"There! Now no one will eat the d*** donut!"

Ah, yes. It's that time of year, again. In December my family gets a little crazy with the holiday fever. To say the Davis family loves Christmas is an understatement.

We LIVE for Christmas.

The entire year revolves around the season of love, hope, and joy for my family. (Seriously, it does.) My parents start saving money at the beginning of the year, so we can all  head to the Great Smokey Mountains a few days before Christmas. We shop. We eat. We shop some more. We eat...waaaay too much. Most importantly, we get to spend time skipping around Gatlinburg with the people we love. For a few days, stress becomes non-existent and our hearts swell with thankfulness and pure adoration for each other. It's bliss.

Back at the home front, my parents decorate our house to the nines. No, we don't have the giant inflatable snowmen in our front yard or a plastic glowing Santa on our roof. But we do have multi-colored lights on the fence out front and candles in the windows. And we have two giant live trees: the old-fashioned tree in the dining room and the family tree in the play room. Garlands seem to have exploded everywhere. Dozens of Christmas tins are filled with yummy treats and scattered around the house. Our home smells like cookies and cinnamon for a solid month. Tradition is everywhere.

Then, there are the presents. Good grief. We go slightly alot majorly overboard.

When my sister and I were kids, we really didn't get a whole lot during the "off-season." We got what we needed, not necessarily what we wanted. If we behaved in the store, we got to walk down the toy isle and point to items we'd like Santa to bring us. We didn't get toys until Christmas...and at Christmas, we hit the mother-load. We still do. (And yes, Katie is 29 and I'm 26 and Santa still brings us presents.)

So, as you can see, Christmas is incredibly important to me. As my excitement grows as we get closer and closer to the big day, I feel more and more nostalgic. Without further adieu, here are a few of my favorite Christmas memories.


-   Anyone remember this? Yep. That the Precious Places Magnet Mansion.

This was probably one of the best (if not the best) toys Katie and I ever got. If you're not familiar with it, the PPMM came out in 1989. You used a magnetic key to turn on the lights and move the family of plastic figurines all around. They could even hobble up the stairs! This bad boy was awesome. I remember that Christmas especially well, because of this toy. (My parents also have it all on tape.) Katie and I woke up around 4 a.m. and ran into the playroom, which was pitch black with the exception of the Christmas lights and the mansion. My parents had set it up on the coffee table and turned on all its lights. We were like moths drawn to a flame. It was truly magical, and Katie and I played with that mansion for years. (Later on we got the ballet studio, horse stable, and gazebo.) I know that my sis and I will always remember our young excitement over this toy. Now that I'm grown, however, I realize the best part of receiving it was the sound of my parents' voices as they rejoiced with us and asked us what it could do (because Santa brought it) and the looks on their faces when they saw how happy we were. I know how wonderful they must have felt (even at 4 in the morning), because that's how I feel now when I watch my niece open her gifts on Christmas morning. My heart simply melts.

-  John Denver and the Muppets Christmas album was and still is the bomb dot com. I don't know when my parents bought that vinyl record, because for as far back as I can remember, we've always had it. We still play it on repeat during the Christmas season. I can remember roller blading in the playroom and listening to "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat!" I also remember decorating our teddy bear garlands while listening to this album. I was always jealous, because Katie's were so much better than mine. At the time I didn't realize it was due to my weaker motor skills and lack of attention span. Gluing on those dang sequins was hard for a three year old. Anyway, we own the CD now, but the well-loved record still remains in our family.

-  "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go!" I loved going to my paternal grandparent's house on Christmas eve. At Thanksgiving, the cousins would draw names for Christmas presents. (I always hoped to get one of my younger cousin's names...because Uncle Don and Aunt Jill always gave the coolest presents...like my Nerf gun that I'm pretty sure they got me to torture my parents.) Furthermore, I loved seeing my grandparent's house full of familiar faces and warm embraces. We'd also go to my great-grandmother's house for a while and see the extended family. When your grandma's the oldest of twelve kids, you have quite a few cousins to mingle with.
Perhaps the best Christmas at my grandparent's house, however, was the Christmas we gave them the blueprints to their new home. My grandparents lived in a four room, half-bath house. Yep, there was no shower. The front porch was caved in...I should know...I fell through it. And Mamaw and Papaw had collected so many memories over the years, they simply had no room. So, my dad and his siblings and a host of family and friends got together to build what would be "The House That Love Built." At the time I was the youngest (so I guess the cutest by default), so my parents and aunts and uncles shoved a coiled piece of paper in my hand and my sister, cousins, and I shuffled toward my grandparent's and handed them their future. And I saw my grandparents weep for the first time in my life. And my family rejoiced on that special Christmas like we never had before.

-  Christmas in Baltimore. We only made it to my mom's parents' house one Christmas. A twelve hour drive and two little kids made that trip difficult, so I'm just grateful we at least made it once. I was in the third or fourth grade and had a dumb haircut, which my mother regularly convinced me was "cute." Katie and I had half a dozen matching Christmas sweaters, which we proudly wore on that trip. To keep us busy on the car ride, Katie and I decorated stockings for my Mom-Ouise and Pop-Pop. I worried that Mom-Ouise wouldn't like hers, because I had decorated it...and Katie was a much better colorer than I. Nevertheless, she loved it. I was also nervous that year, because I wasn't sure how Santa was going to find us. He did. And he brought me a Puppy Surprise, which I'm pretty sure my grandparents found disturbing. I also remember watching an old silent movie of my momma and her family when she was a kid. My grandparents, uncles, aunts, parents, sister, cousins, and I sat in the enclosed carport and watched the film as my Uncle Dick provided commentary. That's when he dubbed himself "Uncle Hotdog," a name we still use for him. Then, he danced with my grandmother in the carport as we all watched and giggled. Mom-Ouise pretended to be embarrassed, but I know she loved it...because in many ways my mother is just like her...and so am I...and we would have loved that.

It was wonderful to experience the Clisham Christmas, even if it was just that once. Now that I live so far away from my family, I truly appreciate how special that was for my mother.

-  On a lighter note....I'd like to address the great donut fiasco of 2009. It was Lucas' first Christmas with us in Gatlinburg. You have to understand, Lucas' family isn't into Christmas quite like mine is. And I apparently didn't prepare him for the merriment I expected him to have. He still felt a little uncomfortable around my family and he wasn't really sure what his role was in the whole the Davises do Gatlinburg Santa Style trip. Basically, he was over-whelmed and ready to go home almost as soon as we got there. He was a trooper for about 36 hours, but when the 37th rolled around, he was ready to split. I gave him permission to bolt, but I did so hoping he'd change his mind and stay. (Communication was especially weak at this point in our young marriage.) So, he was going to leave early on our last day there and I was going to stay and spend time with my family then drive back with my parents. Early that morning my parents invited us to get our traditional donuts at the Donut Friar. I declined, because Lucas was still asleep and I felt bad leaving him. My mom offered to bring us back donuts. She did so and asked me if I was still staying or leaving with Lucas (as tears welled up in her eyes). I cried. I cried a lot and started to resent my husband for putting me in this situation.  So, like any crazed Christmas wife would, I decided to confront my husband on the issue. When I woke him, he yelled at me for waking him and stumbled out of bed fifteen minutes later. Fit to be tied, I started to eat my donut in hopes that it would calm my nerves. It did until Lucas emerged from bed, fussed at me for getting him up so early, talked about leaving, and said, "Is that a donut? Where's my donut? Here I am doing your family's Christmas thing and they can't even get me a donut?" Despite the fact that I knew Lucas is always grumpy in the morning and says thing that he doesn't mean when he first wakes up, my blood still boiled. I reached the breaking point. I threw hurled the donut across the room. It smacked up against the wall a few inches from Lucas' head and plopped into the garbage can. And I said, "They got you one too, you jerk! There! No one will eat the d*** donut!" I must have looked like an angry Ralphie ready to pummel Scott Farkus. Lucas looked like he's just been convicted of murder and started apologizing profusely. He dug the donut out of the trash. "Well, don't waste it," was all he could mutter.

He ate the donut. I was afforded a little more time with my parents...and a little more time with them the next year. And now we can laugh at the great donut incident of 2009. God love him. Lucas can never win.

- Rudolph de Nariz Roja! My elementary school always did ( and still does) their version of "The Nutcracker" every year. My sister was the Sugar Plum Fairy her year, and I was a Sugar Plum Fairy attendant my year. I had the best role. I got to do two dances and sit on stage throughout pretty much the entire play. No backstage boredom for me. That was all well and done, but the most memorable part of our evening on stage was the fifteen minute concert before the play in which we sang "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in Spanish. For weeks I went around our house belting "Rudolph de Nariz Roja!" at the top of my little lungs. I sang it so much, in fact, I'm pretty sure Katie still knows the song in full.

- I lose things. Generally, I always find them, but still...I lose things. For years, my family was convinced that I had lost my mom's copy of the aforementioned recording of her and her family from the 50s. Well, I didn't. I have no clue what happened to that VHS tape. Honest to blog, I don't. Nevertheless, I was blamed for its disappearance for years. A few years ago, I received an especially brutal verbal beating over the missing tape by my entire family. They stopped badgering me when I started to cry and bleated out my innocence like a little lamb fighting for its life. I decided on that day that I would show them...I would show them all. So, I made a call to my aunt and uncle in Maryland, and the following Christmas I had my revenge (sort of). I told my mother her present was in the living room. I had her sit on the couch and close her eyes. Then I went to the TV and started the DVD player. She opened her eyes, and there she was as a baby, surrounded by family in a time unknown to me. And she gasped and sat in bewilderment of the footage she hadn't seen in years. Instead of feeling avenged, I felt like I had found a missing puzzle piece for my mom. It wasn't about what I did or didn't do; it was about relieving some pain for my mother, making her happy.

Well, I've written yet another novel! Nothing wrong with happy reflections, I guess. I hope that when  you're reading this, some of your favorite Christmas memories come to you. Christmas is a magical, beautiful holiday, and I wish you all the best this particular year. God bless you and keep you.

And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.
- Luke 2:10

Stressssssssssssssssss. The Hard Stuff.

I just watched my husband have one of the most stressful weeks of his life. He went through training at EVMS, prepared for and took his midterms, taught class, went to class, and received a teaching evaluation that I'm sure he'd rather I not mention. Well, I'll only mention it briefly. An adjunct instructor with an M.A. in Lit (which Lucas also has...not to mention he taught adjunct the year before we moved here) couldn't seem to make one positive comment about the class she observed. Now, I may be biased, but I know what kind of teacher my husband is. He's great. He cares about his students and their success. And he takes pride in his job. So, it broke my heart to see him throw the evaluation across our living room and dwell on this one person's opinion, which in my opinion, held no relevance because she failed to make suggestions as to how he should improve. She just scolded him for knit picky things - like a few of his adult students texting while he was working with other students.  I've had bad evaluations. It happens to the best of us even when we're trying our hardest. You can't please everyone, and that's a fact. Regardless, me mentioning this to him seemed to do very little to make him feel better.

So, Lucas is stressed and he hasn't slept well all week. I've woken up to him crawling away from his computer and into bed past 3 a.m. several times this week. One night, he went to bed as I got up to start my work day, only to have to get up a couple hours later to teach his class.

I have never seen Lucas like this. Usually, he's the calm one. He's the one who has to make me slow down. He's the one who offers me comfort only to be pushed away - because all the kind, sympathetic words in the world won't help when you're stuck in that frame of mind. The whole situation is foreign to me. Lucas stresses over what he wants to eat for dinner, but when it comes to the hard stuff - worrying about his career, his work relationships, his ability to provide, his reputation - he's always brushed that stuff aside. When it comes to the things that keep most of us awake at night, he always seems to know that everything will be OK. So, when I saw my grown husband grip his head and cry last night, I didn't really know what to do. I usually brush his "stress" aside. Because his stress generally consists of him not knowing what to eat or if he should or shouldn't rent some video game. Sure, he stresses over his school work, but that's simply because he wants validation that he's doing a good job - even when he knows he his, he wants to hear it from me. Maybe it shouldn't, but that stuff seems silly to me. I'm the one who worries about how we're going to pay our bills and getting our taxes done in time and saving money for tuition and making sure the garbage cans are taken out in a timely manner. In fact, I've always been kind of bitter, because in my mind, Lucas has always had the luxury of worrying about the easily fixed stuff. I'm the one who bears the big burdens. Or so I've told myself for the past couple of years.

I've developed a horrible habit of brushing off Lucas' problems as if they're unimportant. Usually, I grow frustrated and roll my eyes at his so-called "dilemmas." Usually, I do whatever I need to appease him, but I feel like he owes me and I'm not really happy to help him. But last night, for the first time since we got married, I didn't feel that way at all. I happily went and bought him the dinner he requested. And I didn't mention the fact that his button up shirt was on inside out, which I'm sure it had been all day. When he asked me not to turn on the TV for five minutes because he couldn't handle the noise, I decided to leave it turned off for the rest of the night. When I asked him why he couldn't sleep and he told me it was because he couldn't get comfortable in our small full size bed, I offered to sleep on the couch so he could sprawl and be at peace. He felt bad for accepting my offer, but he took it nonetheless. And I was truly glad that he did. Being the sweet guy he is, he told me I could come to bed once he fell asleep because, as he said, "once I'm asleep there's no waking me up." So, I slept on the couch until about four this morning, then Gus, Elliott, and I joined him in bed. We slept together as a family like we always do. This time, however, I didn't hear Lucas grind his teeth or sleepily curse the pets (or me) for taking up space. He just slept. I don't even think he realized we were there.

Stress. It's a killer. I should know, because I'm the kind of person who craves it. Lucas isn't that kind of person, though. He's the smiley one in our family. He's the one who makes me stop in the kitchen and dance stupidly when I'm trying to accomplish a million things and pulling out my hair simultaneously.

I learned a lesson last night (and throughout the week) about supporting the ones you love with no agenda. I'd like to thank God for that one. I feel like He gave me a pretty great week full of blessings (and about ten small miracles) in order to be able to show my husband His love through my actions. I gotta say, it felt good to finally be strong for my husband after all the times he's done the same for me.

Lucas, my sweet boy,
I am so proud of you. I'm proud of your accomplishments, and I'm proud simply because you made it through such a miserable week. Please, rent a video game this weekend. You deserve it.

Love Is Patient, Love Is Kind (Sometimes)

Over the past couple of weeks, I've heard about several break-ups/new relationships among my friends. This made me think about relationships in general and how wonderful/awful they can be. Let's face it, the Bible may tell us that love is patient and kind, but sometimes that patience wears thin (to become almost invisible) and it's definitely unkind more often than we'd like. Maybe the J. Geils band had it right when they said "love stinks."

Marriage has been the hardest endeavor I've ever pursued. I say this sincerely (and a little uncomfortably).
When I was a kid, I looked at magazine pictures of happy couples and envisioned how my husband I would look one day - just as happy, just as perfect and in love as the L.L. Bean couple on page ten. Well, when Lucas and I got married, I still had stars in my eyes for the most part. We'd had our fair share of arguments, and I knew we'd have our respected "issues" throughout our marriage. But I loved him so much, none of that mattered. We were still going to be just like those magazine couples.

Meh...maybe I was too idealistic.

Lucas and I have shared some beautiful moments together. For instance, when I was bummed to the point of wanting to quit my job at CHS and give up all my adult obligations, Lucas was there to play me a song on his guitar and remind me that I could do anything. For some reason, he thinks I'm Superwoman. It's nice to know that someone believes in me that much.

Lucas and I have also shared some monumental fights. We're talking Kathleen Turner/Michael Douglas in War of the Roses fights. EPIC. Name-calling*, door-slamming, household item-throwing, suitcase-packing fights. (Yeah, I went there.) And sometimes, those fights weren't resolved so quickly.

The point is - we worked through it. We work hard at our marriage. Just like recovering alcoholics, we take things one day at a time. It's not easy. It's time consuming and frustrating. We're both two incredibly stubborn people, and we have difficulties bending to each other's wills. If I nag Lucas, it's a sure sign that he won't do whatever I asked him to do. If Lucas whines about something I have or haven't done, guess what? The Davis passive aggressiveness comes out full throttle. Other times (the worst times), the Clisham unabashed anger ensues. Actually, I don't think the word anger quite cuts it. I become a completely different person full of the worst kind of wrath. We both want things the way we want them and when we want them. I don't think this is an unusual ordeal for most married couples, but it stinks none the less.

Clearly, I'm no expert on marriage (or relationships in general). But, I feel confident about one thing.

I married the man I was supposed to marry, and I will always be his wife.

John Byrne, my dear friend Amy's brother, is autistic. He is also a prophet...and has a bit of a crush on me. When I saw him last weekend, he told me that he was going to get a posse together to beat up Lucas if he ever hurt me. I told him that was sweet, but I hoped it never came to that. I told him that Lucas is a great guy -  even when we fight, and he said, "Well, you know, love is for better or for worse." What a wise person John is. He's completely right.

I always said "I don't believe in divorce." When you marry someone, that's it. Make your decision wisely. I'm not sure I completely agree with my past-self anymore. Sometimes ending a relationship is necessary. People change over time. But, both Lucas and I have watched our parents maintain marriages for over 30 years. (If memory serves me right, Lucas' parents have been married for 40 years.) We've heard of (and at times witnessed) our parents' arguments. We know that they had to work at marriage, too. Even though I'm sure at times they wanted to, they never gave up. They set an example for us.

Lucas and I got married quickly (as I've mentioned before). We're still learning about each other. I can tell you the name of Lucas' first girlfriend. He can tell you about my first kiss. I know the name of his first pet. He knows how tall I was in 5th grade. I don't know what Lucas' first short story was. He can't tell you about the first dance I was in at Winthrop. We're saving these tid bits of information for later. Because until we die, there will always be a later. We change daily - as individuals and as a couple. Sometimes adjusting to those changes isn't easy - to say the least. But, we do it one day at a time.

Again, clearly, I'm no expert at marriage. But I do know something...a few things. For those of you who have just started a relationship, a marriage, or as my students used to say, you've just started "talking" to someone, here are a few things to keep in mind.

1. Give it a chance. If it doesn't sparkle and shine in the beginning, it might later.
2. Give it a chance. If it sparkles and shines at the beginning, but fades later - put a little ketchup (Vitamin C) on it, and it just may sparkle again.
3. Be honest - with yourself and your significant other. Give it a chance, but don't force yourself to try and make something out of nothing. You know yourself better than anyone. Do what's best for you. Listen to yourself.
4. If you're unhappy, figure out why. And then fix it. If that means giving up said relationship, do it. (It might not be the relationship. Your unhappiness might be something else, but you blame it on the relationship. Think. Again, be honest with yourself.)
5. Take it slow. (Ha. The lady who got engaged after five months says to "take it slow." Yeah, she does. You should listen to her.) If you love someone and he/she loves you the same way, time means nothing. He or she will always be there.
6. That stupid book/ movie "He's Just Not That Into You" has a point. If you ain't feeling the love and you ain't giving the love, it won't work.
7. Ross Gellar made a Pro/Con list that got him in trouble with Rachel. However, he was pretty smart. Marriage is more than just love. (And let's face it, when we (well, most of us) start relationships, we hope they will last forever. We hope we've found "the one.") Marriage if about 30% love and 70% everything else. If your boy isn't making you feel pretty or your lady isn't listening to your rants, and this makes you unhappy, it might not be enough. Go on, be picky. You're worth it.
8. To counter that, don't be too picky. People sure can surprise you.

If you've just ended a relationship, keep the following in mind:
1. You ended it for a reason. Whatever it was, it was worth ending it.
2. Sometimes ending a relationship, no matter how hard it is to do, is best. Stay strong.
3. Be proud of yourself, because hopefully, you gave it your all and you followed your heart.
4. Be kind - to yourself and the other party. People are still people. Sometimes that's easy to forget in a break-up situation.
5. Plan ahead for yourself - with no one else in mind.
6. Recognize the past. It happened for a reason. It was part of God's plan. Learn from it. Respect it.
7. Ride off on your white horse and don't look back. If it ended, then hopefully, you made sure it did for a reason. Be proud of your decision. I hope you're proud of your decision. I hope it was best for you. (I was never good at this one - as the dumper or the dumpee. I couldn't just let go. I beg you, let go.)

My maternal grandparents fussed at each other constantly. My sister and I giggled every time we saw my grandmother roll her eyes at our Pop when he slurped his soup. We loved it when my almost deaf grandfather yelled "Go to Hell" at the TV screen when the Orioles screwed up during a game. My grandmother would yell "WILLIAM!" in an attempt to scold him for his foul mouth. I heard my Mom-Ouise say some pretty nasty things to my Pop. And I saw my Pop fuss back at her or ignore her completely. They were Edith and Archie Bunker - if Edith grew a spine times ten. Mom-Ouise was not one to hold her tongue. (Lucas, I get it honestly.) They bickered and bickered...but my favorite memory of them was when I was in the eighth grade. Mom-Ouise had congested heart disease and diabetes. The doctors didn't give her much time. (She was stubborn, though, and made it two years longer than they'd given her.) My mom made monthly trips to Baltimore to help take care of Mom-Ouise that year. One time, my mom and I made the trip together. At dinner, we'd eaten Mom-Ouise's soup - her recipe. This was the soup my grandmother always had on the stove for us when we came to visit. Even if we got into town at 2 a.m., there was soup on the stove. My mom and Aunt Helen made it. But, this batch didn't have salt in it, because it had to go along with Mom-Ouise's dietary needs. My tiny 120 lb. grandmother sipped the soup and made a face. "How is it?" she asked me. "It's good," I said. "It isn't. It tastes awful. There's no salt," she said. "No, it's good," I said. (It tasted AWFUL.) She passed me the salt and winked. Mom Ouise always winked, and even when she smiled, the corners of her mouth turned down. I loved that. Later than night, my grandfather drove his ancient Ford Escort to my uncle and aunt's house where my grandmother stayed. I was in the kitchen and I heard my grandfather say to his wife, the woman he constantly argued with, "I love you, Louise." She replied, "I love you too, Bill." And I cried like an infant right there in my uncle and aunt's kitchen. And then I saw my mother standing outside the guest bedroom where they were, and she gasped and cried too. This made me cry harder, of course.

Mom-Ouise died in October of 2001. Pop, who from what my family could tell was in good condition, died in October of 2002. For a year, anytime I talked to Pop, I would ask him how he was. He would reply, "I'm lonely." I believe he died of a broken heart. He and my grandmother dated through WWII, they married in 1945 when Pop came home "without a scratch." They had four wonderful children and eight grandchildren. I am the youngest. They have seven great grand-children and one on the way. They had some epic fights. And they loved each other...hopelessly...sometimes questionably...always indefinitely...for better or for worse.

Relationships are hard. They take a lot of work. Sometimes they need to end. Sometimes they simply need Biblical patience. And time. They always need time.

If you have just started a relationship or if you've just ended one or if you're newly married or have been married for a long time (or it just feels like a long time), know this....

Louise and Bill is a great romance story - and yours is waiting for you and your loved one...if you've just found him/her, if you're still looking for him/her, or if he/she sleeps next to you every night.

Love is patient (when you have patience) and kind (when you're willing to be just that) and it stinks (only if you're unwilling to spray a little Fabreeze).

So, I guess all I'm offering with this blog is...I understand. Love is fickle. And beautiful. And messy. It is what it is. Just remember, listen to your heart, your God, yourself. When you meet a man (or woman) who hates your cooking, but eats it anyway, then orders chicken wings when you've gone to bed....perhaps he or she is worth loving a little.

* By the way, the funniest (?) bashing Lucas ever gave me was this one: he viciously called me a Republican. Ouch?

9-12-11

Two years ago today, Lucas and I were married.

Over the years I've read dozens of Facebook posts from doting wives wishing their husbands "happy anniversary." The wife then goes on a spiel about how the past X amount of years she's been married to the husband have been the best years of her life. And she talks about how wonderful the husband is and how she still loves him just as she did the day they were married. She talks about how her husband is her soulmate and best friend. She talks about all the joy he's brought to her life.

Well, I'll spare you all the lovey dovey stuff.

Instead I'd like to focus on our marriage - not how much we love each other - but our actual partnership in holy matrimony. I'd life to focus on how we've changed as people and as a couple since we got married. I'd like to get a little real, because from my understanding, most people would agree that marriage isn't all sunshine and flowers...at least not all the time.

Before marriage -
1. I wore make-up religiously and cute clothes in order to impress Lucas./ Lucas wore matching socks and clean clothes on a regular basis...not just on special occasions.
2. Passing gas was taboo, not just what one does after a meal.
3. We went to the bathroom with the doors closed.
4. It was my pleasure to do Lucas's laundry. I thought I was being cute. (?)
5. We snuggled.
6. We both offered to drive.
7. We burned each other mixed CDs. (That kind of makes me want to puke.)
8. We dressed up to go out - even if it was on to JD's Sandwich Shop
9. Dinner was an event where we sat down at a table across from one another with the TV off and the laptop out of sight.
10. Holding hands was simply part of walking side-by-side.
11. Annoying habits weren't annoying....yet.
After marriage
1. The "if it doesn't smell, wear it" rule applies to both parties.
2. Tooting, belching, scratching, squeezing, and picking are now acceptable actions when in each other's company. We've become so comfortable with doing these things in front of each other, we have to monitor ourselves in public...
3. Sometimes flushing the toilet is too much work. (Too much information, I know.)
4. I steal the money from Lucas' pockets anytime I do the laundry, because I'm bitter and feel he owes me.
5. We actually had a discussion about getting two full-sized beds, because we constantly tell each other to "scoot to your side." Along with sleep punches and pushes, we've also both ripped the covers off each other dozens of time.
6. Driving is a chore, so now we race to say "not it" first.
7. If one wants a mixed CD, one makes it himself.
8. It doesn't matter what we look like in public anymore. Who are we trying to impress?
9. Dinner now consists of eating at our coffee table, watching Netflix, and searching the interweb.
10. We walk beside each other when Lucas can remember to wait for me to collect my things and get out of the car.
11. We're both extremely aware of each other's annoying habits.

I'm sure this makes all of you un-wed couples want to run to the alter right now. (Ha ha.) And I'm sure some of you married folks are thinking, well, that's not how my marriage is. You guys have issues. (I applaud you.)

And perhaps some of you can relate to some degree.

But it is, what it is.

Like most married coupled, we've become comfortable.

And while there are some improvements we'd both like to make to our marriage (bring back mixed CDs?), we're both still here.

And between the marital spats, we've found simple ways to demonstrate our love for one another.

When Lucas' car got a flat tire on the way to the airport, I changed it while he was away on his trip.

When I got the stomach flu, Lucas held back my hair.

If Lucas is still asleep in bed when I leave for work in the morning, I always kiss him on the cheek before I go.

We tell each other "I love you" before we end a phone conversation or leave the house - even if we've just had an argument.

Lucas knows how to "doctor" my coffee perfectly.

I have become a proof-reading expert.

Lucas rubs my back anytime I ask him to. (He honestly does.)

On our first date, three years ago today, I wore a blue and white striped cardigan. I just realized - at this moment - that I am wearing that same cardigan today. Lucas wore a plaid button-up shirt that now belongs to me, because it doesn't fit him anymore. He was obviously nervous and looked down at the table a lot. I wasn't nervous and acted surprisingly bubbly. He scooted his chair closer to mine because a band was playing and I couldn't hear what he was saying. And I said something stupid, and he smiled. I fell in love with the little wrinkles around his eyes and the gap between his teeth. Not long after that first date, I fell in love with Lucas, too.

It's hard sometimes to remember that initial feeling of love (the sunshine and flowers) that got you to the alter in the first place. Marriage is tough. We get so comfortable that we sometimes hurt each other's feelings and say things we don't really mean and forget about all the little things that make our marriages special.

 I think that's why God created anniversaries. (Was it God or Hallmark? I'd like to think it was God.) Anniversary is meant to remind us husbands and wives of what it means to be married.

Ya know? It really does mean for better or for worse.

Lucas, the past two years have been beautifully imperfect.

Even though you just left your dirty lunch dishes on the coffee table, I still love you and always will.

I am forever your Uncle Sticky.

(Yeah, I still haven't figured out what that means.)



The Scholar

WARNING: Due to lack of sleep, this post is a bit of a hodge-podge. The thoughts don't quite string together as I'd like them to, but I think you'll get the over-all idea. Good luck to you when reading this.

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A few months ago on a trip to TN, I was in my old bedroom gawking at myself in a full length mirror when I noticed an index card fall at my feet. When I was in high school I used to tuck index cards into the sides of the mirror. This one boasted a schedule I had made for a random Wednesday in 2002. It went something like this:

4:00 a.m.     Wake up!
4:30 a.m.     Study Pre-Cal
6:00 a.m.     Study AP Euro (at school)
7:00 a.m.     Ivey test

Yes, indeedy! I was a giant nerd in high school. Not only did I go to school at six in the morning to study, but I also over-involved myself in extra-curriculars. I can remember a time when I actually had driving a stick shift and changing from jeans into ballet tights down to an art. My days were filled with running from one activity to the next - dance, play rehearsal, Interact volunteer events, Interact club meetings, Interact board meetings, Interact district board meetings, Interact scrapbook meetings, Speech Team tournaments, and on and on it goes. Somewhere in there I managed to study and work in the church nursery for four hours each Sunday.

How did I do that?

I must have been crazy.

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Last year was the first year since I was four years old, that I wasn't on a school schedule. Until last year, my new year began when the academic year began. During the 2010-2011 year, I felt lost...and bored...and lazy. No matter what I piled on my plate, nothing was ever enough. I actually made a daily cleaning schedule that I successfully followed for months! Laundry was always done, our cabinets and closets well organized. I had time to jog, time to write blogs, time to play with the pets, time to do spontaneous nice things for other people, etc.. In comparison to the craziness I put myself through in high school (and to a lesser degree in college), the life I just described sounds wonderful, right?

It was for a while. Then, I sort of lost myself. I lost my drive and my ambition. I needed chaos and a tight schedule and projects and deadlines.

So, I went out and found those things.

Now I have two positions at EVMS, fourteen (yes, 14) dance classes to teach, a biweekly volunteer position at Norfolk General, and two colleges classes (Bio. and Stats, respectively).

I have a ton on my plate. When I was piling it on, I thought that if I could handle all the stuff I did when I was a teenager, surely I can do it now that I'm older and (maybe a tiny bit?) wiser.

***

When I reflect on my high school career, I beam with pride. Man, I did a good job. I graduated in the top ten percent of my class. I got into a good college. I didn't get into (much) trouble. I was extremely active in the community. Seems like I had it all....

Then, I find an index card from one fall day in 2002 on which I mapped out at my morning  from 4-7. 

 I remember what life was really like.

1. I was ALWAYS frazzled. Unless I was asleep, my face read "panic attack." My junior/senior english teacher actually sought after and asked my mother if I was "you know, OK?" Yes, as in OK in the head.

2. When my hair was long, there were pencils in it. When my hair was short, it looked like I'd put my fingers in a electrical outlet.  

3. My fingers were always covered in white out.

4. My Ford Ranger Splash was packed with coffee cups, glitter, construction paper, food containers, moldy Tupperware, clothes, clothes, and more clothes, shoes, Mod Podge glue, papers, random props - you name it, Bogartha housed it. (Bogartha is the name of the truck.) On occassion, I'd give my neighbor a lift to school. Now that I think about it, aside from the fact that she's a small person, I don't know how the heck she actually fit in the passenger's seat.)

5. My hands and arms were covered in notes. While I had a planner, I was always afraid that I'd forget something. Thus, I wrote important memos on my body where I couldn't miss them. If I was wearing a skirt and ran out of room, I'd write on the tops of my knees. 

6. My bedroom was a disaster area. My bed was basically my desk and always covered in papers. The floor, aside from a piece of carpet at the foot of my bed where I slept, served as my laundry basket and second desk.

7. I was a shifty character. For me, my enjoyment at graduation depended on two things: 1.) Where I was sitting at graduation (the top 10% sat in the front, and 2.) How many cords I wore.

I was a "member" of the Beta club. This meant that I got the three credits I needed my junior year and bribed a Beta officer to give me my three credits senior year. You see, I was the secretary of Interact, and the Treasurer of Interact was also the Secretary of Beta. Interact require ten volunteer credits for a member to remain in "good standing." While she was treasurer, this person lacked Interact's amount of required credits. So, I reasoned with her and made a bargain for my Beta cord. If she gave me the one Beta credit I needed, I would give her the credits she needed for Interact. I walked across the stage at graduation wearing four cords: Interact, Top 10%, French club, and Beta.

Clearly, I was a competetive over-achiever, obsessed with "getting ahead," and completely over-extended.
I was a huge mess.

Why did I do that to myself?

Because I was blessed with a  group of tight-knit friends that challenged me academically and socially. If I wanted to fit in with my crowd, I had to play the game. What classes they took, I took. What activities they participated in, I participated in too. (Well, with some variation.)

My friends were motivation to succeed. While keeping up with them was exhausting, it was one of the best things I could have done for myself . My friends made me work harder. They made me see my potential. They pushed me to my limits. Thus, I will forever be in their debt.

Now my friends, who all did very well for themselves in college and beyond, are scattered around the country. And while I don't compare myself to them as I did in high school, I still look to them for motivation. (Yes, believe it or not, my high school friends are still my dearest friends in the world. We still talk fairly regularly and visit each other when we can.)

I am channeling their help right now - especially now. If they were here, they would tell me that I am capable of making an A on my Biology test tomorrow. They would tell me that they've studied that stuff and it's fairly easy. Then, they'd quiz me over information I just studied and that they probably haven't looked at in years. And they would probably know more than me, because my friends are all incredibly smart people. (OK, to be fair, two of them work in the science field and one just finished taking the MCAT, so I hope they know more than me.) I am channeling their help right now, because tomorrow when I take the first written college exam I've had in five years, I will be thinking about them and their accomplishments. And I will know that I have prepared and that I'm a smart person, too, and I can succeed just like them. Because they always told me I could.
__________________________________________________________________________________
I'm sitting in my living room, staring at my messy house. The coffee table and surrounding floor resembles my bedroom in high school. It's a cluttered mess. I'm not wearing make-up, my hair's a mess, and I'm going "commando", because I haven't done laundry in a while. I stayed up until two this morning preparing lesson plans, studying, and completing paperwork for one of my jobs.
I'm exhausted, and it feels so good.

I almost can't wait until I start making index card schedules. Hopefully, I won'tever have to begin my day at four in the morning. But if I do, I know I've done it before and I can do it again.

The Teacher Gets Some Schoolin'...Online Style

That's right. I'm back in school, working on pre-recs! This new adventure has taken me to Tidewater Community College and Nashville State, where I am enrolled in Biology and Statistics. Go me. Why the schoolin', you may ask? Well, I've gone loony and decided to switch career paths...completely.

After much consideration (and plenty of hesitation), I have decided to apply to PA school.

Yup.

I want to be a Physician's Assistant.

Q. How does one go from teaching dance to becoming a PA?
A. She moves to Norfolk, can't find a dance educator position in a public high school, starts teaching pelvic exams, thinks back to her younger days before she decided to become a teacher, spends too much time around med students and realizes - hey, I think I can do it if that guy can, and VOILA! There you have it.

* Anecdote 1: When I was a junior in college, I met with my adviser, Stacey, whom I adored. It was my second semester, and I was gearing up to begin my internships in the Fall. I went into the meeting feeling a little sour. It'd been a rough year and I was jaded, to say the least. So, when she asked me in what level - elementary, middle, or high school - I'd like to do my internships, my response was as follows:
"I don't care. I just don't wanna be around little kids. I don't like them." She stared at me, baffled. I was generally a good student and very respectful of my professors. But not that day. I was acting like a tool. "Oh," she said. "Well, then, I guess we'll look into middle and high school positions." Not good enough, Stacey. I didn't get the reaction I wanted...I don't really know what that reaction was, but that wasn't it. "Where do you see yourself after graduation? We have lots of job fairs coming up and I know that various schools with Dance Arts programs will be in attend--"
"--I don't plan on teaching," I interrupted.  "In fact, I'm kind of over this whole thing. I'm just completing my degree because I'm so far into it that I feel obligated to finish for my parents." Yep, I went there. Naturally, she inquired as to what it was that I did intend to do upon matriculation. "I want to be a midwife."

Say what?!

I held onto this idea for a while until I realized (thanks to my internships) that I actually enjoyed teaching dance. That, and I eventually did thorough research and realized that I didn't want to go back to school and get my RN degree immediately after the four crazy years I had just put into my Dance Ed. degree. So, that was tossed on the back-burner, then scorched when I got my first teaching job. Furthermore, I fell so in love with teaching during my internships that Stacey had me talk at a meeting for rising seniors majoring in Dance Ed. She also told them what "Miss Attitude" had said in that lovely meeting--that I didn't want to teach younger kids. (Yep. She went there.) Regardless, the idea of becoming a midwife never completely left me. (P.S. - I did my student teaching in an elementary school, and loved it. Oh, and I'm the blonde on the right, hugging the shorter chick.)

Q. Well, how long will it take you to fulfill all of those pre-required courses?
A. If I kill myself (and the clock is ticking), my goal is to be able to apply and begin Fall semester 2013. I have to complete a year of Bio., a year of Anatomy and Physiology, a semester of math (hey Stats!), and complete a few lovely "recommended" courses, which include (at least) a semester of Organic Chemistry, Medical Terminology, Microbio, Genetics, Immunology, Biochem, and/or Psych. Clearly, I won't be able to manage all of them. The good news is, I have already completed a year of Chem.

Anecdote 2: Chemistry. When I think of Chem, I think of one person: Ms. Kimberly Wright. Ms. Kimberly Wright is a Vanderbilt graduate and the auditor for Fine Arts majors at Winthrop University. She is a lovely woman, and well-liked in the WU community. Well-liked by all but this gal, that is. We got off to a bad start when she looked at my transcript from Sewanee and informed me that I had "plenty of electives." In other words, I had to start fresh at Winthrop, because none of my Sewanee classes counted for beans. So, I busted my rump for four semesters. My parents paid one hundred and something bucks so I could CLEP out of freshman composition, because apparently reading and writing on the themes of Shakespeare's works doesn't count at WU. (According to my husband, who has the audacity to agree, it doesn't meet the argumentative writing criteria of most colleges.) I took 8 or 9 classes per semester at WU (which required me to request and attain the special privilege of taking excessive amount of credits each semester...AKA--I sat in the registrar's office for obscene amounts of time) so I could graduate in four years. On top of that, I did "independent studies" on top of my regular class schedule. AND I was told that even though I tested out of two beginning levels of French, which moved me to intermediate level French at Sewanee--WHICH me, the "French Falcon," made an A in--I still needed a beginning level of a foreign language to graduate from Winthrop. So, imagine this lady, who hasn't slept in two years, who has exceeded her limits of patience, who has started her day at 8 a.m and ended it at 11 p.m. due to rehearsals during this time, and is just friggin' ready to graduate, entering Ms. Kimberly Wright's office in the Spring leading up to her senior year. This lady was tense.

I sat on the other side of Ms. Kimberly Wright's desk, and she dropped the bad news about the foreign language credit, which I contested (and lost). Then, she brought up my lack of science classes. I knew it was coming. Wasn't as big of a shocker as the French ordeal. After I calmed myself down after the aforementioned French problem, I informed Ms. Kimberly Wright that I had been planning on taking my science classes at Tennessee Tech in the summer. She thought it was a good idea and pulled up Tech's curriculum. Then, she wrote down two course numbers and handed them to me. "Take these classes at Tech (along with a beginning foreign language class), and you should be good to go for graduation in the Spring." Rock on, I thought. Done.

So, I consulted my parents on the situation, who told me in a three-way conversation that it was OK if I needed to take an additional semester at Winthrop. But I was having none of this. I had promised them I would graduate in four years, by golly, I was going to do it. So, at the beginning of summer vacation, my daddy, his checkbook, and I marched our happy rears to the registrar's office at Tech, and I enrolled in Chemistry and Spanish. And for two months, I went to Chemistry class at 7 a.m., five days a weeks, with lab meeting twice a week. I did well in both sections...and I did well in Spanish, but I don't remember a thing.

Flash forward to my Senior Fall audit at Winthrop. I waltzed into Ms. Kimberly Wright's office with a grin on my face and my Tech transcript in hand. She looked at it and....grimaced. "Ohhhhh....."

I flinched.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"You took two lab sciences. You only needed one."

Well, crap, I thought. Eh. It was fun. At least I learned something. Sucks my dad paid for it.

"You're still lacking a non-lab science credit, though," she said.

My face turned red and I envisioned lunging over her desk and smashing her proudly hung Vandy diploma over her head.

I wanted to say, "Ms. Kimberly Wright, you owe my hard-working, lower middle class daddy X amount of money for that superfluous class! Get out your checkbook! And while you're at it, you press whatever special button you have there and make that class count!"

I wanted to go to my apartment and find the piece of paper Ms. Kimberly Wright wrote the course numbers on and make her eat it. Instead, I said, "Pardon?"

"Yeah, you still need a non-lab science credit."

"I can't take classes next semester. I'm doing my student teaching, and I can't take classes."

"Well, then, you'll just have to spend another semester at Winthrop."

Like Hell I was going to spend another semester at Winthrop.

"All the classes are full by now. What can you get me into? I will graduate on time."

"Um, looks like there's a space in Nutrition."

"Done. Get me in there. And I'm taking it Pass/Fail. Make that happen."

I drove around after that meeting and cried. Thank you, Ms. Kimberly Wright. You still owe my father that money for the superfluous class. At the same time....Thank you, Ms. Kimberly Wright. Now that I want to apply to PA programs, I have my Chem credits taken care of.

God works in mysterious ways....

Q. Don't most people who go into medicine have a motive? I mean, why do you really want to be a PA?
A. I'll be honest, part of the reason I want to become a PA is money-based. My husband wants to be a writer, and I don't doubt that he'll do just that. But, let's be honest with ourselves, there's no guarantee that he'll make it big selling his works. Just like there's no guarantee that I'll get into a PA program. Just like there's no guarantee that I'll wake up in the morning. Life's a crap shoot. Regardless, the idea of pursuing a career where I can be financially supportive is appealing. On the other hand, when it comes down to motivation that counts, the reason I want to pursue this field is simple. I want to help others. I want to make a difference in people's lives. I want to deliver babies.

The great thing about becoming a PA is that I have tons of options. A PA can basically work in any branch of medicine. However, my goal is to work in OB/GYN.

*Anecdote 3: Birth. When my sister, Katie, called me to tell me she was leaving for the hospital to be induced, I hopped in my car and beat her there. I waited for ten minutes for my sister and her husband, Patrick, to pull into the hospital parking lot at Cookeville Regional. I watched her get into her gown. I watched as the nurse hooked her up to an IV. I watched as she smiled at, "One centimeter dilated." I called school and requested a substitute for the next day. I went home. I came back at six in the morning. Katie was still smiling, but obviously tired. I watched as the nurses administered Pitocin. I watched as the contractions began. I saw my sister become incoherent and say nonsense words--"Stink-c-c-c"-- in lieu of curse words. And my mother and brother-in-law and I all made faces at each other. I watched her nap. I saw my sister endure pain and scream "I'm going to have a BM!" And I saw my roommate and dear friend, Erin, act as bed pan girl. And I heard Katie say, "No, I'm OK." And Erin removed the bed pan. And five seconds later, Katie screamed again, "I'm going to have a BM!" And Erin quickly put the bed pan under her. Then, she said, "No, I'm OK." Then, I saw the contractions come on stronger. I heard the nurse tell her she was fully dilated.  And the nurses broke Katie's water with a giant crochet hook and Patrick and I both looked at each other with wide, disbelieving eyes. And I watched as cool, calm, and collected Dr. Casal entered the room. I stood over Dr. Casal's shoulder - on his left. I heard my sister scream in pain, and I flinched and grabbed the straps of my sundress. Dr. Casal stopped and turned to me and said, "Are you OK?" And I nodded and looked at my sister and he continued. He told her, "Katie, put that energy you used to yell into pushing your baby out." And she nodded and did. And I saw my mother and Patrick holding Katie's knees and comforting her. And I saw Beth Mannle tearing up and smiling and taking pictures what would soon be the first appearance of her first grandchild.

And then, I saw her.

I saw the top of her head, full of Calico-colored hair. I saw her tiny hand breaking through. I saw her little shoulder and her face. Her closed eyes. I saw her little torso and her legs. Her umbilical cord.

And I saw my sister, who had struggled and fought with infertility, hold her miracle baby.

I had the privilege of going into the waiting room to tell two anxious men that they were now grandfathers. And I held my daddy and cried as he asked me if they were OK. I got to say, "Yes." Then, I led them into the room where the blessing occurred. I watched my sister as Dr. Casal administered the episiotomy and I went to her side and whispered, "This is the proudest I've ever been of you."

I left the delivery room that day thinking three things:
1.) My sister is amazing. She has always been my hero, so strong, and she just out-did herself.
2.) I am in love with Meredith Jane Mannle.
3.) I think I could do that. I think I could deliver babies.

Through my job, I've learned so much about women's health. On multiple occasions, I've inserted the speculum to locate the cervix. I've performed bimanuals and rectovaginal exams. Palpated ovaries, the uterus. I've checked Skenes and Bartholins glands. I've performed multiple breast exams - even one on a woman with implants. I'm proud of all of this, but it doesn't compare to seeing a live birth. It's amazing. What's more amazing is knowing that women who struggle with fertility can receive help.

So, that's why I've chosen this path. I may not even have the great fortune of working in obstetrics. Regardless, no matter what the health-related issue is, I want to be there. I want to help.

The Other Side of Twenty-Five

On our way to UVA at six this morning, I announced to my three fellow co-workers that my birthday is tomorrow. "I'm looking forward to the other side of twenty-five," I said happily. That got a chuckle and approval from my "partner in crime," the comma-loving, future Dr. Diaz (who is, by the way, a mere twenty-three). I never thought I would happily admit to turning twenty-six. If you're older than me, your probably scoffing at my vanity right about now. Well, you must realize after my eighteenth birthday, I "turned" eighteen until my twenty-first birthday. I've struggled with Peter Pan Syndrome for years. Funny how after the hips fill out and the law pronounces you legal, you suddenly want to drive your car down a flight of stairs and streak through the neighborhood. Well, maybe you don't or didn't, but I did...and did. (Momma, if you're reading this, keep in mind that I graduated college with a 3.8 GPA and only one broken toe. Not too shabby for Wild Child.) Point being, I have a hard time letting go of the past. I have a hard time letting go of my youth.


I'm not saying it's time to break out the application to Shady Pines, but I will admit it's time to dig out and pull on the Big Girl Pants I hid under my bed (next to the stolen traffic cones and restaurant coasters). And, so help me, I'm looking forward to it. I'm ready.


No, this does not mean I have decided to give up all things fun. And this certainly doesn't mean that I can't come out and play anymore. And the piercings stay. The blanket, too. The blanket ALWAYS stays. *When I was seven or eight I told some of you I'd wear that blanket as a veil on my wedding day. Well, I didn't. But I still have it. Bet some of you didn't think I was serious, did you? HA!


What does it mean then? It means taking a deep breath, saying a little prayer, and taking a moment to think (and repress my ADHD), and....


- Take better care of myself. Truth of the matter is, I'm not 18 anymore, and my body knows it. My brain's starting to realize it, too.
- Make better decisions. Gone are the days of "what the heck!" Spontaneity's a beautiful thing - when it can't jeopardize my career, my health, or my relationships.
- Stop complaining. Rolling my eyes, whining, and fighting back the urge to scream because I have to change the oil in my car or go to work is unacceptable.
*When I worked at CHS, I remember very vividly walking to the copy room in the Fine Art's wing at seven in the morning with my wet hair flopping in my face and my jazz pants stained with coffee I spilled on the car ride to school. I was carrying a stack of wrinkled, unorganized quizzes and my shoe laces were untied.  I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed for the umpteenth time. It was a typical day in the life of Mrs. Flavis. Then, I passed by Mr. Cephas, the jolliest Ugandan on the planet. "How are you doing?" he asked. "You know. I'm here," I mumbled. "How are you?" I asked in return. "You know. I'm alive, so it's a great day!" he replied. And he actually meant it. While at the time I wanted tackle him and strangle him with my shoe laces, I now see the beauty in his gracious response. Life's too short to complain about, well, life.  No matter how tedious the tasks we have to fulfill may seem, the clock's going to keep on ticking.
- Be honest with myself (and others, of course). Ignoring and avoiding unpleasant situations and/or conversations due to fear or laziness doesn't make them go away.
- Be ready to take responsibility. I've never had a problem fessing up to my mistakes. However, I often go into precarious situations without worrying about the consequences. I guess I hope I won't get caught or I just figure, eh, I'll find an excuse. But why? I guess this goes back to taking a moment to think before I act. If I'm going to take a risk, it needs to be a worthy one., which mine generally aren't.
- Be considerate of others. I'm not sixteen anymore, the world doesn't revolve around me. I like to lock myself into my own little world and day dream. I focus a lot on myself - and not in the good way. I don't live a selfless life, and perhaps it's impossible to live a completely selfless life, but I can make more of an effort.

This seems like a lot to add to the pot overnight, doesn't it? I don't expect to transform at midnight. These are simply goals for my twenty-sixth year, and I know they won't be easily accomplished. The way I see it, I'm doing well to have at least lit the fire. It just needs a little fuel.

To wrap this up, I'd like to reflect on my birthday ten years ago, when I turned sweet sixteen.
After my family birthday dinner, I timidly asked my mother if I could take the van and drive - by myself - to meet my friends at the local coffee shop. Momma's eyes filled with tears, she hugged me, asked me if I was sure I was ready, and handed me the keys. I told her thank you, hugged her, took the keys, and bolted for the door before she could change her mind. I'm not a mother, but now that I'm older and an aunt, I can imagine how difficult that must have been for my mom to watch her baby grab hold of that first bit of independence and run. So, I'd also like to say happy birthday to my momma, who let me rest in her womb for nine months, pushed me out into world (naturally), and loved me despite and for my imperfections from the moment I came silently into her life. Thanks, Momma.  I lovey, wovey, dovey you.

New and Improved Blog

"For two people in a marriage to live together day after day is unquestionably the one miracle the Vatican has overlooked."
- Bill Cosby

Well, the blog isn't exactly new or improved. In fact, I am re-using the blog's original template. However, as you'll notice, the blog description has changed to "A Blog about Not-So-Newly Newlyweds."

That's right. I've decided to switch the focus of this blog to my marriage.

When I started this blog last year, I was homesick and lonely, and I wanted my family to be part of my life in Norfolk and know that I was always thinking about them. So, I wrote about my memories and told litte anecdotes from my daily life. I tried desparately to stay connected to my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, my niece, and my friends in Cookeville. I wanted them to read my thoughts in my voice and know that I hadn't disappeared from their lives completely. And while I don't think the blog thrived as I'd hoped (but then again, I didn't really advertise it), it made me feel better.

Then, something happened: I developed a life in Norfolk, complete with three jobs, school, volunteer work, and all the stress that follows. The blog stopped. While I've adjusted and I'm "back on track," I realize I won't be able to write every day.  My goal is to write once a week. If I surpass that goal, then it'll be a miracle.

I will write about marriage and happiness, two things I haven't focused on enough in my daily life. As a matter of fact, marriage and happiness are my two greatest challenges. I'm bad at marriage and happiness. I'm really bad at marriage. And I honestly don't think I have ever been truly happy for an extended period of time.

Wow. I just admitted THAT. (It was easier than I thought it would be.) At this time, I feel an explanation is due, so I'll take one subject at a time.

1.) Marriage. If you're a close friend or family member, you know that my marriage to Lucas has been a tremendous struggle. We went on a date, fell in love, got married, adopted a dog, made a few snap decisions, and moved to Eastern Virginia. And we fought the entire time. To be perfectly honest, throughout our almost two years of marriage, we haven't gone longer than two days without having a full blown-crying- shouting-saying hateful things to one another fight. While we always apologize to each other and admit our short-comings as husband and wife, we still haven't found a way to communicate affectively. I'm greatly to blame for this. I am stubborn, and I have a hard time completely forgiving Lucas for his actions. I'm also really uptight, and  I can make life a living hell for Lucas very easily. For instance, if Lucas forgets to close the cabinet doors or leaves the bathroom light on, that's fair game for an attack. And unfortunately, unlike my maternal grandfather, Lucas is extremely sensitive and unable to ignore me when I roll my eyes and mumble about his "laziness" under my breath. On the other hand, Lucas knows how anal retentive I can be, and he doesn't always do his best accomodate my, well, craziness. But, then again, why should I expect him to walk on pins and needles? Before I go on an unneccessary tangeant, I will get to the heart of the matter. I've spent so much time being bitter and angry about moving to Norfolk that I've lost track of what it means to be in love and married. The things is, being angry with my husband simply isn't going to help the situation. It's not going to make us move back to Cookeville. It's not going to make life in Norfolk better. And it certainly isn't going to make our marriage stronger. It's time to let the resentment go.

I need want to focus on having a beautiful, meaningful marriage to a man who was so easy to fall in love with, I accpeted his proposal after only five months of dating.

2.) Happiness. Sounds strange, but I have never been good at being happy. By nature, I am not a happy person and I have to actually work at it. Yes, that's right. I have to really try hard to be happy. I'm not clinically depressed. I don't currently see a therapist or take anti-depressants. I'm not suicidal. But in general, I'm not a smiley, laughing, happy-go-lucky, spontaneous, lovin' life kinda gal. I like to be alone for extended periods of time. I'm not a fan of big social events. I don't like going places and doing things unless I've mentally prepared myself. And even then, I can't guarantee that I'll enjoy myself. I hide being uncomfortable around people by either not speaking or using sarcasm, which makes me seem boring, rude, and/or generally unpleasant unless you appreciate sarcasm.

I am the Grinch.

My general teeth-clenching, eyebrows furrowed appearance says it all. To top it off, I'm married to a man, who, if allowed by his wife, would have people at our house every night, travel all the time, and spend ridiculous amounts of money on trips and material possessions that would bring joy to our lives. He likes to be happy. This causes problems in our relationship, too. His adventurous, people-loving, bohemian-like spirit and my inability to see the glass half full clash a tad bit.

But you see, like the Grinch, my heart has the capactiy to grow. And I want to be happy... if possible, all the time. While it goes against my general state of being, I want to give living a happy existance a try. Complete with dimple-bearing smiles and, (gulp) dare I say it, a positive outlook on life.

So, with this blog, I will write about my success, my failure, and my attempts at living a better life.
Happiness and marriage don't seem like bad things to put my energy towards. Here goes...well, something.