my ft.notes

Dear Applecross Lane:

Love grows best in little houses, with fewer walls to separate.
Where you eat & sleep so close together, you can’t help but communicate.
And if we had more room between us, think of all we’d miss.
Love grows best in little houses just like this.
Anon

(I just found this post, years later, stuck in my drafts. It made me feel things, so I’m sharing it with you now…)

Seventeen mailboxes into my life, I put my roots in people, not places. But we just sold you, little house on Applecross Lane, and I’m teeter tottering on the edge of my feelings. You, sweet 3/2, you have been a circus ring, a school, a church, an office, a concert hall, a house of healing.

If your walls could talk, they’d be fluent in Hamilton, Wicked, Poison, old country, new country, talking back, talking up and more than a few talking to’s. 80s favorites, the Titanic sound track (#notsorry), Rocky Top, Dad jokes, Come, Lord Jesus, Be Our Guest, Spades scores and shrieks of B.S. Your walls held us up, held us together. Your floors grounded us. Dancing—from waltzes to tik toks to our own custom choreography. Your paint absorbed rehearsals of tough conversations and too many eulogies reverberated in echoes of pain and peace.

This is where I started knocking on the boys’ doors as fair warning. I know the corner window where Case would watch for my car coming down the street when I came home from a work trip. The smack middle of the kitchen where I braced myself against the island for a political joust with Tucker, where I learned the best thing I could give him was space for us to trade mistakes. The rack in the laundry room where we hung the too-small jerseys that Jeff couldn’t part with. The just-right spot on the patio where I took my coffee with a cannonball of cream, my kisses in threes. The exact stone Jeff would stand on where he could keep an eye on the football score and his egg. Where Tucker walked less than two steps in the door and betrayed himself with a grin. He’d been smooching. First day of school pictures were snapped by the birds of paradise out front.

A doorframe holds the history of smudged lead lines where the boys overtook my height. From their bedrooms, these new, tall kids would emerge in the morning. And I never had a chance to say goodbye to the ones from the day before, the ones who loved white tshirts, “who here’s trying to start a riot”. The ones who reached for my hand in public.

I don’t remember the last time I tucked them in with a prayer, but I know it was here, in this house. They have grown as wild, as unconfined, as the confetti lantana out front—a resting space for monarchs mid migration, bees as long and thick as my (un-green) thumb, hummingbirds that slowed just a smidge, mesmerized by the red, yellow and pink blossoms cohabiting in a single cluster.

This is where the boys learned that hugs are my love language and spoiled me with squeezes. But we also learned that you can’t hug away all hurts. Doors slammed. Moods unhinged. Sweetness was eclipsed by first-class sass.

The carpet swallowed tears. The roof opened to give my screams a pathway to heaven. Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision.

Simple as a crossstich, complex as the final piece. Where we surrendered to the busy because that kind of hard is easier.

Repose gray walls that, like our days, our prayers, our existence, are warm and cool and chameleon. The dang chameleon! I’ll never forget where I sat when Case shared his 21-page power point to convince us he needed one–why you have to gut load the live crickets before you feed them to the veiled chameleon–in a habitat warmed with the right lamp, spritzed with sterile water in a semi-circle twice a day.

A chameleon, a Frenchie puppy.

The backyard deer, the front yard bunnies.

Roots deep and strong.

I know the cracks, the loose pavers, the spot on the window sil that coaxes green leaves toward the sun, the window where you can watch the birds and the bats switch shifts, the time of night the owl calls my name.

I know where to knock on the wall to nudge Case out of bed. How many steps from the kitchen to Tucker’s room. I know where the reception is best and where—ooops—I will likely lose the call.

There are things we’ll take with us. Our little dining table with the swivel seats where we ask over dinner, most days, what made us laugh, what we learned and how we helped today. There are things that won’t change.

Every kitchen floor we call our own is made for dancing.

But I wish the new owners, your new family, every ounce of light and happiness you can hold.

Love grows best in little houses, just like this.

Dear Dadda

Hi, Dad.

This letter has been pin-balling across my brain for a while now. When I saw you in a few days, I was going to ask you if it was okay for me to write about your medical odyssey. I hadn’t shared your diagnosis or prognosis with many people. Maybe because saying it out loud felt like leaving the truth in wet cement. Maybe I still struggle with sharing what no one wants to hear. That doesn’t matter now. I can’t ask you and I won’t go into the details without your permission. I’ll just say this: Disease isn’t a stranger. We’ve exchanged words. But I’ve never known a sneakier, dirtier thief than ALS. I was going to write about how it stole your ability to bring food to your own mouth, to turn up the volume on Jeopardy, to even leave your chair, to give real hugs. Though it overtook your limbs and lungs, it could never conquer your brain–your big, beautiful brain. It never dulled the wicked mischief in your eyes. Thank God.

That’s what I’ll write about instead. Your light.

I’m sitting in your desk chair now, surrounded in 360 degrees, by your comforts. There’s a picture from Disney up here and you deserve full credit for our family’s collective obsession with the magic. Thank you for teaching me to raise my arms and lift my feet and laugh-scream all the way down the biggest hills. Less control, more tummy flops. This is max mode and it’s a good rule for coasters and for life.

Disney Digression: Remember our boozy fireworks Pirate Cruise? Our captain kept saying: Marriott family–why is the rum gone?

There’s a deck of cards next to me, too–a deck of cards was never far from you. You loved games and wages and bets. Spades, Monopoly, Risk. You loved teaching us–not just the rules, but the strategy–and how to beat everyone we played (except you). You taught me how to funnel that electric surge of competition, learn from each turn and lose graciously–usually by asking for a rematch. Bed times were a pretty strict business when we were growing up, but games were the exception. We’d stay up til the wee hours playing, with you holding court at the head of the table.

It was a while before I learned how cool you were because you were such a firm curmudgeon with the rules. MTV was blocked. My curfew was always earlier than my friends’ and Mom had to sweet talk you into letting me do just about anything, or so it seemed. Do you remember the time I confessed to having one sip of one warm beer when I was 15? You grounded me for the entire summer. But when our neighbor’s daughter had a party when her parents were out of town and the house was wrecked, she came to you and Mom. Y’all cleaned her house, patched dry wall and assured her that she wasn’t going to die. Cause you were awesome.

Up here in your office, I’m also in your library, near to your leather-bound treasures. We’ve always shared a kinship with books, the smell of the ink-steeped pages, the characters, the poetry of it all. Words are powerful, you said. We marveled at how the masters stitched syllables together, how they could manipulate your emotions. We geeked out over allegory, allusions and etymology. You could even read Latin and Elvish because you were never not learning. We had a shared love of words and conversation. In any parcel of the universe, from the most posh spots in Europe to the bleachers in the Little League park, words were your connectors; you found common ground and talked to anyone. But I think you were happiest when words weren’t required. You perfected the art of just being, comfy in the living room, sharing air, surrounded by us. Unscripted. Unfancy. Your favorite story was us.

I will treasure this weekend in October forever–the first time in more than 17 years it was just my parents and us kids.

You took your last breath in your living room and I know you heard my goodbye through the phone. Mom promised me. The hole you left is deep, wide and unfillable. It’s so vast and vacant, I think, because your presence was a force. You were always there, front row, for every hurt, every joy, every promotion, every failure, every thing. But the emptiness reveals how full and complete it was to know you and love you. The day you died, Case made a power point for you and he recounted how you made him laugh. Do you remember the fly on the table in that restaurant at the beach? And the song you and Case wrote about Ozzie to the tune of “Gaston”? Case does. And, that night at dinner, Tucker asked if he could pray. Instead of saying grace over our pizza, he gave thanks for your beautiful soul and all the life we had. This has shown me more of my sons’ hearts. But you already know them.

And I know in my bones that you’re home and you’re whole. Thank you for leading me to the way, the truth, the life. Thank you for choosing the words for your service yesterday to remind us that God’s ways are higher than ours and He’s our ever-present strength. We’ll all be calling up that assurance in the weeks to come. And thank you for adoring our mother, in the highest, most beautiful way you can love a person. Your union holds us all up. What a privilege to be part of your adventure and witness such an incomparable expression of the truest love.

Speaking of our better halves, Mom’s making Jeff an egg sandwich downstairs, trying to keep everyone full. Tim’s teaching the boys to play pool on your table; they do have your shark skills gliding in their blood. Lindsey and Brad are potty training Callum and I know you’d be appropriately rolling your eyes as we sing “potty power” at max capacity.

Pain still pricks. A shock. A pop. Then I slide into puddles of numb. Relief and guilt tangle up in this hairball of grief. Mostly, though, gratitude floods in. It overwhelms me. I’m so grateful that you were my Dad. I’m so grateful for four decades of you–a rare soul of fun and love and light. It’s been an embarrassment of riches, enough to sustain us for a thousand lifetimes. We’re also buoyed by our community of beautiful humans, a constant lift of care and prayer. They’re remembering your smile, first and most, your laugh and your stories. Alison wrote that you were the best of the best and that there’s so much of you in me.

We were singing to The Beatles. 8/9/2003 was the best day of my life.

Oh, I pray so, Dadda. And I pray that the you in me grows to be a woman who always makes you proud, who–like you–makes everyone within my splash zone feel treasured and special and perfectly made. I pray–like you–to love my people with reckless, fearless abandon. And I pray to steadily encourage our boys to chase their wild hearts and God’s purpose without apology.

I can’t wait to see you again. To hug you with full force, when you have an eternity of divine air to breathe in and tell jokes and pitch sillies. If there’s good red wine up there, save a glass of that miracle for me.

Until then, I know you know that I love you. And I mean it. And my memory of you will never change.

Dear 10 and 13

Dear 10 and 13,

The Gulf swallowed up summer. It was just here—I swear—and then it slunk into the horizon, taking 9 and 12 with it.

And here I am, washed up with the tide, a sappy puddle, a brackish mess, flooded with all the feelings.

It wasn’t a fancy summer. We didn’t make it to Europe. You spent most of it in the Florida wild, navigating rivers, tromping through cleansing mud, earning patience with each line you cast, soaking in old school adventures and new books.

Even though summer was gone in an eye blink, it was slow when we were in it. Minutes were fuller. They lasted longer.

Disney Digression

Right before summer tip-toed away, we spent a minute in its salty glory on the coast. I was peeling my cover up off, inch by inch, exposing as little of me as possible before I sank in to the safety of my beach chair. And, Case, you spoke up. You’re always the one who helps me find beautiful.

Momma, you said. You look strong.

I had been wriggling out of my cover up aware of the regret thickening my thighs, aware of new circumferences. Now I reconsidered.

I feel strong, I told you. And I meant it.

You smiled, satisfied, and turned back to your shell hunt. And I wondered at you, 10. You always spy the good in others, usually in a corner they haven’t connected to light yet. You’re like a little goodness-reflecting prism, with your confetti freckles and rad blonde bang swoop. You don’t know your own strength.

Then I looked over at you Tucker, shoveling sand. It’s just like you to dig for new depths. You always take things apart to see how they work, finding better meaning layers in. When I was 13, I was smooching a cute boy in the back row of the movie theater (sorry, Mom + Dad). Have you even seriously held hands yet? Don’t answer that. But never stop valuing wit and smarts and cleverness. Never stop seeking. You don’t know your own strength.

This year, 10 and 13, I want you to find your strong.

I’m not talking about your idea of strong—the kind that hits the ball farthest. The kind that breeds rebellion for shock’s sake. The kind that, lately, sparks defiance to bloom on both of your tongues.

I’m wishing you a true-north strong. Quiet strong. Wise strong. It’s a strength that’s aware of its own impact and knows just how precious each breath can be. Maybe this feels way too heavy for 10 and 13. But I want you to find your strength because there’s tough stuff ahead.

It’s why I still leave post-its in your lunch boxes. Because I mess up. Every day. But if I do nothing else, I want these truths to stick to your heart in neon: you are loved. So loved. You are deeply valued. You are wonderfully made. You are woven with purpose.

Your dad and I are here for you. It’s our job to love you and guide you into self-reliant, selfless humans. Y’all call me sheriff, half-kidding, because I demand that manners pull a full-time residence in your mouths, I don’t tolerate ugly words spoken against anyone and I am never okay with you calling something “your junk”. Seriously. Good in, good out, I preach. I talk a lot, I know, but I hope you feel my dearest wishes and prayers for you.

I pray you realize your divine, hand-crafted worth. I hope passion, for whatever it is you find on your own, fizzes within your veins. There may always be someone bigger and stronger and louder than you (sorry, guys—your mom is only 4’11), but your tremendous hearts and brains are capable of audacious things. Don’t let any human dream bigger for you than you.

Someone told me this a few weeks ago: start making the decisions you’d want your kids to make. That shook me a bit. But your dad has always been that deliberate. He chooses well. He’s the most radical man I know, but so few people know it. He quietly gives and serves so completely and freely, expecting nothing in return, hoping for your happiness.

Can I tell you what makes me happiest?

Breakfast with you, Case. I sip on coffee. You unload your brain—I have to beg you to take bites when you find a pause to breathe. You ask me to quiz you so we can get multiplication tables “back in your head” after the long summer. An eternity to you. A moment to me.

Your crazy-hard animal pop quizzes. No—I don’t know about a wombat’s habitat. Or the fastest speed of a peregrine falcon. Or how to spell peregrine falcon without looking it up. But you do.

Nightly tuck-ins. Here and there, you ask me to sing. I still love singing to you.

Tucker— I love when you sing out loud. You have a tender tambor and honey tone. I love our rides to school. We listen to 80s—your obsession with the 80s cracks me up. We talk about books, movies. The phases middle school yahoos slink through. Nothing’s better than a text popping up from you from middle school, in the middle of the day. You share your drawings, good news, the I love you emoji. Yesterday, my miracle, you asked me to come sit on the pool deck with you while you finished your smoothie. And I thought my heart might detonate.

You ask for me less, just when I’m craving it more. So, here I am, furiously scribbling it all down, my mind meandering like this letter.

I’m happiest when we’re a whole 4—in the car, around the dinner table, anywhere at Disney, on the beach. Okay, fine. A whole 5. We’re all a little happier when Ozzie’s snuggled up in the mix. I love when all 5 of us are piled on the couch—watching a Marvel movie for Tucker, NatGeo or HGTV for Case, GameDay for Dad, slumming it with a Fast & Furious movie or (y’all giving in to) So You Think You Can Dance for me. That kind of cozy is rare and fleeting and I’m holding tight to each one.

Indulge me this year when I ask for an extra hug, when I holler “I love you” from across the house, when we’re at a stoplight and I pat your knee like an old lady would. When did you grow big enough to ride shot gun? Don’t protest when I want the TV off when the four of us sit down to dinner. And just once, when I ask you to turn your video games off, maybe you say okay instead of asking for five more minutes?

Because, this year, I want us to be the kind of strong that changes how we tell time.

Can we measure this year like a song? In tuck-ins and dance shows and road trips and Ozzie’s zoomies? In night swims and cook outs and Sundays at church? In Dad jokes and kick offs, in Disney, in Florida sunsets?

In strength and love. We’ll measure in love.

Centered

Her bun was blonde and tight. Everything about her was slight and light except for the full coil that sat smug on the nape of her neck.

Her elevator eyes surveyed me, hanging on my legs—my short, thick legs—and assessed my height. I haven’t finished growing yet, my eyes pleaded with her.

We had just moved to Georgia and my angel mother, who still believes I can do anything, had driven me downtown to audition for the ballet company in our new city. I’d been dancing since I was two. Today, I was eleven, standing in the biggest studio I’d ever seen with dozens of girls my age. The wall of mirrors correctly reflected that in this sea of long, lithe branches, I was a squat tree trunk. These other willowy creatures were already in the ballet company. I had a chance today to show them what I could do.

The bun was about to start class when an older woman in an oversized tunic and fierce black hair drifted in. Her good energy splashed over everyone in proximity. When the bun noticed her notice me, she explained why I was there. And this woman, with her wild hair and even more wild eyes, stayed to watch me dance.

It was a silent eternity before the music started and I gripped the barre for dear life. But, when the first notes filled the room, my muscles melted into memory. The bun was methodical, sharp-clapping in rhythm, demanding slow, deliberate movement that stretched to the end of every note. And I kind of loved her for that, her care with the craft.

In ballet, you keep proving each move, from the tip of your tallest finger to the point of your longest toe. Symbiotic, you and the music complete each piece and you never stop stretching, pointing, looking, until it’s time to glide, jump or turn into the next move.

Ballet forced me to feel tall. Ballet had my whole heart.

After a grueling barre and some work in the center floor, the bun asked us to line up in the back corner. Physical giddiness fizzed beneath my skin. We were going to leap! We started with jetés, than grand jetés. Mid-air, I heard the bun bark out: good. Good!

See, back then, shortie had much ups. And, if nothing else came out of that day, the bun had seen exactly what my legs could do.

After the reverence, the class filed out and I hung back to hear my fate. The bun betrayed no expression, but the wild pixie leaned down to place both of her hands on my shoulders, untamed eyes close, smile open. “You dance from your center,” she said. “We’d love to have you join us.”

I’ll never know if she meant my literal middle, my core, my heart. I just know her words landed deep and I’ve called them up more than once in my life. Then I was met by my Momma’s proud-as-punch squeal in the lobby. And all was right with the world. At 11, I was smack in the middle of my center.

Your center is the midpoint, the nucleus, the most important place. You can center around something, too, move to the middle or focus in.

Lately, I’ve been a teense off kilter. Off tempo, off key, just-off center.

Leaning in to work, l’ve been leaving a gaping hole at home. Leaning in at home, I feel like I’m losing my place at work. Leaning, leaning. Worrying up for parents, sideways for a sister, sinking in worry. I live a charmed life, no doubt, but in response to the emotional maelstrom that’s swept my loved ones up this last year, I’ve lost site of my center. I’ve been teetering and grasping for the nearest solid option—my husband, a friend, a glass of wine.

And in the middle of a swirling universe, a trap door popped open to swallow me in grief.

I lost my grandma today, my Tootsie. It was an accident, a jolt, a shake-you-wide-awake.

She was the heartbeat of the Marriott clan. A woman clothed in strength, dignity, laughing with no fear of the future. Equal parts sassy, classy, accessory. With unruly beautiful balance. tootsie selfie

She had an actual twinkle in her eyes. A mischievous, wicked flicker.

She could arch an eyebrow high as the Brooklyn Bridge.

She could hold her whiskey and (sometimes) her tongue.

When he was a baby, Tucker could not get enough of her. He’d bury his infant face into her sweet wrinkled cheek and cover her in kisses. We all felt that way.

Because, for all her fun and games packed into a petite 5 feet, Tootsie was also the queen of center. Mother to 5 sons. Matriarch to dozens of grands and great grands. Each one of us got cards on every single holiday, birthday. And I hadn’t even returned her last phone call. Recitals, graduations, weddings, showers, baptisms. She was always there, for everyone. She made you feel like a gem. She knew what was most important.

tea for three — Disney Digression. Lindsey and I loved our magical Tea for Three adventures.

One of my favorite memories with her was a hot air balloon ride—one of her bucket list checks. We were floating high over north Tampa, pressed against each other, peering over the edge of the basket into the glory of the morning. As we drifted through this perfect, quiet peace, I realized this flight was like her walk with God. I prayed in that moment to keep this calm and this wonder.

Tonight, Tootsie’s dancing in the heavens with Doug, her love, jitterbugging across a cloud, perfectly centered.

And that’s my word for this year. Centered.

Center is not in yesterday’s regrets or tomorrow’s troubles. Center is today. And I will be glad in it.

Because when my true center dwells in my heart through faith, He can do infinitely more than I can ask or imagine, no matter what’s whirling by.

This month, as life would have it, I pulled on ballet slippers for the first time in 25 years. I tiptoed into the studio and gripped the barre, old pal, for dear life. Then music notes filled the room and my muscles melted into memory. My legs, ever thick, do not snap into fifth position anymore. But my arms, suddenly French, found the rhythm.

The teacher smiled at me. “Nice arms, Mindy. But, look. See? You have to tondu from your center.”

A love letter

Dear Jeff,

We’ve been smooching for more than 18 years now. But can we chat about that first one? Most people who love us know the story. We’d been talking for hours that night, under the oh-so-flattering flood of a parking lot light. Hours. Finally, in the wee, humid beginning of that summer morning, I asked you if you were going to kiss me or not. Finally, you did.

That. Kiss.

Looking back now, so much of us, so much of you, was in that vulnerable lip lock. It was epic in its spark (hot, hot, HOT) and in its simplicity. It demanded nothing. There was no ego, no desperation, no agenda. We’re a pair of odd socks–it’s true–you, 6’6. Me, 4’11. People ask. Trust. It works.

I didn’t know in that heart-racing, mind-bending, game-changing moment that you’d be my husband. I just knew that you could never be anything but mine. (Even though Ozzie absolutely thinks you’re his. You may be the only human on the planet who actually is the person our dog knows you are.)

While they are my lifeblood, people would say that you’re a man of few words. (I would say you repeat yourself a lot). And, after so many years, I think I’m almost fluent in your southern mumbles. You may not have a gift for gab, but I hold tight to a few of your phrases. You said once: I wanted you the second you ordered banana and pecan pancakes. I still don’t know why. Was it the way I rhymed “pecan” with “she can”? Was it because I ordered a stack of carbs? Whatever motivated that sentiment, it’s forever etched into my bones.

When I felt misunderstood, you said: I don’t think people realize that this is who you are. You are the same all the time. I don’t know if people know that. But you do. And that’s all that matters. When I’m empty, you hug me. When I’m full, you hug me. When you don’t know what to say, you hug me. I should tell you. You should know. Your arms hold me up–when I’m not zonked out in them.

You hold us all up–you are our load-bearing beam, our anchor, our catch-all plan. You make me tea. You make the boys lunches, every single day. You make sure we have fast passes, beverages and snacks packed for any occasion.

You make us laugh, too, with gruff voice overs for our French bulldog (no bun, just burgers). Your Chewbacca call rivals Chewie himself. And your hoola-hooping hips? Hot dog!

They way you do anything is the way you do everything. No frills, all heart, 2 hours early.

It’s not all fun and games. Losses. Blessings. All the things. Across 15 years of marriage, we’ve known for better and for worse. We’ve known in sickness and in health. We’ve known counting coins and an embarrassment of riches.

You are a dad who knows his sons’ hearts and passwords and shoe sizes. A husband who knows his wife’s heart and buttons and love language(s).

You know what to bring for baseball, what to grill for dinner, and what not to say during a new business pitch.

You know that fine jewelry isn’t my speed and I’m not into purses that cost as much as a pet. But taking me to Disney is always the right answer.

castle — Disney Digression: I’ve fueled your addiction

Vols — You’ve turned my blood orange and white.

You are the single most uncomplicated person I’ve ever loved.

Your faith is so easy and steady and sure, it helps me believe in miracles. Your love is so pure and strong and relentless, it helps me believe I’m worth it. Your resilience is so ridiculous that your parents, I know, would be in awe of the man you are.

I don’t know how I can still be desperate for everyone to like me. You’ve loved me enough for 60 lifetimes. And that’s a blip compared to the eternity we have in store. I do know this, Jeffrey Wright. I love you more than my life. Hugs. Kisses. I get 3.

A birthday letter to Tucker

Dear Tucker,

Twelve years ago, right now, I was trying to find our fit—two new puzzle pieces turning until we finally slid into place. Your head cozied into the crook of my right elbow and my left hand steadied a flailing foot. I was paddling through a soup of emotions, all rational thinking had drained from me. But I remember wondering at your perfect teeny foot, comparing it to the size of my thumb, not sure how or why God was trusting me with this precious life, divinely woven, warm in my arms.

They could smell my inadequate instinct, I was sure. They’d never let me leave with you. But. They did. And 12 whole years have slipped by since.

Tuck Trek

And, still, I’m wondering over you. I wonder at your feet, your now man-sized, perfect feet, which were longer than mine a long time ago. I wonder at your wicked-smart brain, the one that denominates the common core math that I can’t riddle through, the one that re-imagines entire worlds brick by Lego brick, the one that considers the frailest eyelash or armor plate shape in a pencil sketch.

I wonder at your old soul. The way you hold eye contact, both direct and comfortably, with everyone you meet. The way you always invite someone to open up with thoughtful questions. Your emotional barometer in any room or field. And you may not always be the best of the best on the baseball team, but you never forget to thank your coaches or the umps at the end of every game. We know. We notice.

You’re careful with your words. But you welcome any thrill with reckless expectancy.

Music moves you, an electric conduit, and you’re never still. You’re always singing, dancing, building or moving. Unless you’re reading. I love your love for books—paper books, not digital ones, and the way you devour them in one sitting. You want me to read them, too, so we can talk characters, story arcs, the best parts. Like me, you re-read your favorites because they become old friends.

Your memory is country-miles long, just a little longer than your self-doubt. Everything is personal. Your faith runs deep, like your dad’s, always-on, a constant current coursing through you. You don’t question it. It’s a steady pulse as sure as your heartbeat. And your prayers have a way of startling me into the present.

Tucker baptized

One minute, you’re answering me with first-class sass, challenging me with your intense eye contact and your own ideas about what’s right. In the next minute, you’re being the best big brother I’ve ever known, always including your little sibling, your shadow, bringing him along on your adventures.

beach patrol — Another Disney Digression

You always ask me about my day. You ask things point blank. You ask mature questions about full-grown subject matter with alarming easiness. And, good grief, you’re twelve. Just steps away from a teenager.

Though everyone tells you that the days are long, but the years are short, everyone tells you not to blink, everyone tells you that each passing year flies faster than the last, you don’t get it until you live it. You don’t get it until your baby is eye-to-eye with you, and you wonder at his strength and heart, as he’s teaching you something you never knew. You don’t get it until life shakes you awake to remind you how fleeting and fragile and temporary it all is.

So, 12, let’s do this next year. Let’s ride all the thrill rides we can with our hands up and our screams free. I hope we talk books and movies and lyrics. I hope you keep the questions coming. I hope the puzzle pieces slip into place.

Sometimes, I can hardly believe you’re ours–at least for a little while. I can’t wait to see where your faith leads your amazing brain. And those perfect feet.

Tucker 12

A birthday letter to Case

Dear Case,

We brought you home 9 years ago, on Mother’s Day. Lucky me.

Case and Ozzie — The puppy you wished for forever is now your other “brother”.

You have been our sunshine from the start, our easy-breezy, aim-to-please-me child.

You still call me “Momma” and, baby, I’ll take it.

When I don’t have a stitch on my face, you tell me I’m beautiful. (But, then, my lipstick completely freaks you out.)

You’ll also squeeze me with the pluckiest hug and tell me I smell good. Like a cupcake. Like a flower. Like fresh spinach with salt. Which is cool. Cause you like spinach.

You’re a lover, not a fighter. So you’re not obsessed with fortnite, thank goodness, but you do know all the dance names—and their choreography. I love how you whole-body commit to each move, with a free and wide smile, revealing your permanent teeth finally growing in with crooked glory. Your teeth took forever to fall out. I get it. You’re hard to leave.

You can be as erratic as your freckles, sweet confetti across your cheeks. And untamed as your man-cub mane. Good grief–we go through unnatural amounts of detangler spray every morning. While I’m desperate to calm your hair, I never want to quell your silliness or thoughtfulness or need to be anywhere we are.

I love how you just want to be near us. When we’re walking and talking, you’ll put an arm around me or leave your hand on my shoulder. If we’re in separate rooms in the house, you’ll call out: “Momma?” “Yes, Case.” “Just wanted to say I love you!”. Translation: I wanna make sure you’re in earshot.

When you are semi-alone, you painstakingly create new dragon species and document their strengths and weaknesses in a special notebook. You rattle off random facts about animals that no one else knows because you learned it once on an animal show and tucked it deep in the folds of your beautiful brain.

You’re my favorite sous chef, with a taste for salad and sushi and Kalamata olives. You will try anything. And you chastise your older brother for leaving “perfectly good green beans” uneaten. You couldn’t be more different from your big bro, the old soul. But you couldn’t love him more.

Brothers You always see the good, the light, the bright side. Maybe that’s what makes you such an ace photographer.

photographer Case

When someone is upset, you’re not scared of red faces, flailing tantrum limbs or rejection. You go right in for the hug. When you found out the kid everyone was picking on in after-care is on the Autism spectrum, you spent the rest of your time there playing with him. When kids “accidentally” knocked over a classmate’s lunch, leaving him with nothing to eat but a squeezy applesauce, you offered him your food. For religious reasons, he couldn’t accept it, even though you told him it was a gift from you to him. How did you even know to phrase it that way? When you won a stuffed dino in a carnival game this weekend, you immediately handed it to the little boy next to you. He beamed. I beamed. And when we asked you about it, you just shrugged. “I picked him out before the game, Momma, and I knew I’d win one for him.”

I keep waiting for the cynical to flip on, but you are simply the purest heart I’ve ever known.

Despite your great grades and invitations for junior achievement and junior honor society, you worry down deep that you’re not as smart as your brother. But, bud, your emotional intelligence outshines the EQ of several adults I’ve known.

Don’t get me wrong. You have your moments. While you don’t sass me out loud, your stomp-offs are Ehhh-Pic. Putting your clothes away puts you over the edge. Who knows how many hours and tears you’ve spent over unpacked sock drawers and piles of hangers. Eventually, though, you manage to get the job done. You’re always apologizing to me in the end, making me laugh with a silly joke—those dorky, kid-safe groaners. We’re both suckers for those.

Lately, you ask me why I start work so early and stop work so late. I have no real good answer for you. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told you that my most important work is at home. We both know my default switch has been on the wrong setting.

But you, like your dad, you love fiercely, completely, without fine-toothed rationale. With you, there’s nothing measured or calculated. There’s nothing filtered, either. Words pop up with you and you believe everything’s better when it’s shared.

You ask hard questions, like: why aren’t dinosaurs in the bible? You pray bold prayers, always praying for other people, always leading by asking God to heal the ones we love who are desperate for healing. When things aren’t easy, your honesty is raw.

We both struggle to love God first and most when there’s so much consuming our hearts right here on Applecross Lane.

Adams boys

And my full heart is torn this year, Case, because you’re nine. Soon, you won’t reach for my hand as much–or at all. Soon, you won’t need to know that I’m just one room over. Soon, you may not choose time with me and your dad over anything else in this world. This next year, I may clutch your hand a little tighter, ask Alexa to tell us a few more jokes. I may even help you put your clothes away. I’m definitely signing my name as “Momma” until further notice.

I hope, in this next year, I give you my full, curious attention when you tell me about your dragons. I want to see every picture you take–and I hope it’s in the thousands. This next year, our kitchen is for dancing, even fortnite dancing, cooking and growing.

You won’t stay little much longer. But your amazingness is already so big.

So take courage, dear heart. Be strong and courageous. May this birthday be your happiest yet.

Table Topic Tuesday. 1/30.

Happy Table Topic Tuesday, y’all!

Here’s the question:

You mean, like, today? I’m a trained professional.

I happy cry during the usual suspects, the milestones. Weddings.

sibs — The young one ties the knot this year.

I happy cry each First Day of School. It’s an ambivalent alchemy of tears. Anxiety collides with pride. Hope for a fresh start trickles into the fear that I’m failing them. And, for reals, I’m just giddy to get back on a schedule.

I happy cry in church, most Sundays, in surrender to the music or the message or the moment. The Holy Spirit slips out of my eyes and soaks my shirt. Case, inevitably, will lean over and say: Mom, are you crying?

I happy cry during animated features. Watercolor lessons run deep. Case, inevitably, will lean over and say: Mom, are you crying?

I happy cry as we drive into Disney, riding under the welcome sign. Every. Single. Time. (#notsorry: this is where dreams come true). Case, inevitably, will lean up from the backseat and say: Mom. Seriously?

Illuminations, Reflections of Earth, makes me misty. There’s this epic moment when all of the lanterns are burning by each country, each pavilion, and the entire lake is illuminated by this warm fire light. Then the narrator exhales a whisper, extinguishing each flame. What?!?

spaceship earth — Spaceship Earth. EPCOT at night.

But it’s the sneaky happy cries I love the most. The ones that creep up on tip toe and whisk you up in all the feelings.

Like surprise notes from your boys in your stocking that say, in permanent ink, why they love you so big.

Thanksgiving. Everyone gathered around one table, hearts heavy with blessings, lips thick with gratitude.

Hugs from a friend you haven’t seen in way too long.

Landing after a rough flight.

Seeing anyone else happy cry. Joy, unhinged, is contagious.

Any story on ESPN on Saturday. If you need a therapeutic sob, watch Game Day.

All of this happy crying may sound like I’m leaking weakness. But, after decades of living on the edge of all of my feelings, I’ve learned these tears are liquid honesty.

What about you? Have you ever been so happy you cried?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #22.

I haven’t snuggled up in my Thanksgiving Chair in way too long. A new year is a good time to be grateful out loud, right?

Today, I’m thankful for words of wisdom from my Dad. He is full of choice nuggets. Things like: Excuses are like butt holes. Everyone has one and they all stink. (His version is a teense more colorful than mine). Or: I only expect your best. But I know what your best is. (Can’t tell you how fun it’s been to share that gem with my own children). My favorite, though, has always been: words are powerful.

Words have been my livelihood, my love and my lifeline, so this one sticks to my ribs like a proper biscuit. Words are powerful. Words can wound you or save you. They are bridges and fences. A wee word spark can roast an entire forest. They are expressions of the core of our hearts. Words are powerful. So, when I saw a sweet friend review 2017 by her word of the year, I wanted to jump on the trendy train and embrace one word to live by for all of 2018. But, of the gazillion gorgeous words in the universe, which one would I choose to measure a year?

HOPEFUL. My word this year is hopeful.

I’m hopeful that, this year, the boys will choose Legos over screens, outside over Legos and time with us over everything else. I’m hopeful Tucker will keep group-texting Jeff and me when he gets good news, uncovers something new or has a silly thought. I’m hopeful Case will keep hugging me with all the squeeze he’s got.

I’m hopeful that 15 pounds of wrinkles and a foot of tongue will keep bringing us together in ways I haven’t imagined yet.

I’m hopeful that the Volunteers have a good season. God is still in the miracle business. I’m hopeful this year is filled with Disney Digressions: meet ups, dress-ups and Dole Whips.

Disney Digression

I’m hopeful that this year means more corn hole victories, JENGA towers and firepit chats. I’m hopeful for less late nights and more date nights. A girl can dream. I’m hopeful that this work we do, this advertising stuff, will move business, sure. And, hopefully, move a few moods, minds and hearts along the way.

I’m hopeful that last year’s razor-edged grief, with its macho pushy points, will be worn down to a meeker, smoother, manageable mass. I’m hopeful that I’ll stop counting holidays as the first-without or the last-with and, instead, revel in the hope that, on the other side of earth’s horizon, there’s a celebration that will never end.

I’m hopeful that I’ll be more cautious with my words, more careful with my decisions and more reckless with my love.

I’m hopeful for this year that brings new family, new adventures and, God willing, new life.

I have this hope.

Wonderland

If you’re not entirely bonkers, do not proceed.

Today, we’re falling down the rabbit hole into a full-on Disney Digression.

See, my little sister says “I do” in one week and I’m all misty just thinking about it. While most siblings were playing school or house, Lins and I (and our brood of MyChilds and Cabbage Patch Kids) pretended we lived at Walt Disney World. She vowed to be married there, dreaming up a fairy tale wedding more than 3 decades ago. And, next weekend, the wish her heart made all comes true.

So, along the way, we’ve showered her with as much pixie dust as we could muster. And with the magically formidable women in the bridal party, we decided a high (read: boozy) tea in Wonderland was perfect for our princess’s shower.

When you’re mad, hats are just what you need to get in the right head space.

And white doors are begging to dress up as cards. Hearts are a sweet touch. Bonus if you can work in the wedding day or month (Her wedding day is 9/9).

Decks of cards make whimsical garlands and decorations. Just throw them about, all topsy-turvy like.

How awesome is anything-goes Alice? It’s all fun and games with black & white checkers, kooky clocks and cloth-bound classics.

That’s the shine of wonderland. There’s beauty in chaos and splendor in the higgledy-piggledy. Tea calls for tea roses, right? And they’re even lovelier upside down.

We filled tea cups and tea pots with flowers, straws, candies. Anything but tea, really. Because the secret-recipe sangria was a teense more refreshing.

What kinds of yummy for guests’ tummies? Sammies made with love, chessmen cookies and roses (as they’re being painted red). Drink me. Eat me. Yes, please.

It wouldn’t be Wonderland without a few harebrained games. We invited guests to leave the newlyweds their key to a happy marriage. Date night advice. Then we matched a few Disney love songs to their movies.

And a wonderland flower went home with everyone as a token of the golden afternoon, by way of a teacup.

Hats (errr, fascinators) off to a beautiful bride, the earth’s best bridesmaids and a magical ever after.