"A funny thing to promise..."

On Friday morning, I was totally consumed in my little world. I had been up since five, trying to get all my finals graded, and I didn't bother to turn on the television before I took the girls to town for our Christmas portrait appointment. We were still running errands when my husband sent me a text about another school shooting.

I didn't immediately understand what had happened. I certainly didn't comprehend that children - innocent six and seven year olds - were the targeted victims.

When I finally was able to read one of the reports for myself, I didn't believe it. The senselessness of it all reminded me of the shock I initially experienced after 9/11. On that September day, I sat in front of the television, struggling with the enormity of what had happened as it slowly sank in. 

All Friday evening and into Saturday, numerous Facebook friends were posting about the senselessness; they were sending prayers to the families; they were debating gun control and "liking" pages in memory of the victims; they were commenting about their own children and how they would hold them a little tighter and a little longer. I had to close the browser and walk away. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think about it... because every time it entered my mind, my oldest baby's big, innocent blue eyes and her sweet face appeared along side it. 

When my Aleigh was born, my entire life changed in the most beautiful, wonderful ways possible. Most parents understand what I mean: I no longer breathed for myself; I breathed for her. And when Abree joined our family, I was amazed to find that my heart could feel fuller and I could be more complete than I already was. I wrapped them both in the protective, safe environment my husband and I have built, and I pushed the gazillion fears every mother has for her children to the back of my mind. I could protect them now, and I would wait to worry about all that was out of my control when they were older. 

But what I didn't realize (or, perhaps, just chose not to think about) is no matter how many precautions we take as parents, we can't keep them safe from everything. No matter how hard we try. 

In the past year alone, colleges, places of worship, shopping centers, and now elementary schools have become targets for the sick and unstable to unleash their anger and frustration before branding their names in the mass murderers column of American history. 

And how do I protect my children from that? Do I avoid church because a religious fanatic whose beliefs differ from mine may choose the place of worship I've chosen to make himself a martyr? Do I keep them away from shopping centers, especially crowded ones, for fear of disgruntled ex-employees?  Do I homeschool my children because not even elementary schools are safe anymore? 

I've cried for those precious, innocent children who will never experience so much this life has to offer. I've cried for the unsuspecting parents who received the most fearful news. I've cried for those who survived but had the wonder of child innocence stripped from them. I've cried for the teachers, aides, principal who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the children to whom, as teachers, they had dedicated themselves. 

I sometimes wonder what kind of world I have brought my babies into. How do you explain the cruelness and sadness, the hurt and pain that is an inevitable part of the human existence to them? And, inevitably, we all will have to, much sooner than we ever imagined we would.

I want to protect my babies from this cruel world. I want their beautiful smiles to always shine and the tears they shed to be few. I want them to never experience loss, to not have to struggle with understanding and accepting death. But I know how very unrealistic and naive such wants are.

My mother-in-law loves Disney Pixar's Finding Nemo, and we watched it again and again the last time she visited. We were right at the part where Dory and Marlin are in the whale's mouth, when she said to my husband and me, "this is a very important part for mommies and daddies to understand." My husband laughed at his mother, but I adore both her life lessons and Disney for many of the beautiful lessons its characters teach. So I listened. Really listened. 

Marlin tells Dory, "I promised I'd never let anything happen to him." And Dory says, "Hmm. That's a funny thing to promise. [. . .] you can't never let anything happen to him. Then, nothing would ever happen to him." 

So, as hard as it is for me to admit, I have to let them go into this world and hope I have taught them well enough. I have to let them experience life. I have to let them make their own mistakes and learn and grow and, with hope, do their part to make this world better. 

For now, I get to continue to live in my somewhat naive, sheltered world and shower them with love. I get to hold them, hug them, and kiss them. I get to do everything in my power to pad that layer of protection that is a parent's love, that invisible bodysuit parents make just a little thicker every time they encourage or praise or love their little ones.

And I'll continue to hope that everything I've taught them and all the love I've given them is enough to protect them from all the madness, nonsense, and destruction possible in this world, even if I know it's no guarantee - because I think that's part of my responsibility to them as their mother: to teach them that the sadness and cruelty that will seem so dominant when they get older isn't and shouldn't be the norm. 

There is still so much that is beautiful, inspiring, and good in this world.

Technology and Humanity

This evening in class, I was working with my students, reviewing their drafts to ensure everyone was writing the right paper. I moved from computer to computer as I usually do on draft day, allowing my students a little downtime as I work with individuals. Depending on the dynamic of the particular class, this downtime is spent any number of ways—some work on their papers; some work on other assignments; some snicker and giggle with the people nearest them; and, inevitably, there are those who sneak out their phones and begin texting away. (Ah, dear students, you didn't really think we don't notice, did you?)

Source: http://some.ly/HvYTgo

Honestly, it doesn’t bother me. I do have specific guidelines about cell phone use in my classrooms, but I’m realistic with those guidelines. I have a three year old and a five month old who may need me at any given minute, so I realize that telling them to leave their phones at home or requiring that they be turned off in class would be a bit hypocritical, considering I have my phone on me. Likewise, I have never set any guidelines as to what they are supposed to do with this time, and it isn’t as if they are being disrespectful, texting or Facebooking while I’m lecturing.

In fact, I actually expect silence to ensue and most students to turn to their phones. It seems that an unfortunate side effect of society’s continued technological advancement is the lack of human interaction it encourages. Sure, kids still sit around with their friends, but, instead of talking to one another, most are so focused on their phones, one wonders if they even realize that there are other living, breathing people sitting in their presence.

The other day, I saw a Pinterest pin, Albert Einstein's fear, that I found sadly true. It showed several different images of groups of people engaging in what would usually be social activities – getting together for coffee, riding in the car, having dinner – but instead of having a conversation, the eyes of everyone in each photo were averted, their focuses on the phones they held in their laps. The photos were captioned with a quote attributed to Albert Einstein that read, “I fear the day that technology will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots.”

Well, I cannot find any reliable evidence to suggest Einstein actually said those words. But I did find this quote, attributed to Einstein, which seems a bit more plausible:

“It has become appalling obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”

Of course, this is most frequently interpreted as the idea that technology continues to advance at considerable rates, while humanity, the virtue, that is, seems to stagnate for lack of use. And, truly, this is never more obvious than when watching the latest generation to enter the college classroom interact. Students are technologically savvy, yet they have less people skills than previous generations and really lack effective oral communication skills. This, in itself, lends to the decline of kindness and compassion because, if we cease communicating but through written shorthand via text or messaging, doesn’t our ability to utter pleasantries just for the sake of acknowledging another human being begin to suffer as well?

(On a side note, one would think that the constant texting, messaging, tweeting would perhaps encourage the development of writing skills, at least, but, sadly, those skills, too, suffer – so much so, in fact, that some students do not understand why it is inappropriate to submit writing assignments laden with 2 for two [or, worse, to or too!], c for see, u for you, and b for be. Certainly what could possibly be wrong with lowercase letters at the start of sentences? And periods and apostrophes… who really needs them? Shouldn’t a reader just be able to infer what I mean when I jumble a series of words together? But I digress…)

Tonight, while I expected silence and the flutter of fingers noiselessly responding to the texts students had received during the first part of class, I found myself distracted. At first, I couldn’t understand why I was having such a hard time getting through their paragraphs. I read and reread one particular paragraph, not because it was confusing or poorly written, but because I couldn’t focus on the words. I kept getting pulled away from the words on the screen. And then it hit me, rather forcefully (and joyfully, might I add, considering I was beginning to lose faith in my students). I realized I was having such trouble concentrating because silence wasn’t filling the room behind me. 

Instead, my students were actually talking to one another!

From the opposite side of the room, I heard laughter (laughter about the assignment topic, no less!), from my left I heard one student encourage another who was struggling with ideas for her paper, and from just behind me I heard a student praise another’s essay. For whatever reason, tonight my students turned away from the technology that tends to dominate most of our lives today and engaged each other!

And, though it may have taken me longer to get through their papers because I was having to filter the background noise as I read, tonight I left class happy: happy that my students still have voices; happy that they were having conversations about writing; and happy that, if my class can serve as evidence, perhaps technology has not completely surpassed our humanity just yet. 

Thank a Veteran and Exercise Your Right Tomorrow

My brother-in-law and I had an interesting conversation via Facebook today. He made a post about a professor of his who rather flippantly disregarded this coming Monday’s holiday. First, she couldn’t remember why they weren’t having class… some holiday or whatnot. Then, when her memory returned, she said (and I’m paraphrasing his paraphrase), oh, yes, Veteran’s Day. I can’t keep all these “silly” holidays straight.

Now, I am a pretty laid back person. I’m a Libra and Libras prefer balance; they are mediators and dislike conflict to the point that they will endure unhappiness to keep those around them happy. As such, I am relatively even keel most of the time. But there are a few topics I cannot remain silent about: the first is my children. That one is rather obvious. The second is my family, certainly. And the third is my country and those who fight to protect it.

I have the honored privilege of having a great many veterans in my family. My husband served our country as did my uncle, my grandfathers, and any number of extended family members. We have many friends who are still active duty, scattered throughout the world, and many who are either separated or retired right here at home. And my position as a college instructor in a training base city means I meet veterans and active duty military members, all with their own unique stories and experiences, each semester. I am grateful to them all on a daily basis.

To forget the day we honor those who have served in the various branches of the United States Armed Forces or, worse, to refer to that day as “silly” is not only disrespectful; in my mind, such disregard is directly linked to the main problem facing my generation and the generation that will be voting in it’s first election tomorrow: selfishness. I would say ignorance or even indifference, but both of those initial reactions can be traced to the larger issue that truly appears to drive every decision today’s youth makes.

As a further example, the day after the last presidential debate, I asked my classes to respond via a casual journal topic. I don’t preach my beliefs before my students: politics and religion rarely make their way into my classroom except through rhetorical questions and occasional independent writing exercises, honestly, because I view my authority as a means for encouraging and promoting thought in an environment that fosters growth, creativity, and freedom of expression. But with the election looming on the horizon, I thought it was a topic that should be addressed rather than ignored. I knew it was hopeful, to say the least, that my younger students would even have realized the debates were on TV. For my non-traditionals, I really expected passionate, issue-driven responses.

What did I get? Apathy. Indifference. And even a bold, “Who really cares?”

Well, for one, I do. And honestly I find it rather frightening that this is the general attitude of those who will one day be charged with making decisions for this great nation. The selfishness that leads to such bold statements is the same selfishness that leads to Veteran’s Day being referred to as “silly” and students commenting, “I’ll vote one day when I care enough to follow it all.”

The general attitude in this country stinks. Everyone sits around complaining about the economy, about the war, about unemployment, but very few of those who are the most vocal are willing to put forth the effort to change it. Ralph Waldo Emerson argues that mankind is “afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other.” And that is, quite possibly, truer today that when it was written. He encourages man to avoid the conformity that society encourages: “To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, — that is genius.” Sadly, today’s conformists are all too content to jump on the “I don’t care” or “it doesn’t affect me” bandwagon. Perhaps a lack of conviction in addition to a “foolish consistency” is, indeed, the “hobgoblin of little minds.”

Much like the ignorant professor whose thoughtless comments inspired this post, those who choose not to vote have every right to conform. That is, after all, what society wants. However, I think it important that we remember who guarantees our right to vote (or not vote), to speak our minds (however boorish our thoughts may be), to walk outside and feel the sun on our faces, the wind in our hair, and not fear gun fire or roadside bombs. Because, despite their sacrifices—and they are many—and despite the fact that they live with the reality that they may or may not return to this country alive, they defend it without question. They defend the freedoms of those who don’t care enough to visit a polling place on Tuesday and give five minutes of their lives to cast a vote; they defend the rights of those who choose to loudly protest against them and what they represent; and they protect this nation because, despite her problems and despite her fair-weather citizenry, America is still a great nation.   

This post isn’t about being a democrat, a republican, or an independent. It is about being a proud American and honoring those who risk their lives to afford us the right to declare our allegiance to a particular political party and exercising that right tomorrow at the poll.

And don’t be afraid to thank those who have served. There’s no need to wait until Monday. Tell them today and tomorrow. Tell them Monday and tell them again the next day. Considering the sacrifices they make, they cannot be told enough.

A Last Great Adventure

In the summer of 2002, I talked my sister into going over to the local no kill animal shelter and adopting two kittens. We had just moved out on our own and needed pets. Never mind the huge responsibility this then twenty year old was undertaking. My family had always had cats—I knew how to feed them, fill their water bowls, and clean their litter. No big deal.

When we arrived at the shelter, we were introduced to a crowded room of cats.  Kittens, adolescents, mamas, and a few Toms. This little portable building was overrun with them, their litter boxes, and their toys. It was sad, really, the amount of animals, all waiting for their forever homes.

My sister wanted a black kitten like our Boo kitty, our parents’ cat, but I eventually talked her into a brother-sister pair. The male was a yellow short hair tabby with a bit of a wild streak; the female, a shy, long haired tortie. We named them Doodle and Snickers (or Snickers and Doodle after the Snickerdoodle cookie).  And, no sooner did we get these little furballs home, my sister rescued another frightened, cornered kitten, so we saved her, named her Tiger because of her gray tiger stripes, and threw her into the mix. The more, the merrier, right?

My memories of these kittens as they grew, and we with them, are plentiful. Doodle’s eyes would turn an evil red and he’d chase and terrorize the other two; Snickers had a broken purr, almost as if it took everything she had to produce a tiny, muffled noise when she was content; Tiger would groom anything in sight, but she preferred human hair. She’d start sweetly and, then, when you were least expecting it, she’d attack you with claws out, digging all four paws into your scalp; Doodle would climb completely out of the litter box to do his business, only his little booty and two hind legs staying inside; Snickers had the sweetest personality and liked to curl up beside you, bury her cold nose into your arm or leg, and kneed away until she fell asleep; and Tiger would eat just about anything you’d put before her, her scrapper instincts making her the thickest of the bunch—at least until Doodle grew into his long, lean body.

When I got married and moved to Vegas, I knew my cat—Snickers—couldn’t make the drive. She was a nervous, anxiety-ridden cat who panicked on a ten minute trip to the vet. I knew she’d never be the same if I forced her in a carrier for eighteen hours. So she stayed with my sis in Texas as I began a new chapter of my life a thousand miles away.

Of course, our animal family grew while we were in Vegas: we added a collie, Daisy, and a second long haired tortie. KitKat. And two years later, we added a golden retriever/lab mix, Chloe. We didn’t forget Snickers, but I never considered what two dogs and another rather prissy cat would do to her emotional well being. When we finally moved home, she was entering her golden years, though she tried to get along with the others. She tolerated Chloe, who was scared to death of her; she stayed away from KitKat; and she drove Daisy, who instinctively needed to herd her, crazy.

Eventually, though, the anxiety got the best of Snickers, and she started a nervous, costly habit: she began peeing on everything. The leather couches, the bathroom rugs, the carpet. We tried everything possible to break her of the habit: numerous new potties; new food; new litter; various sprays; antibiotics. Nothing worked. And then she started not only peeing but pooping on everything, too. The vet finally told us that this might be a problem with no cure.

Luckily, we have a garage, so we were able to relocate Snickers. In the garage, she had her own potty, her own food, her own water, and an entire room to herself in which to roam. At first, I felt guilty. She was always such a people cat—or should I say person (singular) cat. It broke my heart to have her outside alone. But… really… what can you do when the cat wants to urinate and defecate on everything?

Sure enough, the problem eventually cleared up. And Snickers was happy. Really happy. She didn’t have to fight two dogs and another always hungry cat for her food. She got to chase field mice that happened, unsuspecting, into the garage and play with them when she caught them. And the best part of the whole arrangement: she got to play outside on a regular basis. I think, in fact, that she timed sneaking out of the open garage door just right, so she regularly got to spend the entire night outside unbeknownst to us (that is, of course, until the next morning when we found her crying and scratching at the back door).

And, so, life continued. I would see her, basking in the sunlight that poured in through the broken blinds covering the garage window. She’d give me a little meow occasionally and watch as the girls and I hurried to and fro, always running late or forgetting something and having to go back into the house. When I’d see her, looking so content, I’d remember when she was a kitten and would curl up at my side, bury her face in my leg, and purr that broken purr. And I’d feel a bit nostalgic, wishing she could join us in the house and we could curl up, four of us now in the big bed instead of just two, and fall asleep.

Just the other day as we were hurrying out the door to work, I caught sight of her atop a box. She had been in the same place all morning, as I’d hurried in and out of the garage, doing little odd tasks that required me to venture outside. She looked at me as we hurried by and let out a tiny little meow, and I told her I’d pet her later; we were late and there just wasn’t time.

I didn’t think about my promise again. That was three days ago.

Tonight, my husband came into the living room while I was rocking the baby to sleep. Something about the look on his face was odd; I couldn’t have guessed what. And then he told me he was pretty sure Snickers was gone. I don’t know what I thought at first. Had she run away? Had she left on her own, set out on some grand adventure? And then I realized… oh, he means she died.

He hadn’t found her. But that was what was so odd about it all. Snickers was always there, always hanging out. All you had to do was call for her and she’d come running. But she wasn’t on the front or back porch where she liked to roll on the cool concrete. She wasn’t on her box, the box where she always slept, in the garage. He even walked through the field next to the house with a flashlight, afraid she had wandered away from the house to die in peace. But it was too dark to see much, so he told me he’d look again tomorrow.

I can’t remember the last time I sat down next to her and let her bury her little cold nose into my arm. I can’t remember the last time I pet her. Really pet her. Not just a quick nudge as I walked by. And it makes me feel so guilty. I broke my promise to her. And now I just don’t know that I was the best kitty mama I could have been in the last years of her life.

Each of my furry girls got extra attention tonight. I rubbed Chloe’s ears as she slept on the couch; I scratched Daisy’s booty (her favorite) for as long as I could; and I even pet KitKat until she swatted at me, telling me she’d had quite enough of that, thank-you-very-much. And I cried as I told them all how much I love them… and I know they understood.

So, Snickers, wherever you are tonight, I hope I gave you and your little broken purr a good life, a better life than you would have had growing old in that little room with all those other cats.

I hope you felt like the queen of that garage, free to come and go as you pleased, to chase mice and play with bugs, to bask in the sun and roll on the cool concrete.

I hope that little meow that afternoon when I was late for work and my hands were full with car seats and backpacks, juice cups and doll babies—I hope that meow was your way of saying, “Mama, I’m okay. I’ve had a great life, and I know you love me.”

Recipe: Busy Girl Hummus

*So nothing profound or even too terribly creative from me today. Just a recipe. I know, right? Maybe next week I'll have time for thoughtful reflection.

I love hummus. It reminds me of a little Mediterranean restaurant in a shopping center on the corner of Maryland Parkway and Flamingo in Las Vegas, and anything that reminds me of our time living in Vegas is kept close to my heart.

A few years ago, tired of trying to find good, store-bought hummus, I decided to make my own. The recipe I found called for tahini, which is a ground sesame seed paste. It was an expensive ingredient that I used once and finally tossed a year later when I found it shoved to the back of the pantry.

I've been limited in my meal/snack ideas because I am trying my hardest to eat clean and avoid processed foods. Store bought hummus is expensive for what you get, it doesn't taste as fresh as home made (obviously), and there is some amount of processing involved in its production. Now, my first attempt at hummus didn't go so well. Honestly, all I remember about the experience is I didn't eat what I made and I didn't try it again.

But I've been using the Crock Pot for beans a lot recently, so, on a whim, I grabbed some chickpeas the other day. Why not try again, right?

Now, this attempt is already different from the first because I used both tahini and canned chickpeas, then. To simplify and avoid buying tahini I will never use again, I cut it. And for the purpose of avoiding canned beans, I boiled my own. I call it Busy Girl Hummus because it is easy to make and full of protein to keep me satisfied longer than most other go-to snacks will.

So I soaked the chickpeas overnight in enough water to cover them, just like pintos or black beans. I threw them in the Crock Pot with some water yesterday morning and forgot about them. And I mean I really did forget about them. By the time I got home from work last night, most of the water was gone, but, luckily, they weren't burnt. I was too tired to do anything with them last night, plus my little kitchen helper was fast asleep, so I stuck them in the fridge to finish today.

Cooked and drained chickpeas

A friend of mine a while back made some hummus that was awesome. I didn't get her recipe, but I know it had lemon in it, so I just threw a few things together - lemon juice, olive oil, chickpeas - and ground it all up in my food processor. (You will laugh when you see my baby food processor, by the way. I have only just recently discovered the food processor's magic, so it may be time to invest in a new one.) Anyway, first attempt? No good. I wish I had captured the look on Aleigh's face when she tried it! It was way too lemony and the bitter flavor of the beans was overwhelming.

I knew something was missing, but I couldn't figure out what until I turned to the spice cabinet. Ah ha! While I loved that little Mediterranean restaurant, I certainly did not like the fire ignited in my belly and throat by the overwhelming garlic in the dishes I ordered. So... a clove of garlic (yes, just one!) and a dash of cumin later, my second attempt was a success. Even Aleigh said, "Mmmm!"

1 tbsp. olive oil, 1/4 tsp. cumin, juice of 1/2 lemon, 1 clove of garlic

Ingredients after processing in my baby food processor

(Forgive me, but I am awful with recipes. I don't follow them. I look at them once, try to remember the measurements and ingredients, and end up changing much of what the original recipe calls for anyway... nonsensical, right, when you are trying to share a recipe with others?)

Busy Girl Hummus

1/4 lb. chickpeas, cooked and drained

1 tbsp. olive oil

1 clove of garlic

1/4 tsp. cumin powder

juice from half a lemon

*My recipe calls for about a quarter of a one pound bag of chickpeas, so adjust as necessary if you plan to use the entire bag.

1. Cook the beans per the package directions (I used the slow cooking method).
2. Give the garlic clove a few good pulses in the food processor before adding the beans.
3. Add beans and pulse away to break the beans down just a bit.

Hummus ice cubes!

4. Add oil and lemon juice and pulse until a smooth paste forms.
5. Add cumin powder and pulse until blended.

Now, just a quarter of a pound of beans makes a ton of hummus, so unless you plan to eat it all within three days or so, consider freezing some. I pop mine into ice cube trays, just like you would homemade baby food, and then pop it out into a freezer bag when it is frozen through. You'll have little individual servings for a quick snack with pita chips, carrot sticks, or celery.

And hummus is a super adaptable food! You can add different flavors and spices to it with great success. I use it on wraps in place of mayo... yum!

Dessert: A Lesson on Living

And this is the second reason I was so hesitant to start a blog: time! I don't have enough of it! I have a great amount of ongoing posts, and I'll be publishing them soon! In the meantime, here's what I started Wednesday...

I was in an oddly whimsical mood in my first class this afternoon, probably due to a lack of proper sustenance throughout the crazy-hectic day, and I didn't have a journal topic prepared like I usually... err... sometimes do.

I start all of my developmental classes the same way: the first ten minutes of class is dedicated to responding to a journal topic. I either pull the topic out of my head or I provide them with a famous quote about life, education, reading. You get the picture. In the years that I've taught developmental writing, I have come to the conclusion that the largest hurdle beginning writers must overcome is fear. Fear of putting their fingers to a keyboard and typing their thoughts; fear that they will sound stupid or their ideas won't make sense; fear that they'll be expected to write some masterpiece on the first attempt. Just fear. So, in an attempt to overcome this very real obstacle, they write. Everyday. And, believe me, they are not always comfortable with what they write. But, as you've probably guessed, that's the whole point. We tend to make the most progress, see the most change, when we are uncomfortable.

So, anyway, the journal topic I came up with, again, probably because I was hungry, related to students describing themselves as desserts. If you were a dessert, what would you be? To get the creative juices flowing, I encouraged them to think of ingredients, difficulty level, cook time and method, and, of course, knowing how college kids can be, I reminded them to keep it PG13 since I do have to read and assess their responses.

About halfway through their writing time, I added a simple statement to the bottom of the journal topic I had written on the board. It read, "Now, how is life like dessert?" Some students chewed their lips in contemplation as they stared at the addition; others, of course, heavy sighed. How dare she make this about life and not all fun and games! their frustrated scowls suggested.

I never really intended to make the topic more than just a fun, creative way to tell me more about themselves. But, as I listened to them typing, some frantically and others barely, I thought, life should be more like dessert! I don't know what conclusion any of them came to yet because I haven't read their responses, but I know what conclusion I came to as I sat there.

In my family, dessert was always a special occasion, mostly centered around the holidays. And, because desserts were reserved for special occasions, they were anticipated moments that were savored and remembered. At Thanksgiving, for instance, I can remember eyeing the dessert table and not even tasting the food on my plate, just hurrying through the meal so I could have my treat - one I would enjoy slowly, down to the very last bite.

When I think about how I have spent the majority of my adult life, I realize that I have always been anticipating the next moment and moving as swiftly as possible through the current one. When I was in college, I was just so ready to be finished with school. Now, what I wouldn't give to go back and listen in awe as the incredible minds that molded and shaped me imparted their wisdom once more. When Scott and I lived in Las Vegas, I could not wait to get back to Texas. Now, I find myself driving those old familiar routes I used to complain about in my mind, afraid that if I forget how to get from my old job to my old house, that means I've lost an invaluable piece of myself. I remember complaining that it would sometimes take hours to get my oldest bug to sleep at night; now, it breaks my heart that she doesn't need me to go to sleep anymore, though thankfully she still wants me most of the time.

Now, with two little girls who grow faster than I ever could have imagined possible and two dogs who grew white around the eyes at some point when I was too busy to notice and now both sleep harder and limp more than they ever have before, I find myself wanting to slow time. If I could just stretch out each hour... Maybe then I could play frisbee with Chloe and scratch Daisy's booty as much as they'd like me to. Maybe then I could read Where the Wild Things Are to my oldest 100 times instead of just ninety-nine times a day or just sit and listen to the rhythmic sound of my little one breathing instead of being pulled away by another responsibility that will never be accomplished if I don't do it while she's napping.

So how is life like dessert? Well, I guess, if we live it right, every second is savored, instead of just the high and low points being forever engrained in our memories. If we could hold on to every second, then we'd be able to travel to another time and place and relive those moments that seemed so ordinary at the time, savoring everything: the absence of responsibility we took for granted; the youth we will never be able to recapture; the friends and family who have since changed, aged, and perhaps disappeared from our lives.

And we'd be plump and happy, full of guilt-free, everyday slices of sweetness.

Taking a Leap - Starting a Blog

It is amazing how life can inspire in so many different, unimaginable ways!

I learned about the death of a friend from high school's father today, and I have been thinking about him, about life, and about death since I read his somber obituary. The news upset me. Not because I knew the man well or because I had even seen him but in passing in the twelve or so years since this friend and I parted ways. I think more than anything it saddens me because, in my mind, this man stayed the same man he was in high school, his daughter - my friend - the same girl. His death was a reality check to be sure.

So here I am, inspired by the death of a man I once knew, to do something I've been trying to work up the courage to do for more than a year. I'm starting a blog. 

So what, right? Who doesn't have a blog now days? Well, until now... this girl. 

Those who know me may be shaking their heads in disbelief right now, wondering where I am going to find the time and energy to manage one more "project," especially considering this particular project involves writing. I am a writer. I aspire to be a writer. It is my passion. A strong, raging passion that sometimes consumes me, as it rightly should. 

But it is a painstaking passion, which is why it is so difficult for me to commit to posting writing for all to see (gasp!) on a regular basis. When I have to write something others will read, I spend hours upon hours mulling over it, perfecting it, changing sentence order and rewording until I am satisfied that I am giving my readers the very best of me. 

But my friend's father's passing reminds me that life is too short. Entirely too short. My life is incredibly hectic, but when will it not be? Won't there always be papers waiting to be graded? Dishes and clothes waiting to be washed? Man is only given one shot at this living business, yet too many live for the next moment, wasting away the beauty that is today in anticipation of tomorrow. And I have no interest in being one of those people any longer. I never want to look back on life and see the word regret creeping into my memories.

So... what is this blog about? Little bits of everything! Experiencing life with my daughters, husband, and our furry family members; projects, crafts, and recipes from Pinterest, the greatest thing since... well... ever; teaching reading and writing, since that's what I do if I must claim just one main profession; and writing with all its inexplicable joys and heartaches.

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Tracy, my heart is heavy today and my thoughts are with you and your family.