I have not fallen off the face of the earth (yet).

I have been MIA for a couple of weeks now (ok, more than a couple). I'd like to say it is because I have been oh, so busy with my very important life that I have not had time to write. And that is partially true (not the very important life part). I'd like to say that my presence has been required in many other places and I have had to prioritize. And that is partially true as well. I had a deadline to submit a post for Adoptive Families Circle by this week and since they are paying me... (well, does a free subscription for a year count as payment? Can I call myself a professional blogger for such a fee? Let's pretend and say yes, ok?).

But the real, honest-to-goodness reason I have not posted lately is because I simply have had nothing to say. 

No, really.

My kids are still doing cutesy things worth telling but not interesting enough for a blog post (I need some more interesting children. Anybody want to trade?). There have been adoption questions, funny stories, strong opinions, and spiritual awakenings, but nothing has grabbed me. Nothing has said, Blog me, blog me, I need to be a blog! Know what I mean?

 I follow some amazing writers who write to hone their skills, who can take the mundane of a daily moment and transform it into a post that will move you to tears, to laughter, to action. I read people who want to be (or are) professional writers, who should be published today, who have built a following because of their amazing power to reach your heart with words.

Me? I have no great aspirations here. I don't write every day. I don't even write every week (obviously!). I write when something happens and I think: Whoa! I have to blog about that.  And so far these last few weeks, nada, zilch, nothing. Lots of ideas floating in my head, none that have materialized to anything worth your eyes.

I want to write posts of substance that will encourage you, help you, interest you, maybe even convict you. Anything. But definitely not waste the precious few minutes I know some of you steal to read a blog here and there. So I remain committed to myself to writing only when I feel moved to do so, even if a few weeks go by. Please bear with me when I disappear. I promise when I do find something blog-worthy, it will be because I feel strongly that I need to share it.

Don't you find it ironic that I'm posting a non-substantial post about only writing posts of substance? Just a little bit.

For the time being, I will continue to read your wonderful stories and leave you a comment or two to let you know you have touched my life. In the meantime, will you please stop by AFC and read my latest post on our little family? They have "hired" me to talk about the bilingual nature of our family so there it is.

I'll be back. Stay tuned.

All because of a fly

There was a fly in the van.

It was the last survivor of a three-fly army that stormed our car when we opened the doors of the van to leave on our road trip. We conquered the first two driving out of town with a couple of strategies. One succumbed to a well-placed whack of my husband’s cap. The second one promptly understood that an open window meant freedom and took the first chance it could. This last one fought a good battle, dodging the hat and stubbornly, or stupidly, refusing to take the window exit we kept offering.

So we quit. But the fly would not.

It would terrify my three-year-old germ phobic who, strapped to his car seat, could only shriek and flail. It would buzz past my husband who was driving and fly around his head. It would land on my daughter’s leg causing her to scream and kick the back of my seat.

I was trying to read a sweet book on adoption stories that a friend had loaned me the previous night to enjoy while sitting at the beach on our trip. I was in the middle of a tender story about a young orphan who had just met her adoptive mother when I saw it. It landed right by the closed window and it sat there, rubbing its tiny legs, gearing up for the next round of terrorizing my family.

I decided to open the window to force the fly to leave. I would use the book to create a barrier between the fly and the rest of the car so the insect could not do what it had been doing every time it was confronted by a wide open exit: retrieve to the back of the car. I figured a fly that, against all logic, flew away from the freedom of an open window could not be very bright. So I, being of the smarter species, would help usher it out and liberate us all from the pest.

I carefully opened the window. The fly did not move. I posed the book open as a backdrop. The fly still didn’t budge. Then I gently and slowly moved the book towards the bug to force it to fly, while holding the book open and lifting it to create a wall. It was going well until the pages of the book caught the wind coming from the open window of the van going over seventy miles per hour. In less time than it took for me to say “shoo, fly” the book was out of my hands and flying towards the semi several feet behind us, as the reflection in the rearview mirror told me. The book managed to miss the truck and landed on the side of the busy highway, thankfully not causing a multiple car pile-up.

I quickly closed the window and sat there speechless and wide-eyed. I looked at Matt and he looked at me, both of us trying to figure out what the heck had just happened and why I was now bookless, when the blessed fly flew from the back of car and landed in the console right before me.

I swear it was smiling.

The Coach

This post was inspired by my friend Jennifer’s post who reminded me to give credit, where credit is due.

A few minutes before the game I helped her put on her mustard-yellow shirt with the eight on the back. She slipped on the black shorts and we talked about the moment the whistle would blow. I pulled back her hair while we discussed how to behave if a teammate accidentally kicked her. I secured her shin-guards and we chatted about water-breaks and the snack she would have after the game. I tied her cleats reminding her that the point is to have fun. We got in the van, all four of us, cheering as we went, excitement building, talking about kicking balls, running with the team, enjoying the first game of the season.

The team had practiced twice before this game and they were stoked as only five-year olds can be. My daughter, the lone girl in a team of boys, was ready for her debut. She would run, she would kick, she would have a blast, she said. The whistle blew and the game started. Immediately a mob of kids quickly found the hot pink ball and clustered around it, following it with little regard for the assigned goals or the different colors of their jerseys. They all just wanted a chance to make contact. Legs were intertwined, little arms flew everywhere, giggles were heard.

Except from the little girl in the mustard shirt with the number eight on the back.

She remained next to her coach, at the edge of the field, overwhelmed by the exhilaration of the other children. She grabbed his hand and would not let go.

What’s a coach to do in such a moment? Should he shake the little hand off and gently push the child forward to play? Maybe. Should he become annoyed and tell her harshly to get playing and quit being such a baby? Some would. Should he let go of her hand, leave her standing on her own and go coach the rest of the team? Possibly.

But this gentle man, this giant of a coach, did what any good father would have done. He held my little girl’s hand throughout the whole game and he chased the ball with her, followed the other kids with her, and still had her hand in his when the final whistle blew.

At one point they ran by us and I heard a snippet of their conversation. She was telling him about the boo-boo she had on her leg. He was listening seemingly enraptured by the misadventures of this five-year old.  At the end of the game I thanked him for his kindness and he told me he had one just like her at home. I hope he knows that day he made a fan of a little girl and her mother.

Isabel played four more games after that one. She went on to cluster behind that ball right along with the other children. She kicked many balls, ate many snacks with her team, giggled loudly, and received a trophy when the season was over.

Never again did she need to hold Coach G’s hand through a game. But her coach’s compassion, his infinite patience, his insight into the heart of a scared little girl built in her a confidence and a strength that carried her through that first terrifying game and brought her back for more week after week. It was a simple gesture and it was all it took. She loved the experience, loved the game, loved the coach and she asked me yesterday if she could go back in the fall.

I pray every coach she encounters takes his or her influence in these young hearts as seriously and carefully as this wonderful man does and they teach her more about life than just the skills of the sport.

Of toilets and newlyweds.

It was Christmas morning and I was a new bride merely in the first few days of our honeymoon. We had arrived to Georgia a couple of days before to celebrate the holidays with Matt’s extended family. We were all sitting at the restaurant that Matt’s grandparents owned, enjoying a sumptuous breakfast of sausage, eggs, grits, and biscuits when I felt it.

At first, it was just mere whispers but soon it had turned to loud thundering and carrying on. My stomach was working overtime after a week of eating meals on the road and the last two days of being served good ol’ southern food by the buckets.

You see, when I travel my stomach does not fare well but usually I struggle with the inability to make use of the restroom (I know, this is way more than you wanted to know about me, but I have a point, so bear with me, please) and we had been traveling for several days now.

Matt and I got married the week before Christmas and, poor as we were, we decided not to take a fancy honeymoon but instead travel leisurely from Missouri to Georgia, to spend Christmas with Matt’s family. It was a wonderful week. We stopped in Saint Louis and watched a snow storm from our hotel suite. We paid our respects to King Elvis in Graceland. We visited New Orleans and ate many dinners to the sound of live jazz. We froze while touching the beaches of Panama City, Florida. All before we made it Georgia to Mamaw and Grant’s house where the rest of the family was waiting for us.

So by Christmas morning I was overdue for a time spent on "the throne."

I made my way quietly to the main house, just a few feet away from the restaurant, to find some place where I could be alone with my rumbling tummy. I got to the only bathroom in the house, settled comfortably, had a good talk with my porcelain friend and then, when I tried to flush, well, that’s when all hell broke loose.

You must remember there were about twenty people who had been using that bathroom for the last couple of days. So that day I drew the lucky number. To spare you the details I will only say I had the need for a simple, basic tool with a wooden handle and a rubber head. None was found in that bathroom.

I began to hyperventilate at the thought of asking Matt for help.

Why such drama?, you might ask. Well, to understand the depth of my despair you need to know that I am phobic about using public restrooms to do..ahem…number two. When I went to college the greatest problem I faced as a Freshman was timing when all the girls in the 26 double rooms that shared two bathrooms each with four stalls would be asleep or away so I could use the facilities undisturbed. I spent a whole year setting my alarm at 3 am so I could go in peace. I do not to this day, do public bathrooms when I can avoid it.

And while Matt and I had a courtship of a year and a half, it was the first time we ever spent in such close and intimate proximity, if you catch my drift.

Mortified but in desperate need of a plunger I snuck into the restaurant and hid behind the counter trying to get Matt’s attention without the whole family noticing. He was sitting all the way across the room when he spotted me and, of course, did not come quietly and discreetly as I had hoped. Everyone now was wondering if everything was all right.

He did not know where to find a plunger either, so Mamaw now became involved in helping me. I went back to the house to search for the plunger and successfully located it. But was otherwise unsuccessful in my task of freeing the toilet for further use. So…back to the restaurant I went.

I managed to beckon to Matt before I went running back to the house, into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. He came and knocked on the door to ask what I needed.

“-Can you tell me how to use a plunger, please?”

“-Let me come in and help you, baby.”

“-No! No, please, just tell me how to use a plunger.”

“-Ok, put it into the toilet and push on it. Then let go.”

I tried, and tried and tried. Nothing was happening and I was panicking. Was I going to have to let my new husband in? He had not even seen me use the bathroom yet at that point and now I was going to have to ask him to come and unstop a toilet that was several days overdue?

By now I was sobbing ridiculously and uncontrollably.

“-It’s not woooorking. Oh, Matt, I don’t want you to come iiiiiiiinnnnnn.”

“-Baby, please let me come in and help you.”

Tears streaming down my blushing bride eyes I opened the door and let my sweet husband in. I thought I would never be able to look into his face again when the first thing he did was open the window of the bathroom. It took him a good while to unstop the toilet while I hid behind the closet door in agony.

When we returned to the restaurant the story had spread quickly and the whole family was waiting to express their sympathy and let the jabs begin that I still have to hear every Thanksgiving when we return to Mamaw’s house. The new owners, Matt’s cousin and his wife, have since remodeled the house, although the infamous toilet remains so most years, there is at least one moment when they see me head to the house after a meal and the story is retold.  

Why am I telling this embarrassing story with way too much personal information about my digestive habits? Well, I have spent the last few months unstopping my toilet since my five-year-old began to take care of her needs all alone. She does not know what TWO squares are and, since she prefers my toilet over the other three we have (four if you count the broken one in the basement…) I am left to battle with the toilet on a weekly basis. I have become master of the plunger, a five-star general in the unstopping toilets battle. I just wanted to remember my humble beginnings when I let a plunger turn me into a weeping, trembling mess.

That’s all.