Entourage Reunion 2010

Due a crazy, busy summer and lots of time spent with the kids at various pools, inflatables, and parks in the greater Rutherford County area, I have had no time to blog. However, as Hardy has now started kindergarten and I will be starting graduate school in a matter of weeks, I hope to begin blogging again.

Last weekend I did the best thing I have done in ages. I went on a girl’s weekend, a retreat of Ya-Ya proportions. As a bit of background, a group of five women became friends while attending Mississippi University for Women. We somehow (the mists of memory does not accurately reflect how this happened) gave ourselves the name of “The Entourage”. I think the name came from the fact that we always travelled in a pack in college, acting as each other’s Entourage. We were the Entourage long before HBO and Jeremy Piven usurped the name (I believe they owe us royalties for that).

The Entourage was an unstoppable force of nature. All of my best college memories involve at least one, and usually more, of the Entourage. We went to a moderately small, predominantly female university in a small town. However, we managed to have some wonderful times together. Life, however, intruded as it often does. After college and marriage, I simply drifted away from these wonderful ladies, a fact that I will regret until my dying day. I have no excuse for why I did not work harder to keep them in my life. While I hate talking on the phone and am the worst correspondent (I have reams of letters that I began that simply either never got finished or were posted in the mail), I wish I had tried to find them sooner than I did.

Thanks to the glories of the internet and to Facebook, we all reconnected in the last year. At the New Year, we begin to discuss, via Facebook, the idea of having a reunion. We loved the idea of spending a weekend together, catching up and enjoying each other’s company. After many discussions and setbacks, San Antonio was chosen as the venue (home of one of the Entourage) and the end of July was chosen.

In retrospect, the decision to go to San Antonio at the end of July was perhaps not our best decision. While it was terribly hot and humid, the weather did not mar what was possibly one of the best weekends I have spent in ages.

The best way to describe the Entourage was uttered by Traci, who said the Entourage was “like the Ya-Ya Sisterhood without the diagnosed alcoholism and more profane.” (If you have to ask what the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is then you most likely would not understand the underlying ethos of the Entourage). It is a crazy mixture of Southern sass, sangria, margaritas, beer, cigarettes (though not as much as in the past), a love of movies, a refusal to take life too seriously, and a serious intolerance for bullshit.

In many ways, we picked up where we had left off ten years ago. We tended to sit in the same spot in the car as we did a decade ago, and we laughed over the same things we did. We looked at old pictures and remembered our wild youth of stalking professors, doing shots of Jack Daniels (which I still cannot smell without getting sick), and “stinky nachos”. We went shopping together, and I had forgotten the pure bliss of shopping with a group of ladies who have no problems in letting you know if something is flattering. We went to the Alamo (a bit of a disappointment) and drank copiously of various libations (we had to beat the heat somehow). I went home more relaxed than I have been in months, despite the fact that I never slept more than five hours a night.

If I could change one thing about life, I would have the Entourage living within 20 miles of each other. My sanity would benefit greatly from having weekly contact with these wonderful ladies. My children would learn valuable lessons from an up-close study of the Entourage. They would learn about courage and sacrifice. About what you do when you lose almost everything you own in a natural disaster. About how to embrace life and when to say no to the canned cheese. About relationships and laughter and how to detect when someone is bullshitting you. About how to be a great person and a good friend.

Hiking Fun

This past Saturday I undertook my quest to take my kids to every public park in Murfreesboro, if not Rutherford County, before the summer is over. The first park we chose was Barfield Park, off Hwy 231 South in Murfreesboro.

In the interest of full disclosure, we are not novices to the playground at Barfield. We've been there many times with playgroup and other activities. We even went to the Barfield Beach Party in May, an activity in which they truck in tons of sand and hold a beach party in the parking lot. However, we have never used the hiking trails or any of the Wilderness Station facilities.

This particular adventure was undertaken without Justin as I was doing him a favor. He expressed a desire to do some yardwork/cleanup without his two little helpers underfoot. Hardy can be a bit of a hoarder, and it is easier to pick up sticks/trash without someone pleading with you to save said items for some unfathomable reason.

We began our adventure with a hike on one of the paved trails behind the Wilderness Station. I opted not to take Ellie's stroller, knowing how she loves to run. We decided (rather, I unilaterally decided as I am a dictator) to hike to the River Overlook, a distance of 0.7 miles (or 1.4 round trip). I had a backpack with me filled with snacks, drinks, notebooks and crayons for any stops that were needed.

Ellie loved hiking, running most of the way to (and from) the River Overlook. She actually hiked 1.2 miles of the trail, which I thought was impressive for a 23 month old. She stopped frequently to point out leaves and bugs to us. Each dog that we passed (all seven of them) were met with rapturous waves and exclamations of glee.

Hardy was not that enthused about the hike to begin with. He wanted to stop frequently to draw. He wanted to rest. He wanted to go to the playground. However, by the time he had snacked and rested at the River Overlook he was fully into hiking mode. He spent the return trip pointing out bugs and letting Ellie try to catch him. At one point he asked what his gift was for finishing the hike. I told him he would receive the gift of good health. His response, "That's not a very good gift." I can't help but love the utter honesty that kids have.

We finished up our day with playing on the large playground (there is a smaller playground as well, but we prefer the larger one). The major downside to the playground at Barfield is the lack of shade on or near the play structures. On a hot, muggy Tennessee Saturday, this can be a bit tortuous. However, both kids loved all the climbing options on the structures. They were also big fans of the large pavilions, which offered us a much-needed shaded respite during our play.

In all, Barfield has moved to the top of our park list (although we have only "officially" visited one park since we began our quest). It has a lot of different options for family fun, such as hiking trails, play structures, disc golf, and nice picnic areas.

Summer Plans

This week marked our first week of summer vacation for the kiddos. I don't mind admitting that I was a bit worried about summer vacation. Keeping two children of different ages from being bored while being thrifty (an inherent part of myself I can't overcome) can be a bit challenging.

Our first week has gone surprisingly well, especially considering that it was a full moon week. As an aside, my children often turn from being nice, sweet kids (with an occasional meltdown) to full-on terrors during the full moon. Full moon week (it always seems to last a week) usually involves tantrums over the most minor things (Ellie once threw a fit because I put a tank top on her rather than a shirt with sleeves) and lots of shrieking. For whatever reason, the full moon did not bewitch my children as usual, for which I am profoundly grateful.



Our plans this summer do not include a formal family vacation. For one thing, Ellie is not a seasoned traveller, and I do not think anyone in our family should endure the shrieking that will occur should she be in her car seat more than her threshold of an hour and a half. She is also still in diapers, and a diaper full of sand does not appeal. We are saving Disney and the beach for the time in our life when diapers are no more than a distant memory, and for the time right before we become incurably stupid in the opinions of our offspring.

I do have lots of local plans for us, however. We became members of the Nashville Zoo, and I plan on us visiting the animals at least twice a month. We are members of the local, awesome, fabulous children's museum, and we will go to the Discovery Center so frequently that they may kick us out. We have invested in 2 sprinklers, a small wading pool, water guns and barrels of bubbles. Our official water play kickoff day is Memorial Day.



We are planning playdates with friends as that benefits both the kids and myself. The kids because they can play with friends, and myself because I can have an adult, albeit frequently interrupted, conversation. I can't wait to discuss things other than why Squidward is so mean to Spongebob, why lollipops at 8:00 am are not a good idea, and why barking at people (if you are not a dog) can net you funny stares.

My major and possibly slightly geeky plan is to visit every public park in Murfreesboro and quite possibly Rutherford County. The geeky part is that I plan on polling the kids (which playground had the most awesome play structure, which has the best shade, which playground offered the longest stretch of playtime for the kids before the boredom complaints set in) and then trying to quantify my results in some manner. I have a feeling that a spreadsheet and charts/graphs will be involved as well. I hope at the end of the summer to determine the Gardner Family's favorite area park. What I will then do with this information is unknown, but a little extra knowledge never hurt anyone.



The part of summer that I am most eagerly anticipating has nothing at all to do with my kids. At the end of July I am going to Texas for a long anticipated reunion of four college friends. Those four ladies, who I have not seen in a decade, were my sanity in college as well as the source of some of my spectacularly bad ideas (such as shooting Jack Daniels on a stomach full of cheap frozen pizzas). I can't wait to see them, catch up, and just enjoy some of the most fun people I know. So hurray for summer!

Memorials

During a recent bike ride around the Square, I noticed the various memorials on the Courthouse lawn. There are memorials to Confederate veterans, a more general memorial to those killed in battle; there is even a memorial marking the fact the Murfreesboro was the state capital for eight years in the early 1800s.

Memorials are meant to preserve the memory of a person, place, or an event. However, I think memorials say more about the living than the deceased does. Memorials show what a society values and respects. I think it is telling that while there are innumerable memorials around this country dedicated to the fallen veterans of the Civil War, World War I, and World War II, there are very few memorials dedicated solely to the veterans of Vietnam or the first Persian Gulf War.

I do not believe that my generation is comfortable with memorials or remembering those who have come before us. We have fought illness and death so successfully that the remembrance of death is an uncomfortable reminder that we have not entirely defeated death. We do not take part in Decoration Day activities.

I remember going to countless Decoration Days as a child and teenager. My father’s family has two family cemeteries (the exclusive Watson Cemetery and the more inclusive Conaster Cemetery, both located in rural Wilson County, Tennessee). As my mother’s family did not boast its own cemetery, we would go to various country church Decoration Days in Moore County, Tennessee.

Decoration Day was not a somber affair. People would bring food to share and spread the picnic on the ground. No one thought it strange to feast on fried chicken and banana pudding while sitting amongst the tombstones. In fact, the tombstones would lead to interesting conversations of the people with whom we were eating. The children would play tag and other games, hopping neatly over the graves. There would be a brief prayer and placing of new wreaths on the graves.

As I grew older, though, I stopped going to Decoration Day. I stopped going to the ones on my father’s side because there was always too much family drama, and it was exhausting trying to remember who was mad at whom, and whom we were not to speak to at the event. I only stopped going to the Decoration Day at Buckeye (where my mother’s parents and sister are buried) after college, when life got in the way of my attending the event. Since moving back to Tennessee, nearly three years ago, I have not attended any Decoration Day events nor have I taken my children.

A part of me misses the feeling of familial kinship that comes with Decoration Day. Even though my father’s family never made me feel welcome, there was a nice feeling to walk amongst my ancestors and hear stories about them. I never knew many of them, but some of them became very real to me during these events. I also miss seeing distant relatives you only see once a year.

However, like many in my generation, I have not felt the need for Decoration Day. I do not remember my beloved grandparents or aunts the less because I do not visit their gravesites. I remember them in different ways. I tell my children stories of my grandparents, and show their pictures to them. I make some of their favorite recipes. I see my grandfather’s cheekbones whenever I see my Aunt Bobbie, and I see my grandmother looking out of my mother’s face. The memorials I have for these beloved relatives are not tangible, but they are no less real for their intangibility. Perhaps it is the same for others of my generation. We do not erect public memorials because we carry the memories of our loved ones within our very pores.

Floods

As I am writing this, Murfreesboro (but mainly Nashville) is in the midst of a historic flood. I am writing this now mainly to record my thoughts on the situation as it unfolds.

The rain started Saturday, and except for brief windows, has not stopped. Some areas of the region have received as many as 20 inches in the last two days. Nashville has recorded record May rainfall, and it is only May 2nd. Here in Murfreesboro we have received roughly 10 inches in the last 2 days.

They are calling this a 500 year flood, and I would believe it. Parts of Nashville are flooding that have not flooded in recent memory. Mill Creek, which my parents live near, has flooded and gone over I-24, killing at least one person there. Parts of Bellevue are flooded. They are evacuating the guests and workers from Opryland Hotel, which has to be a logistical and public relations nightmare for the hotel.

For me, I have a hard time tearing myself away from the television. I think it was better when there was not 24/7 outlet to the news. Seeing the flood occur in real time is heartbreaking. Watching infants being evacuated makes me want to go hug my own babies. Watching parts of Antioch where I learned to drive, where I hung out with friends underwater breaks my heart. So many fond memories of Nashville are now tinged with the sadness of the flooding.

I worry about my parents, who live above Mill Creek. Luckily their street is located on a very high hill, so if they are totally flooded out it means that it is time to call out the arks and abandon all hope. They have water in their basement;there would be more water but they have worked tirelessly the last 24 hours, tyring to get out the water as soon as it comes in. The roads between us are closed, so we can't even get to them to assist in clean up, or to just offer solace as they deal with the cleanup of the flood waters.

I fear that when the rain finally stops and the waters recede (which I estimate won't happen until Tuesday) the devastation will be mind-numbing. So many homeowners in the area do not have flood insurance, as their homes are not located in flood plains. I worry about Antioch, where my parents live, and which has been struggling financially for some time. I fear this flood may be the death knell for Antioch. While I no longer live in Antioch, I would hate to see it die because of the flood.

Zumba

For the last several months, I have been attending a twice weekly zumba class at my local gym. For the uninitiated, zumba is the grooviest exercise you will ever do. It is a mixture of Latin and hip-hop dance done to a mixture of Latin and hip-hop music. The ratio of Latin to hip hop depends upon the instructor. The instructor I favor leans a bit more heavily to hip-hop music, which is one of the many reasons I love this particular class.

I have always believed that I have no innate rhythm. If you were to observe me in zumba class you would reach the same conclusion. My body has never seemed to move in any coordinated fashion when dancing. Asking my arms and legs to do different things is like kryptonite - I end up just staring and figuring out how on earth bodies move that way. Yet in zumba I have found a part of myself that I did not know exist.

I realized recently that much of what I do in this life is in opposition to my mother. I love my mother dearly and think she is a wonderful lady; however, I seem to act contrary to what she would. She loves to dance, and won several dance contests as a young woman. When I was a young woman, you could not get me to dance or go to a dance. I think I went to a grand total of 3 dances in my teenage years, and 2 of those were prom (neither of which I danced at). Dance was my mom's thing, not mine. I had no interest in it or see any need for dance in my life. Once I realized that I was prejudiced against zumba for no logical reason, I decided to start going.

I have to admit the first time few times I went to zumba I had to talk myself into returning the next time. Some of the dances felt weird (well, all of the dances) and I felt like a huge idiot. Yet there was something that drew me in. For an hour at a time, I was someone else. I learned to stop paying attention to what I was doing and started just feeling the music and the beat. Not to say that I always find the beat, but I at least now know that a such thing as beats exist.

Now I go with no apologies and dance like the craziest, most uncoordinated girl out there. I could care less that I am a few beats behind everyone else and that the dance I am doing bears little relation to what the instructor intended. Zumba has become my time to be a different Leigh Ann. A Leigh Ann who dances for the sheer joy of it, even on the days that threaten to suck all the joy out of my soul. I become the girl who would have swayed her hips at the boys at the club, if I had ever been the club kind of girl. I forget for an hour all the worries, the stresses, the ordinariness of life. For a bit, life is colorful and exuberant and fresh. So I dance and embrace the Leigh Ann that zumba is teaching me to become.

Good Works

I have debated about writing this particular blog for several days now. I am afraid it will seem self-serving, and I do not want to emphasize any part of "self" in this. I think I am just going to jot this down, so to speak, so that I don't forget the feelings, etc. raised by the experience.

Last Thursday, I had the incredible privilege of helping out at The Journey Home for a bit. For those of you who may not now, The Journey Home is an organization that is trying to fill as many gaps as it can for the homeless and poor in our city. They have a small building on Castle Street, just around the bend from Cannonsburgh.

I could write reams about the work being done at this center and not touch on all the lives they are helping. There is a Community Cafe, where lunch is served 5 days a week to all comers. They have seats for 40 in the dining room, but have on occasion served over 3 times that number of people. There is a clothes closet for clients to go through, and a small computer lab for people to work on resumes and look for employment. The staff makes up food boxes (full of nonperishables) and distribute to those in need. There is a bread closet as well, open to all clients.

What amazed me the most about this place, apart from the amazing volunteers and the great sense of purpose one feels there, is the amount of unheralded community support that the center has received. Publix donates bread to them daily. Pizza Hut regularly donates pizza for the lunch they serve. Chef Wang's, my favorite local Chinese restaurant, does the Monday meal.

What amazed me about the local support is that I have never once heard of any of these businesses advertising what they do for the center. Not once have I seen self-serving pictures of meals being served by the Chef Wang's staff. Not once have I seen articles in the paper about Publix or Pizza Hut helping to feed the hungry in our community. The quiet nature of this support have disposed me quite favorably to these businesses.

I left the Center on Thursday feeling humbled by all that I have, compassion for those trying to find their way, and restored faith in business in this city.

To find out more about The Journey Home, go to http://www.murfreesboropost.com/filling-the-gaps-on-the-journey-home-cms-7637 to read an article in the Murfreesboro Post about the work of the center.

Lack of Vision

Proverbs 29:18 (KJV) states that "Where there is no vision, the people perish." This quote seems especially prophetic when dealing with Murfreesboro.

It is springtime, the time when the leaders in our fair city have decreed that the city elections should be held. Despite the fact that the last spring election had a voter turnout of 9%. Despite the fact it costs more to hold a separate city election than it would to hold the city election with the state primaries in August. Despite the fact it is easier for the incumbents to remain in power when only 9% of the qualified electorate bother to vote. Or perhaps that is the point.

One of the problems bedeviling Murfreesboro is a lack of vision for our city. It is shown in innumerous ways. Despite the fact Murfreesboro has grown to over 100,000 (some estimate our population will be 110,000 after the census), our leaders continue to act as if Murfreesboro was a small town. We continue to have "at-large" council representation, with 5 council-members representing the entire community. And while technically anyone in the city can run for office, most of the current council members live in the "newer" parts of town, not the older, "inner-city" section of the city in which I reside. Additionally, the power is held in this city largely by white men. While there is a person of color on the Council and a woman on the School Board, in a town of this size it is past time that minorities had larger representation in our local government.

While the city has actively encouraged growth in the "Gateway" section of the city, little thought has been given to maintaining the older sections of the city. Maney Avenue has suffered a drainage problem for years and only now is the money being allocated to alleviate the problem. I'm sure the business owners in that area would have been happy with one-tenth of the attention (or money) that the Gateway has attracted. And while the Greenway is wonderful (and used by many), I am sure the people living on Bradyville Pike would have appreciated sidewalks as they walk (the only means of transportation for many in that area) to work or to the store.

What this city needs is to seriously begin vision-casting. Responsible leaders need to step forward and start dreaming about what we want from our city in the future and the path we need to take to get there. Do we want to be a city that only attracts blue-collar jobs, or do we want to be more like Franklin, which attracts professional jobs? What do we need to do as a city to ensure that schools like Hobgood or Bradley do not become like Nashville's Cameron School, a school so troubled that it is being taken over by a charter school in the fall. How can we get more people involved (myself included) in the excellent work being done in this city by organizations such as The Journey Home, Greenhouse Ministries, and Rev. Marable's Second Chance Ministries? What can we do to eradicate the creeping gang violence? How can we show the gangs that we will not cede one iota of this city to their sway?

I think that the people in our city should also be involved in this process. Let a series of meetings be held all over the city, from Blackman to Siegel to Indian Hills to State Street. Let all voices be heard as people articulate where our city should be in 30, 40, 50 years. Let's work together and make this a city our children can be proud of. Perhaps in the process we can make this a city we ourselves our proud of.

Stereotype

I have not been blogging/writing lately because it seems that life became crazy/hectic/busy. Also, Hardy stopped taking his afternoon nap (I guess 4 and a half years was as good as one could expect) so I now spend the afternoon with him, thus taking away my time to write.

I heard from MTSU yesterday and was admitted to the graduate program in History. I was not, however, awarded an assistantship, so attending graduate school at this time probably will not happen. I am incredibly saddened by this, as I realized (somewhat belatedly) that I love academia and was looking forward to being a full time student. I also was shocked because I felt with my grades and GRE scores that I would receive an assistantship.

So now I am in the position of being a stereotype. I feel a bit like the women Betty Friedan wrote in The Feminine Mystique back in 1963 (hard to imagine that some things have not changed in the intervening 47 years). While I love my children and my husband desperately, I feel the need for an identity beyond them. Something that depends solely on my own talents (whatever they may be) and abilities that go beyond how I parent my children or clean my house.

I do not feel that I made the wrong choice to stay home with my children. It has been an adventure, both good and bad, and I have learned much about myself over the last (almost) three years. I was just beginning, however, to feel the stirrings to do something different, to be something different. There is nothing wrong with being a housewife and mother. It is a great job and calling. However, I think I want to do something different.

The problem is the same problem that faces many other women. After being out of the workforce for several years, I feel as if I have no marketable job skills. My college major was not one that opens doors for jobs, and I have also not worked in that field in a decade. The last field I worked in (paralegal) I really did not like, and I do not want to be a paralegal ever again. So I am in the position that I feel like I want to do something more but I feel as if I have few options. I do not want to work just to work any job. I want something I love, that inspires me. Yet I am not sure at this point what that would be. So for now, I will remain at home, trying to bloom where I have been planted.

Lost Innocence

At church on Wednesday night I realized that my boy has lost a bit of his innocence, and it broke my heart.

Like most kids, Hardy inhabits his own world. He is usually lost in a vivid world of his own imagining; one in which he usually figures largely as a tractor or a dog or a fireman. He can be oblivious to others around him, happy in the inner world he has created. I love that he can create such a world, although at times it can be incredibly frustrating (I mean, I shouldn't have to tell my 4 year that he is not really a dog so please do not jump on your friends when they come to visit). This is the boy who barks, or meows, or honks, or revs his engine in greeting. So I have never imagined that he is bothered by what others think of him.

After dinner at church on Wednesday night, Hardy picked up Justin's big, heavy winter coat and put it on. He started goofing around a bit with Justin and myself, pretending to be his daddy. Then it happened. Some older kids, playing nearby, saw what Hardy was doing and laughed. Hardy noticed them laughing at him and promptly took off the coat, stopping his play.

I have to admit it hurt me to see him care what others thought of him. I know this is a part of normal life, and not necessarily a bad part. Fear of what others thinks keeps me from wearing my old ratty pajamas to the store, so it is not always a bad thing. But I didn't want my kid learning this fear yet. I had hoped, somewhat naively, that he could bypass this fear entirely.

I try not to care what others think of me and how I look. I feel that if anyone has a problem with how I look, especially when I am covered, then it reflects more on them than on myself. I've been known to dance in the aisles of Wal-Mart, to make silly faces to my kids in the grocery, and to sing (off-key) enthusiastically to the Muzak. I'm comfortable in who I am, and I am ok with the fact that some might think I am weird.

So this is the lesson I am trying to determine how to best impart to my kids without seeming preachy. I am not sure how to teach Hardy (and Ellie) that it is ok to act silly at times, to be silly at times. Sometimes the silliness helps us get through the tough times, the times when life is bleak and hopeless. I know that remembering I have waltzed my way down the aisle at Wal-Mart has made me smile when the world was in flames around me. So if Hardy ever reads this one day, I want him to continue to be goofy, to be his authentic self. At the end of the day, it is the only way to live.

Good News

We received good news about Hardy on Saturday. That was the day we received a thick envelope from the Murfreesboro City Schools, informing us that Hardy had been invited to attend the Discovery School. After we got over our shock, we returned the form indicating that he will attend next year.

We originally applied Hardy to that school due its superior location for us. It is right off campus, on the side of campus where Justin has his office. He could walk to the Discovery School in ten minutes if he wanted a leisurely stroll. With next year up in the air as far as my graduate school plans, we definitely wanted Hardy in a nearby school if possible.

When we applied, I was a bit hesitant at first. The first concern was whether we should put Hardy through the testing process. I think he is wonderful but that does not mean that he is gifted or talented. I have no ability to evaluate my child in an unbiased manner. Why should we test him (2 different tests) if we aren't sure he will get in. And how can you really tell if a 4 or 5 year old is ready for a high achieving school? What do we do if he doesn't get in? Is it right to pull him from his zoned school? One of my concerns about the Discovery School is that is not very diverse, and I do want my child to mix with as many people as possible. I finally decided that I could not let my hang-ups influence my child's education; I had to take myself out of the equation and do everything possible to get him the best possible education.

Now that Hardy knows the school he will be attending, he is ready to start kindergarten. He has started pestering me about when we are going to buy him his own desk and where will he do his homework at. He has started doing "kindergarten work" during some of his play; he sits at his Lightening McQueen table and works on letters very diligently. While he is raring to start, now that the time is rapidly approaching, I find myself feeling a bit emotional. I have a hard time fathoming my son is about to start kindergarten in a matter of months. Sometimes when I look at him I still see the skinny little wrinkly baby I brought home from the hospital. I wonder where all the time has gone. But that is a post for another day.

Thin Envelope

Today I received the thin envelope from Vanderbilt. I am denied entrance into their program; the letter stated the standard "we received more applications than normal so had to turn down qualified applicants." It is fairly cold comfort.

Despite knowing the program only admits 10-12 students a year, I felt I had a good shot at Vanderbilt. I had excellent GRE scores (a 6 out of 6 on the written portion and 740 on the verbal, which was the 99th percentile) as well as a good undergraduate GPA (3.83) and a GPA of 3.95 in my major.

Intellectually I understand why I would not be a good candidate for Vanderbilt. I am an "older" student. I do not already possess a master's degree, although that is not a requirement for admission. I did not attend a prestigious undergraduate institution. I can't help but admit that it stings.

Growing up, my parents have always cheered for the Vanderbilt basketball and football teams. My dad has been a fan since the 1950s. They have supported the "hometown team" (although more Nashvillians support UT athletics than Vanderbilt) for decades. They raised my the same way. I cheered for the teams during decades of losing seasons. Part of why I wanted to attend was to make my parents proud. Although they will never say it, I feel that I let them, and my husband, down.

I am trying to believe that this is not terrible and that it does not mean that I will be denied admission to MTSU. In some ways it will make life easier if I attend graduate school at MTSU. There will be no commute. I will probably be able to maintain some sort of involvement with Hardy's school. We may be able to swing my class schedule so that we won't need after school care for Hardy. The Public History program at MTSU is good, and there is a professor (or two) that I have wanted to take classes from. I am trying to look on the bright side of things, and trying to resist curling into the fetal position.

It is hard to believe that even at my advanced age of 34 that the appearance of the thin envelope (or email, in this case) can be so upsetting. I have a lot of empathy right now for all the high school seniors awaiting their envelopes.

Cupcakes

I signed up last week to bring the dessert to Hardy's preschool Valentine's Day party. I had no idea that this decision would lead me to a solid week of internal wrestling over dessert and its hidden meaning.



The reason I signed up for dessert is that I love to bake. It is something that brings me great joy. There is an indescribable feeling from amalgamating disparate ingredients that are not all yummy (such as flour or salt) and getting an end result that is delicious (yum, brownies). And for me, it has to be totally from scratch. I do not receive the same joy from using a mix or from using store-bought cookie dough. When I make these products, it doesn't feel that the end result belongs to me. Anyone could have made the cake or cookies. They don't speak of me or my likes. It is an impersonal product. They do not speak the same volumes of love to me. Or perhaps I am crazy in that my baked goods seem to have voices and speak to me.

Once I signed up, I dithered over what to make. I had not baked in awhile, so everything I could think of sounded wonderful. I contemplated cut-out cookies, cookies on sticks, candy, mini pies, and cakes before deciding upon cupcakes. If you are a kid, cupcakes are the ultimate dessert. They are individual sizes, have frosting and delicious sprinkles.

Once I decided what to make, I proceeded to make my cupcakes from scratch, mixing up buttercream frosting, decorating the cakes with Hershey kisses and sprinkles. I was glowing as I baked, feeling like supermom for making such clearly superior cupcakes. True, they looked nothing like what Martha would create, but they were homemade and showed lots of love (which is code for they were not decorated by a professional). I boxed them and delivered them to school on Thursday.

While at the party that day, watching the kids eat my delicious creations, I was bowled over by an epiphany. I watched the kids licking the frosting, eating the sprinkles and realized that not a single one of them cared what kind of dessert they were having. The important thing was the party, the time they were spending together, the knowledge that boxes full of Valentine cards and candy awaited them in the hallway. The cupcakes were nice, but they could have been any dessert. The important thing was the experience, the party itself.

I realized that I can get hung up on the details that do not matter at times. Hardy does not care that I made homemade cupcakes. He cared that I sat down with him after the party, patiently reading all his cards to him and exclaiming with him over his candy. He cares that I spend time with him, doing nothing or building a Leggo house or watching Garfield. All the extras do not matter. What matters is our time together.

After this realization I am no longer feeling guilty about wanting to go to grad school in the fall. I trust that Ellie and Hardy both will feel loved and cherished still, as long as I make the effort to do the things that matter to them. Even if it seems silly to me. So I foresee more time playing chase and monster, playing tickle fingers and reading books, and less time stressing over the perfect dessert with the most heartfelt subtext.

An Interesting Life

An interesting person recently died here in Murfreesboro, a person that I regret I never had the chance of meeting. I've read about him a few times since we moved to town, and each time I am struck anew by what his life must have been like.

Mr. Willie Henry Brandon died on January 4, 2010. He was 103 years old. Stop for just a moment and reflect on that. He lived 103 years. Imagine all the things this man witnessed over the course of his life. Widespread (and now ubiquitous) electrification. The PC and the internet. The sinking of the Titanic. World War I, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, both Iraq wars. Women's Suffrage and the Voting Rights Act of 1964. When he was born, Russia was ruled by a czar and large swaths of Africa were ruled by colonial, imperialistic governments. Theodore Roosevelt was president on the day of his birth. He was alive for the devastating 1913 tornado in Murfreesboro that destroyed downtown and for the 2009 Good Friday tornadoes that struck our city.

One fact about Mr. Brandon that I've learned from the various stories on his life is that his grandfather was sold as a slave on the Rutherford County Courthouse steps. This is the fact that I keep thinking over. There lives (until recently) a man whose grandfather was a slave and sold on our courthouse steps. What were Mr. Brandon's thoughts as he passed the Courthouse? What did he think when he started working as the Courthouse janitor at the age of 72? Did he reflect on the fact that he was now caring for a property that had witnessed such events as slavery?

Another fact that intrigues me about Mr. Brandon is that he lived a very long portion of his life (over half) dealing with the effects of Jim Crow. The very courthouse that he cared for so faithfully until he was 102 was once home to segregated water fountains and toilets. He was unable to vote until he was almost sixty. Can you imagine living over half your life with society (or at least white society) telling you that you were inferior simply due to the color of your skin? Being sent to a separate school than your neighbors? Having to leave Rutherford County in 1918 with your family to go to Illinois in the hopes of actually being able to earn a living?

I wish I had gotten the chance to meet this man. Over the course of his life he worked for a variety of Rutherford County institutions - as a cook for the Polk Hotel (site of the Suntrust Bank on Main Street now), as a cook for the City Cafe (still open on Main Street), as a cook at the Smyrna Air Force Base (closed many decades ago), at the Po Folks on Broad (also closed many years ago), and at the Courthouse, where he began his last career at the age of 72. He worked for the Courthouse until last year at the age of 102 when he could no longer work.

I find Mr. Brandon's life fascinating for many reasons. For the length of his life and the historic events he witnessed. For the hard work he performed in supporting his family. For his faithful care of the Courthouse, a landmark I try to drive past as often as possible. He sounds like a man who did what he had to do to support his family. I hope that when I die that others can say the same of me.


**I am indebted for information from The Murfreesboro Post and from http://www.rutherfordcountytn.gov/brandon/index.html for information regarding Mr. Brandon's life.**

Snow Days!

We finally received our first big snow of the season (and the largest in several years) on Friday. I believe I have heard reports that we received approximately 4 inches of snow in addition to some ice.

My children have both loved the snow. It snowed once last year, but Ellie did not see it as she was too young to go out in it. So this was her first experience with the white stuff. I wondered what her reaction would be to the cold, wet mystery substance. She loved it. She wanted to stay out in it indefinitely. After watching Hardy and I throw snowballs at each other, she even tried to throw snow at us. Hardy of course was overjoyed with the snowfall. He is almost five and is at the age when he remembers snow from the past and remembers how much fun he had in it before. I wasn't sure he was ever going to come back inside, but we did eventually manage to entice him back into the warmth.

I myself am a snow miser, although I have not always been a snow miser. As a child I loved the snow. I remember we actually had some big snowfalls when I was a kid. My best friend lived in my neighborhood, and I remember trudging to her house to play. It was more fun to play at her house because her family had sleds (due to the parents being Indiana transplants), they knew how to build snow forts and stage epic snowball fights, and she had 3 siblings to play in the snow with. I fondly remember playing in the snow for hours and the battles we had there. I remember the hot cocoa her mom would make for us, and the feeling that all was right in the world.

I became a snow miser when we lived in Illinois. The first winter there it seemed as if it snowed incessantly. The first big snow was on Christmas Eve, and after that, the snow did not melt until the end of March. It was the most depressing sight, to see mounds of dirty snow wherever you looked. The terrain there was flat, and the gray snow mixed with the gray horizon in ways that only exacerbated the loneliness I felt in that alien land. After that winter I never trusted snow again. Snow was no longer a fun distraction. It was an malevolent force that tried to pull everything under its grip. It was unending, unyielding in its determination to make life seem as gray as the dirty snow itself.

There was one snow when I was a child, before I was 10, that has always stood out to me. It started snowing on a Sunday afternoon, and by nightfall there were several inches. I was in our living room, reading a book (the activity which took most of my time as a child) when I heard noises outside. Looking out, I saw all sorts of people gathered in the street. Bundling up, we went outside to discover a disparate set of adult neighbors, as giddy as children at the snow. Some had brought trash can lids, some had cardboard boxes, some had cooler lids. All gathered together to gleefully sled down the hill in front of my house. I'll never forget that moment of a group of adults who did not know each other, gathered together in fellowship over the snow. After that evening, everyone returned home and normalcy returned. No friendships were born that night, but a memorable evening was shared by all. If there had been more moments like this in Illinois, moments when people come together to enjoy a childlike moment together, despite differences in age, religion, creed, or race, I would have learned to like snow. For now I will just watch my children enjoy the snow and try to see it through their eyes. To look at it as a fun distraction from the winter doldrums.

Waiting

I am now in waiting mode for graduate school. I have turned in all my materials to Vanderbilt and MTSU and now must wait for them to make a decision. The deadline for Vanderbilt was January 15th, and the deadline for MTSU is March 2nd, so I think I have a long wait on my hands.

I am a partially patient waiter. I usually don't mind the wait picking up Hardy from preschool (that is my prime singing time to Ellie, and I am thankful no one can hear me warble to my girl), and the wait in line at the grocery store is no big deal. However, the wait in line at WalMart can drive me insane, as it seems that every kid in the place decides to start crying at that time. I do try to remind myself what it must be like to be little and have no control over your time and so remain patient with the little ones. I can even wait patiently through commercials on tv, as I usually have one (or 2 or 7) books beside me I can read while I wait. But this waiting to hear if I am going to grad school is hard.

There was no wait about college. I found out about the W in late November, and went down to interview for a scholarship later that week. I found out I was accepted and awarded a scholarship by Christmas that year. I remember the moment vividly. I was working my job as cashier at Champs Sporting Goods, a gig that was supposed to last 6weeks when I was 15 and ended up being a job that lasted 2 1/2 years (apparently I have a stellar work ethic). It was the Christmas break and I was working long hours. It was evening, and an unexpectedly slow time, so I was on the floor (I was usually the cashier) straightening and restocking shelves. I look up and see my dad walk in. I would have thought something was horribly awry if it wasn't for the huge grin on his face. He handed me the letter from the W, telling me the good news. To this day I remember how sweet it was that he went out in the cold, unwilling to postpone me knowing the good news about college. Perhaps he was also celebrating that he wouldn't have to pay for college.

Life is full of waiting. Dr. Seuss, wise guru to us all, describes it in The Places You'll Go (one of Hardy's favorite book and one we read so often we finally had to buy our own copy). As he says, ". . .and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,/ headed, I fear, toward a most useless place./ The Waiting Place. . ./"

Waiting can be a useless place, when it is the excuse for remaining stagnant, when it comes from a place of fear of change. Waiting can also be good, a time of learning, a time of a forced slow down, a time of re-examining. This is what I am using this waiting time for. I am trying to savor the time with my kids, to enjoy the times when Hardy and I watch Garfield together, when Ellie and I dance around the living room when no one is watching. This hopefully is the time I will never get back, and each moment seems more precious and fraught with significance than before. I'm just glad that I am not "waiting for the wind to fly a kite/or waiting around for Friday night/or waiting, perhaps for their Uncle Jake/or a pot to boil, or a Better Break. . ./or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. . ." We all have seasons of waiting, and I am thankful that this one will be have a finite end in the spring.

Grocery Stores

My favorite grocery store in Murfreesboro is one that I do not go to very often. It is Jr.'s Foodland on Main Street. It is one of those old fashioned stores that are rapidly disappearing from our foodscape.

When you go to Jr.'s, you are going for groceries only. This is no large supermarket - there are few toiletries, no car tires, no toys. Just groceries. Fresh cured hams hanging from the ceiling. A butcher. A small produce area and smaller freezer section. Employees who have worked there for ages and who are friendly and happy to serve. Bag boys who bag your groceries for you with a minimum of surliness or smashing of the bread.

The main reason I love Jr's is that it reminds me very vividly of the grocery store my parents had when I was a child. From the time I was 3 until I was 7 my parents owned a small grocery store in Woodbine, a working class neighborhood of South Nashville.

It was housed in an old stone building, seemingly ancient to my young eyes. My mom was the cashier, and my father was the butcher and also delivered groceries to older residents of the neighborhood. They hired a teenage boy to bag groceries and help stock the shelves. Mr. Smith, the man they bought the store from, came in a few times a week to help with the butchering.

While the grocery store meant long hours, hard work, no vacations and many headaches for my parents, it was for me a golden time and a magical place. I spent hours playing games and chasing caterpillars on the long front porch. I remember the many lunches I had with kind Mr. Smith, who always took my seriously and had the patience of ten men. I remember he would fix us each a bologna sandwich, grab a cold drink (in glass bottles) from the refrigerated case, and set up two cola crates for us to sit on. We would sit there, munching our sandwiches and talking for ages. I remember we called those our "board meetings" and he would talk about anything I wanted to discuss. I loved him as much as anyone else in my life. He was also a warm, constant presence.

The thing I remember most about the story was the sense of community I felt, even as a young child. The beauty shop where my mother and I got our hair cut was just down the street, and we would walk there together. When it came time for me to start school, my parents got permission for me to attend Woodbine Elementary, which was 2 blocks from the store. I remember walking to school every morning with my mother, waving and saying hi to people as we passed their houses. In the afternoons I would walk to the home either Jo Shannon or Jason, my best friends who lived across the street from each other. My mother would come collect me about 5:00. The times after school were spent playing in Jason's treehouse, running through the neighborhood, playing cowboys and Indians, and shooting Jason with his bb gun. It was a time of innocence, and I don't believe I will ever be able to create such a world for my children.

This halcyon world of mine ended at the end of first grade. Interstate 440 was being built and it literally went right through the backyard of our store. At a single stroke, the neighborhood was wrenched apart - streets disappeared as well as the community that had flourished there.

I haven't been back to that neighborhood in well over a decade. All the people I once knew have either died or left the area. The last time I went it was so different that it was as if the place had never existed, except perhaps only in my imagination.

Grad School

I am hoping to go to graduate school this fall. After having made this decision, I am beginning to feel some trepidation, so today's blog is going to be my attempt to process my feelings on this to figure out where my head it.

A little background is in order. I considered grad school while in college, going so far as to apply. However, by my last semester in college, I was extremely "burned out." I had spent too long being a good student. I wanted to be out from under the pressure I put on myself to maintain good grades. I had read the Communist Manifesto more than once and I felt it was time that I did something "real." I felt that if I went straight to graduate school that I would end up in an ivory tower with no concept of "real life". Why on earth I thought being a professor was imaginary and not real is not something I remember.

Before I married Justin, we sat down and did some long-term planning and dreaming (yes we are nerds). The plan has been for years that Justin would go to graduate school first, as he is a man and as such will command more salary than I (in addition to the fact that his discipline pays more). After our babies were born and in school, I would go to grad school.

Last year I began to realize something disturbing and humbling. I realized that although I had dreamed of being a stay at home mom for years that I was not that great at it. I keep my kids fed and healthy, we play, we act crazy but I am deeply resistant to the type of structure that would ensure they do more than just play. My dreams of teaching my children all manner of things fell by the wayside as I realized I do not have the right skill set for teaching a 3 year old (or 4 year old) something he is not interested in learning. While I have more love for them than I can explain, I am not sure if that is enough. I often feel that I am no Mary Poppins and that my kids deserve more. So I decided, after talking to Justin, to move the plan up and try to go to grad school in 2010, when Hardy starts school.

Now that I have applied and am awaiting word to see if this will happen, doubts are beginning to set in. Can I handle going to school with 2 young children? How will I get all the studying done? Am I ruining Hardy's (and Ellie's) life forever by not being home when school is over? What do I do about after school care for Hardy? What happens if they get sick? Do I miss class or does Justin? Can I hack it somewhere like Vanderbilt? I have terrible visions of uppity twenty-somethings looking down their noses at me, sneering at me for being a mere "mother". (Not that I would care - I thrive on a challenge). How will I get used to wearing "real" clothes (not sweats) every day? How did I do this before? Will I miss all of Hardy's field trips? Do they even have field trips?

While these questions assail me, when I consider the alternatives, other questions come up. If I remain a stay at home mom, will I be bored when they are both in school? Is it bad to miss adult conversation? Is it wrong to want outside intellectual stimulation? If I don't go back to school how will my kids know that education doesn't stop at 18 or 22? How can I teach Ellie how to be a strong, independent woman if I do not have a job? How would I support my children if Justin got sick?

Too many questions, too many potential outcomes. I think this is why I am having trouble sleeping lately. I've come to enjoy the freedom of being home, and I think I am fearing the loss of freedom. There is also the lack of confidence that comes with being out of the workforce/academia for awhile. Instead of spending my days working on TPS reports and attending meetings, I've been dancing to Black Eyed Peas videos and finger painting. I am not sure how these skills translate to the outside world.

This is not to say that I regret staying home or that stay at home moms are brainless, lacking in confidence or terrible role models. The very opposite is true. Staying home has been one of the hardest things I have done. It is demanding job that never stops. I can never just walk away if I am having a bad day. And there is nothing wrong with teaching my kids to follow your dreams. The thing is I no longer believe being a stay at home mom is my dream.

Although I am worrying about future and what to do, the very act of worrying makes me think I am on the right path. If I didn't question why I am doing this then I would not be able to answer when some uppity student questions what I am doing in grad school. I think I am going to try to spend the next few months savoring what I do now so that I am ready for whatever changes come in the fall.

Birthday

Today is my 34th birthday. I have never been one to hide from or decline birthdays. Birthdays are all about cake and celebration and indulgence, all things I believe in fervently.

The only downside to my birthday is that is falls so close to Christmas. A mere two and a half weeks after Christmas, it can sometimes be hard to celebrate appropriately. Everyone is always tired and run down from the holidays. The weather is almost always frigid and sometimes snowy (the worst possible weather). And with it so close to Christmas, it can be really hard to know what I want for Christmas. I am apparently very blessed because I always struggle to come up with gift ideas when family asks. I tend to get most everything I want or need at Christmas. I usually fall back on the 4 "B"s that I always enjoy - books, Bath & Body Works, and booze. A gift in one of these categories is never out of fashion.

Over the years I have had some memorable birthdays. There was one of the elementary school birthdays that was held at the roller skating rink. As hard as it will be for my children to believe it one day, there was a time when the skate party was the best thing going. You gathered your best friends, skated like fiends for an hour or so, then retired to a grimy party room for cake and presents. I even remember the cake - I requested a Mississippi Mud Cake from my mother. Few cakes have tasted as delicious as that one; surrounded by friends, high off of skating (or off the cigarette smoke that seemed to be omnipresent in the 1980s), that cake had a unique taste that I have never found again.

My 21st birthday was memorable. I spent that birthday in New Orleans, quite possibly the most wonderful, dirty, tawdry, accepting, magical city in the United States. I later spent my honeymoon there as well, and to this day, there is no other city that stirs quite the same emotions as New Orleans. There is a tangible presence there, a feeling that history, sadness, emotion and life are all tangled together, just under the surface. Then again, that could also be the humidity. Back to the birthday, however. My roommate and friend, Traci, had a boyfriend (now husband) whose family lived there and who also had a birthday around the same time. We all headed to New Orleans together for the weekend. I remember it was so cold and I remember eating beignets at some point in the night. Many of the other details are fuzzy. I do remember visiting the battlefield for the 1815 Battle of New Orleans, which I loved. Another way to guarantee a good birthday for me is to take me to a historic site or a museum.

When I turned 26, my husband surprised me and through me a surprise party, with the help of our parents. I never suspected a thing. We lived in Knoxville at the time. My parents came up for what I thought was a normal visit. We went out to eat (yummy Mexican). I remember after dinner begging to go spend a bookstore gift card I had received. They were all hesitant (much to my amazement and chagrin) but did agree. Only when we returned to our apartment in married student housing did I learn why. Justin had arranged to use a common room, and his mother had come and decorated. Some friends were there, waiting for the birthday girl to arrive, while the birthday girl was wanting to lose herself in the bookstore. All turned out well, and it was a birthday like none other.

I remember when I turned 30 that I was very excited. Being in your 30s seems so much more mature and elegant than being in your 30s. I imagined I would somehow gain a modicum of sophistication that had escaped me thus far. I thought I would somehow dress more elegantly, be wittier, throw scintillating dinner parties. Thus far, however, elegance, sophistication and wit have not magically arrived with increasing age. I may be more accepting of others and myself, but I don't think there is any mysterious alchemy of age that is going to make me elegant and sophisticated.

Today has been a quiet day. Hardy is getting over a stomach bug and Justin was in the midst of the bug, so we did not want to get out to spread our germs. I came home from dropping off the Sunday School lesson at church to find my sweet family had cleaned up the kitchen and blown up balloons, giving the dining room a festive day. We had cupcakes and pizza for lunch. I played Wii and beaded with Hardy. It was one of my happiest birthdays. I was able to spend the day relaxing with my family. We danced crazy to the Black Eyed Peas and just spent time together. I think as I age these are the types of birthdays I enjoy the most. Days spent with my family, noticing and enjoying all the things I love about my family.

End of Vacation

Our Christmas vacation officially ended today with Hardy's return to preschool. I felt we had a nice and enjoyable vacation - we saw family, great presents, Justin was home a lot. That bubble was burst, however, this morning when Hardy informed me he was glad he was going back to school since it was boring at home. I went from being a cool fun mom to boring mom in about 2.5 seconds. Compared to his friends, I just don't have what it takes to be fun.

It was, in my opinion and despite what Hardy said this morning, the best Christmas break we have ever had. There are several reasons for that.

To begin with, Justin was with us much more. He usually works during the school breaks, taking off a day here or there. This vacation, however, he was home almost every day, all day. It was nice to be able to go to the gym and exercise with him, and to just work on projects around the house together. Even after almost 10 years of marriage he is still my favorite person to hang out with. I hope I can say the same after 40 or 50 years of marriage.



Secondly, Ellie has become quite the big girl this year. Last Christmas she was six months old. She was sitting up (some) but that was about all she could do. Now she feeds herself, plays, signs, dances, and takes part in all aspects of our lives. She was enthused about the nightly lighting of the Advent candles and was enthralled with the notion of a chocolate Advent calendar. I don't want her to grow up too soon, but Christmas had more zest with Ellie able to take more part in it.



Lastly, Hardy has become companionable in the last few months. I have always loved my boy and enjoyed spending time with him, but lately we can pursue similar interests together. We got a Wii for Christmas, and he has loved doing yoga with me on the Wii fit. We laugh together about stretching our muscles and talk about how it feels. He has also taken up beading, as have I (my interest in it is now bordering on obsession, however). After our yoga, we'll sit on the floor together, beads between us, bent over our bead boards, creating our fabulous creations. It is oddly peaceful to work together with Hardy on these projects. I hope that we can continue in this vein for some time to come.

So I am now back in my daily routine, ferrying children around, running errands, planning chores. While the feeling of normalcy is nice, the time I had over teh last two weeks was some of the best times I have spent with them.

New Year, New Me

The new year has come, and it seems you can't go 10 feet without hearing talk of resolutions. I tend to not make resolutions for New Year's. It seems a bit arbitrary, for one reason. If the only reason I am making a resolution is one of time, then it is not a resolution I will be successful in keeping. There is no internal motivation to keep me going once we get into the middle of January, when life feels a little flat. Also, I have a small oppositional streak, so the very fact I am supposed to make resolutions ensures that I determinedly do not make any resolutions. I am a bit of a rebel with no cause.

However, this year I did decide, before Christmas, to make some changes in my life. Since it is a new year, I am using these as my resolutions in case anyone asks. Not that they do - it would be a bit presumptuous to go up to somehow and ask if they have made New Year's resolutions.

The first resolution I have made is to work on integrating into a healthier lifestyle. Some of the pieces have been in place for a while - the regular trips to the gym, for example. However, the eating has been out of control. So come Tuesday, I am making my first foray into Weight Watchers. I am excited about doing a program that will (hopefully) show me how to make better nutritional choices, choices that I will continue to make over my lifetime. I want to be healthy and slimmer so that I can chase my kids around our back yard this summer without being winded.

The second resolution I have is to be more consistent in general in my life. This covers all aspects of life, from disciplining the children to blogging regularly to staying in contact with friends. I am striving for balance in all areas of life.

The most important resolution involves patience. I am hesitant to resolve to be more patient in case God starts sending my more difficult situations with which to test and strengthen my patience. But I do want to be more patient with my kids, with other drivers on the world (surely they are not all slow and silly; perhaps my attitude is the problem here), with my sweetheart, with the world in general.

Hand in hand with patience is grace and mercy. I resolve to be more merciful and gracious with life in general. I want to be more accepting of others. I want to show the same mercy and grace to others that I myself would like to receive.

These are the resolutions, the changes that I want to make in myself this year. I make these not because it is 2010, but because I am in need of updating. I would like to be Leigh Ann 7.2 by next year (I've gone through other permutations over the years), a kinder, gentler, healthier person than I am at the moment. I'll let you know if it actually works. If it does work though, I won't have to let you know because you will see it yourselves in your interactions with me.