Nephew Love - Lane D.

Kindergarten Homework

Technically, on the day that Lane was born I was not his aunt. While I loved his uncle, we were not married yet. We were not even engaged, actually. I was eighteen years old, and a freshman in college. I had not decided on my major yet, and basically had no idea what I was going to do with my life. Even so, the first time I held him in my arms I thought to myself, "This is what my children will look like." While I had two nephews on my side of the family, he was the first one on Kevin's side. He looked like the tiniest version of Kevin I could imagine, with his nose and dark hair. And I loved him as my own already. On his first day, I held him for a long time in the hospital room while his mom left to take a shower. I told him what a handsome and sweet little boy he was, and that I was going to be his Aunt Val. Later that evening, when describing him to my mom I said, "He has the Peavler nose and the Waddle ears, but he's really cute!"

                                                                                          

Kevin and I did a better job with our nieces and nephews before we had children of our own. We had more time to spend with them. The first time Kevin took Lane from me when it was time for his bottle and settled down in a chair to feed him, I got my first glimpse into the kind of father he might be. We soon learned he loved to ride anywhere with us, and we hardly ever told him no.  As a toddler he was quick to suggest a trip to Wal-Mart to buy a toy. We bought him a little life jacket on one of those trips and started taking him with us to the river in the boat. He was in diapers. The first time Kevin pulled a big flathead into the boat, he cried until we got him back to the bank, clinging to me for dear life! I had to hold him until that fish was in the freezer! Kevin made sure he got over that fear very quickly!  When he was around two, Kevin and I took him to a rodeo in Kirksville. I remember when it was time for the bull riding, Lane clapped his hands saying, "Yay!" throughout the entire eight seconds for every cowboy, whether he stayed on his bull or not! He fell asleep on my lap in the bleachers, and Kevin carried him to the truck.  

Keeping his eye on that big scary fish. We had to keep our distance.

The way Kevin and Lane related to one another when Lane was small helped me decide with 100% certainty that I did not want to start a family of my own with anyone else. We had so much fun with him in those early years that I think if we could have gotten away with keeping him to raise as our own we would have! Lane is eighteen years old now...the age I was when I met him. He drives himself wherever he wants to go these days, and we do not get to see him quite as much as we use to. He is definitely his own person, but once in a while I can still see Kevin in him. In a gesture he makes or something he says or the way he interacts with our kids. This year he took our son duck hunting in the same place Kevin remembers taking him on some of his earliest duck hunts. We love watching Lane catch in his ball games, and we never get tired of seeing him hit a baseball over the fence. His grades are impressive as well, which I am pretty sure has something to do with how many times he convinced me to read Green Eggs and Ham. Maybe. I hope he knows how proud we are of the young man he is becoming, and how much we have always loved having him as a part of our family. He will always have a special place in our hearts, and we will always be two of his biggest fans. Happy Birthday, Lane! Welcome to adulthood.  May your future be filled with memories as bright as the ones you have given to us.

Not scared of fish anymore!

Celebrating My Sister

I know that it is possible to live without a sister. In theory. I know there are plenty of people who do not have one, or who are estranged from theirs. In my head I know this to be true, but in my heart I just can't figure out how in the world people manage it. In the last few years I have become much more sentimental relative to my big sister. Maybe as I get older I can see how quickly the years are slipping by, or maybe as my children start needing me less I start needing her more. Mostly, I think it has a lot to do with watching her struggle over the past few years to get healthy. Whatever my reasons, there is no time like my sister's birthday to blog about the blessings of sisterhood.

When she married her high school sweetheart, I was eleven. I watched him sing to her at their wedding and I thought about the importance of following your heart. She gave me my first nephew when I was fourteen. An aunt was born. For the first time, I realized that the intensely protective love that I thought I had reserved for my own children could be felt even for a child I did not bring into this world. I did not realize I would love her children as if they were my own. When I was seventeen, she brought my second nephew into this world, and I learned about the fragility and uncertainty of life. This would not be her only lesson for me about that.

As I consider what life would be like without a sister, I wonder who else would have helped me double team our brother when he was being especially obnoxious? Who would have whispered and giggled with me late into the night? Who would have done my hair for prom or given me my first glimpse of the delivery room? Who would have helped me do cartwheels in the back yard or yanked out my eyebrows for the first time?

Don't get me wrong. My sister is not perfect. She is kind of a show-off, actually. She makes our parents all of these homemade artistic masterpieces for holidays. And I bring them like a calendar, or lotion or something. She use to enjoy sticking me in the grass when I was small because I did not like the feel of it on my bare legs, and I would freeze up with discomfort. I remember a few times on grade card day when she and our brother did not want to play with me because my grades might have been a little more impressive that semester. She often ran me off during her teenage years in an attempt to have more privacy when her friends came over. But NEVER in my life have I doubted her devotion to me. Never have I had a problem I was struggling with or a triumph to celebrate without being able to call her and know with one hundred percent certainty that she was going to be on my side. The list of people like that in my life is very short. I know she will get my jokes, remind me of my strong points and tolerate my bad ones.  I read that a sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost. That is true. But it is also a whole lot of adulthood. It is hearts and souls combined with laughter and tears. Happy Birthday, Vanita! May this year bring you strength, joy, peace, and love! I hope you all take a moment today to celebrate your sister.

Love Story

I always think of my Granny and Grandad on Valentine's Day. The way I remember it, they met on a blind date in October, got engaged in December, and got married on February 12th. Four short months after they met they were husband and wife. They were married fifty-six years when Granny passed, and he was by her side, calling her, "Sugar," when she was nearing the end.

I did not know them as a young couple starting out. I probably could not imagine some of the struggles they faced financially, or the heartache they felt when their only son was in Vietnam. Now that I have a family of my own, I would love to visit with them about the challenges of raising a family, or how they managed to stay so in love for a lifetime. I would love to get some wisdom from them on the best ways to value what is important because I believe their lives were an example of that. I realize there are many things I do not know about their lives before I came along, but I do know that the love they felt for one another was something I could easily see for myself from an early age. I think the love they shared was a solid foundation that made it easy for them to shower their children and grandchildren with the excess.

Granny and Grandad demonstrated love every day. It was in their presence at all of the important events of our lives from weddings to graduations to ball games. It was in the enthusiasm of their hugs, and in their waves goodbye until we drove out of sight. I saw it in the way he carried her lawn chair for her and in the way she wore skirts because she knew he preferred them.

I think growing up as their granddaughter made it easy for me to believe in forever love when I was only a teenager. I will always be thankful for my faith in love, and that I had them in my life. I realize it does not happen that way for everyone, but sometimes, in a tiny town in rural America, there is a love story that truly does last forever.

Gratitude

I try really hard to be the girl who sees the glass as half full most of the time. I want to give thanks in all things every single day, I really do, but sometimes I fall short of that. When Thanksgiving rolls around, I cannot help but consider the things I am grateful for, or more importantly, the people. I think about the people who have loved me over the years. What stands out most is not the times I have heard the words, but the times these people have shown me love. The cakes baked for my birthday. The clothes, and even my wedding dress, handmade with love. The ear drops I needed as a kid, being warmed on top of the wood stove even though they were always needed in the middle of the night. The man who fixed things for me before I knew they were broken. The people in the bleachers or lawn chairs at sporting events season after season who I knew were there just for me. The man who held my face in his hands when I became a mother.

I guess what I am saying is that this Thanksgiving, my gratitude is not something I want to list like the things I need at the grocery store. It is a feeling that comes from knowing I have people who will always, irrevocably, be on my team. The security in knowing there are people on the sidelines of my life wearing my jersey forever. I also appreciate the opportunity to suit up for them. I know how it feels to be a team player. When someone on my team hurts, I cry, and when they succeed, I do my victory dance. I am so thankful for the people who do the same for me, whether they have been with me for my entire life or they have joined me along the way.

Things don’t always work out the way we plan. Life contains disappointments and diseases. People get caught up in so many unimportant things in the daily chaos that sometimes it is difficult to find what matters. All we can do is adapt and overcome our obstacles, and cheer when our loved ones do the same. You know, with the right support system, things can turn out even better than we could have hoped. 

Ode to Stan the Man

When it comes to in-laws, all we can really do is roll the dice. We have little control over the extended family members we come to share our lives with. We can hope to have a lot in common with them, but that is not always the case. At the very least we can hope to share with them a love and devotion to the person who has bound us together...but even that does not hold true in every family. We can choose what type of relationship we want to have with our in-laws. In some cases, in-laws are welcomed with open arms, like family. Sometimes, in-laws seldom speak to each other, like strangers.
Stan has been my brother-in-law since I was twelve years old. I probably did not give it much thought when I was younger. I guess in my mind he had kind of always been there, and I thought of him as another brother. Early on in he and Vanita's married life, I would go to their house for sleepovers. My sister would do my nails, and we would watch movies, and they always had my favorite pop and snacks. What's to think about? It worked for me!

I have witnessed many things over the years to make me appreciate the fact that Vanita chose him to add to our family. Things that seem simple but should not be overlooked. Everyone thought it was sweet when he held her hand and sang to her during their wedding. When I think about the decades that have passed since that day, and I picture my sister, it is almost always with Stan by her side. He also held her hand when their sons were born, and when some of my favorite people were buried. I appreciate his honesty, and I have all the faith in the world that he tries hard to do the right thing whenever he can. For his family, for my family, and for his community. He is one of the most level-headed guys I know, and he is one of those guys that you can call when you need help, and he will show up. He has shown us over the last few years that when he said, "In sickness and in health," it was a vow he took seriously. I hope he feels like we treat him like family...even if that means we give him a hard time once in awhile. I am glad he is like a brother to me, and I am glad he is a good uncle to my children. I am grateful that he is a good father to my nephews, but most of all, I am glad he is good to my sister. All we ever really want for our loved ones is for them to choose good people to share their lives with. To share our lives with. In honor of his birthday, I just wanted to say that I am pretty sure Stan the Man is one of the good guys! Good job, Sis!

Nephew Love - Logan & Lance

I remember when my nephews were born. I should, since I was in the hospital with their parents. At the earliest opportunity, I taught them to say, "Aunt Val," whenever anyone asked who loved them. I remember Logan's serious, inquisitive little eyes entrusting me to answer his countless questions. Like I knew every secret of the world. I remember crawling into an oxygen tent with Lance when he was sick and tired of being sick and tired in a hospital bed as a toddler. I can close my eyes and see both of them as small boys playing on the playground or running to me with their hands in the air to be held. Like it was yesterday. They were such good boys.

These days, I have to look up to talk to or hug these boys. And they are not boys at all but tall, young men with facial hair and girlfriends. They have busy lives with work, school, sports, hunting, fishing, and friends. Sometimes I forget that these young men are the same little boys who were once two of my biggest fans. Recently I was reminded when they discovered my hankering for a picnic table and a new clothesline. They told me they would hook me up. I heard them, but I kind of assumed it would be a long time down the road so I did not give it a lot of thought. I mean, I realize Lance participates in every sport available to him and Logan was working states away with his welding job.

A couple of days after Logan got home from a job, though, he called me with specific questions about clothesline pole preferences. It was a Saturday morning. Lance called me that same day with questions about the kind of picnic table I would like. They were actually going to town to get materials! Here is the best part: by that very evening, they pulled into my driveway with their parents, and a picnic table and two clothesline poles in the back of the truck. They bought the materials, put them all together, and delivered them all in one day. We are talking about lumber and pieces of steel pipe in the morning being cut, measured, sawed, welded, and the final product delivered...all in one day. Logan even dug the holes, put the poles in the ground with quick concrete, and painted them. They could really go into business! I have to tell you I have wondered whether to come up with some more projects to mention to them! ;)

Lance's Picnic Table

Logan's Clothesline

I cannot tell you how much I have enjoyed their creations already. I love hanging out clothes. I don't just mean I love how it makes things smell. I mean I love being outside with the sun on my face and a breeze in my hair as I fill up those lines with our clothes. I can see our pond, and usually our cattle. I can hear birds singing or my children playing.  I love being able to leave those clothes out there until I am good and ready to fold them and put them away. The picnic table has been like adding a room onto our tiny house! I have this whole patio project going now, and we eat outside at every opportunity. Now I can sit at my picnic table with my family and listen to my sheets whipping in our hilltop wind. I love my new stuff, but even more I love that it comes with people who love me and are willing to put in some time (and labor!) to make me happy. Sometimes as boys grow into men we girls think they might forget about us. I am pretty sure the secret to making sure you are remembered is to try your best to be good to them when they are little! My nephews may not run to me looking for hugs so much anymore...and to be honest, when we all get together these days they seem to have more questions for their Uncle Kevin than for me. But I think they remember who I am and they are taking good care of me. They are still good boys. And do you know who loves them? Aunt Val!

She was a good dog.

The day I took Poochie to be put to sleep was beautiful. It was one of those rare occasions, in Missouri, at least, in which the temperature was perfect. The clouds dotting the blue sky were like cotton balls. From the moment I woke up, I began preparing myself for the task ahead of me.  I filled my thoughts with the necessity of it all.  The lesser of all evils. The best thing from a list of the worst options.  I knew all of the logical things about the situation.  I knew we would be saying goodbye to her one day, and thirteen and a half years was a long and happy life for a dog.  I knew putting her to sleep would end her suffering.  I knew her cancer was not ever getting better. I knew she had started dropping weight and spending most of her time on her cushion in her pet taxi. I saw her have a seizure a couple of weeks ago, and I wondered how many she may have had when I was not around.  I had reached the point where I knew I could not watch her get any worse, and I did not want the kids to watch it either.

Knowing the right thing to do and having the courage to do it are two completely different ball games. I had called the vet a few weeks ago to set up this appointment, and when they called me back I did not answer my phone. This time I made the appointment.  I chose a vet we had never been to before, because Poochie hated going to the vet where she was fixed and got her shots. She would not go into the building willingly, and when we got to the door, she would plant her feet so that I would either have to carry her or drag her in by her leash! The kids and I talked it out, and we all decided they would not go.  I told Madison that Poochie's last day was not nearly as important as her first thirteen and a half years, and she had spent ten of those years with her.  Kevin has been working six days a week for most of the summer, and this weekend was no exception.  My mother-in-law offered to take her, but I decided it should be me.

The night before, I had given her a bath and fixed her an egg.  She loved eggs.  I thought I was approaching the whole thing with love, logic, and sound judgment. I was handling everything well, for the most part, but the closer I got to the vet's office, the further I felt my resolve slipping away from me. I began grasping for alternatives, chastising myself for not having her leg amputated at the first onset, and trying to come up with an excuse I could toss at the vet for missing the appointment.

I pulled into the parking lot and tried hard to convince myself that I was an adult.  I remember thinking as a kid that being a grown up would be awesome because I could do whatever I wanted all the time. Too often it means doing what has to be done instead. I composed myself.  I decided it would be best to go in and pay the vet for his service beforehand, and he caught me a little off guard when he needed to ask me a few questions.  He was as nice as he could be, but because she had not been there before, he had to get "a little bit of her history." He needed to know things like her age, weight, breed, whether or not she was a house dog, and if I would be taking her home. As I answered his questions, I felt my composure start to melt away once again.

I remember thinking, "Buddy, it will take more time than you have if you want to know Poochie's history." We are talking about two houses and three babies and all of the events in between.  We are talking about a look of disdain she directed at any other dog because she did not know she was one.  We are talking about her favorite plaid, burgundy, bone-shaped pillow and a Christmas stocking.  She held a mystery grudge against the Amish, causing her to bark frantically at the sight of a horse and buggy. She loved being under the covers, and sported a football hoodie, a t-shirt that said, "You couldn't afford me," and a red, velvet Christmas dress as the occasion deemed necessary.  When I got up in the night to change a sick child's bedding, Poochie's footsteps followed me down the hallway. She waited patiently until all was well again. She had a habit of working her nose into my palm if I was sitting still, because if I had nothing to do, I might as well be petting her. If I told her to, she would jump up so I could catch her, and plant her backside on my hip so I could carry her. When the weather was nasty, she ould come in the house and lay down on the rug with her paws in the air so I could wipe her feet with a towel.  She got up with me every time I needed to soothe a new baby in the wee hours of the morning, and when my babies cried in the next room during the day, she came to find me. She tolerated my toddlers as they hugged her neck with too much enthusiasm, and she curled up with them as they watched TV, all the way from Dora and Diego to iCarly, Spiderman, and Victorious.

That's the thing about Poochie's history.  It is my family's history.  She was calm, or maybe tired, as I carried her into the little room. I was glad I chose the unfamiliar vet. I got to hold her as she received the injection. I stroked her head in her favorite way, until she rested it on my arm, and she was gone.

The vet said the amputation would not have prolonged things. He said he thought I had made the right decision, and she was very worn out because "she went so easy." I was grateful to him for that.  The next day, it rained, and the sky looked like ashes all day. I was glad because all the people I know really need rain, and I was glad because all I really felt like doing was mourning the loss of a dear, dear friend. She was a good dog.

Brothers & Sisters

When I was younger, I wanted to have four kids.  While I was ordering them up like pizza, I wanted to have two boys and two girls.  I grew up with a brother and a sister, and I always felt like my brother kind of missed out...having only sisters and all.  A sister can hunt, play sports, climb trees, and ride bikes, but there are also times when she wants to curl her hair, paint her nails, and talk on the phone. I thought maybe if he had a brother, he could have spent a little more time with someone who appreciated that he took things apart to see how they worked, even if he did not always get them put back together in a way that was functional.  Maybe there would have been someone to roll their eyes a little less often at him, or laugh at every joke about gas...because we all know those never get old.  My brother and his brother probably could have wrestled on a daily basis without anyone getting their feelings hurt. I think some of the same things about Jaron.  But my only brother and my only son share the fate of growing up outnumbered in their family.  It was not meant to be for Blaine or for Jaron, and they got sisters.   

Sisters can get a little extra emotional sometimes.  Oftentimes, in my case, a sister will not come back down out of the climbed tree until her brother comes to help her.  We tend to harass our brothers about the things that we think he needs to do. Maybe it use to be staying out of our rooms, or refraining from mooning a bus full of our peers, and now it has become going to that checkup at the doctor.  Sometimes sisters don't let a guy get a word in edgewise...I am not going to lie about it.  Good, bad, or indifferent.  We have lots of things to say. Boys may not say all the mushy things, but I don't think that matters as much as being there when we need them.  My brother gave me many rides to school, practices, games, open gyms, and social events (as long as I was not dressed inappropriately). He played a lot of basketball with me. I'm pretty sure I schooled him a few times.  There have been times when he tried to get me in trouble with our parents. And vice versa.  But there have also been times when he needed somebody, and he called me.  And vice versa. It always helps a girl's confidence to know she has guys in her corner.  Not that we need to be taken care of or anything, but you know, just in case.  So while my brother may not be the mushy type, he tolerates me hugging on him and taking his picture on a pretty regular basis with minimal complaints. Everyone knows he always picks out the coolest John Deere gifts for any occasion.  I am still a little sorry he missed out on having a brother, because I can tell you, it's pretty great.  Happy Birthday to my favorite brother!     

Just Like Grandma Use to Make

I have never really thought of myself as overly domestic. To me, a domestic girl is like a pre-jail Martha Stewart. She is the girl whose intricately homemade centerpiece is surrounded by bright and innovative place settings on her dinner table. She sews, and she always makes homemade goodness for the class parties at school. She does not get behind on the laundry. I am not that girl, but over the weekend, I did make sourdough bread for the first time. I got my live yeast starter jar from my mom, who got hers from my Grandma Harvey, who got hers the year my dad was born. So I followed the detailed instructions that have be passed down for generations, and I made bread that smelled and tasted just like Grandma use to make.

I thought about how Grandma use to work her bread dough over at her kitchen table, telling stories the whole time. We gathered around her like there was a good movie on TV. As the smell drifted throughout my house, I remembered how much I love this stuff toasted with an egg and a slice of tomato! I had that for breakfast many times with my grandparents. I would love to sit down with her and ask her all about her experiences with this bread. And with canning throughout the years. And with motherhood..and with life on the farm. I would love to talk to her about my kids, cooking, and making homemade laundry detergent. I think she would love that I do that.
I have Grandma's handwritten recipe with tips, and I have Mom's adaptation involving the bread machine's dough cycle and some wheat flour. I have never felt more capable in the kitchen in all of my life, even with multiple phone calls to Mom throughout the process. Sometimes baking is about baking and feeding people, and sometimes baking is a way to honor the people who have contributed to the person you have become. Sometimes it is good to take a minute to recognize what a blessing it is to have grown up with such strong women in my life who have helped me to recognize what is important. Women who cared for their families before anything else. I have their recipes on paper, but they have also given me many unwritten principles to live by. I treasure them all. I guess maybe my hope is that one day someone will want to make something like I made it, or do something like I did it. Like maybe I did something right.

Family Night Highlights

A couple of months ago, I started to feel offended by the way my big kids seemed to want to be anywhere but home. I realized that I was placing too much focus on trying to keep things afloat, and I was letting opportunities for fun slip away from us. I don’t necessarily want to spend all of my “free” time on laundry and dishes, either, so I decided to make a change. I decided to have the kids help out a little more with my chores…and to reinstate Family Night.

It all starts with the white board. Each week I write on the white board whether or not we have piano lessons (Madison goes every other week). Beneath that, I label who will be one of three helpers for the week. We have a Dishes Helper (this includes setting and clearing the table, and emptying the dishwasher). Next we have a Laundry & Daddy’s Helper (Duties include bringing the laundry to the laundry room and going with Daddy each night to feed and check the cattle). Last and smallest, we have a Cooking Helper. This is always Megan. She is always underfoot when I am fixing dinner, trying her best to be helpful. I decided that if she helps bring me things I need, and throws trash away, then she has an important job, too.

Across the bottom of the board, I write, “Family Night” along with whatever we will be doing that Friday evening. The first week happened to fall when the Chiefs had their first preseason game of the year, so we watched that. The next week Rio came out on DVD. Sometimes we watch TV and make popcorn. We have gone camping(in the yard), or played games. Once, the girls watched a movie and the boys went coon hunting. The activities vary, but I always try to fix something a little more festive for supper, or we make cookies or popcorn. I am struck every week by how my little people are growing up. I look forward to learning what is on their minds. I recognized that these are the things I need to be blogging about. Moments that need to be recorded. So look forward to more Family Night Highlights to come.

This time, we put together puzzles. Megan helped some, and then she amazed herself by blowing the tiny puzzle pieces across the table. Somehow my family can turn puzzles into a competition by hiding a piece in their hands so they can be the one to put in the last piece. They learned it from their dad. I don't remember everything that was so funny, but there was lots of laughter. The kind you want to bottle up and hold next to your ear in times to come.

Sometimes I have great ideas. I’m just saying.

Quotes from Family Night:
“Do you know what USA stands for? ‘Cause I do. United States of America.”
“Okay, Megan. Now you are just being ridiculous.”
“I wonder why we can’t stop laughing!”
“I’M TALKING TO YOU!”
“That’s mines.”
“That’s mines!”
“That’s mines!”

A Shared Purpose

Many people are equal parts shocked and dismayed when I talk about having a big garden. I have heard, "I had to weed my parents' garden throughout my entire childhood, and I will never put my kids through that!" Someone else said, "It's so much easier to go out and buy a can of green beans. I don't understand why anyone would go to all that trouble!" Many people mention they are too busy for a garden...or especially for canning vegetables. I walk away wondering if they think I am not busy, but that is another blog post for another day.

The way I see it, women have always tried to provide for their loved ones. To nurture them. When I think about the way we raise our gardens and preserve our vegetables, I think about centuries of women who have shared this purpose. I think about how they had to save seeds from one year to the next to survive, or carry them from civilization to their homesteads in covered wagons, and create a garden from nothing. Create a home from nothing. I consider trying to garden before tractors, plows, tillers, and seed catalogs. I try to imagine canning over a wood burning stove. Those things sound like a lot of work to me.

I mean, some days, whether I pick beans morning, noon, or evening, it is hot. My back often screams for mercy before I am quite finished with a row. But when the picking is done, I come into the air conditioned house, or I sit under a shade tree next to our swimming pool to watch my little people splash and play, to snap the beans. This is the part that takes the longest. It is time that can be spent quietly in front of the TV, or in a group surrounded by chatter. All my kids know how to snap beans. I take the heads and tails off and give them to Megan, and she snaps them, exactly the width of her hand. Perfect green bean size. She says, "I break it, Mommy!" And she is proud of what she can do. Just like I am proud of what I can do. Every time I hear the click that is a jar lid sealing, I smile. I feel like I am doing the best I can for the people I love. I look at these jars on my shelves, and I consider where they came from. I know where they grew, and whether they have been chemically altered(which they haven't). I know whose hands have touched them, and I rest assured that I will never have to recall a certain batch due to some dangerous bacterial outbreak in the factory. Those are some of the reasons I go to all the trouble. I have canned 96 quarts of green beans so far this year, all because the women before me taught me how. Because the women before them taught them how.

Gardening, and preserving what we have grown, is a family affair. The kids can't wait for the beautiful spring day when we begin to plant. They love marveling as the garden grows. They love being the first one to spot a tomato turning red, or the first pepper to sprout from its leafy plant. Every time I load the pressure cooker, I picture my grandma in her farmhouse kitchen, wearing a homemade dress of purple plaid material. Instead of snapping green beans, I can see my grandpa on the couch in his overalls, cutting his with a knife. I think about the people who canned vegetables for me the summers I had new babies. I remember all the time spent as a child helping and learning, and the time I spend now gardening with my family. Sharing the purpose of preservation with the next generation. All things considered, I don't think it is any trouble at all.

What Sisters Do

When I was a kid, I thought all sisters kind of looked out for each other. I thought all sisters would be glad to spend some time together. I have been rudely awakened by people over the years who can barely stand to be around their sister. I know people who dread the holidays and only hope to get through them without some type of family feud. I hope they are the exception, and not the rule. Why don't they know what sisters do? I think about my sister a lot as I watch my daughters' relationship develop. I love how much Madison has always been devoted to her baby sister, and as Megan gets older, I love to see how much she loves her Sissy. She is Madison's biggest fan. I remember that, because I am the little sister. I was the biggest fan. I was the one who wanted to do everything like my cool big sister did. I have learned over time that I am not going to be just like her, because we are different in a lot of ways. My eyes are brown, hers are blue. I can't draw a stick figure, and she teaches art. Those differences make things more fun and interesting, I cannot see how differences in the people we are could divide us. Today, in honor of my only sister's birthday, I would like to tell you about what sisters do.

Big sisters:
Teach you how to do a cartwheel
Fix your hair for prom, and occasionally on school picture day
Play "I'm going on a trip.." as you fall asleep
Cry when your boyfriend is stupid
Haul their babies around in the evenings to watch your ball games
Follow your baby from the operating room to the nursery at the hospital, with a video camera, so nobody gets switched at birth, and you can enjoy those moments that happened while you were in recovery
Clean your house the day you bring that baby home from the hospital
Love your children
Help you in raising those children (with advice, planning, babysitting, etc.)
Share in your triumphs...and your sorrows
Give you nephews to love
Call you for all the big reasons, and the little ones, too

Little sisters:
Look up to their big sister

Spa Day 2011

The idea to have a spa day birthday party was a fabulous one...and it was my sister's. Moms of boys have these amazing ideas, full of pink bows and ruffles and lace, or make up, curling irons, and nail polish. One by one, some of my favorite girls started offering to help out. Family and friends quickly volunteered to hostess, do nails, makeup, and hair. Spa Day kept growing and growing, and I have to say the end result was a day Madison and her friends will never forget, and a day I will always cherish.

Madison made her own cupcakes all by herself, because she is nine years old, after all. We went to Ma Judy's house, and decorated things with lots of hot pink. Her friends came over and all of the girls worked their way through our "stations." They got to get in the outdoor hot tub, they got their hair, nails, and makeup done, and Mom had fancy dresses for them to wear(including my senior prom dress). Some of the "big girls" got their hair and nails done as well. Lunch and cupcakes were served with pink lemonade, of course. Little girls felt like princesses. Madison told me on the way home that it was her best birthday ever. After the spa day was over, Kevin and I took the kids to Colton's to cap off the birthday celebration. She covered her pink cheeks as they banged on the pots and pans to get everyone's attention to announce her birthday in the middle of the restaurant.

The entire day was a scrapbook page just waiting to happen. Our family and friends pulled together to make Madison's ninth birthday special in a way that was absolutely inspiring. I am filled to my beautifully painted toes with gratitude to have so many people in my life who love and support my little family. To know Madison will continue growing up surrounded by this exquisite network of love and encouragement...I mean, it is all any mother can want for her child on her birthday, and all the days of her life.

About a Dog

Poochie was born February 6, 1999 to a dog of questionable virtue named Tigger. We never knew for sure who her father was. When she was a very small puppy, she was bitten by another dog and had to get stitches in her neck. She then came to Kevin's parents' house to stay while she healed. Well, this was around the time of my midterms, and just before Kevin and I were married, so any time I spent at their house included my backpack and reading glasses. So this tiny ball of adorable black fur snuggled up on my lap with my textbooks and slept away her ailments as I studied. A few months later, after we were married, when we went back to collect Kevin's things and move to our farm house, we packed Poochie up right along with everything else and took her with us.

She was our first baby, and the first animal I have ever had to live in my home. We taught her to sit, shake, roll over, and say, "Please." It took forever for that last one, because she is not a dog who is overly prone to barking(which I love and appreciate). Kevin taught her to go look in the mirror when asked to "find the pretty puppy." If asked where her shadow was, she would run to put her nose against the wall as she tried to find it. She also gives hugs. By that I mean she puts a paw on each of my shoulders, and curls her head around my neck and gives a real hug, like she means it.

Long story short, Poochie is a brilliant and extraordinary dog. Over the years, when my toddler children pulled on her ears or legs, or hugged her a little too tightly, she merely gave me a dirty look, instead of retaliating. When my babies cried, she would come to me to make sure I had noticed, and she would stay at my feet until I fixed the problem. Now when they cry, she nuzzles their cheek. Mine, too. I am starting to prepare myself, and the kids, for the time when she will leave us. I have never been through this before. She was recently diagnosed with a cancer for which treatment would cause more damage than benefit to her. So I know it is coming. I know life will go on for our family, but while she is still here and relatively healthy I just wanted to say that Poochie is a brilliant and extraordinary dog. Coming from a childhood of hunting dogs and livestock, I never understood the depth of feelings some people had for their pets. I never knew the birthday of any of the animals from my childhood. I totally get it now, though. I get how a dog can be a huge and integral part of your family. Poochie has shared our home for twelve years. That is twelve years of Thanksgivings and Christmases and New Years and Independence Days and birthdays. And over the weekend she had one of those. Happy Birthday, Poochie Peavler...from your family.

10-10-10

To commemorate October 10, 2010, which happens to be my mom's birthday, I thought I would compile a list of the top ten reasons she should be celebrated. TOP 10 REASONS TO CELEBRATE MY MOM ON HER BIRTHDAY

10. Without my mom, my whole family would be nonexistent. I mean the whole tribe. My brother, sister, and I, and all the kiddos involved. That has to make the list.

9. She can break into song in any situation. It's not just that she can, but that she often does.

8. She believes in telling the truth and following the rules. The Golden Rule, and the ones that keep you out of jail.

7. She chose a profession for all the right reasons, and is building her career doing work that she loves.

6. Grandma Judy's house is my kids' favorite place to go.

5. I can tell her anything. No judgments.

4. She made a bucket list. And she crosses things off of it.

3. She loves my dad. A lot.

2. She can say anything...good, bad, or indifferent...in the kindest possible way.

1. She makes the most awesome pancake shapes. Alphabet, smiley faces, butterflies, and tractors.

Happy Father's Day

My dad has never been a very mushy kind of guy. He has never been the kind of guy who says, "I love you" every day. As a rule, he is not overly affectionate. Usually when puckered lips are coming his way, he sticks his cheek out to meet them. Even so, I have never wondered if he loved me. The thing about my dad is, he has always been more of a doer than a talker. So while he does not spend a lot of time professing his feelings for his favorite people on a regular basis, he does spend a lot of time loving them. I remember waking up as a teenager to my mom saying, "Your car had a flat tire this morning, but your dad fixed it." Before I was even out of bed, People. My oil was changed every three thousand miles, but I never looked at the mileage. He fixed whatever was broken. He still does that for me. He works on my vehicle when I need it. He patiently answers my mechanically challenged questions. Just recently he brought my dishwasher back to life. And to a working mom of three kids in the middle of baseball season--that's a pretty big deal. He is the most dependable person I know.

I could write about the best advice he has given me, or all the things he has fixed for me, or all the teeth he has pulled for me, or the time he took me for a spin on my first bike before I knew how to ride it. I really think it would take more than one post to cover it. I remember it all, and I am grateful. My favorite thing about my dad these days is the kind of Grandpa he is to my kids. He lights up when he sees them, even when they misbehave...or sometimes especially when they misbehave. They have learned quickly that they can depend on him, too. Among other things, they can depend on him for applause and the hide the pen game, chocolate treats, fireworks and fishing in the summer, good ham and cheese snacks, and rides in the tractor.

I hope someday my kids feel like they can count on me like I have always counted on my dad. So Happy Father's Day to the dads who tell their families they love them every day. And Happy Father's Day to dads like mine. The ones who show their families they love them by taking really good care of them, and the ones who become the kind of grandpa that every kid hopes to have.

the first baby I ever watched be born

This is the first baby I ever watched be born. I was seventeen. I remember a lot of things that are not really that important about the labor. Like Stan finally having the good sense to stop complaining about how much his thumb hurt when things started getting a little intense. I remember CMT (Country Music Television) on TV. I confessed my lack of enthusiasm for Dwight Yoakam...which somehow led to us singing lines from all of his songs we could think of. Not that Vanita participated in that. I was the coach. I took the classes with her and I had my coaching bag and instructions. I had a tennis ball in a sock to help with her back labor. I remember my sister, who was without good drugs, literally saying in the same breath, "I can't do this anymore!! Hello, Precious." And there was the first baby I ever watched be born. Everyone was so relieved and excited that it was over.

I abandoned my sister at that point to get acquainted with my nephew. Mom and I were watching him through the nursery window. I remember the hospital staff started surrounding Lance's little bed. I could barely see him because of all the hands covering him. I realized they were working on him and he was starting to look blue. Vanita was calling family and friends from her room to tell them the good news of his birth. She was talking about weight and length and the nurse was coming over to close the window blind so we could not see them working on the baby anymore. We went to get Stan. In the hallway, Mom told Stan they were working on our baby in the nursery. It did not register at first. He said, "Oh, they are working on a baby in there?" I can see her placing a hand on his arm, as she told him, again, "They are working on our baby." And he was gone to find out what was going on. We went back to Vanita's room. She felt like moms feel after giving birth. Exhausted. Sore. Relieved. Happy. Content. We did not say a word until Stan came back to let us know what was happening. He was the one who had to break the news. How do you say to a mother that her baby is fighting for his life down the hall?

Lance was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. They said a small percentage of babies with this condition survive. They said of the survivors, most children have learning and physical disabilities. And then they put him in a helicopter and he flew away, leaving a trail of tears behind him. Vanita went straight from the delivery room to a two-hour car ride to Columbia. His recovery was a difficult time for his parents. There was the NICU and the Ronald McDonald house and home health nurses when he got to come home. But God had big plans for Lance. He did survive. He has survived spinal meningitis and asthma and multiple injuries to date (he seems to be excessively accident prone). He gets good grades and he loves sports. He is the reason doctors should not bombard terrified families with sad statistics. He is the reason I learned that family matters more than state championships. And he is an eighth grade graduate. I am glad he is the kind of guy that beats the odds.

Impresty

I use to be a really good aunt. My mom and sister thought it might traumatize me, at fourteen, to be in the delivery room, so I was standing in the hall when my first nephew was born. I listened for his first cry. I will never forget it. As a toddler, when Logan thought something was impressive, he would say it was "impresty." Now he says, "Sweet." When he first started talking, I taught him that when asked who loves Logan, he should answer, "Aunt Val." I was a really good aunt. I remember reading him books, going fishing, playing ball outside, going to his little baseball games, and taking his werewolf picture at his Halloween parade. I fixed him his favorite snacks. I remember calling my sister to bring him over on the weekends and then casting frequent glances out the window as I wondered what in the world could be taking her so long to get there.

As he got older, I got older. I got a job and got married and had kids. My kids started having ball games and programs and Halloween parades. Now Logan fishes, hunts, drives trucks and tractors, and brings us loads of firewood in the winter. And I don't feel like I am such a great aunt anymore. He still hugs me on occasion, but I can't pick him up anymore. He has been taller than me for a long time. I don't think I was paying enough attention. Somehow when I was changing diapers and going on preschool field trips my nephew became a young man. A handsome young man, as you can see from this picture from the grand march. Yes, he is old enough to go to prom. I still get to see him at all of our family gatherings, but not as often as I once did. I hope he always knows his Aunt Val loves him. And I think he is impresty.

Exclamation Point!

My baby has become 10 months old. You know all of those worn out phrases people say every day to describe the unnaturally swift passage of time? Those phrases fill my head every time I take a moment to look at what is going on around me. I feel those phrases to the tips of my toes. It seems like only yesterday that I met my little 6-pound bundle of joy. I don't know where the time has gone. She is growing so fast.

The first nine months have passed without much ado, but as the calendar convinced me Megan is 10 months old, my breath seemed to catch in my throat a little bit as I realized how dangerously close that is to a year! Do you know what that means? It is time to think about her very first birthday cake. It is time to plan a party. (It is time to drop these extra pounds, too, but we don't have to talk about that.) As I was thinking about what a big girl she is becoming, I noticed how we might be able to pull off an actual hairdo to commemorate the event. So, here it is. I had to share Megan's first pony tail. I took her to her babysitter sporting the new 'do and Barb laughed and laughed. She said, "She is a little exclamation point!"

I thought about that as I finished my drive to work. My little exclamation point. I considered how exclamation points indicate strong feelings, high volume, and excitement. And it occurred to me that Barb had described my Megan perfectly. She has strong feelings about her favorite people, her bottle, her blankie, and flavored whole grain puffs. She gets excited about any food I have given her at this point except broccoli. She says, "Dada" most of the time. She says "Baba" for bye-bye, and she says "Mama" when she is sleepy. She waves bye-bye, to herself, and she claps her hands for patty cake. She likes to turn the pages of books. She gets excited when she pushes the buttons on her toys and lights go on and sounds go crazy. The higher the volume, the better. She is on the verge of walking and she thinks that is hilarious. She actually cracks herself up on a regular basis. She laughs along with anyone...I guess she always gets the joke. Pictures can say more than I can. She is such a happy baby when she is around people, and if you take a look you will notice that those people--well, I think they have some strong feelings about her, too!

Redemption

Our school has always made a big deal out of Halloween. There is a costume parade in the gym complete with prizes for all participants and awards for top costumes in each grade. The bleachers are packed with proud parents and grandparents. Like I said, it is kind of a big deal.

When I was in fourth grade I was an Indian. I was excited. Mom had this beautifully embroidered dress and my Granny was part Indian so I felt all authentic and important. Then I got the chicken pox. And I stayed home from school all week. And I missed my last parade at school. I was traumatized. Since I could not go trick-or-treating, Mom was gracious enough to braid my hair anyway. She let me wear my dress and pass out candy at our house on Halloween night. I do not remember a lot about my elementary years, but I have never forgotten when I was an Indian.

I was embarrassingly excited this year when Madison chose to wear the dress and be an Indian. The very next day I got online and ordered a few accessories to make it her own. As I watched her march by with her classmates, closure was mine at last! Sometimes simply watching my kids enjoy the holiday events can be so much better than any memory I posses from my own childhood. And then my daughter and my dress won third place in her class. Mom leaned in to me and said, "Oh, Valerie! The dress has been redeemed!" It was a proud moment in our family history.