I didn't marry wealthy, I married willing.

It's possible that I have taken on too much. Lately parenting, keeping two barrel horses ridden, starting two new businesses, and training for my first half marathon has left very little time for blogging. Well, I say that...I write the most spectacular blog posts in my mind every morning in the shower. Unfortunately, inside my brain is also where blog posts go to die. The only reason I'm able to write this one is because I am waiting the prerequisite year and a half to see our pediatrician for my baby's three year old checkup. Seriously, I think she will be closer to four than three by the time we get out of here.

Life has been unbelievably stressful lately. Yes, yes I know. While my FB news feed is packed to the brim with people telling me what they are thankful for, I am being the party pooper. But I'm just telling the truth. I am blessed beyond measure, and I truly try not to take a single thing for granted. But the fact is, my husband quit his job out of loyalty to a coworker a couple of weeks ago, and starting our own new projects has predictably taken longer than expected.

That said, I support my husband's decision to quit 110%. He absolutely and without a doubt did the right thing. Now, because I believe in being honest with the fabulous folks who read my random thoughts and musings, I have to tell you that the fact that I believe in and support my husband did not stop me from being a scared wife. Uncertainty is never comfortable, and I am the first one to admit that I have been short or cranky with my husband simply because I was afraid of what the next day would hold. Fortunately for me, my husband is slow to anger and has the patience of Job. (Obviously, because he's still married to me!)

Like everyone else, I marvel all the time at what a diverse group of FB friends I have collected over the years. I am friends with lots of women. Single women, married women, women who work, women who stay home, gay women, straight women...pretty much any sort of woman you can think of. Therefore, there are a myriad of opinions at any given point in time. As I've gotten older (happens to the best of us) I have learned to occasionally sit back and watch the drama unfold without commenting. It's kind of like a car wreck that you can see coming. You know the big "boom" is coming, so you just draw up and wait.

The other day, it took all my self control to keep my fingers still when a working mom told a stay at home mom that obviously she "married wealthy." I could practically feel the disdain dripping from her comment. I managed to stay out of it at the time, but the more I thought about it the more it bothered me. 

So here's my response to her snarky comment, although she'll never see it. I didn't marry "wealthy," I married "willing." I married an amazing man who is willing to go out into the world, kill something and drag it home. He has had multiple jobs since we married, some that he loved and others he hated. But he's always agreed with me, that our children receive the best care from their mom. So off he goes every morning, my knight in shining armor. He would protect any of us with his life. He works hard. Occasionally he works Sundays, or holidays, or late into the night. He does dirty jobs, thankless jobs, and distasteful jobs. He does jobs that make his hands ache and his heart hurt. But he does them, for us. If that's not a true expression of love, I don't know what is.

I guess this post started out as a complaint, but in writing it I found out what I am truly thankful for. I'm thankful I married well, not wealthy. I'm thankful that in all the things that truly matter, my life is overflowing.

The Simple Things

Today I was reminded that sometimes the simplest things in life are the most wonderful. This morning I sent my big girls off to school, then started my normal routine of showering and putting on makeup. And then it happened. My three year old daughter ran into the room, bringing with her love and light and everything that is wonderful about being young and innocent. She threw her little arms around me and declared, "Mommy, I love you so!"
Call me silly, call me sappy, call me whatever you want. My heart experienced the purest form of joy in that moment, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything in the world. It means so much to me that I can be here when she goes to bed at night and when she wakes up in the morning. Maybe I was overwhelmed when the twins were babies, but I just don't remember taking time to reflect on the moments like this one. With them, sometimes it became all about keeping everyone alive until tomorrow. Now I try not to take a single second for granted.
There are those that have questioned my decision (both to my face and behind my back) to leave the career that I worked so long and hard for in order to "just stay at home." I guess I don't see it that way. The other day while I was chaperoning my older daughters' field trip, one of them apologized for making me miss a barrel race that afternoon. I replied that there was nothing more important in this world to me than spending time with her. And I meant it. Staying home for me is about putting my family first, ahead of any and every other worldly thing.
Veterinary medicine will always be there. My babies won't. One of the most precious moments of my day is having my daughter come flying into my room, throw herself at me, and say simply, "Snuggle!" Maybe I'm old fashioned, but it just doesn't get any better than that.

Well, I tried!

I'm still here! For those of you who have wondered if the kids tied me up and did me in, they haven't. Yet. I am finding that being a mother of three, training for a half marathon, and keeping two barrel horses in shape requires each and every one of the 24 short hours in my day. As much as I enjoy blogging, and boy do I always have plenty of material, when I sit down to write at the end of a day that began with a 4 mile run at 5 AM, my body tends to simply refuse to stay awake any longer. So I am doing the best I can!
Here's a quick update: Kirk and I are both training for the St. Jude Half Marathon in December. I am still blissfully happy with the horse we got in July, and am looking forward to several barrel races in the coming weeks. I have an awesome idea for my next book project, which I am already working on in my head. Actually, I have several amazing ideas, but simply not enough time to get them down on paper. I am eating healthier, exercising harder, and seeing a chiropractor every week to help keep me feeling great for the race. And if those things happen to help my migraines go away, I'll consider that a bonus. I promise to get more posts written (I know that's how many of you who are family keep up with my kids.)
Here's one for the road. The other day Sheridan and I were in Kroger. Naturally, when we got to the checkout line, she started asking for everything under the sun. Any parent knows that after the asking comes the whining. I felt like I was doing well and staying strong. I had made up my mind. No was no, and I wasn't budging. I'm used to whining in stereo. One measly kid wasn't any match for me! And then it happened. My three year old offered up a poorly aimed, poorly timed kick at my shin. Her foot barely grazed my leg, but my face was enough to elicit the "oh sh%t, what have I done" look from my child.
In as quiet a voice as I could muster, I exclaimed, "Sheridan, did you just kick me?" She looked at me, and without missing a beat replied, "Well, I tried!" At least she's honest.

I Smoked Your Tail

Although my heart is still hurting, we now return to our regularly scheduled programming. I could use a good laugh, and thought you guys could, too. So I thought I'd share this shining example of sisterly love.

We took our girls to a barrel race not far from home last weekend. They share a horse and a pony, although one of them is not ready to run the horse at a show just yet. I suppose a 16 hand horse is intimidating when you're seven, even if he is gentle. In any event, my "middle child" by 13 minutes made her run and knocked over the second barrel on her pony. She had a reasonably fast time, and actually let her pony high lope part of the pattern, which is an improvement.
My "oldest child" (again, by 13 all important minutes)  had two runs to make, mainly because she wanted two chances to beat her sister. She doesn't trust her horse just yet, and her theory is that if he messes up, she can still beat Sharlee on old faithful, Rebel the pony. In the Pee Wee class, a hit barrel incurs a 5 second penalty rather than a no time. Savannah made both of her runs, which were clean, and ended up winning the class on her big horse and placing second on the pony. The kicker was that her "little" sister ran a faster time than either of Savannah's runs, but the hit barrel kept her from winning the class (and just barely, because she almost outran her sister on the pony even with the penalty.)
My "mini me" usually takes mistakes very hard, so I was looking for her to be upset after her run. Instead, she came running up to me, pulled up her pant leg and said excitedly, "Look, Mom! Now I have a barrel bruise and I'm sure proud of that!" Um, OK. Looking for a positive in the situation, I said, "You made a really fast run. You would have smoked Savannah if you hadn't hit that barrel! You almost beat her anyway."
Since "big" sister got her way, winning first and second, all was right with the world until we got home. When Daddy announced that it was time to take a bath, the usual war ensued. Clothes were flying everywhere and kids were scrambling to the hamper when I saw a naked child go by at breakneck speed.
Reaching the bathtub, she squealed, "Woohoo! I smoked your tail at the barrel race and now I smoked your tail in the bathtub!"  

And don't you forget it.

Hug me tighter, Mommy

Those of you who follow my blog know that the subject matter is generally funny, mainly because after 36 years I have finally learned to laugh at myself. And because anyone who has spent more than 10 minutes with my kids knows that it's really hard not to laugh at them. I never know what is going to come out of their mouths. To characterize their thoughts as "random" is a complete understatement.
On this day, however, my heart is very heavy. Through the modern marvel that is social media, today I learned that an acquaintance of mine passed away just eight days after giving birth to her son. I can't begin to imagine what her family is going through. Shock, grief, anger, exhaustion...all of the emotions that go along with the sudden loss of a loved one. And then there's her son. A precious, beautiful, innocent life that is just beginning. What must he be thinking, as the most important, constant person in his life is suddenly missing? Just the thought brings tears to my eyes.
Eight days. Eight short days to spend with your only child. I can't think of anything more horrible. Eight days isn't enough for anything. Not enough time to cuddle, not enough time to listen to the sweet sounds newborn babies make, not enough time to sit for hours and gaze into the face of a miracle on loan from God. I have never felt more grateful for my children and the years I have been allowed to spend with them.
This situation really hit home for me, mainly because it was my husband's worst fear during my pregnancies. My sweet, strong, amazing veterinarian husband was literally terrified that something was going to happen to me. While my OB and I made jokes and picked on him for being so worried, he summed it up rather succinctly when he said, "Stuff dies having babies." Sometimes knowledge is not power. When a woman becomes a mother-to-be, her focus immediately shifts from her own well-being to that of her child. We are willing to give up anything and everything to protect the tiny, miraculous life growing inside us. Men don't always have the same experience, although they tend to get the same feeling once they hold their baby for the first time. One too many OB emergency calls and patients who died despite his best efforts had left my husband completely unable to relax and enjoy any part of my pregnancy, and my deliveries were nearly as stressful for him as they were for me.
My biggest fear was a C-section and a baby in the NICU, his biggest fear was being left a single father. As a woman, I have never felt more out of control of my own body. As helpless as I felt being pregnant, I really think it was even worse for my kids' dad. He had to worry about them and me. Interestingly, it never occurred to me that my pregnancies would end with anything more than healthy, happy babies. I never thought about miscarriage or extremely premature deliveries, and I certainly never even considered the fact that I might die. I'm betting the mother of that precious eight day old baby boy didn't either.
My heart goes out to the family of the mother and father of that little boy. Judging from the response on social media, there will be no shortage of people to tell him what a wonderful person his mother was. Just the thought of him growing up without her is so, so sad.
We are not guaranteed one more day, one more hour, or one more second with our loved ones. I have spent my day with my daughter, hugging her a little tighter and kissing her more often. My hope is that the loss of this young woman will cause many other people to do the same.    
        

Mr. Potato Potty, part deux

For those of you who were lucky enough to catch my previous blog post entitled "Mr. Potato Potty," here is the next installment. You will recall that Mr. Potato Potty was a gas station toilet I came across that was comprised mainly of parts and pieces from other toilets. Other toilets, and one construction site that no doubt donated the piece of lumber that was serving as a tank lid. To the store owner's credit, he had gone to the trouble of painting said lumber and adding a lovely fake floral arrangement in an attempt to disguise the repair. Or maybe it was just to give it that more "homey" feeling we are all looking for in a gas station restroom. Either way.

Today while traveling through deepest, darkest Alabama I found Mr. Potato Potty's long lost brother. At some point in its life, it was an unassuming, all white potty. And that's when the trouble began. Apparently the seat just wouldn't stay put, judging from the huge, industrial strength silver screws now attaching it securely to the lid. In a tragic turn of events, the tank lid had broken and was now replaced with a new one that didn't even begin to fit correctly. In addition to it being too big, the wrong shape, and also the wrong color it was being held in place with...wait for it...a huge piece of silver duct tape! Ah yes, the redneck weapon of choice. A good old roll of silver duct tape can right any wrong.

I admired this tribute to toilet architecture for a moment before returning to the store, where they were giving away free pizza and chicken wings of all things. My husband could barely contain his excitement. When I made the mistake of declining their kind offer, he elbowed me and hissed, "You better take that free pizza! WE might want it later!" Gee, sorry hon. You're right. "We" might want it later...what was I thinking? On to Tennessee! Can't wait to see what we find there...

I'm Not Mad at Miley

I find the reaction to the Miley Cyrus performance on the VMAs very interesting. Honestly, I was a little surprised that the media reacted the way it did. Is it because someone finally realized that displays such as this one are disgusting and do not qualify as entertainment? I doubt it. Is is the fact that this once fresh-faced, extremely talented girl spent years as clean cut Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel? Personally, I found the entire thing disturbing, raunchy, and completely inappropriate. But I find much of the content on MTV and every other channel falls into that category these days. What passes for "family" television in this day and age absolutely blows my mind. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, or perhaps my mother was.
Either way, I consider myself extremely fortunate that my kids have no knowledge of Miley Cyrus or Hannah Montana. That said, there are plenty of other "celebrities" and "entertainers" that I don't want my kids to emulate. There are athletes and people in their everyday lives that I don't want them to look up to. There are all sorts of humans on the planet that I consider totally unfit as role models for my kids.
So what's a parent to do? Throw out the televisions and computers? Police every conversation and piece of literature that they read? That really doesn't seem very practical. Besides, unless you decide to homeschool your kids and forbid them from having any friends, they are going to be exposed to something you would not approve of at least once a day.
So here it is... my own, old-fashioned small town Southern girl suggestion. Be the role model for your own children. Yep, I said it. Take responsibility for the life YOU created. Suck it up, buttercup, and break all those bad habits you don't want your kids to have.
Don't want them to hate their bodies? Quit putting yours down in front of them. No, I don't particularly love my thighs, but my daughters have never heard me say that. Don't want them to drink alcohol? Don't do it in front of them. Would you rather they didn't dress like a hoochie mama and gyrate on some guy's leg in public? Then show them the proper way to dress and model the behavior you would like to see in them!
People seem to want to blame Miley's misstep on her handlers. I submit that she is influenced by the people her parents allow to be around her. It is their job to ensure that she is being influenced by the right kind of people, not to simply support her after the fact.
Demand respect from your children. Do everything you can to ensure that they are more afraid of you finding out and being disappointed in them than the repercussions of any inappropriate behavior they might take part in. Hey, it worked for my parents! Did I have the chance to drink in high school? You bet I did. The overwhelming reason I didn't? I was afraid my mother would find out. Could I have gone out drinking and slept with various guys in college? Sure! But I didn't. Honestly, I was more afraid of disappointing my parents than I was of getting pregnant.
Don't  get me wrong. When I say I was "afraid" of my parents, I mean that I was afraid of letting them down. They weren't abusive or terrifying people. They did however, lay out very clearly what their expectations were for my behavior, and I try to do the same thing with my kids. It isn't easy, it isn't fun, and sometimes the only explanation I can come up with is, "because you are my child and I love you too much to let you act that way."
Yes, there are a multitude of famous people out there who could be allowed to influence my children. My job is to step in when I am needed and model the behavior I wish for them to emulate, as well as limiting their exposure to the people and behavior that are not good for them. So I'm not angry with Miley. I feel sorry for her, as she has obviously lost her way. I suggest that we as parents see her "performance" as a call to action. Be parents! Take it upon yourselves to teach your kids right from wrong, and stop relying on the media, or teachers, or their friends to do it for you. YOUR children are YOUR responsibility!