August 13, 2017

Sunday Thoughts

For three Saturdays in a row now, I've made our bed.  I'm not really sure why though because I've never quite seen the point in making ones bed to only use it again that very night.  It seems silly to go through the motions of tucking in sheets and fluffing up pillows and making it look nice, only for all of that to end up on the ground.  In fact, people who make their beds on a daily basis baffle me.  Please tell me, why go through the trouble of doing that every day?


I've decided that being a grown up is incredibly lame.  A few weeks ago, I woke up to a flat tire which then led to the purchase of four brand new ones and a front and rear break job for my car.  I also had to buy a plane ticket and book a hotel room for a conference next month and so we basically said goodbye to all of our savings.  That particular weekend ended with a trip to the mailbox where I was lucky enough to receive a jury summons.  And I have no issue doing my civic duties, but I do feel like my name sure gets drawn an awful lot in comparison to others I know.  This is my fourth time to serve and my husband has been summoned once.  Last time, I actually had to serve on a jury and at this exact time in my life, I don't have any emotional space for a trial so I'm kind of hoping for a long day of book-reading and pretending I'm an introvert.


It's weird how life brings people in and out of your lives.  Friendships that fizzled or failed or just stopped for one reason or another, reconnect.  I found myself at breakfast on Saturday morning with a gal who I lost touch with years ago.  We both find ourselves feeling the exact same feelings but her in her singleness and mine in my marriage.  It was good to cry together over coffee and eggs.  Somewhere between the french toast and the tears, I was reminded that we are all struggling with something, and we are only alone if we let ourselves be. 


My son went to church dressed like this today. 
There was a point earlier in motherhood, where I wouldn't have dreamed of letting my child walk out the door in this condition.  He told me the other day that wearing pants makes him feel like a man and I'm pretty sure he feels six feet tall in a pair of jeans.   He asks to wear button down shirts and he has asked for more ties and this kid - he is something.  I'm learning to relax and roll with it, because he is teaching me how.  Isn't that funny?  We have kids and think that we're the teachers, when really, they're the ones that end up teaching us.


I am preparing for the Brave On conference with Red Tent Living next month where I am going to sit on a panel and talk about self-care.  This comes in the middle of the year where I have battled with self-harm, depression, loneliness, pain and addiction in ways that I haven't in a long time.  And I don't understand how God even has me in this specific role, but I'm hoping to find some kind of words to share that don't leave me blubbering on stage, but not feeling like a fraud either. 


My heart can't hardly bear the news.  I find myself sitting in disbelief that so much hatred and racism exists today in our country because I have been so sheltered from it being from where I am.  I grew up with friends of all colors of skin and only learned about segregation and prejudice in lessons in school about slavery and Martin Luther King and Adolf Hitler and the Holocaust.  I'm just sick.  As a white person who has lived in ignorance for so long, I almost feel embarrassed for all that I've been blind to and unaware of.  I don't know what to do or what to say or how to be a part of something that can offer real change.  I'm so, so grieved.  I'm grieved not only that there exists such evil hatred and white supremacy bullshit in this country, but that I've been so blind and ignorant that it's always been there and I haven't ever seen it because I've grown up in my own measures of safety and privilege. 


Here I sit on a Sunday night surrounded by baskets of unfolded laundry, and Legos that my boys didn't put away.  I feel chaos in my home, my marriage, my country.  Things feel unsettled and broken and dug open, as if a digger has plowed up our front lawn.  And I don't know what to fix or where to start, or where all of the trying to put anything together will even lead me.  But, I can make my bed.  And I guess that's a start.

August 6, 2017

When your marriage is in the garage

It was supposed to be my space.  I wanted a little nook with a comfy chair and a small table with a lamp where I could retreat to.  A space to read and write and journal and cry without policing my children’s play or having to stop and search through Lego’s to find Batman’s helmet for the 127th time.  Todd built a room divider for me and it seemed to be the best choice to make something from scratch as room dividers cost a lot of money.  We came up with the idea to use fence posts that would be screwed together with hinges so it could bend the way it needed to and give me the privacy I wanted for my little nook. 

He made it exactly the way I wanted.  The posts were painted the creamy white I liked with dark hardware on the outside.  I only got to admire it for a short time before it went crashing down to the floor and broke.  His solution was to brace the bottom of it with a larger piece of wood because the balance was off somehow.  He took raw wooden blocks and attached them to the bottom and I was immediately upset with it, because now the divider didn’t look pretty.  It was awkward and these weird stabilizing blocks on the bottom weren’t even painted.  In a matter of days, it only took a slight bumping of my elbow to the divider and it went crashing down to the floor again.  One panel broke completely off again, wooden splinters sticking out from where the screws were ripped from it in the fall. 

He told me he would figure out a different solution and propped the broken panel by the other pieces that were still standing.  I suggested calling someone, looking up a video, asking someone for help, like his brother who is a pretty talented carpenter.  He wouldn’t ask for help.  I guess he didn’t think he needed any.

Several weeks went by and I got angry every time I walked into my room and saw the broken divider.  He even got the equipment he needed to fix it, but it stayed by the door in our entryway and the dividers stayed as they were in our room.  Broken. 

I got angry about them yesterday. Really angry.  Angrier than a person should get about a faulty made-from-scratch room divider.  I told him the dividers were broken and to just get them out of our room.  He attempted one last time to fix them somehow by taking more raw wooden braces to try and fix on the other side.  The fix made the piece look even more unattractive.  I told him it was a bad idea.  The fence posts weren’t going to work.  It was broken.  I wanted them out of the room.  I was done looking at them.  I was done with the idea of even wanting to have them any longer. 

He was noticeably hurt from my demands, but he said nothing, and silently took them apart and put them in the garage.  And I cried later.  I cried a lot.  More than a person should cry about a faulty made-from-scratch room divider. 

And I realized that I wasn’t crying over the divider.  Somewhere along the way, the room divider became a visual of our marriage.  It’s off balance.  It’s awkward.  It’s been attempted to be repaired with quick and sloppy fixes.  He says that he will do things or fix things and doesn’t follow through in what he says he will do and the room divider was a tangible reminder of what feels broken in our relationship.  My heart looks much like the splintered wood where the screws had been ripped out after the fall.  And I don’t know the condition of his because he doesn’t it show it to me. 

All I know, is that our marriage feels like it’s in the garage.  It’s out there with the toys and clothes my boys have outgrown, the bicycles we never ride and leftover paint from other more successful DIY projects.  If it doesn’t get fixed, it will probably get tossed out as most things in the garage usually do.

June 3, 2017

Silly String Mom

Three years ago I decided it would be a great idea to wake up Tommy with silly string on his very last day of Kindergarten.  I have no clue how I came up with this idea, but it sounded like a fun time.  Of course he loved it, even though it made an insane mess in his bed.  He woke up laughing and confused and even though we had to wash his sheets and vacuum his blankets, I knew it was worth all of the smiles and giggles from my boy.  That day, I picked him up early from school, took him to eat at our favorite restaurant and treated him to a special toy for working so hard all school year.  And just like that, a sweet mother-son tradition was born that day. 

As this last week of school approached, Tommy began bubbling with anticipation.

"I can't wait for the last day of school!  You'll wake me up with silly string and we'll go to Alamo Cafe and we'll have fun together!  I'm sooooo excited."  He told me this every night all week long that I tucked him into bed, and I have to admit, I was just as excited about it as he was, and not just because it meant leaving work early.
The last day of school came, and so did the silly string wake up call.  We shared queso  and laughed as we talked about everything from Ironman to his silly what-if questions and the things he was looking forward to about summer.  As I sat across the table from my almost eight year-old, I noticed the light and joy in his face.  He looks so much like me and he's still at the age where he thinks I'm the coolest person he knows because I share his love for superheroes and Star Wars.  Our conversation comes easily and I know that he knows. 

He knows how deeply I love him.  He knows how much I enjoy him - who he is, what he loves, his sense of humor. He knows that he is completely and utterly loved just as he is.

As we walked out of the restaurant to the car, he wrapped his arm around me and made a quiet "Hmmm" and sigh sound as he looked up at me with a small grin.  I looked down at him, though not far down, because in one more foot from now, he will probably be as tall as I am.

"You're the best mom ever," he said.  I felt his words hit me and I wanted to dismiss them, because I know how untrue that feels for me most of the time.  I usually feel like I'm missing everything or I refuse to play, I snap at him or lose my cool and say things I wish I hadn't.  I blow it so many times and he knows that I do because I apologize and admit when I'm wrong. 

I hugged him back and kissed his head, and replied, "I know!  I am pretty awesome.  But, you're the best Tommy ever, and I'm only the best mom ever, because I have a you."  And then he smiled and then burped a loud, obnoxious boy burp and we got in the car and picked up his brother to head out for more last day of school adventures together.

May 29, 2017

Waves and Wind

Crashing, churning, rolling.
Wave upon wave I felt my soul settle and still within me.
Sorrows that roll like sea billows.
It is well?

Breeze tangling my hair.
Broken sand dollars, shards of shells.
Seafoam coming up and disappearing over and over again.
Seagulls and sandpipers and golden retrievers running.

He woos me, knows me, romances me.
The sunshine, the horizon, the color of blue where ocean meets sky.
Sun kissing my shoulders, sand beneath my feet.
Footprints left behind and the tide coming to wipe them away.
It is well, whispered upon the waters.
The ones He breathed into being.
He must have thought of me then.  How much I would enjoy what He made.
I cried, the salty breeze dried my tears.

The sea draws me out into it.
Feeling the force of it's power, it's ability to take me under.
It has before.

He calls me to the unknown, the deeper waters.
Murky, uncertain and dangerous.
My eyes are on You....

Hearing his voice among the wind and waves.
They still know His name.
Never stopping, never silent.
He always speaks and I can always hear Him.

May 17, 2017

The Girl with the Purple Hair

We walked into a new sanctuary surrounded by strangers.  The music was familiar, but the church and the people were new to us.  I was more observant than worshipful taking in the faces and feelings around me.  Finding a church body and a place we feel like we belong has certainly come with it's challenges.  As I stood there taking in a new place, I spotted a young woman near the front of the sanctuary.  She had bright purple hair and I could visibly see some of her tattoos as she raised her hands in worship.

I leaned over to Todd and said, "Um, I'm gonna need to know that girl.  She has purple hair AND tattoos.  I'm pretty sure we should be best friends." 

You see, as long as I can remember, I have always, ALWAYS wanted a fun color hair.  Somewhere between the jobs I've held in various offices and being married to a man who isn't too crazy about unconventional hair colors, I've never had the chance to try out the bold colors like bright aqua or hot pink.  Naturally, I'm drawn to other people who so effortlessly pull off an edgy and bold look.  And while it was her hair that drew me in, something in my gut told me I needed this gal in my life.

But instead of walking up to her and introducing myself like a normal person, I spent the next three months worth of Sundays inching my way up to her row in church.  Maybe if I could sit in the row behind her, we could finally say hello during meet-and-greet and it would be then she would realize that we were supposed to be best friends.  It never seemed to work out though and I was losing hope that I would ever find some kind of way of approaching her that didn't sound like: "So, you're hair is awesome and I have tattoos and I've also Facebook stalked you a little bit already.  Do you want to hang out and be my best friend?"

A few weeks later on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the girl with the purple hair stood at the front of the sanctuary to share a brief testimony of gratitude about what she had been through that year.  I remember her saying that God had isolated her from the rest of her family and friends during a time of sudden loss and immense grief, and that in her isolation she awakened to her need for Jesus in a way she had never known.  Those words spoke to places I had been hurting and angry with God for where I felt He had also isolated me, especially in relationships.  My tears began to flow and I looked at Todd.  "Oh, now she really, really has to be my best friend.  I just love her."

Now that I finally had a reason to approach her with something to say other than a comment about crushing on her hair, I immediately found her after church and our conversation came easily just as I knew it would.  We quickly found each other on Facebook (seeing as I had already Facebook stalked her beforehand) and exchanged numbers and overnight, this beautiful friendship blossomed between myself and a Michigander with amazing hair who unexpectedly found herself in my-neck-of-the-woods Texas.

After our first coffee date that lasted nearly five hours, she sent me this silly meme:
Which was especially perfect because I had been referring to her as someone who needed to be my "best friend" from the moment I saw her.

In all seriousness, this girl, is the dearest to me. While so many of our conversations and banter is various levels of shenanigans and nonsense, her friendship was exactly the one I needed and had been praying for.  She has said the same and we both agree that our friendship was a divinely orchestrated by God.  And He must get a kick out of the two of us together, because how could He not? 

Ya'll.  Making friends is hard isn't it?  I watch my boys walk into a new place and sit next to another boy and they start playing together like they've always played together.  It seems like somewhere between our youth and growing into adults, something goes awry in the friend-making department.  We can probably blame middle school for that, because everything awful happens then anyway.  But, making friends - finding someone you click with and enjoy and want to be around and who understands you - it's not something that comes easily, at least not in my experience.

I've learned a lot about myself and my flaws as a friend over the years. I am quick to write people off if I don't feel an instant connection.  I usually won't invest my time in someone if I know they aren't sticking around long term and sadly, I check out and try to fade away from people that feel exhausting to maintain friendships with because it requires too much of me.  So much of my actions in friendships in my adult life hasn't been kind or loving.  I suppose it's human to find it hard to always be kind and loving in relationship with another person 100% of the time, nevertheless, how I have behaved or treated others in the past isn't the kind of friend or person I desire to be.

In the blossoming of new friendships to those that fade or sometimes sadly dissolve and break all together, I am discovering that there is something to be learned from every friendship.  And so, I keep learning and messing it up along the way.  All relationships require a significant measure of grace to succeed and I know there have been times I have been slow to extend it.  I have let friendships go without telling someone how I really felt - mostly because it feels risky and vulnerable to fight for a relationship that you're not certain the other wants to keep.  I am sad for the places where instead of putting up healthy boundaries, I simply withdrew.  I may have some epic failures in the friendship department, but I hope to grow into a woman full of love, grace and kindness.  Because all of us desperately need those things - especially in relationship.

God is rich with grace and continues to put new friends in our paths to grow and stretch us, to minister and encourage us, and to give us a talking to and speak hard truths.  And when He brings a friend along who loves Star Wars and quotes "The Office" and shares your love for bright-colored hair, and her heart is literally shaped just like your own, then you count yourself especially blessed.

May 8, 2017

May the Fourth

At some point in the last few years, "Star Wars Day" has become a thing. And if you know anything about me and my little family, Star Wars Day is the day of our people.  In the past, we've worn our favorite Star Wars tees on May 4th, but this year, I decided to make it a more special event.

We turned on some Star Wars music.  Thanks to the wonders of Pandora, we found a Star Wars inspired station and listened to our favorite theme songs.
I put the boys to work making "Obi-Wan Kebobi's," which were really just grapes on skewers.  They decided they looked a lot like light sabers and let's just say that these don't fare well for light saber battles at all.  
I made up a fun menu for us to have on display.  Our food included:

Boba Fettucini Alfredo
Greedo's Green Beans
Dark Side Dinner Rolls
Obi-Wan Kebobi's
Wookie Cookies
Jawa Juice
I got a little carried away with decorating the table. I put some of Tommy's little action figures in one of my glass apothecary jars and it made me squeal with glee. 
If Star Wars tablescapes aren't a thing, then I will definitely make them one.
With our fun spread of food, Star Wars tunes and amazing table, we invited some new Star Wars-loving friends to join us for the evening.
Todd had to work late that night, so only the boys and I sported our shirts together without dad.
My new friend Melissa is a boys mom and she loves Star Wars too.  And the day was even more awesome because I got to spend it with her.  She's literally my favorite non-related human on this planet and her friendship has been the biggest blessing of this year so far.
I've been working more and my time at home to spend with the boys feels few and far between.  Whenever I can steal some precious, every day moments to make a couple of fun memories, it makes me feel like I'm not missing them entirely. 
The evening ended with lightsaber wars in the living room like any Star Wars dinner party should.  I tucked away our silly family memory in my favorite sentimental pocket, grateful for days like May the Fourth and the boys I got to share it with.

April 27, 2017

Early morning stream of thoughts

Four o'clock this morning, Jacob came into my room sniffling quietly.  I called him over to my bed and asked him what was wrong and between my grogginess and his quiet whispers, gathered that he had some kind of bad dream about Oma (his grandmother) leaving him and that he had also fallen out of bed.  I tucked him back into bed with kisses and prayers and went to lay back down except that my mind was already alert and racing.

I need to look for a new home daycare.  He's not happy there and I've got to find something different for my boy.

Is Tommy's field trip next Thursday, or is it Friday? I've got to make sure to put his lunch in a brown sack and not his lunchbox that day.  I need to remember to text his teacher.  Ugh, I feel so out of touch with what's going on for him at school.  

Did he do his reading homework last night?  I didn't check it.  I wonder if his handwriting is better and if he is slowing down to write like I've been instructing him to do.

I can't believe school will be out in a month.  I still have to figure out what to do with Tommy on Wednesdays and Fridays.  What am I going to do?  I'm so bummed I won't have Fridays off in the summers like I used to at my old job.  I'm going to miss that time with the boys.  They're going to miss me.  I'm missing everything.

Gosh, summer is right around the corner.  Where has this year gone already?   Oh crap, I need to mail out that 941 form for my boss.  I need to get that done by Friday. That's tomorrow, shit.  So I'll do that today.  *sigh*

But yea, summer.  

Bathing suits.  

I've gained weight.  Damn bathing suits and bellies and double chins.  I hate my body.  Wait, no, I don't hate my body.  I can't say that to myself anymore.  I need to say kind things to my body.  Oh, I suck at this "being kind to myself thing."  Why does it have to be so hard to take care of ourselves and our bodies and minds?  

Oh I'm so tired, I wish I could fall asleep for another hour before it's time to get up.

I need to remind Todd to call the mortgage company to find out where to send our payment to.  How did I lose the bill?  Did I accidentally throw it out?  I'm such an idiot sometimes.  Oh and I need to pay that other bill online because if I mail it out now, it will be late.  I hate money.  I guess I don't hate money, I hate the lack of money.  We need to get out of debt.  Always feels like we're getting nowhere because we get hit with something else like Todd's new tires.  

I'm going to need new tires for my car this year too.  Ugh.  And I'm just waiting for our AC to break.  Dad made it sound like it may not make it another summer.  If I have to pay for tires and I still need a plane ticket for the conference in September and we still haven't replaced our fence, and what if Todd's truck breaks down again?  Or my car?  My car isn't under warranty like his is.  I feel like it's just a matter of time before that happens. 

Why do I always think that way?  Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I guess I think that because the other shoe always ends up dropping.  

How is that a saying?  Who drops shoes?  What does that even mean?  

Shoes.  What am I going to wear to work today?  I don't want to wear my sandals with that outfit because I need to paint my toenails again.  Can I wear flats with that?  I need to get some new brown ones.

Ugh, I'm tired.  This is stupid.  I'm just going to get up.

And so I did.  I made a cup of coffee and perused Facebook at 5am.  It offered me to the usual counterfeit for connection and gave me another list of things to do.  Another stream of thoughts flooded in about wanting to try a new facial product because my skin is gross and then wondering if everybody in the world is selling stuff on the side now and using Facebook to promote their products.  Why does that annoy me so much?  And who is Ann Coulter again and what side is she on?  And what side am I on?  I don't even know anymore.

April 22, 2017

Resurrection Day

As a girl, Easter Sunday was all about three things: the outfit, barbecue, and Jesus.  And probably in that order.

My Grammy sewed handmade Easter dresses for all of the grandgirls of hers.  They were the kind that came with puffy sleeves, a white apron, a dainty collar and a giant bow to tie in the back.  The whole outfit was always completed with lacy ruffled socks and mary-jane shoes, white gloves and a bonnet with the same color of ribbon to match my dress.  There was, after all, only one Sunday out of the whole year one could wear a hat to church and I looked forward to Easter Sunday every year for that very reason.  Oh, and Jesus.  Yes, Jesus too.

Growing up, Easter Sunday was called Resurrection Day in our family.  My dad was pretty intense about not letting us do egg hunts or have easter baskets so that we could keep our focus on Jesus and His resurrection.  And I was mostly okay with not having those things, except I had seen one too many Cadbury Egg commercials and I spent my childhood dreaming about having a basket full of them because they looked UH-mazing.  I remember years worth of Easters where my Poppy would walk in the front door, wearing a yellow, button-down shirt, his face all aglow and joyful declaring loudly, "He is risen!"  And we would all reply, "He is risen indeed!" We would grill fajitas or some kind of barbecue where my dad had perfected the art of charring the barbecue sauce on a link of sausage, that to this day, no one else in the world knows how to do but him.  We spent the day as a family - we would sing and worship and laugh together.  Sometimes, my Poppy would talk to us about the importance of this day and what it means to us as believers in Jesus. 

Even though I went without baskets full of candy and never dyed a single egg, the weight of the day always sat with me from an early age.  Jesus - He never sinned, but was put to death on a cross.  He knew every bad thing I would ever do and gave His life so I wouldn't have to give mine - all so He could spend eternity with me in heaven.  Every Good Friday we talked about the cross and the crown of thorns, and the beatings He endured.  How the nails were driven into His hands and feet.  He died and was laid in a tomb.  And Sunday was a joyful day of celebration.  Because Jesus is God, he conquered death and rose again.  He came back to life and still lives and I know He does, because I have seen and experienced Him first hand in my own life.

One year, I outgrew the idea of Grammy's puffy-sleeved dresses and my love for easter bonnets, and as I got older the holiday changed a bit, as did our family.  The year after my brother died, my mom gave me and my best friend Kelly small easter baskets full of candy and colorful scrunchies and CD's  which was the best surprise ever.  My dad seemed a bit grouchy about it, but I saw his eyes soften and sparkle as I excitedly went through my basket of goodies.  I think by the time I was 15, he knew what he had been trying to instill in me all those years about Jesus had already been done, and no amount of candy hidden in green, plastic grass would change that.

When Tommy was much younger, I made huge, elaborate toy-filled baskets for him, giving him everything I never had as a child, including Cadbury Eggs, which I discovered at some point, were absolutely disgusting.  But a couple of years ago when Tommy asked what he was "getting for Easter," I choked on my Robin's Eggs and realized my dad was on to something back then and maybe I had forgotten a thing or two with all that he ingrained in me from my youth.  Since then, baskets have become more of an afterthought.  I spend more time with the boys leading up to Easter Sunday, pouring over the gospel accounts in the Bible, because while I want them to have colorful and fun memories to look back on in their childhood, more than anything, I want them to know Jesus the way I have come to over the years.

As our Easter traditions evolve and grow over the year as a family, there are some things I hope always stay the same.  Like confetti eggs and Todd's barbecue ribs, and taking communion together as a family. And our annual family easter-egg nose picture.  Those are my favorite.  

It is a day of joyful celebration, because Jesus is alive.

Easter morning, Resurrection Sunday, my boys had left their small baskets on the coffee table and were sitting on the couch looking at the pages in their devotional about Jesus on the cross and His coming alive again.  I listened to them talk and ask each other questions. Tommy read and Jacob pretended that he knew how. To them, Jesus mostly exists in the form of story books and Bible study lessons.  He is but mere pictures on paper and they only know of Jesus what they are taught.  But someday, all of the stories and lessons, the church-going and song-singing, will hopefully become something more.  And as I stood in the kitchen watching my young boys touch the paper-Jesus, I prayed to the Jesus who is very much alive in my heart that He would become to them, what He is to me.

April 2, 2017


We have a rosebud tree right outside of our living room window.  Every spring it sprouts tiny pink flowers on it's branches, that in a few week's time, give way to heart-shaped leaves, bright green and silky.  I look forward to watching it every year.  It loses it's leaves in November and stays barren and gray for months, until early March when I notice that it's about ready to burst forth with it's tiny, beautiful blossoms.

Spring always seems to come with some kind of transformation, and not just for my tree.  All of me - heart, body and soul - knows that it's a season of beginnings and new birth. It's the time of year when I'm most accepting of change. I always have wished that the new year started in March rather than in January, because I'm more apt to setting goals and trying new things when the sun is shining and I'm surrounded by the beauty of wildflowers and things turning green and alive.  And my March birthday always feels like the invitation to a fresh start.

Recently, I quit my job.  The one super close to home where I worked part-time and only during the hours Tommy was in school so that I could be home in the afternoons.  For almost four years I had a pretty great schedule that allowed my life as a wife, mom and employee to feel more balanced.  But as some jobs tend to go, I grew out of it.  It no longer was a good fit for me, and so I quit and quickly found something new.  And while I had to give up a schedule that I loved, and would have to start over somewhere else and earn my way back up to having a paid vacation, I knew a change was needed and so, I made one.   I am starting fresh.  It is hard, and it is good.

One of my favorite blogger/authors, Kelle Hampton wrote recently on an Instagram photo, "I love the energy in fresh starts and the fact that we can create them as often as we like."  Kelle writes over at Enjoying the Small Things.  I have read her blog for years and her story-telling and writing style feels like an open window, spring breeze and sunshine pouring in.  And anytime I meet a person like that, I tend to surround myself with them - even if it's through written words, because I thrive on sunshine.

I've been thinking about fresh starts and where I can create a few of them this spring.  Making lists, and practicing mindfulness, paying attention to my daily and nightly habits.  Making notes, some on pen and paper, about where I feel angst or stress, peace, calm and joy. I find myself wanting to try new things too - a Bible study, a hairstyle, a recipe.  Maybe take a writing course or join a book club. New things always sound inviting in the spring, don't they?  My mind is buzzing with ideas, my heart dizzy with daydreams.

Springtime always comes with invitations to new life.  And I never forget to RSVP.

March 29, 2017

A pre-internet Prom

I have come to the conclusion that I was fortunate to be in high school during the dark ages.  You know, before the internet and texting.  And memes.  If my teenage self had a Facebook my freshman year, I'm fairly certain it would have sounded a bit like this:

"OMG.  Ryan walked me to my locker today!  He is so cute.  He totally likes me."  

"OMG.  Ryan gave me his pager number!  He is soooooo cute!" 

"So, the pager number Ryan gave me was fake.  I can't believe he did that to me.  Oh well, I can't stay mad, because he is SO cute!"

"Ryan starting going out with some other girl today named Courtney.  I already hate her.  My heart is broken!"  #butheissocute

Lawd.  I'm so glad I can keep all of that to the confines of my journals and the handwritten folded up paper notes that my friends and I traded between classes.  Also, as a side-note, Courtney and Ryan broke up by the end of sophomore year and she and I ended up being best friends, so it all worked out in the end. 

I never did have any boyfriends in high school.  I had plenty of guy friends, but dating and romantic relationships came later for me.  I almost had a boyfriend once named Goober but he didn't know I liked him and he ended up going steady with a girl named Krissy who was a total brat that bullied me in gym class every day.  I was probably spared though, because who really wants their first boyfriend's name to be Goober?

Before I knew it, I was over both Ryan and Goober, and was suddenly a senior in high school.  And PROM was imminent.  

It seemed like prom was a couple's only kind of event, but I didn't let my lack of boyfriend discourage me.  I optimistically purchased two tickets and asked a buddy of mine at church to go with me.  A date, a dress and a dinner reservation at Spaghetti Warehouse (because that was my idea of a fancy restaurant in 1999) and I was all set.  The night before prom, I phoned my date (because texting wasn't invented yet) to make sure he had his tux and was good to go, but when I finally got an answer at his house, his mom answered in tears.  Through her sobs, she managed to tell me that there had been some family drama and he left the house.

Ya'll.  My prom date ran away from home.  Like, for serious.

I sobbed to my dad and told him I didn't know what I was going to do.  This was the very worst thing that could have happened and I was devastated.  He got me calmed down and told me to move forward with getting ready for prom and it would all be okay.  And because he was my daddy, I totally believed him.

My hair was done up in it's perfect curly up do that I had envisioned, with just the right amount of ringlets around my face and neck.  My nails were done for the first time in my entire life and my dress was beautiful.  It was all great, except for the slight little hiccup of not having a date and everything.  Also, I had 437 bobby pins holding my hair together, and I could feel 432 of them.

By the time I was dressed and ready to go, my dad told me he found me a prom date.  I remember feeling both excitement and sheer panic hearing this news, but because my dad was (and sometimes, still is) pretty awesome, I knew he wouldn't have chosen anyone lame or awful.  When we drove up to a friend's house to pick up my mystery date, I breathed a sigh of relief.  His name was Teddy and we were friends from church as well.  After hearing from my dad, Teddy ran out to buy me a corsage and dusted off his school issued orchestra tuxedo.

All of it was the sweetest:  My dad was totally the hero coming to my rescue so that I didn't have to go alone.  And Teddy being a stellar guy and not only escorting me, but being a complete gentleman all night.

And I won't lie.  It was a bit a lot awkward too. 

Up until that night, Teddy and I had most of our encounters with one another at church youth group where we played crazy games, like mattress surfing and chubby bunny.  And suddenly, we were in formal wear and had to practice acting like real grown-ups.

 I dug these out of my old scrapbook from my attic.  You're welcome.
When we finally arrived at prom, I had this realization that prom is essentially a dance, and I guess I kind of forgot about that part in between dress shopping and my ex-date running away from home.  Teddy and I found ourselves on the dance floor, swaying to the tunes of Boys II Men's, "I'll Make Love to You," and that's when one or both of us decided we were done with the dancing.
We decided to ditch the dance and meet up with friends for post-dancing snacks, but only after we took our super awkward prom picture.  Our prom theme was "Imperial Dreams" which translated to some kind of oriental-paper-lantern-nod-to-China type of theme where they actually put origami and packets of chopsticks on the table for decorations.  (Clearly, I was not in charge of planning this thing).

I present to you: 
Jennifer and Teddy
"Imperial Dreams"
 Prom 1999 
Prom is a totally different thing all together now than it was then.  It's totally cool to go with a group of friends and not just a date, and prom dress trends are so much more fun than they were in the 90's.  Not to mention the internet!  The Black Tux is making prom even easier with their awesome suit and tuxedo rentals.  Did you know that online tux rentals were even a thing?  Fellow friends of the dark ages, can you just imagine what prom planning would have been like had we had the interwebs at our fingertips?!  Just look at how much has changed between then and now?  (Holy smokes, when did I get old?)

Both my dad and Teddy are forever my heroes for going out of their way to make sure my senior prom actually got to happen.  Looking back, it was a bit of a bummer that my prom didn't turn out like I had originally planned. But you know what?  It was prom, and I get to say that I went.  My senior prom is a sweet, quirky and slightly pathetic memory.  And it's all mine.

March 19, 2017

The time I threw myself a birthday party

Last Sunday I turned 36.  For some reason, 36 sounds much older than 35 and I sort of forgot I had even turned 35 because I had boycotted my birthday last year for the first time in the history of my life.  I was between surgeries and I couldn't eat food and was living exclusively on protein shakes and the occasional decadent bowl of Spaghettios now and again when I was desperate to put food in my mouth.  And lets be honest, Spaghettios are only "sort of" food.  But celebrating a birthday without chocolate cake or any kind of food I could actually chew, didn't sound like a birthday I wanted to have.  So I ignored turning 35 and vowed to party it up the next year.

Now, anyone who knows me, knows I am not the kind of person who waits around for people to ask me what I'm doing for my birthday or make a plan.  I'm usually like, "Hey!  Um, my birthday is coming and here's what I want to do!"  And I also have a hard time with friends who want to keep their birthdays "low-key" or "simple," probably because I am neither low-key or simple and I look for all the reasons in everyday life to party.  It's who I am and I don't apologize for it.

And I did.  I so did.  I sent out real invitations - the paper kind that you write on and require postage stamps.  I promised myself I wasn't going to choose a theme, because once I choose a theme, I can get a little carried away.  But then I was at Walmart and passed by all of the fun fiesta things and I realized how much I love chips and salsa and margaritas, and a birthday fiesta seemed to be quite fitting.

(Also, if you don't know why our local Walmarts carry a surplus of fiesta related things this time of year, than you are probably not from San Antonio.  The whole city has a week-long party in April to salute the heroes of the battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto.  What it feels like though, is celebrating our Latin-American culture by cracking confetti eggs on each other's head and eating all the delicious Mexican food in the land.  Also, others may drink a few too many margaritas, but I digress.)

A fiesta felt like the perfect choice.  I had much to celebrate, including being alive and being much healthier than I was this time last year.  Fiesta's bright and vibrant colors suited my current season and so I put up decorations, just for me.

I invited my dearest friends and family.  We wore tiny sombreros and ate chips and queso and we played hilarious games.  Pie in the face showdown is epic.  And very messy.  It's a new family favorite.
The night was full of laughter and fun and I decided throwing myself a birthday party was probably one of the best ideas I ever had.

A week later, I woke up and I was 36.  My kitchen contained remnants of crushed tortilla chips on the floor, sticky counters from dripped margarita mix, and plastic yellow cups some tipped over on their side.  All of it made me smile.

There are days that I get up and look in the mirror and remember that I am a woman now.  And maybe that's an odd thing to say, but I feel like I've spent so many years figuring out what it even means to be a woman.  There are days when I still feel 11 or 16 or 22 and perhaps that's how life goes.  The older we get, we are just made up of all of the ages we've ever been.  There is still a little girl inside of me that loves play and magic and dress up.  A teenager that lived so quiet and depressed that wants to live life now like she would have then if she had been happy and confident.  And the young adult who still desires to live life or make choices that aren't the best ones, but feel like the fun ones. 

Someone told me the other day that I sparkle.  I let her compliment hit me and allowed myself accept her words that felt redeeming and glorious. There were so many years and seasons before where that wouldn't have been or felt true of me.

I'll be married eleven years this June.  I have two boys, a mortgage and a full-time job.  I'm a Star Wars nerd and geek out over Marvel superheroes and I love action movies and Bruno Mars' music.  I enjoy folding laundry and sitting in the sunshine and being by the ocean is my ultimate happy place.  I love chocolate-chocolate cupcakes and reading good books and drinking bold coffee with cream.  I am outgoing, naturally loud and am never one to shy away from the spotlight.  And I believe that it is only by God's grace and love that I am who I am and where I am today.  I'd be lost without Jesus. 

Also, I believe in party hats.

I am 36.  I'm grateful, happy.  And sparkling.