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My Championship Scrapbook

Before the week’s over, I’ve decided I must try to put down in words just how profoundly moving this past Saturday and the championship game was. It’s an impossible task. No matter what I write, I end up deleting and beginning again. Words fail me. Poetry was what it was, and what it needs to be. Accompanied with music. With secret notes and chords that only heartbeats can create – a community of them pounding and tripping together in a giant cacophony of joy and thanksgiving. That’s what I need.

But all I can provide is a collage of images — images spliced and woven and blended into snapshots of prose.

I’ll begin with the Send Off, the team spilling out of a decades-old field house built of brick and mortar — and hopes and dreams, faith and sacrifice, sweat/blood/tears, hard work and long hours — and onto three chartered buses headed for the Georgia Dome. The morning was cold — cold like Packers’ fan cold (at least in my temperate Southern soul, I feel like it was). Family and friends puffed misty breaths and wiped misty eyes as they saw their fellas off. A drone buzzed overhead. Blue lights flashed, sirens whooped and horns answered.

And our team rolled out of the drive and into their destiny.

Next, a caravan of coaches’ wives saddled up and snaked down I 75 in pursuit. And not just wives. Whole families of Canes, with uncles and cousins. Newborns wrapped in swaddles; toddlers strapped in car seats; in-laws riding shotgun. We stopped for a fast-food lunch and an impromptu hair painting session about five miles from our destination. Purple hair was chalked enthusiastically into brunette, blonde, and ebony locks, alike. We wives wear our war paint with a difference.

We arrived in a rush of purple and gold — the cold air driving us into the Dome in waves. Security stations clogged and cleared; corridors and vestibules clumped and pooled at restrooms and concession stands.

But once we finally found our way through the maze of masses, we spilled into a vast pulsing chamber, charged with the butterflies and beating hearts of teenage boys and full grown men. Above us, the webbed Dome with its striped steel arteries. Below us, the green field with its striped, segmented planes. This was the stage where truths are told. Where legends unfold.

I spied my husband in the visitor’s tunnel. Instantly, my belly felt fizzy and my eyes blurred with love and pride. I was so nervous I could puke.

Once the game was underway, though, I felt better. Kickoff calmed my jitters.

What followed was a three-hour exercise in purple and gold dominance. Touchdowns tumbled into our hands. Forced fumbles fell at our feet. Our opponents, known for their run game built on the shoulders of beast mode running backs, met a defensive front far stronger than any they’d encountered before, smashing their feeble attempts at smash-mouth football. By the time the clock was run down and the championship sewn up, the scoreboard glowed 58-7.

“We did it.”

That was the text my husband sent me from the box. The text that caused my breath to snag and my heart to hiccup. I love that man. As in, super very much a lot. I didn’t know it was possible to love with a love like ours. And so, to know that this man’s wildest football dream had just come true. That it had just swept into our universe on a perfect storm of Hurricane proportions, left me breathless. Left me teary. Left me humbled.

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How did I ever get so lucky?

Heaven has been generous to us this year. Blessings abound in merry measure. Some have been spiritual abstractions — answered prayers that heal the soul and open the heart. Others have solidified into physical manifestations – like Dome appearances and championship trophies. All have been glorious.

Remember that secret chord of heartbeats I mentioned before — a whole community of them pounding and tripping together in a giant cacophony of joy and thanksgiving? Well, I hear there is a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord…

But you don’t really care for music, do ya?

Well it goes like this, the fourth and fifth, the minor fall and the major lift, the baffled wife composes hallelujah…

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

December 14, 2016 0

We Have The Wills

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This week feels surreal. Saturday, our team won their state title game in the Georgia Dome. Saturday, all the hard work and hard knocks of the 2016 football season paid off. Saturday, our wildest dreams as a football family came true. I knew that today I would write about it. But now, as I stare at my computer screen, I don’t think it’s possible. I don’t think I can get all the sights, the smells, the sounds, the feels into a mere blog. No, let me rephrase — I KNOW I can’t get all the sights, the smells, the sounds, the feels into a mere blog. It’s impossible. But I will try my utmost because our players and coaches and wives and families gave our utmost all season long, and I want to at least attempt to pay tribute to their sacrifices and their accomplishments…

And so… Saturday. Saturday, Cane Nation descended upon the Georgia Dome. A swirling vortex of players, coaches, families, and fans. A perfect storm spawned in tradition, solidified by teamwork, shouldered by sacrifice and driven by character. And that perfect storm ended in victory. And not because the Cartersville Purple Hurricanes are bigger or stronger than any other team they faced – on the contrary. The other teams were almost always the bigger and stronger in every match up. But this team is disciplined. They are driven. And they are full of “The Wills” — the “Willfulness” to keep going despite opposition, the “Willpower” to make it happen, and most important of all, the “Willingness” to be coached – to adjust, to learn, to give, to change, to grow.

Our coaches and players own The Wills. We put up 58 points in a title game. We held our opponent to 7. We forced six turnovers – five fumbles and an interception. We scored seven touchdowns – one on a glorious scoop and score. We’ve been at the grind for twenty-four weeks solid without a break since July. We ended it all with a perfect season. And we’ve gone 30-0 in two perfect seasons. That’s what having The Wills can do.

And it’s not just the coaches and players who have them. The wives own them, too. We adjust, we learn, we give, we change, we grow. I could point out all the traditional sacrifices – like the long, lonesome hours, the empty spots at the dinner table, the single-parenthood, the struggles with resentment — the generally known, but not necessarily understood, hardships of being a football wife. But instead, I will show a not-uncommon, but far-lesser-known (and decidedly far-greater) sacrifice that football wives often make that truly displays their willpower, willfulness, and willingness to be part of the team. This season, our coaching staff gained three new babies – with a fourth due to arrive in the next couple of weeks. These wives single-handedly took on the tender weeks and months of their infants’ new lives while daddy was on the field or at the field house six out of seven days a week. I don’t know that anyone, anywhere can possibly fathom the mental and physical endurance such a feat requires. That, my friends, is what having The Wills can do.

Now I’m not saying it was easy on the new daddies either. Far from it. It tore at their hearts and gnawed on their consciences. What I am saying is that football is one tough task master. If you don’t have what it takes to weather its adversities, it will chew you up and it will spit you out. It’s the nature of the game. It’s full of tackles, sacks, dog piles, and dirty calls. And I’m talking the politics of the game here, not just the game. It comes with hard knocks.

Case in point: Six years ago, in November, my husband, my affectionately coined “tall mug of caramel coaching macchiato,” was fired from his football job. Fired after giving his utmost to his players, his fellow coaches, and his school. He and his friend and head coach had pulled a losing program out of the trenches and finished strong with four solid wins. The program was on the very cusp of a turnaround. And they were fired.

Being fired bruised him. It cut him deep inside. It left him questioning his calling.

But Mike refused to stay down. He refused to come out of the game. He girded up his soul with courage and gumption, learning and gleaning from three different programs in six different years. He fought his way out of the dog pile and back to the top. He disciplined himself. He adjusted. He learned, he gave, he changed, he grew. He found The Wills. And, the football gods have blessed him accordingly.

Six years ago my husband and his friend were fired. This year, my husband and his friend BOTH won their respective state title bids: one in Minnesota; one in Georgia.

Football is a tough task master. It damn near breaks you before it grants your rewards. But if you have the willfulness to endure, the willpower to push harder, and the willingness to learn then you WILL win. It’s only a matter of time. It’s the nature of the game.

And so it goes with life.

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December 11, 2016 0

Dig Deep

We are five days away from the Georgia Dome. It’s been a long and grueling journey. Football is a tough road. The season is a gauntlet of physical demands, mental challenges, and countless hours. The coaches and players have travelled so far and sacrificed so much. And believe me, so have the wives and families.

We’ve all suffered our fair share of battle wounds and none, more so, than this week – at least in terms of my own little, nuclear family. It’s as if the closer we get to our end game, the harder the trials and tribulations become.

The 2016 football season will close this week with a battle for that holiest grail of the high school gridiron: a state title. And here, in our household, where the energy should be humming and buzzing with promise and productivity, where we should be electrically charged with anticipation and drive — instead, we have suffered wave after wave of contagion and blight.

My boys and I savored the Cane’s semifinal win (nothing short of a storybook, come-from-behind victory) for exactly eight solid hours this weekend. Then Saturday morning dawned and the dark forces began their onslaught.

One of my favorite allegories is The Alchemist, by Paulo Coehlo. It’s a hero journey about a young shepherd boy in pursuit of treasure. It is my favorite, not for the plot, which becomes tedious and redundant at times, but for the message, which is profound and powerful. To reach your ultimate goal, the shepherd is told, you must dig deep. And be warned that the closer you get to your treasure, the tougher the dig becomes — the harder the ground, the harsher the conditions. There will be trials. There will be tribulations. But you must stay strong and dig on. The physical world will hurl shit your way in ever-increasing proportions. But trust in your dreams and trust in the universe. The harder things become, the closer you are to your goal.

So, here we are, days away from our goal, and suddenly the shit storms start raging.

First target: Parker. He woke up with a whole slurry of what looked like clotted cream, curdling and gooping in his lashes. We wiped and dabbed and called the doc: Pink Eye. Getting antibiotic drops into a willful toddler boy’s eyes is perhaps as easy as getting to the state championship game. It can be done, but it requires teamwork, a constantly-changing game plan, and a solid line of defense. So that shit hit Saturday morning.

Then Tate decided to boycott sleep for the weekend. He writhed and whimpered and slapped at the bed with both feet for hours and hours on end while I rode out the storm next to him. Turns out he had an adverse reaction to prednisone, which he’d been taking for his wheezing chest. So that shit hit Saturday night.

Then, due to the frustration and helplessness of ailing twin toddlers and not nearly enough hands to deal with the deluge, Mike and I had ourselves a marital tiff, one of those stupid, husband-wife spats that is born of exhaustion and designed to wreak havoc. So that shit was Sunday.

Then, Monday brought with it a stomach virus that claimed Mike, hobbling his energy, and dimming, but not killing, his spirit. He pushed through to the other side, managing to make football practice with a thermos full of grape juice (according to one of his friends, a tried and true grandma remedy) and a boxful of Imodium tablets in his pocket. That shit – literal this time – hit yesterday.

And then, today. Today, the fates delivered the stomach bug to me. And I was not nearly as resilient as Mike. It slung me sideways. Like, truly. I was prone in the bed – or on the bathroom floor—for thirteen straight hours. My head spun like a whirlwind and my innards parted like the red sea, heading opposite directions and leaving me completely drained. Literally. Mercifully, round about four o’clock, the wicked flux was lifted and I learned I would live. So that shit just happened.

Yep, we’re in the homestretch of our season’s quest. We’ve been running the gauntlet. And the physical world has been hurling flaming buckets of tar (well, buckets of vomit, conjunctivitis, and poo) at us, attempting to thwart our progress, to slacken our pace. But, what do we do? Well, to twist one of my all-time favorite side kick’s sayings, “We just keep digging, just keep digging, just keep digging, digging, digging…”

Because the end is in sight and the treasure is near. We’re shoulder deep, and we just keep shoveling.

December 7, 2016 0

Nice Guys and Misfits Still Win

I love Claymation Christmas specials. I grew up on The Little Drummer Boy, The Year Without a Santa Claus, Jack Frost… but I’ve always especially loved Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer. Maybe, subconsciously (long before I was an English major) the alliteration appealed to me.

Then, in November of 2008, Rudolph went down in history as my all-time favorite when Mike made the romantic gesture to end all romantic gestures. He brought along a digital projector, a Rudolph dvd, and a portable player to Caitlin’s med school interview to take all our minds off an extraordinarily stressful and momentous situation. The motel room was moldy, the carpet was spongy, the drapes were dingy, but I knew right then and there that Mike Candela was a keeper. He had brought us Rudolph for the road.

Growing up, I wanted to live in Rudolph’s soft focus, pulled-felt world. I wanted to be Clarice, the fuzzy, long-lashed doe with the French name. She was spunky and kind-hearted, and she had the most amazing polka dot, red bow.

And then, to top it all off, she fell in love with the misfit – the social outcast with the blinking beacon. I’ve always been one to go for the oddball, too. (Sorry, Mike, but you’re one of the weird ones. It’s okay – I am, too).

But even though Clarice was my goal, I think Rudolph was my reality. I am, and always have been, the ultimate misfit. For one thing, as a kid, I was in that crazy cult – it doesn’t get any odder than that! And I was tall –5’10’—which was way taller than almost any girl my age. (Still am, for that matter). And, since I suffered from acne, I had that whole glaringly red facial imperfection thing kicking, too..

Even now, after having outlived my awkward early years (sort of) and bizarre cult activities, I still find myself a misfit. I’m a mother of four-year-olds at the age when most of my friends have children in their teens or beyond. (Oh, I have those kinds, too!)

But now, along with my grown girls, I have fifteen-to-thirty years on all the other moms. (Case in point — several of the young parents at our boys’ school were actually the friends of my daughters growing up!) So, yeah, I’m still a misfit.

I also sport those hesitant, herky-jerky movements of stop action film. Not because of bad joints (I may be fifty-something, but I’m not arthritic), but because so very often I stop action in the middle of my errand because I don’t remember what in the sam hill I was about to do. Because even though I’m a new mother again after nearly a quarter of a century, my brain isn’t new again! It has a whole nother quarter century stamped and imprinted deep within its gray matter since the last time I gave child-rearing a go.

But mainly, the one thing I love most about Rudolph is how everyone who is targeted as a misfit – those who don’t fit within society’s expectations or generalizations – is welcomed with open arms by the story’s end. One, great, big, felt-covered happily-ever-after. It fits so nicely with my oh-so-progressive bleeding heart.

But then, watching it again with the boys, I’ve realized it isn’t quite the idyllic, little anti-bullying, feel-good statement piece I remember. For one, Donner is a sexist son of a bovid. And two, Santa is an absolute donkey’s rear. (Now, neither of the nouns I just used to label these characters are as colorful as what I would like to use, but Clarice is the only French word I’ve vowed to use in this particular blog entry, so you may read between the italices, here.)

So how is Donner sexist? You may not realize it – because I’m fairly certain they’ve cut this line from the television broadcast — but on the dvd version, he rejects his wife and Clarice’s offer to help find Rudolph by proclaiming, “This is man’s work.” Yup. MAN’S work. WTF?!?! (btw, those are initials, my dear reader, and if you heard French, it’s because YOU – that’s right YOU — provided the fancy foreign phrase there, not I. So I’m still technically sticking to my G-Rated guidelines…) Yep. Donner’s a piece of work.

And the offensiveness doesn’t stop there. The narrator kicks in some misogynistic commentary as well. It is after Clarice and Mrs. Donner (the only name she is ever given…) successfully find Rudolph –despite Donner’s orders –only to find themselves in the clutches of the abominable snow monster.

At this point, Yukon Cornelius, keeper of sled dogs, an open-carry revolver, and elaborate facial hair (evidence, once again, of the potency and divine might of beards) sweeps in to save the day, sending himself and Bumbles tumbling into a giant abyss. The narrator then proclaims people are “very sad at the loss of their friend, but realize that the best thing to do is get the women back to Christmas town.” Ugh.

And then finally, there’s Santa. The mean-spirited, faultfinding, curmudgeonly Santa who pokes fun of tiny infant Rudolph, right out of his mama’s belly. I mean, it’s to be expected that the other reindeer will call him names — it’s in the lyrics, after all. But Santa?

Santa is Father Christmas! He’s a saint, for Christmas sake!! He’s supposed to be all jolly and twinkly and eat cookies and go Ho Ho Ho! and bring along a sack full of goodies everywhere he goes.

But not in Rudolph. In Rudolph, he’s mean to the elves when they give him a Christmas concert. He’s mean to Rudolph when his shiny nose is too bright for sore eyes. He’s mean enough to banish handicapped toys to an island for misfits. He’s even mean enough to almost cancel Christmas — all because of a little storm! That’s not the Santa I remember!

I swear, I think they’ve edited a lot of the unfortunate 1960’s political incorrectness out of the broadcast version because I don’t remember any of the patronizing gender roles and rude behavior when I was little.

Then again, I was programmed and conditioned to overlook male misconduct. Plus, I wasn’t allowed to believe in Santa – so I didn’t pay him much mind, anyway. Instead, I hung onto every word out of Clarice and Rudolph’s felted wool muzzles, along with those physically deformed and bullied misfit toys. Those parts are still as awesomely iconic and compellingly relevant as ever.

Yeah, the show isn’t quite what I remembered from my childhood. But will that keep me from curling up on my sofa with a soft, flannel throw and my boys at my side, watching it every single Christmas season? Of course not.

The way I look at it, I’m a mom and I’m a teacher. And the fallibility of the cautionary tale gives it that much more impact. It provides so many teachable moments. I have a responsibility “to train up a child in the way he should go” so that “when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

And the way I want my boys to go is that same generous-hearted, progressive route of their father – who appreciates women, who respects women, who listens to the insights of women, and who values the opinions of women.

He sees my strengths, even when I find myself blinded by the conditioning of my youth. He knows that my worth is so much more than my ability to flutter long lashes and dress in comely red finery.

He doesn’t believe in Woman’s Work or Man’s Work. He just believes in hard work. And he’s a man who truly appreciates that my fluency in French far outshines his own – a rare find, indeed. Yes, Rudolph will provide me some pretty, solid, serious teaching moments for me and our boys for years to come.

So things are never quite the same as you remember from your childhood, I guess… But despite all the flaws and imperfections (funny, I guess the show is ironically a bit of a misfit itself) Rudolph still has a happy ending. That hasn’t changed. The nice guys and the misfits still win in the end.

Yes, yes they do.

December 2, 2016 0

Three-Ring, Four-Quarter Circus

So we all know that popular phrase, not my circus, not my monkeys? Yeah, well, I can’t say that. As a mother of toddler twin boys, I have my own little Barnum and Bailey reality show right under my feet – literally right under my feet – every single day. So step right up! (But watch your step, please.) Come on in! I’ll give you a grand tour of our crazy, snack-filled, action-packed circus under the glaring lights and the colorful crowds of our Friday nights.

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And by the way, tonight may bear witness to one of the most exciting, most daring, most challenging of all Friday nights. The Canes are on the road for Round Three of our bid for the State Title!

So, nope, our circus won’t happen out there on the football field. Our circus takes place up there in the stands. Up in one tiny, little corner of the stands. Where — if you zoom in tight — you’ll see the disheveled circus trainer as her two little, manic monkeys jump – no, rephrase — pound on her one and only final surviving nerve…

But before the show begins… a little backstory. The Cartersville Purple Hurricanes are travelling to Woodward Academy. It’ll be a tough match up – one that experts claim is worthy of a final match up, rather than the quarterfinal game that it actually is. Both teams have skills for days and Division 1 prospects coming out the wazoo. Both programs have coaching staffs who know the science of football, who have solid schemes, firm discipline, and good, old-fashioned love of the game and love for their boys. This game’s going to be one for the history books, folks.

Which means this sideshow ringleader is already in the process of packing up Mike’s truck like a travelling circus on a long-distance tour. I’ve got the Radio Flyer wagon loaded up in the bed already – there’s no telling how far we’ll have to navigate from visitor’s parking to stadium steps and walking in crowds with my boys – well, I’d rather swallow flames or lie on a bed of nails. It is a hazardous, torturous affair. They shuffle and shy away from each “Hello” or welcoming smile they receive. And, as twins, they get lots of them. They’re like my own little private set of circus freaks. Folks gather ‘round them and stare and point and wait for a sideshow. But the boys don’t oblige. No tricks, no performance, not even a wave. All they want to do is hide behind their mama’s legs and contort themselves in unlikely angles to avoid detection. So, I pile them in their little red wagon, and away we go, bags and blankets and snack packs galore.

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Now the snacks are the most important ingredient in our little circus. My sideshow freaks need lots and lots of snacks to keep them in prime condition. Their diets are quite precise, and packed oh-so-carefully according dietary needs. And by needs, I mean cravings – primarily sweet tooth cravings, but we’ve got carbs covered, too. There are teddy grahams, and cereal bars, cookies and muffins, goldfish and cheerios, raisins and juice boxes — the only two semi-healthy items in the whole horde. The suckers on the other hand (oops, let me be clear, by suckers, I’m referring to the dum-dums… um, again, let me clarify — the round, candy-flavored confections on a stick, NOT my boys), but the suckers… the dozens and dozens and dozens of suckers I bring, those ensure that I see at least one of every four downs in a series. Because my boys LOVE suckers. And by suckers, this time I’m pretty sure I mean me…

Because no one but a sucker would willingly give two rowdy, sloppy, drooly, toddler boys an unlimited supply of syrup on a stick, knowing full well that her little twin acrobats keep their favorite climbing apparatus with them at all times – namely their MOTHER. On any given Friday night, one can find them climbing up and over and under and (I’m fairly certain) through my body for the entire duration of a sixty minute football game. And tonight – with both teams being spread teams, there’s gonna to be a heckuva a lot of passes thrown, and a heckuva a lot of first downs made, and a heckuva lot of stopped clocks, and a heckuva lot of chains moved, and a heckuva lot of kickoffs received, and a heckuva lot longer football game played than the traditional sixty minutes allotted. This sucker’s gonna go on for a good, long while. Einstein’s theory — it’s all relative. So relatively speaking, here, I’m the sucker.

Now every circus comes with music, usually involving some type of prancing, staccato-beat, calliope tune. But not this circus. This one plays Cartersville’s fight song after every touchdown, which is a spot-on rendition of “On Wisconsin,” and which I’m assuming somehow translates into “Purple Hurricanes, Purple Hurricanes something, something, something, something something … “ Maybe? Feels like there would be a dropped syllable in there somewhere. I’m not quite sure… Anyway, that fight song plays often – seeing as how we’ve averaged forty points a game this year – and then, in between the fight song, Tate belts out his ubiquitous “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” complete with jazz hands. We are truly an eclectic show.

So we’ve got the sideshow freaks, contortionists, circus monkeys, acrobats — all of whom are the same principal characters in our diversely talented ensemble. But of course, there’s one key member I haven’t truly addressed yet. The Ring Leader.

Every circus has one. At least, that’s what I’ve always observed. But I must confess that this particular circus ring leader is not necessarily cut out for her job. She seems to have zero control of her monkeys, the staff appears to run over the top of her quite regularly, and I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain that if you look closely, you’ll find traces of sucker stains on her clothes and in her hair. Which, I guess is better than the muffin that the day care found buried in in one of her little monkey’s heads this week. The director kindly extracted the said blueberry treat, but not before sending a picture and some thinly-veiled laughter in a private message. I am enclosing the picture as evidentiary proof that this ring leader is definitely not up to the challenge of such a daunting and daring occupation.

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Be that as it may… she is still an exuberant supporter of her crazy, careening circus and of her talented, ravishingly handsome coaching husband, as well as an enthusiastic and loud-mouthed Purple Hurricanes fan. Therefore, she’s readied her caravan and she’s geared up for her three-ring, four-quarter circus.

Oh, but she has one sweet feather in her big top hat, her best, bestie is riding shotgun tonight, offering moral support and monkey-training skills. She’s a pro. She teaches sophomores non stop daily. So there’s that.

So I’m the Ring Leader and these ARE my monkeys and this IS my circus. Step right up and come on in! For the greatest show on earth — the Georgia High School 4-A football quarterfinals — oh, and my little, three-ring sideshow.

November 25, 2016 0

The Physiological Effects of Football on a Coach’s Wife

Football gives me chills. And chest tightness. And tachycardia. And tremors. And hypotension. And breathlessness. And Fatigue. But it’s all good. I promise.

Let me explain…

Yesterday, just after 1:00 PM, I kissed my husband goodbye and watched him head off to the football war room, a scenario we’ve repeated every Sunday afternoon since early August. He strolled purposely down our sidewalk, his bag full of notes on this week’s opposing team’s tendencies slung over his shoulder.As I watched him leave, my chest tightened with pride. It’s Week Two of Georgia High School playoffs. The competition is getting fiercer, so Mike and his fellow defensive coaches burned the midnight oil preparing their game plan.

It’s a mysterious process to me, the deconstruction of an offense. In my fiercely romantic brain, I imagine it’s an exposition closely akin to the annotation and explication of metaphysical poetry. I picture the guys huddled around their Hudl screens, marking up schemes with dexterity and determination, scrutinizing pistol formations and pondering triple options with the same respect and gritty fortitude that I scrutinize syntax and ponder paradox, searching for the key to decipher the cryptic code and whittle it down into chewable chunks.

I’m sure it’s a formidable feat, arduous and time-consuming; always open to interpretation; and painfully exquisite– if that’s your thing. And it is absolutely, positively my guy’s thing. For the past decade, I’ve watched him light up like a Hurricane scoreboard when he talks shop with fellow coaches. Football powwows with people in the know is one of his most intense pleasures. And I love that he’s found his niche within this fine group of coaching fellows. Perhaps I’m biased, but I truly believe they may be the most amazingly gifted and gracious crew ever to be assembled in the history of high school football.

Watching them from the stands as they interact with their players on Friday nights, tremors of excitement run up and down my spine. It starts with pregame. I love seeing the boys clustered around their position coaches, going through their drills. The bursts of whistle and muscle; the blur of footballs and footwork; the thud of shoulder pads and practice punts. Pregame gives me shivers.

And then there is the moment at the beginning of every game, just prior to kick off, when the boys and their coaches march evenly out across half the field and kneel. One-hundred-twenty-plus boys of one-hundred-fifty-plus pounds – they all take a knee and give the Lord a moment of silence and respect.

It leaves me breathless.

Then the world speeds back up again. The crowds gather; the cheerleaders chant; the bands play; the lights hum; and the stadium pulses. But just before it all goes down, just before the band plays Amazing Grace and The Star-Spangled Banner, just before the team runs through the tunnel of swirling white smoke and takes the field, just before the scoreboard sounds off and the place kicker blasts off, Mike climbs the stadium steps on his way to the box. And he always stops off to deliver a kiss to me and our boys. Seeing him approach, his chocolate eyes smiling, his caramel skin glowing, his wide, warm shoulders swaying, my heart swells and my knees go weak. I am truly a blessed woman.

Yes, Friday nights give me goosebumps. Good old-fashioned, puckered-up chicken skin. And not because I’m lucky enough to get a pre-game kiss from a tall mug of coaching caramel macchiato. (Although that helps, too.) But because boy, can our boys play some ball. And man, can our men coach ‘em up. There is nothing like a good, crisp, spiral-sliced Friday night.

And now we’ve been blessed with a second week in our playoff run. And I’m praying for another three after this. Another three-and-a-half weeks of single parenthood and lonely bedtimes. The boys and I have this routine down pat. It’s old hat. And we’re in it for the long haul.

So here’s hoping and praying for another four weeks of Sunday War Rooms, Chili Night Wednesday Nights, Friday Night Lights and everything in between. I’m ready for the run. My heart can take it. My body is addicted to the thrilling, physiological effects of really good football. And it’s all good.

Belching out Injustices from the Bottom of the Turtle Stack…

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This may not be my most well-crafted of blogs, and I apologize if I’m off my game. I’m currently in mourning for the state of our not-so-fair country. And I believe the first stage of grief is anger. And boy, am I.

This morning, like every morning, our school day began with the Pledge of Allegiance. But will there ever be liberty and justice for all — as our Pledge of Allegiance claims? There hasn’t been yet, and my fears are that we are simply “Making America Racist Again” – as if we ever left it behind in the first place…

I’ve never put so much of myself into an election. Ever. And now that it’s over, I’m a sore loser, metaphorically speaking. Today finds me bruised and battered and feeling broken. But feeling broken and being broken are not the same thing.

I feel like I’ve never had so much to lose in an election before. And those I love have never had so much to lose. And now that it’s over, I’m expected to be a gracious loser? Nope. Not happening.

I can accept the results of the election. I won’t be like Trump and throw “rigged” into the equation (although it’s flawed, that’s for damned sure), and I won’t demand a gazillion recounts. So, yes, I will accept the presidential results. But I will not accept the resulting racial and social intolerance that is sure to grow ever-stronger now that there’s a bigot at the helm. Something’s rotten in the state of the nation – and I will fight like hell against the injustice. I will make my voice heard – because that is one inalienable right all of us have been given. But right now, so many voices are muffled and muted and ignored. Right now, not all voices are truly heard.

The popular vote was won by Hillary, but (just like sixteen years ago) with the electoral college comes the spoils. And by spoils, I mean spoiled. As in, we are rank with injustice up in these parts. But I will rail against the machine. I will demand change. I will shout it to the rooftops until my voice, and ALL voices, are heard. Because, Good Lord willing (yes, I will pray for change, too) maybe in my lifetime, all voices will finally matter.

So whose voices don’t matter and whose voices do? Well, I’ll start with the man (woman, actually) in the mirror. Mine doesn’t matter. Nor, apparently, do millions of other women’s voices. Our votes meant nothing. And while I know we live in a democracy, where majority supposedly rules… majority does not rule. Money rules. And ignorance rules. Those two things rule.

How do I know? Because those were two of the primary motivating forces behind the majority of Trump votes.

Trump got the uneducated white man’s vote – big time. And with that vote came the uneducated white man’s wife. Middle-class, suburban, high-school-educated (or less), small-town, white folks voted for Trump.(Others, too. I know that. But I’m looking at demographics, here.) So those people have a voice. Their votes count. But then, white voices always matter, so no surprise there.

Trump also got the vote of the energy states: Texas, Oklahoma, Wyoming, North Dakota, Ohio, Louisiana, Arkansas, West Virginia… So Big Oil votes count. And so does Coal. And manufacturing states, too, like Wisconsin and Indiana and Iowa and Michigan — they went to Trump. So, in other words, money talks. It’s a voice that is heard… Money is really persuasive, really good at tempting souls toward damnation. It’s the root of all evil, if I recall correctly.

So let’s look at the other side. Who voted for Hillary, demographically speaking? Well, she got the minority vote, which ironically makes up the democratic majority these days: she got the African American vote; the LGBT vote; the Latino vote; the college-educated white female vote.

The common denominator, when you line all of these votes up in a pretty row, is that as the paradoxical minority majority, none of these voices were heard. But then, nothing new there. These groups are traditionally silenced. And while yes, I know that college-educated white women absolutely benefit from white privilege, and we often have a much stronger voice than the others in this list – we are also not treated the same as our white male counterparts. (i.e., the glass ceiling phenomena… the gender pay gap… the more qualified, better educated, more temperately-suited candidate did not get the presidency last night…)

As I ponder the pandemonium of our situation, I’m reminded of a favorite Dr. Seuss book: “Yertle the Turtle.” Like most of his books, it’s a satire about a megalomaniac who gains power and control over hopeful, obedient masses blinded by the glitter and promise of his reign. This book and the Trump campaign merge into one big cautionary tale to me. Yertle knows business. He knows money. He is successful and powerful. He can move and shake and control and corral. Wall Street is his mistress. She bends over at his command. And she puts out. So THIS is leadership. THIS is what the country needs. Therefore, millions voluntarily step up so the Turtle King can climb atop their backs and build his throne. And boy, do they come — “swimming by dozens… whole families of turtles, with uncles and cousins.” Surely, as he’s raking in the coin, as he’s building his wealth and his power and might, some of those riches will trickle down to help alleviate the drought at the bottom of the pond. But the only thing that trickles down that “great heavy stack” is pain and misery and the impending doom of cracked shells and broken hearts.

Why would these turtles have done such a thing? Why have WE done such a thing? I ask myself this continuously. The only answer I can come up with is that we have become an unbelievably materialistic society that believes implicitly in instant gratification. Not content with our recovering economy, our gradual, yet markedly-improved quality of life, we are driven by dreams of easy money. The American Dream has become a crude wet dream, and Trump is our golden boy. He’s all that glitters. He is the poster boy of reality television: selfish and prideful and controlling and manipulative, and he gets what he wants by stepping on the shells of those around him. And, apparently, American citizens believe that all of those qualities are perfectly okay. Why? Because he’s a star. He’s a razzle, dazzle, reality super star. And he’s turned reality television into the new reality. Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re cruel at heart. You, too, can have whatever you want, as long as you’re willing to play dirty – to behave horribly, to degrade others, to threaten violence, to COMMIT violence, to assault women, to refuse to pay your fair share… Basically, as long as you’re willing to railroad anyone and everyone in your path to get there (a fitting metaphor, since I have heard “Trump Train!” at least a dozen times today in the halls of my blue-collar, white suburban, middle class high school campus), you can have it all. I am horrified and I am ashamed

Yes, America showed last night that it is far more concerned with its back pocket and its purse strings – than its humanity. And that is not okay with me.

And, yes, I am a bleeding-heart liberal. I admit it. Hell, I embrace it. My heart weeps and bleeds for those who are targeted and treated unfairly. I’ve been there, remember? I know what it means to not have a voice. And I’m right back there again. This time, with a voice I’m not afraid to use, but one that remains unheard. And there are so many of us in these United States who are in this sad situation.

So, as a bleeding-heart liberal, my heart weeps for my Muslim friends and students. To be despised because of your faith – to be racially and religiously profiled because of your love for God – it is reprehensible. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my gay and lesbian friends and family and students. To have your love judged, to have your personal happiness threatened by a resurgence of bigotry and blind dogma — it is unforgivable. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart weeps for my black friends and my black students. To be held suspect – or ignored – or targeted — or unfairly tried — or injured — or killed, all because of the hoodie on your back, or the plaits in your hair, or the pigment in your skin… it is an absolute abomination. I will fight with you for your voice to be heard.

My heart bleeds for my fellow-females. To have our autonomy threatened, our merits and strengths and choices and progress potentially peeled away… it is inadmissible. I will fight for our voices to be heard.

My heart is bruised and bloody this morning, but my shell is not broken. Like Mack, Seuss’s “plain little turtle” at the bottom of the stack, I will not give up. I will not give in. My voice will be heard. I will hold strong and I will belch out the injustices, over and over and over. Until that xenophobic, racist, sexist throne topples. And all voices are finally heard.

November 9, 2016 2

A Woman More Precious than Pearls

I’ve told y’all before how my grandmother saved me. She pulled me from the belly of the whale and brought me into light and love. Well, today I’m here to tell you that Parker and Tate’s grandmother has saved me, too. I’m starting to think that when a woman becomes a grandmother, some sort of transformative power – some mysterious, ministering pearl — gets planted into the center of her soul and settles, multiplies. And waits.

From the instant that the boys were pulled from my ginormous belly, my mother Rosalee, (hereafter, GiGi), has been a Godsend — an absolute blessing in grandmotherly garb. (Well, not really. She hardly owns anything grandmotherly. She is quite fond of leopard prints, fast cars, and shoe sales.) But she is a Godsend. That much is true.

gigiandbabes

The one thing that all twin parents told us from the get go – and that we, as twin parents, tell all new twin parents we know – is that you can never have enough help. (Remember my favorite proverb, one is one and two is ten?)

And my mom, without fail, has always been willing to lend a hand with our proverbial ten. She has driven one hour, one way, every single week for the last two-and-a-half years. (Math’s not my strong suit, but that translates to a helluva lot of travel time, people.)

In the beginning, during the insane sixteen months of scant sleep and even scanter sanity, she arrived at our doorstep twice a week, often bringing food and always staying overnight.

I recall a couple of critical nights when she and my sweet Bestie came and took the night shift so that Mike and I could get a little shut-eye. Now that the boys are a little more self-reliant (and finally sound sleepers), she’s weaned it down to once a week — though she always still stays the night. And the boys and I adore her for it. Especially during football season. She brings calm and conversation and highly capable assistance to our lonely nights without Daddy. Her sacrifices do not go unnoticed.

gigileopard

So let me tell you a little about our GiGi. She has a blonde bob that she sweeps to the side, a speedy, sleek convertible for country roads, and — at last count — eleven themed Christmas trees. She’s quite the eclectic personality.

She hails from the backwoods South of cotton and coal mines, loves Broadway musicals, and interior design. She drinks sprite mimosas (who needs champagne?) and can move massive furniture single-handed up flights of staircases where most men would require assistance.

It is from GiGi that I get my cooking skills, my temperament (easy-going, most days), and my fight (we can smolder, unchecked, for days until something sparks us and then we can burn down a whole forest).

And if I’m tossing around tree metaphors here, then she’s bound to be a bonsai – well-coiffed and quite compact. That’s one thing I don’t get from my mama…

The boys ADORE their GiGi. She makes their toast with honey, she gives great snuggles and second helpings, and, in keeping with Parker’s obsession over motorized vehicles, she has gadgets and gizmos aplenty. She’s got go karts and golf carts galore. You want automobiles? She’s got twenty (no, not really, but she does have a few in her stable). She’s our pint-sized GiGi in leopard print and convertible ride.

Sadly, during football season, we don’t make it to her place often. The only day we have with Daddy is Saturday, so we tend to stick close to home and him. But that doesn’t stop GiGi from coming to us.

This week she arrived for Trick or Treating – and we absolutely couldn’t have done it without her. And that’s no lie – that’s not even an exaggeration. Daddy had football, and Mommy had a strict moral code. You simply do not go door to door and collect candy if you don’t also hand out candy at your own front door. It’s a weird little ethical idiosyncrasy of mine. There are too many takers in this world, and a definite shortage of givers. So, as for me and mine, we will do our best to balance out the universe, one snack-size Snickers at a time.

So GiGi gave out candy, while the boys and I traipsed our street… eventually. But first we had to get the boys to wear their costumes — and we had a slight problem. Parker was supposed to be a firetruck, and Tate was supposed to be an Itsy Bitsy Spider (handpicked by them, mind you, from the Pottery Barn catalogue). But apparently it’s not just communism that only works on paper. Add costumes to that list. Tate had a meltdown – a full-blown, chubby-cheeked, toddler Chernobyl. He wanted to wear the firetruck, too.

firetruck

Now I blame myself. I really should’ve known better. Truly. No matter what we do, Mike and I always, always, always buy two of the same thing, which doesn’t stop the boys from fighting, but still… But this time, just this once, I thought it would be different.

Which was simply stupid of me because I also should’ve known that when it comes to any sort of “different” duds the boys don’t adjust well — Tate in particular. He has a hint of his father’s OCD in him.

For instance, during Cartersville’s Homecoming week about a month ago, the boys’ day care mapped out a fun-filled week of spirit days. Monday brought us silly sock day – so seemingly fun and harmless, yes?

“That’s a negative, ghost rider. The pattern [was too] full.”

Because, apparently in my obsessively compulsive Tate Bug’s mind, funky, mismatched, divergently-patterned socks is just way too excessive for his sensibilities. There was absolutely no way he was wearing one olive green dinosaur sock and one bright orange monster sock. Not with a sweet plaid button up and khaki shorts, thank you very much.

It took chocolate chip cookies for breakfast and a subtle sleight of feet to get them on unnoticed. Then came Hat Day, not nearly as psychologically damaging as silly socks, but again, not well received. And then came total anarchy with Pajama Day. It nearly did us all in – and not for the reason you’re thinking. This time, they both EMBRACED the concept. Like totally and completely. Because Minion PJs should be worn to school each and every day. Forever and Ever. Amen.

pjday

So our recent track record with strange and unusual attire has not been stellar. And to be perfectly honest, this time I don’t think it was that Tate necessarily wanted to wear the firetruck so much as he didn’t want to slip the spider’s large, dark, fuzzy cephalothorax over his head. I think he’s a wee bit claustrophobic. Convinced that fear was the problem, GiGi and I tried getting Tate to step into his costume… and it was still a no-go.

But then I got to thinking – the boys probably didn’t understand what Halloween really involves — the seemingly endless supply of sweets, as well as the sweet freedom of walking smack down the center of the street. I mean, when does a toddler ever get that privilege?

Therefore, GiGi and I, along with the ready and willing assistance of brother Parker, modeled some serious Trick or Treating skills, complete with ringing of doorbell and distribution of suckers. It took no time at all before Tate was fully ensconced in spider finery and ready for the open road — which in all honestly, probably held greater sway than the candy treats in the whole scenario…

So that makes TWO ways the boys and I couldn’t have done Halloween without GiGi. She distributed candy to the masses – and I mean MASSES of little ghouls and goblins– AND she helped us navigate the treacherous landscape of weird wardrobe angst.

gigicostume

My little costumed adventurers only trekked to eight neighbor’s houses before we set our sights toward home. The houses are far apart on our street, and the boys had plodded purposefully to each one with confidence, only to find themselves speechless and shy at the doorway. I had managed to coax a fist-muffled “Trick or Treat” out of both boys every time, but still, eight was plenty.

As we made our way through the hordes, Parker and Tate spied GiGi distributing treats amidst a crowd of kiddos in costume. They instantly picked up speed, their plastic pumpkins practically careening off felted kneecaps and showering the street with treats.

“I found you, GiGi! I found you, GiGi!” — as if she were a long lost treasure, and they alone understood her import. But that is not true.

I, too, understand her import. I truly, truly do. For she is far more precious than pearls. And boy does she have them — pearls of wisdom and truth and love and hope and energy and time and joy and peace… they pour out of her. She has shared those pearls with us so very generously and so very faithfully for the past two-and-a-half years. GiGi’s worth simply cannot be measured. And my humble thanks can never be payment enough. But still, I offer them up in this month of Thanksgiving.

Thank you.

November 4, 2016 0

The Velveteen Woman: Aren’t I Real Enough Already?

I’m a Velveteen Woman on an authentic journey to become Real.( If you know the story — Oh, my gosh, it makes me cry!!! Like Ugly Cry, complete with quivering lip and all sorts of snot cry!!! — then you know what I mean. And if you don’t — go read it. Like yesterday.) Anyways… I’m a Velveteen Woman on a journey to become Real. And some days I just feel way too torn and tattered to keep going. No, let me clarify. Some WEEKS I just feel way too torn and tattered — and just plain broken– to keep going. And this past week has been that sort of week.

I feel like I’ve been steamrolled by the planet. My bones are weary and my mind is pressed flat. Why, you ask?

Well, maybe it’s because I’m fifty. And the mother of four children — two of whom are twins… boys… who are toddlers. Add to that two girls who are twenty something and on their own authentic journeys to become Real (and I feel every knock and nick that they get along the way — maybe even more-so. Because when your baby hurts, you hurt, no matter how old they get). Then there’s the fact that I’m an English teacher drowning in essays, and that I’m a football widow in the tenth week of football season –and we’re still gunning for another six (Good Lord willing…) Oh, and don’t forget the piece de resistance — my State Health Benefit Plan decided to drop kick our boys’ coverage this week.

So this week, my journey has rubbed off a lot of my edges and stolen some of my shine. Let’s start with the fact that I’m fifty. I am nowhere near as bright and shiny as I was thirty years ago. Back then I had glossy hair and firm skin and stuffing in most of the right places. I had muscles and stamina for days. There was lightning harnessed to my giddy-up. I could run 5Ks, host block parties, create four-course dinners and chop an acre of firewood and still snap, crackle and pop at the end of the day. Now, I’m lucky to have snap, crackle and pop at the breakfast table — unless it’s a chorus from my joints and a bowl of Rice Krispies.

And being the mother of four has done some work on my lovely lady lumps. I wouldn’t go so far as the Bob Segar song and claim my “points were way up firm and high” back then, but they definitely weren’t stretched and deflated to the point of flapping in a brisk wind if they aren’t strapped in properly. Four babies and four years of breastfeeding takes its toll on your breasteses.

nursing

And so do three pregnancies – especially one with twins. My skin is puckered and striped and dimpled. I’ve been pulled and torn and redistributed. And stitched back together. My belly bears a nice, six-inch seam where the good doctors scooped out two darling little melon balls in my first and only C-section at age forty-seven. At that age, the elastin in the skin isn’t quite what it once was. Needless to say, my stuffing has fallen and nestled into soft, comfy pooches in inconvenient and unattractive places. Add to that, my saggy hindquarters, and I’m just a soft, comfy lap of lady lumps.

34weeks

Along with my belly seam, I also bear a dog-legged scar across my right paw, which I earned, of all things, by doing laundry. Two-and-a-half-year-old twins come with not just double the laundry –because, as my friend once said, “one is one and two is ten” – but with exponentially multiplying mountains of laundry. Every day brings ground-in clay and spattered curry, skid marks and grass stains, ripped seams and snotted sleeves… Last December, while putting away the endless backlog of socks and underwear I broke my distal radius. As I stepped to the side to pull open a drawer, Tate at my side, my ankle slid out of joint – yet another weakness from my years of service on this earth – and I had to make a quick choice: sacrifice my wrist or sacrifice my youngest. Since Tate is a relatively important component of our family unit and my right hand is my dominant and most-used portion of my body, it was quite the quandary. In the split second decision, Tate won and my wrist lost. Badly. Between fracture and surgery, it was a five-month loss. If I’d chosen Tate, I bet he would’ve bounced back in two, tops.

dogearedscar

So my body has often been sacrificed upon the alter of motherhood. But it’s not been simply limited to my body. My mind has paid a tremendous price, too. I’m not nearly as quick-witted as I once was. It’s a spongey mass of mire, sucking and slurping and slowing me down. I think the majority of decay occurred during the sixteen months of sleeplessness that Mike and I endured after the boys’ birth. Regardless, my electrodes just don’t fire as fast as they once did. Perhaps the biggest impact has been on my teaching load. I feel like I still do a decent job of instructing my students – of leading them through the mazes of symbolism and themes, interpretations and analyses. Where I’ve taken the hardest hits is the grading. Piles of essays grow even faster than my mountains of laundry. My desk looks like the Manhattan skyline. This week, alone, Hamlet and Ophelia have taken up residence in a couple of high-rise stacks already occupied by the Lady of Shallot and a serial killer named Arnold Friend. My gorged and glutted in-box creates strange bedfellows, indeed.

desk

But if my teacher’s inbox is a sprawling, metropolis of gangly skyscrapers, my personal email is an un-weeded garden, where things rank and gross in nature secretly sprout. It is here that the emails regarding our insurance travesty sat like poisonous mushrooms multiplying in the darkness. You see, like Hamlet, my wit’s diseased, and I don’t have good sense enough to regularly monitor my g-mail.

But then again, who would think an insurance company would just drop babies midyear for no clear reason? And send letters about their intentions to old addresses? And not email your work address, where you get all other correspondence, to let you know? And not telephone you at all to inform you you’re under the gun? Apparently, it happens. We were audited. Someone somewhere pointed a mean, nasty middle finger at our family, and BANG.

The State Health Benefit Plan gave us four months to comply with the audit’s demands (so incredibly generous, no?). Unfortunately, for the entire four months we remained blissfully ignorant, thinking we were following the rules of the universe and enjoying our life, liberties and pursuits of happiness. All the while, our insurance providers were tunneling under our best-laid precautions preparing to blow them to smithereens. Two-and-a-half year old twins with no health insurance at the very cusp of cold weather and The Creepy Crud? FML.

Now the boys seem to have taken the news of no insurance in stride, maintaining their status quo of textbook twin toddlers, boisterously brawling and loving in equal measure. They’ve wrangled over bar stools, bloodied their kneecaps, chanted nursery rhymes, fought for control of the cayenne pepper, had meltdowns over melting ice, locked themselves in our van along with my keys, chunked dried apricots at the cat, giggled contagiously in the tub, and hugged one another to the point of unquenchable rage. And that was just yesterday.

Upon the news, Mike continued on the way that he always does, leaping tall buildings and intercepting all the wicked slings and arrows that outrageous fortune has lobbed our way — including the discovery he unearthed yesterday while working his magic and getting our boys back on an insurance policy: Mike himself has had no insurance since October 1^st! Yep. Big, fat middle finger pointed our way. But the point is, my man mountain is way-beyond-textbook husband and father. He stands strong in the storm. Every time. I don’t know what I would do without him. He picks up my stuffing. He tucks it back in. He shoulders my shortcomings and he shelters my babes — all four of them. It’s fitting that he’s a Purple Hurricane coach. He knows the ins and outs of life’s storms and he weathers them with grace.

And he is the calm in the storm of my crazy because, Lord, have I been a textbook basket case this week. I’ve been falling apart at my already weakened seams – so much so that I’m shedding hair and tears and sleep and health and sanity until I’m as limp and floppy as the Velveteen Rabbit.

And according to the Skin Horse in the classic tale, “It takes a long time to become real… it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

So, I think this week finally did it. I think I’m finally Real. Maybe a long time is fifty years. I know I don’t break too easily – only one bone so far (knock on wood). Most of my hair has been loved off and my joints are definitely loose and my appearance is shabby – especially if you catch me on the weekends where I choose to never get out of my pjs unless I am absolutely forced to do so. Now my eyes haven’t dropped out yet, but they’re most definitely drooping… And I’m pretty certain this week knocked off any sharp edges I still managed to have left.

So, yeah, I feel like I should finally be Real… But I know it’s never that simple. Because I am on an authentic journey. And it’s never over until it’s over. But as I’ve said in past blogs, I can do this hard thing.

Because what keeps me going is that I KNOW I’m truly loved. By five of the most amazing humans this world has ever cradled: Caitlin, Bethany, Parker, Tate, and Mike. I don’t deserve their love, but I am so eternally grateful for it. And they make me FEEL Real — whether I’m actually there or not. (And I’m sure I’m not.) And I’m loved by the Creator of our Universe. I am snuggled and sheltered, and sometimes weathered and wizened — all in the name wisdom and growth. I have been blessed in so many ways and with so many wonderful experiences. And those experiences sometimes knock me about a bit. But they just add to the love.

So all of you struggling women out there doing the hard thing and getting your edges knocked off and your stuffing pulled out. Keep on keeping on. You’re exhausted. I know. I get it. But we’re all Velveteen Women on our authentic journey to become Real. And the closer we get to Real, the harder it gets and the more knocked-about we feel. But we can do this hard thing. And we are getting there. Every nick, chip, and bruise along the way, we are getting there. We can do this hard thing.

allofus

October 28, 2016 4

postmodernfamilyblog

Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters

Author