postmodernfamilyblog

Tell all the Truth, but Tell it Slant.

tell it slant

Wise words from Miss Emily Dickinson, shy and sheltered spinster poet. Considering I’m shy and sheltered myself (minus the spinster part), I take her words to heart. All of my blog posts are personal truths about love and motherhood, family and teaching, and just plain life as I live and know it. But the one personal truth I have not yet shared has been my faith – nor had I any intention of doing so. But then last night, I prayed for some guidance about what to write for this week’s entry… and wondrously, at 2:00 am, Dickinson’s lines woke me. They were running through my head like a mantra –which is surprising since I hadn’t read her poem in decades. But I knew immediately what truth I was supposed to tell.

I’ve known a lot of truth in my fifty years. And I’ve known a lot of lies. I know the phrase, “the gospel truth,” and I believe in it. But I have seen a multitude of transgressions committed in the name of those selfsame gospels, and I must admit that the Good Book has been used in the past to crack me through to the very core. And it still can send me cowering to a corner if someone too dogmatic and zealous waves it at me. So how do I go about telling all of you my truth without sending you running headlong away from my sinful self and the harsh realities of my past? Or perhaps worse, running toward me with promises of salvation and sanctuary within the walls that house your own cloistered congregations…

The truth must dazzle gradually, says the divine Miss Em. So let me ease you into it. And the best way to explain it is that I’m sort of like the alcoholic’s daughter who won’t try a sip of beer or go into a bar because she’s afraid she’ll become a raging alcoholic. She’s afraid she’s inherited that dispensation toward weakness and rash behavior – or in this instance – weakness and rash beliefs and that she’ll — I’ll– end up a radical, out-of-control zealot ready to condemn any and all who don’t think and feel as I do. So I steer clear of sanctuaries and Sunday schools, and FCA meetings, and even organized prayer chains. My fears are real and they are debilitating. Because from a young and impressionable age I was thrust into a controlling and questionable church. By the way, I’m a believer. But I believe in the Love of Christ. Not the liturgy. Organized religion controlled me once. To the point of near-annihilation. That’s one time too many.

Until the age of ten, I grew up a free-spirited, southern tomboy. My little postage stamp of native soil was none other than Faulkner’s own Yoknapatawpha. My summers were a barefoot bohemian paradise. I played house in creek beds, chased snakes in kudzu, deadheaded marigolds in the garden and drank Kool-Aid in dixie cups. Just describing it, I realize that this idyllic place has all of the haunting, symbolic overtures of that original garden and the fall from innocence… And indeed, in the late summer of my eleventh year, thunderstorms stacked themselves tall and dark on the horizon and triggered that inevitable fall.

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My family decided to pack up and hit the road like twentieth-century tribes of Israel, along with about a dozen others from tiny towns in northern Mississippi, and head out to Dallas, Texas to forge a new, eternal life in the blazing-hot Promised Land. Once we reached the proverbial land of milk and honey, all childhood innocence banished. There were no creek beds or kudzu in the concrete jungle. Instead, there were rules. And orders. And boundaries. And curfews. Fraternizing with the neighbors was frowned upon. So was public television, unless it was church sanctioned. (The church allowed football, thank God, and it’s in Dallas, that my passion for football was formed.So there’s a silver lining.) But back to my coming of age… Over the next five years, I was dutifully schooled on the hazards of being a girl. The world was big; I was small. The world was bad; I was a good girl. The world was dangerous; I was weak. The world was out to get me; I needed looking after. I needed firm guidance. I needed to rely on the Lord’s wisdom and the church’s protection. I was weak and feeble-minded and incapable of forming opinions. As a female, I bore the stain of original sin and would always need a male figure (pastor, father, husband) to guide my wicked and wayward soul. Education was not for me. High school (a private and church controlled ) was as far as I would or could go. My voice was silenced and my opinions were hobbled.

But I didn’t go down without a fight, I will say that. There wasn’t much I could do because I had no true weapons or ammunition, but I did what I could. I quit eating. I quit communicating. I curled inward and shut down. At one point toward the end, the church thought they had me where they could break me. I remember a room filled with elders in beards and three-piece power suits. I remember prayers. And prophecies. And speaking in tongues. And condemnations. And demands. And laying-on of hands.

I have despised beards with a fear bordering on phobia ever since…

The irony of needing salvation from a faith that promises salvation does not escape me.

But escape, I did. And salvation, I found.

grandma

My parents saved me and my grandmother rescued me. Somehow my mother and father managed to extricate me from the ravenous claws of theocracy and religious radicalism, while they themselves remained firmly entangled and entrenched within its dogma. I know it wasn’t easy on them after I left. I know they bore the stigma of failure– and probably a whole lot worse — because of it. I’m sure the inability to control a girl-child was an outrageous sin of grievous proportions. But they risked all and flung me as far and wide as they could: two states over, to a little town with a big reputation, Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Again, the irony that my salvation was found in the belly of the apocalyptic Manhattan Project does not escape me.

But escape I did. Thanks to my sweet grandma.

She, above all others, showed me what it means to truly embody Christ and his teachings. She sacrificed so much to accept me, her mysterious firstborn grandchild with the broken sense of self and the paralyzed soul. She nursed me back and she showed me the light. She proved to me that I could make it in this world, that I was important, that I was smart, that I was worthy. She was a female phenom. She modeled what I knew I wanted to be. Strong and willful and courageous and true. Because of her, I eventually went back to school and got my degree. Because of her, I raised strong-willed, able-bodied, incredibly intelligent daughters. Because of her, I write.

girls

I was silenced for far too long. I shied away from hard subjects. I shied away from confrontation. I shied away from truths. But now I’m telling all the truth. And my truths aren’t told out of anger. Or shame. Or to cause harm. Or to seek pity. My truths are told to help others. Other women who don’t feel or know their value. Who’ve been denigrated and diminished until their spirits are dried up and their souls are sawdust. Other children who have been bullied and badgered into choices and changes that fly in the face of their sweet sensibilities and ultimate destinies. These stories should be told. These opinions should be heard. And so I will tell all my truth. And I will wait for them to tell theirs. The truth must dazzle gradually…

August 29, 2016 1

Twin Mommy and Football Wife: Fairy Tale Endings

I just poured myself a shot of wine. Yes, a shot. In a shot glass. Feels more like communion and less like compulsion that way. Body of Christ… grant me patience and perseverance… It was a rough week. Meetings to attend and essays to grade, lectures to deliver and tempers to be checked (both my students’ and my own). Add to that the care and keeping of twins and the day-to-day maintenance of a household and some days – even weeks — feel like defeat. This was one of them. The boys have been going at each other like Ali and Frazier — over cookies… over iPads… over who gets to touch the refrigerator.

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This week’s twin mom demands were nothing too spectacular, so I really don’t know why I cracked under the pressure, but crack, I did. The battles seem small in comparison to some of the other hurdles I’ve met. Colic and teething were rough; the sleepless year-and-a-half with a twin hanging off each udder to keep them pacified was just plain mind-altering. (I will never get that gray matter back.) The norovirus that lay claim to the boys’ and my guts for a prodigious three days and three nights until we were turned nearly inside-out from the heaving definitely ranks up there. But I think the constant chipping away of my confidence and composure this week thanks to angry little elves in toddler frames took its toll. I tipped over the precipice of sanity on at least two occasions, becoming what I lovingly call the raging, radioactive Mothera…

There’s a really cheesy, really dumb movie from the early 90s called Godzilla vs. Mothra that Mike made me watch once. I thought at the time that it was a complete and total waste of two hours that I would never get back. Turns out, I now live the plotline and it has been retitled Brozilla vs Mothera – and Mothera appears to be losing ground to my dynamic and devastating duo. I really should have paid more attention to that movie. I don’t remember who finally gets the upper hand… So I scoff no longer… but I do take shots — when the kids are safely ensconced in their cribs.

This week was especially hard because after Saturday night, the boys only saw their Daddy for thirty minutes or so every morning all the way up until Thursday night. A couple of nights, while putting Tate to bed, he snuggled up under my neck and said, “I miss my Daddy” in the saddest little voice you ever did hear. Poor fella. I do too, Tate, and so does Parker. They definitely are confused and acting out as a result. And so is the blasted dog. Friday afternoons, I have exactly one-hour-and-a-half to get snacks organized, sippy cups filled, diaper bags packed, boys bathed and dressed, me changed, and the car loaded for the football game. This week, while trying to fix the side dish for our post-game, field house soiree, Neci the dastardly Dachshund decided to take a dump right where she knew we’d walk in it. Unfortunately, I was not the first to find it. While I was running around like a train derailment in the kitchen, the boys, unbeknownst to them or me, trampled the turds from living room to kitchen, hitting two rugs, a scattered stack of storybooks and a stretch of hardwood floors in the process. I didn’t discover the devastation until we had ten minutes and counting to be saddled into car seats and out the door. I may have cussed a bit. Just saying.

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Football wife had her share of hardships this week, as well. Friday night was our first football game of the season, and it rained. After a high of 90 some odd degrees of blistering, summertime heat in Georgia, it rained. You can imagine the sauna that ensued. I’m talking, soul-sucking heat and humidity. Toddlers clinging to my neck, right along with wet ropes of hair and soggy bits of goldfish crackers. I looked like Monica from Friends that time they vacationed in Jamaica. My hair was a humidity-powered helmet out to rival any player’s on the field. And my makeup… let’s just say Alice Cooper, godfather of shock rock and mascara mayhem, would’ve run screaming from my visage, half-sunk amidst the scattered remains of my foundation. I was a sight. I thank my lucky stars that Mike is apparently love-drunk — or a true Southern gentleman raised in South Detroit — because he never said a word about how hideous I looked after the game (so I had no idea until I got home and saw the devastation). When we left the house, the boys and I were cute. It probably didn’t last through the first quarter, but we were cute. Tatebug in his bug shirt and Parkerbear in his bear one, me in the one and only purple shirt I own –blissfully unaware of the fact that I had two gaping holes in the shoulder until around midnight, when I had absolutely, positively already turned into a pumpkin puree’… I was a Cinderella Swamp Monster.

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But back to Game Night: the umbrellas were out, the handheld fans were oscillating, and the far from fair-weather fans were abuzz. This was a battle of the best the state has to offer: reigning 4A and 5A state champions, opening up the 2016 season together, going at it for the unadulterated rigor and vigor of competition… and, let’s face it, bragging rights. It was a great game, and a sloppy game. A great, big sloppy game. There were touchdown passes that college crowds don’t see the likes of, thanks to our young quarterback with a cannon for an arm and an offensive army to back him. And the defense! Our Canes defenders rode out the majority of the game clock, meeting a so-called smash-mouth offense and giving more than they got.

The Hurricanes were churning it up on the field and it was a sight to see… only Tate was much more mesmerized by the suicidal moths flirting fatally with the stadium lights. He’s not our Bug Boy for nothin’. He wanted up there with the “itsy bitsies,” as he called them. There were a couple of close moments there when I thought I was going to have a screaming toddler amidst a stadium of tightly-packed athletic supporters (tee hee) — no, seriously, we were jammed in there elbow to elbow and kneecap to backbone — but I managed to redirect Tate’s energies by freely handing out dum-dum suckers, one after the other (to his brother, too, I might add), just to keep the peace. It’s easier to deal with the dental bills later.

The boys were sweet for the most part, but a challenge, nonetheless. Getting them up and down the stands in the rain and mug was exhausting. That, plus them turning into the 35-pound equivalent of lap dogs the entire game, and I hit a wall round about the end of the second quarter. I didn’t think I could muster the energy to breathe the sultry, steamy air a minute longer. I was fading and fading fast. But it’s amazing what a wink and a smile from your man can do to recharge your spirit. He stopped by our seats on the way to the coaches’ box after halftime and suddenly, all was right in this swamp princess’ world. I don’t know what I ever did in this lifetime to get such a solid man (and he would insert some fat joke here, I’m sure, but that is not what I’m saying, at all…) I’m thanking my lucky stars every, single night. He’s got that certain, special something, that magical, mythical ingredient that makes swamp ass and strained nerves vanish, makes flying solo during the season while braving toddler twins and a lonely house so totally worth it, and somehow he makes a girl with helmet hair and Alice Cooper eyes still feel sexy. He loves me, even when I’m a crazy, raging Mothera. Even when I’m a Cinderella Swamp Monster. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why it happened. I don’t know how I deserve it. But I have my soul mate. And yes, he’s gone a whole awful lot. And yes,we miss him. He’s a helluva coach and a helluva man. But he’s a heaven-sent Daddy and a heaven-sent husband. And I am one lucky woman. One very blessed wife and mother. I win.

Oh, and so did our team. Go Canes!

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August 22, 2016 0

For my Four Babies. And my Thousands More…

Motherhood is a fearsome and wondrous thing. It is a paradox of ginormous proportions, full of sacrifice and salvation, hazards and hallelujahs. It requires strictness and softness, discipline and wild abandon. It is both bright and beautiful, and dark and draining. It is savagely, insanely strong, and it is fragile and insanely frightening.

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Right now in my life, I am two kinds of mother. I am the up close and personal and the long-distance devotional. Up close and personal motherhood demands wide arms and an even wider lap. There must be snuggles, and tickle monsters, and story time chairs, the occasional cupcake for breakfast, lots of crusty snot kisses and all manner of privacy lost. Long-distance devotional motherhood brings late night phone calls, biweekly FaceTimes, and random text marathons. There are Easter, birthday and Christmas goodies to be mailed, numerous road trips to be made and blessed reunions to be had. Both types of motherhood come with daily prayers, loads of laughter and plenty of tears. But the recipe for each is unconditional love for all of eternity.

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This week, after reading several heartbreaking and anger-rousing personal narratives by my students, I have been reminded – once again for perhaps the two hundredth time or more as a teacher – that my definition of motherhood is not everyone’s definition of motherhood. And this crushes my mother’s heart to its very core.

In my sixteen years as a secondary teacher, I’ve seen battered teens, homeless teens, molested teens and drug-addicted teens. I’ve seen young adults haunted by all manner of familial demons. They’ve ridden the storms of failed marriages, felt the trauma of ripped families. They’ve suffered the stigma and shame of home evictions. They’ve borne the weight of sibling deaths and parental suicide. Some are bitter; others blame themselves. Some are searching for love in proverbial dead ends. Others are hardened to love and are angry. If they are lucky, the anger is redirected into extra-curriculars that are sanctioned by society and school. But that’s not always the case. So many young men and women have taken up the cross of rejection and dejection, denial and guilt at a very young, very impressionable age.

As a mother, I am not blameless. Not by a long shot. I flung my own two beautiful daughters into the howling, painful abyss of a failed marriage. They know all too well the agony of a home ripped to ruin and the struggle to balance a broken family. I take my job as mother quite seriously, I always have, and yet I have done irreparable harm. Even the most careful and conscientious among us does. Add into the mix all of the hardened, the jaded, the marred, the scarred, the vicious and the cruel mothers out there, and I’m amazed the world still has any goodness and grace left in it. I honestly am.

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Motherhood is tough. I know it. I own it. At times it feels impossible. So much is out of my control. Then on top of motherhood, add the calling of teacher — with so many more lives entrusted to my care, along with so many more restrictions, so many more unknowns and so many uncontrollable origins and angles and — suddenly — I’m overwhelmed, I’m terrified, and I’m inept.

This week, two former students — now mothers themselves– suffered mightily at the hands of a callous universe. One was a vibrant young mother taken way too soon, leaving behind a precious, precocious toddler. I taught this young mother. I knew her. Her life was hard. Her path was littered with difficulties, with uncertainty, with confusion. She was torn asunder in the push and pull of it all. She left Woodland’s halls and my classroom walls several years back, and I immediately lost touch. Did I do enough? Could I have helped? I’m haunted by my inadequacies. She was bright. She was talented. She had such potential. I feel that I failed her.

The second is a beautiful, strong, spiritual mother who has had to face more in her young life than any mama sixty years her senior should ever have to face. In just over a year and a half, she has lost two of her three children to an incurable and mysterious illness. Twice she has held tiny hands and kissed tiny noses while praying mammoth prayers amidst tubes and wires and ports and invasive medical procedures. And twice the prayers and the tests have accomplished naught. This week she said goodbye to her beautiful baby girl. Her wide arms and wide lap have suffered two unspeakable losses. I can’t fathom her pain. I can scarcely breathe when I even imagine her loss, her agonizing, mother’s grief. Yet her faith has never waivered. Her strength and her confidence in God and His Will is always intact. Again, I am haunted by my own inadequacies. I am a mother, and I am a teacher, but I am nowhere near the mother and teacher that this young woman is. I never had the privilege of teaching her, but she has taught me so very much about the grace and love and strength of a good mother. I am in awe of her.

Motherhood is a fierce and fragile and frightening thing. I pray every day that I am doing my absolute all to nurture and mold these four precious gifts I have been given. It is a tall order. Two are out of my nest and far from my loving arms. I can’t wrap them up in hugs and kisses anymore. Not physical ones — at least not very often. But they make me proud on a daily basis. And I worry over them on a daily basis. And while my arms and lap aren’t THAT wide, my love IS – it is deep and wide enough to travel the distance so that my girls feel it when they need it. It is always with them. I hope they never forget that.

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And then there are these boys. Whew! I’m new to boys. They challenge my patience and my perseverance every day. They keep me hopping, that’s for certain. But my arms and lap are here for the here and now, always ready for a snuggle, and a story, and to wipe away snot.

And then, there are my students. For I find teaching to be a responsibility closely akin to motherhood. So I suppose I am THREE kinds of mothers right now in my life. And my students challenge me daily, as well. Can I ever be enough? Do enough? Care enough? to truly be a help in this, their hour of need?

To be given the opportunity to mother my babies, both born to me and gifted to me in the classroom, is a responsibility I take very seriously. I try every day to be worthy. Some days I fail. I would like to believe that on many days, I win. I pray that I have enough. Enough love to show them that they are beautiful and perfect and worth only the very best. Enough strength to offer stability in their tilting, whirling worlds in Dallas, in Knoxville, in Euharlee, and in Woodland High. Enough joy to help them find sunshine beyond their personal raging storms. Enough wisdom to teach life and not just lessons, so they might learn independence and discipline, autonomy and connectivity, outspokenness and humility. Lord, help me to have enough, to be enough, to love enough.

For all of my babies. For them all.

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August 15, 2016 0

An Exercise in Fertility

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Three years ago this week was a big week for us. Huge. Monumental, even. On August 3, 2013, bright and early on a Sunday morning we drove the forty some-odd miles down to the Georgia Perimeter to Georgia Reproductive Specialists because it was egg retrieval day and time for Mike to make his dutiful “deposit.” We were both nervous wrecks. It was a seminal moment – on so many levels. The other day, when reminiscing, I borrowed heavily from one of my favorite poets and penned a little “Red Wheelbarrow” parody:

so much depends

upon

a sterile dixie cup

glazed with hard

swimmers

beside the petri

dish

Because so much did depend on that day and that cup and that petri dish. And luckily, Mike’s swimmers were reliable little guys. And don’t get me started on the generous and steadfast nature of our donor and her eggs. I wish there were a way to explain to you and to her how truly indebted we are for her incredible sacrifice. I know it wasn’t easy. She endured hormone shots and blood draws, ovarian hyper-stimulation and surgical egg retrieval — which I understand was hardly, as the old song goes, “Easy Like Sunday Morning”– which was when she drove to our clinic, just after daybreak, to tender our eggs. She is my hero… and I will never know who she is.

But I know that she is strong. I know that she is selfless. I know that she went through pain and agony and tremendous risk to incubate new life for a couple she didn’t know, would never even meet. Ever. And she delivered – like the Stork; like Santa Claus; like the sunrise; like the rainbow . She delivered little bundles of promise and beauty and perfection and joy aspirated through a needle into plastic culture dishes. Science and nature. Miracles and medicine. Magic and mathematics. To God be the Glory – and talk about Amazing Grace. Our donor has it. She lived it. She is it.

We had arranged with GRS to do a shared cycle, which meant that the clinic would receive half of the eggs she produced and we would receive the other half. It was kind of a BOGO deal with a twist: Buy One, Give One — the only IVF plan we could feasibly afford on teachers’ salaries. It was a gamble that paid off beautifully, thanks to our donor and the quality of her fierce follicles. We ended up with five beautifully round and robust little embryos. And it turns out we only needed two. Our donor was THAT good. And to give credit where credit’s due, so was Mike’s baby batter.

We received our first pictures of our boys on August 8, 2013. Their bubbly little personalities shining through, even in that first portrait. Every anniversary, I’ve stacked that first photo on top of a current one, and this year is no exception. It’s amazing how two such distinct and brilliant little people can come from such microscopic origins.

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Parker Isaac and Tate Michael.

We knew we wanted names with symbolic heft. From the moment we decided to pursue IVF, we christened a boy Isaac, as a nod to the grace of God and the Old Testament story of Abraham and Sarah. If you aren’t familiar or in case you’ve forgotten, it is the tale of God’s promise to a barren couple that they would have a son, even though Sarah was ninety at the time. If not for modern medicine and miracles, I would’ve been beyond childbearing age myself (though nowhere near 90, thank you very much). So Isaac was a given from the get go. We also knew we wanted a Michael — to pay homage to Mike and his father and grandfather before him. And Tate was my grandmother’s brother and a name I have always loved, so that was an easy one, too. The fourth one, though, was a bit harder to come by. We rooted and rummaged through Nameberry, voting and vetoing as our little guys grew from the size of newts to arctic puffins before finally deciding on Parker — a tribute to Mike’s Korean heritage, where Park is a common surname. So there. We had names. Now to decide who would be whom…

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We didn’t want the firstborn to have Michael attached to his name for a very important reason. There is a tradition in many Asian cultures (and to be fair, Judeo-Christian societies as well) where the Number One son receives the birthright and the blessings and Number Two plays second fiddle (or second gayageum, I guess, if we’re talking Korean here…) Anyways, we were more than willing to part ways with such unjust, blatant favoritism. So we knew that Baby B would be Tate Michael and receive the honor of his father’s name. And Baby A would be Parker Isaac and receive the honor of biblical promise. Both boys would receive beautifully perfect namesakes.

Now apparently the boys battled it out in utero to determine who would be — not firstborn — but last. In typical “the first shall be last and the last shall be first” fashion, Tate, who had been Baby A (which simply means, the baby closest to the cervix) for more than seven months, scrambled up my ribcage like a set of monkey bars at the last available second and grabbed tight, therein winning the title of Tate Michael. Parker, who had been Baby B for almost the duration of the pregnancy saw the world a whopping one minute earlier than his brother and won the moniker, Parker Isaac.

In keeping with that Korean surname first name, Parker’s eyes are more Asian, like dark-roasted almonds. His smile is deep and wide and his skin is the color of moonstones. He is our gentle giant, giver of bear hugs, open-mouthed kisses and truck trivia. He can tell a backhoe from an excavator, a car transporter from a semi and he LOVES to share his knowledge. And he is his father’s mini me.

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Tate, on the other hand, looks like me (or at least that’s what people tell me, and I’ll take it– even if it is technically impossible). And just like me, he loves books. From the time he could clutch one, he’s had a book in his hand. And a song on his lips. He sings from sunup to sundown – or at least AT sunup and sundown because we hear it on the monitor. There is no sweeter alarm clock than hearing such classic toddler tunes as “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Wheels on the Bus” … although hearing them at 2:20 AM if he accidentally wakes up can be a wee bit spooky.

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So this week is always a huge week for us. On August 3, 2013 Mike did his fatherly duty with a few minutes of hard labor and a plastic covered remote control. Five fizzy, fertilized, egg-splitting days later, on August 8^th, our beloved fertility doc, in his white coat and hair net, siphoned our embryos into the core of my being, where they immediately took up residency in my heart and soul. I became a mother again for the third and fourth time. And for the first time to boys. Mike became a father. The girls became sisters to brothers.

August 8th is legendary.

August 8, 2016 1

Twinnis Elbow and other TWINges

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I have twinnis elbow — a malady common to mothers who perform heavy lifting of twin toddlers, repeatedly. The condition manifests when twin boys mature to the solid, hefty sum of thirty-two pounds and still love their mama’s arms as much as when they were newborn lightweights. It is a painful and beautiful thing. My specific ailment originated from a robust bedtime routine… one I refuse to give up, regardless of the carnage.

I am one who believes in the sanctity of routines. The girls had them — bedtime ones, bath time ones, weekend and weekday ones. And while theirs were enforced, I was a bit more flexible with them than with the boys – as was my mind and body some twenty-three years ago… Because according to twin parents everywhere (and if you’ve survived twins, you’re my go to guru; otherwise, just walk away) without routines, I would be nuttier than our ultrasound on gender reveal day. (No, that’s not quite accurate because on gender reveal day, one of the boys’ turtles was shy and tried to disguise itself as a hamburger — ultrasound speak for boy and girl parts. Which means we thought we had both Almond Joy and Mounds babies (remember the jingle? Almond Joy’s got nuts. Mounds don’t.) for approximately two weeks. But I digress…

From 4:30 until around 6:00 there’s no real set schedule. And it almost kills me and my twinnis elbow, but there’s not much that can be done about it. There is a constant frantic flurry of me heaving boys in and out of car seats, up and down my hip from stove top to watch pots cooking, to sink side to wash hands a gazillion times –because either they love the feeling of running water on their hands like every other toddler on the planet, or they are developing their father’s OCD –and then there’s more launching into and out of high chairs. By 6:00, my elbow is a fiery fulcrum… And this is where routine comes in to both help and to hinder… it helps my sanity and hinders my joint health.

From 6:00 until bedtime, the routine is solid and unwavering (except on Friday nights during football season…). They get their tablet time from 6-6:50. It is a welcome respite for all three of us. They love their iPads, and when I say love, I mean nothing comes between them and such youtube favorites as “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and any and all fire engine assembly videos. I mean nothing.

Like literally, I mean nothing to them when they are plugged in.

But that’s all well and good because iPad time is when I get laundry, dishes, and maybe a couple of blog paragraphs done. But it’s also the time when my elbow gets the opportunity to cool down. And you quarterbacks, pitchers and moms know it’s never good for your muscles to relax and cool down, mid-game. There’s a reason heated arm sleeves are worn on the sidelines… Raising twins is a heavy contact sport. I may need to invest in some occupational equipment…

Anyways… once the iPads are put away, the heavy lifting begins again. Carrying the boys, with arched backs and flailing legs (that’s them AND me, by the way) into the tub, out of the tub, onto the bed and into PJs as tight as sausage casings can all do a number on your humerus hinge, folks. And it’s not funny.

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The boys go to bed at 7:30 pm — without fail. Because if they don’t get a full eleven to twelve hours of sleep at night, their tantrums would register on the Richter scale. So at 7:20, after they’ve been bathed and brushed, we head to the kitchen for a rich, sweet, conventional-and-unconventional-all-at-the-same-time tradition that will be fondly remembered by all of us—including my achey joints. We cop a squat in front of: the dishwasher. Why, I have no idea. It just sort of happened once and has kept happening forever after. So now, in keeping with the sanctity of routine, it can’t be changed. Therefore, the three of us huddle on the kitchen floor, sip our warm milk and read our bedtime stories. Tate usually picks a nursery rhyme book that simply MUST be sung, and Parker picks a truck book. So we sing one, read one, and then it’s off to bed — and the closing ritual that really delivers the one-two punch that nearly puts me out of commission every night.

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Parker’s little bedtime routine is fairly simple. He gathers up all of his various and sundry fire trucks, and then it’s a quick snuggle, a goodnight kiss, and in he goes. Even Tate’s nightly ritual SEEMS innocent enough. He scoops up his books, two or three at a time, along with his Mickey Mouse. But then comes the The Holding Pattern — the single-most sustained piece of heavy lifting I do all day. Tate wants me to stand at his crib and rock him in my arms for a full four minutes and forty-seven seconds while Jewel sings Brahm’s Lullaby. It is the best of times and it is the worst of times. It is best because Tate snuggles and nuzzles and inhales deeply. (No lie. He sniffs long and he sniffs hard. He smells me. Weird, but precious.) And then he pats me on the back until the song ends. If it “ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” then the fat lady is my left radial nerve, and boy, she’s hitting a High C by the time Jewel is through.

And speaking of fat ladies, a quick side note… I added insult to my twinnis injury yesterday afternoon while dressing for football pictures. Instead of wrestling my customary twin opponents (I left them to their father), I attempted to wrestle my fat ass into a pair of Spanx. I headed into the privacy of my bathroom, praying for a little leniency from a very worthy foe. I’ve gone the distance with Spanx before and it’s never an easy battle. This time was no exception, but with my injured arm, the battle was bloodier than ever (in the oh-so-English sense of the word.) Let me tell ya, these undergarments really hit below the belt. I wriggled and pulled and kneaded and squished, my tendon screaming in anguish. The Spanx tightened and tortured, mangled and marred– and at one point, the slimming intimates very nearly snapped off a bit of my tender intimates right along with my tendon, but eventually I found myself hermetically sealed in a cruel and sadistic nylon cocoon. Success!! But at what cost? For a slimmer, but disabled, silhouette? My body is not as young and taut as it once was. Nor are its muscles and joints as supple and stretchy. So battling gravity and age with weaponry that hurts more than it helps makes zero sense. Goodbye Spanx, and good riddance. I’m saving my elbow for the heave-ho of my junior welterweights. Because if anything is going to take this body down, it’ll be the ones that I love, not the ones that I hate.

The boys and their bedtime routines create carnage on my body, that much is true. But I wouldn’t change a thing about their bedtime ritual. Not a single, solitary thing. The twins are worth all of the TWINges they bring along the way. Because we are creating memories. Sweet memories. And sweet memories become kisses from the past. These memories are worth the pain. And that makes all the sense in the world to me. So night and sleep tight, my Bug and Bear. Mommy would give her left elbow and right wrist (but that’s another story) for you. Nightly. Forever and ever.

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August 1, 2016 0

Mommy Fail

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I failed at this whole mommy thing. Again. The boys had a birthday party to go to – a party for one of their favorite people in the whole, wide world. The one who introduced them to Elsa and taught them to love Disney princesses. The one who gave Tate his first kiss and taught Parker to nap in his birthday suit. They love her as much as they do each other. Probably more — because they don’t shove her nearly as much as each other. I was so looking forward to it for them…

When we got the invitation — only the second social engagement to which they’ve ever been invited — I put it on the refrigerator. Prime time and center stage for all super important things in the toddler universe, and I told myself I would rsvp when it wasn’t the middle of dinnertime. But my brain, saturated with July heat and humidity became a casualty amidst the conquering of Santorini and the inception of the school year and the commencement of football season. Weeks went by.

And then, yesterday, on facebook, I saw the sweetest, little princess with the biggest and best baby cheeks and sassy smile staring down the face of a Mickey Mouse pancake breakfast. Mickey was sporting a birthday. She was downtown in one of Cartersville’s local landmarks and the entire restaurant was singing just for her. She puckered up to blow out the candle and my battered and bushwacked brain managed to stir up a memory – a memory of a palm-treed invite to sweet sissy’s soiree. In the immortal words of Donald Duck, OH, PHOOEY! (Although I’m not necessarily vouching that those were the words I used…)

Do you think… is it too late… I think maybe… I messaged her mama. It’s not too late to rsvp, her mama assured me. YES!!! So I told her we’d be there. We wouldn’t miss it for anything – except, apparently a negligent mother with a tendency to live life like a Waffle House plate of hash browns: scattered, smothered and covered. A hot mess of shredded good intentions.

Fast forward to today, when I’m leveling bookshelves and scavenging countertops looking for the invitation. I can’t find it. I message her mama again to ask the time. Wait a while. Try someone else. Wait a while. I’m certain it’s this afternoon – late afternoon. Pretty certain, anyway. Fairly certain. Mike suggests trying another friend who always has her phone on her. I do. And… we missed it.

I’ve cried off and on for two hours. The boys have no idea yet. They’re still napping. I had told them we would see their Sissy and Hunny today. To the boys, their Sissy and Hunny are better than Disney. Better than Mickey Mouse and Elsa and even better than ice cream. They knew about the party this morning. I told them. Hopefully they’ve forgotten by now. Hopefully when they wake up, we can get them out of the house to do something fun and they won’t remember the wonderful afternoon they were supposed to be having. With many of the people they love the absolute most. Maybe they won’t remember. But I will. I feel so very guilty. I’ve said about a half-dozen of my favorite swear words out loud to the dog and cat. They haven’t flinched. They’re used to it. But they haven’t helped — the animals or the cuss words.

So, to our beloved princess and sissy, I am sorry. So sorry. Your brothers wanted to be there. To her sweet and generous-hearted parents, I am so sorry. I’m not usually like this. I swear (and I’m really good at swearing, so please believe me). To our boys, who were so very pumped – in the jump up and down and shout at the moon and sun and then throw in the better than popcorn kind of happy — that’s how pumped they were… I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I am just sorry.

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And I know it’s not the first time I’ve failed at mommyhood and it won’t be the last. And I’ll try to do better. But that doesn’t mean that this time, like every single time that I fail as a mom, it doesn’t feel like total and complete phooey. Phooey with a capital F – and a few vowel and consonant substitutions…

July 30, 2016 0

Rise and Grind: Challenges of a football widow

God and football, that’s what I was raised on in Texas. The only thing stronger than the lure of the lights on Friday Night was the alter call in church on Sunday morning. For me, church was always bookended with football. Coin tosses started the weekend and the Cowboys finished it. I became the devoted disciple of Roger Staubach, Tom Landry, and my next-door neighbor, a high school safety and hometown hero. For me, the two most beautiful sounds on this planet earth will always be the clash of helmets on the gridiron and a choir singing Amazing Grace.

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Now being a football fan and being a football wife are two totally and completely opposite entities. I am still a fan, but I am also now a wife. Allow me to explain how that changes things… As of 7:45 yesterday morning, summertime ended. Mike started back to school, and I start tomorrow. (Ugh.) I am officially a football widow and my little lads have become football orphans. Again.

Every weekday from here on out, Mike will leave us around 6:30 AM and he’ll make it home just in time (if we’re lucky) to give the boys their warm milk and kisses for bed. And this will go on from here until — we sincerely hope— the middle of December and a state championship. This is our goal. This is our life. This is our truth. A half a year, folks. A half a year of mothering without Daddy. Of navigating housework and tantrums, mealtime and bath time — and sometimes even bedtime — without Daddy. Of cooking with tired, hangry kids hanging off my belt loops or clinging to my ankles as I navigate from fridge to oven, to sink, to stovetop (which is good, I guess, because it cuts back on my use of the dust mop). Of juggling soapy, slippery, uncooperative boys from tub to towel all by my lonesome. Of refereeing shoving matches and toddler torture while maintaining our laundry and my sanity.

There will be days — many of them — when I will wonder if I really have what it takes to be the mother of toddler twins and the wife of a football coach. If I have enough patience and perseverance to give my boys all that they need to feel loved and cared for in the midst of an absent father. If I have enough courage and strength to support Mike — to encourage and love and cheer him on in the midst of what will feel like an endless drought here at home. If I have what it takes to bolster my daughters’ confidence and be there for them, despite the distance and the exhaustion and the feelings of my own inadequacies. If I have what it takes to be an effective English teacher with a gazillion essays to grade, along with a gazillion students to nurture. If I have what it takes to be a responsible and caring daughter who does more than just check in on her parents with a quick phone call. If I have what it takes to be a loving and generous sister and friend who supports and motivates when the need arises. And I truly don’t know if I’ll have what it takes to maintain this blog any longer. I’ll barely have time to let my dog out too pee during football season. So you see, to be anywhere near effective in any of these roles will just plain seem impossible on some, if not most, days. I know, because I’ve been here before. This ain’t my first rodeo.

But in a way, it feels brand new. This year, Mike is coaching with the Cartersville Purple Hurricanes, a winning program both on and off the field. The staff and players have made it a point to embrace not only Mike, but also the boys and me. There is tradition and there is family here. Lots of teams say that, but with the Canes, it’s not just lip service — they mean it.

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Last year, I spent a very lonely season, just me and the boys, a stroller loaded with a pantry full of snacks, and a haunting suspicion that in the whole, grand scheme of things, no one on the staff besides Mike gave a damn about whether or not we were ok. I saw on my Facebook news feed this past week a story about a rental car employee who helped a mother of twins hold one of her sons while processing her paperwork. A simple gesture — most people wouldn’t even consider it newsworthy. But that mother of twins considered it monumental. Because, you see, when you are out by yourself in public with twin babies, every single thing you try to do feels impossibly dangerous. For example, the other night I took the boys to Ingles on my own. When we came out it was raining and there were cars pulling in and out from every direction. I was trying to keep the boys dry by shrugging an umbrella between my shoulder and ear while holding their hands and trying to open the van door… and then I had to keep one boy wedged against the wet van with my knee so that I knew he wasn’t running into traffic while I strapped his brother into his seat… Like I said, the tiniest tasks for most people become monumentally, impossibly dangerous for mothers of young twins. So last season, as the boys and I hunkered down in the far corner of an end zone because we couldn’t dare navigate stadium risers on our own, as we dodged band instruments and blazing-fast receivers in search of touchdown passes, we would’ve appreciated a small, simple gesture such as the one that rental car employee made. A gesture that family members wouldn’t hesitate to make — but on that team, there was no family.

This season, though, is already so very different. This season, there are potluck dinners in the field house after Friday Night games. There is connectivity and support amongst the wives – from a welcome note in the mail the first week, to season survival baskets, to group texts for reminders and updates. Oh, and just one more small, but significant item that completely seals the deal for me and shouts that we’re home. Every home game on Friday nights, under the glow of those stadium lights, in the midst of thousands of devout fans singing along, the band plays Amazing Grace. God and football. I’ve come full circle. My faith in family has been restored.

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Because at Cartersville, they truly know and understand how the game can make or break not just the players and coaches, but wives and families, as well. You see, in football culture, there is something called The Grind. It has to do with owning and embracing the hard work and brutal sacrifice that football demands. It has to do with mental and physical toughness, with drive and desire and deep-seated commitment, with privilege and with pride. The Grind weeds out the unworthy. It leaves the weak in the dust. It is well understood that for any team to be successful, every single one of its members must embrace The Grind. Because what seems insurmountable as an individual is totally and completely attainable when you are an invested member of a team. And as wives, we signed up for The Grind too. We are fighting the good fight and we are giving our all. We surge with the highs and we batten down with the lows. We get the goose bumps, as well as the goose eggs — just like every other participant. Cartersville is the first and only program I’ve ever been a part of where the wives and families are truly acknowledged as being willing participants in The Grind. It’s more than nice to have a team acknowledge the wives as a part of it all – and not simply after it’s all been said and done at the tail end of a speech at the banquet (every football wife knows the line I’m talking about…).

So goodbye, summer and hello, fall. It’s time to Rise and Grind.

But before I sign off, I just want to make certain that all of you know how much I really, truly do still (and forevermore will) love the game — despite the hardships of the season. Because it’s the love of the game that keeps all football widows going. It’s the Friday Nights that sustain us, that feed our souls from week to week with glorious, sensuous bounty:

It’s the home crowd blazoned with team colors and spirit. It’s the flavors of fall — the boiled peanuts and corndogs, dill pickles and coffee. The blur of a perfectly passed ball from pocket to end zone. That delicious thump when the kicker hits the sweet spot and nails a 52 yard field goal. A flawless on-side kick and the ensuing chaos of the opposing team. The apple-crisp nights with the chant of the crowds in the air and a win on the books. That fluttering belly tickle I feel when I catch my guy’s wink as he heads to the coach’s box. And finally, the very best of the Friday Night feels – that proud, tight familiar swell of my heart when our own little guys storm the field with the rest of the team families after the game, running headlong into Daddy’s waiting arms. Now THAT makes this whole widow and orphan thing worth it. Time to Rise and Grind. daddysarms

July 26, 2016 0

The Convergence of the Twain

The renowned poet Thomas Hardy once wrote a little diddy about an iceberg and an ocean liner called, “The Convergence of the Twain.” Twain is an archaic word for “two,” and since I’m an archaic mother of two, I find it an accurate description of this week’s events. Suffice it to say two tough and sturdy bodies on a collision course can leave a heck of a lot of damage and debris in their wake. Just when I was starting to feel like I might actually have a grip on this whole Twin Mom Thing, just when I had the audacity to tackle homemade baklava and the final bits of housecleaning before Lauren’s shower, someone cued the Jaws theme song and piped in “My Heart Will Go On.” I witnessed my best laid plans get laid to rest in rapid succession; they faltered, fell, and flat-lined under the sharp and steady onslaught of toddler twins.

There was no red sky of morning to make me take warning. But there were lots of torrential tears and tantrums from pretty much the moment they woke up until the moment they laid down for the past three days. No lie. No exaggeration. I swear it. I was ready for wine at noon every day, since their whine was flowing so freely. But I managed to abstain – at least until after I put them to bed, which has shown remarkable restraint on my part. Just saying.

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There were so many fights: fights over books and dump trucks, socks and cereal, seats and sippy cups. There were even fights over whether or not “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” or “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” was the appropriate dinner music to accompany pot roast. There was hair pulling and there were shoving matches. It’s only a matter of time before there will be fistfights. I know it’s coming. And I know a lot of this territory comes with being a Boy Mom, but I also know, that a great big majority of it comes from just plain being a Twin Mom. I’ve had singletons. I know there is a tremendous difference between parenting two, three years apart and parenting two, one minute apart. And while, yes I had girls first, and yes, girls are calmer, and yes, they sit and color or sit and play with their baby dolls, and yes, they nurture more than they annihilate, and yes, they might be made of sugar and spice… I’m also here to say that, NO, that “everything nice” line is total and complete bullshit. While hair pulling is their weapon of choice, they, too, can throw a really mean punch. And they are consummate, bonafide professionals when it comes to bickering and spatting.

So I feel fairly confident that my boys are not simply being boys – because unless my girls were “just being boys,” I’ve lived through all of these stages already – just not at the same time at the same age. And that, my friends, makes all the difference in the world. Because as a wise woman once told me, “One is one and two is ten.” And she was spot on. With two to three years between kids– heck even nine months in between – someone is always older and can (possibly) be reasoned with. But there’s absolutely, positively no reasoning with them when they are at the exact same stage at the exact same instant. None whatsoever. I am completely and utterly out of my league.

I used to think I could handle twins. After all, I’m a teacher. If I am the successful teacher of ninety-some-odd squirrely seniors, roughly the same age (most of them, anyways), with roughly the same burning desire for instant gratification hardwired into their cerebral cortices, I should be able to handle twins, right? I thought I had this. And weeks like this one have shown me how wrong I truly was.

Almost every day has been the same this week, so I’ll give you a quick overview of Tuesday, the start of the maelstrom. By 11:50 AM July 19^th I was still in my PJs – for the third day in a row. I’d managed to get one-half of my precious pair dressed, and that was pretty much all I’d accomplished. (By the way, I include things like changing diapers and brushing teeth on my checklist because with twins, every single success deserves a cross out. It’s a mental boost. And mental boosts are huge when you’re dealing in deficits the way I’m dealing in deficits.) So one-half of my duo was dressed – and by that I mean that each boy was HALF dressed. There’d been fierce negotiations with Parker over which motorized vehicle shirt he would wear for the day. Ex-nay on the racecar shirt, the double-decker bus shirt and the motorcycle shirt. I finally got a go-ahead on the fire truck shirt, only to be met with a roadblock on shorts. Tate then took his brother’s lead and stepped in to argue that Minion PJ pants are way better than fire truck shirts, and that unless he could wear his Minion PJ pants, he would just lie in the floor and scream, come what may. So may came. And then June. And there we were, damn near at the end of July, and we still didn’t have a general consensus. So I gave in. I felt like a terrible parent – but I hear it’s all about small victories (at least that’s what I tell myself). So Tate wore Minion PJ pants with no shirt, and Parker wore a red fire truck shirt, with no pants…

Which brings me to my next Twin Mom Fail – although this one might fit best under the more general Boy Mom Fail category. It’s the All Hands on Dick phenomenon. Sorry, I just couldn’t mince words here… You see, Parker hates shorts because they hinder his access – his veto of shorts was quite calculated. So herein lies my query to all you Boy Moms out there… please, please tell me when your sons started clutching their crotches and holding onto their wee willies like they’ll walk away. I know boys have handles and therefore they feel the need to … handle … but good grief! At age two and a quarter? And what do I do about it? Do I ignore it? Do I slap his hand? Do I duct tape his diaper? Which, by the way, wouldn’t do the trick because if he can’t gain access from above, he goes in by way of a leg hole. (Once my mom thought he was horribly chafed when she changed him. Nope. He’d just manhandled himself while eating spaghettios.) Please, please, PLEASE tell me what I should do about Parker and his… exploration. Quick. Before Tate discovers the tantalizing territory of his South Pole.

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So, here I sit, two days later, still in my PJs. But you can’t tell me I can’t learn from my mistakes. I may still be in my PJs, but today, Thursday at 4:30 PM, so are the boys. (Parker can’t plunder his nether-regions if he’s in a zippered onesie). Mike has come and gone… on his way to his coaches’ retreat and away from storm center. The shower will be here in two days. Boo Boo and Bentley are here. Jo Jo and GiGi arrive tonight. Cay Cay comes in tomorrow at noon. And my house and I look like a trauma scene, thanks to the Convergence of the Twain.

I was told once that I shouldn’t complain because I sound ungrateful when I do– that I am blessed beyond all measure and that I should remember that. And I do. Every, single second of every, single day. Even while I am rocking in a corner, a total and complete hot mess, trying to control a hot temper sparked by yet another tantrum – this time over which boy gets to sit in Baby Bentley’s exersaucer – which he inherited from my boys, and which they NEVER played with when it was theirs. Even then, I know and understand that my blessings are abundant. They, quite literally, are chasing me down. So I take a time out. I put myself in a corner. I count to ten, I pen a blog or two, and then I follow Dory’s lead (another woman with mental deficits), and I just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming — as I get knocked upside the noggin by the wreckage of the latest convergence of the twain. I’ve got this. I do. As surely as Parker has his zipper down and his rod in hand…

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July 21, 2016 3

Goats, Origami, and Vows

Today is Mike’s and my seven-year wedding anniversary. Our wedding was a lot like us – eclectic and quirky.

We wed on a goat farm under a giant oak next to a babbling creek. A thousand paper cranes bore witness, along with about fifty of our most cherished family and friends.

There was a belt of active thunderstorms all day long (we got rain on our wedding day – excellent luck, I hear), but a donut hole of blue skies kept our ceremony dry — or as dry as a muggy, mid-July night in Georgia can possibly be.

One of my favorite wedding photos is of Mike and me from behind, his hand at the small of my back, while sweat pearls on my shoulders and beads on my spine. It’s not glamorous, by any means. But it’s real. Like our love.

We put the wedding together in a few, quick weeks. You heard right — weeks, not months. SIX Weeks to be exact.

Mike proposed on Memorial Day (to my dog, by the way) and we didn’t want to wait until the following summer, so we crossed our fingers and made it happen. Apparently we thrive in chaos. I guess it was our trial run for raising twin boys. If we could pull off venue and invitations, dress and catering, cake and honeymoon — the whole nine yards — in a month-and-a-half, we could handle anything.

So yes, Mike proposed to my dachshund. I guess he knows how much I loved the little wiener (No, that’s not an Asian joke!). And while he didn’t EXACTLY propose to her, somehow in my misguided and vodka-fogged, post-Memorial Day party brain, I thought he was talking to her when he dropped on one knee beside me on the love seat. I very nearly missed the question, the question I’d been anticipating for a while. (We’d been dating quite exclusively and seriously for four years, after all.) Sometimes I’m a dumbass.

Anyways, once all that got cleared up and I said yes, the game clock began. We knew we had virtually no time, but we also knew we wanted all of our choices to mean something. (Sounds ironic, coming from a woman who thought her future husband chose her dog, but still…)

I knew I wanted cranes: 1000 origami cranes, to be exact. As a nod to Mike’s Asian heritage. 1000 origami cranes threaded with fishing line for the illusion of flight, and strung here, there and yonder-where.

And I wanted a post-Edwardian era gown — the time period of Downton Abbey’s glory; the time period of Agatha Christie’s country house mysteries; the time period of my beloved grandmother’s youth. Those were my two wishes. The rest could fall as it may.

The dress came easy. I found it online. When it came, it fit perfectly. The only dress I ever tried on. I felt delicious and decadent — like Lady Mary or Clarissa Dalloway. So the dress came easy.

The cranes… eh, not so much. Anything mathematical is not my forte. And origami, whether it actually is or is not, felt mathematical to me – all those congruent right triangles and bisected angles. I just couldn’t seem to grasp it.

That is until my seven-year-old nephew Jackson taught us how to make them over a veeeeerrrryyy long weekend in Scottsdale. Jackson is an origami wizard. He can craft the Taj Mahal, if given ten minutes and a tissue. He tutored us patiently and precisely, and with a lot of help and some martini time outs (for me, not him), I finally mastered it. Which meant we only had approximately 999 more to go before game time.

Now the goat farm was, quite simply, destiny. For some odd and glorious reason, goats have played a pivotal role in Mike’s and my courtship, from the goat raffle (yes, you read right) I was running when I met him that first football season (we’re weird ‘round these parts) to the charming and bizarre Goats on the Roof general store we visited one Spring Break, we sort of have a weird and wonderful connection with bearded billies. Combine that with the fact that Bethany’s best friend’s family has a goat farm and BAM! Goat farm, it was — complete with tire swing.

The rest feels like a blur. A big, glorious purple and gold blur– Mike’s college colors and our chosen palette. The ring bearer’s “pillow” was a prized football. We used books and borrowed vases for centerpieces. I found the perfect shoes – which were plain and simple pumps, laced up and layered in all sorts of awesomeness via Etsy.

Family from near and far arrived to help steam dresses, arrange flowers, decorate the venue, cook Korean BBQ, and participate in the ceremony. One niece played the violin; another read e.e. cummings. My nephews lit the lanterns; Mike’s carried the rings. My brother-in-law, a film editor in Hollywood, shot the video.

Everything, I mean everything, just folded together into a masterpiece. Like our 1000 cranes, we layered, creased, pressed and adjusted until, “Voila!” — dream nuptials in a nanosecond.

My girls were my bridesmaids, and while I don’t necessarily recommend the turbulent and tumultuous past required to use your very own daughters in your bridal party, I must say… I must explain… well… when I try to voice what it felt like — having them stand there at the altar with me, supporting and loving me, supporting and loving Mike; opening their arms and hearts and lives to allow him to join our intimate little clan of incandescence and joy… words fail me. I’m at a loss. Let’s just say, it was THE special ingredient, THE added love element that made the wedding as absolutely perfect as perfect can be.

There are so many other tiny tidbits I could share, including my grandmother’s posthumous contribution, our extended Peters metaphor, hangover knavery, and inadvertent F bombs, but I think I should quit while I’m ahead. Let’s just say that as Mike and I celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary, I was reminded of how unbelievably blessed we truly are. Our wedding was perfect because of our families. Correction… Family. Our nuclear and extended crews melded into a giant conglomeration of love and crazy and talent — and helped us pull off the impossible: a wedding in six weeks.
And on that sublime and sultry July night seven years ago, we were folded, pressed, and pleated into a multilayered, multifaceted masterpiece of a fine, new family.

July 16, 2016 0

Multigenerational Mom Muses on Twin Toddlers & Twenty-Something Daughters