Happy Anniversary, Momma and Daddy.

Beckley, West Virginia
4-26-75

Today is my parents' 39th wedding anniversary. I am sure if this were being reviewed for publication or academic purposes, I would be told that first sentence should read "would be their 39th anniversary." I guess grammatically that makes sense; emotionally this anniversary is still very much in the present.

It is present because the truth is, the love didn't die with my mom. My dad still cherishes and loves her. The fruits of the union are still here. The family they built and loved and sacrificed for still continues on, making new memories and doing our best to love one another. 

It is silly to say my parents had a perfect marriage - that there was never strife or moments of sadness. Perfect? No. But strong. And loving. Committed. Passionate. And, even more so in the last years, fun.

It feels somewhat presumptuous to be discussing their marriage - something I was close to but could never fully understand or experience. As their daughter, though, I can certainly relate what I saw of it.

I saw a wife and husband who after 38+ years and countless times apart, still became sad when my dad had to take even one night for a business trip. And I saw a husband who would sometimes drive home, hours on hours, late and exhausted, to be sure he saw his sweetheart that day.

I saw a wife and husband who never gave up on their dreams of a honeymoon, and finally took one in 2010 - 35 years after they were wed.

I saw a wife who loved to do little things for her husband to show her love. Iron a weeks worth of clothes for a business trip. Pick out lined jeans to make sure he stayed warm. Make her youngest daughter bring his favorite pens home from her college bookstore every.single.visit so that he always had more than he could want. Undeniably, her love language was acts of service and she served my dad with a faithful, loving, unselfish spirit. It brought her heart joy to bring joy to his.

I saw a husband who couldn't tell his wife enough how much he loved her. At her 65th birthday party, instead of a long speech, he stood up in front of our dearest friends and family and sang "My love is like a red, red rose." More fitting words could not have been chosen to describe his love for her.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I :

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry. 38th Anniversary in Atlanta, surrounded by their four sweet grandbabies I saw a husband and wife who loved one another's company so much, they worked on loving what the other did. Whether it meant a sappy love story at the movies on Sunday after church or a political meeting on Saturday night, they did it together. I saw a husband and wife who faced challenges, hard, heartbreaking challenges in careers and grief and family issues. And the one constant in it all was that they always went back to one another. Through the toil that life can throw at you, they were there for one another. Maybe not always on the same team at first, but they always ended up a team - a strong unit working together. I saw a husband who embodied unconditional love for one another and a wife who was a walking example of love that is patient and kind. I saw a husband and wife who never stopped dreaming together. As retirement neared for my momma, they dreamed about long, leisurely days in the pool. Travelling together. Taking the grandkids to Disney. Having time to just be with one another and enjoy the closeness. And I saw a husband who fought for his wife. Who prayed selflessly for God's grace - not for what we wanted for my mom, but that in the end she might find some peace and grace - whatever that meant for us. I saw a husband who stood by his wife every second of those last, heartbreaking hours. Who never stopped whispering "I love you." Who never stopped stroking her hand. And whose great, great grief today is only eclipsed by the love he had for her in life. Life isn't a fairytale. It is rough and sad and will break your heart some days. My parents' love, though, was a fairytale in many ways. It wasn't perfect and certainly wasn't all castles and balls. But they slayed their dragons. They defeated their poisoned apples. And they always made sure the prince ended up with the princess. We love you guys. Happy anniversary.

All dressed up and nowhere to go

RB and I used to be awesome at dating. Seriously, awesome. We went to concerts, tried new restaurants, had random day trips, and even ventured out past dark on work nights. Crazy, I know.

While we were engaged, our dating life went from doing to planning. All things at all times were about the wedding. (Note to single friends: the best advice for a happy marriage is a short engagement. Keeps the crazy under wraps.)

Before B: Braves game on a Tuesday night. Settle down, kids.

We decided once a week we would take a break from the absolute insanity and nonstop phone conversations with my momma seating charts and flower arrangements to have a "date night." Granted, most of the nights were spent in pure exhaustion on one of our couches mindlessly watching Grey's Anatomy (still a good show. I stand by that. I don't care how many absolutely insane crises they have. It is all awesome) but we were still together - without texting bridesmaids, or Facebook browsing, or the latest issue of Southern Bride. 

When we got married, we were even MORE awesome at dating. Two full time jobs with no kid? Hello, disposable income. Add in that I wasn't traveling for work anymore, and it was like a whole new world for us (How many of you just started singing the Aladdin soundtrack? Don't lie). Date nights became even more frequent and we loved every minute of it (except when we went to go see CATS. Poor choice, RB, poor choice).

The minute we announced we were expecting B, every single person with a child told us to enjoy our free time. Hit up a Babymoon. Do a midnight movie. You will never have free time again, they said. You will forget what it means to eat dinner without feeding someone else, they said. It was like the scene from Billy Madison where Billy tries to convince all the kids to never leave elementary school. "Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. For the love of God, cherish it. You have to cherish it."

With all the hubris of first time parents, we laughed at this. Of course we will still have weekly date nights. Of course, there will be time to see movies when they are first released, or get dressed up and go out, or have a few cocktails to celebrate the end of a long week.

Fast forward 21 months, and this is the truth:
1. I have been to the movies once since B was born. We saw Acceptance due to my UVA allegiance to Tina Fey. It was a poor choice. And RB fell asleep in the theater.
2. RB saw me in mascara last week and said "WHOA. Your eyes look different. Like how they used to look." Yes, buddy - that is called makeup. No, I don't wear it that often when I am running back and forth to the park or playing Klip Klop Pony for the 1000th time that day.
3. I have forgotten how to parallel park because we have stopped going to downtown restaurants. And, maybe sometimes, I have become so complacent that I now seek out valet only areas just so I don't even have to deal with it.
4. We have had four date nights - just the two of us - since B was born. Once every five months is almost the same as once a week, right?

In our defense, we have tried. There have been plans made and tickets purchased. Babysitters have been booked and even - shockingly - heels picked out. It seems, though, RB and I are still paying for our arrogance in believing we would still be able to do every. single. thing. we wanted.

It seems as if the universe is working against us. Case in point:
1. Our last scheduled date before HRM's arrival.
    Plan: Zac Brown Band Concert
    Actual: Hospital stay thanks to B being a jerk pregnancy dehydration. Nothing quite says romance like an IV drip and a puke bucket.

2. 5 year anniversary
    Plan: Fancy Pants Dinner Number One

One of four post-baby date nights. We ended
up at Toys R Us to buy Christmas gifts.

    Actual: Rescheduled THREE times due to B developing a 24 hour bug within hours of each reservation. I have a pretty strong suspicion that she just knew she was getting left out, and goodness knows nothing can happen without her! After the third attempt, we waved the white flag and halfheartedly, with a large amount of sleep deprivation, mentioned a trip for our 10 year. Right...

3. 2014 Valentine's Day
    Plan: Fancy Pants Dinner Take Two
    Actual: First, our reservation was cancelled through Open Table due to a "bug." As if that wasn't sign enough, after we rescheduled we couldn't drive out and the restaurant was closed because of Atlanta's third ice storm of the year. Since when does Atlanta get THREE ice storms in one year?

4. 2012 First Date Night after B:
    Plan: Dinner and a movie
    Actual: Nothing. Because a TORNADO destroyed the restaurant we were planning on going to that night. That right there should have been the sign that we were forever destined for take out and reruns of The Office.

We keep trying, though, in hopes that we will one day have a meal where we don't have to ask for extra silverware because ours was thrown on the floor. Or for the avocado slices to please come out immediately, like seriously as fast as you can. Or where I don't leave covered in little hand prints of spaghetti sauce or guacamole.

In fact, we are going out tonight. So,I apologize in advance for whatever is about to hit metro Atlanta in order to thwart our plans. Another tornado. Godzilla. Sherman returning to burn the whole place to the ground again (too soon?). Hope your reservations are before ours!

The bitter and the sweet

We have spent this rainy, cold Easter weekend at the beach in North Carolina with the family. Half way in between Virginia and Georgia, it has been the perfect escape for our first Easter after Momma's passing. The weekend has flown by - I am shocked this is our last night away - yet at the same time each moment with her missing has seemed to tick by at a painfully slow pace.

In this year of "first afters," I think we have all been holding our breath for the first Easter to be done. It has been a bittersweet weekend. The bitter clear and obvious; the sweet continues to surprise us at unexpected moments.

There is sweetness in the way the cousins adore one another. B can't stop following around her "big" cousins and longs to do everything they do. They, despite being older and more able, are gentle and patient with her. They love on her and help her. There is sweetness in every interaction.

There is sweetness in being with my precious sister and falling back into our familiar roles as besties and birth order and partners in crime. There is sweetness in seeing our husbands love our kids and adore their nieces and nephew.

There is sweetness in our precious Papa and Daddy, who, despite his overwhelming grief, is setting up Easter egg hunts and Star War toys, reading books, and letting one or two or sometimes even three grandkids climb into his lap at dinner.

As Christians, our grief seems to mimic this bittersweet back and forth. This weekend, of all weekends, that seems more evident. It is because of the cross and the sacrifice at Calvary that we have hope and that our bad days are made bearable. Momma always said she wanted her funeral not to be one of sadness or despair but a homecoming - a sweet celebration of a life well lived and of an eternal reward beyond our earthly comprehension. The night of Momma's passing, a good friend shared the most applicable Bible verse for the moment:
"His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!'" - Matthew 25:23

I believe with every ounce of my being that she is in Heaven. That she is with our Lord and Savior, rejoicing in paradise. She is with those she has lost - including her own dear mom. And yes, even the legendary Coal Dog is there, resting his giant head in her lap. How sweet it must be. And how sweet to know we will be reunited one day.

But despite the promises of reunion, despite the all encompassing, overwhelming sweetest gift of all, there is still bitter in her absence. There is a mortal bitterness in empty chairs at dinner tables. In family pictures made smaller literally by one person but that feel infinitely smaller. There is bitterness simply in the absence of the one we love. Not a harsh, antagonistic bitterness - just the bitterness of great grief.

And so the days march on. Some more bitter than sweet. Some more sweet than bitter. In the end, because of tomorrow, because of Easter and all that it means, we know it will be sweet. It will end in a glory we cannot fathom, a glory sweeter than anything we have ever known.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,
Because He lives, all fear is gone;
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living,
Just because He lives!

How sweet it is. How sweet it is.

Six Easy Steps to Dyeing Easter Eggs with a Toddler

So, we are continuing our quest to do all the holiday things with Miss B. We already checked off visiting the Easter bunny, an Easter egg hunt, and decorating the Easter tree (it is a real thing, I swear). Next on the list: dyeing Easter eggs with the munchkin. Personally, I can't imagine a more relaxing way to celebrate a holiday then to give a child 18 fragile, potentially Salmonella-laced, smelly eggs with the goal of having her use her excellent dexterity to carefully - and without splashing - dip said eggs in small bowls of stains waiting to happen.

We decided to tackle this on a week night because the hour and a half between RB getting home and B beginning her nightly battle to stay up until 2 going to bed is already way too peaceful and leisurely.

Step 1:

"Gentle, gentle,"
"No." 

Boil the eggs. This was a great debate in our household. RB advocated blowing the eggs out because they last longer. Pre-toddler, I would have agreed. Post-toddler, the thought of handing her blown out eggs that she can easily crush into a million pieces + the added raw eggness of it all ruined that idea for me. So, boiling it was.

I thought that prepping the eggs was definitely an easy part of the process with which B could assist. I thought wrong.

We started with 18 eggs for her to delicately put into a giant vat of water. We ended with 14 successfully making it into the pot. Apparently the cushioning effect of water is negated if the eggs are not so much "dropped" as "hurled with the fury of a thousand toddlers" into the pot.

Step 2:

"I need to knock these all over
NOW! It can't wait!"

Set up the magical cups full of dye without checking the traffic reports or when your husband left work. Assume all is well and of course he will be home on time! This step is optional and should only be followed if you are a complete glutton for punishment or are interested in testing your reflexes through a series of cup grabs.

Nothing is quite as enticing to a small child as something that is brightly colored, can make a mess, or is new. Egg dye cups have all three of these traits and a back up on 85/your husband being stuck on the highway combine for a holiday meltdown of epic proportions. Once you have established that your husband will, in fact, be insanely late and you have already made the idiotic mistake of having everything set up, feel free to spend the next 30 minutes anxiously listening for your husband's car tires while continuously saying "just one more minute, just one more minute." Wine/margaritas are also an optional addition to this step, though a highly recommended one.

Step 2 B:
Feel ridiculously happy when your husband walks in the door. Immediately force him to join in holiday "fun."

Step 3:
Time to get started! Yay holiday memory making! Set your child up with way too many messy things for her to grab and try to teach patience while conducting an art lesson in color combinations.

"No, we don't dip the egg in all the cups - that makes brown."
"No, we shouldn't try to pour all the cups on the doggies."
"No, we don't want to grab all the cups at once." 
"Wait... you have to leave the egg in there longer than 3 seconds for it to get color... okay, or we can just throw it."


"Mom, just let me do this my way already."

Step 4:

OLAF MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER.

Have someone (read: your husband) accidentally hand your child an egg that has not cooled yet.
Picture not shown due to super pitiful faces. 

Allow hands (and tempers) to cool. Comfort toddler with Olaf doll. And maybe let her watch the intro to Frozen five or six times or for what seems like 10 hours straight until tears have stopped and shrieking does not commence at the mere sight of an egg.

Step 5:

Debate nurture vs. nature while your daughter chooses only the pink dye for her eggs. End up quoting Steel Magnolias ("Her colors are blush and bashful!") while your husband rolls his eyes and your daughter continues to chant "Ppppppink. Pppppppppink." Finally let your husband have his own eggs because "all of these look the same and she is not even doing dual colors on any of them!" 

Step 6:
Congratulate yourself on being the greatest parents alive... because memories! Easter! New experiences! Thirteen of 18 eggs survived. Four didn't have ANY cracks. Only one dog has changed color - and really it is less than a quarter of her. Nobody has Salmonella (yet). Call it a success! (And remember to toss those eggs before your dogs can get to them. That clean up is a whole other check list.)

MEMORIES!

Splish Splash, Nobody is Ever Relaxing Again

Atlanta has had a pretty rough winter. Judging by the news reports, school closings, and SNL skits mocking us, I am pretty sure it is the coldest, cruelest weather that has ever hit any metropolitan city in the history of the world. This is hard enough to bear when, like most Southerners, the warmest coat you own is an unlined North Face (the horror), but it becomes a new type of brutal when you are also hanging out with a toddler all day long.

B likes to base her wardrobe choices off of Christmas
movies from the 80s set in the 50s. 

With B, it would be one thing if it was just cold. We can wrap her up Christmas Story-style and go on with our day. The wet has ruined us, though. We have been trapped inside for the better part of the past umpteenth months.

So, in order to stave off an Atlanta reenactment of The Shining cabin fever, we have been exploring indoor, wear out the toddler activities. Once Catch Air lost its charm (i.e. I was no longer able to tolerate chasing her through ball pits), we looked for an alternate method of entertainment. Luckily, her swimsuits for the summer (and no, there aren't too many RB) had just started to arrive and served as a source of inspiration.

For the past several weeks, we have been spending every afternoon at a close by pool that is like a toddler's wonderland. There is a lazy river, fountains, and it doesn't go deeper than 3 ft 6 inches. The pool is only open during odd hours, but since we are currently on the nap schedule of no momma, never, and nope, we are pretty flexible with our schedule.

Summer 2013:
When B was easy to contain, and
living was easy.

For the first few days, it was perfect. A wonderful way to wear us both out during those long afternoon hours that seem to stretch on endlessly between lunch and when RB gets home. It didn't take long, though, until she was fearless. It was as if the long, pool-less months of winter had never happened. Every chance she could, she was running towards the side, trying to jump in before I could catch her. She climbed the playground area in the middle of the pool as if it wasn't actually made for five year olds twice her size. In the lazy river, she used every ounce of strength she has to try to push off me and float all by herself. During our Mommy Group playdate there, the other moms relaxed while their babies stayed in their laps or ventured only a foot or so away. Meanwhile, I can't even tell you for sure who was there - I was too busy chasing the wild child. I believe they called her "spirited." I think that is Mommy sympathy code for "exhausting."

Our biggest obstacle has become the slides. On the far side of the pool is a 40 ft covered slide accompanied by a giant sign that says "Must be 46 inches to ride." Unfortunately, this is not a deterrent to B... possibly because she can't read yet or because she has no idea what measurements are. Either way, every time we pass it all I hear is "Mine? Momma? Mine?" Needless to say, we avoid that side of the pool.

There is a smaller slide in the middle of the pool made for younger kids but is still the stuff of nightmares for me. It is covered, it lands in water, it is 12 or so feet high. Adults aren't allowed in it, but of course RB the rebel rides it with her all the time. I am a wuss and a rule follower to the core, so when I take B I just shake my head and tell her "no." This usually goes over as well as me telling her it is nap time.

This last trip to the pool, an older lifeguard was on duty. It was a nice departure from the usual crowd of young, hipster lifeguards who seem like they are just counting down the minutes until they can go back to American Apparel. This lifeguard was actively engaged with the kids, helping out the moms, acting as an all around asset to the crowd. He watched the repeated cycle of B climbing up the stairs, fighting her way through the gauntlet of bigger kids and water hoses with enough power to knock her backwards only to see me shake my head and say "No slide, B."

After round 1,000,000 of this, he helpfully comes over. "Listen, you stay up there with her and put her in the slide. I will stay down here and scoop her out of the water when she gets down here. She will love it!"

I stared at him for a minute and every apocalyptic scenario of how this could end ran through my head:
1) He could have a heart attack catching her. (Seriously. He wasn't young)
2) She could freak out and ninja attack him. Anyone who has been on a playdate with her is well aware that she is not into strangers.
3) She could decide the slide is the greatest thing that has ever existed and then I am doomed to slide paranoia and oversight for the rest of the winter/spring.

But before I could finish the movie reel of awful outcomes in my head, she looked up at me with those big green eyes and just said "Slide. Please." We aren't big on verbs yet, but she knows how to get straight to the point. And my heart.

So, against my better judgment, I sat her at the top of the slide, gave her a little push, and watched as she disappeared into the tunnel. As soon as she was out of sight, I headed down through the water tunnels and over to the ever-helpful lifeguard waiting at the bottom for her. I thought surely by the time I made it over to the, she would be down and out of the slide. Possibly fighting him with every ounce of stranger danger fear she has, but down nonetheless.

Nope. I get there and the lifeguard is inching ever closer to the slide. Closer. Closer. Closer. He makes eye contact with me and I can tell he is considering his next words very closely.

"Um, where is my daughter?"
"Well... she hasn't quite made it down yet."
"What? She could have gone down three times now."
"Yep. She is not down yet. I think it is okay though."

If there is one thing you don't want to tell an already paranoid from watching too many Law and Order episodes mother, it is that you "think" her daughter is okay.

At this point, I am a crazy person, calling for her - shouting into the slide. The lifeguard is standing next to me also shouting her name. Well, actually he was shouting "Bonnet," but at this point there was no time for corrections. I can feel the walls closing in as I try to figure out where the hell in this slide she is and, quite literally, I can feel everyone in the pool area close in on us as they come to watch the spectacle.

Another lifeguard sprints to the top of the slide and lays flat sliding half of his body into the slide to see if he can see her around the bend of the slide. I am half way up the slide now, looking for her at this angle, while the older, totally his fault because it was his idea, lifeguard hovers over me saying "Bonnet? Are you in there? Come down now, Bonnet."

Suddenly, above all the commotion we hear "Mommie? Hi, Mommie." B's sweet little voice... not scared. Not anguished. Not reaching higher and higher decibels, cartoon style like me when I panic. Just nonchalant. Hanging out in a slide of death and destruction.

The lifeguard at the top comes out of the slide and shrugs his shoulders. He can hear her but can't see her so, you know, his job is done. At the foot of the slide, we keep calling her and slowly start to hear a loud, squeaking noise. Again, my panic, worst case scenario thought process goes into effect. There is clearly a giant snake in there with her making a squeaking noise. Snakes squeak, right? Or the slide is about to collapse. Or the whole building. Whatever it is, it is going to be bad.

Slowly but surely, the squeaking gets louder and suddenly little, chubby, adorable feet round the bend in the slide just out of our reach. The squeaking noise is her butt, inch by inch, as she drags it down the slide, scooting herself little by little. Within seconds, she is in reach, I grab her ankles, and drag her out of the slide.

My heart is racing. I feel like I am going to be sick. Stuck in the slide? Are you kidding me? I feel like an hour has passed. Realistically, it was probably 15 seconds. Maybe 20. She is safe but I am seriously considering never leaving the house again.

The older, now my total arch nemesis, better not have grandkids lifeguard smiles at me. "Yeah... I forgot sometimes if they aren't big enough they don't sit right in the slide and get stuck."

I am so shocked, I can't even speak. B, however, takes that moment to start clapping. And then says to him, "Slide. Please."


Post brush with slide death. Still repeatedly
asking for the slide.