There Are No Small Ways to Love Someone

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There Are No Small Ways to Love Someone

When I told a friend that Granddaddy had died, she said she was making us dinner and that she’d drop it on the porch later. Normally I say something like, “Oh you don’t have to do that! We’ll be fine! You are so sweet!” But I just couldn’t think. I couldn’t summon the energy to turn it down, so I said a teary “thank you” and kept on parenting, poorly, kept on cleaning, clumsily, kept on stopping every hour or so to bury my face in my hands and cry. When I grabbed the package off the doorstep later that afternoon, I saw chili and cornbread muffins and coloring books for the kids, and I sobbed. The kids colored, and we ate a dinner that I didn’t have to make, and it fed deeper than physical hunger because each bite was a reminder of someone who saw me, who loved me, who was going to make sure I was taken care of that day. I knew my friend thought this was something small, but to me, it wasn’t.

It’s not small to make dinner for your struggling friend.

It’s not small to get a sitter so you can go to her granddad’s visitation or funeral.

It’s not small for you to remember that Granddaddy had the same birthday as Adelaide or his American flag cane or that you saw him a million times at our church growing up and that he was always kind. 

It’s not small at all. Not to me.

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Dear Diary

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Dear Diary

I recently flipped through the diary I kept sporadically from age 8 until I entered sixth grade. It’s the devastating tale of a pure-of-heart elementary school student who hated hand chimes (this is the depressing stepping stone to the glorious handbells of Christmas carol fame) and kept meticulous record of when she brushed her teeth, and how she grew into a nightmarish sixth grader who smiled on the outside but spewed sass in her diary and had dreams of her diary being as famous as Anne Frank’s while also confessing her deep and irrational fear of Anne Frank.

I spent the majority of the entries addressing the diary as one would a parole officer: sharing dutifully every single thing I did and apologizing if I listed them out of order or forgot to write one day, which of course I did, constantly. Every single entry contains an apology of some sort to this inanimate but oppressive diary, and this is totally, exactly how I am: enslaving myself to expectations no one else ever set, feeling terrible about it, and then eventually shaking my fist at the sky in resentment when I realize I can’t meet them. OH, HELP.

The scariest part about reading an old diary is not who you were, but who you STILL ARE. Have mercy. Here is what my diary taught me is (probably) eternally true about me:

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Very Little Ice - A Tribute to My Granddaddy

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Very Little Ice - A Tribute to My Granddaddy

“If they don’t want to hear about my grandchildren, they shouldn’t come talk to me." It's the thing I've heard him say that seems to sum him up the best: loving, unafraid to tell it like it is, and a maybe a tad bit braggadocious. He loved his family deeply and with grit. In fact, he once punched a shetland pony named Trigger IN THE FACE. Trigger had kicked my grandmother, and Granddaddy was not going to let him get away with that. 

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Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

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Nonsensical Thoughts: Halloween Edition

I love Halloween. I always have. Candy, costumes, celebrating for no clear reason — these are, without debate, the best things ever. I tend to take costumes pretty seriously. If I get an idea in my head, you will need to sedate me and surgically remove the idea from my brain in order to get me to change course. My personality is a little off-kilter like this: I spend a good deal of time yielding to other’s opinions, very go-with-the-flow and “whatever you think!”, and then, out of nowhere, I’ll dig in my heels on something inconsequential, and you’ll never change my mind, not in a million years or for a million dollars. Ask my husband how he feels about this. (SPOILER: HE LOVES IT.) (Editor’s note: No he doesn’t.)

I remember having a crystal clear vision for my Halloween costume in fourth grade. I wanted to be an artist: have a tiny mustache, a painter’s palette, a beret. Oh, it would be very inspired! Very meaningful! Very French! Here’s how it turned out:

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The Village: Daydreams of a Stay At Home Mom

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The Village: Daydreams of a Stay At Home Mom

We all hear that “it takes a village”—and what a quaint little saying that is—but Y’ALL, WHERE IS THIS VILLAGE?! Because even if your family lives in town and you have awesome friends, there are those days when, desperate for interaction, you attempt to summon the village. To call or text a friend for a stroll or a family member for help but OH NO TODDLER IS SCREAMING BECAUSE SHE REMEMBERED THE EXISTENCE OF OVEN MITTS AND WHY ISN’T SHE WEARING THEM, MOTHER, WHY?!? So you give her the worn yellow oven mitts and then, wait, what were you doing? Oh yes, sending that SOS text, but oh wait, baby is like HEY GIRL I AM FURIOUS THAT I HAVE A DIRTY DIAPER AND I WILL NEVER GET OVER IT EVER, so you quickly change the diaper. Mid-change, Toddler realizes it is HILARIOUS to pour the milk on the kilim rug WHY DO WE HAVE A KILIM RUG WHO ARE WE KIDDING HERE, INSTAGRAM, WE SHOULD ONLY OWN THINGS MADE OUT OF PLASTIC SO THEY CAN BE HOSED DOWN (jk it was free from my grandmother, but still) and wait wait, what were we doing? OH YES, sending text. But hold up, THE OVEN MITTS HAVE FALLEN OFF BECAUSE OF THE MILK SPILLING AND TODDLER WILL SCREAM FROM THE ROOFTOPS HOW VERY UNCOOL THIS IS! You make a mental note to re-read that article on Pinterest about techniques for toddler discipline but naturally you forget and also who cares.

It kind of goes like that for a while.

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