Big Kid Stuff

Tomorrow morning, this little guy will head off to Kindergarten.

It sounds so cliche to say that it feels like yesterday that we were all at the hospital, awaiting his arrival into the world. But it does. Cliches may be tired, but that doesn't mean they're false. And it doesn't mean they don't make my heart ache just the tiniest bit.

The first time I became an aunt, I was 16, living 300 miles away. I missed all of this, and I didn't fully understand or appreciate what I was missing. The first words and first steps. The silly songs and scraped knees. The tiny hands around my fingers becoming bigger hands holding mine. Learning to tell a joke, ride a bike, write your name. I couldn't fathom how quickly Baby Stuff becomes Big Kid Stuff, and I couldn't imagine how much we'd miss that Baby Stuff again.

I didn't know how to be Aunt Deana back then, and I never really caught up. Even now, I sometimes feel that I'm just catching on. I'm thankful that I have friends who make me practice.

As I was driving home tonight, I found myself thinking about tomorrow morning. School will be starting for me as well, and even though it's the 15th first day as a teacher, I still get butterflies. Wondering how the day will go, worrying that I will forget something important, curious what my students will think. Seventh graders in my school come to me almost like Elliott will appear to his teacher: nervous but excited, curious but cautious, hopeful for a good day, a good week, a good year.

I would say that I'm worried, but I know my friend, Courtney has the market cornered on that, and rightfully so. But I am claiming "hopeful" for tomorrow as my wish for Ell is the same wish that I have for all of my students.

I hope:

• you are more excited than nervous.
• your dad packs your favorite lunch, maybe even with an extra dessert.
• you like who you are sitting with.
• you don't feel too lost.
• you are kind and others are kind to you.
• you make a friend.
• you make lots of friends.
• you (and your mom) have more smiles than tears.
• you learn a little something.
• your teacher makes you feel appreciated and welcome.
• you go home, bubbling with stories, ready for the next day.

But mostly, Ell, I hope you always know how loved you are -- bigger than the sky and deeper than the ocean -- today, tomorrow, and every day. I can't wait to hear all about this next big adventure.

The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog

Yesterday, my students were taking a quiz in class. I sat at my desk, responding to an email. Typically, students hear the typing of computer keys and assume that the teacher is not watching. They take that opportunity to talk or cheat or do something really silly. And, as if on cue yesterday, as soon as I started typing my response, one of my boys reached across the table to try to win her attention by stealing the pencil from her hand.

Before his hand even made it off his desk, I had called him out with a "Hands to yourself, Mr. Taylor" and told him to get back to work, all without stopping my typed response. He stared at me incredulously for almost a full minute, waiting for me to finish what I was doing. After the quiz was over, he asked me if he could see what I had been working on because he didn't believe I was typing "real words". I couldn't show him because it was a work email about another student, but I asked him if he'd like to test me.

The whole class watched as I sat at my laptop, transcribing his words without stopping. They were in awe that I could not only type without looking at keys but that I could also correct my mistakes without going back to look at them.

I am an excellent typist. Mainly, I'm an excellent typist because I had an excellent typing teacher. And, yes, I took typing. On an actual typewriter. It was the dark days, indeed.

Coach Smith was our small school's art teacher, typing teacher, and head football coach -- a man of many talents, if you will. He referred to us as his Sweathogs, a nickname I have forever loved and continue to use at times. He also was sneaky-brilliant. See, I was a bit of a perfectionist at schoolwork then, and in order to correct something on the typewriter, you had to stop, backspace, insert a white-out strip, re-type the mistake, backspace, and type the correct letter, word, or sentence. Making mistakes was a time-consuming and irritating process, so I had a terrible habit of looking at my keyboard. This would elicit a reprimand of "eyes up, Nazworth" from Coach Smith every time.

Even if the man was reading the newspaper, he seemed to catch me.

And then one day, he sat a new student across from me. That student happened to be his son, Spencer, who happened to have the most gorgeous eyes on Earth. Now, I honestly don't know if Coach sat him across from me because it was the only open desk or because he knew I wouldn't talk to him (I was super-awkwardly shy AND a rule-follower while Spencer was an uber-popular cool kid). My guess is the latter, but what happened was I never looked at my keyboard again. I didn't necessarily stare at him, but I made sure to have my head up just in case I could sneak a quick peek or in case he needed to borrow a white-out strip. I didn't want to make mistakes, and I didn't want to miss a chance to gawk, so my only option was to become really, really good at typing.

And I did. Good enough to catch students doing all of the things they're not supposed to be doing when they assume I'm not looking.

See what I mean? Sneaky-brilliant.

So yesterday, as my class called out tricky words and phrases, trying to mess me up, this is the story I told. And then I reminded them that teachers really do always know what's best when it comes to seating charts.

Then I moved Mr. Flirty to a seat across from the starting center on the football team.

I'm kind of sneaky-brilliant too, now. Like I've said before, I learned from only the best.

(For all of you who haven't been exposed to the greatness that is
"Welcome Back, Kotter")

Character-Shaping

My first year in school was not a good one.  It nearly killed me and my mother both.  I still view that year as one of the most informative and character-shaping times of my life.  They were troubling and traumatic times, those everyday trips to the classroom where I learned nothing new, but every afternoon, I'd come home at lunch and sidle up to the bar and hear the news of the world.

Yes, that's right.  I was a 5 year-old barfly.

Before you retroactively dial up CPS, though, hear me out.  My parents managed a private country western bar and dance club in Pampa, Texas, and every afternoon, they'd open up to begin preparation for the evening.  Since we lived in a house behind the club and I couldn't stay by myself, my mom or dad would pick me up and bring me to the Nugget Club.  The bar was my babysitter, and it was a good one.

Sometimes, I'd wipe down tables or wash glasses.  Other times, I'd get to stay in the back and play video games or pinball or watch afternoon cartoons on the giant screen television.  And then I'd wander up front and sit with the afternoon drunks at the bar, sipping on a 7-Up with extra lime, shelling peanuts, and learning the important lessons of life -- like how to properly pick a square in the football pool or how to play black-jack.  Before I was 6, I knew how to shoot 8-ball, hate the Philadelphia Eagles, and carry a tray full of drinks.

It's a miracle that I didn't grow up to be a cocktail waitress.

But my favorite days were when my dad brought his roller skates to work.  The Nugget Club had a huge dance floor where my dad taught me to roller skate.  

Much like everything else he did, he was a hell of a roller-skater.  He'd put a '45 of Don Williams on, and we'd race or skate backward or wind through an obstacle course of barstools and beer mugs.  

Sometimes, I'd be skating by myself only to look up and see my mom and dad dancing alone, holding each other close, in the middle of the floor.  And much like everything else either of them did, they were fantastic dancers.  If I were to paint a picture of what true love looks like, that would be it.

Even now, 30 years later, I will hear an old country song and know all of the words.  I might not know the name of the song or the artist, but somehow I can sing along.  This makes my parents insanely happy, but it's only natural -- the soundtrack of my childhood is George, Willie, Waylon, Merle, and Patsy.  It was cheatin' hearts and steel guitars and Johnny Cash.  And I loved it.  I still do sometimes.

It's a miracle that I didn't grow up to be a drunk and penniless songwriter.

Instead, I grew up to be a school teacher, of all damn things, who still likes extra lime in her drinks, the wail of a steel guitar, and the smell of cue chalk. 

Like I said, character-shaping.

This one's for my mom and dad.  Thanks for the life lessons.  Whether good or bad, they've served me well.

Holdin' Hands

I love to hold hands.  I always have.  There are very few feelings that give me more comfort or strength.

This is how I spent my afternoon.  Just holdin' hands.

I took in a few smiles, too.

Thanks for the comfort, Kellen.  I needed it today.

No Rain, No Rainbows

There is the saying that there are no rainbows without a little rain.

Yesterday, that was so very true.  It was a difficult start to the day, and I found myself deluged by some incredibly confusing and shameful feelings.

But then the rainbows arrived.

Remember my two new nephews?  They live in Oklahoma and due to foster parent restrictions, it was difficult for my brother and his new family to visit Texas until adoptions were finalized.  And it's extremely difficult for my parents to travel the 4 hours to visit them.  

So yesterday, at 9:15 AM, my parents -- napping in their chairs -- awoke to a surprise visit from two of their grandchildren.  They'd only met Isaiah once, at his 1st birthday, and they had yet to meet 9 month-old Jaxson.  It was love at first (slightly confusing and dream-like) sight.

My mother, the Non-Crier, immediately burst into tears.  My dad, the Crier, was too excited to cry.  Me?  I'd already cried twice that morning, so there was absolutely no escape for me.  If you know me well, you knew this answer already.

It wasn't a long visit, but it was a good one -- a needed visit.  But it's 11:00 now, and I've just gotten home.  So I'll just leave you with some cute pictures.  That's all anyone wants anyway.

Jaxson meets Grampa for the first time. Bald is beautiful, people.

Isaiah and Grampa.  It's hard to catch a picture of Za.  That kid's always on the move.

Meemaw and Jaxson.  They were kinda in love.

See?  Told you.

Za at the domino table.  This is how I started my domino career --
building random domino sculptures with my grandmother, Henrietta.

When you leave home at 5:30 AM for a surprise visit, nap time comes soon.

The picture of relaxation.

Isaiah riding on my mom's walker.
The family cat also rides around the house on my mom's walker, so apparently, it's just the thing to do.
I took this picture specifically for you, Courtney Mullaney.

And if you read Wednesday and yesterday, and you still came back today... thank you.  Thank you for your kind words.  For your support.  For understanding and for validating.  For not making me feel ashamed to feel ugly and awful and alone.

You probably didn't know it, but while these guys were the rainbow, y'all were the ones holding the umbrellas.  I love you.

Sixteen Years

Sixteen years ago, while in my first year on Ad Staff at Camp El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.  There were 8 of us at that time, and as the 4th of July approached, our friend and camp director asked us if we'd like to go to her family's ranch for the weekend.  We had a great time, that first time.

Sixteen years later, we still go to that ranch.  At least twice a year, for a few days at a time, we leave all our responsibilities behind and just be.  And it's fabulous.

Lots of things have changed in those sixteen years.  The original 8 is now only 4, but we've picked up extra ranch fans along the way.  (There is no greater fun than introducing a new person to the magic of the English E-Bar.)  Instead of Cheetos and Oreos, it's whole grain crackers and hummus.  Instead of all-night Truth or Dare, we might take a wellness walk.  We are less Boone's Farm for breakfast (hey -- it's "fruit-like") and more mimosas and bloody mary's.  We wake up before noon and have face-timed with someone's kids before lunch.  Yes, things change.

And sometimes there are these:

That's Tyler.  He's 6 months old.  It's already is 2nd trip to the ranch.  Proof that if you're a cute enough dude, you can own Girls' Weekend.

But most things have stayed pretty much the same in those sixteen years.  We are creatures of tradition after all.  

There's still an adorable black lab on the front porch.  It's just that now he arrives and leaves with us.  And you better believe that he's the first one in the car when the packing to leave begins.  Homeboy's seen us drive away without him before; he ain't having that again.  He also smells better than the first one.  

Sorry, Moses, but it's true.

Still the same porch swing.  Needs a new paint job, but we're willing to overlook it.

This is different though.  Heather's not afraid of babies anymore.  Who knew?  

You can still stand in the middle of the road for hours, undisturbed.

Literally.  Hours.

Texas forever. 

And ever.

So much prickly pear everywhere.

Missed the first night's sunset for a walk through the property.

We still try to take a truck ride. 

 It's a new truck for a new generation of truck riders.

Sam still sits in back with us (although it's a little harder for both he and I to get in now).

Sitting on the toolbox is still the absolute best view.

Although you do risk mesquite tree attacks.

Deer blind.

Back tank.

Stand off with the longhorn.  We won, begrudgingly.

The other tank -- it's been a long time since I've seen it this green in July. 

Small blessings.

Saying goodbye to Ms. Longhorn.

Sam, aggressively trying to seem fearsome, and not fearful, to the longhorn.

Still lots of cows.  Still pissed that we'd come out there with no food.  

The nerve.

One of my favorite pics of the weekend. 

So very West Texas.

Spent many an evening sitting on the top of the Beer Blind.  

It's the absolute best place for stargazing.

But it's also pretty damn fine for sunsets, too.

We still like our drinks in plastic cups.

They taste best on the front porch.

And what a front porch it is.

The ranch is over a hundred years old.  It's seen its share of history.  But for the last sixteen years, it's seen mostly our history.  Our little tribe of friends and family.  It's seen arguments and tears.  It's seen spilled drinks and spilled secrets.  It's seen visitors from all over the world.  It's just a ranch, but it's also so much more.

It's card games that last forever.

It's guitar songs and lullabies.

It's laughter.  It's love.

It's friendship.  Through thick and thin.

And it's our favorite place to unwind, reconnect, gossip, drink, and cuss.

Forever.  And ever.

Here's to another sixteen, y'all.

The Sounds of Home

The creak of a porch swing. 

The wind blowing through the mesquite trees. 

The squeak of the windmill. 

The clink of ice cubes. 

The howl of the coyotes. 

The shuffle of cards. 

The buzz of cicadas. 

And the laughter of my dearest friends. Always the laughter. 

 These are the sounds of home.

Where Does the Time Go?

The last two days, I've been clearing room on my computer, getting rid of pictures I don't need anymore and music I'm still embarrassed to have.

I spent today cleaning out closets and sorting through the build-up of life.  

If you're ever in need of a reality check... sort through some old drawers and shelves.  The Ghost of Youth Past is totally holed up in there.  

I got kind of caught up in looking at some old photo albums -- mainly from when I was in high school.  There were lots of good memories and more than a few regrets.  But I'm glad I found them.  I hadn't looked at them in a few years.

This picture was taken 21 years ago.  It's the first picture I have of my oldest nephew, Hunter.  That baby drinks beer now -- legally.

And then I found this picture.  It's 21 years old too.  It's a classic of me and one of my best childhood friends, Christel.  It seems like forever ago and 10 minutes ago all in the same breath.

After finding this, I think I'm going to go drink a beer, too.  And maybe say a little thank-you prayer for eyebrow shaping and hair straighteners.  Yikes.

Man.  Where does time go? 

My favorite song from that year.  Still one of my top plays.  

Some things never change, I suppose

The Thursday Night Blues

I got the Thursday night blues, I think.

Those nights have been pretty special to me for the last 8 summers.  Our camp's closing campfires were on Thursdays.  We'd have a great camp dance and then head to the point for a huge fire and awards.  No matter how hot it had been that day, there was always a breeze off the lake.  Occasionally, there'd be a fish jump or Big Sam, the camp dog, would bark at absolutely nothing to protect us all.  Each counselor recognized the Broken Arrow winner in his or her cabin.  We recognized the campers and staff of the session.  But mostly it was the sounds of the cicadas buzzing, the fire crackling, and children singing.  That's what I miss most tonight.

I have to admit, I always felt closer to El Tesoro than I did to Camp Carter... except on those nights.

No one could touch a Thursday night at CC.

I miss you guys.

The "not taller than me" fire rule was never obeyed.

Broken Arrow winner

Lighting our candles

Passing the light

One of my favorite campfire moments with Caleb singing.  Still gives me chills.

And the last links are a nod to Jamie Fletcher, King of Begging for More Singing.  These were after our last campfire in 2012, after all the kids had gone back to cabins and we were singing only for the CIT's and ourselves and then later in the office.  None of us had any idea that it would be our very last Thursday night together at Camp Carter.  

Jamie is also known for recording you when you don't realize it -- which is what he was doing that night. Therefore, sometimes things don't sound so great, and you never know what you might have said.  Normally, I'd be mad, but now I'm so glad he did.  It makes me happy to hear our voices together -- even if it's just arguing over keys afterward (like I know anything about singing on key) or the forgetting of words. Big Sam, the camp dog, even makes an appearance in one track.