Tag: memories

Traditions

As I ironed the sleeves of my shirt, the uncertainty I felt the days before gave way to excitement, and when I secured the buttons on my coat I looked with satisfaction at myself in the mirror. I missed wearing this uniform. But today I was allowed to remember those days I counted as some of my happiest and show my children for the first time how I used to dress for work every day.

Hannah Grace couldn’t stop rubbing my legs, as she was not used to seeing her mother wearing panty hose, and Caleb beamed when he saw my attire. I couldn’t find my flight cap in the attic the night before, so I wasn’t sure if I would be able to wear my uniform to the ceremony. However, Caleb knew that a fully dressed mommy meant all was well.

I dropped Caleb off in front of the flagpole and told him I would see him in a few minutes, and as he bounced off to his class wearing his book bag that took up half the size of his body, I looked for a parking space. I parked, and the girls and I walked through the cold toward the gym where the ceremony would take place.

All of my family was already there–my mom and dad, sister and nephew, and Matt’s mom and grandfather and his grandfather’s wife. We took our seats on the gym floor and listed as a retired Army major played the bagpipes.

 

Matt's Granddaddy, me, and my mom

The children came in and we all joined together in singing the National Anthem, and then they sang songs of tribute for all who had served. We stood as we heard the song representing our branch of service, and they all clapped. Our names were read out loud and the branch in which we served, and a fifth grader came with a rose and a handmade card expressing thanks.

I remember looking at my mom as she stood and sang the Army song, and she smiled a smile that I don’t see often–she was proud. I understood her emotion, and I was proud with her.

At the end of the ceremony, all the veterans formed a receiving line, and the students walked through and shook our hands. I was impressed at this group of little boys and girls, shaking hands and offering their thanks with a smile.

Before we left, the school asked for a picture with all the veterans–men who had served in Korea and Vietnam, some who completed their 2-year tour, others who made a career and retired after 20, brand new lieutenants and airmen, and seasoned sergeants and majors. But there were only three women–a woman who taught at the high school and my mom and me.

 

My sister Lisa joined us, representing her husband who served in the Army for six years

***************************************************************************

My dad’s birthday was a few weeks ago, and we celebrated in our family’s typical style of singing and cake. After the traditional ‘Happy Birthday,’ my mom gave her usual attempt at ‘May the good Lord bless you’ (sung to the ‘Happy Birthday’ tune), to which we all ignored her. I’m not sure why the antipathy for that song–perhaps it’s my mother’s insistence at singing it every birthday that causes us to refuse.

Two songs not being enough, my dad in jest tried to rouse us into singing, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow…,’ and feeling bad for him and the lack of participation, I sang along. And now I had to be the smart-aleck. “God Bless America” broke from my lips, and to my surprise, my mom and dad joined in during the middle line. I looked around as my sister added her voice to the chorus, and my brother-in-law, who, like my husband, normally looks bored and sleepy, was singing loudly while swinging his arm in a show of support. As we sang the words, ‘my home, sweet home,’ all the adults were belting out their best, while the kids tried to sing along to a song they didn’t know. We actually sounded good and laughed at this spontaneous show of support for this patriotic song at a birthday party.

We then rounded out the evening with a talent show for my dad featuring bizarre dance moves from the kids and Bette Midler and Mariah Carey songs sung horribly by my sister and me. I have a feeling that my dad left that night feeling a little confused.

November 11th, we celebrated Mason’s birthday. He had just started a new job, so he missed the school’s Veterans Day celebration, but his new co-workers showed him their appreciation when their work-day ended. And that night, we showed him ours, as well.

Once again, we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and followed with our new tradition that started as a joke but seemed somewhat appropriate that night. The kids should know the words to ‘God Bless America’ by Max’s birthday.

And I, no longer in my uniform, was able to clap and move to the music while I watched a stunning dance party, complete with superheroes and pirates and policemen.

All Veterans Days should end so well.

How does your community celebrate Veterans Day? What other traditions do you celebrate that are unique to your family?

 

 

Scout’s Honor

Like a five-year-old, he jumped up and down in our doorway. “Call your student!” he cried in such desperation that my heart couldn’t help but soften to this grown boy who was interrupting my shower.

“We really don’t want a dog right now…” I reminded, or more accurately, pleaded with Matt.

But it was too late. The damage was done. I made the mistake of recounting the dream I had about us having a dog, and I made the bigger mistake of telling Matt that one of my students was giving away puppies. And the biggest mistake of all was going on the internet to find a picture showing Matt exactly what these puppies looked like.

That day we drove to the country to see this litter of Jack Russell-Rat Terrier mixed puppies. I felt awkward walking into the home of a student, but my defenses immediately melted with the word ‘Puppies!’ At that word the whole litter emerged from under the table where they were sleeping in their basket. Eight or nine manic puppies crawled all over me in unison, bounced back and forth, and licked and nipped and wouldn’t leave me alone.

Except for one.

One of the puppies was by far the cutest, but she had her own agenda. She pranced around the room as if to say she was definitely not one of the boys.

We picked her. I remember feeling such guilt as I walked out the door holding our new puppy. We had broken up her family. But I quickly learned that that sweet puppy who had curled up on my black sweater and slept through the long car ride home was more than enough dog for me to handle.

Scout was insane as a puppy. She ran laps around the house so quickly you’d swear she was running on the actual wall. She jumped as if springs, instead of muscles, were inside her legs. And she smiled–she always had a smile on her face as she panted two inches away from my nose. With her smooth white fur and dark patches to match her big eyes, she was beautiful and perfect in her craziness.

Scout wanted to play all the time, and she played hard. Matt and I had no idea how to train a dog, so we failed her in that regard. She still jumps on everyone in her attempt to say, “See me?! See me?! Come play!”

But then life changed a little, as did her once smooth hair, now a coarse, wiry mix. After our son Caleb was born, she was uncomfortable and a little unsure. I watched her carefully and Caleb carefully as he grew. I did my best to ensure he played nicely with Scout, but the inevitable happened. One day he grabbed her tail, and Scout snapped at him. She didn’t bite, but she gave her warning. And after her warning, she ran upstairs and went under our bed.

A year and a half after Caleb was born, we added another baby. Twenty months later, we added another, and Scout started spending most of her day under our bed.

At nighttime when Matt and I are on the couch, she’ll come downstairs and sit on top of my stretched-out legs, pinning me in, but I can’t push her off the sofa. It’s one of the few times during the day that I actually see her.

The backyard is where Scout gets her walks–with only two hands to corral three young kids, I can’t hold a leash, too, especially since we never trained Scout how to walk without trying to drag me down the street while choking herself. The promises of a bath this weekend turn out empty as a few more weekends will pass by before I lift her in the tub. The date to the vet for her teeth cleaning–that gets pushed back with every car repair that comes our way.

Now when people come to the house, Scout seems to say, “Take me! Take me! Take me!” in time with every jump.

I try to be a good pet owner. I’ve never missed a vet check-up for Scout, I faithfully administer her heart worm prevention, and I do the best I can to show her love and attention…when she comes out from under the bed. But, oh, the guilt! The guilt is what allows Scout to sleep on our bed when she wants to snuggle in the winter, even though I want nothing more than a pet hair-free pillow.

I was convinced Scout didn’t love me. I had noticed that she didn’t run to the door, anymore, when we come home–only sometimes when we’re leaving, as if to say, “What about me?”

I should’ve known better.

Many times when Matt travels or any other time the invitation is extended, I’ll pack up the kids and eat dinner at my parents. Sometimes I’ll bring Scout along, too. I’ll brush the kids teeth and put on their pajamas after we eat in the hopes that they’ll fall asleep on the car ride home.

One night I had perfect luck. All three kids were out like a light. It was just Scout and me awake during the thirty minute drive home. After I parked the car in the dark driveway, I unbuckled my youngest in her carseat and let her collapse against my shoulder.

“Come on, Scout,” I softly called, but she sat in the car.

Inside I went with Chloe, up the stairs, and back down to retrieve kid number two. I crawled into the back of the minivan and unbuckled Caleb who was closest to me. Again, I called to Scout, but she remained. Up the stairs, back down, and now, panting a little bit, I unbuckled Hannah Grace in the back corner of the van. I drug her to the open door and got out so I could lift her over my shoulder.

As I lifted her, Scout jumped out the car and followed behind, her job as protector complete now that no child was left unattended. And my loyal dog, who has found herself in a different place than when she joined our family nine years ago, followed me up to bed.

Do you have a pet with whom your relationship has changed a little over the years? How has your pet shown you loyalty?

Mama’s Losin’ It

Last week got a little crazy, but I had wanted to write about Scout for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. So here’s my addition…a little late.


Sometimes It’s Okay Not to Care

I guess I could’ve been upset when our ‘Star Wars’ themed Halloween turned into a ‘Star Wars Meets the Disney Princesses’ Halloween. After all, we did plan this idea months ago. Hannah Grace was excited to dress up like the beautiful Princess Leia, and Chloe couldn’t wait to don her ‘Toyota’ costume (otherwise known as ‘Yoda’ to everyone over the age of two). Caleb already had his Luke Skywalker costume, Daddy was living out his dream as Darth Vader, and, since Natalie Portman and I could almost be twins, I thought Queen Amilama-dim-dom suited me just fine.

Hannah Grace was the first to give up. She wanted to be a superhero instead, which was fine with me since super Aunt Lisa bought them dress-up costumes for when they came over to visit. Chloe quickly followed the lead of her sister, and the ‘Star Wars’ theme changed into a ‘Superheroes’ theme–it all still worked.

Until, of course, four days before Halloween when Hannah Grace assumed the role she was born to play as ‘Fancy Nancy’ for Book Character Day at preschool. The girls were adorable, so I really didn’t care that our theme was unraveling before my eyes.

And speaking of Fancy Nancy, I really didn’t care when one little Nancy refused to smile during her parade.

Because, after all, some things are important, and some things are not. Halloween costumes are not important, even if it doesn’t make sense for one’s daughters to ditch the thought-out costumes, the multiple-thought out costumes, for their everyday, ripped, dress-up clothes. Princess dresses without the proper crowns or shoes or wigs–an arts-and-craftsy mother’s nightmare.

But luckily this mother doesn’t care.

Luckily, this mother didn’t care the night before when her husband started carving a pumpkin at 8:30, and the kids had school the next day (okay, I cared a little).

Because, luckily, this mama’s learning that sometimes (many times) life doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes weekends end up a little more hectic than planned, and the kids are up a little bit later than I’d like. Sometimes kids change their mind about Halloween costumes one hour before we leave for the Fall Festival. Sometimes teenagers forget how to read when they come upon an unattended Halloween bag that says, “Take 1.”

Sometimes kids go to school with different colored socks or hair sticking up in the back. Sometimes Mommy is a little too tired to make the healthier homemade pizza crust and buys a packaged one instead.

Sometimes, I have to pick my battles.  And Halloween isn’t one of them.

Sometimes, five happy faces is more important.

And if anyone disagrees with me, I really don’t care.

How did you or your family dress up for Halloween? Are you able to say “I don’t care” to things that really don’t matter?

I’m Over It

I remember late-night talks on the couch, practically falling asleep in front of one another but not wanting to say ‘goodnight.’ Our fingertips danced in each others’ hands, and my cheeks ached from the genuine smile stretched across my face.

I remember the butterflies that fluttered in my stomach before he arrived and the passionate kisses that marked his departure. I look back at those early days and wish that, almost twelve years later, we could recapture a little bit of that newness, whatever made each encounter exciting.

But I wouldn’t want to recapture everything.

I remember one Saturday afternoon when we strategically planned our attendance at three different movie theaters. Yes, these ‘poor college students’ somehow found the money to see three movies in one day but not to eat something besides Ramen noodles. But we had our priorities straight–the next day was the Oscars, and we hadn’t seen every movie up for ‘Best Picture.’

Off to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and then to see Chocolate (pr0nounced however French people say the word) and then we’d end the night with Traffic. Six-plus hours of movies together so that we could feel qualified to predict the winner.

I don’t remember if I picked the winner, nor do I remember watching those Oscars.

But I do remember the 83rd Academy Awards. The year we hadn’t seen at least half of the nominated movies. The year when the butterflies were dead for the moment as the drool collected in the corners of my mouth. The year when I opened my eyes and said, “Let me know the winner in the morning. I’m going to bed.”

Yeah, I guess you could say I’m over it.


Mama’s Losin’ It

Post inspired by Mama Kat’s prompt to write about something you did with your spouse when you dated but now you’re ‘over.’ What is something you’re over?

I Brush Her Hair

Last night, I ran the brush through her hair. Gently, I endeavored to get out the knots–without tears– that gather so easily at the end of her long strands. I stopped suddenly, mid-stroke, and stared at Chloe’s hair. The back of her head looked a little less blonde than those baby days when white hair rested atop her head. And I had one of those feelings common in parenthood, or during those visits with relatives far away, when I know the moment will end soon.

Honestly, I couldn’t care less if any of my children have blonde hair. I’m a brunette who has always been happy with her color. I’ve shied away from highlights for fear of turning platinum, and, if anything, my quests to cover gray have ended with hair darker than my natural color.

But standing there, looking at Chloe’s blonde streaks, I knew I had to take that moment to stare because, before my eyes, she was changing. I don’t worry about Chloe’s hair color–I worry about forgetting.

I have a horrible memory. I frustrate my parents when I can’t remember special trips we took as a family or that Christmas when so-and-so did such-and-such. I’ve thought that perhaps Matt had a girlfriend on the side with whom he was confusing me when he swears I saw a movie with him in the theater that I’ve never heard of before. I thank God that I didn’t do drugs in school–I might not remember my name if I did.

So when I look at Chloe’s hair, still blonde but not as blonde, I am reminded that she is changing before my eyes. I am reminded that I can’t quite remember Caleb’s cheerful voice or giggle as a rambunctious two-year-old. I am reminded that I can’t remember much at all of Hannah Grace as a baby; her baby years were during a very stressful time in our life. I am reminded that I need to take note, hold tight in my memory, those precious moments that seem insignificant but make each child unique.

I want to remember Chloe’s white hair.

I want to remember the death stare she gives relatives when she’s not amused.

I want to remember how she jumped from beds and chairs and stairs and anything that she could use to give her a few more inches off the ground.

I want to remember how Chloe talks better than any two-year-old I’ve ever met and uses complete sentences to answer most questions. And I even want to remember when her voice got a little squeaky and could give me a headache by the end of the day.

I want to remember, “Supergirl to the rescue!” and black Sharpie marker all over her forehead and hair and bottom and far too many other places.

And I want to remember when she would wrap her arms around my neck, her legs around my waist, and lay her head on my shoulder while saying, “I love you so much.”

There are so many things I want to remember, and I fear my memory won’t do her justice.

So, baby girl, when I brush your hair for a few minutes longer than I have to, I’m not trying to annoy you--I just don’t want to forget.


I hope you’ll indulge me this week as I devote one post to each child. I looked over my last few posts, and very few were about them. However, I have some events that I need to record because I will forget–but they are worth remembering.

The Loyal One

We came off the plane and walked into the arms of family where hugs and kisses abounded. My mom smiled at my belly which had now taken on the shape of a basketball, and then we began our walk to the car with luggage in tow. Of course, even though it was almost 10:00 in the evening on December 23rd, the most important topic of conversation was where we would eat.

We decided on one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. We had a great Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma (and the cheese dip actually came with the meal!), but they made chilaquiles with egg, and I missed the dish made with chicken. So, of course, I ordered my chilaquiles, and we requested plenty of cheese dip. I was happy, sitting with my family whom I hadn’t seen in months, sharing good food, and rejoicing together for the little boy who would join our family in March.

I was happy until that night. It came fast and hard, and I found myself with pain in my ribs, the same pain I got as a child that normally ended in my throwing up. And throw up, I did. Soon after the pain, I was gripping the toilet seat as I vomited out my dinner while trying to hold my baby in. I found the feeling strange, as my basketball hung below as I held onto the porcelain stand.

All through the night I visited the bathroom, and, come morning, we had a decision to make. It was Christmas Eve, and we were supposed to open presents with Matt’s family in the morning and then head on from there to his aunt’s house to visit with his mom’s side of the family. I was in no shape to go, but I couldn’t ask Matt to stay–we lived so far away now, and he hadn’t seen his extended family in quite some time. Of course, I wanted to ask Matt to stay, but I couldn’t.

That day as I lay on my parents’ couch I felt so depressed. I was sick and without my husband on Christmas Eve. I had so looked forward to seeing everyone and hearing the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as I showed off my belly. Part of the fun of pregnancy is having that moment as the center of attention, and since we lived in Oklahoma now, I didn’t get to share the excitement with family of carrying my first baby.

Instead I got to lay on the couch. I didn’t have the pregnancy glow or look cute–instead, I looked pale and disgusting. The day wore on, and Matt still hadn’t come home. The only steady company I had was Tabasco.

Tabasco is my dad’s crazy dog. He doesn’t look like a dog; he’s more akin to an orange hyena. My sister and her husband rescued this dog and decided to give it to my dad as a present. They snuck him downstairs in my parents’ basement, and, when they made frequent trips down the stairs with pitchers of water, they told Dad that they had bought him a plant for his birthday. Imagine his surprise when he was, instead, presented with a dog who was afraid of men and had a skin disease. Happy Birthday, Dad.

Basco stayed with my family and by my side on that Christmas Eve. It was as if he intuitively knew he had to protect me, and he thrust my arm in the air so he could nuzzle underneath it. I don’t remember much about that Christmas Eve except that Matt was gone, but Tabasco lay at my side. I can’t recall if I watched TV or continued to throw up or just slept the day away, but I remember that ugly dog under my arm.

Basco has never been my favorite pet. He snaps at people he doesn’t know out of fear, and he’s always skiddish. Obviously, the poor dog was abused, and I just want to give him some Prozac to relax. But craziness and all, I can’t help but have a warm spot in my heart for him. He was my loyal friend on a day when I felt like total crap. And I can’t help but love someone or something that doesn’t mind nuzzling with me when I have vomit breath.

 

Image courtesy of Mark Watson

Post inspired by Mama Kat’s writing prompt, “Food Poisoning–Yuck!” I don’t know if I had food poisoning or a 24-hour virus, but the end result is pretty much the same.


 Mama’s Losin’ It

One Last Cone

The shop was every kids’ dream and my nightmare–shelves lined the store filled with high fructose corn syrup and red #40, jelly beans of every variety and gummy worms covered in sugar crystals. Children could grab the scoop and fill their bags with the colors of the rainbow, sweet enough to bring instant smiles to their faces and impressive temper tantrums when the high wore off an hour later. The front glass case revealed slices of red velvet cake big enough for three people, and they displayed how beautiful chocolate covered pretzels could really look.

But our interests were around the side of that case. Ice cream containers full of traditional flavors and creative mixes filled the tubs while cones dipped in chocolate and sprinkles above our heads enticed my children. The challenge was deciding what flavor to choose while ensuring the kids didn’t steal a piece of candy during the process.

This shop was where we came for ice cream. We came in the summer for a cool dessert, rocked in the yellow chairs outside the store while licking the ice cream melting down our wrists. If Grammy was around, we’d visit after dinner at the pizza restaurant down the strip, her treat to her spoiled grandkids. We were known to make an appearance after T-ball games, celebrating a win one season, and consoling many losses the next. And I had even passed through the drive-thru once, bringing smiles to my home. No matter the time of year, we visited, and we were always satisfied.

This past weekend, we visited for the last time. I pulled open the door with the sign that read “EVERYTHING HALF OFF, CASH ONLY” and looked around at the store. The shelves with the novelty candies were sparsly filled, and the display case that once housed huge cakes was empty. And as we made our way around to the tubs of ice cream, our choices were limited. Vanilla, coffee, and peanut butter-chocolate chip filled our cones and cups.

I looked at our kids’ smiling faces, but the sadness in the air was palpable. I listened as the customer before us offered an “I’m sorry you’re closing. We’re going to miss you,” and I almost felt guilty as I ate my reduced-price ice cream, thinking that I really should pay double.

I don’t know why they were closing their doors that night, but, in this economy, I can only imagine. And that night, as I looked at Matt and my kids sitting around that booth, I was surprised at how affected I was by this loss. Perhaps the empty shelves got me. Maybe it was sympathy for the owners who obviously put much care and effort into their store and now were watching their dream come to an end. Or maybe it was the memories…

…memories of threatening to throw away their ice cream if they ever snuck a piece of candy again, memories of messes so big that only a bath could help, memories of being together….

It was probably all of the above. One thing’s for sure, though; that store that I thought was my nightmare…I’m really going to miss.

Growing

I’m participating in the Gypsy Mama’s Five Minute Friday, where we write freely for five minutes, not editing our thoughts, but, instead, seeing where they take us.

GO:

I remember when I was pregnant, I thought there was nothing more amazing and miraculous than the development of a baby. I’d watch every pregnancy show, and I loved the scientific ones showing the growth from embryo to fetus to a newborn baby being held for the first time by his mama.

I wanted to do everything right. I read every handout my doctor gave me, every article from the online magazines, attended every birthing class and paid attention as if I were earning a grade. I wanted my baby to develop correctly in the womb, and I wanted to ensure I gave him the best start as he entered the world.

And then when that little bundle of joy entered the world, I read every parenting article, memorized the milestones for each age, knew how much he weighed at three months and then six and then nine…

…but as my baby boy grew into a little boy, and as we added a girl and then another–very quickly, I might add–I started to notice something else miraculous. These little people were growing, and while I have helped guide them and protect them and nurture them, I also have to admit that a lot of their growing has nothing to do with me. And it’s amazing.

It’s amazing to watch my daughter combine colors on a piece of paper in the most imaginative* and beautiful ways. It’s amazing to watch my son create a letter for his teacher and sound out words on his own, without enlisting my help, and it’s amazing to watch my two-year-old girl categorize her Memory cards just because she wanted to.

Their growth is beautiful, and it is their own. But even more amazing is my growth because, while I thought I would be their teacher and guide their way, I’ve realized that I’ve had my own learning to do, as well. I thank them, for I’m the one who needed to do some growing.

STOP

*marks where I actually was at five minutes. I took an extra minute to finish, and I reworded my final sentence because it sounded awful. I’m really not trying to be a cheater….

 

Adventures in Running

 

image courtesy of ^@^ina via Flickr's Creative Commons

 

I’m not sure I’m going to make it to try this half marathon. It’s not the distance that has me so concerned (although, the distance does have me concerned) but, rather, surviving the training that has me nervous.

This past weekend I, once again, headed out to a park to complete a run, this time five miles. Previously, I looked at the map of all the trails, and I noticed a trail that was a 5.5 mile loop. Perfect, I thought. I can run the five miles and walk the last .5 to cool down. However, once I arrived at the park, I had the feeling that this run would not turn out perfect.

Unlike the last time when I felt so cool arriving at the park around 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, only to find out that there are a lot of cool people (do people even say ‘cool,’ anymore? The fact that I’m asking shows how cool I really am), this time I was one of a handful of people. Granted, I was at the other side of the park this time, and my arrival was closer to 7:30 a.m., but I felt a little nervous getting out of my car to run under that gray sky.

I proceeded, though. Matt knew where I was, I told him how long the run should take me, and I took Tae Kwan Do for a few months when I was 17; I was good to go. I locked my wallet in the glove compartment, tied my key around my shoe lace, grabbed my phone, and started walking toward the big map of the park.

I knew where I was going, but I wanted to double-check my route. It looked easy enough–I’d walk about a half mile on one loop, pick up another trail, and then the entrance to the five mile trail should cut into that second trail near the beginning. I started my walk, anxious to begin, wondering if I would struggle or find my groove on my big run.

As I entered the second route, I began looking for signs for the five mile trail. I remembered passing them on previous runs, so I knew I wasn’t far. Almost immediately, I saw a wooden sign pointing the way to the entrance…except I didn’t see an actual entrance. All the other trails that I had run were very clearly marked–white lines divided the pavement into two halves, and there were even arrows painted on the ground to signal how to exit the one loop to pick up another. However, I wasn’t noticing any of these clues. Hmm, I thought. I’ll just keep walking. After all, I knew there were a few entrances since the trail was a loop.

I walked, enjoying the quiet and the music on my iPhone. As I came upon the wooden marker showing that I had walked a half mile on this trail, I noticed another wooden marker showing the entrance to the five mile trail. Except I didn’t see an entrance. I saw grass. A field. And woods. “What the heck?” I said audibly, and I just stood for a minute. Now I was frustrated. Between the two loops, I had already walked about a mile, and I hadn’t even begun my run yet. “How am I lost on a trail with a big map and signs everywhere?” Yes, I said that audibly, too. I was talking to myself, but that was okay since I was alone on a trail on a cloudy, gray Saturday morning.

And then I knew exactly how I was lost. I was still the same woman who tried to get to a leadership retreat in Destin, Florida with some friends by taking 1-75 South. After driving for about five hours, we bought a map at the gas station and realized we were in the middle of the state instead of in the Panhandle, which, of course, is the northwest of the state. After screaming for a few minutes, we took every back road in the state to Destin and made our trip in about nine hours instead of six.

I was still the same woman who felt her stomach drop and her head get light when she was handed a compass and told she would navigate her group through the outdoors during the deployment exercise, the final project of Officer Training School. Thank God a hurricane came rushing through Alabama, forcing us on lockdown in our rooms for three days. My group might still be out in the woods had it not.

So I continued on past the marker, thinking that, once again, this sign was just pointing the way to an entrance up ahead. I walked, and when I saw that I was nearing the entrance to the first loop, I turned around. I head back to the wooden marker, stopped in front of it, and stared.

It clearly said, “Entrance to 5.5 mile trail.” I looked at the field. I looked at the grass. I looked at the woods, and I started to walk. My feet stepped through the grass until they felt dirt and pebbles and roots underneath. Yes, I was entering the woods alone on a Saturday morning with nothing but my phone, key, and Tae Kwan Do skills. And in that moment, I remembered that a body was found at this park recently.

I shook off the thought. I let a brief feeling of triumph wash over me because I had, in fact, found the trail. It wasn’t a paved trail, yet, but I clearly was on the path of the 5.5 mile loop. I started running, but not on purpose. The trail immediately sloped downward, and I jumped over roots as I made my way down. As I dodged a branch, I thought, This is ridiculous. I’ll just go a little further until this natural path leads into the paved loop where I will find a crowd of people joyously running in a five mile circle while little birds sing above their heads in a sunny sky full of puffy, white clouds.

Yeah, that didn’t happen. I did see a deer, though. As I came to a flat surface and could stop hurdling over roots and dodging tree branches, I looked to my right where I saw her. She was beautiful. I tried to remain still so I wouldn’t scare her away, and I stared. She stared back. “Hi,” I offered.

I had hoped that we would have a spiritual moment that transcended the need for language, that we could communicate in the forest together and find harmony. Instead, she looked at me and pounded her hoof into the ground two times.

I didn’t need to understand ‘deer’ to understand that deer. She was calling her family, and I now knew how the body found in the woods had met his demise. He pissed off a deer and was trampled to death by her and her family. So I turned around and ran back up the trail, looking, but not stopping, at the six deer that were hidden on the other side of the forest. Yeah, if I was going to die, I didn’t want my obituary to read Local girl dies after being trampled to death by a herd of deer. No, it needed to read Local girl dies after vicious bear attack. Bear found alive but with broken arm and puncture wound most likely made by a key.

I returned to the second loop, and walked around to where it picked up the first loop. I called Matt to tell him I was on my way home. I had walked nearly three miles in the hopes of running five. Yeah, it was time to go home and get help reading a map.

I hate fitting the role of the stereotypical woman who gets lost all the time. I want to ask for others to comment if they can relate, but maybe, instead, I should ask for stories from women who have a great sense of direction. Make us look better than I!

 

A Mother’s Perspective on Her Children Starting School

For almost five years I’ve always had a child awake and by my side during my waking, and sometimes sleeping, hours (thanks to the fact that two of those little boogers stopped napping at age two). But today things change. Today, my two sweet, little girls venture off into the magical place known as ‘preschool.’

For the last three weeks while their brother was at kindergarten, the three of us shared fun times at the library reading stories or at the playground running around. I enjoyed that special time with my girls. But today starts a new rhythm. For two days every week, all of my children will be out of the house for four hours. I’m sure the sound of silence will feel a little strange, and I know moments of sadness will find themselves in the pit of my stomach, but let’s get real. There was only one word that shot into my mind when I saw those three cuties dressed for school:

 

FREEDOM!!!!!!

 

Children, I love you so much, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m totally excited. Any other parents out there know what I mean?