Quenched

After having been on this earth only a short 8 weeks, it was sprinkled on my head as a symbol of my parents’ promise to God and to me. I danced in the rain one fall evening after a particularly dry, Texas summer, letting it soak my hair and clothes while it made my skin slippery with its coating. While citizens of some countries wonder when their next sip will come, I have been blessed never to doubt the steady surge that will flow with a simple twist of a faucet’s knob.

Today, I am thankful for water.

When I was a little girl, my daddy would take me fishing in a little pond in Fairfield, Texas. (Boompa is very excited to take you fishing at that same pond.) I remember enjoying our time together, my dad and me, him in his flannel jackets, teaching me how to bait a hook. I remember the sights: red and white, plastic spheres bobbing on the water’s surface, lush forests, and slippery, red mud. I remember the smells: smoke from the previous night’s campfire and from my dad’s cigarettes (never a bad smell in my book) and catfish bait (another smell I didn’t mind). My cousins and I also found much enjoyment on that pond: swimming in the murky depths and taking turns steering paddle boat voyages. I visit that same pond today and am flooded with the nostalgia of happy memories from a lovely childhood.

I first learned to swim in Aunt Betty’s pool in Clute, Texas, my mama there by my side, holding me firmly as I “doggy paddled” from one end of the pool to the other until I no longer needed the reassurance of her touch. I also learned how to dive in that pool. While swimming with my mom, we would spend hot summer nights dodging mosquitoes, listening to the sound of cicadae humming in the trees and live bands playing in the distance at the annual Mosquito Festival (Yes. Such a festival exists. You’ll see.).

My cousin, Shelley, and I used to swim in the Gulf of Mexico at Surfside Beach, where our easily tanned skin would brown, giving us a nice bronzed look until we came back for more the following summer, a year older.

My family spent many long, Easter weekends at Cliffview Resort on Lake Whitney where Shelley and I would meet up with the same two girls every year and play near the water’s edge, finding fossils and comparing shells.

Growing up, the neighborhood kids and I would have annual ‘Water Wars’ in our streets and yards, complete with water balloons, Super Soaker water guns, water hoses, and buckets upon buckets of the only ammo allowed: H2O! Boys against girls! (Our parents were never happy about the aftermath of flooded yards.)

In the first few weeks of dating your dad, we went with a friend and his dad out on their boat. That was the very first time I ever kneeboarded. I was terrified, but I will never forget how comfortable and safe your dad always tried to make me feel. He insisted that we kneeboard at the same time so that I wouldn’t be as scared. When the boat began to take off and your dad and I lifted out of the water on our separate boards, I was having a difficult time getting the strap across my legs, making the experience even more nerve-racking. However, your dad never missed a beat when it came to me. He glided across the water by my side, reached out, and strapped me in. I’m sure it was a good excuse for him to put his arm around me, but I didn’t mind. In the years to follow, water sports became one of the things we loved to do together. He was, and still is, much more talented at them than I am. I think I enjoy watching him show off about as much as I enjoy being out there myself.

Throughout our teenage years, your dad and I would go to Rocket Creek. There was a favorite swimming hole there that your dad introduced me to. We spent many summer hours swinging from a tree rope and dropping into the waters below. I remember sitting on the rocks, listening to the bubbling of the creek’s small rapids.

During the summer of 2003, your dad and I were able to go on a trip with some of my family (thanks to Aunt Gran and Uncle Pop) to Destin, Florida. On that trip, your dad temporarily conquered his fear of heights to parasail far above the ocean with me by his side. The water was crystal clear and sparkling. I remember seeing a giant sea turtle far below. It was magnificent. You must try it someday.

College held its fair share of fun in the water as well. I swam in the famous ‘Duck Pond’ at Tyler Junior College, played in the campus sprinklers with friends well past midnight, swam in the freezing Tyler State Park lake with Miss Kris, splashed around many a time in Lake Tyler, and enjoyed cascading waterfalls in Austin Texas.

The weekend after your dad asked me to marry him, we took a trip with some friends down to tube the Guadalupe River in San Marcos. The river wasn’t at its best for tubing, but that didn’t matter. We had fun. And all I could think about was my excitement of spending such a beautiful weekend in such a beautiful part of Earth.

I was pleased, when we got married, that our reception venue at the local golf course overlooked a beautiful pond. That night, the pond was aglow from the orange sun setting at its back.

Water is needed to sustain life. Without it, we wouldn’t be. Therefore, I have obvious reasons to be thankful for it. Water gives me life. In Texas, it’s easy to find other reasons to be thankful for water, as we can go for many weeks without seeing a drop. Water quenches our thirst and the thirst of the ground. Beyond these basic yet necessary reasons to be thankful for water, I am thankful for its beauty, its mystery, and its charm. I am thankful that so many of my favorite memories swim in the waters of my past. There is something about bodies of water. It’s as if the water itself contains all of those memories deep beneath its surface and I need only to visit these lakes and oceans and rivers and streams to fish out the memories and re-live them once more.

Whether it’s cascading down from a cliff high above, crashing to a shore in waves of white, causing children to laugh as it splashes their joyful faces, or sitting motionless on a breezeless summer afternoon, I love it. For its connection to life, for its ability to satiate the thirsty, for its splendor, power, secrecy, and allure, I am thankful for water.

I Want to be in That Number

Today, the mindset of most people in our society is, "I want. I want. I want." Living with this frame of mind can leave a person jaded. We become tired of everything we have because we have so much. We begin to look at what we don't have because somehow, for some reason, what we haven't obtained seems much more interesting of a topic on which to dwell. How sad of a life that is. Sadder for me that I have often found myself in this same lifestyle: missing out on the amazing blessings life has offered me all because I was searching for that which life had yet to give. America has coined the phrase "Keeping up with the Joneses" as the driving point of the American Dream, but the simple question should be, pardon my grammar, "Who the Hell are the Joneses?”

Liam, I challenge you to have the mindset of, “I have. I have. I have.” Live in thanksgiving! Society gives us certain guidelines in order to be “happy”: make 6 figures on your paycheck, have a vehicle per driver in the family, have a college education, live in a certain house in certain part of town, wear these clothes, shop in these stores, associate with these people. The list goes on and on. While some of these are great aspirations, our happiness shouldn’t be dependent upon them. How sad we would be if, in the end of our lives, we thought only of what we didn’t have. If you are constantly concerned with what you do not have, then you will constantly be concerned. All too often, people gain blessings that they have long desired, and as soon as these blessings are obtained, they quickly change their focus from that of thanks to that of disappointment – “I want. I want. I want.”

This is one of your mother’s many flaws. I am persistently looking to what I want, forgetting to be thankful for what I have. It’s important to always strive for more; that is the way goals are achieved. However, achieving goals is not of the utmost importance. Happiness is – happiness of others and yourself.  And happiness comes from living the life of current, not wishing you were living someone else’s.  

Today is November 1, 2011, and in honor of this month of thanks, I will be writing to you as often as I can, giving thanks for the things I have been given and, hopefully, teaching you lessons along the way. So, let us begin.

Today, I am Thankful for Saints.

 As a United Methodist Christian, I believe in saints. Today is the perfect day to recognize this blessing because it is, after all, November 1^st, All Saints Day. Now, my Son, I want you to have a mind of your own. I pray that you are intelligent enough to heed what your father and I teach you while developing opinions and ideas of your own. After all, if you believe something simply because I say that it’s so, then YOU don’t really believe it at all; do you? Therefore, you will make up your own mind one day as to if you believe in saints the way that I do. The Roman Catholic Church believes that only a certain group of people who followed the teachings of Jesus earned the title of Saint. Those Christians actually had to have “Saint” added as part of their names, part of their identifications throughout the ages. However, the United Methodist denomination believes that anyone who lived a life exemplifying Christianity is considered a saint.

In this case, many saints have helped to pave a path for me, and for that, I am thankful.

I am thankful for my grandmother, Ruby. We called her ‘Mom’. Mom spent every moment that I was in her presence tending to me. Now, I’m not saying I’m the only one she tended to, but if I was there, she gave me her attention in every way possible. I am thankful for this. I am thankful for the hours upon hours that this woman rubbed my back just so that I could feel comfort and fall asleep. I am thankful for the delicious treats she would make for my family and me. I am thankful that instead of judging me for delighting in the snack of butter (by itself), she smiled and had a spoonful of butter waiting on me after school. I am thankful that she pinched the backside of my arm for laughing or talking during church. I am thankful that she would play Amazing Grace on her little organ just to hear my voice sing out with a country twang. I am thankful that her sense of humor and quirkiness left my family with stories to tell of the time she gave her bird (Winky) whisky for his cold, and the time (not too much later) that she gave Winky a funeral, complete with casket and guest book. I am thankful that she often made me laugh, and rarely made me cry. I am thankful for her love.

I am thankful for my grandmother, Jackie. This grandmother, I never knew, but my mom tells me I would have called her ‘Gran’. I have never known one person (that wasn’t famous) to have so many fans. She died 9 months before I was born, but I can sing her praises just as easily as the rest of my home town simply because people LOVE to tell me about her. And I love to hear what they have to say. I hear the stories of how, on the day of her funeral, not only were the pews and isles and balcony packed with mourners, but a line of people streamed from the school to the church that afternoon, wearing backpacks. These were her students, children who refused to miss the opportunity to pay their respects. The flag at the post office was lowered to half-staff when she left this world. It takes an amazing human to deserve that kind of respect. I am thankful that years later, the Assistant Superintendent of the school district she worked for told me that if I was anything like Jackie Baxter, they would be lucky to have me as a teacher. I am thankful that such a woman lived and continues to live in me. I am thankful that she set an example of how to exist, even through tribulation. Growing up wasn’t easy for her, and she had to endure the pain of becoming a widow at such a young age. But these things didn’t stop her. The woman graduated with honors from graduate school while she worked multiple jobs, raised a daughter, helped give a community of children beautiful voices along with the confidence to lift them, and gave time to God. I am thankful for the legacy she left of achieving all that can be achieved in the short time we are allotted on earth.

I am thankful for my grandfather, Overby. We called him ‘Dad’. And even though I had him in my life the longest, he was the most difficult to get to know. He was a quiet man. He was very private. And as a child, I’ll be honest, that silence and calm strength he exuded…kind of terrified me. But he was a gentle giant. He was such a man of God. Never have I known a man so devout. His primary concern was, “What would God have me do?” He had his bible with him all the time, and if I remember correctly, he wore a small divot into the cover of his bible from where his thumb was always placed. He was an Army veteran, wounded in WWII. And although he was an American hero, he didn’t like to talk about it. He was the first man I ever saw cry. In fact, at 12 years old, I wasn’t even sure men could cry, but on the night that my grandmother passed away, I learned they could. He loved her, and I loved the way he loved her. It reminds me a lot of how your daddy loves me. He was a dedicated man – to his family, to his wife, to his country, to his church, and to God. I am thankful for his dedication.

I am thankful for my grandfather, Bob. He was another grandparent that I never got to meet. My guess is that I would have called him ‘Gramps,’ a nickname lovingly given to him by the children he coached in Little League due to a limp he had developed. Even my mother was only given 7 short years with him. He was taken from this earth when he was 44. Much too young. I don’t have as many stories of my maternal grandfather, all because he had a much shorter time on this earth with the people who are here to tell me stories. However, I remember a few. He LOVED my mother. She was the apple of his eye, his little princess. He was also a man of God, as he was one of the men who helped build the church I grew up in and was a Sunday school teacher. He did things his way, and didn’t worry about what others might have thought, like staying up with his wife and daughter well past bedtime for ice cream treats! He loved his mother and sisters, which probably explains his love and devotion for the other two women in his life, his wife and daughter. He took pride in his home and his family. He loved children, and they loved him. While he would work in his yard, the neighborhood children would run and jump on his back, and he would carry them around his yard as he worked in his flower beds. He coached little league and was a youth director with my grandmother at the church. He was fun and funny. He enjoyed life, and he enjoyed what made life enjoyable. I am thankful for the legacy that he left of enjoying life to the fullest.

Finally, I am thankful for my dear friend and mother in-law, your grammy, Deborah. What a fighter. She exemplified strength and perserverence not only in the end of her life, but from a very young age. The sadness and difficulties your grammy went through are enough to make most people turn away from God, give up, throw in the towel, and decide to attribute a pitiful life to the cards they were dealt. Not your grammy. She firmly stood by her belief that NOTHING that happens to a person should be an excuse not to rise above it. I have the daunting task of being your mother in a few weeks time, and although the thought makes me happier than I’ve ever felt, I am terrified of messing up. I look to her for guidance, even though she is no longer here. After all, she raised four of the finest men I know.The woman told the true rags to riches story. However, her “rags” were a life of strife and struggle, and her "riches" were far more than gold and gems. Her riches were a beautiful and resiliant family full of Godly sons who will forever demonstrate her lessons of hope and perseverence in their own lives. I am thankful for our warrior.

These are the saints of my life. I have been molded and shaped by the hands of many, including these followers of Christ who have gone before me. How providential such legacies have been and continue to be in guiding our family through challenges. How enriched our lives are simply because these saints lived theirs so fully. I am thankful for these saints and for the opportunity to join them one day for all of time.

A Sweet Truth Hard to Swallow

My dear son. That's right...son! It has been much longer than I had intended since I last wrote, but in all honesty, the long silence can be attributed to you. Briefly, let me just say that growing a baby has taken everything I have, including my brains and creativity. While usually, one can't get me to STOP writing, lately, it's all I can do not to stumble over basic vocabulary. Hopefully, my brain will soon return to me, but until then, I'm going to cheat...just a little.

Today, Liam, would have been your Grammy's 50th birthday. You'll realize just how young that is and how soon she was taken from us when you get a little older. It has been a tough morning for me (as I'm sure it's been tough for all those who miss her). However, a piece of happiness and joy can come from today. It's what she would have wanted. Therefore, in celebration and honor of my first blog post to my sweet boy Liam and in celebration and memory of your Grammy's life, today's story comes from your Grammy - written by her with love and affection to her son (much like my letters to you). Today's story is the perfect tale of a precious little boy and his all too "sweet" innocence. Today, I let your Grammy tell a story of your very own (now very embarrassed) Daddy.

A Sweet Truth Hard to Swallow - By Deborah Jordan

Nathan,

This story cannot be forgotten or untold - ever. It was too funny not to go into the family archives.

When you were about three years old, we were about to go trick-or-treating, and you had been eating jaw breakers. But, you weren't actually eating them; you were swallowing them whole! All of a sudden, you became concerned, and you pulled your dad to the bathroom. You pulled your pants down, and told your dad you had been swallowing jaw breakers - pointing to your testicles. You evidently thought that the jaw breakers you had swallowed ended up in your...you know.

Needless to say, your dad in his innate shyness didn't know what to say, but exited the bathroom bright red and laughing so hard I thought he would split. We have laughed so many times about this, and it still makes me laugh at your innocence.

I love you so much!
Mom

Ten Feet Taller in Charisma and Strength

My dearest Poppyseed. There is a likely chance that today will be the last time I write to you as simply my Poppyseed. Tomorrow, hopefully, I will be writing to you as my Lucy or my Liam. As excited as I am for this big reveal, a small piece of me cannot help but to feel a bit nostalgic. I know. Your erratic, emotional mother at it again with her silly feelings. However, silly or not, this is undoubtedly a momentous occasion in my eyes, moving from one stage of my pregnancy to another, never again thinking of you as just my child but instead, as my son or daughter. In honor of this...graduation, allow me to share one more story for my Poppyseed. 

Your Auntie Lou Lou is my very best friend. In fact, she has gone to a lot of trouble to make this time very special for your daddy and me. This is the tale of how I met my best friend. 

When I was in high school, theatre arts was the most important thing in my life, maybe second to your dad. I loved to act. I loved being in the spotlight. The stage beckoned to me, and I answered its call. However, not only did I answer and fulfill my passion, I was quite good at it, too. Some may say I was the best. And at Ferris High School, maybe I was. Whether or not I was actually the best, I certainly believed I was. I believed I was unbeatable! The next star. The top. One thing I didn't realize at the time: it's a long fall from the top. 

Participating in UIL One Act Play, a theatre competition amongst schools in the area, was my focus from 8th grade until my senior year. One Act Play was at the forefront of my mind in the spring of 2003 as I played the role of Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, my final role as a high school student.

The district competition soon came around and the cast of Earnest did not leave disappointed. In fact, as great as I thought I was, I had never before received One Act Play's highest honor for a female actor, Best Actress, given to ONE girl from all competing schools. Up to this point, I had always received the next best thing, All Star Cast Member. District competition changed that. Not only did my cast leave that night with a sure spot in the Area competition, but several cast members received All Star Cast, my good friend and cousin Trevor left with Best Actor, and your Mama left with her head held high and the most beautiful trophy in her hand, reading Best Actress District 3A. It was a night I will never forget. 

Being that we lived in a small town, we were highly esteemed high school heros when we came home. Well, that's how I remember it, anyway. Our picture was in the paper along with an article revering our talent. There was a separate picture of just Trevor and me, the  highest awarded players in the competition. We were even invited to a school board meeting, where we all received certificates for outstanding performance. We had done well, and we were ready to continue our journey to the top. Next stop, Area competition, Athens, Texas. 

My parents and cousin Christi decided to accompany me to the competition in Athens.  No one in my family was there to see my previous achievement, so they wanted to be sure to not miss it again. After watching a show or two, evaluating the competition, our cast headed to our room to get ready for show time. My family stayed in the theatre, promising to keep an eye out for any real threats to our advance to Regionals. Soon, it was our turn to perform. 

The audience was wonderful. They loved me! I had never had quite the laughs I had that night. When we were through, people complimented me, undeniably impressed with a 17 year old girl's ability to transform into an elderly, British, aristocrat of the late 19th century. I was confident that we had done it again. 

When it was nearly time for awards to be announced, I sat waiting with my cast and my family. Before the ceremony began, I asked my parents for their opinions of the shows. They, of course, were highly impressed with me, as they are a bit biased. However, they quickly began to tell me of a girl from Canton's play. They couldn't remember her name, but she was "so good." "She did a wonderful job of playing drunk, and she had a moving moment at the conclusion where her character took her own life," my mother gushed. "She was pretty good," my father added. I will admit, I was surprised. My parents never seemed to notice anyone's talent other than my own, and if they did happen to notice, they certainly didn't go on and on about it. But this girl, they LOVED her. Oh they assured me that she wasn't better than me, but they couldn't bring themselves to tell the lie that I was better than her. My confidence was shaken, but not shattered. If this girl was anything as my parents made her out to be, then surely we could have our rematch at Regionals. Then, I could decide for myself if she was anything to be in awe of. 

The MC came to the stage. The lights dimmed. The crowd became silent. It was the moment of truth. The Honorable Mention  awards were announced first. Although, I really wasn't concerned with landing this lowest of awards, I was relived as always when they had finished calling names and I was not one of the recipients. Next, was All Star Cast. I would take it. Of course. I could prove next time around that Best Actress was truly the award I deserved. I would work harder to make sure this Canton girl would be long forgotten after people saw my performance. Several people from my cast were receiving All Star Cast awards. This comforted me as none of them had ever achieved honors quite as high as I had. The All Star Cast Awards had been handed out. I cheered on several of our cast, including Trevor. "Poor guy," I thought, "won't be Best Actor this time." However, my confidence was back! There was only one award left, and it belonged to me! Just to reassure myself I turned around to whisper to my mom, "Did that girl win an award yet?"

The look on mother's face was unforgettable. She had a look of being in pain while on the verge of tears. She had covered her mouth with her hand, and as she looked at me with a most apologetic stare, she slowly shook her head from side to side. She knew. 

The next words I heard were distant, almost as if I was hearing them from underwater, my fear and shame drowning out all other sounds. "Best actress goes to..." They said a name that didn't register with me, but I heard the last part. "Canton high school." 

I was devastated. Not only had I worked for this my whole life. Not only had I not gotten best actress. Not only did my cast not advance to Regionals giving me no opportunity to redeem myself. On top of all of these heartbreaking facts, I had not won ANY award, something that had NEVER happened in a lifetime of performing. Not even Honorable Mention. And this was my very last competition before graduating high school. It was over. And I...had lost. 


Come to find out, the amazing actress from
Canton also won Best Actress at state. That helped to heal my wounded pride. At least I was beaten by, literally, the best. The remainder of the school year hurried by. My heart mended some, but my ego had taken a much bigger hit. When it came time to choose a college, I chose Tyler Junior College. I had gotten a small theatre scholarship from there and would be going with one of my best friends Courtney Blount. Come August, I would be heading to the beauty of East Texas. Who would have thought, with one small choice, I would meet my clone? 

About a month before school started, I attended a freshman orientation to acquaint me with the campus and other students. During a tour of the campus, I had migrated to the back of the group. I was scared and nervous. The back was most comforting. At one point during the tour, we reached Wise Auditorium, a beautiful, brick building with large white columns - very collegiate looking. "Who in the group will be a theatre major?" asked the guide. Reluctantly, I looked around and, seeing two other hands go up, I raised mine. The guide continued, explaining that this would be the building where our annual musical would be held. As we moved on to our next destination, the other girl who had raised her hand began to walk closer towards me. She seemed nervous too, but she had an air of confidence about her. I can't remember who spoke first, but we introduced ourselves. Her name was Lauren. She was very tall and pretty. Again, I kept thinking about how confident she seemed. But it was a confidence that was delicately mixed with grace and kindness. Never did she give off the feeling of being cocky or stuck up. 

"You're a theatre major?" she asked. 
"Yeah. You too? I replied. 
"Yeah. Did you do theatre in high school?"
"I did. One Act Play and everything. You?"
With nonchalance, she let me know that she too had done some competing in high school. 

As the conversation continued, we talked about our experiences with high school theatre. Eventually the subject of "How well did your school do?" came up. 
"We advanced to state," she said. 
"Wow. Did you receive any individual awards."
She almost seemed embarrassed to answer. So modest. 
"I got best actress a few times."
At that moment, it hit me. She could be any girl from any school in the state. In fact, the chances that she would be a girl even from my area were slim. But somehow, I knew. 
"Did you get Best Actress at state?"
"Yes," she answered. 
"Are you from Canton?"
And in her deep East Texas accent, she answered, "Yeah. How'd you know?"

I had spent the last three months of my life hating this girl. This sweet girl who wanted nothing but to have a friend to talk to during the campus tour. In the months to follow,  Lauren and I became the closest of friends. In fact, I had not realized one could find a soul mate in a friend, but it was as though our paths were destined to cross, changing our lives forever. 

Before I met Lauren, I may have thought that the highlight of this story would undoubtably be my triumph at District. Sitting in my chair as the MC called out the awards one by one. Handing the things in my lap over to a good friend, Joe Hamm, as I readied myself to walk to the stage to receive my praise. Crying with delight as Trevor placed a proud arm around me, trophies gleaming in our hands. Hearing my mother shout with pure pride as I told her the happy news over the phone. I felt so strongly about my win and my loss during my senior year that I was sure nothing could trump it. How wrong I was. 

There are many lessons you could learn from this piece of my life, Poppyseed. Don't be blinded by pride. There will always be someone better than you at what you do. Be humble. Don't let others stroke your ego to the point of you losing sight of reality. Have confidence in yourself mixed with the right amount of humility. Know that what you may see as defeat, could be God's way of opening new doors for you. Sometimes, you will even be able to look back on times when you felt you were at your lowest with a smile, knowing how bright it was about to get. Most of all, I hope you take from this story the beauty of friendship. It comes in many shapes, sizes, and colors. It may even come masked as who you thought was your worst enemy. It may come unexpectedly. It may come at a time when you feel you don't need it or when you need it the most. But, come it will. Embrace it! You will know a genuine heart when you meet one. Befriend that heart. The reward may not be a nice shinny trophy to put on a shelf. You may end up with something even better.  You may end up with a friend. 

"Who would have thought? Who would have known? With one small choice, I met my clone. Maybe a foot shorter, but only in length. Ten feet taller in charisma and strength." Lauren Wycough

Wounds for Which No Cast Can Mend

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Whoever said that had never been hit with a rock and called a lesbo. Ok. The two things didn't occur simultaneously, but I've experienced both, and let me tell you, the rock broke no bones, but the hateful words left a bruise that couldn't be cured.

I didn't even know what a lesbo was! But I knew, by the way the girl giggled after she said it, that she didn't mean it to be nice. I had short hair and no boys liked me, so to other kids, I was a lesbo. Lesbo is a slang term for lesbian. You know plenty of them. Like Miss Kris! Although, she's not a very good one, but she does put up quite the effort. ;) 

My point. Words hurt.

When I was a little girl, around the age of 7, I had three best friends. We'll call them Julie, Nancy, and Crissy. We were all friends, and got along, to my knowledge at the time, quite nicely. There came a day when Crissy was moving to a different school. It was her last day at Ferris Elementary, and I was really sad about it. On that day in P.E., I walked in on a conversation between my other two friends, Julie and Nancy. One of them mentioned how happy she was that Crissy was moving. She couldn't wait for her to be gone. The other girl agreed, speaking of Crissy in an awful way. This blew me away. I had thought that we were all friends. I had no idea they would say these things. They looked to me, and Nancy asked, "What about you? What do you think?"

This was my chance to be the better person, to stand up for this friend of mine who I was honestly sad to see go. Both pairs of eyes were on me, waiting for my reply. This was my moment to be the girl my parents had taught me to be. 

"I can't wait for her to go," I answered. And my heart sunk. That, was the first time I remember doing something wrong when I KNEW what was right. Why had I said it? To fit in, I suppose. These were my only two friends I would have left at school after Crissy was gone, and I didn't want to lose them too. I lowered myself to lying and and gossip so that my OWN selfish needs would be met. 

Minutes later, our teacher came to pick us up from the gym. Not thinking a thing of it, I noticed Nancy, walking over to our teacher and whispering something in her ear. When all students were in line and all was quiet, my teacher asked, "Curri, did you say that you were glad Crissy was moving?"  I was stunned. My two friends looked at me with grins on their lips, but the face I can't ever erase from my memory was that of Crissy's. She stood right in front of me in the line, and she slowly turned around, her eyes brimming with tears. All I could manage, as my mouth stood agape at my feeling of betrayal (my own of Crissy and my friend's of me) was a single nod. The teacher reprimanded me in some way, and we went to class. Crissy left that day, and I never saw her again. 

There are some stories of my life that I look forward to telling you. Stories where I "save the day" and do the right thing. This is not one of those stories. Of this story, I am not the heroine. 

I cannot place blame on the other two girls, either. What they did was no worse than what I did. They betrayed a friend. Only, they at least had the courage to betray me to my face.

I am so sorry for what I said that day, for not having courage enough to do what was right. I have even since then messed up and allowed my quick and cruel tongue to get the best of me. 

Guess what. It never ends either. Becoming an adult doesn't rid one of hateful thoughts and fill one with courage to do what's right. Quite the contrary, in fact. I sometimes believe that when becoming an adult, not only do we lose hair and taste buds and our fast metabolism. We lose our tact and courtesy. We lose the knowledge of what it's like to have our feelings hurt.

I try every day to be better than the girl I was on that day outside the elementary gym. Most days, I succeed. Others, not so much. As an adult, I have been verbally attacked 100 times more than I was as a child. Being called a lesbo because of a chili bowl haircut is nothing in comparison to being verbally ripped apart for something you believe in, or for trying to help someone, or for being yourself.  

My lesson to you, my sweet Poppyseed.

Think before you speak.
Never give in to the pressure of your friends when you KNOW what's right.
Forgive people for when they may hurt your feelings. I know it's tough, but we are all only human.
Apologize when you know you've hurt someone else.
Remember, that for most, courage doesn't come naturally. That's why its such a great trait. One must willingly take on pain and hurt to have courage.
And last, no one puts it better than Thumper; if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. 

Broken bones may take weeks to heal, but the broken bonds of friendship and family suffered from hateful words, for that, there is no cast to mend.

Loving You: The Good, The Bad, and (I apologize) The Ugly

Motherhood. I'm three months pregnant, and already, I am learning what a mother's love is. Oh, I know there is more to come. I haven't even begun to crest the surface of what my love will ultimately be when you are in my arms for the first time. It's a love too great for me to try to put into my own boundaries of understanding; I know that much. 

But even now, my love for you is a love that knows no limits. I have loved you every second of the last 56 days and 20 hours. Before that, I loved the thought that one day, you would be more that a dream. I love you, and always will, without fail through the good, the bad, and the ugly. 

But don't sing my praises just yet. In loving you, I have accomplished no great feat. In loving you, I have done the easiest, most natural act I have ever been compelled to perform. Loving you is easy.

It's easy to love through the good. Dreaming of you, a mother's love is born. Seeing the second pink line, a mother's love thrives.  Listening to your beautiful heartbeat, a mother's love grows. 

It's even easy to love through the bad. Feeling queasy every second of the day, a mother's love leads her to thank God for the sign that you are still there. Falling asleep at the drop of a hat, a mother's love forces her to get the rest you need to grow. Crying at the sight of another precious baby, a mother's love prepares her for the first time she will see you through a blur of tear filled eyes. 

No one prepares us for the ugly. And before you read on, let me warn you. It is ugly. Do NOT read if you are the least bit...squeamish. 

Poppyseed, it is even easy to love you through the ugly.
 
A mother's love lasts through feeling like a 90 year old woman who pees her pants during a strong sneeze. (It wasn't my proudest moment, but I loved you still...easily.)
A mother's love endures getting sick in an On the Border parking lot and leaving behind what resembles raw eggs spilled onto the pavement. 
A mother's love forges through losing her lunch while driving down the road with NOTHING in the car to clean up the mess from her lap, the steering wheel, or her hands, as the soured smell tempts what may be left of the contents of her stomach to come forth.
A mother's love smiles at the thought of cracking the bones in the face of the person to dare question if she is eating enough or making the right decisions, or taking the best vitamins. (Don't worry. Violence is NOT the answer, and I would never actually punch a person...while pregnant.)  
A mother's love charges through reading the facts of the ugly to come during and after birth (we won't even get in to those) in between dry heaves. 

I love you. I haven't even met you yet, heard your voice, looked into your eyes, or held your hand, and without question, without hesitation, I would welcome the ugly a million times over just for the opportunity to be your momma. 

There is the good. There is the bad. And yes, there is the unsightly, devastatingly hideous ugly. You are loved more and more with each ripple of joy, sorrow, pain, disgust, and embarrassment, that runs through me. Because all of it, even the parts that make me feel like Linda Blair from the Exorcist (you'll learn that reference when you're older...much older) reminds me of the life that grows inside of me. Your life. My Poppyseed. And you are enough beautiful to mask all the ugly that I will ever endure for your sake. 

Heart's Music

My heart sounds like a washing machine. I have what they call a heart murmur, an irregular heartbeat. I've been that way since the day I was born. Doctors and nurses who are not familiar with my condition are amazed and terrified the first time they hear it. Your Grammy used to love to listen to it with her stethoscope because of its strange rhythm. My heart is different, but it is consistent: consistently different.

Because of my condition, hearts have always fascinated me: the steady thump of a muscle pumping blood through the body, never faltering until the end. Such a small but constant occurrence to make such an amazing and complex phenomenon possible: Life.

Yes, I have always found the heart to be an amazing part of anatomy. The function of the heart is such a neat and essential ingredient in the recipe of human existence. Then, one week ago today, the heart found new meaning with me. It was no longer simply an amazing muscle that provided life. I know now that one cannot read a definition and have a complete understanding of what the heart is. For me, on Friday, May 13, 2011, the heart became a musical instrument capable of tunes foreign to my ears, producing the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. The heart, YOUR heart, played for me the melody of your life, and now, I know music.

~ “And that’s your baby’s heartbeat, strong and perfect,” the doctor announced.

As I lay there, head turned to the side, watching the screen that was featuring my child, tears streamed from the corners of my eyes. The struggle to look at you, on my right, or your daddy, on my left, was giving me whip lash. I could only take my eyes from you to look at his face and vice versa. While I cried, he smiled. He has such a beautiful smile. Between the sight and sound of your fluttering heart and the sight of your father’s happiness, my senses were overwhelmed. Bliss was all I knew.

It didn’t last long. Well, the bliss is still with me because you are still with me, but our first glimpse at you was over and done with much too soon, and let me tell you, I could have stayed there and listened for hours. But within minutes we were out the door, admiring your first picture and going on and on about how awesome our baby was. ~

I love the sound of the ocean. I love to hear children laughing. I love to listen to football games on Saturday mornings as I’m waking up from sleeping in. The sound of my mother’s voice soothes me while the sound of your daddy’s voice brings me joy. Church bells, hymns sung on Sunday mornings, glasses ringing after a toast, champagne corks popping, Christmas music, and the crackle of campfires - all of these sounds I love to hear. But there is one sound incomparable to all others, and though I look forward to hearing it again…and again, and again, I will never again hear it for the first time.

The first time I heard the thrum and swish of your heartbeat was when I realized the beauty of sound.