Don't Drop the Ball

Most every woman with kids has, at one time in her life, tried to play the 'super mom game'.  It's an interesting game with just one rule...DON'T DROP THE BALL.


At first, this seems simple enough.  One little softball lobs your direction, and you scoop it up with ease.  A diaper leaks through, a pacifier comes up missing, that night-night blankie didn't make into the dryer before bedtime...for a beginner, all seem quite serious at the moment.  But the pros know that's all just kids' play.  


By the time they're 4, many kids are already carving out their own space on the family calendar...T-ball, soccer, ballet lessons, vacation Bible school, play dates and birthday parties.  As 'super mom' will soon realize, it's not just a matter of catching the balls thrown her direction.  It's a matter of keeping them all in the air. It's on the job training, learning not only how to catch but how to juggle.  


A truly adept 'super mom' must master multi-tasking.  With her, housework, homework and busy work all manage to get done somehow.  'Super mom' can check a kid's math, bake 24 cupcakes on the fly, get Junior to his game on time and still find a moment to have a semi-rational thought.  


She also knows that it isn't just the schedule and business of living that have to be juggled.  The emotions, fears and personalities of her little darlings threaten the delicate balance she must maintain to keep everything moving smoothly.  But no matter what they throw at her, she just keeps those balls in motion.


She can remove a splinter or a loose tooth with hardly a whimper.  
She can make tangles into French braids with nary a tear being shed.  
She can turn a pound of hamburger and a can of cream of mushroom soup into a meal in thirty minutes or less.  
She loves the games her kids play even if she doesn't know all the rules.  
She will give up the last piece of cake although she really was looking forward to it.  
She will drive to Walmart at 10pm on Sunday to buy poster board for a project due on Monday morning that her kid has known about for two weeks.  
She knows the phone number of the doctor, dentist and school secretary by heart.  
She'll pack a lunch even when she knows for certain her kid absolutely would eat sloppy Joe's before he'd starve to death.
She will host a sleepover for a dozen kids at the end of an insane work week.
She'll sign up for team treats, send cups and napkins for the Valentine's Day party and paint faces at the school carnival.
She will suffer through many a recital or concert with a smile.
She will stay up late to wash a uniform for the game, no matter how big or small.
She'll get up early to iron a special shirt for school pictures even though she knows the photographer won't do a thing if the kid's hair is standing up.
She knows that while it's ok to say "yes", it's also ok to say "no".  
She will put on her brave face when she gives any one of the various 'talks'.
She'll laugh at dumb jokes...
Cry over baby pictures...
Cheer at graduation (even if it's only on the inside because she knows her kid would die of embarrassment if she actually got up and cheered out loud).
She'll love them when it's easy, and she'll love them when it's hard.
She'll fight their battles when she can, and do her best to equip them to fight the battles they must must face on their own.


But the truly advanced 'super mom' also knows when to shout, "Don't you dare throw that ball this way!"  She knows when she's reached her limit, and she can't juggle one more thing.  She understands that while, 'don't drop the ball', is the only rule, it's a rule that will inevitably be broken.  She knows she can't be all things to all people at all times.  She also knows that there is only one way to know what's really important in life...let all the balls hit the floor and sees in what order she picks them back up.  We all need to do that once in a while...JUST DROP THE BALLS!!

Love Triangle

I know I can't be the only mother who has ever felt a little trepidation over her child dating. I have sons, so I'll proceed from my point of view, but I'm sure it's much the same for the mother of daughters.


Watching that little boy who you've fawned over, cheered for, chauffeured around, gone to battle to protect, laughed with, laughed at, and loved passionately turn his affections from you to someone else is just heartbreaking in a way.  We all know as mothers that's what's supposed to happen.  It's honestly what we want for them...to fall in love and have a happy life and a family of their own.  We just don't realize how bittersweet the moment will be when they move us to the back burner and give our spot to another woman.  


I genuinely have tried over these past four or five years, during which my sons have been dating, to be open to and accepting of the young women they have chosen.  Neither of them have been serial daters, and for the most part, they have chosen relatively well so it hasn't been horribly difficult to at least be pleasant and welcoming to the handful of girls who have come through our door and been introduced as 'girlfriend'.  That isn't to say I've had the warm and fuzzies about all of them or that it hasn't taken time for one or two of them to grow on me.  It is, after all, difficult to put on a happy face all the time when dealing with 'the other woman'.


I was recently able to have a very frank discussion with one son's girlfriend.  She started by asking, somewhat jokingly but somewhat seriously, if we liked her.  And of course, we do like her.  But what she really wanted to know was did we like her in her role as potential future daughter-in-law.  


I could easily have just given her a glib response, a simple and dismissive 'yes' and went about my business.  But it isn't too often you get a wide open door and an invitation to enter from the woman you share your son with, so I proceeded, albeit with caution.


I decided to tell her what I wish I had known back oh so many years ago when I was dating my husband.  Back then, his mother seemed to dislike me...or at least be indifferent to me...even though I considered myself an ok catch.  I was, after all, a straight-laced, polite, moderately intelligent girl with my head screwed on right.  What more could the mother of a teen aged boy expect from a teen aged girl?  


Well, now that I'm a mother, I know.  She expected me to stay the heck away from her son.  He was too young for her to just turn over to some girl she didn't even know.  With me in the picture, he was too easily distracted from the life he shared with her.  He was choosing me over her to be his confidant, his companion, his secret keeper.  He didn't need his mother to hold his hand when he had a girlfriend to do so.


Had I known back then what I know now, I may not have been so snarky every time she demanded he come home immediately or get off the phone right that second.  I might have understood her coldness toward me really had very little to do with me specifically.  Her seeming reluctance to accept me wasn't because there was something wrong with me either.  In retrospect, I'm sure her emotions over being suddenly and unwillingly thrust into a love triangle were probably not unlike my own.  So as I sat next to my son's girlfriend, preparing to embark on our first intimate conversation of any serious substance, I tried to remember how it felt when I was on her side of the love triangle now that I was on my side of it.


I did start off with the obligatory 'yes, we like you', a soft segue into much rougher territory.  I went on to tell her that it's not, in my experience...or at least not usually...something to be taken personally when a mother seems to not be so crazy about the person her son seems crazy about.  


Mothers don't see 'the other woman' with stars in their eyes like their sons do.  They aren't impressed by mere appearance or even honey sweet behavior.  They aren't swayed by flattery or even acts of good will. We know a girl trying extra hard to make her mark on us typically has ulterior motives and most likely plans to stick around.


Mothers understand right from square one that interlopers always present a certain threat.  The introduction of a new character often means a lesser role for the one who is already there.  There's no way for her to fit into the picture without me scooting over to make room. And if I don't scoot of my own volition, my son will certainly give me a firm nudge.  He needs me to make room for her.  And I need to do what's best for him, even if I don't like it.


It doesn't really matter whether boy or girl, the love affair a mother has with her child is different from any other.  There's nothing better than being mommy...superhero, magic maker, master encourager.  There's nothing better than holding your child close and rocking them in your arms...whether they're babies or bigger than we are. To love unconditionally someone who loves you exactly the same way is priceless. 


To go from center of my child's universe, where I hung the moon and made the sun rise, where I could kiss a boo boo and make it all better or where I had the power to make everything right with the world in their eyes...to go from "I want to live with you forever" and having my opinion count above everyone else's...to go from all that to being practically invisible sometimes, out of sight and out of mind, the last resort instead of the first choice...well frankly, it stinks.  


As I explained, being as sensitive as I could to my son's girlfriend's feelings, it's hard for a mother to let go of her child, trusting the person he chooses as a mate to really and truly love him..to want what's best for him even above what's best for herself...to protect his heart even at the expense of her own...to build him up when he's weak and come along side him in his pursuits...to see him as beautiful even when it takes rose-colored glasses to do so...to love him...like I love him.


How will she ever?  How could she?  And when she takes him away from me, will he remember that I still do love him that way?  That I'll always be his mommy, and he'll always be my little boy.  I needed her to understand that...those fears, those reservations, those aching little spots left on a mother's heart when her child falls in love with someone other than her...it has nothing to do with her really.  It has to do with me...letting go of him.


I know, from her side of the triangle, it all looks very different.  She probably thinks I don't understand just how much she loves him.  But I have a pretty good idea.  And I really do know that just because he loves her doesn't mean he loves me any less.  Who knows, maybe one day she and I will love each other in a way that makes me feel less like I'm losing a son and more like I'm gaining...well, you know how that saying goes, but I'm not sure I'm ready to apply it to myself just quite yet.

A Mom's Roller Coaster Ride

I've had this motherhood gig for quite some time now. It's been like a two decade long roller coaster ride.  Coming out of the gate, when we first found out we were expecting, was like that moment when the coaster slowly begins to leave the dock...it's hardly moving at all, but there's great expectation knowing a wild ride is just ahead. Through the twists and turns, the mountainous climbs and gut wrenching drops, we have winded our way through parenthood.  There have been times that have made us squeel with excitement and times that have left us begging for someone to please just stop the ride.  


When my oldest sons turned twenty, I thought our coaster was finally coming into the station.  How wrong I was.  Turns out, parenting doesn't quite come to an end just because your children stop being 'kids'.  In fact, somehow the job seems to get more difficult once the stakes go even higher.  



We have spent of a lot of time and energy trying to impart certain values in our sons, trying to equip them with certain life skills.  We have hoped to instill things like a good work ethic, sound judgement, and responsibility into their lives.  Through the years, we have hoped to weave the best parts of ourselves into them so that they could not only avoid the mistakes we've made but also enjoy the overflow of our sucesses.  

We have always attempted to have open and honest communication with our boys about everything...even the complicated things...even the uncomfortable things. We have told them the truth even when it hurt them...or our pride.  


We have tried to set a standard of living for them that is both challenging and achievable.  We have led by example, knowing 'do as I say, not as I do' never works.  They have seen us trip and even fall, but they've also always seen us get back up and keep on moving.  


They understand life isn't always easy or fair or even logical.  They know love is a choice and happiness that's dependent on circumstances is both fickle and fleeting.  They know we expect them to do their best but that our love for them and our joy in being their parents is unconditional.  


This roller coaster ride we're on is far from over.  But now, instead of the five of us sharing one car, all belted in safely together, holding on to one another through thick and thin, the boys...men, in anyone else's eyes...have each moved into their own cars, choosing other co-riders to begin clinging to and trusting in.  And before long, I know they they'll be ready to leave the cover their dad and I have provided and get in line for a whole new roller coaster ride all their own.  That's the way it's supposed to be, and I know it.  But it doesn't make letting them go any easier.

The Mom-mobile

I drive a 2001 Oldsmobile Silhouette that recently turned 200,000 miles and looks every bit her age.  All the bells and whistles that drew me to her in the beginning have lacked the endurance of the rest of her.  Among the things that don't work anymore are the power locks, heated seats, rear windshield wiper, and the power slide side door. Only the power window on the passenger's side works, but I'm afraid to use it for fear I may get it down and not be able to get it back up.  And not having a functioning driver's side window makes using any kind of drive up or drive through impossible.  


My dashboard lights up like a Christmas tree.  The 'service traction control' light triggers the ABS light which triggers the 'service engine' light...all of which I long ago began ignoring.  The gas gauge doesn't even work anymore.  I don't know what I'll do if the mileage counter stops working because I'd never know when to fill up.


I have one rear seat that is stuck in a forward leaning position.  When I haul kids, everyone fights to not be the last man in and be forced to sit in the 'seat of doom'.  In fact, the dear young teen aged boys I generally cart to and fro have dubbed my beloved kid hauler the 'death trap'.  


But with all her flaws and despite her years showing through, I have quite the affection for my mom mobile.  She has proven herself faithful.  She can carry her own weight and that piled on her by those around her.  And she's long ago outlived her payment making her a solid asset rather than a liability.  With all that said, I think that old van of mine and I have a lot in common.


What I lack in luster, I make up for in longevity.  I may be short on style, but I'm long on substance.  I may be showing my age, but I've earned every gray hair and wrinkle.  And like my four wheeled friend, I have proven myself faithful...faithful as a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend.  I can be a workhorse when need be and a comfortable companion on life's long journey.  I have become mature enough, wise enough and contribute enough to consider myself an asset to this world I live in rather than a constant drain on it.  I can carry a load, weather storms, run on fumes and endure the occasional neglect all moms experience from time to time.  And while I can't tell just how much gas is left in my tank, I feel like I have a whole lot of go still in me.  

Expectations of Perfection

My mom, a well-seasoned married couple and I were having a discussion during our 'Sacred Marriage' class at church.  We got to talking about our premarital expectations.  Now that's a subject that I can write something about!


I grew up in what I would consider a fairly typical nuclear family...mom, dad, two sisters, a brother and myself.  But the older I got, the less typical I realized my family was.  My mom and dad, with whatever issues, flaws or struggles they've had individually or as a couple, were not only wonderful parents, but they were and are a good couple.  They love each other.  They respect each other.  They've learned to live with each other, accepting one another's differences and forgiving one another's failures.  That is rare.


Growing up, I really don't remember my parents ever fighting.  I'm sure they did, but I never saw it.  I'm sure they didn't always agree on everything...how to spend their money, how to raise us kids, where to celebrate holidays, what color to paint the kitchen.  I know those are things my husband and I don't always necessarily agree on, so I'm sure they had the same issues over the years.  But I, as their child, never knew there was any debate between them on any subject.  I only saw them with their united front, functioning basically as one entity.


I also saw my parents fulfill the traditional husband and wife roles as I was growing up.  My dad always went to work, dealt with the cars, mowed the lawn, handled the discipline.  My mom, even when she worked outside the house, was primarily responsible for the household chores...dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning and the lion's share of the day to day child rearing.  But neither of them would hesitate to cross lines when the other needed help.  From my prospective, Dad put Mom first and Mom put Dad first.  


So it would seem, given all this, that my parents' marriage would have set a wonderful example for me as I became a wife.  And while that is true in many ways, the one way it failed me was in giving me this expectation of perfection in my own young marriage.


I didn't realize then what I do now...marriages like that don't just happen by chance, they are made.  That's the one thing I wish my parents would have told me.  It would have spared me so much frustration in those early years when I was sure my husband and I would never get it right.  Back in the beginning, I was disappointed that my husband didn't love me the way my dad loved my mom.  He didn't put me first all the time.  He didn't anticipate my needs and meet them swiftly.  He didn't seem to have the same level of commitment and investment in our marriage relationship that my parents had in theirs.


The truth was, he didn't.  The bigger truth was, I didn't either.  At that time, I was just wanting what was best for me, to get my needs met, to have my objectives satisfied.  But what I came to know, through trial and error, disappointment and small victories, give and take, is that marriage isn't always easy.  It takes time and life experiences and purposeful choices to get the roots of marriage to take hold and begin to produce healthy, beautiful fruit.  Fertilizer stinks and pruning can be painful and even make a tree look ugly for a while, but both  aid in making the tree ultimately grow stronger and produce abundantly. The problem is, for a lot of people anyway, that no one tells them that ahead of time.  They are caught off guard when bad things happen and their spouse fails to live up to their expectations.  


It took me some time to get over my unrealistic expectations in my own marriage, to accept that my husband would never be exactly like my father.  My husband is every bit the wonderful man my dad is, but not in all the same ways.  I like to think I'm a good wife, but totally different from the way my mom is a good wife.  And Dan and I are fine parents, but we certainly don't do things like mom and dad did.  It took me a little time as a young bride to figure out that my marriage is just that, mine.  It doesn't have to or need to look like, feel like or function like anyone else's...it couldn't even if I wanted it to.  That's what I wish I had known going in.  That's what I'm trying to make sure my sons know before they become husbands themselves. 


No couple walks away from the alter with a perfect marriage.  Marriage is perfected through the process of being married.  And there's just no way around it.

Our Love Story (Valentine's Day Post)

Our Love Story (You have Lori Jones to thank for this LOL)

by Tami Golden Wyant on Saturday, February 12, 2011 at 3:16am

So my friend, Lori Ellis Jones, posted," I want to hear more about you two's story! Seriously...real life true love lasting stories like yours are testimonies worth telling! ;)"

#1 Never ask me to tell a story unless you mean it.  <g>

#2 Our story is definitely worth telling...at least I think so.

Dan and I met, athough I cannot exactly recall specifics of this meeting, in Mrs. Tupper's kindergarten class at Elwood Haynes school in Kokomo.  By third grade, when we were both in Mrs. Ellison's class, he had become the boy who had to sit on the paddle a lot while I was your basic know-it-all, play by the rules sort of girl.  Our paths hardly crossed.

My family moved to Windfall after that school year.  I started a whole new 'rural' life here while he was living directly behind the Markland Mall in what is now Kokomo Comics.  We were living two very different kinds of lives. 

Fast forward three years.  Now I am in the 7th grade and he has advanced to 8th grade.  This is the age my 'baby' is now. Somehow I thought of myself as a 'grown up'.  Clearly, I was mistaken.  But that's another story for another day.

My aunt had recently divorced and moved into a house on the corner of E. Virginia and Calumet.  Her three daughters were very young, and she was in need of a sitter over spring break while they were out of school.  My best friend...was then, is now, Pam (Summers) Gilbody...and I embarked on what was my first real adventure.  We were two junior high girls spending a full week in a 'big' town, basically unsupervised, and in fact, expected to be the supervision for my cousins.

So one day Pam and I were out on the porch when this cute blond boy walked down the side street.  We were from another town so no one knew us which gave us a little boldness we wouldn't otherwise have had.  We called to him, just silly 13 year old girl stuff.  He looked at us and smiled and oh my word, I knew him.  Danny Wyant.  

What had happened to him?!?  In three years he had gone from goofy paddle sitter to super cute boy.  Oh my gosh, what if he recognized me?  How embarrassing!  What if he didn't?  How disappointing.  My heart beats fast now just thinking about it.  

He walked by the house again.  We watched, of course.  As it turned out, there was a clear view from the front porch of my aunt's house to his back yard.  We saw him go inside.  We knew that was where he lived.  Our silly thirteen year old girl minds went into overdrive.  My cousins were going to be picked up by their dad and my aunt wouldn't be home til late, so we were going to have a window of opportunity opening.  We began plotting our next move.  

As fate would have it, my mother had a friend who lived one street over from him.  The back of her house was caddycorner to the back of his.  Pam and I made our way to Pat's house.  From her kitchen window, there was an unobstructed view of Danny and his friend Billy playing basketball behind his house.  

I don't know what reason we gave Pat for our visit.  Whatever reason it was, it was completely lame, and she completely knew it.  At some point, we confessed that we were spying out the boys.  Turned out, Pat was also friends with Danny's mom.  She knew him and knew him well.  And she was willing to help us out.

While we giggled and gushed, Pat opened her back door and hollered across the alley to the boys, asking them if Pam and I could play basketball with them.  Without hesitation, they said yes.  

Now this is the funny thing, I can remember that day with utter clarity.  I was wearing a black pull-over windbreaker I borrowed from dad.  I still have it.  He was wearing white tennis shoes and a red sweatshirt.  He was thin and gangly, more legs than torso.  His hair was kind of a mix of 80s Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassity...a little long, a little wild, feathered in the front.  He definitely had this cocky walk and self-confidence I hadn't seen in the boys I knew.  I say all that, but the truth is, he was probably just like my Aaron, less the 80s hair of course...just a boy, more show than substance.

Let me preface this next paragraph by saying, I was never the girl boys were interested in in junior high.  I was plain looking, gapped teeth, thicker than most and slightly abrasive to boot.  Plus, I had this really petite, little cute as a button best friend that attracted way more attention than I ever could.  So when Danny Wyant showed a definite interest in me, ME, I was both shocked and a little scared. He was certainly out of my league.  I was green as green could be, and I had the feeling he wasn't.  But there was something so exciting about having a boy genuinely interested in me.  (Note:  That is also the reason I started talking to my sons very frankly and very openly about all things boy/girl very early and very often. I know puppy love can end up being true love and first love can be forever love.)

When it started getting dark, Danny and Billy walked us back to my aunt's house.  Pam went inside. Billy seemed to just disappear.  Then we were alone.  I had never been alone with a boy.  We both mulled around in my aunt's back yard awhile, not wanting to go our separate ways quite yet but knowing our time together was quickly coming to an end.  In the moment, it all seemed so grown up.  But in reality, I know we were just two awkward little kids muddling through a complicated rite of passage.

I just remember standing face to face, my hands on his shoulders, his loosely on my waist, much like you'd see a couple at a typical junior high dance.  There was this long silence, this painfully long time where neither us said a word or made a move.  I know it's been 28 years....28 years...but I can still clearly remember breaking through that stillness in my coarse manner and asking, "Are you going to kiss or what?"

I don't know what I would have done if he would have chosen 'or what', but he didn't.  He kissed me.  My first, "this is really happening", WOW kiss.  I don't know that it was capital L love, but it was something.   I was over the moon.  I like to believe he was too.  I know if I asked him about it now, he'd know to say he was.

Anyway, that's how it all started.   We had our first official date shortly thereafter.  We went to Pro Pizza.  It's now Yogi's on the corner North and Washington.  We went with an older couple who were friends of his, old enough to drive.  My aunt gave me permission to go.  My mom never would have.

Over the next few years, we had your typical teenaged relationship.  Before I was old enough to drive, my mom would drop me off at his dad and stepmom's house while she went grocery shopping.  It was the best hour and a half of my week back then.  We spent a lot of time on the phone, but it wasn't like now.  There was just one house phone and it had a cord.  I'd string that curly Q cord across the kitchen and into the stairwell and close the door.  We'd sit there for hours but rarely say a word.  We went to a couple dances, although that wasn't really Dan's thing.  He gave me this big Avon ring one Valentine's day at a dance.  I still have it. I'd go fishing with him, although that wasn't really my thing. I read more than I ever fished.  So many memories...so long ago but just like yesterday in my mind.

Oh, don't get me wrong.  It wasn't always peaches and cream.  There was drama...most of it unnecessary.  There were a couple break ups.  We made a lot of mistakes. We fussed sometimes and fought sometimes, but in the end, we figured this much out...we belonged together.  

I graduated from high school on a Friday night.  Got married Saturday afternoon.  And moved out of state Sunday morning.  Shortly thereafter, we got a congratulations card in the mail...from Mrs. Tupper, our kindergarten teacher.

I don't know what made two eighteen year olds with no jobs to go to and very little money think they could just get married and make a life, but that's what we did.  We've made a life.  We added children two years later...twin boys, Kyle and Zachary. Now they're twenty and we're beginning to let them go.  Our 'baby' is fourteen, and who knows, maybe he's already met the love of his life and just doesn't know it yet.  Makes me a little sad...bittersweet this whole motherhood thing.  This must be how my mom felt when I first told her about Danny Wyant.  But if my boys and their future wives love each other like Dan and I love each other, well, that kind of love is nothing short of life altering...and that's what I wish for them. 

Happy Valentine's Day

A Post Valentine's Day Look at "Soul Mates"

Ok, let me preface this little diatribe by saying I am more pragmatic than romantic.  I'm not necessarily a subscriber to the notion of love at first sight, and I'm definitely no proponent of the whole modern idea of "soul mates".  Now this may sound a bit odd to those of you who read my Valentine's day message.  (I'll repost that here for those of you who may have missed it.)  It would seem that if anyone would believe in cupid's arrows and happily ever after stories, it would be me.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely DO believe in true love and that marriages can last a lifetime.  But I also know that it's going to take a whole lot more than a naked baby-man drawing back his bow to make that happen.  Love at first sight is a misnomer, in my opinion.  You can have attraction at first sight, lust at first sight, interest at first sight.  You can have butterflies in your stomach at first sight.  Skyrockets in flight at first sight.  But you cannot have love, real love, at first sight.  Love should never be taken so lightly as to think of it as easy come...or easy go.  

To believe that there are genuine "soul mates" one must believe there is but one perfect mate with whom he or she is destined to share this life with.  But I simply don't believe that's the way it is.  


You know how I love to relate everything in life to laundry so let me use a sock analogy.  We all know, socks come in pairs.  But those pairs are typically packaged in sixes or twelves or whatever the case may be...but always in pairs.  Now within that package, let's say of white athletic socks, all the socks are viable mates for any of the others.  It isn't necessary for me to keep Sock A with Sock B and Sock C with Sock D.  A will match D just as well as it matches B...or C for that matter.  They all become interchangeable.  


Now if I determine to keep Sock A and Sock B together, I certainly can do that.  It will, however, require a greater investment in time, energy and diligence than just mating any two like socks from the same package together.  The options aren't really even limited to just the socks from that package.  Any socks of the same brand and appearance would work equally as well.  


Even socks with more unique patterns and colors are unlikely to be one-of-kind pairs.  Chance are there are many other 'matching' socks to be had.  And who among us hasn't worn a pair of near matches before...two similar but not perfectly mated socks?  We figure our pants will hide the fact that we have on one navy and one black sock so we just go with it on a busy morning.  We have made a pair out of two things that were never intended to be so, and the truth is, they function perfectly well together.  


If we are willing to accept the idea that things don't have to match but rather only have to work well together...go together, as it were, the pairing possibilities become limitless.  


It really isn't that much different with people.  People most often find their mate within the 'package' they come...their hometown or at school or work or church or wherever their personal geography most conveniently allows.  To think that there are no other potential or equally qualified candidates for life partnership outside our little circle of relevance is very shortsighted in my opinion. 


This is evidenced by the swell of relationships getting their start in cyberspace.  People who would have had no other opportunity to cross paths are finding one another through the internet.  With all the online dating sites and social networking possibilities, the constraints geography once imposed are basically nonexistent.  


We also live in a time where other restrictions have been lifted when it comes to finding a perfectly suitable mate.  Color, age, socioeconomics, even gender no longer firmly limit the pool from which people have to choose a potential life partner. (I'm not making any political or moral statements there...just calling it like I see it.) So I repeat, if we are willing to accept the idea that things...and people...don't have to match but rather only have to work well together...go together, the pairing possibilities become limitless.  


To believe there is one singular perfect person out there for each of us just doesn't seem likely to me.  More likely, in my opinion, is that there are multiple legitimate, suitable even exceptional options for each of us when it comes to a life mate.  That's the reason a man or woman who loses a treasured and beloved spouse can, with time, have a heart that is not only prepared but also eager to be connected to another.  It doesn't in any way negate the veracity with which he or she loved the first mate, it merely makes it apparent that there isn't but one singular 'soul mate' for each of us.


What makes any two people truly work as a couple is what made Sock A and Sock B work in my analogy earlier. There must be a determination to invest time and energy into the relationship.  It will mean giving due diligence to nurturing and protecting the union.  It will require perseverance and prudence.  It demands commitment and trustworthiness.  When the pressures and the circumstances of life set out to turn everything upside down and inside out, A and B must be somehow purposefully connected to one another to stay together.  


Fate, as it were, may bring people together, but that isn't what will keep them that way.  Physical attraction is powerful, but beauty has to more than skin deep to really last.  Those giddy, gushy feelings are great, but they're also fickle.  


It really all comes down to choices, in my opinion.  We choose a mate, based on whatever criteria we personally deem valid.  We choose to love.  We choose to overlook certain things.  We choose to value others.  We choose a lifestyle.  We make choices about children, money, making a home.  We choose what things are negotiable and what things aren't...what we can live with and what what we can't live without.  And none of those things should be taken lightly or happen by accident.  I know they sometimes do, but they shouldn't, if you ask me.  


Love, marriage, commitment, raising a family...all those things require such an incredible amount of work and determination.  No amount of chemistry or 'magic' can form a strong enough foundation to build an entire life together on. No one gets to happily ever after without a few poison apples, a lost slipper or two or some serious twists or turns in their story.  It's all the stuff between their eyes meeting across a crowded room and death doing them part that makes a real love story.  

Snapshots of Life

I am not a very photogenic gal.  I have more than my fair share of unflattering pictures to prove it.  Whether it's bad hair, bad angle, bad outfit or just plain bad, the camera does not love me.


Sometimes the snapshots of life are much the same.  The snapshots of life are those little moments of time caught forever in someone's memory that do not always show me in my best light.  They are mental pictures that may not accurately, or at least wholly, reflect who I am.  


I dare say, we all have some hideous snapshots of life archived somewhere. Sometimes those snapshots are of ourselves, things we have done or said that we wish we could take back. Harsh words we've said to our children or spouses.  Ugly, unloving or unforgiving actions we have taken against people we consider among our best friends.  Callous, unkind or right down derogatory comments we have made about people we hardly even know, let alone have any right to judge.


We get caught in these unflattering poses for a lot of reasons.  Sometimes it's just really bad timing.  We lose our cool and react badly when circumstances don't go our way and then...SNAP...you realize someone caught that shot of you. It isn't who you always are, it's just who you happened to be at that specific moment.


Sometimes we exercise poor judgement merely because of youth or a lack of foresight, but nevertheless, that picture is forever etched in someone's mind.  From that moment on, they see us in that particular light...careless, immature, selfish, lazy, rude..the list goes on and on. It isn't who we are now, but it's who they choose to forever see us as.


Sometimes we stick our nose into a place it never belonged, whether a real place or an emotional one.  But by the time we realize we've gone too far, someone has already developed a very unattractive picture of who we are...busy-body, interloper, troublemaker.


Sometimes the flash of the camera catches us completely by surprise.  We weren't even aware anyone was watching.  Had we realized we had an audience, we would have behaved differently.  We would have been more gracious, more cautious. While the image we produce may leave us feeling uncomfortable or compromised, we can deflect blame onto the one who captured the image because they did so in some covert manner. 


But most often, it's our deliberate, willful choices that produce the most grotesque images of ourselves burned into the memories of others.  The purposeful decisions we've made that have led to heartache or hardship...the thoughtlessness with which we've pursued our own objectives..the lies we've told...the rumors we've spread...the lack of compassion we've shown...the language we've used...the attitudes we have adopted about particular people whether because of their race, religion, economic position or political slant...all these things conjure up certain pictures of us in the minds of others, and they're not always pretty.  Even things we've done with defined intent can leave regrettable prints behind.


We all have things we would do differently if we could, history we would rewrite for ourselves.  We all hope to be seen in the best light possible rather than memorialized in some repugnant and abominable fashion.  We all have snapshots of life we'd just as soon leave out of our personal photo albums.


So why is it that we are so quick to take these kinds of snapshots of others?  And why are we so reluctant to accept that those isolated moments we catch of those around us may be just as distorted as some of our own snapshots of life?  Why are we so unwilling to accept that the pictures we have in our mind of our fellow men and women may not truly reflect the entirety of who they are?  Why do we lack mercy and grace when evaluating others when we so desire it when others evaluate us?  Why do we focus on the flaws and failures of people rather than seek to find the beauty in them?  Why can't we use some kind of Photoshop or Picnik when it comes to the snapshots of life rather than using a magnifying glass and highlighter on them?  


Sometimes a picture is worth a million words, but even a million words doesn't always tell the whole story.  Before I snap a picture of you, I'll try to remember that.  And before you snap a picture of me, could you please do the same?

All the world's a stage

I like to think of myself as a relatively intelligent woman.  I'm articulate, insightful and fairly well informed.  But the truth of the matter is, I don't even know what I don't know.  There's a whole world out there I have no true knowledge of...creatures I have never seen...ideas I have never given consideration...lives with which I will never intersect.  There are places I will never go.  Adventures I will never experience.  There are dreams I cannot even conceive with the limited scope of my mind's eye.  It's unfathomable the amount of existence I will never have any awareness of.

We all live in a world so much bigger than we are.  And yet, we seem to live in little pods, communities, families that have convinced this is all there is to life.  We repeat the patterns of our parents who simply repeated the patterns of their parents before them.  We mimic what we see on television or in society with little to no real thought about the value or long-term implications of such things. We are shown examples of what we ought to be and become a culmination of what many others have shaped us to be.  We are given a script and asked to either follow it or revise it to suit us but to never stray too far from the outline.

We are all little actors on little stages, performing little routines for our own personal little audiences.  We all have the potential to be stars in these productions...to shine bright and burn white hot.  Conversely, we all have the option to disappear into the chorus and leave nary a mark on the world as we pass through it.  

Who I am is not who I always thought I would be.  The character I portray has changed throughout my forty years, and I'm certain it will change at least a few more times before my performance on this life's stage is over.  That's what keeps life interesting, makes it all worth it, small role though it be in the overall scheme of things.

For me, a person with a wealth of opinions and often lacking self censorship, what I have come to understand about this whole production we call life is that, while I am the star of my own production, I am not the star on anyone else's stage...not my husband's....not my childrens...not my parents'.  My importance varies widely as I make guest appearances in each of their lives as well as in the lives of my friends, co-workers and even the strangers I pass on the street.  The big things on my stage may be mere footnotes on theirs.  And that's the way it's supposed to be.  I make a mark on you.  You make a mark on me.  We all make a mark on the world, the stage, we leave behind.


Only a rare few performers have had lasting mass appeal.  Only a few go down in history as being among the greats.  A Mother Teresa, a Martin Luther King Jr., an Albert Einstein...not necessarily each one of kind but each remembered above all the others with their particular bent.  There are far more nameless, faceless performers who have graced this stage than those we have elevated to superstar status.  But regardless, each has played a significant role...a unique, personal portrayal of a life lived...whether well done or wasted.

For me, I hope to live my life in such as way as to make a positive impact on the performances of those around me...to influence the character development of my sons...to be the lifelong love interest of my husband...to be a comedian without becoming a joke...to be a powerhouse without overshadowing my co-stars...to be a superhero when one's needed and a well seasoned sage throughout.


Though my stage be small and my admirers be few, an award-winning performance comes from a life well lived.  If I accomplish this, I will consider my performance quite stellar. 

Go-fers

When my husband starts a project, whether around the house, with one of the vehicles or in the yard, there is one thing I can count on.  At some point, I will be his official go-fer.  Go-fer this part.  Go-fer that tool.  Go-fer this thing or that.  I don't mind the go-fering, per se.  But when I don't exactly know what I'm shopping for, I can just about bet I'll have to call home for further information at one point or another.

Some go-fering trips are more challenging than others.  For instance, when hubby doesn't know what the technical term for something is, which is what happened when he sent me for what he called 'gutter clips'.  As it turns out, there was nothing labeled 'gutter clips' but several things that I could visualize as being 'gutter clips'.  I used the camera on my phone to snap shots of various 'clips' so he could choose just which ones he wanted me to get.

When I was shopping for tile and the supplies to install it, my husband had full confidence I could do that myself while he kept working on our new bathroom.  The tile was mentally exhausting for me, but something I eventually was able to settle on with a little reassurance from my mother that it would look great.  But the supplies, that was another story.  I don't know how many phone calls I had to make to ask him about the grout...quick setting or not.  Sealer...spray on type or roll on type.  Adhesive...big bucket or little bucket.  

Then there's the calls he makes to me while I'm running these little errands so he can add more and more items to my shopping list.  I cannot tell you how many times I have had to leave the check out line to go get one more thing or back track through a store to find something else he needs. 

I have often told him it might be faster if he would just get what he needs himself.  After all, he isn't getting that much done here at home if he's had to be on the phone with me half a dozen times.  And truthfully, it can be very frustrating searching for things I'm not familiar with in stores filled with things I'm clueless about. 

I'm not sure my husband has fully appreciated just how arduous these kinds of shopping trips can be until now.  For the last two weeks, while I have been off my feet, he and our sons have been doing the grocery shopping.  Not just stopping and picking up a couple things...the whole family-sized, week's worth, heavy haul grocery shopping.

I will give them credit.  They have done a fine job doing something that ranks high on my list of most time consuming chores.  But even with a very detailed list, laid out for them row by row through the grocery store with name brands and prices included for advertised items, I think they still had to call home six or eight times today while shopping to double check on things.  They were legitimate questions, such as could Swiss steak be substituted for round steak if the price per pound is the same and does it matter if the soft shells for tacos come off the shelf or from the refrigerated section, but I couldn't help but chuckle as call after call came in.

I think today he and the boys have a much deeper appreciation of what I do week in and week out, but they also understand that being a go-fer isn't always as easy as it seems.  I know next time he sends me out on some great mission at a big box home improvement store, he'll have a little more empathy for me if I have to keep calling home for help. 

Growing Old Together

It's amazing the changes my forty year old self is going through.  It isn't just the obvious things either...the wrinkles, gray hair and sagging upper arm skin.  It's the stuff no one else can see...no one else knows about.  Or maybe everyone else knows but they just aren't talking about it.

For the first time in my life really, the possibility of being 'old' genuinely looms large.  In my twenties, even my thirties, 'old' was somewhere far away.  It was a place I might go when I ran out of things to do or at least the energy to do them.  It was almost an inconceivable land where the pace is slow and demands of this life dwindle down to a manageable level.  A place that seemed to be a million miles away just a breath or two ago. 

I used to say I wanted to grow old with my husband.  Now I realize I already am growing old with him.  But growing old together looks and feels so much different than I thought it would.

Twenty plus years ago, I imagined growing old with this man I have loved in one form or fashion since I was thirteen years old would mean me in a house dress and slippers and he in old man jeans and a flannel shirt sitting on the front porch in our rocking chairs, maybe bouncing grand babies on our knees.  I was envisioning 'old' the way my Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy were 'old'.  That's how they looked.  Old.  And still loving one another. 

I didn't see all the time they put into growing old together.  My memories of  them begin when they were closer to the finish line than the starting blocks.  But I didn't have to be there to know they had spent many years building a life, raising children, making a home.  They had figured out how to get through disagreements and disparities.  They had invested in one another in every way imaginable.  They had shared everything...laughs, tears, dreams, fears...secrets just the two of them knew.  All those things come together and accumulate over time and form the firmest of foundations.  

The love my great aunt and great uncle shared wasn't flashy or wild, but it was palpable.  What do I know, maybe there was a time when it was flashy and wild.  But in the time I knew them, they loved one another in the  deep and abiding way only years of life experience together could produce.  It was a love that didn't fade away even when her physical and mental abilities did.  When she became totally dependent on others for literally everything, he was there.  What he couldn't give her himself, he made sure others did.  And what he couldn't have from her anymore, he still possessed in abundance through his memories.  Even after she was gone, she was never far from him.  

My husband and I bear very few physical resemblances to Aunt Mary and Uncle Billy.  We live our lives in a completely different way than they did.  I doubt I'll ever be in a dress of any kind, and I can't imagine my hot husband in old man jeans.  I doubt our lifestyle is anything like theirs was.  But somehow I think we're probably not as different from them as we are the same.  Our goals and dreams and hopes of growing old together...sharing a past, embracing a present and looking forward to a future together are just the same.  

This past week, as I've been out of commission with a bum knee, my wonderful husband has been just incredible.  He's taken care of my every need.  Gently loving me in word and deed, putting my needs at the forefront of everything else.  When we were younger, it probably would have been my mother coming over to help out.  But now, it's him and me.  That's they way it should be.  That's the way I always want it to be...for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health for now and for always.  I intend to love this man and share my entire self with him...to both grow and age together.  I love you, Dan.

Public Bathrooms

Forty years and three children have wreaked havoc on my body in many ways.  But perhaps the most annoying relates to bladder control, or a lack thereof.  Let's just say, when I've got to go, I've got to go.  I can literally pee on cue.  Just passing a bathroom spurs the urge.  It is not a pleasant reality nor one I ever would have predicted when I was younger.  

I no longer take my ability to hold it for granted.  Something as simple as laughing or as benign as a sneeze can spell big trouble these days.  Many a day I have waddled in from work, precariously making my way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope to get there in time.  When my kids were little, I called that the pee pee dance.  Now I call it the please don't pee pee dance.  

Unfortunately, this lack of control doesn't restrict itself to when I'm home.  So, out of sheer necessity, I have become quite the public restroom aficionado.  I have developed an odd appreciation for a good lavatory, as my Grandpa Hudson used to called it.  


I can tell you who has really nice restrooms and regrettably, who doesn't.  These are things one can only learn through experience.  Now, keep in mind, I'm a person who refers to my kids' bathroom as the gas station bathroom because of it's frequently unsavory conditions so I wouldn't generally consider myself a particularly picky restroom connoisseur. I can tolerate a lot. But there are some issues I think public restroom designers should take into consideration.


First off, no woman wants to straddle the stool to get the door closed.  I'm all for conserving space, but seriously, give us enough room to get in the stall without hovering over the toilet.  If the door scrapes the front of the john, it isn't good.  If we were standers instead of sitters, our behinds would be pressed up against the metal door, for Pete's sake.  Now how hygienic would that be?


Secondly, give a little thought to the placement of the diaper changing station.  I think giving mom a place to change that little tyke's dirty pants is a terrific idea, but must it be the main attraction upon entering the restroom?  Move that handy dandy little wall-mounted table into it's own stall or at least to the back of the room.  Junior may need therapy if memories of his bare bottom being exposed to everyone in the big box store ladies room surface later in his life. 

When one enters a stall and takes a seat, she isn't, at first, thinking about the placement of the stool behind the door.  But once perched upon that porcelain pedestal, poor stool location becomes not only obvious but often embarrassing.   There's nothing more disconcerting than finding oneself mid-stream and nearly fully exposed through the big ol' gap in the stall door.  If we wanted to be on display when we go, we'd just cop a squat somewhere.  Either narrow that crack or at least make sure there's no money shot for every one entering the restroom by placing the stool squarely behind the door itself.  


A hook of some sort is, in my opinion, a necessity in every ladies room stall.  I do not want to have to sit my purse on the bathroom floor or try to balance it on top of the sanitary napkin disposal box or hang it from my neck while I do my business.  It doesn't have to be anything fancy...just someplace cleaner than the floor and less likely to choke me to death than dangling around my neck.

I don't want a toilet paper dispenser that's so close to the bottom of the wall I can hardly get my hand up under it to get the paper free or so far away I can hardly reach it.  I don't want the dispenser to be so tight I can only get two sheets at a time.  If I need six squares, I want six squares, and I will fight to get them if I have to.  And I never ever want toilet paper that feels like sand paper.  I don't care what kind of budget a place is working with, two ply cannot possibly be the thing that puts a business in the red.  


I doubt the paper towel cost has been the ruin of many, if any, a business either.  I understand air dryers save trees and make less waste, but seriously, I don't have thirty minutes to stand there and try to get my hands dry.  Either upgrade to those wind tunnel type dryers or give me some actual paper towel please.


And while a need for cleanliness goes without saying, I'll say it anyway.  There's nothing more repulsive than dribble on the seats or an unflushed toilet.  It's bad enough when it's a relative leaving the mess behind, but when it's a perfect stranger...EGAD!  If you're big enough to use the big girls' potty, you're big enough to clean up after yourself.  


Ok, time for a bathroom break.  :-)

My Great Nemesis

I have a great nemesis.  Now perhaps the word 'nemesis' conjures up thoughts of Marvel Comic villains such as Lex Luthor or the Joker.  Or maybe it brings to mind that girl back in high school who always seemed to be able to 'one up' you in every possible way.  But for me, my great and formidable foe is a heaping basket of unmatched socks.

My nemesis lurks in the laundry room, daring me to take him on.  It is not a challenge I take lightly.  Many a day I have sought to defeat this mortal enemy only to retreat in utter despair.  He seems to laugh at me as he produces one mismatched sock after another, wearing me down with the sheer enormity of his arsenal.  

I have tried many a tactic to outwit my worthy rival. I started out trying to buy each boy a very distinctive style of sock...short black socks for this boy, tall white socks for another, and something with a colored heel for the third.  That should have made partnering them up quick and easy.  But somehow both socks never ended up hitting the laundry at the same time.  The random stray would later be found under the couch or tucked inside a shoe.  His perfect match would then take up residence in that blasted basket.


For a while, I tried to make sure only mated pairs went into the washer.  It was a huge inconvenience, not to mention a big irritation, to sort through dirty socks and hold on to the unmated ones until their counterparts revealed themselves.  But even going through such painstaking efforts didn't guarantee getting mated pairs back at the  end.  I was fairly certain my great adversary and the dryer were in cahoots on that one.

So with four males in the house, all wearing the same size socks, I decided I would just buy them all the same socks so everything would match everything else.  It sounded like the perfect plan to me.  But somehow, even two white socks fail to mate when one is white as snow and another is dingy brown from going through who knows what.   


And then there's the dress socks.  One blue. One black. One brown.  One with stripes.  One argyle. But a common theme among them all...just one of each.  All of them coming together in one place...that infernal laundry basket!

Unfortunately, it isn't only unmatched socks piling up against me.  That one dreaded laundry basket has become a depository for a plethora of old soccer and football socks.  I don't know how many pair of thick, knee high, never-to-be-worn-again athletics socks he has taken possession of, but he does so to my chagrin.    It isn't that anything is 'wrong' with these orphaned socks.  But one year on the red team and another one on the green team times three boys times multiple sports has produced a lot of socks over the years.  Many have made their way to Goodwill but many still have taken up residence with my archenemy. 


But last week, with Christmas coming and new socks on the way, I waged an all out war against my great opponent.  With reckless abandon, I overturned him, spilling his sizable accumulation of form fitting footwear onto the living room floor.  I gave everyone in the house a minute...maybe less...to quickly pluck from the pile anything they deemed worthy of saving.  And then, with no regard for whether anything else might be salvageable (which has been my downfall on many a prior occasion), I made one final brutal assault against my longtime opponent.  With a sigh of relief and a feeling of victory deep in my belly, I scooped everything up and threw it all away.  Having left my former foe completely decimated, I smiled with delight and proclaimed a new day...a new day for laundry at our house.


From now on, every man, woman and child in this house is responsible to wash, dry, fold and put away his or her own socks.  We have each been doing our own regular laundry for quite some time so this seems like a very reasonable, even ingenious solution to my sock problem.  However, I know from past experience to never underestimate this great nemesis of mine.  I will definitely keep my guard up...and my laundry sorted.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future

Merry Christmas!  

When I was a little girl, our big family Christmas festivities took place at my Grandma Hudson's house.  Even though my siblings, cousins and I were all small at the time, the house was still filled to the rim when we all gathered together.  There was music and food, and Grandpa's ribbon candy. The tree was always half swallowed up by the pretty wrapped packages piled all around it. It was loud with the sounds of laughter and warm with the caress of love.

By the time the wrapping paper stopped flying, not an empty spot was left to be found.  I honestly cannot remember a single a gift I received in all those years, but I remember the feelings I had. Grandma's house was just the place to be.  Christmas or just an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, it didn't matter.  When I was Grandma's, everything was okay.  


I was probably around 12 or 13 when the Christmas gathering moved to my parents' house.  It was really just a matter of necessity.  None of us were getting any smaller, and Grandma's house wasn't getting any bigger.  At first it was odd to not be at Grandma's house.  Even though all the same characters were there, the whole event felt different on a new stage.  


Maybe it was just that we weren't going anywhere.  We were just staying home and letting everyone come to us.  Maybe that took some of the excitement out of the day.  Maybe it was just the subtle differences between Mom's entertaining style and Grandma's.  Maybe it was just me.  I wasn't little anymore.  The anticipation of Santa was gone.  Not to mention, clothes and cash didn't hold the same thrill as Easy Bake ovens and Barbies.


When we all started marrying and having our own little families, the big family Christmas changed again.  It wasn't everyone all in one place anymore.  Instead, it was my parents and siblings and our little families having a Christmas gathering completely separate from from the rest of the family.  I understand these kinds of changes are a natural part of the growing process, but still, something was lost for certain when the transition from one big family all together became two separate families each doing their own thing.

Now we stand on the cusp of another time of metamorphosis.  The days of my siblings and I having little kids is quickly phasing out. My kids and my nieces and nephew aren't, for the most part, exactly little anymore.  In fact, two of my children are in their twenties and likely to be marrying and starting their own families in the next few years.  And with growth, both in physical size and numbers, the stage has changed once again.


This year, for the first time, my husband and I hosted the big family Christmas get together.  It was grand.  A fabulous time.  My little family of five plus my sons' girlfriends, my parents,  two sisters, a brother, two brothers-in-law, a sister-in-law, a nephew and three nieces all came together to celebrate Christmas right here in our home.  


It was different than being at Mom and Dad's...fantastic but different.  I wonder how it felt to the kids.  Did they have those same feelings I did back when we went from Christmas at Grandma's to Christmas elsewhere?  I wonder if the change in atmosphere took anything away or if it possibly added anything to the night.  Will they remember this Christmas with any special fondness...the first Christmas at Aunt Tam's instead of Nana and Papaw's?  And how about my siblings?  Was anything lost or gained by the new stage set for them?  Or is it possible, that as adults, it's only having the same cast that really matters.  


I take a moment to pause at that thought, because the truth is, the cast is ever changing. Before much longer, as the 'kids' all become adults and marry and have children of their own, it's likely there will be more 'little' Christmases than 'big' ones...each little family within the the bigger one opting to have their own celebrations.  The more we multiply, the more dividing becomes inevitable.  


When the day comes that each of my siblings elect to have their own Christmas celebrations with their own kids and their own grandkids, it will be among the most bittersweet days of my life.  How deeply I will miss the moments of utter joy that can be found across a table of tasty treats and candid conversation...the laughter that fills a room when a mediocre joke is delivered beautifully by a thirteen year old niece...the contentment of knowing that no matter how much or little we have to exchange, we are incredibly rich in all the ways that matter....the sheer delight of seeing the people I love the most love each other.  Oh how precious these days are.  How I savor them, knowing that as quickly as the days come, they are over.  And while I know that what lies ahead for each of us is sure to be as wonderful as what lies behind, still I will miss it when it's gone.

To my family...each of you individually and all of you collectively...thanks for the memories.  May we make many more together and be genuinely happy for each other as we make our own memories apart from one another.  Merry Christmas!