Before the Christmas Tree Comes Down

December 26 can feel like a bit of a let down. We spend weeks -- months, really -- preparing for the biggest holiday of the year, and then before we blink, it's gone. Presents, unwrapped. Food, devoured. Family celebration, over.

I don't know if it's a southern thing or a sign of the times, but after growing up in PA, I was surprised when I moved to Nashville to learn of so many people who take their decorations down the day after Christmas. The last few years, especially, it seems that while I am enjoying my first (ok, second) cup of coffee while scrolling on Facebook, so many people were happy to already have the tree put away, the ornaments boxed up and the house returned to its pre-holiday form.

Meanwhile, I have friends who, because of their religion or their personal choice (or both) celebrate the 12 days of Christmas, which begins on Dec. 25 and goes until Jan. 6, also known as Epiphany. Personally, I'm a firm believer that it's the holidays until Jan. 1, after which the decorations will, piece by piece over the next few days, find their way back into the respective boxes for 11 more months.

There's not a right or a wrong, of course, but I do have a thought.

Every year, whether it's over the Christmas holiday or shortly after, my family travels to PA, where we spend most of the time staying at my sister's house. Her and I talk frequently anyway, but as we get closer to our day of arrival, we talk a little more. We make our plans. She tells me what she's going to make to eat while we're there (she's a great cook). I make plans with friends. Our arrival is highly anticipated.

Imagine if, the day after we got there, no one was excited any more. What if, instead of people being anxious to see us, they said, "Oh, you're here? Well, that's nice. It's great that you're here, but I've got stuff to do now."

Christians celebrate Christmas as the birth of Christ. The coming of the Messiah. So, it always seems a bit sad to me that we spend so much time getting ready to commemorate the day of His arrival, and then the day after we celebrate His birth, we are so eager to go back to the way life was before the holiday season began.

Do we enjoy the season because of the anticipation, or because of the significance of the day?

It does seem that December brings out a certain sense of friendliness and good cheer among people. We say 'Merry Christmas' to the person taking too long at the post office. We greet the sales clerk with a smile, even though we waited in line for 25 minutes. We share cookies with our neighbors, and tip our servers a little bit extra.

So why are we in a rush to put it all behind us?

What if, this year, we left the decorations up just a bit longer? What if the tree that is still standing on December 27 served as a reminder that the Messiah did, in fact, come? What if we left the wreath up just long enough to remind us that life doesn't have to go back to normal? What if we did, in fact, celebrate His arrival more than just on one day?

“I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!” ~Charles Dickens, 'A Christmas Carol'

(thanks to Alicia Newberry for the picture of the BEAUTIFUL -- and still standing -- Christmas tree)

Thankful

I wrote earlier how I'm learning to be thankful despite my circumstances. There were definitely years when I felt more naturally inclined to be grateful than this year, but I still have plenty of reasons to offer thanks today. Plenty.

I have a great husband. Trying years are trying on marriages too, but even in the darkest challenges, one thing was certain: whatever we go through, we go through together. He makes me breakfast and coffee every morning, always does the dishes (really ... always), and sweeps the floor and cleans bathrooms. He encourages me to pursue my passion, go out with my friends (sans child) and is perpetually happy. I'm blessed. Very blessed.

I have the Best Baby Ever. Reagan makes me laugh all the time. Whether it's him saying "oh mo" (instead of "oh no") and pretending to be asleep when I catch him standing in his crib, or hiding from me in the same spot every time, and then giving a great big belly laugh when I find him, he is a constant source of joy. He's sensitive, caring, a fantastic eater, obsessed with Thomas the Tank Engine, and gives the best hugs and sloppy wet kisses. My wildest dreams never included a child so sweet.

I love my sister. She makes me feel so welcome when we crash her house for the week, a couple times each year. She loves me, she loves my family, and she appropriately spoils my son. When we're together, we can have an entire conversation without saying a word. Sisters are awesome.

I have long-lasting friendships. Twila and I are going strong 30 years since our friendship began. We talk as often as we can, and can pick up where we left off, every time. She loves me, prays for me, encourages me, and understands me. Completely.

My best Saturdays occur when I get to talk to Twila and Holly and Wanita, each from PA, all in the same day. Holly and Wanita have been my friends for over 20 years, and have seen me through some of life's darkest valleys, and still love me. Friends like them are rare and precious gifts.

I could list dozens and dozens of names of friends who have blessed me, and to list some would run the risk of leaving out some. Suffice it to say, my love tank always feels full. Always.

I make a living doing what I love. I get to meet extraordinary people, and do extraordinary things, and earn a paycheck in the process. Not many people get to say they love what they do. But I do. I really, really love it.

I sing with some of the most talented musicians in the world. Truly. The Christ Church Choir and Band is made up of the best of the best. I'm humbled every week that I get to participate with a group of such amazing talent.

I have seen the world. I've visited six different countries, from Central America to Europe to Asia. I've been in over half of the states, including every state on the east coast, Texas, California, Montana. The world is beautiful. I've seen it and it's true.

Life is full of small blessings that could almost go unaware if I didn't take time to stop and notice. Hot coffee, chilly nights, good books, laughter, dessert, cooking shows, fuzzy blankets, music and memories. So many things that people long for are part of my daily existence.

Today, I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I Have Enough

I caught myself in a dangerous web of thinking over the last few weeks.

Our finances took a pretty nice-sized hit this year, and I've watched as our savings account keeps moving in the wrong direction. We had to turn down an offer of a free beachfront Florida condo because we needed to work more than we needed to frolic in the sun. We very rarely eat anywhere but at home. We follow our budget to the penny, and there isn't any room for anything extra right now.

Meanwhile, Facebook is full of friends who bought a new house, went on a great vacation, bought a new car, etc. I spoke to a friend who spent thousands of dollars remodeling her already beautiful home. Other friends are looking at bigger houses, shinier cars, new toys, and on and on.

And it got to me. I admit it. I was sitting on our bed, which is where I work when someone else is watching Reagan. Our bed because our two-bedroom townhome doesn't offer any other place for me to work, except for our bedroom. On the other side of the bed was piles of laundry that needed to be folded and put away. Not the most conducive environment to be productive.

I started thinking about friends who lived in big houses with big yards, friends who were leaving for vacation this week, friends who had what I wanted and were doing what I wanted to do. And thus began Pity Party For One. I was sad. I was a bit miffed. I was, dare I say, even a bit whiny about our current situation.

I can't shoulder all of the blame for my discontentment. We are flooded with reminders that we need to have more, do more, be more. No money for that new car? Finance it. Want to go on a lavish vacation? Put it on a credit card. We live in a society where we are expected to have the best of the best, even if we can't afford it. Debt is accepted as a normal way of life. We can take years to pay off a car, a piece of furniture, an appliance, a cruise -- with a hefty interest rate attached -- because that's a much more palatable solution than waiting for what we can afford.

That's not the way we choose to live, and we're happy with that choice. It's why we live in the two-bedroom townhome, why we have one vehicle between us that is 10 years old, and why we only buy what we can pay cash for.

But just because we choose to live that way doesn't mean I'm always happy about it. And on this particular day, my pitiful attitude was at an all-time high. I wanted this, and that, and a lot of things that weren't within my reach at this moment in time -- things that we thought were within our grasp until the domino effect of events this year.

Sometimes I shake my head in disbelief at myself.

                                                        (FreeDigitalPhotos.net)

I of all people should know how ridiculously blessed we are, just by looking at the world around us. When I visited India in 2010, I saw poverty that I never imagined actually existed. People living in the most unimaginable squalor. Generations living under one blue tarp. Parents choosing to feed their children one meager meal, while they went hungry.

I went to Guatemala many years ago, but I still remember visiting a large junkyard, which at that time housed over 500 families. Children, and most likely adults, who never smelled fresh air. Boys and girls who never felt what grass felt like between their toes, or drank a nice glass of cold, fresh, clean water.

According to GlobalIssues.com, approximately half of the world's population live on less than $2.50 a day, with 80% living in less than $10 a day. For those not wanting to do the math, that means that only 20% of the world's population live on more than $310 a month. Imagine trying to feed a family on that.

I can pay for medicine. My son can go to the doctor. He never goes hungry.. I can put a coat on if it's cold out, and get a drink of fresh water from my faucet when I'm thirsty.

 I can walk outside and smell the flowers. I can call, e-mail, or text a friend when I want to talk.  I can eat fresh fruit and vegetables. I can do so many things that people all over the world would consider an unattainable luxury..

I'm embarrassed that I got sucked into the mindset that advertisers make billions of dollars off of -- believing that what I already have (and can afford) isn't good enough. Shame on me.

I'm grateful. I'm grateful for a loving husband, a beautiful little boy, a house with a low mortgage, a truck that is paid for, and a pantry that is full and overflowing with more food than some people will ever see in their lifetime. I have a comfortable place to sleep, a life filled with laughter, memories that make me smile, and more blessings than I could ever count.

I have enough. More than enough. I'm already rich.

This is My (Our) Story

Most people who know anything about me know that the two biggest loves in my life are my husband, Johnny, and my sweet little boy, Reagan (also known as The Best Baby Ever).

I got married (for the second time) in 2011. My husband and I became engaged after five months of dating, and were married almost exactly one year after our first non-official/official date. But there is, of course, much more to the story.

I moved to Nashville in 1999, for what I assumed would be one year. It never occurred to me that I would stay here this long, nor that I would start a family here, but life is full of funny surprises.

When I moved here, I had just experienced a very painful divorce that left me broken, bewildered, disappointed, and financially depleted. The move here was an attempt to break away from a lot of hurt and anger, and find myself again.

In that first year, my now-husband and I went on one date. I didn't like him. At all. He was nice and kind and polite and very chivalrous -- the complete opposite of what I had just come out of. So I never went out with him again, until 10 years later.

In that decade, I rediscovered myself. A lot of healing took place. I stopped being a victim. I discovered I liked myself. I dated some great (and some not-so-great) people. I learned plenty about myself.

At the end of 2009, I was single again, after a particularly painful break-up earlier in the year with a great guy, who was just not right for me. On New Year's Day, as I was leaving a friend's house, I realized I was, once again, unattached. Every relationship I had tried in the past 10 years (four long-ish plus a few hits-and-misses) had failed for one reason or another.

I was now in my late 30s. I knew all the conventional wisdom. Books and speakers and websites and friends all swore by the 'stop looking and it will come.' To me, the very concept of 'not looking' to find a soul mate was just another way of looking. It's kind of like covering your eyes so you can't see, and then peeking between your fingertips to see what's out there. I had tried that. I was done with that. It didn't work. Nor was I comfortable with the idea of manipulating my environment in that way. Either love would come, or it wouldn't.

So, that New Year's Day morning, in 2010, I made a decision. I was done dating. Not done until someone great came along. Not done for a month, six months, a year. I was done. Really, really done. And once I made that decision, I felt such peace. Instead, I would move to India -- a place I was going to visit in only a few months -- and work in an orphanage. I'd surround myself with children who needed love. Instead of giving birth to my own children, I'd love other children who desperately needed love. I was really happy with the decision.

It was a really good plan.

And then, I started dreaming about Johnny every night. And when I say every night, I'm not exaggerating. Every single night, he was in my dreams in one form or another. Sometimes the dream centered around him, and sometimes he was just a character in my dream, but every night he was there when I fell asleep.

I found it strange, because I was done dating, so why would I be dreaming about some guy? We were friends, since we went to the same church and sang in the choir together. We were friendly. We even had a moment at a Christmas party where I was leaning against him for a full five minutes before I realized how close I was to him. We were comfortable. But we were not romantic.

I went on the life-changing trip to India, where I was surrounded by a culture I fell in love with, and a people who took residence in my heart. And still, every night while half a world away, Johnny was in my dreams in some form.

Shortly after I returned, my windshield wipers broke on my car. Having been single for so long, I became quite adept at doing certain things for myself, but I couldn't manage to get the broken wiper removed. Johnny noticed it one Sunday morning, and offered to change it for me. Two mornings later, he showed up at my house, bearing a latte and chocolate, and changed my windshield wiper for me on his way to work.

I promised to buy him dinner to thank him. A few nights later, after a choir performance at Opryland hotel, we went to Macaroni Grill. We chatted long after we were finished with our meal, and when the check came, he insisted on picking up the tab.

Fine, I said. I'll make you dinner. Saturday night.

Here was my first clue that I might be feeling something I wasn't about to admit -- I obsessed over the meal all day. And cooking is something that comes naturally to me. I can host a dinner for 10 people and not break a sweat, but this one dinner took me most of the day. Steak, mashed potatoes with cheese, asparagus, salad, rolls and Grandma Moyer's chocolate cake.

After dinner, we watched a movie, although neither of us can remember which one it was. After the movie, as he was getting ready to leave, he said,

"I don't know if I should tell you this or not, but I've been dreaming about you every night."

While I was dreaming about him, he was dreaming about me. Five months later, we were engaged. Now here we are, married with a child. Life is full of beautiful surprises.

Someone asked me once if I regretted not dating him when we first went out all those years ago. My answer is a resounding 'no,' although I'll admit I had to wrestle with that question myself at first. But what I know firmly is that when we went out on our sole date in 2000, I was still broken. I was only a shell of who I was meant to be, and there was barely a glimpse of who I was to become. Had I brought that into another marriage, we would have most likely not have survived.

Also, our time apart allowed my husband to live with his nephew as he grew up -- and he has turned into a fantastic young man.

Life works out the way it's supposed to. I don't understand the twists and turns. I don't understand why God had us wait so long. I don't need to know. What I do know is that once I took my hands completely off of my future, it turned into something so much more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

And yes, we are still going to India someday.

Happy Birthday Mom

Today my mother would be 72. That's hard to believe. Even harder to believe that the last birthday she celebrated on Earth was her 62nd. Three months after her birthday she was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma, a benign brain tumor, and less than five months after that she was gone.

I always struggle on the anniversary of her death, May 4. She fought a long and brave battle with the tumor, until ultimately her healing came on the other side of Heaven. But on her birthday, bittersweet as it is, I like to celebrate her life more. I always try to eat something pumpkin, one of her favorite flavors, and I always try to wear something of hers, if only for a few hours. One piece of her jewelry has been on me every day since she died, but I typically put on one of her sweatshirts, which I am currently wearing, as a nod to her and her special day.

What makes me sad is so many people I love who never got to meet her. My fantastic husband, for starters. They would have gotten along so well. And my beautiful sweet little boy, Reagan. Not a day goes by that I don't wish she had a chance to meet him. She would have been head over heels in love with him, without a doubt.

I have so many friends that never got to know her. Their knowledge of her is only what I've shared, but anyone who knew her knows that words are inadequate in describing who she really was.

She loved. She loved people of all kinds. She definitely didn't discriminate. I have said often that she could have had the President, the Pope, a hardened criminal and an addict over for dinner, and they all would have left thinking they were her favorite. The more someone needed love, the more she loved.

She cooked. Goodness, she could whip up a fantastic meal. And chances are, if she knew what your favorite food was, it would be on the table when you came over. Her Sunday dinners were overflowing with piles and piles of food that she insisted was "nothing." She also made pancakes every Saturday morning, for as long as I can remember, and no one has ever been able to replicate quite how good they were. And I could go on and on about her desserts -- cakes, pies, cookies -- and if she was having company, she always had more than one dessert. No one ever left the table hungry.

She gave. In big ways and little ways, she gave. Whether it was a donation to a missionary, a meal to someone recovering from an illness, or a gift just because, she gave. I can't count how many care packages and gifts I received from her over the years. Little things she would pick up just because it made her think of me. One of my favorite memories of her is also one of my last before she became ill. I was talking to her on the phone while I was opening cranberry juice, and some of it spilled onto my brand-new white shirt I had just bought. Only a few days later, a package arrived in the mail from her, with a new white shirt.That was such a classic Mom thing to do.

She listened. When you were talking to her, she gave you all of her attention. She wanted to know people's stories, she wanted to know who they were on the inside. Big or small problems, she was always available to listen. Even as her illness was progressing, and cognitive thoughts and long attention spans were difficult, she still wanted to talk to people who had for years been coming to her with their problems. Her own comfort was last on her list of priorities.

She hugged. So many people at her viewing said they would miss her hugs. When she met you, she hugged you, and through her hug, you could feel her love pouring out of her. Even if she had just met you for the first time, she'd reach in for a hug.

She was a woman of great faith. It's hard to articulate how deep her faith was. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of getting up early in the morning, and finding her with her Bible open. She prayed, always. We used to joke that she had a special line to Heaven, but in reality, it was true. She believed she would receive what she was praying for, and her prayers were answered. It was not uncommon for her to get up in the middle of the night and pour out her heart to God. She loved her friends, and she loved her family, but she was devoted to God, and made it clear, even before her diagnosis, that she wanted to be in Heaven, and to see Jesus face to face.

Happy birthday, Mom. I imagine the cake and ice cream they serve up there is amazing. I'm sure your parents and in-laws and your brothers Kenny and Rich and nephews Dwayne and Carl and so many others are helping you celebrate.

I will celebrate you down here, too. I will celebrate you by trying to be more like you. I will tell my son stories about you, and let your legacy live on through us, as best as we can.

I miss you. Every single day. I can't wait to see you again.

I love you.

The Day Starbucks Changed My Life

Sometimes being a parent of a toddler is exhausting. And by sometimes, I mean every waking minute. Last week, after one particularly trying morning, I found myself dreaming about the days when he will be able to clean up after himself, when he won't try to climb the furniture or touch things he isn't supposed to. I wistfully imagined the days when he'll go to school and I'll have an entire day to do something besides chase after him and make sure he isn't about to jump head-first off of the dining room table. (It almost happened once. True story).

My father-in-law came over that afternoon to give me a few hours reprieve. (God bless grandparents). I ran several errands, and then went to Starbucks to try and get some work stuff done without trying to keep sticky 18-month-old fingers off of my computer.

As I was sitting there, typing away, a well-dressed, attractive woman, probably mid-30s, came in, talking on her phone. She needed to plug her computer in, which is why she didn't continue her conversation outside. Most everyone around her had earbuds in, so no one was really paying attention to her conversation.

Except me. I was sitting right beside her. I was privy to her conversation whether I wanted to be or not.

She was talking about her 18-month old son -- same age as mine, I thought -- who had a rare heart condition. I assumed she was talking to his doctor, because she kept throwing out big medical terms that I had no idea what they meant. She was very kind, and very patient, but repeatedly, in a very calm manner, she kept saying, "You're not listening to me. I think we need to ...," before launching into what she perceived, after doing extensive research, was their best course of treatment for her little boy.

Here's what I learned in the approximately 20-minute conversation:

1. She had gone to Starbucks to sort through insurance issues and medical bills and pay what she could.

2. Her son was dying.

3. Children with his condition didn't live past 24 months.

4. Doctors wanted to put him on a feeding tube, but that was a last-care attempt -- accepting that he was ready to die.

5. She was a fierce Mama Bear who was not going to give up fighting for her little boy yet. She had discovered a new treatment that involved a highly-caloric diet that might save his life or buy them some time.

6. Her precious baby was already showing signs of declining.

7. She had two other children at home, needing their Mommy.

8. There was not much, if any, hope for her little boy to live. She was grasping at straws, determined that if she grabbed the right one, it would be life-saving.

 I was amazed as I listened to her discuss all this, with both such intense passion and emotional coolness, all at the same time. She had a job, and she was determined to do it.

After about 20 minutes of talking back and forth, she said, "Ok, you know what? We're not going to figure all of this out right now, so let's just stop talking about it and try and enjoy our date night tonight."

She was talking to her husband. About their little boy. Who was dying.

Wow.

I talk to my husband (way too much) about all of my 18-month-old's toys that seem to fill every inch of our small house, and she is talking to her husband about their 18-month-old son who is dying.

I had to leave just as she was wrapping up her conversation. Most of what I went to Starbucks to accomplish didn't get finished, or even started, for that matter. I put my computer away, threw away my coffee cup, and then approached her. I told her I couldn't help but overhear, and I was so very sorry for what she was going through.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "But we're ok. We're really ok."

I wish she knew how much she changed me. And I wish I knew how to say, "I'm sorry that my biggest problem is my child has too many toys and I hate clutter, while your son is dying and there isn't a cure, and I'm sorry that I can be selfish and I hope you know that getting to overhear your conversation with your husband has changed the rest of my life, and I'll pray that your son gets a miracle, because after 20 minutes, I'm already convinced your family deserves it, and I hope you and your husband have a lifetime of great date nights."

I called my husband from the parking lot, and then I just sat there for a minute, absorbing what just happened. That night, we prayed for her family, and for her little boy who doesn't have the same hope for a future as our son does.

I care less about Reagan's toys strewn everywhere now. I try to have more patience when he reaches for my computer again. I try not to scold when he pours all of his Cheerios on the coffee table. And when I find myself starting to get annoyed, I remind myself of her, and that she wishes her problems were as insignificant as mine.

The Beauty of Benign

Last week, I got an unwanted glimpse into a world I hoped I would not be welcomed into -- cancer. It's a word that strikes fear into almost everyone, and I quickly learned I was no exception.

To be clear, while I have no fear of doctors, I very rarely visit one. In fact, I can count exactly two times in the 14 years I have lived here that I went to a doctor because I was sick.Once in 2002 when I had strep throat so severe it took me an entire day to drink one Sonic slushie. And once when I was pregnant with Reagan and had severe bronchitis (and truth be told, if I wasn't pregnant, I probably never would have gone).

I visited several doctors after an injury in 2009, and of course, there were plenty of doctor visits surrounding the pregnancy and birth of Reagan. I'm very good -- diligent, even -- about annual check-ups, but I'm definitely not someone who goes to the doctor for every bump and bruise.

This year, we experienced a significant, and unexpected, loss of income, while also experiencing a significant, and unexpected, increase in our bills. But when I noticed two odd-looking moles on my side last month, I didn't waste any time in calling a dermatologist, knowing that my co-pay would still be pretty high. Funny how having a child changed how I perceive health. I also knew the visit would most likely involve a needle (hands down, my biggest fear), but the fear of a needle is miniscule in comparison to the fear of having a devastating, and potentially fatal, illness.

The morning of my doctor visit, as I was getting ready, I found a lump. Small, movable, directly under my right arm. I would be completely lying if I didn't admit a wave of fear rushed over me. I waited a minute or two, then checked again. Yep. Still there.

I told myself over and over and over again that it was nothing. I didn't even plan to tell my husband, but he knew by the look on my face when I came downstairs that something was wrong. I assured him it was probably nothing, while I was frantically doing a Google search for "lump under arm."

I went to the dermatologist, who told me the moles I saw were fine, but there was a "sinister-looking" one on my back he'd like to remove. (Note: when they tell you the numbing shot is like a bee sting, it is -- if the bee is as big as a human. Seriously, OUCH). He removed the mole, and told me to call him on Monday for the pathology results.

To be honest, by that point, skin cancer was low on my list of worries. I ran some errands, periodically checking to see if the lump was still there. It was.

I told myself I would wait a few days to see if it went away, but, propelled by the fear of leaving my son motherless, I called that afternoon. Her nurse asked if I could come in the next morning.

"Can't we wait a few weeks to see if it goes away?" I asked, hopeful. She said, "Oh no, dear. We don't wait when a lump is involved. When's the earliest you can come in?"

I made an appointment for the following Monday. In hindsight, I should have changed my plans and gone in the next day, because the five days I had to wait for my mammogram and ultrasound gave me way too much time to figure out how advanced my cancer was, what radical treatments I could have to eliminate the cancer cells that I imagined multiplying inside of me each day, and figuring out how I would take care of a child while recovering from the surgery I was sure I would have to have.

Over a romantic birthday dinner for my husband Saturday night, we discussed what the potential treatment options would be. (I know, I have a knack for romance). By Sunday, I vowed to not do one. more. Google. search on the perils of lumps under the arm. I totally ignored the fact that only 4% of lumps in women turn out to be cancerous. I became consumed with the fact that there was a deadly disease taking host in my body.

Monday morning we all went to the hospital together. I had to have a mammogram and ultrasound, and they said they would give me the results that day. It occurred to me that I would find out within the next few hours if I had breast cancer and skin cancer, so it would either be a very good or a very bad day.

Once I got to the hospital, within one hour I saw five different people. I have to say, each person was nicer than the last, and, for a place that undoubtedly doles out plenty of bad news, it was one of the calmest, most serene places I have ever been. They even had a coffee bar! Oh happy day for me.

The office was directly across from the radiation wing, and I realized I was on a floor I sincerely hoped I would not become accustomed to. I looked at the other women, and wondered what their story was. Were they here for a routine visit? Or were they already on a painful and scary journey? I tried to read their faces, but most just smiled politely and returned to their magazine.

As I was sitting, waiting, I received a voice mail on my phone from the dermatologist's nurse. It wasn't urgent, she assured me, but she did need to talk to me that day, so could I please call her at my earliest convenience? I listened to her message twice, trying to decipher if her voice sounded positive or sympathetic. I couldn't tell.

Finally, after spending time with the fourth person, a wonderful nurse named Sadie who shared with me photos of her two grown children, while I scrolled through picture after picture of my sweet Reagan, a doctor came in. She was young, pretty, and I instantly liked her. Regardless of whatever news she was about to share with me, her presence made me feel at ease.

She stared at the screen for a minute and then asked if I had been sick recently. Yes, I told her, recounting my recent flu bout that had me shivering under a blanket when it was 81 degrees in the house, so miserable, even my skin hurt.

"Yep," she said, nodding affirmatively. "It's just a lymph node, probably from your sickness last week." She went on to explain that sometimes when a lymph node is swollen, it can indicate another kind of infection that would require a closer look, but everything looked as healthy as it could possibly be, and there was no need for me to come back for another year.

I could have skipped out of the hospital room. In fact, maybe I did. I hugged Sadie, and found my husband and Reagan, who were riding the elevator to kill time.

Ok, one down, one to go. I called the dermatologist on our way home and left a message. The nurse called me back in about 15 minutes and said the mole was benign, but there was some change, so he wanted to remove more of it in a few weeks. I asked several questions to make sure I was understanding correctly, and she assured me this was just preventative, and everything was ok. There was no cancer.

There was no cancer.

I spent five days imagining every worst-case scenario, and there was no cancer.

I was healthy.

I wasn't having major surgery. I wasn't having chemo.

No cancer.

Of course, my mind went to all of the other women who didn't receive such welcome news. I have friends who have battled cancer. I have a close friend who came out on the other side of breast cancer. I have a beloved cousin and uncle who both passed away from an aggressive form of cancer.

I didn't have cancer. I was healthy.

Since then, I've included gratitude for my health in my prayers throughout the day. Would I have been as thankful if the outcome wasn't as positive? Probably not. But, in my case, I received good news not once, but twice, in the span of a few hours, and for that, I am very, very, very grateful.

To those who have received news that wasn't as positive, I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry. I can't imagine how you feel. I won't pretend to understand. But after this experience, I hope that at the very least, I will become more empathetic, more understanding of those who face bad news instead of good. And I promise I will always be just a bit more grateful for my health, for as long as I have it.

Food For Thought

So I'm fed up, literally -- and figuratively -- with food. Or, to be more precise, with the majority of the food that is on our shelves, food that is erroneously marketed as healthy, which we eagerly and blindly buy into.

Disclaimer: I am the longest grocery shopper in the country. Between my label reading of every. single. item, and my coupons (and then checking my master list to see if the coupon matches a coupon already loaded on my shopper's card for even more money off), it's a two-to-three hour affair every week.

A lot of times I will find an item that, with my discounts, is free or almost free, only to put it back on the shelf because I can't in good conscience give my family the ingredients in the item. Take cooking spray. Almost every household has cooking spray. I used to have it, too. And then it ran out and I never replaced it. A few months ago, I had a coupon and it was on sale, and I started to put it in the cart, and then I read the ingredients.

Not only was the second ingredient grain alcohol, but it also had a fun little word in it called polysorbate, which is the same ingredient found in a lot of women's cosmetics, as well as in Orajel and in hair growth medicine. That sounds like the perfect thing to consume, doesn't it?

I had a HUGE awakening when I wanted to pick up some yogurt for Reagan (who so far, amazingly, likes plain yogurt mixed with fruit the best). I thought it would be nice to give him some flavored yogurt for a change, and since I had a coupon for Yoplait ... and then I read the ingredients.

Yikes.

In what seems to be an innocuous container of strawberry yogurt, I found that it is colored with carmine, which is produced by boiling (apologies to the squeamish) some scale insects in ammonia, and then adding alum (aluminum) to create the red color.

Yum.

How is this food?

We have done a large disservice to ourselves, and our health, by assuming that if a food is called healthy, it's actually full of healthy things that we want to eat.

For example, if you look at the case of butter in the grocery store, you will find a wide variety of  "fat free!" "no cholesterol!" "good for your heart!" options. Except, these so-called healthy options often include phosphoric acid, which is also used as a rust remover and as a plaque-remover.

Same thing with fat-free whipped topping, i.e: Cool Whip. The first four ingredients in most brands are water, corn syrup, hydrogenated vegetable oil and high fructose corn syrup. But this is, somehow, supposed to be the 'healthier' version?

Please.

We have somehow assumed that if it's calorie-free and/or fat-free, it has to be healthy, and in so doing, we have begun ingesting chemicals, additives and other ingredients that were never intended to be edible.

There's a TV show and website called Hungry Girl that epitomizes to me everything that is wrong with nutrition in America. It is run by a woman named Lisa Lillien, who I'm sure is a lovely person, but she is spearheading a movement that is creating far more harm than good. Her premise is 'healthy' foods that are low in fat and calories, so therefore, as she calls them, 'guilt-free.' She's appeared on several talk shows, including Dr. Oz, to teach people how to change their diet with her recipes to be healthier. Her cookbooks have become national best-sellers.

But the recipes she teaches takes out edible ingredients and replaces them with chemicals. Case in point -- she recently posted a recipe for a 'healthy' version of Arby's famous Jamocha shake (which, admittedly, is a ridiculously indulgent food). Instead of cream, Lisa suggests using non-fat dairy creamer.

Let's be honest - there is no way a powder is going to taste half as good as the real thing. But, even if I was willing to sacrifice taste for calories (which I'm not), the ingredients in non-fat dairy creamer are:  Corn Syrup Solids, Partially Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, and/or Cottonseed Oil, Sugar, Modified Cornstarch, Dipotassium Phosphate, Sodium Caseinate,  Artificial Flavor, Mono And Diglycerides, Polysorbate 60, Sodium Stearoyl Lactylate, Carrageenan, Salt, Betacarotene. Color.

Yeah, that sounds yummy. I'll take two helpings of  Sodium Caseinate, please.

I'd much rather take the calories and fat of whole milk than add all that other garbage to my body.

I'm not sure where we became so disillusioned with the idea that calories and fat are bad. They're not. It's how we get our energy every day. Yes, too many calories and too much fat lead to weight gain. That's a given that everyone understands. But somehow, we've swung the pendulum so far the other way that we idolize thinness above health.

Moderation is a word we use often in our house. We don't ban anything, in moderation, including sweets and the occasional bag of potato chips. But what we do believe is that if we eat it one day, we don't have to eat it every day. We understand that we might order a pizza on Sunday (which we often do), but on Monday we're going to have chicken and a vegetable.

Entire series of books have been written on this topic, and I could go on and on about the risks of what the majority of Americans are feeding their bodies, but I won't. What I will say is that I don't think it's a coincidence that the incidences of cancer have risen as we continue to add chemicals to our food. Nor is it a coincidence that many of the 'cancer diets' that have proven to reduce cancer risk, or in some cases even help in the curing process, focus on whole foods with all natural ingredients.

I understand that people have lost weight using the fat-free, low-calorie options, and if that has helped them in turn become more active, thus healthier, more power to them. But I really believe that, unless something drastic is done to the way we market food in America, we are on a steep slope that will do us far more harm than good.

The Struggle of Motherhood

Let me start by saying, I love my son. And by love, I mean that deep, aching part inside of me that realizes I would give my life in  half of a second for this child. That love that would rather throw a ball back and forth with him or read Good Night Moon 10,582 times (in a row) or watch him accumulate handfuls of dirt and rocks in his pudgy little hands, than do just about anything else. That love that can stare at him in wonderment for hours, just marveling at his perfection. That's the kind of love I'm talking about. It's an all-encompassing, eternal, bigger-than-me feeling that I've had for this precious little boy since I first found out I was pregnant, and impossibly, continues to grow exponentially every single day.

Because my husband and I were, ahem, older when we became parents, I thought the whole parenting thing would be a breeze. By the time Reagan came along, I had traveled, enjoyed my freedom, saved up a little bit of money, experienced some unbelievable life events, and checked just about everything off of my List of Things I Want To Do Before I Have a Baby. So, I really thought adding a 7 lb. bundle of sweetness would only make everything in my life more magical, more special, more ... better (yes, I know, bad grammar).

And, for the first couple of days, it did, aside from the ridiculous amount of sleep deprivation babies make us go through. His delivery was a breeze -- as in (women who gave birth, please don't hate) an I-pushed-for-10-minutes delivery. He ate, and he slept, and repeated that cycle for days on end.

But somewhere around the end of his first week of life, my perfect ideal of how I imagined this chapter of my life to go, started to unravel a little bit. It began when I had to supplement nursing with formula because my milk production was so low. Reagan discovered that drinking from a bottle was much easier than Mommy's method, and he began to loudly, and angrily, express his preference. 

And then, just as we were figuring out the balance between nursing and formula, he developed colic. (Let me just stop here and offer my sincerest and deepest apologies to all of my friends who had a colicky baby and I did not offer the appropriate amount of Advil and chocolate, because both are vital to surviving this phase of infancy).

In a matter of days, it seemed our almost-perfect child turned into a miserable, crying, whining, angry little boy. For days (Weeks? A month?  The time frame is a blissful blur by now), by late afternoon/early evening, nothing made Reagan happy. No amount of driving, swinging, rocking, singing, walking, or any combination of the above, could even begin to silence this wailing, pitiful child. Nothing. We took him to the doctor (twice), we took him off dairy, we read all the books about dealing with a colicky baby, and we gritted our teeth and sometimes just cried along with him.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. But, soon after that, he became ... mobile! Who knew there came a time when you could no longer just lay them in the middle of the floor on a blanket and walk away? Who knew that they started pulling on things, and getting into things, and staying on the move all. the. time?

I should add, that while my husband goes above and beyond in doing housework and taking care of the mundane stuff of life (I wash dishes maybe once a month, for example), he was at the time working 6 days a week. And some of those days, he left at 8 in the morning, and got home after 7:30. There were moments I'd get excited to see the UPS man, just to have another adult to talk to for 4 seconds.

Here was the rub for me: For years, my time was my own. Completely. Outside of a work event (which I could accept or decline), every hour of every day was entirely structured by me for the past 10 years. And then suddenly, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, someone else was telling me what to do with my day. Cute as he was, sometimes I didn't want to stop what I was doing to rescue him from whatever perilous situation he was in. Sometimes I didn't feel like rocking him for 45 minutes so he would nap for 10. Sometimes I didn't want to feed him yet again (where do little babies put all their food, anyway?) And let's not even talk about how many diapers this little boy could fill.

True confession: 95% of the time I delighted in his sweet little angelic perfect cherub-esque face. But the other 5%, when people would say to me, "I bet you love being a Mom," I would smile and nod and kiss his ample cheeks and silently think, "Are you crazy??"

A well-meaning -- but pretty clueless -- friend, who started her family when she was still in her early 20s, would say to me, ad nauseum, "You have no idea how much your life is about to change." She didn't say it with the sense of happiness or excitement from the pure joy that babies, even colicky ones, can bring. She said it from a sad, almost resentful place of, "Enjoy your free time now, because soon you won't have any. Ever." Others made similar comments, of course, and some of them I chewed on, and some I dismissed, but mostly I just wanted to smack them on their foreheads and go, "Duh! I know it's about to change!"

And I did know all of that. But what I didn't know was how much I (gulp) didn't always want the change. I wanted Reagan. Desperately, madly, fiercely, I wanted him. I just wanted him to eat and sleep and play on my schedule. But there's a funny thing about babies -- they are pretty self-centered.

Here's what I wish someone had said to me: It's going to be hard. It's going to be really, really hard, and some days you will want to give up. But for every difficult moment, there are a thousand good ones. For every sleepless night, there are beautiful baby cuddles. For every crying fit that goes on for hours, there will be a spontaneous giggle over bath bubbles, or a puppy dog, or the way your hair touches his face. For every moment you want to run away, there will be the times when he reaches his arms up for you, and you're almost positive it's the best feeling in the world.

Now, Reagan is a 17-month-old non-stop force of energy, and he makes my world. Every morning I wake up excited to spend another day with him. I can (almost) forget those challenging early few months when I was trying to find my footing and my new identity, because these days are just really, really good. He sleeps nine to 10 hours a night, he naps without crying (most of the time), he talks (Mama, Dada, Oh mo, Oh yeah, Oh wow, ice and some odd syllable that I'm pretty sure is supposed to be "shoe"), and he makes us laugh all the time. He loves to be chased, he loves to eat, he loves to splash in his kiddie pool, and he is a ridiculously great traveler.

Yes. My life changed. In every way, my life changed. And every day, it keeps getting better and better and better.

So I'm blogging ....

I know, I know -- it took me long enough to join the blogging world. The truth is, I have many, many blogs written in my head, but getting them down on paper (er, computer) is easier said than done. But, I am committed to giving a voice to the ramblings that go on inside my mind, thus, the blog.

Here's what I hope the blog will be: part funny, part family, part faith, part food. Here's what I hope it's not: political, offensive (to anyone), or a one-way conversation. I hope to gain new friends, listen to new opinions, and share a few smiles along the way.

I'm still working out the kinks and figuring out how to set everything up, so the site will, hopefully, change appearance and become better looking as I (who is admittedly not the most tech-savvy person) figure everything out in the near future.

Stay tuned ...