing. My milk was spiked with all the flavors I hoped A's palate would someday relish with glee. Apparently, the exposure to all those flavors would make A an adventurous eater, as well.

Even in the baby food stage, A happily gobbled such appetizing combinations as turkey, brown rice, and sweet potatoes with spinach. A concoction that looked just as yummy as it sounds. No one ate what appeared to be regurgitated pea slime with rice lumps as voraciously as my girl. So, where did I go wrong? When did bananas lose their appeal? When did mashed potatoes become evil? Even toddler staples like macaroni and cheese and peanut butter and jelly are met with the same vigorous head shake followed by the death march to the floor.

I've tried everything, yet A insists on strawberries, cheese quesadillas, peas & carrots, chicken nuggets, and pancakes meal-in and meal-out. Okay, I've tried everything short of simply forcing her to eat whatever I cook. I've bought the "puree" cookbooks that suggest putting spinach, cauliflower, or carrot puree in brownies or in pasta sauce. Ever eaten those brownies? They taste like chocolate covered spinach. I've tried reading books on getting picky eaters to eat. They recommend giving your child what you cook and if she doesn't like it, tough luck, missy. Well, I've been making separate A meals for so long now, I don't really feel up for the epic battle that transition would bring on. Plus, she's already so thin. So what's a mom to do? Will A forever live on the unhealthy fare she insists on eating now?

I've almost given up hope, but I did notice recently that A really likes whipped cream. So much that I think she put it on her carrots last night. Perhaps, if I put whipped cream on all of her food, she'd eat it. Doesn't whipped cream have calcium? Hmmm....I'll let you know how that goes. I just hope she's this picky when it comes to boys.

Dancing Shoes

2008-03-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

I can't dance. At all. I have two left feet. Shocking, I know. As a matter of fact, one of my left feet, the right one actually, has an injured ligament and is in a brace, even now. That being said. I love to dance. Unfortunately, I wasn't blessed with any rhythm. But March brings a dance of a different kind, one with minimal risk for injury, one that I'm eager to just sit back and watch, yet one that offers audience participation with nothing at stake but bragging rights. And I must admit, I'm pretty good at this particular dance.

March Madness is here. Time to bring on the brackets! Last year, I had the joy of beating hundreds of male bracket challenge participants and hosting D and B's show for an hour. My dance was graceful and smooth to say the least. Okay, I'm also no good at talking smack, but I will offer the following tips.

1. Never pick Kansas. They tend to choke.
2. Memphis is overrated. So is Drake.
3. Pitino and Izzo can coach in the tournament even when their teams aren't outstanding.
4. Go easy on the upsets, but I like Western Kentucky and Davidson.

That being said, we all know the bracket is a whole lot of luck and absolutely no skill. I just hope my bracket is not too terrible because now that I've proven I can pick em, the stakes are higher. If I'm terrible this year, just go easy on me, my dancing feet are injured, you know.

And if I may, Go CATS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Warning: Attending Games May be Hazardous to Your Health

2008-03-16T12:03:00.000-07:00

A catwalk and equipment looming over the floor of the Georgia Dome sway ominously. A coach and his player point to the scene with looks of concern shadowing their faces, as if to say, "Hey, what's going on here?" Above the roar of cheering SEC fans, howling wind and large claps of thunder can be heard. In a post-9/11 world, I am sure a sense of uneasiness is beginning to spread throughout the crowd.

The concern was obviously warranted but not because of the fury of terrorists, it was the wrath of mother nature that wreaked havoc on the SEC tournament and the Dome. And while many fans are bemoaning the SEC's decision to bar fans from the new tournament venue, my concern is of a different variety.

The Atlanta Journal Constitution describes the scene inside Friday night's Alabama/Mississippi State game as follows: "The game was stopped after the Dome roof shook and debris-including nuts and bolts and washers- fell to the ground from the tarpaulin-covered ceiling. The game was halted and the teams retreated to their respective locker rooms while fans in attendance were encouraged to remain in their seats." (Atlanta Journal Constitution, 3/14/08)

What?! Wait a minute. Thousands of fans are sitting in the Georgia Dome downtown Atlanta watching a game unaware that tornadoes howl just outside sending nuts, bolts, and, I don't know, possibly steel beams flying to the ground, and the first indication of concern is Gottfried and players pointing to the ceiling. Was no one in that building aware that severe weather was in the area? Is there no Dome official who watches the radar or at least the Weather Channel when a tornado warning is in the area? What if the Dome had received a direct hit? Is it able to withstand that? As I understand it, a weather announcement wasn't even made until AFTER the game had been stopped and the Dome had already been damaged. I obviously was not there, nor do I know the answer to any of these questions. But I'd be a tad upset if I were sitting in the Dome with my kids or watching my own child play basketball, and there's a tornado directly outside, and no one inside is even aware. What if the catwalk had crashed to the floor hitting the players or fans?

What if....what if....is a question that has been floating around in my mind since Friday night. I don't know much about the structural soundness of the Dome, but I do know the venue was moved because the damage was more than had previously been thought, meaning it wasn't sound enough to house fans for games on Saturday. I guess I'm just wondering if there is an evacuation plan for fans, not just players, in case of a tornado or hurricane or heaven forbid, a terrorist attack. Do you make an announcement so people at least have the option to get under their seat and cover their heads? I realize anything involving thousands is tricky, and I guess they were certainly safer inside than out, but is there a plan better than sit here and hope for the best? During a severe tornado warning, do you at least call off the action on the court, where equipment looms just overhead and pull the players to safety?

Perhaps, I'm overreacting, but I'm concerned with the lack of concern over the events of Friday night's game. As a matter of fact, this isn't the first time the Dome's had problems. In 1995, just after a football game, roof panels collapsed after heavy rain wiping out 500 seats and concrete supports.(AJC, 3/16/08) What if that had happened Friday night? As one who loves basketball and plans to attend the NCAA regionals here in Birmingham, I would just like to know that these sort of safety concerns have been discussed and prepared for in my own town.

See following link for photos:
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5jSsOxras_DX9mDm0WOptfY7W_LLwD8VDP2J00

Can Congress Save Baseball?

2008-03-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

When I was nine years old, I told my dad that I was going to be the first female pitcher in the majors. Never mind that the only thing I'd ever pitched was a fit; I knew even then I loved baseball.

When my youth group gathered in our church's basement in 1991 to watch the Atlanta Braves take on the Twins, the girls spent most of their time hoping Josh or Bob or whomever noticed how their little Braves t-shirts showed off their newly developing curves. I, on the other hand, wearing my lovely black United Colors of Benetton sweatshirt had only two concerns: where was the pizza and what time did the game start?

On October 14, 1992, I sat in the floor of my parents bedroom rocking back and forth, eyes glued to the set. My three other siblings were sound asleep. How, I'll never know; so much was on the line. In the bottom of the ninth inning, my Atlanta Braves had one last shot. Francisco Cabrera stepped up to the plate, a moment I'm sure he'd rehearsed since his little league days. Seconds later, Sid Bream was sliding and my mom was rushing into the room to quiet my excited screams. With tears in my eyes, jumping up and down, I shouted over and over, "We did it! We did it!"

Just a few examples of my love for the game. Let me repeat. I love baseball. Love it. And, yes, I am as upset about the recent findings of the Mitchell report as the next fan. That is why it might shock you to find out that it hasn't tempered my love of the sport or my excitement about the upcoming season. Why? Because I believe that most of those who play baseball respect the game and do not abuse performance enhancing drugs.

That being said should those who do abuse be punished? Sure. Should the game be cleaned up? Absolutely. Is it Congress's responsibility to do so? NO! Someone please tell me why the leaders of the free world are sitting in a room grilling baseball players and trainers about whether or not they abused steroids. Have they nothing better to do? If they are itching to clean something up, have you seen the U.S./Mexican border...has anyone watched prime-time television lately...been inside a school house?

Are we so above real-life problems in this nation that instead of trying to figure out how to prevent terrorism, our leaders are trying to clean up baseball. Really?! Baseball. Um...that is what keeps me lying awake at night...is Roger Clemens lying? No, actually, what keeps me up at night is worrying about whether my 2-year-old daughter will one day be offered meth by some creepy dealer on her way to school. Or am I safe within the borders of my own country? I'll bet if you interviewed any Joe off the street the state of American baseball would not top his list of great concerns.

And who is paying for these investigations, these plights into the depths of the nation's baseball problem? You are my friend. Your hard-earned tax dollars are being spent to try and figure out whether Roger is really lying, if Petite used, if McGwire's abused. Please don't misunderstand. I am not being flippant about drug abuse. I just don't think that Congress should be the one wielding the broom that is going to sweep baseball clean. They nab Clemens and Bonds on perjury charges; do they now go after Sosa, McGwire, and all the other scoundrels who knowingly lied under oath?

Is Congress really worried about little Johnny using because Clemens did or are they protecting their own investment...the game of baseball? Who knows, but instead of hunting for witches on the diamond, let's hunt for the real ghosts and goblins that hide beyond the alleys of our school yards looking for kids to hook. I think baseball can take care of its own with an actual drug policy that includes true consequences for breaking the rules. And Congress, could we please focus on more important things, like your 11% approval rating?

Perfect Timing

2008-02-24T12:40:00.000-08:00

Seventeen years ago, on a football field, while taking the President's Physical Fitness Test, I ran the fastest mile in my high school for a female. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. Forgive me, I just needed to hear it again because I'm pretty sure I haven't run a mile that fast since. At that moment, I decided running was my sport. For one, I could actually do it and do it pretty well. While I didn't have the confidence to pursue running as anything more than a hobby, a means of keeping in shape, I do remember the little milestones accrued as I became more proficient at my sport of choice. The first time I ran six miles without stopping. The first time I ran ten miles. My first 5-K. I also remember when, over ten years ago, in college, I decided that I was going to run a marathon.......one day.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat in my Monday morning bible study watching Beth Moore speak on a large projection screen. My women's group is studying her Psalms of Ascent series, and in this particular lesson, she kept driving home the point, "Ours is a God of timing, girls. Ours is a God of timing." As I prepared for the marathon and even after, I couldn't stop thinking about that phrase, a God of timing. Through my marathon journey, I had discovered just how loudly this rings true.

While I'd wanted to run a marathon for 15 years, it wasn't until about 6 years ago that I moved to a city that hosts a marathon, actually bought a book on training and well, began training. That same year, I came down with pneumonia. Downtrodden, but not defeated, I trained again the next year only to meet the same fate. The following year I broke my ankle while running, of course, and was unable to run for three months. Faced with one training obstacle after another, I am sure there were times I lifted my hands to God and asked, "why?" or maybe, "why not?" It seemed to me that God was against me reaching my goal....or was he?

My father-in-law parked his motor home downtown for the race this year. My husband and I avoided yucky, gross port-a-potties the moments before the race thanks to the sparkling clean bathroom on the coach. While waiting for her aunt to finish a five-hour run, my three-year-old niece had a place to go to the bathroom several hundred times. My husband and I had a clean, warm place to shower immediately after the race, which made hanging out with friends and family downtown much more comfortable. A was able to play safely and eat lunch without my mother-in-law having to drive her home and back. This wouldn't have been possible two, three, four years ago because my in-laws didn't own the coach.

My husband, his best friend, and my sweet baby girl (sitting in her stroller) ran mile 25 of the race with me. Had I not broken my leg, I probably wouldn't have been able to conceive because of all the training, and A would not have been there to share in my joy. My husband's best friend, Brent, who had just completed his own first marathon, would not have understood just how important it was for me to have that support at that exact moment in the race. His own experience enriched mine. And most importantly, I don't think four, five, or six years ago, I would have been in a place in my own life where I could have run with grace and faith. My own relationship with Christ needed to be at this place for me to truly lean on my faith to get me through the marathon and for this accomplishment to truly glorify God.

As I look at how perfectly all of this fell into place, I understand now exactly what Beth means when she says, "Ours is a God of timing." Girls, (and boys) indeed he is. And I've learned through this experience that he isn't a God of my timing, or your timing, he is the God of His timing and fortunately for me in my folly, that is true. He is the God of perfect timing and I praise Him for it! Now instead of asking why, I think I'm learning to say, "whenever you're ready, Lord, just make me ready."

Mile Markers

2008-02-12T06:52:00.001-08:00

I stand there looking at the old gym floor, searching for a slat wide enough to slip through and just disappear. All I see is dust. "Lisa." That leaves just the two of us. Me and Ellie It is fifth period P.E. and the cruel ritual of choosing teams is in progress. The day's "chooser" stands there, hands on her hips, sizing us up. She cocks her head to take a better look at Tracy: slow, short, round, still wheezing from the mere exertion of walking up the gym stairs. Then there's me: tall, clumsy, zero self-confidence. I refuse to look "chooser" in the eye and give her the satisfaction of knowing that I do care if she picks me last. "Ellie." The familiar lump, the frantic blinking to stop the stinging. I don't even bother raising my head and slump over to my place on the bench. I quietly wipe my eyes while the other girls take their places for kickball.

Fast forward twenty-two years. A much different girl kisses her husband good luck and walks confidently, but nervously to the line of athletes getting ready to run. That's right, I said athletes! No one is there to tell you where to line-up or whether or not you even can. This athlete can finally choose any place in line she wants because she's earned it, but I make my way to the middle of the pack and find the 4:30 pacer. Yet to take one step of my 26.2 mile journey, 4 hours and thirty minutes is still my goal for the day. (I smile now as I write that.)

Still tall, still clumsy, somewhere along the way, I found my passion for running, and today I would find out if I really did love running or if I had also lost my mind, somewhere along that way. Almost four thousand runners undulate like a wave of anxiety, warming up cold legs, tying shoe laces over and over, bending and twisting into stretches. I just stand there, taking it all in.

"Runners, get ready." Ten years of dreaming about this moment, four years of overcoming training obstacles just to get to the start line, and in seconds, I am running by Boutwell Auditorium, weaving through slower runners, trying to find my stride. About five miles into the race, I finally find a comfortable pace and settle into the race. Ah, a beautiful sunny day, perfect temperature, and "WHAT!! You mean I have to run UP the hill." Sure I'd trained for hills, but nothing really prepares you for a mile climb up hill, especially just six miles into the race. I dig in and start the climb and find myself actually passing the 4:30 pacer. I'd regret that in about thirty minutes! I get to the top and find it wasn't all that bad. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many climbs. For those of you who've never visited our fair city, it is hilly!

My legs feel really strong for the first half of the race. I even make it to the half/full split feeling spry. For some reason, though, when I get to mile 13, it hits me, hard, I mean SMACK, I am only half-way through this race. Half-way. I have to run 13 MORE miles. Panic sets in, and I know I've hit the wall. Not literally, for those who know just how clumsy I am, I've hit the proverbial marathon wall, and I've hit it early. Suddenly, fifth-grade me is back, and she is talking a good game of self-doubt. My eyes start to sting, my legs feel shaky, I'm suddenly overcome with that cold, clammy feeling you get right before you vomit, and I realize that I'm not going to make it. Do they give medals for the half-marathon if you just make it to that point in the full, or do I need to actually cross the half-marathon finish line? Seriously, I reach in my pocket for my phone, ready to call my husband, who is celebrating a blistering 1:30 in the half, when I see them.

"Run, Girl! You can do it!" Our neighbors are standing on the corner with a sign and shaking a cow bell cheering. I take in a deep breath and try to stifle the flow of tears. Waving, I express gratitude and manage to run by them. "Okay," I think to myself. "If I don't finish, I'll disappoint them and they came all the way out here for me." I also picture telling my daughter, "mommy couldn't do it." How could I tell A and T I didn't make it? Everyone I loved was waiting for me to cross that finish line, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed, "Dear God, give me all the strength my legs need to finish and let me feel the arms of Jesus holding me up." Then I just ran one foot in front of the other until I got to mile 18 and decided to walk one foot in front of the other.

The plan of course, is to run the entire marathon, but when your legs adamantly fail to cooperate, there's not much else you can do. Plus, I had begun to notice that all of us middle-packer-non-elite types were walking at least a little. I manage to find a nice little walk/hobble/jog, walk/hobble/jog rhythm. Finally, mile 20, glorious mile 20 and in just over 3 hours. At this point, I know I can crawl six miles and still beat the 6 hour cut-off. At mile 22, my wonderful husband and his best friend, meet me with Powerade, some candy, and a morale boost.

Just as I begin to feel human again, the evil, evil marathon planners apparently had decided to pull Heartbreak Hill from Boston and drop it smack dab in the middle of Mile 23. I kid you not. I am forced to lean forward and hike, just to keep from rolling back down the hill. Cresting that hill, finally, I see it, downtown with its beautiful buildings and believe it or not, I begin to weep. (It is really hard to run while crying, but I managed to do it a lot that day.) By now, my legs are shooting intense cramps with every step and I can no longer feel my toes, but I do manage to jog down the steep hills without collapsing or blowing out a knee.

At mile 25, I am getting ready to just walk and not keep trying for under five hours, when my knight in shining armor appears once again with his best friend in tow, and T , Brent, and I run the last mile of the Mercedes together. (If only he'd actually had a horse.) Crossing the finish line, I grab my medal, hobble over to T , embrace him and weep, my exhausted body, wracking with sobs. I did it! 26.2 miles. All I can really say is, Praise God!

It sounds so trite, but it is so true. The marathon really is a wonderful metaphor for life. Sometimes it's a breeze and you know exactly where you're going, and other days you are literally willing one foot in front of the other, leaning on the grace and mercy of God and the wonderful people he's willing to put in your path. Am I a different person for running? Is my life suddenly changed? No. I'm the same, but I know now that I can. That no matter what the obstacle, with God, I can.

I'm most excited that running this marathon gives me the opportunity to look A in the eye and say with confidence, "Sweetheart, anything you want to achieve, anything, with God's help, you can! Mommy did it, and so can you." I also know that I'll never be that self-doubting fifth grader again. My tears now are those of joy for accomplishment not tears of dejection for a lack of natural athletic talent. I think always being picked last lit a fire of desire somewhere deep inside to achieve. Then it was probably a desire to come back to school and say, "na-na-na-boo-boo." But the more mature me, is happy that those moments drove me to try harder and work longer and dig deep to find that latent determination and with God's grace, see it to fruition.

I finished the marathon in 4:56 and for once in my athletic career, I wasn't last. I think my days of being last are long past. Now I just need to find a flat course and get that time down to 4:30....and could I do the half in under two hours? I wonder how old I'll have to be before I can actually place in my age group...

Uneasy Feeling

2008-02-06T10:49:00.001-08:00

Somebody quickly contact the zoo because their entire butterfly exhibit has escaped and taken up residency in my stomach. I kid you not! The somerasaults my stomach are turning rival any gymnastics meet, and my nerves have apparently rendered my writing helplessly cheesy.

The marathon is four days away, four! Count em: one, two, three, four. All those numbers fit on one hand. That is how close it is now. Eighteen long, grueling weeks of training, and it all comes to fruition in FOUR days. I sound a little like Grover in The Monster at the End of this Book, and frankly, I feel just as frantic. Don't turn the page!!! (Those of you who are parents of toddlers and those closet Sesame Street fans might know the book.) I can't think of a time I've been more anxious, and maybe it is because after four attempts, this could really be it. Or maybe I'm overwhelmed with anxiety because after four attempts, I'm realizing that anything could happen in four days: the flu, a cold, a broken ankle. I'm still not ready to trust that I could really do it this time and that if I somehow don't line up with all those other crazed, manic runners, I'll simply be devastated.

How cooky have I become in my quest for 26.2. I'm taking Zicam like its candy, and yesterday, I sat on the table at my orthopedic doctor's office and at my own request watched him fill two needles the length of my hand with cortisone and then almost cried out in agony when he then jabbed them into my knee joint to assure that my IT band will not cause me trouble on race day. My dear, it has reached obssession. Calm down my pounding heart; I feel like Poe, except my heart beats, race day, race day, race day. My tell-tale heart is telling on my own lack of faith.

This morning, at five a.m. when I simply couldn't think of race day any longer and began obsessing over whether or not my two year old's coat was at home or abandoned in the library, I just threw up my hands, (figuratively, of course; in my frenzy, I did have the wherewithal not to knock out my sleeping husband) and just said, "God, I'm giving it to you; I'm giving it to you." And today, I've really been trying. I'm not washing my hands non-stop to get rid of cold germs. I've only had two Zicam. And, I'm feeling calmer, more centered. I think I'll be there on race day, not because of anything I've done, but because it's God's will. And if for some reason, it isn't, and I break my ankle before the big day (there are only four, so the chances are slimming), it won't be that bad. Last time I broke my ankle, I got a beautiful little girl, and she is much more of an accomplishment than 26.2 will ever be. Hopefully, the next time I post, it will be with a finisher's medal around my neck!! Keep me in your prayers.

Super Scooper

2008-01-30T13:46:00.000-08:00

There are many feats accomplished in motherhood. Giving birth naturally certainly comes to mind. Breastfeeding for 17 months. But today, I found myself strangely proud of one particular feat.

After ten minutes of listening to A whine, "side mama, side," while staring longingly out the back door, I gave in and took her outside to ride her toddler car in the cold. Two minutes of her little legs shoving her forward Fred Flintstone-style, and it was time for mom to push. For a change of scenery and a smoother surface, I decided to push her in the front yard. Plus it says to the neighbors, "See, we do leave the house in the wintertime. I am not a complete baby when it comes to cold."

After about thirty seconds of pushing, I noticed that my escape artist Golden Retriever, we'll lovingly call Dell-dini, had managed to deposit quite a bit of poop on her latest front yard rendevous. So, I stopped pushing A and asked her to come with me to the back so I could get the shovel, to which she agreeably replied, "No" and continued to stake her claim in the front. Knowing that the minute I turned my back, A and the car would be in the middle of the road, I pushed her to the back, grabbed the shovel, then pushed her with one hand back to the front.

Here comes the impressive part. I scooped the four piles of poop into the shovel, walked over to A, and without dropping one bit, pushed her with the other hand into the backyard, while balancing a full shovel. I successfully tossed Dell's gift into the woods and patted myself on the back. (I didn't really pat myself on the back.) Clean front yard. Happy Toddler! Super Mommy??! Apparently, it doesn't take much to make this stay-at-home mom excited, and as I write this, I realize I really should get out a little more often.

Eleven Lessons I've Learned from Marathon Training

2008-01-26T13:57:00.001-08:00

You know you've been training for a long time when a ten-mile run feels short and easy. I wonder how long I'd have to train for a twenty-mile run to feel short? In two very short weeks, almost two years after giving birth to my sweet girl, I will, hopefully, line up at the start of the Mercedes Marathon and take on 26.2 miles. In the past 18 weeks, my training has taught me quite a bit about running and just pushing your body to what you once thought were its limits. As my mind wandered during a 10-miler today, I came up with the following lessons:

In no particular order:

1. Running ten miles with a wrinkle in your sock hurts!

2. Runners can be very gross people. I kid you not, I have watched a runner pass me then spit out a loogie (sp?) that rivaled the size of a jelly-fish. I have also had a runner pass me, wave courteously, then press one nostril, while ejecting snot from the other. Just thinking about these makes me green.

3. At the first sign of injury, back off! Perhaps three unsuccessful attempts at running a marathon have made me a bit wiser. Before I gained my wisdom, I would think backing off, slowing down, resting, what-have-you would mean losing valuable training time, so I trained through the pain. Instead, resting means that you heal and still get to run. By training through injury, I worsened the injury and did not get to run.

4. Runners on the trail run or walk three to four abreast and refuse to give way to runners going either direction. This does not bode well for clumsy, injury-prone runners, like myself, who risk spraining an ankle by jumping off of the sidewalk to run in the mud. A little politeness goes a long way.

5. Despite what my gym teacher or high school basketball coach say, I AM AN ATHLETE!

6. You can train in a 23-degree windchill and survive. Along those same lines, don't overdress. Save the ski suit for the slopes.

7. You don't need an Ipod. I've trained for four marathons with my trusty Sony walkman from 1998. Granted, I haven't run one yet; it's not the radio's fault. Good thing I love sports-talk radio. And when the batteries die in the middle of a run, it can be fun to get lost in your thoughts
or daydream for the first time since Geometry class.

8. A twenty-mile training run does not make you famous or a superhero. My nearly two-year-old could care less that mom was so sore she could barely lift her toes or brush her hair; A wanted to play chase, snuggle bunny, and read, while bouncing in my lap. It doesn't take long to get over yourself.

9. Running is 25% physical and 75% mental!

10. The support of family and friends is critical to the training process. I could not have trained without my husband. He cheered me and took care of A during 3+ hour runs.

11. Perhaps most importantly, I've come to understand that God loves me and that means He cares about the small things that are important to me, including running. As my previous blog mentioned, I've been struggling with IT band trouble, yet, somehow at mile 17 of a 20 miler, I realized that I had not had any knee pain, not even an ache. Before I began my run, I prayed that God would put his healing hands on my knees and get me through the run, and He did. I don't think this life-long desire to run a marathon is just a haphazard whim. I believe I long to run it for a reason that is greater than proving to myself that I can, so I also pray that God will be glorified in the training process, as well as on race day. If anything, this training process has required me to lean on my faith, and on February 10th, I believe I'll be proof that with Christ ALL things are possible, even 26.2!

The Misfit Mom

2008-01-15T19:19:00.000-08:00

When I left work and happily entered the land of full-time motherhood, I also unexpectedly entered a world of isolation and a time of personal rediscovery. I was immediately forced to reexamine my definition of self and what being "stay-at-home" as opposed to "working" meant. I was also not ready for the complete disconnect with old friends. Lonely took on a new meaning, and while it's gotten easier, I am still searching for some stay-at-home mom friends, so I decided to attend a meeting of a local parent volunteer group. Fish out of water, anyone??

My husband and I lovingly refer to our home as being in the "slums" of the affluent community in which we live, so I was not overcome by surprise when I walked into the meeting and saw fashionable Louis Vuitton purses and Coach handbags. I, for some reason, had made the odd wardrobe choice of a comfortable sweater and jeans smeared with black beans from my attempt to cook and eat dinner in a half-hour, so I could make the meeting on time. I walked into a room of thirty women who all looked like the moms you see in Parents magazine. Those who've spent all day with toddlers yet still manage to look freshly showered. I had just barely managed a shower sometime in that day.

Perhaps I have an inferiority complex, or maybe I really am just shy, and while I do realize I was not about to enter the battlefield, walking into that room full of complete strangers did require me to muster quite a bit of courage. I meekly scurried to my seat and pretended to be busy filling out the registration form. Every now and then I would look up, praying for a familiar face to appear in the doorway. I did make eye contact and smile, but after a few minutes of neither speaking nor being spoken to, I debated leaving entirely. Then, they brought out the cheesecake brownies, so I thought I'd give it a little more time. Surely, I could find one conversation that needed my sparkling personality to give it a little more oomph.

Remember double-dutch from elementary school, the two jump ropes flying at once and you have to find that perfect moment to enter without breaking the rhythm and falling flat on your face. This was a lot like that. Trying to find a conversation and feel like there was a right time to enter. The problem is most of the women already knew each other or knew someone who knew someone they knew, and I just didn't really know anyone. This new mommy friend find, it turns out, is much like finding a date. Before I had a chance to "make new friends" the meeting began, and I remembered that I was here to find volunteer opportunities in my community.

After the meeting and on an apparent cheesecake-induced sugar high, I finally mustered the courage to introduce myself to a few women it seemed like I might have something in common with. Lo and behold, they were just as kind and warm as I should have expected. Leaving, I felt more sheepish than discomfited and had learned a valuable lesson in judging others based on appearance. Like double-dutch jump rope, some elementary lessons don't always stick.

Something in my nature often leaves me feeling out-of-place when in the presence of with-it women, perhaps it is my inability to walk without falling, but when it comes down to it, I imagine they struggle with feeling less than perfect more often than I imagine. While I'll never be completely at ease entering a room full of strangers, I am proud that I at least had the gumption to try, and I am sure will eventually have some meaningful friendships as a result. I just hope one of my new friends has the recipe for those brownies.

Ouch! That Hurts

2008-01-05T12:43:00.001-08:00

Today I was at mile 10 of an 18 mile training run when I stopped running and starting sobbing. Allow me to tell you from first-hand experience, this activity tends to garner stares from concerned passers-by, yet none concerned enough to stop.

I'll back up. I am training for a marathon, just five short weeks away. No big deal. It is hard to have a conversation without finding that the person with whom your speaking is running or knows someone who is running. But for me this is the fourth try to run a full marathon, a dream since my teenage years! Count 'em: four. My first attempt ended in a bout with pneumonia two weeks prior to the marathon. Needless to say, I did not lace up the sneakers for that marathon. Year two: Welcome back, pneumonia. It came a little earlier this time, so I did manage the half-marathon. The third time would surely be the charm, not so. A stress fracture turned into a break turned into three months of no running, which turned into a pregnancy with nine months of no running.

What are you doing during training you might be wondering? The first two years, I did not heed the warning to rest post-long run and not get around germy crowds. When you teach school, germy crowds are hard to avoid. The third year, I ignored the nagging pain in my ankle until it began to sear.

This time, though, attempt number four, I am older, wiser, and well, wiser. I started increasing my mileage weeks before my training program began, I cross-trained twice a week, I rested at least once a week, and I listened to my body this time. If I hurt, I took an extra day of rest. No sniffles, no aches, nothing, until the 16-mile training run on Christmas eve. This is when the trouble began.

I noticed a slight pain in my knee at the end of the run, so I took a few days off. When I resumed running, no more pain. Then on Saturday, I decided it would be okay to go ahead and attempt my 18-miler. Mile ten is when the pain became unbearable, so I did what any good runner would do, I called my husband to see what he would do. Secretly, I was hoping he would say, keep going and see what happens. He didn't. Instead, he and A picked me up at mile 12 and drove me, freezing, crying, and aching back to my car.

And here I sit, trying to figure out what to do next, while trying to maintain my optimism and sense of humor. Clearly, anyone who has attempted four separate tries at a marathon, including all those months of grueling training, has a sense-of-humor, but I'll be honest, it's waning. I think my strategy is to see what my orthopedic doctor has to say. The last time I visited my orthopedist, he laughed when I cried at the diagnosis that I would not be running 26.2 miles. Clearly, he had never trained for and not run three marathons. If anything, I'm tenacious. I now have a new doctor who I hope will be more sensitive. Until the appointment, I guess I'll just have to wait and see....

Baseball Blues

2007-12-13T11:18:00.000-08:00

It began with a strike, where even the most ardent baseball fans lamented, "I'll never watch again." Yet, two sluggers gave us a glimmer of hope with a season-long chase that brought baseball back from the grave dug by the hands of its own players. Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, it seemed, had saved baseball, convincing even the most hard-line skeptics to come back into the fold. Whispers of steroid abuse surfaced but were quickly hushed by the resurgence and economic gain sure to follow. Fast forward to today and the Mitchell report, where we learned, surprise, surprise, that abuse of illegal performance enhancing drugs is indeed widespread and has been since the epic home run battle of 1998. It seems baseball's virtuous witch hunt has reached its climax, now what?

Since the release of the report, I have been grappling with my own feelings and observations about the findings. I've struggled to decide if I care, if it even matters, and I think I've come to the conclusion that this report has saddened me. The Mitchell report reflects a troubling trend in society which is our ever-decreasing lack of good moral and ethical judgment. I'm sad because baseball, because professional sports, lacks character. Sports are what normally help to mold character, discipline individuals, force us to strive for the best, and long for that sense of immortality that comes with breaking records or heck, even earning a finisher's medal in a marathon. Yet, yesterday we realized that our national past time has come to represent a decline in basic character.

I am sad that players, who have abused illegal performance enhancing drugs, have so little character that they have taken up the mantra, "deny, deny, lie, lie," so long and with so much tenacity that somewhere along the way they have convinced themselves that what they tell is truth. I am sick of athletes telling us that they have no idea what they're injecting into their bodies, their main source of income. "Gee, Bob, I had no idea what was in the needle. You can't be suggesting that it is actually my responsibility to monitor what goes in my own body, can you?" Like that is supposed to make it all better. "Oh, I see. Well, we can't hold that against you, now can we, Mr. Baseball?"

At least Marion Jones, for whatever reason, perhaps a conscience that finally caught up with her, had the gumption to stand before us and say (paraphrased), "I'm guilty, and I'm sorry. I take the blame." (On judgment day, perhaps she can stand before the throne and look her Savior in the eye.) I am appalled that these athletes can not only look sports fans in the eye and lie, but that they can lie to their own children. Everybody is doing it, and somehow that makes it right. Shame on you athletes for sacrificing integrity, morality, and character for material gain, for greed. Of course, that is your own problem, or is it?

Senator Mitchell spent much of his speech expressing concern for the youth in this nation who look up to those players. While I have no idea how widespread teenage steroid abuse is, I am saddened that we, as parents, have come to the point that we allow our children to idolize mere human athletes to the point that those children will consider using illegal drugs to enhance their game so they can be just like their idols. Where are the coaches, trainers, PARENTS? Are we not sitting down with our own children to discuss who their heroes are and why? Are we not willing to say, "Well, you know Junior, most athletes aren't using and there is a big price to pay for those who are. If not now, sometime." Remember Ken Caminiti? Are we not teaching our children the benefits of hardwork for hardwork's sake, not monetary gain? When our children begin to use drugs for sports enhancement, shame on us for pointing our fingers to professional athletes when as parents, coaches, teachers, and trainers, we're the ones who dropped the ball somewhere.

I am also saddened that we have laws in this country that we fail to enforce. I KNOW that baseball did not have a policy in play. Say it with me, shame on you baseball! But, the law of this land does state that steroids are a controlled substance and much like narcotics, etc., can't be sold in the back of a gym. So, where is the law in all of this? Mr. Mitchell clearly pointed out in his press conference that the Justice Department does not prosecute users, they focus their efforts on those who sell. What is the point of having the law on the books, then, Mr. Mitchell? It seems that the lesson in this all is: do it, just don't get caught, and if you do, lie, but then we really can't do anything anyway, so why bother. And, I realize that nothing will be done.

Finally, I am saddened by Commissioner Bud Selig. His lack of concern, his lack of effort to stand up to the union, to the owners, to anyone really is appalling. His apparent apathy and lack of action and leadership have helped to propel this scandal to a level that will forever mar the integrity of baseball. He's quietly turned a blind eye to the problem his entire decade-long tenure. Now, baseball finally has a drug policy, but it took all of this for that to even be considered. Shame on you, shame on you, Mr. Selig, you should resign. Perhaps we can place an asterisk next to your name when we look back on this time in baseball history.

What does all of this mean for baseball, for sports? I don't really know. I'd like to think that as Americans we wake up and demand more from our "heroes." I really hope it wakes us up to examine our own ethics and character and allows us to reexamine the values we pass on to the next generation. I know it does not mean that players who used will be prosecuted now, and I don't think they should. This mess is the making of many, not just the players. From henceforth, though, three strikes and you are forever banned from the game. That's what I'd like to see. It won't happen, though. Now we can sit back and wait for the lawsuits, the name calling, the denials......and maybe one day, one day, we can just play ball and know that it's real.

The Doorknob Incident

2007-12-05T10:30:00.000-08:00

Two seconds. That's it. I turned my back for two seconds and mischief ensues.

"Stand right here, Pumpkin. Mommy will be right back; I am going to go get my t-shirt."

I walk the three feet from the hallway to the bedroom, grab my t-shirt, and turn around just in time to hear the door slam. Panicked cries soon follow.

"A, what's wrong?" I run to the bathroom door, turn the knob to find it locked. "A! You've locked the door!"

She wails and beats frantically on the door. I hear my keys jingle. Apparently, she grabbed my keys from the purse and was going to try them out on the door. Doing what all good, calm moms would do, I run downstairs, grab the phone and call my husband.

"Hey," I say urgently.
"Can I call you back?"
"Sure, but A's locked herself in the bathroom, and I don't know what to do."

I hang up the phone and jiggle the doorknob. "Turn the thing in the middle, Punky."
"Mama!"
"Hold on, I'll be right back."

I run downstairs, praying all the way that I remembered to shut the closet door. I can just picture A covered head-to-toe in baby shampoo and lotion. I grab a flat-head screwdriver and run back up the stairs.

"Mommy's back, pumpkin." I say trying to console here, while I begin to disassemble the doorknob. The phone rings.

"Hello?"
"Honey, what are you doing?" T asks.
"I am taking apart the doorknob."
"Hold on," says Mr. Sensible. "Is there a hole in the center of the knob?"
"Yes. I've almost got the screws out, though."
"All you have to do is take a coat hanger, stick it in the hole, and turn. The door will unlock."
"Oh," I say. This from the woman who just the night before fell flat on her rear trying to take off her jeans and socks at the same time. "I've got it. It opened."

Anna runs into my arms and we embrace like long lost pals. "Are you all right?"
She hugs me and hands over my keys. Thankfully, the closet door is still shut, and the only thing covered are A's teary cheeks.

"Hey," I say to T. "Thank you. We're okay." I hang up the phone and start putting the doorknob back together. At least I now know how to unlock a door with no key!

All I can say is God bless my poor husband:)

Christmas Shopping Day 1

2007-11-14T11:27:00.000-08:00

I decided to take A to the mall and try and do a little Christmas shopping this morning. As well as possible, I tried to maximize the potential for success, meaning I left in plenty of time to shop before naptime. Sure, it's early, but since my sweet girl gives me about one hour per outing, I decided I'd better get a head start.

Since it's Wednesday, the mall was not very crowded. (Part of our plan to avoid the mall on the weekends, so that shortens our shopping season even more.) We were even the only two in line at Chick-fil-A, where we picked up a bite and headed to the carousel to eat. A was in a great mood, so my own spirits were high. I even began to hum Christmas carols. Then we entered our first store, where singing quickly turned into bah humbugs.

Did you know that parents are expected to pay $49.50 for sweaters for children? They must because that is how much they cost, and this particular store has been in business for quite a while. This was apparently no place for toddlers either because my stroller kept getting jammed in between the racks, knocking off hundreds of tightly packed sweaters. Maybe it wasn't hundreds, but you get the idea. I must have been making quite a mess because the sales lady was circling me like a vulture. After about one half-hour of staring at the same wall of sweaters , I decided to leave and head to a department store, where I had a coupon.

A, apparently, got the mixed message that we were leaving to go home because as soon as we entered Belk, she began to whine, loudly. Don't get me wrong, I am not blaming my daughter, who is rapidly approaching age two. I , too, would have no desire to sit strapped in a stroller while my mom stares at the same sweater for over thirty minutes trying to decide if it is the right gift for a three-year-old. I, too, would rather be at home reading or playing. If I would not have been carted out in a white-jacket, I would have probably been whining and kicking right beside her, shouting, "But I don't know what to get anyone.....waaa..."but as an adult, I try to behave like one as much as possible.

About this time, a mother and her two Stepford children walked by. You know the kids: narry a hair out of place, dressed to the nines without so much as a crumb on their pristine white collars, bow centered perfectly in their freshly combed hair, holding their mother's hand, silent and smiling. The mother leans over to A, who is wearing a turqouise t-shirt, stained with the mustard sauce she used for dipping her nuggets, pink pants, and she's barefoot. Her hair is matted a little on one side with oatmeal from breakfast, and her nose, which has been running, has a nice crust forming just at the top of her lip. (In my defense, she was wearing shoes when we left the house, and I wiped her nose right after lunch.)

"You must be getting tired," the mom coos to A. "Ooh, it looks like it is somebody's naptime." (I am quickly losing the desire to behave like an adult.) She continues, "Does your mommy have you out past naptime?" Meanwhile, her children stand motionless and silent, while A begins to kick her feet, shaking the stroller.

"We're just trying to fit in some Christmas shopping before it sneaks up on us." I say through a forced smile. I really want to snap, "I know she is tired, I know, I know, I know, but I have to get started on my shopping, and unfortunately, she has to come along for the ride every now and then."

"Poor girl, you'll get your nap soon. I'm sure your mom is almost done." Does she think she is helping the situation? The lady walks off, and A who was enjoying the attention, begins to whine with even more gusto. I lean over the stroller, "Hey pumpkin, I am sorry mommy's ignoring you. We'll leave soon." Feeling like everyone is staring at the "bad mom," I quickly make my purchase and head to the car, so my pumpkin can go home for her nap. I'm so flustered that I forget about my coupon, which is only good for the one day.

A quiets down and seems to enjoy the stroller ride back to the car. My sweet girl is asleep before we even pull into our driveway. I stop the car and look back at A, who has just turned her head. Her mouth is open wide and her hair is sticking straight out where she's been sleeping on it. I giggle quietly, ease her out of the car, and walk slowly inside to her crib. Two hours of shopping, an exhausted daughter, and I can only mark one name off my list. Oh well, only 26 more to go!

Disclaimer: I do love giving to others, and I love this time of year. Few things give me greater pleasure than giving to those I truly love. I just don't like the act of shopping. The result, not so much the actual mall part. I prefer the baking, decorating, and spending time with family, enjoying each other's company!

It's Early, Real Early

2007-11-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

Fortunately, college basketball has a playoff. Kentucky, you can breathe a sigh of relief, or can you? While parity is certainly not a novelty in college basketball, I doubt it has reached the level where Gardner-Webb should be stunning the 20th ranked team in the nation. The loss certainly stunned me, a fan who has waited with baited, yet eager breath to see just what the Cats new head coach is capable of. It didn't look like much last night.

A game that normally would be overlooked because we're still in the thick of football season is grabbing the media spotlight, mainly because of a new unknown factor in Rupp, head coach, Billy Gillispie. When Tubby Smith won a national championship after taking the reigns from Rick Pitino, I had high hopes for the future of Kentucky basketball. This from a girl who cried, boo-hooed, actually, when Christian Laetner stripped the game winning shot to take away the title from the Cats during the Duke dynasty. "We've got our man," I thought. That man would coach well but not good enough for Wildcat fans who wanted a return to the Rupp era. He just didn't recruit the type of talent needed to produce Final Four teams, year in and year out. (Yet, in the era of play one year, go pro, who can blame him?)

Bring in Gillispie. A new coach, a new era. I still have high hopes for Kentucky and Gillispie. I am sure last night was just a fluke. Even Izzo lost to a Division II team this week. Ohio State, too, fell to a team that most of us won't remember unless they show up in our brackets. This could say several things. The players didn't show up mentally, or they just weren't ready to play, or because it was exhibition against cupcakes maybe they just didn't care. Whatever it says, I think my husband said it best when he quipped, "It doesn't count anyway does it?" Ahh, the beauty of college basketball, finish the season strong and who knows where you'll go!

Pumpkin Patch Blues

2007-10-31T12:09:00.000-07:00

I love this time of year. Brisk afternoons, brilliant blue skies....and most importantly, holidays. Just thinking about the impending fun of Halloween, feasts of Thanksgiving, and sweet, sacredness of Christmas makes me giddy. Those quirky rituals that my family insists on celebrating year in and year out are what makes this time of year so memorable and full of anticipation, so who could blame me when in a momentary lapse of sanity, (perhaps it was all of that cool, fresh air) I decide that my little girl, A, at the ripe old age of 20 months is ready to create some holiday memories of her own. First stop: the pumpkin patch. What better place for an afternoon breakdown, I mean, an afternoon of creating new traditions.

I check the Internet for the nearest pumpkin patch and discover one that is just thirty miles south of town. Convinced of its sincerity, I print out the directions and slip into my seasonal, but subtle, pumpkin t-shirt. A, too, puts on her pumpkin t-shirt. (Of course, they don't match...that would be too over-the-top.) I grab the directions, and we are on our way.....

Exactly thirty miles into our trip, the time we should be arriving, A begins to whine, so I offer her a pacifier then look to T, "How many miles have we been?"

"I don't know about thirty."

"It is only supposed to be thirty miles from our house."

A, who loves car trips, tosses her pacifier and whines with even more vigor. Taking our snacks for the pumpkin patch, I appease our own little pumpkin. Thirty miles later, now snack less, we finally reach our destination. Signpost number 1 on the highway of realizing that this afternoon will probably not be the picturesque Rockwell painting I am hoping for. Number 2 is soon to follow.

Travis takes A out of the car, and hand-in-hand, we begin the ascent from the parking lot to the actual pumpkin patch. All is well until A decides that she no longer wants to hold our hands, so she flings herself into oncoming traffic and flails about on the ground. Acting as if this is completely normal behavior, I pick her up and carry my screeching child to the entrance.

The scene that unfolds immediately captures A's attention. A quaint hillside has been transformed into a lively carnival. Barns are filled with jack-o-lanterns and scarecrows, watching weary parents chase their children down a steep hill, admonishing them not to enter the hayride without permission. The excitement has apparently rendered the youngsters deaf and they, of course, ignore the warnings.

"Ball!" A screams and points to a wagon full of tiny pumpkins. Sensing an excellent photo-op, I put A down and watch her walk over to the wagon, pick up the miniature gourd and toss it to the ground. "Ball!" she shouts proudly. I rush over to make sure the $3.00 pumpkin is still intact. "Pumpkin, sweetheart," I say. "That is a pumpkin. Hold it and smile for mommy." A turns from me and throws another gourd. "Smile for mommy. Say cheese."

"Cheesh," she says, looking down at the ground.

"Look up baby. Mommy wants to see your face in the picture. Hold the pumpkin and say cheese." I snap frantically,waiting for the smile that I expect one to be wearing at a pumpkin patch. I look around to see about five other sets of parents on their knees, begging, pleading with their toddlers to smile. Did I mention toddlers? Truthfully, we parents are the real Kodak moment. Asking our little ones to cease discovering the world with wonder, hold up a pumpkin, and pose on cue. All we need is the organ grinder.

I throw my hands up in defeat and find T in line for the hayride. A and I join him and soon we are sitting in the back of a wagon on bales of hay slowly plodding through the woods on our way to choose a pumpkin. A's face is actually gleeful as she bumps along, waving to those left behind in line. Finally, the picture I've been trying to get for hours. We pull up to rows of dusty vines filled with rather sad, disfigured pumpkins. A jumps down and runs toward the orange "balls", eventually tripping and flying through the air. I run to dust off her t-shirt and make sure she's all right, and before I can get to her, she is off again. "This," she says confidently, pointing to a pumpkin. T and I look around and agree that it is probably the best one in the bunch. Picking up the pumpkin we head back to the line for the wagon ride back. Things seem to be finally going as planned.

What is it they say? We plan, God laughs?? An elderly volunteer is counting us off, trying to get as many as possible into the wagon. After about a twenty minute wait, in the warm, dusty patch, he sends T, A, and me through the line, but we are abruptly turned back from the full wagon. No big deal, another one will be there soon. Unless in your twenty month old mind, you think that is it, and you will not be repeating the highlight of your day. I slowly head back to the line with A in my arms, when the reality hits her. Her lip begins to quiver and she exhales a wail that would wake the dead. I try to explain that we are next in line, but A is rolling in the dust as large tears drip off the edge of her nose. The man behind me in line laughs. I didn't get a good look at his face for fear that my glare would have turned him to stone. Finally, the wagon returns, and we take our pumpkin to the car and drive home, dusty, hot, thirsty, and tired.

The next evening we decide to start another tradition: carving the pumpkin. Surely A will love this. Running around the yard in a diaper, squishing orange gunk with her toes. We plop the pumpkin down in the front yard and begin to remove the insides and draw the outline for the eyes and mouth. A is fascinated for about thirty seconds then she runs to the side of the house, looks to me, and asks, "Dell?"

"No sweetheart. I don't think Dell would be very interested." Actually, our golden retriever would be more thrilled than A with the pumpkin carving, but I keep that to myself. A runs to the backyard to check on Dell, while T and I carve the pumpkin alone.

At dusk, we decide to light our jack-o-lantern. A and I sit on the front porch steps, watching Travis ignite the small candle. Jack's mug begins to glow, and Anna's own face lights up as well. Still wearing only her diaper and a dirty t-shirt, she leans forward and points to the pumpkin's eyes. "Eye," she says. For a moment, she is mesmerized. The three of us sit together in the twilight watching the glow, and I hug A close. We are making a real memory, not an unnatural, imposed event for the sake of creating a tradition. This is a moment that I will always treasure, sitting on the front porch with the two I love most, watching the youngest filled with wonder. In my desperation to create for A the warm memories that I now treasure, I realize that I was just trying too hard earlier. I tuck the lesson away for later, but Christmas is just around the corner.....and there is this light display that we always liked to visit when I was a child....

Spin Revue

2007-10-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is, but I have a funny relationship with music as it relates to working out. I have discovered that this is especially true in spin. I don't know if you've ever taken a spin class, but it is easily the most difficult workout that I have ever attempted. You basically bike to music at high intensity without any rest period for sixty minutes. I have found that spin class is now ruining songs that I once really liked.

I first discovered this phenomenon in college when I was taking an aerobics class. The instructor always played "I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles." (Not that I had a particular affinity toward this song to begin with) I think that is the name of it. Was it the Pretenders or I can't remember who sings it, but he used that song for the most difficult part of the class, and whenever I would hear it outside of class, I immediately became winded.

In spin, during sprints, the instructors seem to enjoy playing REM's "End of the World." I like this song, something about Tommy Boy, but whenever I hear it, I picture David Spade and Chris Farley singing in the car, and I laugh. I think we can all relate to acting like we actually know the words to that one. Now when I hear it, my legs ache and I want to cry. I also like Nickelback's "Rockstar," but no, that now reminds me of horrible hill climbs. Something as innocent and fun as "It's Raining Men" is now a sprint song, as well. Songs I enjoy are slowly becoming painful reminders of pedaling to exhaustion.

Even the tunes that Anna and I listen to on Radio Disney aren't safe. I'll admit it. I like Corbin Bleu's "Push It to the Limit." You know, he's one of the kids from High School Musical. My spin instructor played that in class on Wednesday. Now instead of wanting to dance when I hear it, I'll have memories of sprints again. Don't get me wrong, I love spin for the challenge that it provides, but I don't want to be reminded of something that almost brings me to tears every time I participate.

Maybe this is why I listen to talk radio when I run. I can remember what segment was playing during certain runs and where I was on the trail during that segment. Seriously, when I was training for a half-marathon this spring, I remember that Andy Phillips was on the Rick and Bubba show and I was just passing Homewood High School in my run. I can also remember that Dunaway and Brown were doing their pick 3 when I was running by Brookwood Mall two weeks ago. It's weird, but, you usually only hear those segments one time.

The only type of music that is safe from being spoiled for me is cool down music. The instructors I have usually play praise and worship music for cooldown, which is perfect. For one, your finished with class, but it also reminds me that God gave me the physical ability and opportunity to participate in class and for that He deserves praise. It always leaves me wanting to do it again. Maybe as I become a better biker, the music will start to serve as a reminder of success. Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go listen to my High School musical soundtrack.....

Topsy Turvy

2007-10-07T15:27:00.001-07:00

The PAC-10's mighty roar sounds more like a meow after Stanford stunned USC Saturday night and UCLA fell victim to an, until then, WINLESS Notre Dame. Victory could not have tasted much sweeter for Les Miles, whose risky calls allowed the Tigers to eek past Florida, but we all know his grin widened when the final of the USC game was announced. LSU is undeniably the number 1 team in the nation, for now. The bigger question is, who deserves the all-important number 2 spot?

It seems that the pollsters in their infinite wisdom have crowned fellow PAC-10 rival Cal #2 in the land. Is that because they beat a mid-pack SEC team? Is it because they beat a "tough" Oregon team? Must we have a PAC-10 team in the number 2 spot because their conference has been heralded as the second toughest in the land? I know I'll be cheering for another "upset" when Cal meets USC on the field. Let's mix things up even more, shall we?

What about Ohio State? Did their 2006 championship game loss to Florida also cause them to lose their status as media darling? South Florida, anyone? They toppled the then highly-ranked West Virginia Mountaineers and an Auburn team, that seems to have finally found its rhythm.

Is there a one loss team that is more deserving of the number two spot than Cal? South Carolina looked impressive against Kentucky. If the SEC is the best conference and South Carolina's loss came to a fellow SEC team then.....? Oklahoma played well against a Texas team that struggled against a Kansas State team that, until Saturday, had been playing good football.

How tough are the Big 12, Big East, Big 10 really? Another question that must be answered before choosing for the coveted number 2. Obviously pollsters still feel that the SEC and PAC-10 are the two toughest conferences, or do they? Why did USC fall all the way to number 10? Weren't they number 2? The second best team in the country? Now they rank below West Virginia, who I don't think deserves to be ranked that highly.

In a year where so many top-ranked teams have been upset, I think all of this question asking begs an even greater question: How do we know who should fill the number 2 spot? Obviously, polls are unreliable. Why is the number 2 team on the totem poll so important? They get to play for the national championship, a championship that truly doesn't amount to much. Why, you ask? Just look at how well those human voters, entering numbers for the computer rankings, have done at picking and choosing thus far. Does anyone remember the Michigan pre-season hype???!! I think if this season has taught us anything thus far, it is that college football desperately needs a playoff. Tangible answers to hypothetical questions played out on the field, not mythical championships leaving legitimate teams on the outside looking in. But more on this later....

"Upset" in the Swamp

2007-10-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Auburn flags have once again returned to car windows everywhere, flapping proudly in the breeze, as in the drivers' minds, thoughts of a season-salvaging comback are percolating. I hope they do not end up with a pot of disappointment, though. (Isn't it funny how quickly boos for Brandon and cries for Tuberville's job can change to congratulatory cheers?)

I was not surprised by Saturday night's victory over Florida. Shocking, I know, especially from someone who has been concerned by a team riddled with inconsistency. Why the lack of astonishment? Because when Florida is ranked, Auburn, it seems, always has their number. I did not doubt that the Tigers could handle Florida, even in "the Swamp." I realize that this is a different team from the one last year, and in 2001, and in 1994. The truth remains that Auburn has won four out of the five last games when Florida is ranked in the top four. Auburn's loss to USF and struggle against Kansas State also don't appear so dismal, considering both of those teams also toppled highly ranked teams this weekend.

That being said, Auburn does look like a team poised for a comeback, but questions still remain. Week-in and week-out, can Tuberville effectively utilize the two quarterback format? Will he have to, or has Brandon Cox again found his rhythm? Will the return of Lester continue to revitalize Auburn's offense? While I agree that Auburn looks to be slowly finding its way, I remain cautiously optimistic. Optimistic enough to return my own Auburn flag proudly to its place in the front yard.

Thoughts on Smoke's Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend

2007-10-01T11:11:00.000-07:00

From Auburn flags to checkered flags.... I do realize that many of you have abandoned race season entirely for football, but how can you turn away from a sport with so many characters, or should I say caricatures??? Tony Stewart, love him or hate him, and I know most of you do. After all, there is no in-between with Tony. After his short-lived image makeover, Stewart has once again re staked his claim on the position of NASCAR's bad boy. (And while future teammate, Kyle Busch, has tried to steal the moniker for himself, we all know he could never be taken seriously enough by fans or competitors to truly claim the title.)

Since the death of Dale Earnhardt, Sr., Tony has long felt it was up to him to fill the void that Earnhardt left in the sport. You know, showing newbies the ropes, even if it means using a little tough love on the unwitting rookies, letting reporters and competitors know where they stand, and when "wronged" by a fellow driver, always taking matters into his own hands. A polite shove on the track or after the race. For some reason, all of this helpfulness seems to have built up a little animosity. It seems that NASCAR has possibly grown tired of Stewart's loose cannon approach to life.

This weekend turned out to be a rough one for the driver of the number 20, much of it of his own making. While I don't condone coarse language in public or even in the home, Tony was having a private conversation with another driver. NASCAR made the right decision in not fining Tony, but vengeance can be taken other ways. All right, I'm not suggesting that NASCAR restarted the race after a long rain delay because Stewart was in first place (even though NASCAR tends to be controlling, they didn't make it rain, God controls the weather), but how hurriedly would the track have been readied if Gordon or Johnson had been in the lead? All right, maybe I am suggesting that. This is a governing organization that expanded the chase from 10 drivers to 12 to be sure that NASCAR's FAN sweetheart, Earnhardt, Jr., and NASCAR sweetheart Jeff Gordon were part of it.

Stewart was leading when the rain started, and it poured and poured, and then the shadows of evening began to set in. The race was beyond the half-way mark. On a track with no lights, I think the wise decision would have been to call the race and go home, but that would mean Stewart, a Stewart who "embarrassed" NASCAR on national television (more than once), would not only win the race but would be first in points. No conspiracy theories, just questioning their judgment, that's all. After the restart, within minutes, cars were flying all over the track. The oil and rubber were gone, leaving the track slick. NASCAR's decision seemed dangerous and was detrimental to many of the "chasers" they seem so quick to protect. Again, bad judgment on their part.

(Disclaimer, Tony Stewart is my favorite race-car driver. Why? Outside of being a great driver, one of the best, I think beyond the bad boy, Stewart has a big heart. Like most NASCAR drivers, he seems to follow the principle of to whom much is given, much is expected, and dedicates much of his time to charitable work. I think the NASCAR image is as much of an act as anything.)

Toy Story

2007-09-21T14:55:00.000-07:00

Just now, as I was attempting to change the battery in my daughter's favorite toy, I realized that Hasbro or Mattel or any of the other hundreds of toy companies should be placed in charge of national security. I also think they should revise the directions for changing the batteries in the singing Elmo book to as follows:

Step 1- Locate screwdriver so tiny that it must only exist in the imaginary world in which my daughter plays.

Step 2- Find batteries so small that if swallowed they would choke only Thumbellina.

Step 3- Try to fit impossibly small screwdriver into impossibly small screw and attempt to carefully twist out the screw without losing it for eternity somewhere on the kitchen floor.

Step 4- Insert new batteries without same dilemma occuring as in step 3.

Step 5- Do all of this with toddler tugging on your leg crying desperately for her favorite book.

Step 6- Relish child's joy. The smile on her adorable face when she discovers that after three weeks her favorite toy is again working because mommy finally remembered to buy AAA batteries makes steps 1-5 worth every minute! What a blessing.

Looking for a Hero

2007-09-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

You asked the question, and on Saturday, Auburn supplied the answer. Can a true freshman, inexperienced quarterback bring Auburn back from the brink and salvage what has become a disappointing start to the 2007 season? It seems that would be a resounding, NO! Well, there you have it. The next question is, "Now what?"

When Kodi Burns entered the game in the second quarter, his play seemed to ignite a small fire under what looks like a lukewarm Tiger offense. Could it be possible that this young man is the answer? Thirty short minutes and a turnover later, Auburn fans received another cold dose of reality. This team is in trouble. Despite a wealth of talent, it looks like Auburn's offense has a dearth of cohesiveness. Sure, defense can win ballgames, and Auburn's defense is playing strong despite offensive woes. But, without any offensive oomph, Auburn is left with a loss to one of the worst teams in the SEC.

Many fans are wondering why Tuberville didn't allow Cox to take us to the red zone in the last minutes of play and then reinsert Burns to finish the job. While Cox's knowledge of the playbook might be an advantage, his inability to get past the 20 yard line is certainly a disadvantage that Burns might have overcome. I am not a coach nor a sports writer, so I choose not to second guess coaching decisions, but I am afraid that is what will be coming next. Do I hear tom toms in the background beating a familiar tune?

When fans are left shaking their heads and wringing their hands, it is usually the coach who bears the brunt of the frustration. In this case, it is ridiculous to assume that Tuberville has suddenly lost his ability to coach, so slow down Auburn fans. Remember who has won an SEC championship, taken you to an undefeated season, and still has one of the highest overall winning percentages in the NCAA. All teams experience slumps, downturns, moments of adversity. One down season does not a disaster make. I remember a down season, not too long ago, when a struggling Auburn team "shocked the world" and Spurrier with a surprising victory over Florida. Don't underestimate Tommy's ability to turn things around. Before you hop on a plane to Lousiville or Atlanta, let's give it a few more weeks before we start the call for Tuberville's head.

Offensively Woeful

2007-09-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

Last week, while many decided to remain calm, I hit the panic button. Something about Auburn's unimpressive victory over Kansas State left me feeling uneasy and pessimistic. In a brief moment of optimism, though, I looked to my husband on Saturday, as Nova circled Jordan Hare, and said, "You know, I really think that upsets are the sexy pick of the week. I really don't think Auburn has anything to worry about tonight." By the end of the first quarter, I was in the kitchen, frantically searching for Rolaids.

Brandon Cox's careless play, Al Borges's uncreative offense, where do I begin? While I realize that USF beat West Virginia last year, Louisville the year before, those are Big East teams, not an SEC powerhouse. Auburn should have out run, outscored, and outperformed a team that has only been in existence for ten years. That being said, I don't know that USF beat Auburn as much as Auburn beat itself.

Each time Auburn's offense, namely Mario Fanin, began to show signs of life, the next predictable play sequence put the ball back into a struggling quarterback's hands. Watching Fanin, I was almost reminded of another running back whose career was catapulted by a night of similar offensive struggles, but unlike Kenny Irons, Fanin never managed to break out. When Auburn's quarterbacks have struggled, they have always been able to find their running game, but that does not seem to be a possibility this season.

While many are calling for the benching of Brandon Cox, though, I think the problem is greater than the quarterback. I don't believe that Cox is suddenly suffering from a lack of talent or ability; his mistakes seem as much mental as they do an ineptness of execution. Perhaps the loss of Brad Lester has affected the team's psyche more than we as fans, media, etc. realize. If Borges built his offense around the experience and leadership of Cox and Lester then of course, the team would struggle with the loss of one of those key players. Watching Cox fall apart on Saturday was much like witnessing a golfer suddenly losing his swing or a closer suddenly losing his ability to find the strike zone. That loss of mental focus can destroy an athlete.

Maybe my worries are premature and Cox will recapture his focus and Borges will recapture his offense. I hope so. Of course, the real reason Auburn lost this weekend could be as simple as the fact that I forgot to fly my Auburn garden flag. I'll be sure to put it out this Saturday, and we'll see what happens.

I Am Mommy; Hear Me Roar

2007-09-11T18:13:00.001-07:00

After forty-five minutes of asking, pleading, coaxing, yes, even begging, A to take a nap, I finally give up. So, at four in the afternoon, I am seized by a momentary loss of sensibilities and decide instead to take my hungry, un-napped child to the grocery store. I thought nap time had been a struggle; little did I know, the produce section is where the real battle was to begin, an epic battle of wills.

Of course, on the way into the store, I might have casually mentioned to A that she should not be surprised if we happened to stroll by the cookie counter and find that mommy's free cookie card has decided to jump out of her wallet. In my mind, I am fantasizing about how the cookie will insure her angelic behavior and get us out of the store unscathed. In reality, I walk into the grocery and choose the one buggy with the strap that refuses to buckle.

In the split second it takes A to realize that mommy is struggling with said buckle, she is standing in the front of the cart demanding to get out and walk. "No, A," I coax. "Mommy really needs you to sit nicely in the cart and help her find the pearl onions." (Whatever those are??) She begins to scream like I've just taken away her favorite toy then proceeds to kick her legs so that it is impossible to strap her into the cart. "A," I whisper with urgency. Finally, I manage, without having to earn my engineering degree, to get the buckle fastened, and we are off. Score one point for mommy.

Meanwhile, A is still screaming. People are beginning to stare. I am pushing the cart, smiling, as though nothing is wrong. People are now looking at me like "do you not hear her screaming?" "No," my smile says, and if I do hear her, I refuse to acknowledge it. It is part of the battle plan. Never show fear. I can only imagine how we must appear: smiling mommy, humming, looking at her list, pushing adorable, blonde, screaming banshee. "A," I say, using my trump card, "if you stop screaming, mommy will get you that cookie." I did promise the cookie after all, but how do I explain to the clerk why I am buying a treat for my daughter who is in the throes of misbehavior?

A gets choked from screaming and begins to cough. An elderly lady in the frozen foods aisle glares at me with a look that says, "how could you? That poor girl is choking." Swayed by the pressure, I almost give in and pick her up out of the cart, but if I do then from now on, I must give in to her demands. The precedent will have been set, so I choose to stand strong. Instead I pat her on the back and in the moment of silence, pretend the cart is a car. "Vrooom," I shout, while pushing the cart around the store. Finally, a laugh from the peanut gallery! Point number two for mommy.

A's tear stained grimace is now a giggle as we rush from aisle to aisle finishing up my list (yes, I am still pretending to be a car). Our last stop is the cookie counter, where my once screaming baby is now a beaming angel. I give her the cookie and find a near-empty check-out line.
"She sure was letting you have it," says the clerk as I unload the cart.
"Oh, that wasn't my baby," I say.
"She looks like the little girl that was kicking and screaming when you were putting her in the cart."
"Not my girl," I say, while watching her wave sweetly to the check-out clerk. I let the clerk stare a moment before finally fessing up.
"Look at her, now, though." A is sitting strapped into her buggy, perfectly content.

I walk out of the grocery store, making sure that I have put on my sunglasses and began to dig in my purse for a baseball cap. I steal a bite of cookie from A and give her a high five in celebration of my victory. Next battle, car seat!

A Hair Raising Revelation

2007-09-06T05:37:00.000-07:00

A and I leave the park early and unexpectedly.

Our afternoon certainly begins like a normal trip to the park. Thirty seconds on the swing. Thirty seconds off the swing. Thirty seconds back on the swing. Off to the slide mom!

I chase behind A to the platforms leading up to the toddler slide and watch her gingerly climb from one level to the next, refusing my hand but stopping every few seconds, looking over her shoulder just to make sure that mom is still within reach. She is an adorable mixture of certainty and insecurity. A finally reaches the top, stands proudly, sits back down then scoots to the edge, just where the platform meets the slide.

“Go on,” I say. “It’s okay.”

A reaches for my hand. “Do you want mommy to hold your hand?” I ask.

“Yesh,” she says. I hold her hand, just barely, as she gleefully allows gravity to pull her forward. Spotting a loose pacifier, albeit attached to the shirt a little boy awkwardly toddling toward the swings, A jumps down in pursuit. She takes the boy’s pacy and shoves it into his mouth. For some reason she can’t stand to see an unattended pacifier. He looks on in shock as A rushes back to the slide.

“She is so cute,” the boy’s mother says. “How old is she?”

“Thank you, she’s eighteen months” I reply, while thinking smugly, I know, she really is the cutest thing ever.

I chat briefly with the mom and look over to find A running up to a little red-headed girl about her age. I chase after her, admonishing her not to grab the little girl’s pacifier, secretly hoping she has found a new friend thus a new mommy friend for me. To my horror “the cutest thing ever” has just grabbed a handful of red hair. My first impulse is to walk in the other direction. “Whose baby is that?” I’d ask the other moms. Instead, I rush to A, shouting, “No,” “Stop,” anything that I think might capture her attention.

I plead with A to let go of the girl’s hair, but some demonic force has overtaken her body. I half expect her head to start spinning. By now the little girl is beginning to wail, which means every other mother in the park is looking in our direction, nodding their heads, with that look that says, “my, my, some women just can’t control their kids.” Others, though not as many, cast reassuring glances of pity, a fellowship of “I’ve been there.”

I look to the mother and say “I am so sorry,” while A’s grip just tightens. The harder we try to pry her fingers, the harder she pulls, and the louder little red yells. Suddenly, I swat my little girl’s hand. I don’t swat flies, much less children, but in my desperation I pop her. A, stunned, releases the hair. Actually, I think the hair just gave up and fell out into A’s hand. I scoop up my daughter, yelling over my shoulder how sorry I am to the girl’s mother. Somehow I don’t think this is the right time to ask if she’d like to get coffee or exchange numbers. I really don’t know what else to do or say, so I scold A loudly enough for all to hear on the way out, hoping my gesture makes me look like I have some capability as a mother.

When I get to the car, I strap A into her seat, apologizing for spatting her and asking her over and over, “What in the world got into you?” She just says, “Boo” and covers her face with both hands.

“This is no time to play,” I snap then I begin to cry. I crank the car and just sit there crying, watching the little red-headed girl do the same. A continues to play peek-a-boo, unaware that she has just mauled another child and made her mommy cry.

Why I am I crying? Perhaps I am crying because I know what that mother will never learn about my daughter, that despite A’s short-lived stint as the hair-pulling monster, she is the most loving child I’ve ever known. A knows exactly the right moment for puckering her lips, murmuring “mmmmm,” and leaning in for a kiss, eliciting a smile from her grumpy mommy. To that mom, though, she will always be the little girl that gave her daughter a permanent bald spot.

Perhaps I am crying because I am feeling guilty that all the parenting books I bought on discipline are being used to stabilize a wobbly table leg. If I had cracked open, just one, I am sure it would have fallen open to the chapter on hair pulling and demon-possession, or maybe the chapter on pride being the downfall of parents.

Or perhaps I am really crying because I learned today in a very public way that my little girl has a mind of her own, and despite my best efforts, I cannot control her. Sure, I can coerce her into following my will, but I want to teach her love and respect. A will periodically make poor decisions in life, and there is nothing I can really do to prevent that. The dog will fall victim to a bad hair cut. She will leave a ring of teeth marks on her cousin’s arms and a dent in the front bumper of her dad’s car. My job as her mother isn’t to control her; it is to shape her and help her grow into a woman of character. Recognizing that I have no idea how to do this makes me feel more vulnerable and inadequate as a mother than ever before.

I dry my tears, say a small prayer for wisdom, remove A from her car seat, and walk cautiously over to the red-haired girl’s mother. Fortunately, she doesn’t turn and run when being approached by the red-eyed, mascara stained loon with the manic daughter. “I am so sorry. I just want you to know that.” She does look a little skittish but manages to nod and smile. I smile and return to the car and call my husband to relay the story. He says he’ll notify the WWF about training camp.

That night, I watch A play in the tub, her toddler tummy bulging, her blue eyes sparkling. She is still everything a mom dreams of, and I know that she isn’t mean-spirited; she just wanted to see what would happen if she pulled the girl’s hair. At least that is what the parenting book I thumbed through during naptime said. I pull her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel. A wraps her arms around my neck and sighs, “Mama.” I hug her tightly and for the second time today, I cry.

You're Kidding: Rant from a Monday Morning Quarterback

2007-09-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday afternoon, I tuned my ears northward to hear the bloodcurdling howls of despair flooding across the wind from Ann Arbor. Four short quarters into football season and already shouts of hope and joy had turned into groans of despair as the number 5 team in the country had been upset, not by a normal Division I-A whipping boy, no this was a I-AA cream puff.

My joy at upset in the Big 10, the toppling of a media darling, was short-lived because shortly after Appalachian State's victory, I tuned my ears southeastward to the Plains, where barely audible was even the faintest sign of a heartbeat. Once again, Auburn sputtered getting out of the starting gate (recall USC and Georiga Tech). Actually the engine choked and died, yet the Tigers managed to find the right gear, quite literally in the nick of time. Despite having Kansas State hand them the football game on a silver platter of penalties, Auburn struggled mightily to find any offense. (It seems frustration brings out the cliches.)

The most important position on the Tiger's football team? Apparently, it, for yet another season, is the field goal kicker. It is hard to outscore your opponent when you are chipping away three points at a time. Unless the field goal pointage is doubled, Auburn's offense could be headed for trouble. Maybe it just took us a while to warm up and the last two minutes of the game are indicative of the coming season....maybe?!

(Quick aside: Please raise your hand if you, who were watching the Auburn/Kansas State game on ESPN, cared very deeply about the no-hitter being thrown by Busmolz, or Buchholz, or what was it again? I really do love baseball, could not be prouder for any young man who pitches a no-hitter on his second time out in the majors. BUT I doubt very seriously those of us who were on the edge of our seats, praying for a fourth quarter comeback were very interested in having our game interrupted to watch, not only the final out of the ORIOLES vs. RED SOX game, but also the ten minute celebration following. Just letting you know ESPN, those of us not in the northeastern corner of the country, which is most of us, think baseball season ended Saturday. Especially since my Braves will apparently be doing a repeat of last year's play-off no-show.)

All right, where was I? Tennessee, oh Tennessee. How could you? How could you? I know you were probably a little frightened by the Berkley hippies hanging from the trees (there really were people hanging from trees, if you missed it), but that pesky PAC-10 beat you, and already the ranting and gloating, has begun. John Kincaid, on his Sunday radio show, kicked it off early when he said, those SEC zealots. Must I even go on or do you know what is coming next? When we said put up or shut up, the PAC-10 put up. Will you take your shut up juice diet or regular?

Kincaid said basically that a conference cannot be judged by one really good football team in that conference. The conferences are made up of individual teams that have no effect on the other teams successes or failures. We, zealots, have this misled notion that because Tennessee, Florida, etc. does well that it reflects nicely on the conference. We did that John? Is it the fans who create a graphic for your broadcast during bowl games that keeps a tally of the conferences'
wins and losses, thus determining the success of that conference and its teams? Is it the fans who sit at the sports desk comparing conferences week in and week out, highlighting the strong teams from that conference as evidence for their point? The road to the BCS is traveled heavily through the conference.

Finally, what do yesterday's ups and downs, surprises and disappointments mean? Frankly, that pre-season polls are pointless. Maybe Michigan is the fifth best team in the country still, and they struggled a bit, but we'll never know. They'll drop out of the conversation. Notre Dame, overrated, as always. Kansas State was probably underrated (not excusing Auburn's miserable play). When it comes down to it, we can't know what teams hit a groove over the summer, what losses of old players will do to the dynamic of a team, or any of those intangibles. Every opening day, good teams stumble and good teams emerge. We just make sure that, this season, USC, Michigan, Texas, and LSU get a head start. It is a pity Michigan can't gain momentum and be the team to beat in the playoffs. But I'll save my playoff rant for another day.

Time for Football

2007-08-30T05:50:00.000-07:00

Each season Hank Williams, Jr. asks that rocking rhetorical question, "Are you ready for some football?" Granted, he is asking NFL fans, tonight millions of college football fans will be singing a united chorus of, "YES!" A brief moment where fans of all teams agree, it's time to play.

In a few short hours, "what if" will become "what might have been." "I'm telling ya" will become "I told you so" or "I didn't see that coming" or even, possibly, "I guess I was wrong." In a mere matter of days, normally reasonable people will suddenly lose their minds and become completely absorbed with numbers, not those in their checking account, but those that make up the BCS. Polls will become the new obsession. Before accepting invitations to weddings, parties, and, yes, even Thanksgiving, wives will ask their husbands, "who's playing this weekend....are they important....did you plan to go...watch...." They'll then shrug their shoulders and exclaim, "it's only football!"

Only football?!!! Anyone who has ever caught the fever knows it's more than just football. It is a camaraderie with those you'll never know. It is about more than the two teams playing on the field; it is being ten again back in your old neighborhood rounding up all of the other kids for a few hours of football before heading into the house to watch the game with your family. It is the first time you walk into Jordan-Hare or Bryant-Denny holding your dad's hand, overwhelmed by the spectacular display of fanfare. It is watching the eagle soar around the stadium as the low rumble of "War Eagle" builds to a frenzied roar. It is the buzz on Sunday morning of the congregation trading friendly barbs before opening their hymnals. It is those traditions and memories that are savored each time you watch your team take the field, thinking, once again, "this could be our year!"

Are you ready for some football? I know I am. War Eagle and good luck!

A Tri-ing Anniversary

2007-08-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

"If it were easy, they'd call it FOOTBALL: Try a tri" I laugh as I read the caption on the t-shirt and wonder if it would be all right to purchase it even though I am only participating in 1/3 of a triathlon. I can imagine someone commenting on my cute, sassy shirt and then picture my response: "It is cute, but I've never actually done an entire triathlon, just the running portion. How far?! Oh," I'd say sheepishly, "3.1 miles." I decide not to buy the shirt and go grab my husband, who is currently ogling a $3,500 tri-bike.

It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.

The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.

My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.

I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.

With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??

Growing Pains

2007-08-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

Nothing takes me back to the awkwardness of middle school quite like a morning at the gym. Within seconds of stepping into a room filled with perfect coifs and even more perfect bodies, I am transformed into a clumsy, self-conscious seventh grader. While small, muscled, compact bodies glide gracefully from side-to-side, I flail my way through the work out, three feet of unwieldy legs and arms flying through the air. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I suddenly see her staring back at me, the red-rimmed glasses, mouth full of shiny metal, the short curly hair (oh, how I must have loved Annie), the long limbs that her parents kept promising her she'd grow into. I see her, never quite comfortable in her own skin, and although my body is trying desperately to keep up with the aerobics instructor, my mind is transported back twenty-years to the high school football field where I first discovered that my athletic prowess was, well, nonexistent.

Captivated by the opening night of football season and my first night as a high school cheerleader, I run with the other girls across the field to welcome the visiting team, also our school's biggest rival. Translation: packed house. With peppy grins tattooed on our faces, we proceed to wow the spectators with that classic, Two Bits. Just before the pyramid finale, we all perform a toe-touch simultaneously before moving into our formation. Pumped full of adrenaline, I jump, really more like soar, high into the air, spreading my legs perfectly parallel to the ground. And that is how they stay, all the way down, until my bottom meets the ground bouncing me a few feet backwards.

Stunned, I sit there, realizing that I have mere seconds to decide what to do. My first option is, of course, to jump up, cry, run, and move to Canada. The second and more reasonable option is to jump up and move into formation acting like nothing ever happened. Of course, it did happen. I fell, not just a stumble and catch yourself, no, it is a full-fledged, tail-bone cracking bust, so I act, but they notice. After the cheer, I giggle madly as we run across the field for introductions. Of course, for me, there is no introduction needed. How I ever made cheerleader, I'll never know, perhaps they needed someone tall to spot the girls on top of the pyramids.

Failing to learn my lesson, I decide to go out for basketball. I am tall, right? Clearly, I can play basketball. Clearly. I am marvelous, scoring point after point at practice. The problem is that I am just a little unsteady on my feet, falling and tripping, not just myself but the other girls, as well. After two weeks of practice, my coach informs me that he has neither ordered me a uniform nor shoes. Clearly, I cannot play basketball, so I move on to my next attempt at athletic greatness: the band.

For years, my parents kept saying that I would eventually become like a gazelle, growing gracefully into her limbs. In reality, I am a newborn calf awkwardly navigating my surroundings, a stubborn calf who longs to be athletic. After countless falls, even my family gives up on that dream and lovingly dubs me Gracie. I'd like to say my clumsiness does not affect me, but it does, and for years I resent my long, discomfited limbs.

I am jolted from my reverie by the voice of our instructor shouting "Sprint!" Much like in high school, I am still three inches taller than everyone else in the room, but at the moment I am running faster than they are. I catch another glimpse of myself in the mirror, it would be impossible not to since we are surrounded by them. This time I see my body and realize, with God's grace, all it has accomplished since college: carrying and giving birth to my beautiful daughter, two half-marathons, spin class three days a week, and at 32, it can still do the splits.

I finally leave class to go get my girl from the nursery. In her excited flurry, she does what her father and I call her happy dance then proceeds to run to the mat to retrieve her shoes and falls flat out on her face. I try not to laugh and see in her cute clumsiness a bit of myself. For a moment, I feel pained for her. What if, like her mom, her inability to walk steadily interferes with her athletic goals? A , all of 17 months, nonchalantly gets up, smiles, and reaches for me, and I stop worrying, because like her mommy, I know that she'll continue to get up and try again.

And the winner is....

2007-08-04T09:48:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you've heard that Barry Bonds is poised to hit home run number 755 any minute now, matching Hank Aaron's record, but did you also know that this particular record is the "most hallowed record in all of sports"? I didn't until I was listening to Fox Gametime Saturday on my way home from running errands. That is when I heard the news, that the home run record had been crowned "most hallowed". Since then, in all of the endless chatter about why Bonds should or shouldn't receive credit for the record, I've heard almost every other expert give it this title, as well. Why is that, and will there be an ESPY?

Perhaps I need more to do, but I've just been pondering why this particular record is the most hallowed. Is there a specific set of criteria that makes one record more hallowed than the next? Is most hallowed also the most important? Does it mean it is the most difficult record to break? Would the home run record be receiving that solemn title if everyone's favorite hero, not baseball's favorite villain, were about to break it?

If it is degree of difficulty, then why is Joe Dimaggio's impressive 56 game hit streak record not a contender for the title? The closest anyone has come to breaking that was Pete Rose's 44 hits in 1978. And come on, Ted Williams's .400 season has never been duplicated. Why is the most hallowed title given to a baseball record? It isn't even the most popular sport and is probably losing popularity as I write this.

Football and NASCAR seem to be the juggernauts of popular sports, so why aren't any of their records up for the challenge. It seems that winning the most races of all time is a pretty big accomplishment, and most rushing yards, sacks in a season, touchdowns scored, all impressive records. Let's not leave out our less popular but equally difficult sports. Will anyone else ever match Lance Armstrong's 7 Tour de France titles? It could be the doping scandal cloud hanging over baseball, I mean cycling, that keeps this record from becoming the most hallowed.

It is just food for thought. We tend to jump on the chance to declare one athlete better than another, one sport more difficult than the next, and now our records compete for most or best. Will the home run record continue to hold this honor the closer Alex Rodriguez gets to breaking whatever Bonds's magic number is when he finally retires? Will it some how lose its hallowed-ness the more often it is broken? Before I'm convinced and award it my most hallowed title, I think I'll just put an asterisk beside this one and see if something more impressive comes along.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

2007-07-29T10:22:00.000-07:00

Says the SEC to the Pac-10: We've got spirit yes we do; we've got spirit how bout you?

To which the Pac-10 replies: We've got spirit yes we do; we've got spirit how bout you?

SEC: We've got more; We've got more

(This is where the Pac-10 stops cheering for fear of being seen as overly fanatical.)

Okay, so that wasn't the exact exchange last week between LSU head football coach, Les Miles, whose apparent motto is "Let's Give Em Something to Talk About," and the coaches of the Pac-10. But you get the idea. It seems that Miles has once again stirred the proverbial pot, and this time he's got the west coast talking. What did he say that was so controversial? Basically, Miles thinks the Pac-10 has an easier road to travel to the BSC Championship game than the SEC does. Top to bottom the SEC is a stronger, tougher conference than the Pac-10. GASP. He said what?!! The response to his comments: Let's make fun of the south.

Les Miles originally made his comments on July 2nd. The following day my husband and I were listening to Colin Cowherd's ESPN radio show, where he basically said that Miles and the rest of the south are overly fanatical about football and our passion drives us to be irrational. Because we have nothing to do in the south, we obsess over football. He actually said that (somewhat paraphrased) on the west coast there are oceans and lakes and people take time to enjoy recreational activitives. Ironically, my husband and I were on our way to the ALABAMA Gulf Coast, where we planned to bike, swim, run, and build sandcastles with our daughter. (Apparently, Mr. Cowherd was reading Sports Illustrated during geography class.)

Last week at the Pac-10 equivalent to our media days, Arizona State head coach, Dennis Erickson, called SEC fans fanatics. (I prefer passionate.) In his article in the L.A. Times, Chris Dufresne said that Miles "for no apparent reason" riled up the SEC fans because we apparently can't get over the fact that Auburn was overlooked in 2004 after going undefeated. Mr. Dufresne, I disagree; he has a very good reason. Like Tommy Tuberville in 2004, Les Miles, who was not raised on grits and sweet tea mind you, is learning that it boils down to one thing: LACK OF RESPECT. The SEC gets no respect. The national media, namely that big eastern syndicate in Connecticut, fails to offer the SEC the respect it deserves despite proving time and again its place within the national spotlight.

It is like the pretty girl who sits home on prom night. She is intelligent, fun, beautiful, yet no one invites her to the big dance. No one seems to like her. Why? Are you afraid you'll fall in love then have to admit you were wrong, national media? It is obvious how it pains those on the major networks to admit fault. I remember almost choking on my breakfast when I heard the pundits debating whether the dynastic USC Trojans could actually beat an NFL team. Two days later, Texas took the Trojans to the woodshed, several times. No admittance that they were wrong. Do I even need to bring up Florida vs. Ohio State?

As a southerner, who is passionate about many things, not just football, it is infuriating to watch the media darlings (USC, Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State) rise to the top of the polls year in and year out despite being toppled, sometimes by SEC teams. We're good and we have the track record to prove it. We toot our own horn because few else will. Les Miles, to you and Tuberville, and the other coaches who care enough to tout your teams, I say, blow, boys, blow. It is a sweet sound to our southern ears.

FYI:
2006 National Champions
Football: Florida; Men & Women's Swimming and Diving: Auburn
Men's Basketball: Florida; Gymnastics: Georgia
W Basketball: Tennessee; Men's Indoor Track & Field: Arkansas

W Outdoor Track & Field: Auburn

W Bowling: Vanderbilt