Day Twenty-Nine: Yeah, It Makes Me Smile

Looks like I'm in the home stretch of the "30-Day Challenge."  The last few days, I've slacked off a little, but I was having trouble getting each day finished and I felt I was sacrificing quality for quantity.  I've also been working on some other projects that I hope to get up on the BWC site in the next few weeks.  Anywho, today is Day 29 and I'm supposed to post a picture that makes me smile.  This is a pretty easy task since I can open any folder labeled "Amelia" and take my pick.  I know I'm partial, but my baby girl is too cute and too funny.  I have a hard time being humble about her; I guess that's pretty normal for a parent, though.  It may come as a surprise then, that my picture today is not a picture of Amelia.  It is actually a picture of my husband and another baby, my sweet little Bean.

I have three favorite pictures of my husband:  one from our wedding day, one from the day our daughter was born, and this one.  I can't exactly put into words just why it's one of my favorites, but for the sake of this blog, I'll try.

For starters, I love the sweet look on John's face. My husband is a very kind man, which is part of the reason I fell in love with him.  This picture captures that side of him so perfectly.  Bean was the first newborn he had ever held, and as you may be able to tell, he was rather smitten by her (as we all were). I kind of think of this picture as the beginning of John's journey toward fatherhood since spending so much time with this little sweetie seemed to give him a low-grade baby fever.  

Bean was just one day old when this picture was taken, so it's also special since it was her introduction into our lives.  Bean's mother is one of my most precious friends, and we love both her and her beautiful daughter.  We are so honored that we get to be Bean's honorary "Uncle John" and "Aunt Amber."  This little girl means so much to me, and I would do anything to keep her happy and healthy. 

Bean is 3 1/2 now and has a sweet baby brother.  John and I have a baby of our own, too.  Between jobs and kids and everything else in our lives, we don't get to visit with our "extended family" as much as we like.  This picture is a sweet reminder of how special they are to both of us.  So, yeah, it makes me smile. 

Day Twenty-Eight: Blown Away

While sitting in the storm shelter recently, my mom asked me if I would be blogging about my fear of tornadoes. At the time, I didn’t know what my future “challenges” would be, so I told her I probably would at some point in the future. It turns out that Day Twenty-Eight’s assignment is to post a picture of something of which I’m afraid. Whaddya know?



Map from New York Times, March 22, 1952

 Before I talk about my own fear, perhaps I should provide a wee bit of back story. In the spring of 1952--twenty-seven years before I was born and five days after the NOAA issued their first tornado forecast--an outbreak of tornados ripped across Tennessee. Over a seven-hour period spanning two days, a total of sixty-seven Tennesseans perished, a majority of them in West Tennessee. The small town in which both my mother and I grew up was devastated when a Category 4 ripped across the county.One hundred twenty homes were destroyed; over 250 were damaged. Twenty-three perished..


My mother was five years old at the time, and the storm left its mark on her. I’ve decided to allow her to tell her memories of that night in her own words:

My mother, grandfather and uncle

I was not born afraid of storms but developed a real fear after March 22, 1952 when the horrible storm hit Henderson. I grew up in a community where my dad's 11 brothers and sisters also lived, all within three to four miles of each other with my grandparents sort of in the middle. As I remember, our family was always on the alert when stormy weather developed. During the first five years of my life, my parents, my brother and I sought shelter behind a large bank at the edge of our front yard whenever there was severe weather. This always seemed to be enough until that day in l952.

I remember the weather getting bad that night, but my parents did not realize how just bad it was. This was before weather satellites and tornado sirens. There was often very little warning. I remember how fearful things were that night once the storm got close. It was not raining at the beginning, only thundering. I remember the urgency of my parents. My mother took my eight-year-old brother, my dad took me, and we went to the bank outside. They threw quilts over each of us and we laid in the ditch behind the bank. As the storm passed over, I remember a roaring sound, but at my young age, I did not understand the significance. I remember my parents discussing the roar and how close it sounded.

After the storm appeared to be over, we went back into the house. I shall never forget how eerily quiet everything was. We could hear people in the distance, calling for each other. At that moment, we couldn’t imagine the pain and destruction that lay just across the wood from us, about a mile as the crow flies. Many of our neighbors had lost their homes. Even worse, several had lost their lives. My aunt’s brother, his wife and their child had all been killed as they slept. I can remember the adults talking about how the family never even knew what happened. This same little boy I had just recently played with at a party I attended with my mother. Other neighbors were injured and some had to be helped out of the rubble.

When daylight finally came, we drove to our neighbors’ homes; my parents wanted to help in any way they could. One might think my fear began the night before during the storm, but it was the following morning that my fear actually set in. I had never seen this type of destruction: houses torn down, cattle dead, trees scattered, belonging from houses hanging everywhere. In Chester County, 23 people were killed that night. As I listened to the adults talk about the death and destruction, I remember being very scared, not exactly understanding everything that had taken place.

That terrible night in March was the last time we sought refuge in the ditch. My dad, along with his brothers, built a storm house behind my grandparents’ home. This was a gathering place for all of us on stormy nights. After that night, I became very scared when stormy weather developed. I think I was the first in the family to hear the thunder. I would jump out of bed and begin dressing, shaking until we went to the shelter. My brother was not at afraid as I was. I think back and laugh when I remember how they would get him dressed, and as we would be ready to start out the door, they would find Roger crawled back into bed.


On stormy nights--even after 59 years –I am still carried back to the horrible sights and sounds that I experienced as a five-year-old. Once I had a family, I passed this on to my own two children. Even when they were young, they both would be out of the bed with me when the weather was stormy, keeping me company while their dad slept until we told him we had to take cover.

When I was a child, I thought my momma was pretty much invincible. If I thought I heard something in the house, I would always call for her. In my mind, she might as well have been some sort of super ninja. I was certain she would and could protect me from anything. It was because of this that I found myself very unsettled any time my mother was afraid. And if there was one thing she was afraid of, it was severe weather. When I say “severe,” I don’t just mean thunder and lightning. She does fine until someone mentions the “T-word.” When it would storm, my mother would stay up to watch the news until it had passed. When we were very small, my brother and I would often sleep in our clothes, our shoes nearby, ready to leave at a moment’s notice when she woke us up. As I got older, though, I joined her in the living room in front of the television.

When the storms would roll in, we would usually roll out toward my grandparents’ house in the country to spend the evening in their storm shelter [Note: They eventually built their own].  There were times we were actually driving to their house in the storm.  Not the greatest idea, but mom just seemed to feel better when we were out there.  This in turn made me feel better. 

Sometimes we just couldn’t get to my grandparents’ house in time, so we would go downtown to the public safety building’s basement.  I’ll never forget the time we parked at the post office where my dad worked and were walking across the street to seek shelter in the public safety building when all of a sudden the tornado alarms began wailing.  Suddenly, my mother lost all composure and turned into a manic cartoon character, spinning around with her arms out, gasping, “What do we do?  What do we do?”  I would have laughed if it hadn’t scared the Mountain Dew out of me.   It was the only time I remember my absolutely freaking out. 

I had my own “storm moment” that stuck with me, which only fueled my existing fears. In 1987, I went to West Memphis, Arkansas with my parents after a tornado hit the town right before Christmas. It was the first time I had seen firsthand the devastation from a twister. As my mother said of her experience, it was very scary (and I had not even been in this storm). I’ll never forget one house we saw. Half of it was standing, but the other half was completely gone. In one room that was left stood a china cabinet, unscathed. Even the china inside was intact. I was only eight, but something about the china made me uneasy, as if the tornado had been very deliberate. This experience just cemented my deep, almost irrational fear of tornados.


Damage from 1999 tornado



Though I don’t believe my mom’s intention was to instill a fear of severe weather in me, she inevitably did. While my brother is very cautious and keeps a close eye on the weather when it gets stormy, he keeps his wits about him. I get a bit more anxious. Since leaving home, I have earned a reputation as the “human tornado siren.” When it gets stormy, some people actually call me to see what’s going on in lieu of turning on the news. Everyone knows I’ll be keeping track of the storm. I’m the first to say that perhaps I’m a bit hyper vigilant, but the only way I can stay calm is to track the storm, sometimes hours before it arrives at my home. I attribute this to my Type-A, control freak tendencies. I have no power over the storm, so I have to settle for knowing everything about it. Basically, I turn into the overbearing, meddling mother of a rebellious, F-3 disaster.

Funeral home destroyed in 1999 storm

 I’ve spent entire nights parked in front of the television, awaiting a supercell that may or may not track over my home. When I lived in an apartment, I stocked the bathroom with pillows and supplies so that I could hide in the bathtub when the sirens started. When I moved to an upstairs apartment, I made it a point to find a downstairs neighbor who was as scared of the threat of tornados as I was so that I could run to her apartment. My philosophy toward tornado-producing weather can be summed up by the old idiom “better safe than sorry.” I’d rather lose some sleep and take every precaution than to ignore the weather map and be sucked out of my bed. People always try to tell me I overreact or even that I need to have “more faith that God will protect me.” I say that God even gave a dog the sense to get in out of the rain.

Mother Liberty CME after the 2003 storm

My fear probably hit its absolute high—or maybe low, depending on how you look at it—on February 5, 2008. It was Super Tuesday and the Storm Prediction Center had placed our area at high risk for severe storms. Since our city and county had already suffered destruction and 11 deaths from tornadoes in 1999 and 2003, many people were feeling pretty edgy. School was dismissed early that day due to the possibility that the severe weather could arrive while students were still on the buses riding home. I left school, went to vote in the primaries, and headed home to get ready for the storm.



Aerial view following 2003 storm

As I was watching the Memphis news around 5:30, they went live to one of their cameras that showed a tornado touching down along the state line. Even though it was 100 miles away, I freaked out because I was watching a live tornado. I called John and told him he had to leave work and come home immediately. He wasn’t overly concerned but told me he’d come home soon. Over the next hour, my nerves became more and more frayed as reports came in about the damage in Memphis, my former home where many friends still live. John finally arrived home, completely unphased by the approaching storm. A little before 7:00, I finally convinced him to get his shoes on and go to the hallway with me. I use the term “hallway” loosely. Since our house has no inner rooms, we were forced to hide in the in the tiny area outside of the guest bedrooms and bathroom.

At this point, I was in full-alert mode, just a notch below “spinning in the street, panicking” mode. With my cell phone, flashlights, purse and pillows, John and I sat with our dogs and listened to the weathermen on TV in the next room report that there was a tornado on the ground inside the county. My mother was on the phone with me, attempting to keep me calm. (Ironic, no?) Within minutes, the cell had reached us. The wind and rain picked up, and suddenly we heard a sickening sound. It wasn’t the “freight train” sound everyone describes, but an almost deafening thudding sound. I was convinced the storm was pulling the top of our house off and looked up expecting to see sky. But nothing happened. John peeked around the corner and out the window saw hail falling into our yard and blowing against the windows. I didn’t know whether I should be relieved or scared of what was coming after the hail. Actually, I didn’t know anything except absolute terror. Eventually, it got quiet. The storm had passed over our home. We came out of hiding to find our yard covered in hail the size of tennis balls. I’m not sure how we managed to come through with our windows intact.

Hurt Dorms at Union University

While we were getting pummeled, just 1 ½ miles across the woods (as the crow flies, like my mother says), a tornado touched down, twisting and tossing everything in its path. It skipped up the highway toward Union University where it damaged or destroyed 31 buildings on campus, including most of the dorms. It is the fact that not a single life was lost that provided concrete proof to me that God does indeed exist. The storm continued, as the tornado destroyed homes and businesses across the city and county.

Huntersville, where we assisted in cleanup

The destruction left in the wake of that storm was heartbreaking. Two more lives were lost. I went with a group to the small community where one death occurred, and we helped the family clean up and search for their possessions. The gentleman at the site had lost his father in the storm and his mother was seriously injured. Everything they owned was either buried under the walls of the house or strewn across the countryside. It looked like a bomb had exploded inside of their home. As we surveyed the damage throughout the county, even my husband--who had never shown even an ounce of real concern during stormy weather--declared that we would get a shelter installed.  

Watters Dorms at Union University

My fear of tornadoes has only grown since I gave birth last summer. I prepare twice as much for an impending storm and am 200% more diligent in watching the news and weather. Our shelter has done wonders for me, though. I am actually able to relax a little when I’m down in “my hidey hole.” I also try to stay calm so as not to upset my daughter. My goal is to make her mindful of storms but to not instill in her the fear that I have always had. I want her to always be safe, but without being scared.

I know there are people who think I’m absolutely nuts, but there is really nothing I can do about my fear of tornadoes. Some people are afraid to fly or of small spaces. I’m afraid of giant rotating funnels that can destroy my home and my family. Just seeing pictures or footage of a tornado is enough to make me jittery. At least over the years I’ve been able to exert some control over my fear so that I’m not reduced to a shivering, babbling pile of nerves every time I hear a siren. Though I am still very much frightened, I know I must stay as calm and rational as possible to best protect both me and my loved ones.

When I was a little girl, a friend of mine didn’t want to watch Wizard of Oz because she was scared of the flying monkeys. I loved Oz, though I do admit I closed my eyes on one part every time. Bet you can guess the scene.

Day Twenty-Seven: Daddy



November 7, 1979

There have been several opportunities to write about this person during the past twenty-some-odd days, but every time I started, I just got too emotional.  Since this “assignment” in the 30-Day Challenge is a little more open-ended, I feel I can’t more easily direct this blog in a way that I can avoid territory that hurts.  Then again, you probably know by now that I’m pretty open and honest, so I have a feeling it will veer off into aforementioned territory anyway.  Today I’m supposed to post a picture of a family member and me.  As I started looking for pictures of this person and me, I realized there are no recent pictures with the exception of some family group shots.  Since he’s not one to jump into pictures (and I usually have the camera anyway), somehow there just aren’t pictures of us together in recent years.  I plan to rectify that immediately.  For now, though, I’ll use a picture from when I was a child--a picture of my daddy and me. 


1981

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, my mother and I didn’t always have the best relationship, mostly during my teenage years. I was mouthy and rebellious and we often clashed. No one would believe it now since I am thick as thieves with my momma and talk to her several times every day. With the exception of a few instances, however, I’ve pretty much always gotten along well with my daddy. I didn’t have one of those relationships where he was perfect in my eyes and could do no wrong. I was “daddy’s girl” in a lot of ways, but I was never blind. I knew that even though he was a great man, he had his flaws, as everyone does. But long before my momma and I reached a point where we could be friends as well as mother and daughter, I was friends with my daddy. There were few things I felt I couldn’t go to him about, and even those things I did hide from him, I did it out of a desire to not disappoint him.

Summer of 1981

Much of who I am came from my daddy. If you’ve ever met him, you know exactly what I mean. If there’s one thing my daddy and I do all the time, it’s talk. Between the two of us, I’m not sure how my momma ever got a word in, and it’s a wonder my little brother ever learned to speak. It’s no secret that my dad and I both enjoy being the center of attention, and we often do so by talking, specifically joking around or telling stories. When people ask me why I talk so much, I usually say that it’s genetic. Nature or nurture, either way, it’s from my daddy. 

 

Summer of 1982

I also got my love of writing from my daddy. I grew up singing songs my daddy wrote and sharing the stories he created with people I knew. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t jotting down song lyrics on the backs or church bulletins or unused napkins at restaurants. My favorite stories were the ones he based on my brother and me. Our names were “Amberina” and “Arteemis” and we had a little dog named Kiawa. I can’t remember if our parents in the stories were some sort of adventurers or missionaries, but in every story we were in some exotic location going on an adventure. We’d float down the Amazon and battle wild animals, always victorious in the end. I wish I had the stories written down somewhere to read to Amelia when she’s older. As for me, I’m not sure if I started writing in an effort to be like him or if it’s just something that he passed down to me biologically. Before I could write, I was making up stories and songs in my head as many children do. But I honestly believe that my incentive to learn to write (and I started very early) was to have the ability to write my stories and songs down. There are still pages with my five-year-old scrawl on them, the lyrics to my simple songs about Jesus or my stories about a talking dog. As I grew a little older and my love for writing became a passion, my daddy brought home one of his yard sale treasures—a portable manual typewriter. Though my parents had a large electronic typewriter that I liked to use, this one was my very own. It was light blue with a black cover and handle; it didn’t weigh much, so I had no problem carrying it wherever I went. I still don’t know how my parents made it through our annual road trip/vacation that year with any shred of sanity left. I spent the entire week in the back seat of the minivan, pecking away on my (quite loud) typewriter. I believe I wrote the beginning of a book about vampires on that trip. Both of my parents have always been supportive of my writing, but my dad always took a special interest in it, perhaps because it was a passion we both shared. He always encouraged me and offered constructive criticism as needed.



January 1983

My father taught me to think for myself. Though we didn’t always agree on every topic, we could discuss anything—even religion—without him taking offense to my views or questions. Though I grew up in a church that generally taught us to accept what we were fed and not ask the hard questions, my dad allowed me to question and explore my beliefs. I remember coming home from Sunday school as a child, upset because I’d asked what happens to people in Africa who never hear about Jesus. I was told that they couldn’t go to Heaven if they weren’t Christians. I just didn’t think this sounded fair and kept asking the teacher why God would be so unfair. Not only would she not answer me, she scolded me for being “disrespectful to God.” When I got into the car after church that day, I was about to explode with questions. My dad didn’t dismiss me or try to avoid the conversation. He didn’t chastise me for being angry with my teacher or—at that point—with God. He did his best to explain to me. But more than anything, he asked me what I believed in my heart that God would do with those people. It was a profound moment that shaped my attitude toward God. I never realized I could have my own beliefs, not just my parents beliefs or the beliefs force fed to me by teachers with—what I hope were—good intentions.

1986

Though my dad and I didn’t always share the same attitudes and views—which is to be expected when there’s an almost 50-year age difference—he respected what I believed. As with religion, he also didn’t force his political beliefs on me. In almost all areas, he shared his beliefs with me and allowed me to choose what I wanted to embrace or reject. There were times that our discussions would become heated on some topics, but he tended to treat me more as an equal than a child.


Since my dad was older when I was born—he actually has a grandson older than I am—he was always a bit indulgent with me, much more so than with my older siblings from what I gather. There were times he was possibly too permissive. He agreed to let me start dating a couple of months before I was fifteen. I’ll never forget my momma’s reaction (or mine!) when he told the guy to have me home at midnight (it was quickly backed up to 9:00).

Audience participation during one of my plays in college

There were things my dad knew I was doing that he probably should have grounded me over, but generally he said very little but, “Be careful and make good decisions.” At the time, I loved my father’s leniency since my mother was strict. I realize now, though, that I might not have made it to see twenty if it hadn’t been for my mother keeping a tight rein on me. I’ve joked to her before, “What on earth would have happened if Daddy had been left to care for us?” We can laugh now, but it would probably have been fairly disastrous. I’m not sure why my dad often turned a blind eye to my shenanigans. Maybe it was because he had done his share of crazy stuff as a young man. Maybe he just didn’t want to be the disciplinarian. Who knows? I admit with a certain amount of shame that I took full advantage of it, though.  


Everything I inherited or took away from my dad wasn’t as positive. Though my overall temperament is much closer to my mom’s, I got my actual temper from my father. I don’t lose my temper easily, but when I do, I have virtually no control over my mouth and sometimes over my actions. Luckily, I married someone with almost no temper, so I’ve mellowed out over the past decade (it’s just not much fun to fight with someone who doesn’t fight back). Growing up, I don’t remember my dad losing his temper too many times (at least not in my presence), but when he did, he got extremely angry and he did so very quickly.


Because of my father’s tendency to let me get away with pretty much anything, he didn’t always make us respect my mom as he should have. He never insisted that we do our share of the chores. He would sometimes say, “Help your mom clean the table,” but there were no repercussions if we didn’t. There was no “wait until your dad gets home” in our house. Mom always had to be the bad guy because she knew if she waited until daddy got home, there would be no punishment except maybe a “good talking to.” The worst, though, was the way dad allowed us to talk to our mom. I can only remember a few times when he got involved when I would smart off or be blatantly disrespectful. And there were even times when I would argue with my mom and he would take my side. Now that I’m a wife and mother, I would be so hurt if John stood by and allowed Amelia to disrespect me. To me, it’s basically saying, “I don’t respect your mother enough to make your respect her.” I’m not much for wishing to revisit the past, but I truly wish I could go back and change that one are of my life. I would have given my mother the respect she deserved, even though it wasn't demanded of me as it should have been. 

Daddy, 1950

When I was young and even as I grew into a young woman, I always saw my father as this strong, intelligent, loving man. My father is only six feet tall, so he’s not overly imposing; however, his presence is quite impressive. He has always seemed to know something about everything—and not really in a smartass way. He reads constantly and seems to absorb every word. I’ve always been proud that my father is so smart and well-read, especially since he didn’t have a great deal of formal education past high school. I’ve always felt I could call my dad when I needed him, and even if he couldn’t do anything to physically help me, I knew he would be praying for me fervently. Daddy has always been fiercely independent in almost every way (except at home where he will let my mom wait on him as much as she is willing to do so).


In the past few years, I’ve watched my father change in so many ways. He walks with a stoop and slight shuffle now, due in part to years of walking on knees that needed to be replaced but also due to the Parkinson’s which he was diagnosed with last year. The man I grew up watching kneel at the altar every Sunday family as he prayed for his family now struggles to stand up from the dinner table. His days of diving from the side of the pool or helping me with my pitching are long over. But physical changes are expected as one ages, and he still gets around better than many people even a decade younger than he. No, as sad as his loss of full mobility has been, it’s the other changes that have broken my heart a little each time I’ve seen him. The man who has always had an answer for everything is now left asking so many questions. I don’t really want to provide any more details than I must since I feel it is almost disrespectful to him. It’s not that he’s been reduced to some shell or child, but he’s just so different. Every week seems to bring more changes, and each time I say goodbye I want to hug him a little longer. I know he realizes that he’s different, and I know it must be hard for him. Each time he can’t remember a name or looks to my mother for direction in a simple task, I can’t imagine how much it frustrates him. Being so much like him, though, I have to believe it scares him and even makes more than a little angry.

Amelia and her Grampa

I don’t know what the future holds for my father. There’s no way to know how quickly things will progress or how much it will rob him of his abilities. I never let myself dwell on this for too long. After seeing my grandfather succumb to Alzheimer’s, I refuse to even entertain the thought of my father not knowing who I am. Even now, with the changes that hinder his movement and thoughts, I can still only see my daddy. I’m so thankful that he’s getting to be in my daughter’s life, and I pray that he stays healthy enough that she not only gets old enough to remember him, but also that she gets to really know him. I accept that there are parts of him she’ll only know through me, but he’s still himself enough that she can enjoy how wonderful he is. I want her to remember him singing to her. I want her to learn his silly jokes. And I want her to know how very much he loves her and how proud he is of her. 

Of the twenty-seven days of this challenge, this has been the absolute hardest for me to write. Each sentence, every paragraph feels like an epitaph. I know that may sound morbid, but so often it is not until we have lost someone we love that we sit down and reflect on his life. But I don’t want to wait until that day comes, whether it’s in a year or twenty years. My father is not a perfect man, but I’ve never for even a moment doubted his love and devotion to me. So much of who he is runs through my veins and an even bigger part of me is a reflection of what he has instilled in me.

William Arthur Jewell—Bill—has been many things in his life. He has served his country, his community, his God. He has been a son, a brother, a husband and now a grandfather. But for me, he has had only one role that mattered—he is my Daddy.

Day Twenty-Six: Tonight

I've spent most of the afternoon thinking about my response to today's challenge:  a picture of something that means a lot to me.  There are so many things in my life that I hold close to my heart.  However, when I got home tonight, I knew I had to use my daily blog to say "thank you."  My mother-in-law (whom I call "mom") came down this afternoon to spend time with Peanut.  I used this opportunity to have dinner and drinks with two of my dear friends.  When I got home this evening, my little girl was sound asleep.  Mom had given her a bath and fed her and my husband had put her to bed.   I was so excited.  It's not that I don't love being a SAHM.  I thoroughly enjoy spending time with my daughter, and I love everything that goes with being a mother to a baby, especially the nighttime rituals.  I love giving her a bath at night and watching her splash around in the tube.  I love giving her a bottle and breathing in her sweet baby perfume.  She is so precious to me, and I know the time will come when she will be too big for mommy to rock to sleep.  But every so often, it is a nice break to spend the evening being a grown-up and laughing with some of my favorite ladies.  Tonight, I got to have that break. I spent the evening at Coyote Blues with two of my nearest and dearest.  We laughed and joked and exchanged stories and frustrations.  I could sit back and enjoy my time because I knew my little one was in good hands. 

So tonight I am thankful for a happy, full baby who is sleeping soundly and peacefully. I am thankful for a baby who is sleeping peacefully with a full belly.  And I am thankful for mom and John for providing me with BOTH.   It means so much that both me and my little girl are so loved. 

I don't want to risk waking up my little one with a picture, but I do have a picture of her napping recently.  Just looking at this makes me want to crawl into bed.  You know, I think I will. 

Day Twenty-Five: A Day in the Life

If I had realized that today's challenge is to post a picture of my day, I would have tried to have a more exciting day.  At the very least I would have done something interesting enough to deserve a blog.  As it stands, this is going to be the very type of blog that I avoid:  the "here's a bunch of stuff I did today that no one will be interested in but that won't stop me from wasting both of our time telling you about it."  I guess I'll just have to hope that this isn't anyone's introduction to Bad with Conviction.  Even when my blog is about me, I generally try to make it not so much about me (does that make any sense?)   So bear with me as I go through this and be thankful that I at least got out of my pajamas today. 

Since I didn't go to bed until 2 AM, yesterday kind of bled into today.  It started with Amelia waking up around 11:30 very unhappy.  I finally got her back to sleep around 12:30.  Then I put my pajamas on and realized I wasn't ready to go to bed.   I hope to eventually learn to turn these nights when I can't sleep into productive cleaning binges.  Not happening right now.  Instead of answered some email, worked on some HOA crap stuff, and put the final touches on yesterday's blog.  I finally went to bed and actually slept pretty soundly. 

I don't normally set an alarm since Amelia gets me up in the mornings.  Last night I set one for nine, though, since I told Tiffany I'd pick up the Bean at pre-school.  So glad I did.  When my alarm went off, I was a bit disoriented and concerned.  I wondered why Amelia hadn't woken me up.  I grabbed the monitor, certain that it had malfunctioned.  I could still hear the noise machine running in the nursery.  I hopped out of bed and went to check on her.  Sound asleep.  I saw this as an opportunity to take a shower without having to sing "Jingle Bells" 85 times in a row.  After a long, hot, wonderful shower, I put some product in my hair, threw on a robe and went to the kitchen to make Amelia a bottle.  I was certain that she would be waking up at any moment, but at 9:30 she was still sound asleep.  I woke her up and got a grumpy face (see above)

I fed her and proceeded to get us both ready.  Then we left to go pick up Bean.  On the way to drop Bean off at day care, we sang "Itsy Bitsy Spider" and about 47 verses of "Old McDonald."  The good farmer has some new additions to his farm, including a grizzly bear, elephant, dump truck (I had a brain fart) and bullfrog.  We concluded our ride with "Five Little Monkeys" and I dropped her off. 

Amelia and I headed to pick up John from work, and we drove downtown for lunch.  We decided to eat at the Liberty Street Grill.  If you live in the Jackson area and ever want a quick, cheap (and kind of greasy) lunch, I totally suggest Liberty Street.  They have 8-10 specials each day for $5 (tax included) and you get your choice of sandwich or entree plus a side item and drink.  I had a delicious patty melt (minus onions, of course) and some good conversation about polygamy. I think we came to the conclusion that there are much worse situations than polygamy and that we have more issues with the Duggars than with the Browns from Sister Wives. 

I dropped John back off at work and went by the bank to drop off a check.  As I got ready to head home, I realized I was on the other end of the street that runs in front of Liberty Tech, so I decided to head that way and drop in on my teacher peeps.  I ended up spending 2 1/2 hours visiting with some of my girls and showing off Peanut.  I took Amelia by my old classroom to see where Mommy used to teach.  I know she had no clue as to why we were there, but it was neat nonetheless.  One of my teacher friends asked if I miss the classroom.   Sometimes I do miss teaching and the students,  and I especially miss the camaraderie of my fellow teachers.  But I love staying at home way too much to go back at this time.  I have my own little student to teach these next few years. 

After we left Liberty, I swung by Sonic to get my second Route 44 water with extra ice of the day (I got one on the way to pick up Bean, too.  Forgot to include that earlier).  I happened to look down and notice my gas light was on.  So off we drove to Kroger to use my .10/gallon discount.  As I started to pump my gas, though, I felt my toes getting wet.  I looked down and the gas hose was leaking on my foot.  I quickly set it back in the holder and in the process got it all over my hands.  Great.  After telling the attendant about the leaky hose, I finally pumped my gas and drove home with my windows down as to not make either of sick with the fumes. 

Once I got home, I started making dinner (quiche and biscuits) while Amelia screamed at me from her jumper.  She's usually pretty even tempered, but she was pretty grumpy last night. She wailed and thrashed until John finally got home and rescued her.  I just can't seem to get her to understand that it's dangerous to hold her over the stove while I cook.  You'd think she'd get that now that she's almost seven months old.  Jeez.  Once the quiche was done, we ate dinner and started getting Amelia ready for bed.  Fortunately, she didn't put up much of a fight even though she was super tired and cranky. 



"Please tell Mommy to stop abusing me!  I want to be dangled over hot grease!"



Once we got her to sleep, we caught up on some of our TV shows on the DVR.   We watched last week's episode of Justified (yum), this week's episode of V (interesting) and an episode of Tosh.0 (hysterical except for the part with the broken bone that I fortunately figured out was about to happen so that I could hide my eyes). 

Now I'm pounding out this blog so that I can go to bed at a semi-decent time tonight.  I'm actually super tired and my eyes are burning which means I'm probably running a low-grade fever.  I know this was a rather mediocre blog for what was a fairly mediocre day, but this is what my life is like.  And you know what?  I'm totally okay with that.  I slept past eight.  I  spent time with my daughter, my husband and my friends.  I ate some good foot.  I watched some of my favorite shows.  I have no reason to complain.  And now I'm going to snuggle up with Abbie (my fur baby) and sleep in my big, warm bed.  The perfect end to what is for me a pretty perfect day. 

NOTE:  I ended up falling asleep in the recliner before posting this, so it's a day late.   I'm not going to be too hard on myself, though, since I ACTUALLY FELL ASLEEP BEFORE MIDNIGHT!!!!!!

Day Twenty-Four: Changes

I wrote this hours ago and just haven't been able to bring myself to posting it.  This was extremely hard for me to write and I know it won't be easy for some people to read.  It's been in my heart for so long, though.  ~ajg




My goal as I begin this blog is that it doesn't get too long. I'm sure you're saying, "Wait a minute, all of her blogs are long."  True, but this one could become epic if I'm not careful.   You see, Day 24 of the "30-Day Challenge" is a picture of something you wish you could change.  I have zero problems coming up with an answer.  I have a million problems in that I can think of right at a million things I wish I could change.  To narrow it down, I need to decide how personal I want to make this particular blog.  I admit that there are times I hold back or censor myself to a degree, not to hide anything about me but to spare the feelings of those close to me.  I also find myself sometimes avoiding topics that will be difficult for me to write from an emotional standpoint.  But as I've said before, I write because it's cheaper than therapy, so I need to pour it all out if I expect to get any results or achieve anything remotely resembling catharsis. 

If God or a genie or a magic Mexican jumping bean (what?) told me, "You can change any one thing, past or present," I would deserve a severe beating if I used this opportunity to change something petty (my weight) or selfish (my weight).  Shouldn't I use this opportunity to do something bigger?  Something that would affect thousands or even millions of people?  Stop the wars?  Feed the children?  Cure cancer?  Yes, I should.  And I like to say that I would.  But I wouldn't. To a degree, I would be selfish.  I wouldn't change something that would only help me, but I would ask for changes for those I love.  These aren't changes that would affect the world, but they would affect the world's of people in my life.

There are two people who left this world long before they should have.  I know that by saying that it sounds like I'm trying to play God, but I can live with that.  One of these people I knew for 18 years.  One I never got the chance to even meet.  If I had the chance to bring them back, though, to change the timeline of their life to include at least a few extra years, I would do it without even blinking.

Fourteen years ago, I had just arrived at my dorm room with my mother when we received a call that my uncle--my mother's older brother--had been taken to the hospital.  She immediately left and told me she'd call as soon as she found out what was going on.  Less than an hour later, I learned that my uncle had passed away.  It was the first death I'd ever experienced in my immediate family.   My Uncle Roger was an amazing man who was loved and respected by so many people--his family, his friends, his church, his employees.  He was 53 when he left his world, a full life perhaps by some people's standards.  But there was still so much left for him to see and experience.  My cousins were only in their twenties when it happened, and there have been so many events since then that I wish he had been here to witness.  I especially wish he could have met his two gorgeous granddaughters, my little cousins EG and MK.  They are the most beautiful, vivacious little girls and I know he would have had a ball with them.  I remember how much fun he was when I was a little girl and it saddens me that they won't ever know their grandfather.  I also know how much my mother misses him and how much comfort he would have been for her throughout my grandfather's battle with Alzheimer's.  I know she's struggled in having to make decisions about her parents by herself and there have been so many times she's said, "I wish your uncle Roger was here."   

I know people say God has a plan, but I just can't see how my uncle passing away when he was only 53 is a good  plan in any way.  I know there are people who live much shorter lives, but why couldn't he have had just ten more years?  He is missed so much and I would give anything if he could be here to enjoy all of the milestones of life with this family.

If I could change one more thing, it would be that another life had not been cut short sixteen years ago.  During the summer of 1995, my husband lost his eight-year-old brother, Nick, in an accident.    I've always known that the death of a child is quite possibly the most devastating tragedy that can happen in a family, but having a child of my own has given me a new perspective.  When I hold my little daughter, I can't even allow myself to contemplate the possibility of her being taken from me.  It has made me view John's parents in a different light, especially his mom.  It's not that I think a mother hurts more than a father does, but there is something about carrying a child inside--so close to your heart--for nine months that forms an incredible bond that I can't imagine being severed.  When I see Amelia's Grammy or Pop hold her, it breaks my heart a little each time to think about them holding their own son when he was a baby.  I also hurt for my husband.  Every time we celebrate a milestone, even I feel like something is missing.  Nick should have been there serving as a groomsman.  He should have been laughing with us in Vegas when we celebrated five years.  He should have had the opportunity to hold his little niece when she was born.  I can't help but think about him every time our family gathers and it makes me ache for my husband and our family.  But it also makes me a little angry.  I admit that I have always struggled with accepting God's will and not being resentful.  I don't understand why good people are allowed to suffer while there is so much evil flourishing in the world.  I don't understand why God allows people to hurt the helpless and the innocent.  And I will never understand why God would allow a life to begin and not give it the time it deserves on this earth.  I see the faith my husband's family has and it truly baffles me, but I know that it is this very faith that has carried them through the darkness.  As I discussed in an earlier blog, I have been so fortunate that my life has been fairly charmed (at least in comparison to most people's).  I just can't wrap my mind around how I would survive a real tragedy in my life. 

But I've digressed.  This isn't about my faith or lack thereof in some areas; it's about the people I love and what they've lost.  I so desperately wish I could change that awful day that changed their family forever.  I wish I could give them back their son, brother, grandson, cousin, nephew.  And I wish I could meet Nick and know more of him than just what I've learned through stories and pictures. There's this huge part of my husband's life that I never got to share with him.  For a long time, I struggled to truly grieve with him, but the longer I've been with him and the more I've loved him, I've found myself sometimes grieving even without him.  As the years have passed, I've found myself loving this little boy who I never met, this person who I know would have been a huge part of our lives.   I've never told anyone this, even John.  I've never really known how to put it in words.  I'm not sure I've done the best job now.  But it's been on my heart for so long and I just needed to share it.

A small part of me feels like perhaps it is not my place to write about losses that are so much more personal and painful for other people.  I do not take any of this lightly, though.  I do my share of joking around when I write, but some things are sacred and the last thing I want to do is seem disrespectful.  To my loved ones reading this, please know that my very last intention is to hurt you in any way.  I just want you to know that I love you and that I would give anything to take your pain away. 

Day Twenty-Three: More than Words

I can't remember not being able to read.  I know there was a time, but it exists prior to my long-term memory.  I love to read and regret that I don't spend more time doing so currently.  I like to be able to pick up a book and read until I'm ready to take a break, a luxury that being a new mommy doesn't afford me.  My love for reading and all things literary is part of the reason that I became an English teacher.  When I was in college, I dreamed about introducing my students to literature in a way that they would love it as much as I do.  Then I graduated and started teaching, only to run smack dab into NCLB, the killer of teacher freedom and creativity.  Test, test, test--that is what I am to teach them now. 

But that is an entirely different blog for a different day.  Today's challenge is to post a picture of my favorite book.  Now, being a lover of literature, you'd think that I would have an answer for this question.  Not so.  There are so many books that I love, there is no way I can narrow it down to one.  I'm not sure I can even narrow it down to ten, especially if we're talking favorite books of all time.  I honestly don't have the time to write about all of the books I love, so I decided to choose a book that I not only treasure personally but that I insist on teaching to my students:  Elie Wiesel's Night. 

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.  Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever.  Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never.

Night is one of my personal favorites, but it has also become my favorite book to teach.  Some teachers choose to teach Night because it is a rather short novel (around 120 pages), but it is by no means an easy novel to teach--at least not if you want to do it justice.  I could quite possibly spend an entire semester teaching Night and all of the history that accompanies it.  For those of you unfamiliar with the book, Night is the story of how thirteen-year-old Elie and his family were forced from their homes and into the concentration camp at Auschwitz-Birkenau. 

My students know so little--if anything--about the Holocaust, so this book prompts many questions, questions not only about the events of the book and the Holocaust itself but about the same issues that Elie himself struggles with in Night.  They want to know why these groups of people who were murdered were so hated.  What could they possibly have done to make Hitler turn an entire country against them?  My students debate the guilt of those who worked in the camps and carried out Hitler's orders.  Were they just doing their job?  Did they actually enjoy what they did?  How does a person live with himself after killing innocent people, especially children?  Ultimately, they begin to ask the question that Elie himself asks:  How could God allow this to happen?  It is a difficult discussion to have in a public school classroom full of both believers and non-believers, and I do my best to keep my opinions to myself and allow them to discuss and journal until they find an answer for themselves. 

The week or two that we spend reading the book is often an emotional time for me and for them.  There are certain passages that I insist on reading aloud to them and sometimes I find myself choking up, even after reading them over and over throughout the day.  For a generation who is supposedly desensitized from years of television and video games, they do react to the brutality and heartbreak in Night.  I will never forget the first time I read a group of students the passage about the soldiers tossing babies into the air and using them as targets.  One girl pushed her book away from her, gasping "No" as it fell to the floor.  It was a powerful moment, to see a piece of literature affect someone her age.  But that is not the only reason I teach it.  Night is so much more than literature, it is a young man's life in words.  I want my students to understand what happened not that many years ago.  I feel like they need to know the horrors of the Holocaust so that their generation can do it's part to ensure they never allow something like that to happen in our own country.   And if along the way they learn something about empathy or compassion or their own beliefs, then I feel I've done at least part of what a teacher is called to do. 

If you've never read Night, I can't recommend it enough.   Don't take it to the beach or save it for light "before bed" reading.  Every line, every word of this book is meant for reflection.  I've now read it almost two dozen times and each time I still take something else away with me by the time I reach the last page.