Happy Birthday, B

Beckett,

         At 4:08 a.m. on March 14, 2006, you came into this world. And every year since, I set my alarm for that time on that day to have a silent celebration of your arrival. I find that even though I set my alarm, I don't actually need it. When I woke up at 4:08 this morning, I thought about the days leading up to your birth. I thought about the first time I laid eyes on you. For a couple of months after your arrival, I kept meaning to write down every detail of those 4 days. I wanted to get in down while it was fresh, terrified that I would forget something. The thing I didn't realize then is that those days are impossible to forget. I remember them with startling detail. I remember counting time between contractions with Betsy and Phebe. I remember watching Jeopardy! and trying to take a hot bath to soothe the pain. I remember listening to Madonna on the way to the hospital the first time. I remember being told to go home and take Tylenol PM. I remember eating a pizza and drinking a Route 44 Ocean Water and returning to the hospital less than 24 hours later. I remember begging Betsy, through tears, to go track down the anesthesiologist at 1:00 a.m. Prior to styling the lovely hospital gown, I wore a black dress and a pink zip-up hoodie. When you finally arrived, you had white blond hair that was sticking straight up and beautiful blue eyes. I remember being rendered speechless  when they put you in my arms (and you'll figure out as you get older, I'm not often rendered speechless).

         B, there aren't many moments in life you remember with such detail. This is one of the few. And every March 14, I run over it again in my mind.

        When I'm alone at 4:00 in the morning, I say a prayer for you. This is not to say that I don't pray for you all the time, but this prayer is a little different. I thank God for the preceding year and ask simply that the one to come is as blessed as the one before.

         Love, we've had a rough couple of years. But you keep trucking right along. This year, you started kindergarten. This year, you learned to read. I mean really read, not just memorize books and repeat the words (although this was always very sweet, especially when we read The Lorax). This year, you wished Star Wars was real ("...all of it. Even The Clone Wars.") According to you, your favorite food is chicken and your favorite TV is Tom and Jerry. You're endlessly entergetic and you love riding your bike, legos, Angry Birds, and playing "pirate ship" in the backyard.

          Sometimes, it's hard for me to believe that you're already 6. Sometimes, it baffles me that you're only 6. And while you've learned so much, you've still got so far to go.  When I think about you're future, I find that I want very simple things for you. But you'll figure out (too soon), that life is, at times, quite complicated.  I want you to be happy. This is very broad, but that doesn't make it any less true. I want you to always be curious and to never stop learning. But I also want you to realize that you're never going to know everything. And, maybe most importantly, I want you to learn to trust yourself. You'll find as you get older that everyone's a critic. There will be times when you'll begin to doubt your decisions. This is alright, because it means your being thoughtful. But at the end of the day, trust your own instincts. And I promise, I'll try to trust you, too.

There is a voice inside of you
That whispers all day long,
"I feel that this is right for me,
I know that this is wrong,"
No teacher, preacher, parent, friend,
Or wise man can decide
What's right for you - just listen to
The voice that speaks inside.
           -Shel Silverstein

Happy birthday, B.

Love,

Mom

Auld Lang Syne

The end of the year is the perfect time to take stock, to reflect, to resolve, to aspire, to hope. And for the last day or two, it's been a great time to remember all that has gone wrong.  It is so easy to pinpoint every disaster, every disappointment, and every letdown and to promise to never have them happen again (at least not for the next year). In general, 2011 was not a red-letter year (and neither was 2010).

But then, I reconsidered the year. While everything wasn't perfect, it was actually pretty great. I rang in 2011 in New Orleans. 2011 was the year I celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Savannah. It was the year I graduated from law school and the year B started kindergarten. It was the year B learned to ride a bike and lost his first tooth. It was the year I left Montgomery. It was the year Baby C was born and one of my oldest friends became a mother. It was the year several friends got engaged and a few got married. It was the year I finally got a sewing machine. It was the year I got Liza Jane. It was the year B told me that even before he was born, he knew I was his Mom . It was the year Auburn won the National Championship and B declared his love for the Geogia Bulldogs. And it was the year I found my first gray hair and went back blonde. In it's own way, it was a great year.

It was a painful reminder that time does, in fact, march on. It was a constant reminder that sometimes life really isn't fair. It was a sweet reminder that hearing your child say "I love you," can get through the hardest days. Looking back on it, I am reminded that things aren't always as they seem.

Looking forward, I am excited. 2012 has such potential. Such madding and unending potental. I have so many resolutions, so many ideas, dreams, plans, hopes. Here goes nothing.

Happy New Year, y'all!

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth that you are weeping for that which has been your delight. -Khalil Gibran

The 25 Most Exciting Days of the Year

December 1st is here. December, y'all! The years keep moving faster and faster and I just can't seem to keep up. Or get used to that fact. So, we're officially in the Christmas season -- the most wonderful time of the year. Crafting and cooking only get better and accomplished more often in this short season. Could a blog-a-day be upon us? Probably not. But Lord knows I have enough projects going to try.

B has made is Christmas wish-list. It is as follows:

(1) Any Wii game. Any game except Wii Sports "because it's the only one I have, Mom, and I need another one."
(2) "A smaller rug, just like this one, that I can put next to it so I have a bigger rug." B has a rug with streets and whatnot on it so he can play with his cars. He feels he needs more roadway.
(3) A bigger Whack-A-Mole game.

Basically, things he already has, just on a grander scale. That's it. Until I pressed him further. Then, he wanted everything he saw on TV. Sounds about right.

I am getting ready for the holidays by listening to Christmas music (I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, Donde Esta Santa Claus?, and Elvis' Blue Christmas being my favorites) and watching Christmas movies (It's a Wonderful Life, Love Actually, and The Wizard of Oz. I have a somewhat odd definition of "Christmas movie").

This will be B's 5th Christmas. Here's a picture from his first:



Guilty Christmas baby ripped the present's wrapping as a sign of protest at having his picture taken 7 million times.

 Merry Christmas, everyone!

Nerd Alert

I recently acquired three bookshelves, bringing the total number of bookshelves in my room to six.  I wasn't 100% sure I had enough books to fill all 3, but, much to my delight, I do.  I can't properly explain how much I love reading. A friend told me once that reading fiction was ridiculous (he prefered non-fiction). I almost died.  I don't know how to tell someone what fiction, poetry, hell, the dictionary, means to me.  Everyone I come into contact with should be on high nerd alert.

I had a birthday about a week ago. In two (very) short years, I will be 30. I am by no means a wise person, I don't learn lessons easily, I make mistakes in spades, and I don't know half of what I hope to one day, but I do know this: At 28 years old, I am a nerd. And I also know that I am absolutely comfortable with that fact.

There is no telling what B will remember about me or his childhood in 23 years (when he is 28). I often think about my childhood and my parents and what I remember about those days. And I don't mean the big memories -- the birthdays, the Christmas mornings, the school programs. I mean the little things. The small details that really matter.  I mean those random memories that creep up when you least expect them. The memories you didn't even know you had.  The memories that are triggered by a smell, or a song, or the way someone pronounces a word.

I remember how excited Taylor and I were when it snowed in Dothan that one year. I remember how my Dad's excitement matched our own (and how funny we all thought it was when Bailey, our dog, peed in the snow). I remember my Mom patiently placing all of my long blonde hair in pink sponge rollers at night and how she would let me then tangle play with her hair. I remember how my Mom and I made fun of the way my Dad said "milk." And how they made fun of the way I said "magenta" (I was eight. How was I supposed to know it wasn't "mag-neta?"). I remember how my Mom settled the WWIII caliber "Who Rides in the Front Seat" argument of 1992 (One of us got odd days, the other even). I remember (and still have) every note of encourgement, love, and even the occasional note of disappointment (I still have those, too). I remember my parent's reaction the day Taylor smashed my pinky finger in the trampoline spring and then again on the day I hit him in the back of the head with a golf club. I remember the way my Mom smelled back then. To this day, a Garth Brooks song reminds me of my Dad. I remember Taylor playing football with himself in the front yard.  I remember a million little details. 

But most of all, I remember reading. I remember huddling under covers and in closets, finding a little space of my own in this big world.  I remember solving mysteries with Nancy Drew. I remember sobbing uncontrollably when Kirsten's best friend died on the ship during their voyage to America. I remember when my friends and I tried to create a Babysitter's Club. I remember when my aunt gave me The Secret Garden and how mad I was that I didn't have a secret garden of my own. I remember when I thought high school would be just like Sweet Valley High. I remember Arthur Cluck and Amelia Bedelia and Sarah, Plain and Tall. And I remember that my Mom loved to read. She and I both read multiple (and by "multiple," I mean at least five) books at a time. We surround ourselves with stacks of books and pencils. In this way, we are identical. In 23 years, my go-to memory of my Mom will still be that she has always loved to read.

I can only hope Beckett remembers the same thing about me.

Mismatched Furniture Fix-Up

Like every single girl who has been a student for the better part of her life and has moved frequently over the years, I own a whole mess of mismatched furniture. So, about a month ago, I decided it might be time to try and make some of it match. Actually, I started this years ago. Basically, instead of having merely mismatched furniture, I have furniture that is painted two diferent colors. Exhibit A:

This is a bookshelf my Dad built for me while I was in college. Because it was made for a dorm room, it's pretty simple, but because I am a sentimental sap, I ca't bear to part with it. Plus, I have a bunch of books that need a home. As you can see, it's got some amazing quotes on the shelves (namely, one from a DMB song.....ah, college). As you can also see, the outside white and the inside is black. Looks great.

A couple of years ago, I decided to try to make this look a little better. B was about 3 or so, and I (wisely) let him help. Exhibit B is the result.:

Yup. B helped. And since I gave up on the project shortly afer I realized B could open a paint can on his own, the shelf retained this glorious exterior. And then, my sentimental side took over for a minute. I mean, B did this. So, I took a picture and moved on. But this is not the only problem with the bookshelf. There's Exhibit C:

This bookshelf saw me through three years of undergrad, one newborn baby, and three years of law school. The coffee rings were inevitable.  And finally, Exhibit D:

This picture best illustrates why one shouldn't give up on projects when they are only half finished. B had opened the paint can, spilled paint, and tried to paint the shelf. The spilled paint dried around the can and I just let it.  Later, when the paint can was moved, it left this amazing paint ring. 

Basically, this bookshelf has been begging me to fix it for years. I started painting it (comletely) black about a month ago. And then abandoned it again. Poor little bookshelf. It does, however, look infinitely better now. I am painting a design on the side that wound up taking me a lot longer than I anticipated. I had to abandon the bookshelf for the second time because I just couldn't deal with all the books being on the floor. I haven't taken a picture of the bookshelf's progress yet, but when I do, I'll post it here.

I must again admit that my Pinterest obsession is bordering on unhealthy. But, in light of my need to fix my bookshelf, I think this may be my next project:




from Ohdeedoh.com