My hero

I've been trying for weeks now to write a blog about my husband. It's not that I can't think of anything to say...it's the opposite. I could tell our story here--I want to tell our story here, but I want to tell it in a way that does him justice.

I could make a really long story short and just say that my husband is my hero. My miracle. That about sums it up in a nutshell.

If you're still reading, you must prefer unabridged versions of things. Me too.

The main reason I love telling our story is because it is an amazing example of God's patience with us, the power of prayer, and the healing that comes from love.


I first saw Kevin five years ago. Five years ago, I was in a very different place in my life. I wasn't married, wasn't dating, wasn't particularly happy. But five years ago was also sort of a new beginning for me. I'd started a new job on a new campus, bought a new house, made some new friends and really hoped for a new start.


I will never forget the first time I saw him. He was a coach, new to the district. He wasn't a first year teacher, but he wasn't a five year veteran like me ;). His boss described him as this great Christian role model for our kids. He had, after all, just returned from a mission trip to Russia. He would be heading up our campus's FCA. Let's all hear it for Coach Reed!

My very first thought about my husband, the first time I ever saw him, was he is waaaay too good for me. And too young. Don't forget too young. Basically, I dismissed him. Yet somehow, oddly enough, I did not dismiss the moment. It's a photograph I keep safely stored in my mind.


That was August. We didn't have an actual conversation until around March. But during the months in between, three different people told me that I really needed to get to know "that Coach Reed." He was soooo nice. Now for someone who was spending most of my time on the bitter side of the tracks in those days, saying someone was "nice" was about as big a draw for me as the plague. I didn't want "nice," or at least that's what I said. The truth was, I was pretty sure "nice" wouldn't want me.


Fast forward to March-ish. I'd determined that although Coach Reed was too perfect for me, he'd be a great match for my beautiful niece. I wanted to get to know him, so that I could tell her more about him. Kevin and I began emailing each other occasionally (I originally asked him for directions to College Station...since he was a good Aggie and all), and as time went on, I found that I really looked forward to hearing from him. Yes, he was indeed nice. And funny. And normal. Not at all what I had envisioned him to be. He didn't quote scripture in every email. He just had this quality...I didn't see him as this Christian-missionary-quasi-angel anymore. He was just a good, Christian guy. And he was starting to feel like a friend. Who liked me. Maybe.

Suddenly, the whole idea of setting him up with my niece just seemed weird.


What I didn't realize at the time was how many people in my life that were praying for me to meet someone like Kevin. I certainly wasn't praying for that. To be completely honest, during that time I wasn't praying at all. I still went to church. I went through all the motions. But I had been giving God the silent treatment for a very long time. I wasn't mad at Him so much as I was afraid of what He was going to say to me. I was a disappointment.

But when I realized that I might actually like Kevin--and he might actually like me back--I started praying again. And no, I wasn't praying for him to fall hopelessly in love with me. I knew better. It was not an easy process. I had A LOT to be forgiven for. I had A LOT to forgive myself for. But I didn't want to be someone I wasn't in front of him. I couldn't put on the "good Christian girl" mask and expect him to buy it. I wanted to be completely me. The old me. The me I actually liked. It took a while to find that girl again.


After emailing each other for a couple of months and flirting a little along the way, one of my friends had had enough. (Keep in mind, when you teach junior high kids, you tend to take on their weird relationship quirks) She was going to go and tell him to ask me out, for goodness sakes. So she did.

He said he had "other irons in the fire."


Gosh.

(By the way, he tells that part of the story differently. His version makes him sound less like a player. Funny.)


I should've been really, really disappointed at that response, but I wasn't. I felt strangely at peace about it. My actual thoughts were more along the lines of he may be busy now, but he WILL ask me out eventually. I somehow just knew this. And I was willing to wait him out. Patience was not my virtue, and yet, I was totally okay with this.

Turns out I didn't have to wait long. A week, I think.


In the days leading up to our real first date, we hung out a little here and there. I kept waiting to find a flaw, something that would drive me crazy. A deal breaker. In my past relationships there were always deal breakers. Tennis shoes with Wranglers. Too much togetherness. Weird teeth. Annoying laughs. You get the picture. Even if I wasn't the one to end the relationship, there was always something that drove me a little nuts. I'd never met a guy like Kevin. Someone I genuinely liked being around.


After our first date, I remember praying just before I fell asleep...I'd never met someone like this. He was so polite and kind and respectful of me as a woman, and yet it didn't drive me insane or cause me to feel suffocated.

I knew, KNEW, he was sent to Van just for me. To rescue me. To amaze me.

The thing I wasn't sure of was what the rest of the story was going to be. I didn't deserve him. I still didn't dare pray that God make him fall head over heels in love with me. Instead, I thanked Him every single day for showing me how I wanted to be treated. How it feels to be respected. That there were nice guys in the world. I actually told God that if Kevin walked out of my life at that very moment, I would still be forever grateful that I met him. And I meant it.

The rest, you could say, is history.


I think a lot about how it all came together. The way God worked to bring Kevin to little ol' Van, Texas. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the moment we met was literally years in the making. Yesterday, I was thinking about a conversation I'd had with a friend in which she said I probably would've met Kevin regardless of the choices I'd made about college. Maybe. But I never would've appreciated him--understood what a miracle he truly is to me--without walking down the road I did to get to him. I had to make a lot of mistakes first. I had to grow up.


I try not to let a day go by without reminding myself that I have a truly blessed life. Five years later, I love my husband more than I ever imagined possible. He is just as kind and loving now as he was then. And he's way funnier. He's more thoughtful than I am. He makes me feel pretty. He's smart and sensible, and everything he does is with the future of our family in mind. And don't even get me started on what an amazing daddy he is. He knows every single chink in my armor, yet he has never once taken aim at any of them.

He is amazing.


My hero.


My miracle.

History

Last week I spent a little time in therapy...I mean, painting. I think one thing that relaxes me almost as much as a good pedicure is painting stuff. While I paint, I let all my problems just play over and over in my mind...sometimes working themselves out, sometimes not. But as I paint, I relax, and sometimes I become much more rational and, well, sane by the time the last coat is applied. I like to paint things that I won't have to stare at all the time--all I do then is search for the mistakes and that's not therapeutic at all--but I've done rocking chairs, shelves, and the other day I did a chalk tray for Jackson and Sadie's play room.

But it wasn't just any old chalk tray. It was a part of my history.

A couple of years ago, my hometown overwhelmingly voted to begin a construction project within our school district. I was thrilled at the idea of progress in our sleepy little town. New buildings with new technology and security and gadgets and other cool tidbits. But alas, with progress comes change, and part of the change was to demolish a couple of the older--less structurally sound--buildings.

Namely, the building I spent fifth grade in. (You should sigh here. I do.)

If you are from Van, you know that the buildings I'm talking about aren't just brick and mortar bread boxes. They are classic. Elegant. To me, the older buildings are literally standing memorials to a kinder, gentler time. One that paid attention to detail. One that didn't necessarily think functional was code for "ugly." As a kid, I believed our junior high (the one I attended--not the one I teach in--which is also referred to as the "old high school" or the intermediate school...depending on your age and your audience!) was the most beautiful school around. I assumed every district's administration building looked like an old southern mansion--and I felt quite sorry for them when I realized most superintendents actually had to report to an office building every day.

As an adult, I understand the need for change. For progress. And I love that my alma mater has always stressed moving forward while still preserving tradition. It is often a precarious dance. But the fact that they don't just jump to "out with the old, in with the new" without really thinking it through makes me proud. Do I love that my kids will go to school in the very same buildings I went to school in? More than you know. Do I also love that they will go to school in brand-spanking new buildings too? Yep. And I love, more than words can express, that a part of our shared history will reside in our home from now on.

Old is not bad. Neither is new. And finding a comfortable combination of the two is really, really good.

Poop is Stinky

My son--my handsome, smart, ever-growing boy--pooped in the bathtub.

After a very busy but fun day, I plopped him and Sadie in the tub for a quick bath. Things were going just fine and dandy--he was actually enjoying Sadie's company, and she of course was thrilled to have her existence acknowledged by her big brother. All the love must have gone to my head, because I ended up letting the little cherubs play for several minutes before I bathed Sadie and got her out.

The entire time I'm bathing her, Jackson is telling me he is done and wants to get out. Perhaps this was a red flag.

I dry off Sadie in the next room, put on her diaper, and we head back to the tub.

Where my son is squatting down, watching the poop exit his body. Little pooplets are floating all around.

He looks up at me, clearly thrilled, and says, "I poopooed in the potty!"

Um, no.

So, after I sift out the poop (NOT with my bare hands, although the germophobe in me is keenly aware this whole time that my hand is in POOP WATER as is my SON who seems perfectly happy to be there), empty the tub, bathe my son (using the sprayer and then germ-xing his nasty little poop-water feet), and clean up the tub (toys and tub are still sitting in bleach, by the way), I explain to Jackson the ASTRONOMICAL difference between potty and bathtub, and how simply pooping outside one's diaper is not always a triumph. Cows don't poop in their bath tubs (to which he replies, "Cows don't take baths." Not my finest example.), and big boys NEVER poop in their baths. Ever. Poop is gross and disgusting and we only poop in diapers and potties. Do you understand? He says he does.

Then he walks into the living room and tells his daddy, "My poop is stinky."

Yes. Yes it is.

(Not So) Endless Summer

Today is the first day of the last week of summer for me. Sigh.

We decided last week to go ahead and try to get their kids back into their school year routine this week so I could start working in my classroom. Jackson woke up in a great mood, ready for the new day. After Kevin got him dressed, he walked into the living room and climbed in my lap to give me a hug. For some reason, he looked extra grown up today. I put his shoes on and he walked straight to the door saying, "Bye mama! I go play at Tanda's all day!"

So much for being a mama's boy.

The truth is that I really love this time of year. It's like a new adventure. I've always loved the beginning of school for that reason. I love going to stores and seeing all the school supplies. I love the first "official" day back at work. I love organizing my room. I love seeing my colleagues again. I love my job. I'm a nerd. I know. I'm okay with that.

The reason I can be okay with that is largely because I have such wonderful people taking care of my babies while I'm at work. Jackson and Sadie's Nana and Nannie each take one day a week, and then Tanya is our child care goddess--I mean provider--the other three days.

I really can't say enough good things about Tanya. You have to understand that in our small town, there is very, very little choice as far as quality daycare for infants--emphasis on quality. I didn't want to stick my baby in a crowded daycare run by people I'd never met--and the fact is that even if I DID want to do that, I would have to drive 15 minutes to do it. Everyone I worked with who had kids said that Tanya was the best anywhere, hands down. And I knew her personally. So, when I was about 6 months pregnant with Jackson, I went to Tanya and asked--if asking means getting down on my hands and knees and begging--her to make a place for him in her home. She did. When Jackson was four months old, he started going to Tanya's three days a week. Sadie was almost three months.

If you're wondering why we might rather pay someone to watch my children instead of letting the grandmothers have more time with them, the answer is simple. Grandmothers are grandmothers. I once heard some childcare expert say that it wasn't a great idea to recruit grandparents as daily babysitters because they don't get to do what grandparents do best--spoil their grandkids. If they're going to do their "job" as daycare providers, they have to be a disciplinarian, educator, and nutritionist. How many grandmothers do you know that want to tell their sweet grandbabies "no"? Kevin and I also wanted our kids to be around other kids...to learn how to play nice, so to speak. Tanya watches up to eight kids in her home, and her kids are there when they get home from school. They are the nicest children, and they are soooo nice to my babies!

And that's the best part about Tanya. You hear people who work with children say, "I love your children just like my own." As a child, I would hear teachers say this, and very rarely did I buy it. With Tanya, I buy it. When Jackson was around a year old, someone (NOT someone with a child in her care) turned her into the state for not being licensed. When I got to her house to pick up Jackson, she was crying and apologizing. "For what?" I asked. I knew she wasn't licensed. I also knew that her house was always spotless, the kids were always happy, and there had never been a minute that I worried about Jackson's safety. But in order to continue watching children, she had to get licensed. She didn't have to do that, but she did.

She has fed my son from her own refrigerator when he wouldn't eat the lunch I sent for him. She gives the kids she cares for the structure of "school" and the comfort of home. He knows his ABC's, colors, and shapes primarily because of her. The first time I had to put Jackson in time out, he knew exactly what to do because she is so consistent with her discipline (She swears it's just because he'd seen her put other kids in time out--not my sweet baby, of course:)). Her son will send "gifts" (his own toys) home with Jackson. She loves my babies and they love her.

We love her. Thank you, Tanya.

Know your audience

I just got home from a girls' night out. My mom volunteered to babysit (quite a sacrifice) so that I could go to a movie with my sister and niece. Tex-Mex and a chick flick...good times!

So we decide to see "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2." We sit down amongst the other ladies, teenage girls, and other females who have come to see a movie all about female bonding. The lights dim, the volume goes up, and the first two ads come across the screen...

Win a free movie screening with the WWE wrestler of your choice!

Huh?

WWE Wrestlemania 3895 coming soon to a theater near you!

Am I in the right theater?

I was so confused! (I admit I made up the second ad because I honestly was so blindsided by the idea of them advertising wrestling in a chick flick that I didn't pay attention to the details, but I PROMISE it said something like that!) The rest of the ads were fine, and I suppose demographically appropriate, but wrestlers? How many 13-30 year old women do you know that watch wrestling AND would admit it? It was just odd.

Another thing I found funny (strange, not haha) was the progression of the previews. Now, I fully admit that I go to the movies maybe four times a year...maybe this isn't new stuff. But the first preview was for a movie called "Fireproof." It's starring Kirk Cameron (still a cutie), and it was a Christian movie (about a man trying to save his marriage) that really made no qualms about being a Christian movie. The next movie was "The Women." The buzz around this movie is that there's not a man in it...made by women for women...about a woman whose husband is having an affair. And finally, "Nights in Rodanthe" with Richard Gere and Diane Lane...about a man (who abandoned his family for his career) and a woman (whose husband had--you guessed it!--an affair) who spend a passionate weekend together. There was also a Harry Potter preview in there somewhere too...which again seemed out of place to me.

It just struck me funny. Man fights for marriage. Married man messes around. Formerly married man and married woman mess around, because turnabout is fair play, after all. I'm not knocking the movies themselves--I'd like to see all three, actually--but it seemed strange to me.

As for the Sisterhood itself...if you haven't read the books yet, go out and read them. Then rent the movie. It's good (and the actresses in it are some of my very favorites), but the books are sooo much better, AND the movie will make more sense.

And apparently it will leave you wanting to go home and watch some wrestling. Go figure.

**One additional note... I forgot one sad, sad moment from our movie going experience. I can't believe I forgot this. As we were waiting for the movie to start, an ad came on for JC Penney. You may have seen it on TV...the "Don't You Forget About Me" song from The Breakfast Club is playing while models reenact different scenes from the movie--primarily the "wild and wacky kids" part (which incidentally happens after the characters have shared a joint--not sure if JCP realizes that). I was laughing to myself, because this is one of my favorite movies, and it's hard to believe it's now become so classic and iconic that it's a commercial. Then from behind me I hear two teenage girls (seniors) say, "What are they doing?" They didn't get it. I wanted to cry. I'm so old.***

Who is this child?

My son is a little chameleon. I suppose at two this is perfectly normal, but he is constantly changing. Constantly. Part of it stems from the fact that he seems to be learning something new every single day, and the things he learns, he likes to put into practice. He's a little chatterbox full of cute little tidbits (provided you speak two year old). Two of his newest favorite sayings are "I so proud of you" and "I so cute." So humble. And when he's building something with his blocks, it's always a grocery store. For now. I'm sure it will change tomorrow.

This is sooooo different than a year ago when he was this little bundle of hesitation.

A year ago, I couldn't pay this child to say "mama"...He literally laughed at me. Could he say it? Yep. Would he? Not on your life. He would smile at the request, then say, "Dada!" You can imagine the glee this brought to my husband.

A year ago, the only words he would say with any regularity were Dada, Blue, Dado (his grandfather), and outside. ...Oh, and No. Of course. He only recently started saying yes. For a while, he would giggle when he meant yes. Then he would say "hooray!" But not yes. Then one day, out of the blue, he said yes as clear as a bell. No doubt. Such a sweet little articulate boy.

One of the things we've always been so proud of was how from a very early age Jackson would say "please" and "thank you" at appropriate times. Especially thank you (this is a big hit at restaurants when the food or chips or drinks arrive). So when he finally started saying yes, we started trying to instill the importance of saying "yes, ma'am" or "yes, sir"...sometimes he remembers, but mostly not. However, because his yes was so proper and polite sounding, I wasn't sweating it.

I'm sweating now.

Literally overnight, my son has stopped saying yes. It's "yeah" now. The teacher side of me has been pulling my hair out strand by strand for the past 24 hours. It's not even a polite sounding yeah...if there is such a thing. It's obnoxious sounding. He's my son and I love him, so I can say that.

I probably shouldn't be stressing about this like I am, but I'm a teacher. I want my children to be well-mannered. I know that in life, being polite will take you infinitely farther than being intelligent. Being intelligent will get you a degree, it will not get you a letter of recommendation from your professors. Being intelligent might get you a job, but being polite will keep that job. I'm not saying that good manners replace competence, but they complement each other nicely.

So right now, every question that has a positive answer goes like this:
Me: Jackson, do you love your momma more than cookies?
Jackson: Yeah.
Me: Yes, ma'am?
Jackson: Yes, ma'am.
Me: Big boys don't say "yeah."
Jackson: Yeah.
Me: Yes ma'am.
Jackson: Yes ma'am.

Do you have any idea how many questions a mother asks a two year old in a day? 732,000.

Bath Time!

Sadie has been quite a busy girl these last few weeks. I guess she really didn't want me to miss any big milestones in her little life when I go back to work in...sigh...12 days. A couple of weeks ago, she started scooting across the floor. Between rolling and scooting, she can get anywhere she wants to go pretty darn quickly! She's now up on her hands and knees, and before we know it, she'll be off and running.


Then last week, she cut her first tooth.


And last night, she took her first "big girl bath" with her brother. This is probably a bigger step for me than it is for her. I always loved bathing my kids in their little blue baby tub. It was the last part of "infanthood"...but now that Sadie splashes out more water than actually stays in the tub, it was time to move on up.

Sadie LOVES bathtime! She splashed and played with the bath toys, and was so excited to see Jackson in there with her (and since wonders never seem to cease around here, Jackson was excited to see her in there too).

Next thing you know, she'll be starting college. It's going by that fast.

Pop Quiz!

As you probably already know, I am a junior high teacher. What you may not know if you're not part of the educational system is that most teachers act a whole lot like the students they teach. Not out in the real world. In the school world. In faculty meetings, district wide gatherings, etc. Elementary teachers are cute, fun, and find comfort in structure and boundaries. Junior high teachers test boundaries, hate structure, and think they have way more control than they really do. High school teachers are aloof, smart and feel like most meetings are a waste of their time. I say this with love. It is completely true. Schools are having such gatherings all the time this month. Sneak into one. Hide and watch.


That little tidbit of information was to let you know that at the end of the year last year, my principal--God love him--gave us, his junior high campus (see above descriptors), assigned summer reading.

No, I'm not kidding.

You should've been in the office as each teacher filed into his office to check out for the summer. It went something like this...

Teacher walks into office. Big smiles all around.
Principal: All done?
Teacher: Yep! Here's my check list!
Principal: Great! Here's a little book I want you to read over the summer. It's really good!
Teacher: Huh? Book? Oh, uh, okay. Thanks. Have a great summer.
Principal: You too!
Teacher leaves office, looks at next person in line and whispers, "Summer reading? SUMMER READING?!! Is he crazy???"

It was hilarious. Except I work for him too, so I got the book. It's called The Anatomy of Peace. And actually, being the "teacher pleaser" that I still apparently am, I started the book at the very beginning of summer. I'm still not done, but I'm close. (And before you start panicking thinking your child might possibly receive instruction from a complete idiot, I have actually read a couple of other books that I actually wanted to read too) The fact is, it's not a quick, easy read. But it really is a good book. It basically takes the Golden Rule and breaks it down, so that we might see why we react certain ways to certain people in certain situations. It's not biblical or particularly Christian in nature. But Christians will do well to read it and think about it. It's all about your heart and how you view other people. It makes you think. I think about it when I want to get miffed at my husband for something. I think about it when I interact with Jackson. But mostly I think about it when I interact with strangers.

Today, I'm pretty sure God was giving me a pop quiz. The "Let's See if Angie has Learned Anything from her Summer Reading" Quiz.

Mom and I went to Tyler for lunch and a little shopping, and on our way out we stopped at Sonic (it was Happy Hour, after all). Jackson was in the back seat wanting to watch Steve not Joe on the DVD, so I pulled into the parking spot rather than driving through. I figured we could order, I could get Jackson's DVD dilemma remedied, and be on our merry way.

God: Not so fast there, sister. Let me introduce you to Marlon.

When I pushed the button, Marlon answered. I ordered a large cherry limeade, a large cranberry limeade, and an ice cream dish filled only halfway (for the little cherub in the back seat who gleefully squealed "Ice Keem!!" when we pulled in). Marlon repeated my order back word for word. Perfect.

I got Steve going on the DVD player. No problem. Marlon will be out shortly.

Or not. What will you do now?

Five minutes later, Marlon walks out the door. I watch our drinks fall over at least three times before he made it five feet. Marlon is apparently new. When he gets about ten feet from the car, I realize the drinks are not the same size. He hands me the ice cream, and I tell him--politely, I promise--that we ordered two larges. He hands me the cherry limeade, which was the large drink, and tries to hand me the other drink. I tell him again that we ordered two larges. He stares at me, not understanding. It is the heat, I'm sure. I realize that he thinks we ordered three drinks. I tell him no, we only ordered two, and they were both large and can I have a spoon for the ice cream please?

He doesn't have a spoon. He'll go get my drink and a spoon. He's very sorry. He'll be back quickly.

But what if he's not? Then what? How will you handle that?

Another five minutes later, Marlon comes back. He has a large drink in his hand. Hooray! That will be $4.53 he says. I point out that we only ordered two drinks and an ice cream, and it's happy hour. $2.50, max. Again, he stares at me. Again, he apologizes.

Again, he has forgotten the spoon. And a straw. He'll be right back. Grrr. What's this guy's problem??

Yes. What is his problem? Do you care?

A couple of minutes later, he comes back. Empty handed. I forgot the spoon again! I am so sorry, he says. I stare at him. I hold up the now melted ice cream. This was for my son I say. Now it's melted. What am I supposed to do with it now? (If I could ever teach Jackson to cry on demand, this would've been a great time to utilize that. ;) ) He offers to remake it and apologizes again. I am losing patience.

Why? You've had a great day in Tyler with family. You are enjoying your last fleeting moments of summer. Why NOT be patient?

Marlon returns, fresh ice cream in hand. I can hear him saying I'm sorry ten feet away. I can tell he really is. I was a little nervous that I was about to make him cry. Please, Marlon, please don't cry.

He only charges me $1.10. Still apologizing. But not crying, thank goodness.

Marlon tells me this is his first day. He's never car hopped before. He doesn't even have the little apron thingy (he didn't tell me that. I noticed it the second time he forgot the spoon). He didn't know he would have to take the order, prepare the order AND take out the order. I didn't know that either. I tip him, because I worry the poor guy might not get another one for the rest of the day. I smile at him, tell him it's fine and I hope his day gets better. And I meant it.

Did I pass?

What do YOU think?

Sometimes the hardest thing in the world for me to do is not lose patience. I very rarely go off on people, but that doesn't stop me from trashing them mentally. The thing I've noticed about that is while it keeps me really busy, it doesn't make me feel one bit better. Usually I just get more angry. More frustrated.

Today, yes, I still thought a lot about whole Marlon debacle. But I didn't get more angry, so I'm thinking that's progress. I had to laugh. Poor guy. I hope they gave him an apron.

3:02 a.m.

I can't remember the last time I was awake at 3 a.m. voluntarily. But here I am. My husband is away at cow school (seriously), and whenever he's away, I don't sleep as well, but tonight is really unusual (and unfortunate, because Sadie will be awake in 4 hours).

About four hours ago, I was playing around on the internet, visiting my friend Brenna's site, when I clicked on a link on her page. It is a blog titled, "Bring the Rain." (I've added the link to my page to make it easier for you to find. ) Angie Smith is the author of the site. I encourage you to take a moment (or four hours) out of your day to sit and read her story. Start at the beginning. Have a box of kleenex handy. Or two. It will break your heart and inspire you and remind you how big our God is. Her faith--her unwavering belief that God is in control of it all--caused me to take stock of my own faith. Could I trust like her? Could I rest in His promises? If I were placed in her circumstance, could I breathe in and out and put one foot in front of the other?

Don't think for even a minute that this site is morbid or morose. It is a beautiful love story. It is one of, if not the, most moving displays of a mother's love for her daughter. It made me think about my children. It made me want to be a better parent. A more godly parent who teaches my kids how much God loves them every single day.

Because that's why we're here, after all.

Here's something for ya

Unless you know me really well (and probably even if you do), you might not know that for most of my life, having kids was not on my radar. It wasn't that I didn't like kids, or that I didn't want kids, but I've never been one of those people that just made assumptions about my future. I wasn't 100% sure I would be a good wife or mother, so I wasn't 100% sure I wanted to do it (and here, for those of you paying attention, is probably where Jackson gets that same little quirk).

I'll fully admit that in high school I was a HOPELESS romantic. I listened dewy eyed to all the songs, I wrote the poems, I doodled names in the margins of my algebra notes, I rambled endlessly to my friends about does he love me? Did he just look at me? Do I have a snowball's chance? Yes? No? Maybe? (I clung to a lot of maybes.) My best friend and I even bought a bridal magazine and literally went through it hundreds of times planning our weddings. In my dream wedding, the groom was just one of the necessary parts of a good wedding (again for those of you paying attention, this is explaining soooo much). The truth was deep down I never thought anyone would love me enough to want to marry me...or if they did, I wouldn't love them enough. That had been my m.o. since junior high. And honestly? It didn't change until I met Kevin.

As far as kids went, I just couldn't visualize myself with children. I grew up around babies, I took care of babies, I liked babies. But me with a baby? Seriously?

It wasn't until I started teaching that I thought I might be pretty good at it. The first year I taught, there was a little girl who lost her mother. She loved me and gave the best hugs. I swear, if I'd been a few years older, I would've taken her home with me. I still think about her a lot. I'd still take her.

But it was my mom sealed the deal with her dream. I can't remember when or at what point in my life the conversation occurred. I just remember standing in the middle of First Monday, in the Arbors. I have no idea what the context of the conversation was. I just remember saying I wasn't sure if I would ever have kids. It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud. She looked at me, not with the usual oh-don't-be-overly-dramatic look I usually got, and said, "You'll have kids."

Me: I'm not so sure about that.

Her: I know it. I had a dream. You're going to have a boy and a girl. I saw them.

She was completely serious. For those of you who don't know her, she's not crazy, I swear. But she does take dreams seriously (I'm pretty sure she fully believes if she tells you a dream before she eats something it's bound to come true, and since she usually has dreams that are weird and scary, she never tells her dreams before she eats.) and she seriously believed I was having two kids.

While I'm not sure about the role my mom's psychic powers played, I have no doubt that prayers and a few small miracles brought my husband into my life, and consequently, my babies. Meeting Kevin was the first time in my adult life that I allowed myself to think for even a second that I could have it all. And while I'm not the mom of the year, my kids like me okay.

Just goes to show that things are never set in stone. Minds can change, hearts can be unbroken, and dreams do come true.