Posted in Family, Home, Personal, Relationships, Television

Gaslights & Stringlights

When my husband and I first started living together, I moved into his house. That was fine, but even after all my belongings were there, it still felt like his. I was more like a long-term guest with closet space. It took about 3 months for us to realize we needed a new place; something that was ours.
We found this fantastic 1938 shotgun-shack style house in the neighborhood we were hoping for and the price range we needed. He hung skateboards on the walls, I hung curtains on the windows. I was so enamored with the high ceilings, wood floors, plank walls, and sun room that I didn’t take into account how difficult having one bathroom would be for all us. That’s when it started happening.
At first I just thought it was one of the kids haphazardly throwing it on there, but after several weeks I began to questions things. The toilet paper roll. I’m not talking about someone being lazy and leaving the empty roll on the holder while setting the new roll on top. No, I’m talking about replacing the empty one and putting the new one on backwards – the wrong way. It’s usually just a minor pet peeve of mine. It takes me only seconds to correct it. At first I didn’t mind, but then it kept happening. Every 2 or 3 days I would sit down to find someone had changed it back. So I, in turn, would make it right. But then a couple of days later, it would be flowing under again.
After a few months of this toilet paper over/under game, I became certain it was being done to me on purpose. I knew the people I lived with were intelligent enough to know how to properly insert toilet paper. They were trying to make me crazy. (And it was working.)
One morning over coffee, I confided in my mother that I thought someone in the house was trying to gaslight me. She explained that in the film, the only person that believed Paula was Inspector Cameron. She told me that if I was Ingrid Bergman, she would be my Inspector. That year for Christmas, Mom sent me a box with a nightgown, a bag of microwave popcorn, and the 1944 Gaslight DVD. It was one of the best gifts I have ever received.
I’ve never spoken to my husband about the “Incredible Ongoing Toilet Paper Roll” situation. I’ve come to accept it. This has been happening for more than four years and will probably continue for the rest of our lives without a word being said.

gaslight
We spent about a year and half in our fantastic tiny house before Olive was born and we knew we needed bigger digs. I was going to miss the old-fashioned charm our house had, but was already in love with the modern amenities the new house had to offer. The dishwasher, garbage disposal, and automatic garage door opener were awesome, but the second bathroom was what sold me! I’ve found that the toilet-paper-flowing-under culprit likes to visit BOTH bathrooms regularly. Sometimes I fix it, sometimes I just sigh and let it go.

About a month ago, we moved Olive’s crib to our bedroom. It took some minor rearranging that resulted in moving the bed closer to the wall on my side to allow enough walkway to the bathroom on his side. You may remember my blog post, The Princess and the Sea  where I told the real-life fairy tale of redoing my bedroom. This was the final layout:

enchanting

I sleep near the window (we don’t have a specific side of the bed, he always takes the side that puts him between me and the door because he is a natural protector.) The stringlights behind my homemade headboard plug into the outlet on my side. The bed is now slightly off-center from the headboard and that only gives me a minor headache. I know this is a temporary situation. Now, here’s the thing…
…about every two days, I walk in my room to find that the bed has been moved about four inches to the left. I immediately start twitching. Four inches doesn’t seem like much, but that’s the difference between me walking on my side of the bed in a straight line or doing the awkward sideways shimmy. It also means I have to move the bed back to where it was so I can plug in the stringlights. (We use them in lieu of a nightlight.) Plus, my brain just can’t handle that much off-centeredness.
The SuperBed Shuffle has happened at least fifteen times (maybe more) without discussion. I move it where it belongs, some rascal moves it back.

We picked Momma up from the airport last night and on the way home I explained that I’m no longer convinced I’m being gaslighted. We all know I can be overly dramatic at times. (I’m not going to stop correcting the TP and bed placement, though.)
Tonight after dinner, I’m going to put on my Christmas gift nightgown, pop some popcorn, and we are all going to watch the Gaslight movie she sent me.
Afterwards, we probably all will marvel at Ingid Bergman’s beauty and laugh at my silliness until I go to my room to get in bed, only to find that it’s been moved four inches to the left.

momma

Posted in Community, Culture, Home, Personal, Relationships, Television

The Pursuit of Happiness

The Presidential debates are tonight. For the third time in a row, I do not plan to watch. Like many other Americans humans, I’ve had enough of all of it. Nothing either candidate says or does will influence me at this point. There will be chatter about our Forefathers, our Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence. And being Independent is exactly what I plan on doing. (Maybe I’m referring to my vote, maybe I’m referring to my plans for tonight – take it as you like.)

“We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The pursuit of Happiness – a God given unalienable right.

While many people are busy arguing Gun Control vs The Right to Bear Arms, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” vs extreme vetting, telling your Facebook adversary to “shut up” vs The Freedom of Speech, Banning Sharia Law vs Freedom of Religion, media censorship vs Freedom of the Press, yada yada yada, they seem to be overlooking the pursuit of Happiness. I find it notable that the words Rights, Creator, Life, Liberty, and Happiness are all capitalized in the Declaration of Independence. (It’s not like Jefferson had the option to use “bold” or “italics” to emphasize importance.)

There are certainly things in life we MUST do that we aren’t exactly happy about (washing the dishes, for example) the idea is – happiness is a choice. You can be miserable that you’re getting dish-pan hands, touching the slobber on your Corelle Livingware Mosaic Red dinner plate after your 5 year-old son licked the ketchup clean off of it, or you can CHOOSE to be happy that your kitchen will be clean when you are done. You simply make a choice. Start with the little things. Find joy in the scent that follows you after you’ve brushed by a rosemary bush, delight in the hidden soundtrack on the new CD you bought, be pleased in finding the rogue onion ring that turned up in your order of fries. Once you’ve made the decision to find the upside, bright side, and silver linings in the simple things, finding it in the bigger picture becomes habit. Do you hear me?
Happiness will become a habit.

Donald Trump does not make me happy. Hillary Clinton does not make me happy. You know what does make me happy?
– Getting my butt kicked at wii-golf by my grandson.
– Playing patty-cake with Olive for the zillionth time today.
– Watching my 44 year-old husband and his friends have an “old man skate session” at the skate park.
– Taking a hot shower, shaving my legs, putting on my favorite nightgown, and getting in a bed with freshly laundered sheets whilst reading a novel from my favorite author.
– Literally anything that doesn’t have e-mail scandals, pussy grabbing, or is associated with Trump or Clinton.

These are some of the many things I will be doing during the debates tonight. Whether you watch the debates or not, that is your choice, but for the love of God, please practice your unalienable right to pursue Happiness.

happy

 

Posted in Uncategorized

Sensible Shoes

We awoke dark and early (thanks, Olive.) By the time I changed her diaper, brewed coffee, fed her a healthy breakfast of leftover crab dip and Ritz crackers, bathed and got us dressed, we were ready to leave the house by 7 am. We ended up watching Monsters, Inc (twice) before actually heading out. 

There were a couple of yard sale stops and I found a book by my favorite author. I was inspired. Jose got us tacos from Granzin’s and my grumbling belly thanked him. We arrived at Black Dog Spa in time for him to greet the pet parents dropping off. I loaded up Ollie in the stroller and headed downtown to the Farmer’s Market. On the way there, we stopped at a Pumpkin Patch. She made friends with the scarecrow and we continued our journey.

Fifty feet later, my left flip-flop had a blow-out. Awesome. I debated calling Jose to come pick us up, but I’m not a quitter. Rummaging around in my purse, I managed to come up with a band-aid (because I’m a prepared Mom like that.) I “fixed” the flop and we were off again.

The Market proved to be rather boring. Somehow, shopping for fresh carrots and butternut squash isn’t nearly as exciting as one would think.  We (I) decided to stop at the Phoenix Saloon for a diaper change and a Lone Star. We drank our respective bottles and headed back to the shop.

Jose was done and with plenty of sunshine left in the day, we decided a river trip was in order. Within five minutes of setting up our blanket and slathering Olive in sunscreen, Jose jumped up, dove in the river fully-clothed, and frantically swam to save a 3 year-old little girl getting swept away in the current after her dad thought it was a good idea to take her down the tube chute in a kayak, where it promptly flipped over. She was (thankfully) wearing an adorable tiny life-vest with a shark fin on the back. After checking on the visibly shaken family, Jose returned to our blanket to dry out. There were no other notable incidents with the minor exception of a twenty-something gal who laid claim to a Ziplock freezer bag full of Dorito’s found floating in the river. She swore she wasn’t stoned. Surreeeee.

We packed up things and decided to call it a day, stopping at HEB for three items needed for dinner. I opted to stay in the car with Olive while Jose ran in “real quick.” Twenty minutes later, I noticed a lady with a basket full of groceries and a fussy toddler prancing around on tip-toes with her arm extended above her head, clicking her key-chain in a desperate attempt to locate her car. Feeling her pain and wanting to help, I climbed out the open window Dukes of Hazzard style, barefoot and bikini-clad on to the top of the Mitzu. (In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t just open the door.)
“What kind of car do you drive?” I hollered to her. She turned and looked at me horrified. I probably should’ve told her I was trying to help, but I realize now that I must’ve looked like a lunatic up there. She ran in the other direction.
I noticed everyone in the parking lot was staring at me so I slinked down the side of the car, scraping my fanny on the side-view mirror. My shoeless feet hit the hot pavement, as well as a gooey piece of spit out bubble gum. I uses a wet wipe to clean myself up and get back in the car. Olive was giggling in the back seat. Just as I hid the evidence in the bottom of the diaper bag, Jose got back to the car. I resisted the urge to ask what took him so long.

We tag teamed dinner, making tamales, rice, and beans. Olive ate all the beans. After dinner, we finally settled down on the sofa to watch Swiss Army Man. I made it through the trailers, making a mental note to pick up The Lobster from Red Box before dozing off. The next thing I knew, Jose was telling me to go get in bed. The credits were rolling.

Today, as we’re prepare to head to the Flea Market, packing sunscreen and extra band-aids, we wonder if there will be any toddler-saving or top-of-the Mitzu frantic waving. I’ve decided to ditch the flops and don some sensible flats. 

Posted in Community, Culture, Home, Personal, Relationships

Sandy Sandy Night

Thursdays are generally chaotic for us, so when we were asked to join a co-ed sand volleyball league on Thursday evenings, we gladly accepted. In our minds, it would be a fun way to let loose after a tumultuous day at work. My husband closes his business at 6:00 pm and our first game starts at 6:45 pm, not leaving us much time to get home, change clothes, grab dinner, get the baby ready, and head out the door. It’s always pandemonium.
Wednesday evening, my husband went for a skate sesh with his buddy Reagan. Several hours later when he limped through the door, his ankle looked like it swallowed a soft ball. Apparently the skate wheels weren’t the only thing that rolled that night.
His contribution to the game would be in question.

We left Black Dog Pet Spa at precisely 6 o’clock and went straight home. We were ecstatic to find that my daughter Dallas had made dinner for everyone! One less thing to worry about. After a mad rush of clothes changing, diaper changing, and face stuffing, we scrambled to the car and left for Landa Park. Upon arrival, I swiftly kicked off my flip-flops, cracked open a cold one, and sunk my toes in the sand. It was glorious. I’m not going to bore you with the details, but let’s just that by the time we finished our last game Jose’s ankle looked like it belonged to the Elephant Man and my right arm was burning from my shoulder down to my elbow nearly necessitating a sling. That being said, our team “The Sand Eaters” crushed it. We packed up our things and left the park triumphant.

In the car, my husband had the familiar gleam in his eye and I instinctively knew what was coming. With a presumptuous side grin, he voiced the desire to go have a few celebratory Lone Stars at our favorite watering hole – The Phoenix Saloon. Thursday Night Football was on the big screen and karaoke was happening on the small stage. He wasn’t ready to let go of the high we had from winning. We hobbled in the house appearing more wrecked than the bench players on my Fantasy Football team. (I’m looking at you Ertz, Rawls, Langford, and Walker.) I sheepishly asked Dally if she would mind watching Olive for a couple of hours and without hesitation, she said yes. Jose was ready to skedaddle, no time for a shower, so I said F-You to the Fashion Police, threw on my staple white sundress after Labor Day, and brushed sand from parts of my body that you should never have sand in.

Jose’s ankle injury seemed to have magically healed itself as I’m almost certain he skipped through the doors of The Phoenix. Our favorite bartender Mario greeted us with handshakes and Tall Boys. We felt good. A couple of friends walked in and joined us at the bar. While Jose was on stage singing “Never Tear Us Apart,” (making me weak in the knees) our friend emerged from the ladies room looking crestfallen. She immediately relayed to me that she overheard a gaggle of girls saying nasty, horrible, racist things about us while powdering their noses. Jesus Christ on a cracker!

(In my best southern drawl) Well, bless their pea-pickin’ little hearts. I might be able to turn the other cheek, but if Jose caught wind of this he might could cancel their birth certificates. No sooner did he get off stage than he saw the hurt in my eyes and asked what had happened. Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie so I spilled the beans. He surveilled the crowd, looking for the snakes in the grass. There were a ton of females there, many of whom appeared to have just left some sort of women’s only tacky prom dress party (but I ain’t judgin’, I swear it!) so it was difficult to identify the culprits.

In true Jose and Liz fashion, we retaliated in the most mature way we could think of – by getting on stage and delivering the most epic and Castelanish rendition of “You’re The One That I Want” (I was Sandy) ever sang in a karaoke bar. Or maybe not. Either way, we refused to let the lint lickers get the best of us and in doing so, we had a very sandy, very splendid evening.

 

Like sands through the hour glass, these are the days of our lives.

sandy

Posted in Uncategorized

Tiny Dancer

It was awful. The kind of cry that makes your gut wrench. It wasn’t a “hungry cry” or an “I have a poopy diaper cry,” it was an “I’m in terrible pain cry.” At 10 months old, Olive is too young to vocalize with words so she cried. And cried some more. She wouldn’t stop crying no matter how many times I softly sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” while rocking her. I tried every baby soothing method imaginable to no avail. I ran bathwater and got in the tub with her. It was 1:30 in the morning and we struggled. She was uncomfortable, kicking and screaming, water splashing, her face red. I was naked and vunerable. Overwhelmed with fear that I was failing as a mother, failing her, unable to calm her or make her feel better, wiping the tears from her cheeks (and mine.)

My husband stood in the doorway of the bathroom watching us with concern and sadness. When it became obivous the bath wasn’t calming her, he grabbed a towel and gently scooped her up. I sat there for a moment, feeling exhausted and defeated. Jose stepped back in the bathroom, Olive bundled up in my favorite soft towel, cradled in his arms, still screeching. He handed me a towel. I headed to our bedroom, he headed to the living room. After drying off and getting back in to my nightgown, I warily walked down the hallway towards the living room. Olive’s howls were cracking. Her throat was dry. The walk down the hallway felt like “The Green Mile.”

They were sitting in the brown velour chair against the window. Jose was hunched, his head hanging down as he looked at Olive, inconsolable in his lap.I couldn’t see his expression but his body language told the story. By the flicker of the flame, their silhouettes danced on the wall beside them. It was beautiful. If I were a photographer I would’ve captured the image. If I were an artist I would paint it on canvas. But I’m just a writer trying to put it in words, but I can’t. Failing again.

Jose has her at the clinic right now. I wish I could be there, but at least I have that image in my mind. I hope it stays there forever.

 UPDATE: Jose called me from the clinic. Olive was diagnosed with Staphylococcus Scalding Skin Syndrome. We are heading to the children’s hospital in San Antonio for treatment. Please say a prayer, light a candle, knock on wood, sacrifice a cockroach, or do whatever it is that you can do to send some good juju our way.

Posted in Crafts, Personal

My Hamartia

I get all of these great ideas for projects and crafts and DIY’s that I want to accomplish. I rush full speed head-on into my project with nothing but tunnel vision until I see it through. I get all these visions in my head and get so excited to begin. I run to the thrift stores and craft stores and pick up all the items I need. But the problem, you see, is that I don’t know what to do with said projects when they are complete. Sometimes I think I will sell my creations, but that puts a lot of pressure on me to make something specifically designed for someone else and when something you love doing becomes something stressful, you don’t love doing it anymore. I don’t want that to happen. I end up with all of these lovely yet useless (to me) things. On one hand, I want to keep my creations so I can marvel at a job well done and pat myself on the back. On the other hand, I don’t want to clutter my home with things I won’t use and don’t need. Do you see the problem?

…and I think, in the story of my life, with me being the heroine that would be my downfall, that would be my hamartia. To have an overwhelming passion and desire to craft beautiful things from my hands and my imagination, but then what? Don’t gift them? Don’t sell them? Don’t use them? Hide them away in a plastic storage bin in my garage?

That’s not bringing a dream to life, that’s suffocating a dream and I refuse to commit dream homicide.

hamartia

Posted in Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

My Back to School Story

Today my Facebook feed is filled with adorable first day of school pictures. All of my own children are either too old or too young, but I do have something I would like to share. This is my back to school story…

16 years ago today was supposed to be my son’s first day of kindergarten. We had just taken the kids to Astroworld for one last hurrah before summer was over. It brought back vivid memories of spending my summers there with my brother and sister. Mom would get us season passes and drop off us on her way to work.
Dallas had just turned 6, Brandon was almost 5, and Mikayla was only 2.We took turns taking Mikayla on kiddie rides while the other parent took Dallas and Brandon on big kid rides. When it was my turn with the big kids, I couldn’t wait to get to the Gunslinger!
…but Brandon wasn’t up to it. He hadn’t been feeling well the past few weeks. Sometimes he would get a fever and he had blisters around his mouth. We chalked it up to him having a summer cold. There was no excitement, no light in his eyes. He was tired and feeling weak. He complained of terrible aches in his legs. We had to rent a wagon to pull him around in. When a kid can’t find joy at Astroworld, you know something is wrong.

His first day of school would be that Tuesday and I took him to his pediatrician on Monday. After a battery of bloodwork and tests, they determined that something was in fact wrong. They didn’t know what that something was, so they referred us to Driscoll Children’s Hospital. “We’ve called ahead,” they told me. “They are expecting you.” I was worried, but not terrified. We didn’t have GPS or cell phones back then, so I just hopped in the car and drove to Driscoll. I didn’t know where the hospital was, but I figured I could stop at the gas station and ask for directions. Turns out, Driscoll Children’s Hospital isn’t in Driscoll at all, it’s actually located in Corpus Christi. Awesome. More time to drive and more time to fret. By the time we found the hospital, my nerves were shot.

My pediatrician was right, they were expecting us. They had papers ready for me to fill out, a room ready for us to settle in to, and a phlebotomist ready to draw more blood. For some reason, Brandon and I both still thought he would make it to his first day of kindergarten the next day. But he didn’t. At almost 11:00 pm that night, the on call doctor came in to tell me Brandon had been diagnosed with leukemia. Now, I was terrified.

16 years ago today, I woke up in a hospital in Corpus Christi, Texas. The realization had set in that my son was diagnosed with a horrible disease that didn’t have nearly the success rate that it does now. 16 years ago today, Dallas started 1st grade. I wasn’t there to take her to school. I wasn’t there to help her get dressed or take first day of school pictures. I don’t even know if her hair was brushed or if she had a sweet note written on the napkin in her lunchbox. 16 years ago today, Brandon was taken into surgery to have a port-a-cath put in his chest. 16 years ago today, my son started chemotherapy.

Brandon turns 21 tomorrow, a milestone denied to many of the other kids being treated at Driscoll Children’s Hospital back then, a milestone we weren’t sure he would reach. He was a tough kid, so much stronger than I. He endured weekly blood transfusions and spinal taps WITHOUT anesthesia. We were told the steroids would stunt his growth, yet at almost 21, he towers over me. We were told he would always walk with an awkward gait because the bone marrow aspirations had ruined his hip, yet at almost 21, he walks with the swagger of a Hollywood celebrity. He has been in remission for so long, he is considered “cured.”

I am taking Brandon to get a tattoo on Thursday. That’s what he asked for and I am happy to oblige. We won’t be hitting up the bars tomorrow, now that he will be of legal age to drink. He will be spending the day with his girlfriend and that’s okay with me. I will; however, make a silent toast to him and his fallen friends as I sip my cold Lone Star after dinner tomorrow.

Happy 21st Birthday Brandon with many, many more to come! You made it, kiddo! And Happy First Day of School, Moms…

SALUD!

brand

Posted in Community, Culture, Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

Rock of Ages

Some days my skin is so thick you can take a cheese grater to it and not cause a wound. Some days, my skin is so thin you can slice it to the bone with a single word.

Passive aggressive criticism is shitty. You can “bless my heart” all you like, but at the end of the day, you’re still a flower covered asshole. I can usually take it, even when I rarely ever dish it, but say something to one of my children and I will destroy you.
…or not. I’m not really that type of person. But I will want to. Oh my God, I will want to. I will think of a gazillion different things to say to you to put you in your place. I will kick you in your gut and smash your toes with the heel of my boot (in my mind.) But I don’t. Instead, I take the high road. I try to teach my children that we are better than that. Some people are miserable and misery loves company. There are folks in this world that live a negative life and I encourage a positive life. We should not judge, we should encourage. Compliment, not criticize.

“Mommy-Shaming” is not a new thing. Working Moms vs Stay At Home Moms, Breast-feeding vs Bottle-feeding, Co-Sleeping vs Crib-Sleeping, Vaxxed vs Un-Vaxxed, Home-Schooling vs Public-Schooling vs Private-Schooling, and on and on and on and on. But the one I am addressing today is:

Age Shaming – specifically, Child Birth Age Shaming.

I had my oldest daughter at 19 and had my youngest daughter at the ripe old age of 40. Lucky me, I got to experience age-shaming on both ends. I mean statistically speaking, I was a “teen mom,” and even now, that term incites negativity from within me (even though it shouldn’t.)  My obstetrician with my youngest loved to refer to me as having “advanced maternal age,” and that term still makes me cringe. (Yes, I know that’s the correct medical term, doesn’t make it more appealing though.)

Age shaming usually comes with advertisements for wrinkle creams, but when it comes to having children, apparently there is so small window of opportunity in which it is acceptable to have children. Have them too young and you are judged, have them too old and you are judged. When I discovered I was pregnant just a few weeks shy of my 40th birthday, the age shaming came directly from friends.  To this day I have a vivid recollection of one of my closest friends saying, “But you’re a grandmother. You’re done. You’re kids are grown. You shouldn’t be having kids again.” Ahhhh, the magic word “shouldn’t.” I shouldn’t says who exactly? You? Society? Science? Not my doctor. He asked me when I was going to have another one after Olive was born. (Still on the fence about that one.)

While we are at it… let’s talk age differences in your children. If you haven’t already done the math, my oldest and youngest daughters almost 22 years apart. I know it’s not common, but it’s also not anyone’s business but mine (and my husband’s.) So, yesterday afternoon, my very pregnant (36 weeks along to be exact) daughter was at the grocery store with my almost 10 month old daughter. While in line at the check-out, the woman in front of her turned around and my eyed my daughter up and down – noticing the baby (my baby), noticing her belly, and back up to noticing the baby again. It made my daughter uncomfortable. She went so far as to ask my daughter how old Olive was and when her other baby was due. Holy crap, you guys! Who does this? This lady did. What the FRENCH TOAST business is it of hers? If Olive was my daughter’s daughter, then her children would be 11 months apart. (My mother calls that “Catholic Twins.”) If I had been standing there I would’ve jerked the hair tie off my wrist, thrown my hair up in bun, handed my daughter my earrings and stepped up to this ignorant woman.
…or not.  Because we all know I’m not really that type of that person. But I would have wanted to. Instead, I would’ve taken the high road, just as my daughter did.

And that makes me so very proud.

 

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When mine eyes shall close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgement throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.
-Toplady

age

Posted in Crafts, Family, Food, Home, Personal, Relationships

Doubly Blessed Baby Shower

As many of you know, my two oldest daughters are expecting babies in September! I was honored when they allowed me to host their baby shower. I am huge fan of DIY, Pinterest, and of course, saving money! I decided to do the food, decorations, and favors by hand.

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I made tissue paper tassles (instructions here) coffee filter pom poms (instructions here) tissue paper peonies (instructions here)

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For the favors I used Olive’s vintage wooden high chair to house the basket of tea lights. The card reads, “Burn this tea light on the night once the stork has made its flight. With a flicker of the flame, please say a prayer in Baby’s name.” (idea here)

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This one was my favorite addition to the decor! I knew a needed place for cards to go and it hit me I could use Olive’s vintage cradle. I knew I had to add the spoons when I revised the song in my head to “The cards in the cradle and the silver spoons.”

I am so very excited for Dallas and Mikayla. I would like to thank everyone for coming to the baby shower. My only regret is that we didn’t get more photos. If you were there, please send me any you have. Please enjoy the slideshow below of the few photos I remembered to take!

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Posted in Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

An Open Letter to My Pregnant Daughters

My Dearest Dallas and Mikayla,

There are only 6 days until your baby shower, 5 weeks until Mason is due, and 7 weeks until Aliza is due. Thoughts of you both and my grandchildren consume me constantly. There are so many cliché things I could say…

“Where has the time gone?”
“Just yesterday you were babies yourselves.”
“You were born, I blinked, and now you’re grown.”

…but we all know that just wouldn’t be my style. Instead, I’m going to blog about it (for posterity, of course!) I know my blogs are generally humor-filled, but this one is going to be lil sentimental. That being said, it is important that I tell you girls these things:

  • I love you. Oh my God, how I love you. I mean, I know I tell y’all that CONSTANTLY, but I don’t think you will ever grasp just how much until you are a mother yourself. (Dallas, since you’re already a mom, I know you get this.)
  • I know you are scared. Hell, I was scared having Olive. It’s okay to be scared, just don’t let the fear overtake the excitement!
  • I wish I could take the pain for you. (Okay, that was pretty cliché, but it’s true.) If there were a way for me to absorb the pain of birthing for you so you could only experience the joy, I would do so without a second thought.
  • I am so proud of you. Every single day, every single moment of your lives, I am proud. Even when you aren’t very proud of yourselves, I am of you.
  • I have faith in you! I know you are and will be amazing mothers! These babies are so blessed to have you because I know how wonderful you will be with them.
  • Thank you. I mean that from the depths of my soul. I will never be able to thank you enough for making me a Grammy. One day, when you are grandmothers yourselves, you will understand.

 

All My Heart,
Momma

 

girls