The mom who knew too much

Scott and I met up with my parents in Memphis over Memorial Day weekend. We found a little park for Preston to play on before we went to dinner, so my mom and I sat watching Scott and my dad show Preston how to go down the tube slide. While I watched Preston cross a bouncing bridge and peer down the slide, I asked my mom, "How did you ever let us play on a playground? That side is wide open for kids to get to the monkey bars, and it's a three-foot drop down! And we used to climb along the tops of the bars and jump off!" "There was a lot of gasping and jumping on my part," she said. "But you were always OK."

While it seems impossible now, at some point Preston will be climbing and leaping and swinging from those bars all on his own, like my sister and I and millions of children before us, and he'll get blisters or scrapes or fall and get the breath knocked out of him, like my sister and I and millions of children before us. And he'll be OK — like my sister and I and millions of children before us.

And those aren't even the scariest things he'll do in his lifetime.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the balance between protecting my children and teaching them independence. I keep dwelling on a scene from "Full House" (that beacon of parental wisdom) where Uncle Jesse and Aunt Becky are at odds with each other about which parenting technique is better for their twin boys. They flash forward to the future, and one — influenced by Becky — is a whiney, teenage nerd who still needs cornstarch sprinkled in his pants for diaper rash while the other — lead by Jesse — has multiple tattoos and is too wild to control. While I know there's an in between that is better, sometimes I prefer the idea of the teenage nerd with corn starch in his pants. At least I'd know he's not getting into trouble!

All this thinking was spurred on further by this article I read on Salon.com. The title, "The day I left my son in the car," had me sickeningly panicked from the beginning, afraid something terrible happened to her son. But it didn't. The four-year-old wanted to stay in the car and play a game on the iPad while she made a quick run into the store. It was an overcast, 50 degree day; she cracked the windows and locked the car and was in and out in less than five minutes. But a bystander saw her leave her son and reported her to the police. Now she was faced with a warrant for her arrest and a trial for endangering her son.

The main thought presented was that society has moved into a school of thought where children are completely unsafe when not under constant parental supervision and how that way of thinking is unfounded. How many times as kids were we left in the car and never thought about all of the ills that could befall? How many times were we free to roam the neighborhood or parks on our own? But now that seems completely reckless. The author speaks with a lady who points out that the most dangerous thing she did was not leaving her child in the car but putting him in the car at all — as more children die in wrecks than in parked cars. But we hear the bad, the one in a million stories, and we as parents feel that we must protect our children from everything. We know too much.

Anything could happen is a common refrain voiced by such parents. And I know what they mean. We’ve seen the television movies about abducted children. We’ve heard the heart-rending stories of kids injured in carjackings, or forgotten in sweltering cars. And once you imagine something, imagine what it must have been like for that parent or child who suffered it, it’s not a great leap to imagine it happening to you or your child, and then, if you’re like most parents, you will do anything in your power to prevent it. It’s not a matter of likelihood or statistical significance, but the terrible power of our imagination.

That hit home with me in a powerful way — because I completely get that. Stories about people who fall, break their nose, and the bone shard penetrates their brain race to the forefront of my mind when I see Preston running with reckless abandon. Stories like Natasha Richardson's fall on the ski slopes and undiagnosed concussion that lead to her death echo alongside the thud of Preston's head when he knocks it on the bath tub faucet. Snake bites, West Nile Virus, food-born illness, broken bones, car wrecks, abductions, drowning … I've thought long, hard and fitfully about them all, not to mention all of the school shootings and other general crazies out there. Forget the nerdy, corn starched teen — Preston's going to be a bubble boy at this rate.

My friend Hannah posted about dropping off her eldest at camp. She mentioned one girl had fallen on day one and broken her leg. "Sooo sad! Poor girl. And poor parents of all children, having to learn to let our kids spread their wings and explore and break bones," she wrote. And there it was: Not only is it important for children to learn independence, but it's important for their parents to learn to accept that independence and allow it to happen. I feel like I could break out into hives when I think about Preston going to school, being around kids I don't know with a teacher I don't know making decisions without my supervision. But I have to trust in the kid I've raised that he won't do anything truly stupid and that, if he does, one part of learning comes from acquiring bruises, broken bones, broken hearts and other uncomfortable consequences. I can impart what wisdom I have, but another big part of children's learning comes from experiences all their own.

It's a difficult thing to learn … that "Let It Go" is more than a catchy, now overplayed song from a Disney movie.

Easter 2014

I hope you had a very happy Easter weekend! I was able to snap a few pictures of Preston hunting eggs after church. Getting pictures of him has gotten increasingly difficult for me because he wants to come and grab my camera from me and point it around saying "Cheese! Cheese!" So the eggs were a good distraction — and a big hit, too! When we walked out the front door, he squeezed his little fists together in excitement and squealed, "Ay-ggs!" He kept shouting that to Scott, "Daddy! Eggs!" And while he understood the concept of finding the eggs, he didn't get the "put them in your basket" part. He would just pick them up and set them back down.

We were also able to celebrate a huge milestone in Preston's eating this weekend. I put some Annie's graham bunnies in Preston's Easter basket, and with much cheering and fist pumping, he actually ate them — chewing, swallowing and even asking for more! He's making such progress with therapy, and Scott and I were so proud of him. It was an Easter miracle!

I'm always a little sad that, because of Scott's job and how busy this weekend for the university, we're never able to visit family and have to stay in town. But, over the years, I've come to enjoy a holiday that's just ours. We get to make some new traditions and memories while carrying over pieces from our past. I always make my mom's hash brown casserole because it has always been a staple on Easter Sunday for as long as I can remember. And watching Preston hunt eggs was a fun first that I look forward to doing in years to come.

I loved the day with our little family and look forward to many more Easters that we can make our own.

P.S. I just had to include this picture. Scott was coaching Preston to pose by leaning against the tree, and this was Preston's translation.

My writing process: A blog tour

A week or two ago, my dear, sweet friend Alex asked me if I wanted to participate in a blog tour sharing about my writing process. Now, while I have a blog, I don't tend to do a lot of those communal, bloggy things. I used to do "What I'm Loving Wednesday," but that's about as close as I got. But this one seemed different, and I liked the topic at hand, so I went for it.

As a side note, if you don't know Alex or don't read her blog already, you are missing out. Alex is a beautiful person, inside and out, and I love her dearly. God is working through her in an incredibly difficult time in her life, and to see His glory shine through her is incredible to witness.

With that being said, on to the questions!

1. What am I working on?

I'm a writer professionally, which, even after almost six years of doing so, sounds incredibly strange to say. I work at the university I attended and write for the alumni magazine and various other university publications. I'm also the copy editor, so I get to mark up text and make it better. Right now, our spring magazine is in the building stages, where the copy is complete and being edited and placed into the magazine layout. One of the less glamorous things I do is the commencement program editing, and this May the university is transitioning from two to three ceremonies because of the large number of graduates. So, I have more than 900 names to comb through and compile, complete with hometowns, honors and majors.

As far as my blog is concerned, I use this as an outlet to write about whatever I want and don't tend to work too far into the future. If it strikes me as something I'd like to write about, I write it and publish it, so I don't have a whole lot waiting in the wings.

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

From the perspective of my blog, it's different because I'm different (which is basically what Alex said but totally spot on, so I have to agree). While there are millions of blogs out there written by women, some of whom who are Christians, some of whom have a husband and kids, some of whom have jobs, some of whom like to talk about clothes, at the end of the day they aren't me.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I began this blog mainly as a way to keep Scott's and my families informed as to what we were up to. It was also nice to have a place to write recreationally rather than professionally. It slowly evolved to a place where I could record memories, reflect on what I'm feeling, talk about things I liked or that interested me, and just serve as a map of where life was taking me. Lately, I've really appreciated having chronicled my pregnancy with Preston because I've looked back on it to help me remember what's to come this time around, like approximately how big I was at 20 weeks so I know what to look forward to at the beach this year.

4. How does your writing process work?

When I blog, it's pretty much coming straight from my head to the keyboard to the world. Sometimes I take a little more time to "craft" a post, but usually they are ideas I've been batting around in my head for a little bit or something that's been weighing on my heart. I tend to write it all out the night before I post it, look over it the next morning, and publish it at some point that day. Sometimes, I open a draft, type one phrase, sentence or paragraph that I've been formulating for a while, then come back and build around that.

In addition to visiting Alex's blog, you should check out these three women and their blogs. They'll be posting their writing process next week!

Katie 

from Kate + Nate

Taylor 

from Tea With Mrs. Kee

and Charlene

from From Bisons to Buckeyes

What a difference a decade makes

As a kid, I always had a journal. And while I enjoyed writing as a way to sift through my thoughts and emotions at the present moment, I always journaled with a sense of future. I imagined myself older, stumbling upon a tattered spiral notebook and being transported back to that 12-year-old girl and her tweenaged problems. I wanted my kids to read them at some point, to see what their mom was like way back then and to see that maybe they aren't the only ones to have ever felt a certain way. Granted, I'm no Anne Frank, but capturing the present moment in a journal to read about after several years had passed always appealed to me.

When we were in Nashville for spring break a few weeks back, my dad tasked me with going through some of the stuff in my room and decide whether I wanted to keep it or not. One of the things I found was the journal my high school English teacher had each of us keep during senior year. With my 10 year high school reunion coming up this October, it seemed like a fitting time to read through it.

One entry caught my eye especially. It was about where I thought I would be in 10 years — what 18-year-old me, while sitting in a metal chair with half desk in a room with cinderblock walls and educational posters, thought I'd be doing right now.

April 19, 2004
Where do I see myself in 10 years? Well, I'll most likely be out of pharmacy school, working at Walgreens or something similar (hopefully here [Nashville]). I'll be 28, so I think I'll be married. I hope I'll be married. Kids? Perhaps, most likely given the fact I'll be 24 when I get out of school and don't plan on getting married while in school. Sometimes that interferes with scholarship, and if I want to go to Samford, then I'll need all the money I can get. 

After reading it, I couldn't help but laugh. My plan 10 years ago is quite a bit different from where I've ended up.

For those who don't know, my original college major was pre-pharmacy. I was never a good science student, but I also never tried to be one, so I thought if I really tried in college it would be different. It turns out there are just somethings, regardless of effort, you just can't do if you're not meant to. Science, chemistry especially, is that for me. My second semester my freshman year, I switched to an English major and never looked back.

I don't live in Nashville or work at Walgreens, got married at 22 while I was still in college, have one kid and one on the way, and never went to Samford, not even for a visit. And, despite the fact that my plans and my reality don't match up, I'm not the least bit upset. In fact, it's amazing that the things that seemed important then aren't that important now. I didn't even know then most of the people who mean to the most to me now.

It provided a neat perspective, to think about the things that I worry about or want now and how they'll seem so small through a 10-year lens. I'm interested to see what the next 10 hold!

Image via Flickr

Making room for Baby #2

Yes, we're making room for baby #2 who is expected to arrive in late October. My sweet friend Cassie took this picture (as she usually does) to help us share our exciting news with the world. As a couple of side notes: 1. Who has ever looked that happy to be reading What to Expect When You're Expecting? and 2. Preston's look of concern is for Cassie. He really wanted her to sit on the bed with us and show him the back of her camera.

When I first found out I was pregnant, I was pretty shocked. While we planned and prepared for Preston a few months before I ever got a positive test result, this one wasn't so planned in that it wasn't at all, and all those things I felt we had a little time to think about pre-Preston came rushing forward that early Friday morning because I had to think about them — now! It was a little overwhelming. Poor Scott, I woke him up before 6 a.m., and before he had time to become fully conscious, I dropped the "I'm pregnant" bomb on him. "You've got to let someone wake up before you say that!" was his response.

Now, if you know Scott, you know his plan of one child. As an only child himself, he liked the idea of continuing that tradition. But he actually handled the news much better than I initially did (at first I was crying because, oh my goodness, we're having another baby and then I was crying because I felt bad for crying about the baby). He said there were a lot of things we didn't know about becoming parents the first time, and that God worked it all out. He'd do that for us this time, too.

Having had some time to adjust, we're all very excited about what's to come. We never made a big to-do about telling Preston because, at not quite 2-years-old, he still doesn't quite get it. But we talk about the baby, and at dinner in his roll call of people he thinks we should pray for, he'll mention "Baby Tummy" (because, in my attempts to explain the baby is in my tummy, he thinks the baby is in everyone's tummy), which melts me into a puddle every time.

I've noticed some similarities and some differences between this pregnancy and my last. With Preston, the nausea came in waves. When it hit, it hit hard, but it didn't last long. With this one, I feel perpetually queasy. Food helps some, but overall I feel blah a lot of the time. My earliest craving with Preston was lemon and carbs, and in keeping with the acidic theme, this go-around all I want is tomatoes and carbs. Both times, sweets sounded disgusting. With Preston, that went away in the second trimester as I formed a deep love for milkshakes and Cocoa Puffs. So, we'll see if these are any indication of another little boy in our future soon enough.

Thank you all for your congratulations and well-wishes. We are excited about what the future holds for our growing family and appreciate your prayers and encouragement along the way!

Preston's feeding story

A little over a year ago, I bought some of those Gerber puffs at the grocery store and scattered them across the tray of Preston's highchair. At this point, he was still nursing, and we had begun introducing cereal and homemade pureed fruits and vegetables into his diet. Now it was time to work on self-feeding, a seemingly easy milestone on the path of growing up. After all, that Cheerios commercial where the mom gives her baby one, saying how it was her first food, too, made it look like something that would happen successfully in less than 30 seconds. (And I base all of my core truths on commercials.)

Well, like most things I think about parenting, I was proven wrong. Preston would pick up and play with the puff but wouldn't put them in his mouth. But this is the kid who never put anything weird in his mouth. Sure, he'd chew on toys and of course his beloved paci, but I never had to watch him to make sure he wasn't eating leaves, coins or other choking hazards. I knew this wasn't typical of his age at the time, but thought little else about it. Besides, Preston is my cautious, deliberate, thoughtful child. From a young age, he wouldn't do anything he wasn't completely comfortable with, as evidenced by the fact that he didn't walk until he was 17 months old. But when he started, he hardly ever fell or stumbled.

After letting him play with the puffs, I finally stuck one in his mouth for him to eat to show him it was food and not a scary, foreign object. He moved it around in his mouth for a bit, but the second it started to move to the back of his mouth, he panicked, gagged, and spit it all up. Tears ensued, so I cleaned him off and canceled the lesson for the day. Next time.

Well, there were a lot of "next times," but never any successes. There was a lot of cleaning up throw up, though. So, I called it quits. The kid didn't have any teeth anyway, so we'd try again when he got some. Once a few teeth popped in, we tried again, but he wouldn't have it. The gag-filled lessons had scared off my cautious boy. Scott and I would show him how we did it, putting the food in our mouths and over-acting our chewing until it was all gone. All that taught Preston was to make really loud "Om-nom-nom" sounds. I tried ways of tricking him into it: making his pureed foods chunkier (on which he gagged), crumbling up graham crackers and putting that in his purees (on which he gagged), getting him quick-desolving yogurt drops (on which he gagged) … nothing seemed to work.

So, again, I called it quits. When he showed an interest in our foods, we'd try again. But as he got closer to 18 months old and was still not eating anything he had to chew, I got worried, egged on by the fact that he's in the third percentile for weight and height. Preston's doctor didn't seem concerned. He said to just keep at it. But wiping spit up and tears off my child's face (and fighting tears of my own) night after night didn't feel like it was helping. It just left both Preston and me frustrated and frazzled.

I felt like I'd failed my child. Eating is so basic; why wasn't I able to teach him how to? I was at a loss for what to do next.

About this time, I learned that speech therapy could actually help Preston. I had always thought speech therapy was for speech only, working with kids who have lisps or can't say the letter "T," but it covers a lot more than that. Feeding and eating actually play a huge part in speech development, and the act of chewing builds muscles that help the mouth form consonants later on.

I was so relieved to learn that there was an outside source I could go to. So much of the stress I felt and that Scott felt was that this was all on us, and now we would have someone else showing us some ideas and techniques that would help and who would also be an encouragement to Preston as well as us. Making it all the better was that there is a speech clinic at the university where I work, run by communication sciences and disorders undergraduate and graduate students along with their speech-pathologist professors, that could help us.

For the past three months, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, Preston has been going to his feeding therapy with one of the sweetest graduate students who his helping him become more and more comfortable with food. When I ask Preston what he does with Mrs. Erin, he says, "Bubbles!" but they actually do a lot more. He's to the point now where he will ask for certain foods, actually put them in his mouth (which, on its own, is SO HUGE for him), and take bites. Sometimes he chews that bite, but he still spits out the food, never swallowing it. But he's progressing, slowly but surely, and I am so incredibly thankful for his therapist, for his progress, and for finally feeling like we've found something to help Preston along.

I say all this because there were times where I thought he'd grow out of it, times where it was a struggle, and times where I felt like I had a weird kid whom I didn't understand. There were even more times where I didn't want to say anything to anyone else for fear they would think I had a weird kid, too. I worried about him and cried about him and wanted nothing more than to be able to automatically fix what was wrong with him.

But now I don't feel so hopeless. His progress makes me so proud, and I think that this will be the year he'll want to and be able to eat a piece of cake for his birthday. He's come a long way!

How we spent our snow days

We were gifted an extra long weekend thanks to Sunday night's ice storm. I was most excited to get the phone call that campus was closed early in the evening so I could stay up late watching the Oscars (11 is very late for me) and not feel like morning Jennifer was going to hate me later.

Sure, there were things that needed to be done around the house and, with those two extra days off, we could've been very productive people. But Preston had been sick over the weekend, so he was still recovering from that. And I would much rather stay in my pajamas watching Netflix cuddling a sickly boy than any other "productive" activity. That's the true gift right there.

Preston has been stuck on his sunglasses for a little while now, and he started requesting the pairing of "gasses" and hat for around the house. Sometimes the glasses end up on his belly. March to your own drummer, little man.

Poor Scott had to venture out briefly on Monday, so Preston and I colored and worked on color recognition. I was completely surprised when he was able to name most of the colors he saw, something he'd been working on with his sitter. Anything with stickers is a hit with him, so he enjoyed it. Most of the stickers ended up on his face or my hand toward the end.

Thanks to Netflix, I was able to introduce Preston to the wonderful world of Disney and the word "movie." He was enrapt in "Lilo and Stitch," especially the musical stylings of Elvis, doing the finger guns dance he learned from Aunt Coco. (Please note the Guy Fieri-way of wearing his sunglasses he's sporting here.) I hadn't seen him sit still for that long in quite sometime. Later, Scott and I took advantage of nap time and watched some "House of Cards" (we're up to episode 6 in season 2).

While I'm incredibly ready for much warmer temperatures and much less ice, I was thankful for the days off and the time we got to spend together. Pajamas are always preferable to work attire.

Here comes the sun

Pulling into the driveway yesterday, I asked Preston, "Do you want to go outside?" His face lit up immediately. After a winter of being cooped up in the house, it was time to get into the sun and get the front of your shirt soaked in bubble solution. Each day holds its own little reminder that warmer days are ahead — the sun is a little brighter each morning, the birds are beginning to chirp, and slowly we can start to slip out of our big coats. The warm afternoon declared that we wouldn't be cold forever.

Squeals of "Bah-bools!" and "Pop!" echoed across the yard, and rocks were gathered and stored away by chubby little hands. The sun did us both some good, lightening our spirits and giving us a nice dose of vitamin D. I'm looking forward to more days like that.

Celebrating Valentine's Day

For most of our relationship, Scott and I have kept Valentine's day pretty simple — exchanging cards and maybe going out to dinner or giving a small gift. To me, Valentine's Day is kind of like New Year's Eve; it gets really hyped up and if it doesn't live up to those lofty expectations, then it's a failure. Not to sound all anti-establishment, "Valentine's Day is made up by the greeting card company" about it. I do appreciate a day dedicated to celebrating the ones you love, but I try not to build it up too much. Simplicity is best.

My friend Hannah and I were talking about Valentine's Day gifts for our spouses. She and I were both lamenting that the sweet, Pinterest-y ideas out there are completely impractical for husbands because 1) you take all that time, effort, and love to put together a year of dates package or 52 things I love about you book, building up this wonderful gift in your mind only to have 2) your husband smile, say thanks, and put it in a drawer. I'm not saying that Scott wouldn't appreciate the gesture, but these kind of gifts are made by girls with their own girl feelings in mind.

I was reminded of this principle when I told Scott that I had planned on making cinnamon rolls in the shape of hearts (per Pinterest, of course) for breakfast, but I was short on time. "That's OK," he said. "All of the icing would just fall through them onto the pan, and I'd just feel like it was a waste of icing. That's a girl thing anyway. 'Oh, how cute! Let me take a picture for my blog.'"

Yeah, he busted me. And there he summed up the two views on Valentine's Day: the man's ("a waste of icing") and the woman's ("How cute!/Blog!").

So, this year I got him a card from me, a card from Preston, and a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels (his favorite). Simple. There's really nothing on Pinterest that can match how much I love that guy, anyway. It would take all of the mason jars, burlap scraps and Valentine's puns around the world to even try to come close.

How do you celebrate Valentine's Day? Small scale or all out?

Image via Real Simple

I've got the (winter) blues

Allow me to explain my unintended two-week break.

After the holidays pass, I get a little blue. I can handle winter when there's Christmas to look forward to and all of the excitement it brings, but once the tree is put away and it's back to regularly scheduled programing, I'm ready for spring to arrive.

Luckily, this winter cloud of sadness has a silver lining this year: the Olympics. I have loved the Olympics since I was young, alternating between dreams of becoming an Olympic gymnast or a figure skater every two years. I love the pride each country shows during the opening ceremonies and the amazement on the faces of the athletes marching into the stadium. It's like the whole world stops what its doing for a moment and celebrates each other and the spirit of competition.

I was especially thankful for the last summer Olympic games in London. They began right after I returned to work from maternity leave, and they gave me something to look forward to when I was upset about being away from my little guy for a good chunk of the day. After work, Scott, Preston and I would curl up on the couch and get in some snuggle time and watch beach volleyball and the high dive.

So, with the Olympics to buoy my spirits, here's to making it through these weeks of winter. Who knew bobsledding could be such a mood lifter?

(P.S. This winter blues thing gets me every year. Here's one post I did on how to beat the winter doldrums a couple of years ago.)

Best of 2013

Lots of things happened in 2013. Big, life-changing, exciting things along with stressful, hair-pulling, crying things, too. Our little guy turned one and started walking (video evidence below), we moved, I graduated with my master's and taught a class, and we traveled a little and laughed a lot. 2013 was a good year, indeed.

As for what 2014 holds, we'll just have to wait and see. I've given up on resolutions of the "Run a 5K" or "lose 10 pounds" variety. Instead, I'm swapping the R-word for goals, and my goals for this year are to do my best to daily reflect Christ in my life, embrace a positive outlook and not allow negativity to work itself into places it doesn't belong, and focus on making time for the truly important things and not let the unimportant ones take over. They're vague and unmeasurable — the hallmark of a terrible resolution, I know — but it's more about shaping myself into a better person than checking off a list, I think.

Happy 2014!

Christmas 2013

Christmas Eve in our new Christmas pjs

My favorite part about the holidays is remembering the years prior while in the midst of making new memories to look back on later. This year didn't lack old memories or new ones.

Saturday when we got in, we had our traditional holiday dinner with our longtime family friends. In the midst of banana-less banana pudding and catching up, we monitored the tornado warnings in the area. I can remember white Christmases but never one with tornados. Luckily nothing came of the warnings, only jokes at my expense because I'm jumpy at the mention of tornados.

Sunday night after church, we drove Preston to a nearby house that went National Lampoon-style on their Christmas lights. We pulled over to take in the waving Santa and illuminated Christmas Elmo while Preston ooh-ed over them.

Christmas lights galore/checking out the lights/playing with Charlie Brown

Shopping selfie/coloring while Daddy shops/Preston enjoyed J.Crew's mirror

Watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol"/stealing my cousin's iPod/this rocking chair was my great-grandmother's/Dad and the elusive toaster

We all sat around in the living room Christmas Eve eve watching "A Muppet Christmas Carol" while Mom wrapped her gag gift for my uncle (this year a camo-wearing, gun-toting Santa who would've fit in perfectly with the Duck Dynasty family). Courtney gave Dad his gift from her early because it would be difficult to take with us. It was a new toaster oven, but not just any toaster. Dad had particular specifications — the toaster needed a toast button. Courtney had scoured Amazon and other retailers, zooming in on photos of toasters in search of a toast button and was victorious in her seemingly fruitless quest. Dad was more engrossed in his toaster's owner's manual than the movie, and it lead to much discussion over how to properly toast an Eggo waffle. All the while Preston was sucking up to anyone with a smartphone or iPad, running up and hugging them, saying, "Hey!" while snatching it from their hands. He's addicted to Candy Crush, too.

Lots of card games were played. Few were won by me.

Preston helped set out cookies for Santa. He even helped eat a few.

Opening presents/smiling with Pops/Mimi's Christmas tree/posing with his new tricycle from my grandmother/he also got this cute name puzzle

The biggest highlight of Christmas though was on Christmas Day at my grandmother's when my 13- and 14-year-old cousins decided to get baptized. My family of 11 plus a few members from church whom my cousins had invited gathered in the quiet church and watched as they committed their lives to Christ. Scott led a few songs, and Daddy baptized them. It was amazing to me, watching these two girls who were just tiny babies seemingly days ago become my sisters in Christ.

Checking out the cows

My cousins, Katie and Lauren, with my mom and Preston

I hope your Christmas was just as memorable!

Snow day preparations

Grab some blankets and bread. The iceman cometh!

If you're anywhere in Arkansas, you know the end times are fast approaching. And by end times, I mean winter weather. Next to tornado season, I think this is the local weathermen's favorite time of the year when it comes to panic-enducing forecasts and serious storm team commercials.

Here in town, Walmart's bread, egg and milk supply are completely wiped out. (Why are french toast ingredients snow day essentials?) And, I'll admit, I'm following the herd mentality and will stop by the store on the way home just in case. If it does get bad, I'm looking forward to being snug at home, curled under blankets with my family, drinking hot chocolate, making a big pot of soup, and streaming Netflix.

Now, all of these sweet snow day dreams are completely contingent on no power failures. We have some candles and two dinky flashlights, but we're underprepared for any thing lasting more than an evening, especially since we are without a fireplace and our only means of cooking would be the grill outside.

So, in case the power does go out, who would like to keep a sweet baby and his parents for the duration? We might become hotel dwellers at the university's hotel and eat in the cafeteria. Anything for warmth and wifi!

What are your severe winter storm plans? Want to bunk with us in the hotel if things get rough?

Photo source: blankets

Thanksgiving, according to Instagram

I always have so much to be thankful for when this holiday rolls around, but I was especially thankful that I was able to have a whole week with my family due to "inclement weather" closing the university on Monday and Tuesday. We packed a lot in this week, mainly just relaxing and eating, but I didn't Instagram that. Here's what I did capture, though.

1. Soaking up the tree in all its glory
2. Preston got his first haircut right before we left town for Thanksgiving. We didn't do anything too drastic, and he handled the whole process very well.
3. Enjoying his tent from Gran. (We alternate Thanksgiving and Christmas between our two families, so we exchange gifts at Thanksgiving.)
4. Turkey Day = turkey bib
5. A mandatory family Thanksgiving photo
6. He was happy to be outside; I was happy he got one more wear out of the turkey hat I made him last year.
7. Cheesing it up coloring on the chalk table
8. A Throwback Thursday shot of little Scott. It's crazy how much Preston looks like him!
9. Preston helped make salt dough with Gran, but he wouldn't cooperate when it came time to make a handprint.



And here's a little video of Preston playing his drum with Scott. They had creative differences over who should be the drummer.

I'm so very thankful for my family and these times together!

The freshman blog fiasco

Blogs were my generation's first form of social media. Everyone had one. It was sort of a public form of a diary ("Here'z wut i did 2day"), place to post pictures, and place to fill out those forwarded surveys (When's the last time you cried? What does the third line on the 25th page of the first book on your right say?). I had my fair share, too, between LiveJournal and Xanga. I tailed off on those around sophomore year of college when Facebook came onto the scene as a sort of public diary ("Going to get some fro-yo! :))) — with 3 others"), place to post pictures, and place to fill out those forwarded surveys ("25 things about me!").

It was during my freshman year of that I learned the ramifications of blogging everything that you think and feel or that happens to you.

I was sitting in my chemistry class a few weeks into my fall semester. I was a prepharmacy major for some terrible reason, and this class had a higher sophomore to freshman ratio than my other classes. I knew no one. I stared blankly at the white board in front of me while others around me talked before class began. A sophomore guy intersected with my gaze. Then I noticed he was coming toward me. To preface, I never dated in high school. It was part purposeful and part my own personal awkwardness, definitely leaning heavier (OK, all the way) toward the awkwardness. The awkwardness was about to kick into high gear.

"Hi," he said. "I've seen you around."

[My internal dialogue] Holy moly! Is that how people really start a conversation? What does he mean he's 'seen me around'? Is he a stalker? Is that a good thing? What should my hands be doing at this point? Since he's standing up, should I stand up, too? How do you respond to that statement? 'Good?' 'OK?' 'You must have good vision?'

"Oh ... ?" I said.

So eloquent you are. You better not ever have a job that requires words or anything. What are you doing with your hands?! Place them at weird angles on the table in front of you. That reads casual!

"Yeah. I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner Friday night or maybe see a movie."

OK. Blink at arrhythmic intervals. You don't want to forget to blink. And make sure your mouth is hanging open like a trout. Think of a nice way of saying no. Say you admire his courage, that this must be a hard thing to do. That you're just settling into Harding or maybe you'd like to know is name before you agree to this. Whatever you do, don't crush his ego. Men are fragile creatures according to Chicken Soup for the Teenager's Soul.

"Um... I think I promised my roommate I'd do laundry with her that night, so ... sorry."

And that was it. I returned to my gaze at the board and class soon started as he walked back to his seat.

The story could end there and be a shining example of how not to handle a situation. But no. It got worse.

After class, I had a break until lunch, so I went back to my dorm room and began typing out my version of events for my LiveJournal audience — how this completely random guy came up to me and asked me out, how I wasn't interested and made up some terrible excuse, how this must be the norm for Harding guys and have more of these to watch out for, etc. I quickly hit "update" and started getting comment from friends on how awkward it must have been for me and how it must've been a confidence boost, yada yada yada. And it was. Not to be asked out, though, but to have a LiveJournal post that was that popular! My chronicles as a freshman were a hit! (And you see why I didn't date much ...)

A day or two later, a friend of mine who also knew Random Chem Guy as he was so cleverly dubbed in my blog came to me and said RCG had actually found my blog, read that post, and was kind of embarrassed. He was also confused by me because I had really spared no time in blogging my account of things. I was mortified. I don't know why I never thought he might read something open to everyone on the Internet. And then I had to sit in the same room with him for the rest of the semester, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, completely humiliated — the weird freshman girl who blogs the insignificant happenings of her day. I could never look to the left side of the room for fear of possible eye contact. Luckily, it probably stuck with me longer than it ever did with him. I'd see him around campus every now and again during the rest of my time in school, hoping that he'd forgotten about the Random Blog Girl from Chem Class.

The moral to the story? Be careful what you blog ... or just don't be so awkward in the first place.

And, yes, I have a similar internal dialogue whenever I speak to people. What on earth are you supposed to do with your hands when you're talking?

Here, kitty kitty

While eating dinner last night, Preston and I got an unexpected visitor in the form of a skinny, stray kitten. She camped out on our deck, locking onto us as the people who could help her, and her pitiful meow was almost as heartbreaking as how poorly she looked.

Now, I'm not a pet person — which is to say that I also dropkick babies and spit on the American flag. To not be a pet person is almost that reviled, but over the years I've grown comfortable in the fact that having a pet just isn't my cup of tea, the same way some people don't want to have kids or hate chocolate. (What kind of weirdo hates chocolate, though?)

Part of it is that I'm allergic to anything with fur (as well as exceptionally hairy men), and the other part is that I just don't get it. I don't understand that deep pet love. My parents have a cat, and I lived with her as the family pet for years, but she's just OK with me and I'm just OK with her.

But with that sad face looking back at me and seeing how enamored Preston was with her, the cat quickly weaseled her way into my cold, black heart. I couldn't help but think of her as somebody's sad, lonely baby. So I decided to feed it, which is the number one thing you shouldn't do if you have any hopes of an animal vacating the premises, but I couldn't help it.

I rummaged through the pantry for a rogue can of tuna only to come up empty handed. The only thing I found of the preprepared meat variety was a hotdog, so I cut it up, put it on a paper plate, and slid it out on the deck, which was hard to do with a kid who wanted outside and a cat who wanted in, but everyone stayed on their designated side of the door.

The local animal shelter was closed, as was Animal Control. I knew that letting her sleep in the garage would get me in trouble with Scott, who is equally anti-pet and even more anti-pet-urine-in-our-garage. So she stayed on the deck, and I named her Clementine. (Naming an animal is the number two thing you shouldn't do if you have any hopes of it vacating the premises, but I couldn't help it.) I figured the cat needed a name bigger than she is. And Preston has happy to wave at her, tap on the glass, and say "Awww!" whenever she came by. (Yeah, letting your kid fall for the animal is the number three thing you shouldn't do.)

So, until the animal shelter opens at 1 p.m., Clementine will still be hanging out on our deck, because she was still there at breakfast this morning and ate the hotdog leftovers I gave her. Hopefully with the help of the animal shelter she'll find a good home and this isn't the story of how we got our first pet.

Freedom from worry

"I don't want him to develop my fears," I told Scott as we were sitting outside with Preston; we were enjoying the slightly fall evening, and Preston was chucking rocks in the flowerbed. This was said as I was simultaneously checking the the flowerbed for spiders ahead of Preston, telling him to "wait until Momma knows it's clean."

"Yeah, then don't do that," Scott replied.

OK. Good point.

But how do I keep from doing that? I remember being a child and rolling in the grass and walking along the top of the monkey bars and hurtling myself out of a swing at the peak of its path. I did this without fear of spiders or injury or falling. My biggest fears where the imaginary ones — the Boogieman under my bed or the police sketch of the Unabomber.

There was a time a couple of years ago where I couldn't go to sleep for fear that I would die in the middle of the night. This fear gradually built up over time, and my anxiety won over many battles to the point where I would have a panic attack most nights. My childhood Boogieman fear was replaced with a sudden, suffocating worry about my own mortality. It was miserable.

Thankfully that is in the past, but it doesn't mean that I'm still not a huge worrier, whether it's about my family, work or school; big things like my faith, middle of the road things like Preston still not eating finger foods, or small things like what shoes are the best for a fledging walker.

In our class at church on Sunday, we were talking about how a lot of our worries are based on things that aren't real. A lot of those worries are unfounded. I had no major health problem that would cause me to die in the middle of the night, and a lot of the things I stress about will get done or ultimately resolve themselves. I want to give Preston that same feeling of freedom I had when jumping out of the swing and not have him anxious about spiders in the flowerbed. Heck, I want that feeling of freedom, too!

I think about that when I read that Jesus calls us to be like little children. Preston is unaware of little made up worries. Instead he trusts that I'm there and going to take care of him. I'm a reassuring presence nearby, so he is blissful and happy in whatever he is doing. I know that God is there, watching over me, so why should I worry when I have His reassuring presence nearby? He's offering me that same, simple happiness.

God is always teaching me something new through Preston — how I should be and the love that He feels for me. It's a humbling responsibility to be given and an amazing blessing to see every day.

N*Sync and Oreos

Justin. Timberlake.

That one name has elicited the same amount of excitement from me for almost 16 years. Although, back in the day, I was more of a Backstreet Boys girl, N*Sync was still on high rotation in my house in 1997. After Sunday night's (entirely too brief) N*Sync reunion, I found myself looking back on my own evening with Justin, JC, Joey, Lance and Chris.

I don't remember the year (or maybe I do, but I am preserving my age as not to embarrass myself for being "too old" to have all this happen to me), but my parents, showing the full extent of their love, had gotten tickets to see N*Sync in concert in Nashville. I say they showed the full extent of their love because I can't imagine my parents were too excited about an evening with squealing girls and paying TicketMaster surcharges. And this was back in the day when you had to go to a TicketMaster booth to buy tickets (ours was at Kroger). So Mom actually waited in line to buy them.

My sister and I were so excited; I even helped her color a poster board-sized "I Heart Chris" sign. (She always liked the odd ones.) The day of the concert, we were jumping up and down in anticipation. We had our N*Sync T-shirts on and vocal chords ready for four hours of "squeeee!!!!! — plus we'd watched our "N*Sync N*Concert" VHS tape several times. All this pre-concert excitement manifested itself in a weird way for me, causing me to eat nearly an entire package of Double Stuf Oreos. (Alas, to have that metabolism again.) It royally screwed up my appetite though, and I only ate a bite or two of dinner before we headed out to the concert.

Giddy and giggly, my sister and I entered the arena packed full of equally eager tweens and their begrudging parent chaperones. The walls were covered with posters and T-shirts of the boys in various stages of squeaky-clean boy band seduction, retailing for the same price as your average two-bed, one-bath home. The parents waiting in line for one of those looked even more begrudging.

Once we got to our seats, the yellow, blue and purple lights swirled around the stage located on the floor of the arena. When the lights went down, the screams went up, but it was just the opening act — Tatyana Ali (the little sister from "Fresh Prince of Bel Air") trying her hand at being a second-rate, Disney-powered pop star. Throughout her performance, I could tell something wasn't quite right, my stomach churning and not with boy band excitement.

I sat down in my seat, breathing slowly to ease my stomach. And then I got that feeling. They say when it's love, you know. Same goes for when you're about to be sick.

And I knew.

I tapped my mom and frantically explained the situation. She rushed me out to find the nearest bathroom, which was right outside where our seats were, but the line was out the door. I think she could tell how little time we had left by how wide my eyes had gotten because she quickly grabbed my head and stuck it through the flap door of the nearest garbage can. There, I proceeded to revisit that pack of Oreos and regret the afternoon's binge. A janitor was also taking that moment to empty his dustpan into the trashcan's other side, but my mom was able to stop him from dumping all of the contents onto my head.

Pale faced and dusty headed, my mom and I found the first aid station, and she explained to the attendant what had happened, hoping they had some Pepto or something to help my stomach. Instead, he gave me a barf bag. So, Mom and I returned to our seats, and she explained the events of the lobby to Dad and Courtney while we waited for N*Sync to take the stage.

My nausea kept me from standing once they did, and I watched the concert play out on the jumbotron overhead. I couldn't help but think that I could've done the same thing at home — watch an N*Synce concert on TV. Dad wouldn't let me use the barf bag during the concert; he had me save it for the ride home (He wasn't being mean. He was just being daddy and worrying about the interior of his car). So, when the sickness hit again, Mom and I dashed back out the lobby. This time she pushed me to the front of the bathroom line, shouting, "She's going to be sick!" You've never seen children pulled away quicker and crowds part so fast.

I don't remember much else from the concert; I guess it wasn't as eventful as literally tossing my cookies, but I do remember the ride home as my sister stared at me from her seat waiting to see if I would blow again. It's become a running family joke, how I don't eat Oreos and couldn't contain my N*Sync excitement, receiving one of those clever family titles like "That Time Jennifer Threw up at an N*Sync Concert."

Looking back on that, it made me thankful to enjoy the musical stylings of JT from my own home with  the self control maturity brings, having not eaten and entire package of Oreos.

Arachnophobia

I hate spiders.

In fact, my extreme revulsion, anger and disgust toward spiders is so strong that I don't believe "hate" is a strong enough word. It's a hate that requires special typographical emphasis and color.

I !!!HATE!!!#^% spiders.

I blame this hatred and fear on my second grade teacher, Mrs. Locke, and the effective — albeit terrifying — lesson on spiders she taught back in 1993. I remember slides of black widows, the beady eyes of a brown recluse staring out a me from my textbook, and the creepy, crawly details of my classmates' presentations. It was the worst.

And while knowledge is supposedly power, for me, knowledge was terror. Learning that brown recluses love small spaces, like inside of shoes, made me seriously consider steering clear of footwear altogether. Basements and garages and their accompanying cobwebs were to be avoided at all costs.

So, when moving into our new house, I found myself face to tiny, creepy face with my biggest fears.

Scott and I have a buffet that stored movies in our old house and is now serving as a makeshift TV stand in the new house. (You can see part of it in my weekly pregnancy pictures.) At the old house, I always avoided its base because there were cobwebs all around it, despite my efforts to Swiffer them away. At one point, there was evidence that something had hatched under there, but we never saw any spider babies, so didn't think too much about it. When the piece was being moved from the old house to the new, I asked Scott to check underneath it to ensure that no spiders were inhabiting it and making the move with us.

The next day, Scott and I were moving it from the dining room into the living room of the new house, and I was putting felt pads on the bottom of the buffet when I decided it was a good time to clean underneath it. I asked Scott if he had checked it like I asked, and he said no. Scott pulled on the back, bearing the weight of the buffet against him at an angle to expose the under belly. There along the side were four spider egg sacks. And I have to say that my reaction is not one of my proudest moments.

I'm not a squealy girl — a fact I pride myself on. But when presented with those little, white, woven carriers of doom, I couldn't help myself. It was too much.

I begged Scott not to make me touch them, even if it was just with a Clorox wipe. I told him I'd hold the buffet up while he did it, but it was too heavy for me to manage. He kept coaching me on: "You can do it! C'mon! Just close your eyes and do it! Do it for your baby!" Meanwhile, the baby in question was cackling his mom's sounds of fright. He finds joy in the weirdest things.

After a great deal of encouragement, I finally plucked up the courage to wipe the sacks away. (Just the word "sacks" makes my skin crawl!) I may or may not have screeched "This is my nightmare!!" Thankfully, they were empty and didn't spring forth thousands of spider babies. I don't think we could've afforded the therapy I would need if that had happened. I still required a laboratory-grade decontamination shower afterward.

Needless to say, Scott owes me big time, and I'm working on a list of silks, cashmere, jewels, and spider sprays for him to repay me with.

Nothing to complain about

Sometimes, you just need to lay back and soak up all of your blessings.

I've been complaining a lot lately.

Every morning for the past month or so, it's been harder and harder to go to work. I hate leaving Preston, and I miss him so much every day. It's like when I leave, I'm actually going to space and have a long training period plus two years aboard the space station to prepare for and won't be able to see him between the zero-gravity simulations and learning how to properly mix Tang. In reality, I'll see him when I pick him up at 4.

Not really the same thing.

Sunday in my church Bible class, we talked about having a positive attitude, and I thought about my own negative attitude. It struck me that I must sound very ungrateful.

You see, the job I complain about going to I prayed so hard for five years ago. A freshly minted collage grad with no job prospects on the horizon, I spent a lot of time tweaking my resume, watching "Jon and Kate Plus 8," and praying that something — anything! — would come along. And then I got a job. For the college I attended and loved. As a writer ... one of those jobs you say you're going to be as a little kid (like astronaut, princess and dinosaur) that aren't really realistic but cute when you're four.

And having a baby who I hate leaving means that I have a baby. A giggly, cuddly, sweet-hearted little boy with blue eyes and pudgy cheeks. I know that seems pretty obvious, but I remember wanting and praying for a baby so hard and the disappointment I felt when the month passed and the pregnancy test was negative. And the caretaker who watches that baby is another one of the many things I prayed for my little one. I wanted to have someone who loved him and cared for him as if he was her own, and I have that! Beyond what I could've imagined.

It struck me that the very thing I griped about was actually three beautiful examples of how God listened to my prayers and answered them — and gave me exactly what I asked for! Who am I, then, to say that's not good enough? To say that I want more?

I'm not saying that God is mad at me for missing my son. I know he understands that. What I am saying is that, instead of groaning at the fact that I have to get up (out of a warm bed! with a roof over my head!), get ready (with hot water! and food in the fridge!), and go to work (by driving! in a car! that works!), maybe I should take a step back and take a change of perspective.

It reminds me of Deuteronomy 6:10-11 where the Israelites are reminded that what they receive isn't their own.

"When the Lord your God brings you to the land that he promised to your ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, he will give you large and beautiful cities that you didn’t build, houses filled with every good thing that you didn’t supply, wells that you didn’t dig, and vineyards and olive groves that you didn’t plant."

I didn't create any of this but was given it by a loving God. That's nothing to complain about.