Giving Thanks

I have about a hundred new blog posts in my brain.  Since today is the Thanksgiving holiday, however, I will put those aside and give a nod to a holiday that is all about giving thanks.  And turkey.  And carbs.  Lots of carbs.  And bourbon pecan pie.  Have I mentioned how much I love bourbon?  And pecan pie?  Put the two together and. . . well. . . let's just say heaven on a pie plate.

Because I am taking over my husband's precious computer to write this post and he is on the verge of an apoplectic fit from technology withdrawal, I need to make this short and sweet.  Therefore, I've decided to do a "top ten" list of things for which I give thanks (in no particular order).

(1)  My children, Henry and Goose.

God has blessed me with two healthy, happy, and wonderful children.  I love both of them with the fierceness only a mother can.  They each have their own perfectly unique and distinct personalities (which are two of the aforementioned blog posts -- stay tuned for further details).  They each make me laugh.  They have each brought me to tears.  They have each made me frustrated to the point of a nervous breakdown.  And they have each filled my heart so full that I fear it may burst.

(2)  My parents, Sherry and David.

I owe my parents for so very much, not the least of which is giving me life and raising me to adulthood without actually killing me (and there were many times that homicide would have been justified given my behavior.  Sorry Mom.  Sorry Dad.)  I still think my father is the smartest man on Earth.  I continue to run to my mother first when I need comfort.  And I love them.

(3)  My brothers and sister.

I just spent a lot of time introducing my brothers and sister.  The oldest of this motley crew, I still feel somewhat responsible for them.  I love David's laugh, Megan's wit, and Michael's sarcasm.  I miss my brother David so much it hurts -- it just isn't right when he isn't sitting at the kids' table with me (yes, I am still relegated to the kids' table on occasion).  Michael and I shared a lot of laughter tonight while my sister helped me immensely by corralling my children so I could shove some food in my mouth in peace.  Thank God for them.

(4)  My friends.

These are just a few of my girlfriends, without whom I would not be able to survive.  These women have literally saved my sanity.  They have supported me, prayed with me, fought for me, laughed with me, and loved me.  I am so thankful to have such strong women in my life.

(5)  My job.

Oddly enough, the only photo I can find of my office is one I took when Henry was just a couple of weeks old and I took him into the office so I could catch up on my emails and voicemails while he slept in his pack and play.  Pitiful.  Anyway, I am one of the few lucky people who actually looks forward to going into the office every Monday morning.  I have interesting cases, clients who are also friends, and partners who I respect and trust.

(6)  Cyber friends.

This is a picture of me and two of my "Mommy Board" friends.  I joined a website for new mothers when I found out I was expecting Goose nearly 9 years ago.  A small group of us split from the large website and have spent the past 9 years on a different website, sharing everything about nearly every aspects of our lives, including our marriages, our children, our family and our friends.  Basically, these women know more about me than virtually anyone else.  I seek their counsel often and have found myself both offering a cyber shoulder to cry on and leaning on my "internet girlfriends" in times of trouble.  I have a separate group of women I met when I found out I was pregnant with Henry.  I find myself checking in with them multiple times a day.  Even though I haven't met some of these women in real life, I consider them my dear friends.

(7)  Blue skies, white sand and clear water.

I am never happier than I am while sitting by the sea shore.  Enough said.

(8)  Bourbon.

Is it sad that bourbon made my top ten list?  I will ponder that when I have more time and my husband isn't breathing over my shoulder, waiting for me to log off so he can have his Mac back.

(9)  My Nana.

My Nana was such a huge part of my life.  I often described her as my second mother because of the nature of our relationship.  She loved me with the fierceness that I described above.  And I miss her so.  My son held her hand, just days before she died.

I would give anything to feel her touch again, even if only for a brief moment.

(10)  My husband.

Whit is a good man.  He handles all things technical in our household.  He takes out the trash, kills roaches and keeps the gas tank for the grill full. Not only is he a good man, Whit is a phenomenal father.

What more could a girl want?

Today is Thanksgiving.  And I am giving thanks.

The Brother/Sister Relationship

My daughter was 5 years old when she started with the begging.

She pleaded every day, often multiple times each day, for a baby brother.  While I desperately wanted another child, my husband took a little more convincing.  He was happy with Goose.  He wanted her to be an only child.  He adored her with every fiber of his being and couldn't imagine bringing another child into our house when he so obviously would only ever love her.

I am so happy that Whit and Goose have that bond - that special bond that you always read about fathers having with their daughters.  One of my clients, who is both a physician and a father to a little girl, told me over lunch today about his bond with his daughter.  He described it as being in love with her -- obviously not in a romantic sense -- but in a way that she absolutely melted his heart.  He also told me that, as a physician caring for all kinds of patients, he doesn't think that love ever goes away.  He described old men on their deathbeds, who would literally light up the room when their daughters walked in.  

Whit absolutely lights up when Goose is around.

I like to think that my dad felt that way about me when I was a little girl.  I know my love for my father is unlike any other in my life.  My desire to please him, to make him proud of me, is a large part of who I am and why I am where I am today.

My father is the single most important man in my life.  And I love him.  Very, very much.

When Whit initially put up a fight on having a second child, I tried to convince myself that I was content.  That I was happy with this family of three.

But I wasn't.  I didn't want my daughter to not know the love of a relationship with a brother or sister.  I am the oldest of four children:  two girls and two boys.  My bond with my siblings rivals no other.  I would fight to the death for any one of them.  I am so thankful for them.

My brother, David, lives in South Carolina with his wife and their son.  He followed in my footsteps (and those of our parents) and attended USC.  He fell in love with Columbia and never returned home.  My sister and I talk on the phone every night.  Mostly about nothing.  But those conversations of no real import mean the world to me.  My baby brother, Michael, is our special gift.  The gift that kept me from going to the private Catholic high school I had been accepted into because my parents could not afford the tuition with a baby on the way.  (I'm not still bitter about that all these years later.  Much.)  

We joke in my family that we are like two families:  we have the same mother and father, but two totally different sets of siblings.  I am the oldest and David is five years my junior.  We're family number one.  David and I were both outgoing, got good grades, and were very active in sports and other organizations. Then came my sister, five years later (I was nearly 11 years old when she was born), followed by SURPRISE! Michael four years later.  Family number two.  Megan was definitely not into sports and was much quieter than David or I.  She was so beautiful that people couldn't help but adore her.  Michael was the typical baby of the family -- gregarious, outgoing, and totally lovable.  

Michael was only 4 years old when I left for college.  I'm incredibly sad to say that he doesn't remember me ever living at home.  It's so weird because I remember everything about him.  I remember he was born on a night that I was cheerleading at a Chamblee High School basketball game.  I remember his footie pajamas.  I remember rocking him in the middle of the night because I couldn't bear to hear him cry.  I took him to see Santa Claus.  I read to him, fed him his bottles, and taught him how to swim.  He doesn't remember a thing about those days.  I do.  And hopefully I will carry those memories until I am old and gray.

My other brother, David, brings a smile to my face every single time I think of him.  He didn't do so when we were much younger and he was nothing but a giant pest.  When he was born, I couldn't bear the thought of having to share MY mother and father with this screaming red headed monster.  To put it bluntly, I hated him.  Hate is such a strong word.  And it fits.

It fits so well, in fact, that I actually did my best to simply take care of the problem.  I hid him in the dresser drawer when he was a newborn.  At five years old, I thought that was a pretty clever way to get rid of him.  It didn't work.  So, when he was older, I tried to push him off of the carport in his walker.  Again.  It didn't work.  (Though he did require surgery on his eyes years later because he landed on his head when I pushed him down that hill.)

Many years later, I am so glad that my efforts to off my brother didn't work.  Words won't do justice to the love that I feel for him.  Here we are at his wedding a couple of years (and about twenty pounds ago for me).  

And here he is, holding Henry when he was just weeks old:

David and I, while similar in many ways, are very different.  He is as laid back as I am type A.  He is artistic.  I am not.  At all.  And although I consider myself a fairly outgoing and personable woman, David has never met a stranger.  And I'm pretty sure he has no enemies.

Thinking back on my relationship with my own siblings, I simply could not imagine not giving Goose the opportunity to feel that same bond.  I felt a deep sense of emptiness that I knew wouldn't be filled if she was an only child.  I did some serious begging and made promises that I knew I couldn't keep (i.e., "if you give me a second child, I'll never ask for anything ever again").  I also did a lot of praying.  And, after two years and several thousands of dollars spent on a fertility specialist, we found out we were pregnant with Henry.

Goose was thrilled when she learned there was a baby in my tummy.

She went with us to the hospital when he was born.  Though she wasn't there for the delivery, she returned to my room literally within minutes of his birth.

And she was happy.

You have never met a big sister who was more proud.

Finally!  She had someone she could play with! She couldn't wait to show him her Dad's iPad.

There is rarely a moment when they are separated by more than a room.  Henry adores his sister.

And she adores him.

And my husband and I adore them both.

I can't help but feel like I'm stepping back in time every time I watching Henry and Goose interact with each other.  I remember playing the same "peekaboo" games with my brother.  I remember wanting to carry my sister around like a rag doll.  And I remember never wanting Michael to be more than an arms length away.   Though we are all grown now with children of our own (except Michael -- who is getting married in the summer), I still feel that same bond with my siblings now that I did when we all lived under the same roof.  If anything, that bond has only grown stronger with the passing years.

Though I am confident that there will come a time when Goose will be more annoyed by than enamored with her baby brother, I am so thankful that we gave her this chance to experience the bond between a brother and a sister.  For it is remarkable.

Perseverance

We have a fish.  One fish.  A single, solitary fish who has outlived a very long line of fish who have dwelled in this very tank that sits in our house.


The fish is a survivor.  Despite temperature changes, other fish that have tried to eat it, a cat that likes to put his paws in the tank, and my husband's brilliant idea to clean its habitat with a bottle of Clorox and a garden hose, this fish has persevered.  


The fish has become a running joke among our friends.  They cannot believe that this fish, who we have admittedly forgotten to feed for weeks at a time, continues to survive.  And thrive.  This fish, this single, solitary fish is the very essence of perseverance.

The very word conjures up a host of images in my mind.  I think of my close friends and family, many of whom are struggling with significant problems in their lives.  And yet, they persevere.

My sister, who will not allow me to post any photographs of her on the internet (lame), is the very definition of the word.  She married in college and gave birth to twins at age 20.  She was divorced seven years later and is now a single mother to my niece and nephew (two of the sweetest children on the planet).  Though she receives no alimony and no child support from her ex who has seemingly vanished from her life and the lives of their children, my sister has persevered.  She will graduate from college in a couple of months and is applying to get her Master's degree in Accounting (or Tax - she hasn't made up her mind just yet).

I am blown away by the strength of her character.

My friend, Stacy, is another person who comes to mind.  She and her husband, David, struggled with infertility for years.  They endured countless visits to the fertility specialists; expensive and expansive laboratory tests;  and multiple fertility treatments over the past three years.  They rejoiced when they saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test.  They waited with bated breath on the lab results that measured Stacy's hormones.  In the span of just days, their hopes and dreams were shattered when they learned that the pregnancy was ectopic.

They persevered and saw another two pink lines on another pregnancy test.  This time was different and they actually heard a heartbeat in the doctor's office.  Not more than a month later, they endured the unimaginable pain of losing the baby.

I was there for the heartache.  I cried with her when she lost both babies.  I got on my knees and I begged God to help my friend.  I walked hand in hand with her as she persevered.  I researched all things fertility related.  I helped with her injections when her husband was out of town.  I waited with her during the agonizing and dreaded "two week wait."  And I cried tears of joy when I got the call.  

Stacy is due with their little girl, Lauren, in six weeks.  I took this picture of her (with one of my law partners) just before Halloween.

This baby bump makes my heart leap with joy for Stacy, her husband and her son.

My baby brother, Michael, is another example of perseverance.  Though I am loathe to admit this out loud, Michael is by far the smartest of the siblings.  Though I consider myself reasonably intelligent (despite my lack of familiarity with the term "impecunious" as discussed in an earlier post), my baby brother makes me look like a 5th grader.  He came out of the womb doing algebra.  I kid you not.  He is handsome, personable, and brilliant.  And he wanted more than anything to follow in my father's footsteps and obtain an MBA from Harvard University.  He worked his ass off at the University of Georgia -- obtaining a GPA that was slightly higher than his older sister's.  (I attribute that, by the way, to the fact that my 3 A's from Georgia State University did not transfer to the University of South Carolina in calculating my GPA.  Dammit.)

He kicked the GMAT's ass.  He got accepted into a well-regarded training program with a very well regarded company and has excelled every step of the way.

He is a force to be reckoned with, this baby brother of mine.

He found out this week that he will not be attending Harvard University.

Though understandably disappointed, I am confident that he will persevere.  Michael has an interview in December with the University of Virginia.  I know he'll do great.  Because he's great.  I love him more than he realizes.

We all struggle with difficulties in our lives, whether we have problems in our marriages, difficulties with our children, or troubles in our careers.  We will all be brought to our knees by heartache and disappointment in our lives.  I can think of at least a dozen circumstances in my past when I truly wondered how I could possibly recover from whatever setback I was facing.  But I did.  Recover.  And I did so with the help of my faith, the love of my family, and the support from my friends.

I know I will stumble again.

And again I will persevere.  It's in my blood.  Just ask my family.

Imperfections

We have lived in our house for 10 and a half years.  It is a comfortable house - a split level built in 1964 - in an old neighborhood about 10 miles away from the city.  I fell in love with our house the moment our good friend (who was also our realtor) drove us up the driveway.

This is what it looked like tonight as I drove home from the office.

It's not a particularly spectacular house.  It certainly is much more modest than many of my friends' and colleagues' homes.  Goose reminds me of this every time she is invited to one of her classmates' homes for a birthday party.  She bemoans the fact that she doesn't have her own bathroom.  Poor thing.

I admit that many times I go to other people's homes, I have to fight my own jealous urges.  Especially when I see that their bathrooms are bigger than our *master* bedroom.  My own bathroom, still in its original purple tile glory, leaves much to be desired.  Especially since Henry has decided that picking the tiles off of the floor is more fun than just about anything in the world.

I can't believe I have the courage to post this pic.

And my friends who have walk in closets?  I cannot even fathom.  My poor closet is crammed so tight that it takes me 20 minutes to find an outfit each morning.

Obviously, I didn't "stage" this pic.  You are seeing my closet in all of its current glory.

Courage I say.

Anyway.  Sometimes I am jealous not only by the size of their homes, but by the fact that they are so put together.  So grown up.  So clean.  Not a thing out of place.  They certainly don't have exersaucers and hula hoops on their back porch.

And they don't have bottles drying on a rack next to their fancy Kitchen Aid appliances.

They also don't have band-aids on their bathroom cabinets.

Or gum under their lampshades.

And don't even get me started on Whit's Man Cave.

I apologize to everyone who dares to walk downstairs to the man lair -- as it is entirely Whit's area and I bear no responsibility for its condition.

No. The other houses don't have these imperfections.  Mine does.  And I have lived with these imperfections for so long that I don't even notice them.  Much.  Until, of course, I go to one of these aforementioned totally put together houses.

And then I feel a little sorry for myself.  Because my house is not perfect.  It is full of these imperfections.  These "blemishes" that I either cannot change because of the limitations of my house or am too exhausted to change because of the limitations of my schedule.

After wallowing in self pity for awhile (which usually involves a bag of Cheetohs and a tub of ice cream), I take a second look at my house.

And suddenly, I find comfort in those imperfections.

I realize that there will come a day when teddy bears wearing tiaras aren't always present.

I will miss the Disney ears on the dresser.

[Again, you can tell that this is not a staged photo or I would have at least shut the dang dresser drawer.]

I can't imagine that there will come a time when my children's bathtub isn't full of toys - many of which bear the teeth marks of my teething son.

I am cognizant of the fact that I will sorely miss the sippy cups perched on the ledge of Goose's bed.

And Goose herself perched on the couch, watching her favorite Disney show.

My house, while full of imperfections, is also full of the things I love the most.

Like my sleeping son.

We live here.  We laugh here.  We love here.

Imperfections and all.