Raising Magnolias

Because it's never too late for happily ever after…

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Season of Love.

When I was younger I loved December magazine issues.

People. Time. Cosmopolitan.

Yes, I read Time Magazine.

Well, I did.

And I loved going through the top-ten lists, remembering the big stories, the big movies, the big whigs and the big deals.

I loved reading about other people’s lives.

I don’t remember making a conscious choice to quit. Maybe it was becoming a mother and giving up small luxuries like reading and being informed.

Maybe it was becoming a single mother and giving up small luxuries like magazines.

Maybe it was simply becoming. My becoming.

My no longer needing to remember what other people had done. Had worn. Had said.

Maybe I started caring about my own life more than others.

Or, I don’t know. Maybe I was just tired.

But for whatever reason, I stopped.

I also stopped making resolutions.

And for a while I stopped hoping. For different. For better.

For anything.

In 2011 I heard a woman on the radio encouraging her listeners to ditch resolutions and, instead, choose a word.

One word. I can do one word, I thought. And immediately the most random of dancing words popped into my head.


What in the actual heck.

By the way, this was well before the one-word revolution. Before everyone was doing it.

Basically, I started this entire movement. Me and my illuminating.

It’s kind of like when Al Gore invented the internet.

Or not.

Anyway. Be careful with your word. I became far more illuminated then I ever cared to be. And once you’ve seen the light—


The problem is now it’s popular and I don’t want a word.

I want to go back to resolutions.

Being resolute.

Resolving not to be better, but to do better.

Not to become healthier but wealthier.

That was a joke. I like rhyming.

And money.

The challenge with resolutions is the hot pressure we put on ourselves to change.

Speaking of hot pressure. Insta-pot. Yes? No?

Yesterday I made a huge pot of soup. It’s soup weather. Cold.

Crazy cold.

The kind of cold that freezes your garage door shut, and results in completely un-helpful outbursts blaming your ex-husband for the weather.

I was so excited for our soup. Probably more excited than one should get about soup but whatever.

I lift the lid. No steam. And that’s when I see it.

Apparently, you must plug-in your slow cookers for them to work.

And that’s the thing with resolutions. I could make a resolution to plug things in.

To put my keys in the same place everyday.

To be less ditzy.

Less blonde.

What? It’s real.

Well, the woman who paints on the bleach is real and that’s practically the same thing.

But here’s the thing. In 2018 I’m not going to miraculously become less “me.” More, you. I’m not going to magically quit doing stupid things like simmering soup on “off” or forgetting to feed my children (seriously? Every day!) or getting my car stuck in the garage.

Y’all. It was stuck. I thought we were going to have to tear the garage down. I panicked. There was an emotional outburst and then there were tears and here’s a bit of advice.

Measure your garage before you buy a car.

Measuring ping-pong tables,  also helpful.


But measuring your life next to others.  We gotta stop that —insert bad word—!

Measuring your life against pages in a magazine, pictures on instagram, well again. We gotta stop that.

One of my favorite ever, ever, ever Broadway songs, cries, how do we measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.

In inches, in miles, in laughter and strife.

In truths that we learned. Bridges burned.

Hearts turned.

What if?

Today is our 3rd anniversary.  Blended family years are calculated differently so technically it’s more like 23.

Five hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.

Times Three. Times 23.

And as I reflect on the magazine that is our life here’s what I see.

Year one. I don’t measure up. This is the worst mistake in the history of the world and we are idiots.

Year two. I don’t measure up. But this probably isn’t the worst mistake in the history of the world and maybe we aren’t idiots.

Year three. Who I am trying to measure myself against? For whatever reason, I think this man loves me. In spite of, because of, and ya know, I think I’m the smartest person in the history of the world for saying yes.

My prayer for you in 2018 is that you stop measuring yourself against the world and start measuring in love instead.

And that you will pour a heaping measuring cup of some of that stuff on yourself as well!

Flannery O’Conner is quoted as saying she writes because she doesn’t know what she thinks until she reads what she writes.

Yes. I write because I don’t know what to think until I read what I’ve written.

Measure. That’s my word.

Love. That’s my verb.

This hard mess of a life?


(Did you know that you can google words that rhyme with verb? I know!—


Dang. So precious. And naive. And full-on crazy. But, oh! If you could’ve measured my heart that day—











Strength. Beauty. Powerlifting.

I turned around to hear this sound.


Deep. Guttural.

Truth be told, I thought she’d placed an F before the UUUUU.

It was loud.

And strong.

And it startled me.

She was 14. There was no F.

She was not petite. She was not dainty. She was strong. And there was this sparkle in her eyes that seemed to say, “I’ve got this”

And she did.

In contrast.

There was me.

I peeked my head out from behind the curtain, every bit as nervous as any Miss America stage, wondering if it was time. If the judges were ready.

You have one minute to complete your lift from the time your name is called and I was unsure.

Was the bar loaded?

Was I ready?

As my friend Niki said, I don’t really remember saying yes to this.

I mean I remember talking everyone else into this—just not myself.

A flash of my parents crossed my mind. Good grief. I don’t think I told my parents. How do you forget to tell your parents.


What in the actual hale.

Coulter videotaped my squat. I giggled as I watched. You can take the girl out of pageants, but Lord-a-Mercy,  you cannot take the pageant out of the girl.

I  walked out on that platform as if getting ready to play a Chopin Waltz for my talent. I think I expected applause.

It was quiet.

I have never before walked onto a stage without applause.

This was unsettling.

Didn’t they see my cute pink belt?

Why was no-one clapping.


I glided up to that squat rack. Well, not glided.

More like prissed.

Which I don’t think is a word. But I did. Somehow I looked very prissy.

It wasn’t my finest moment.

Maybe I’ll post it.

Probably not.

My first attempt was good. Three white lights.

My second attempt was good. Three white lights.

My third attempt was no good. Two red lights and One white.

No lift.


As I was coming up from the lift, coming up from the squat, the spotter on the left said to me, “Nice grind.”

He was impressed.

Y’all. This is when I knew, this was not the Miss America stage. There are no chopin waltzes on this platform and these judges are not impressed that my belt, shirt and socks all match.

Matching was thanks to my friend Nancy, who, for the record, lifted crazy amounts of weight wearing red lipstick.

She knows the important things.

She always has on lipstick and if I’m going anywhere important, rather, anywhere that I want to look prettier than the previous Mrs. Pruss, she reminds me to put on my lipstick.

But when I heard him say, “Nice Grind”, y’all! I wasn’t horrified.

Which was a little horrifying.

Who tells a 45-year-old-woman “Nice Grind?!”

Grinding is not ladylike. Grinding is not sweet. Southern Belles turned Midwest mommas do.



And yet.

I did.

Evidently, nicely.

Because I can do hard things.

And  match pretty in pink while doing it.


Behind the curtain there were large television screens.

My name comes up first each time.

Because I’m awesome like that.

I’m not awesome like that.

I was lifting the least amount of weight. That’s who starts first.

There are so many rules. You have to wear socks. Your socks can’t go above your knees. You have to wear a crew neck t-shirt and it can’t be drifit or compression or slick in anyway.

However, if you’d like to take off your shirt before deadlifting. No problem.

What the what?

Also. You can’t move your feet after they say squat. After they say squat you can only squat.

And grind.

You have to wear a singlet. Which is the grown-up onesie.

These are not the kind currently for sale at Victoria Secret.

Jesus, forgive us.

Your hands can’t go beyond this little silver ring on the bench press bar. And you’re heels can’t come off the floor. Even a tiny portion.

You have to give your weights in kilograms. Since I went to fake medical school, you’d think I’d be good at converting pounds to kilograms but surprisingly, I’m not.

I gave them my opening bench number.


Later I see my name way far down on the list. I should be first. Why am I so far down on the list.

That’s when I see it. 65 kilograms.

You do the math. And even if you know nothing about strength training you can figure out pretty quickly that anyone who plans to bench press 65 pounds can no where in the history of the world bench press 65 kilograms.

I had 3 minutes to change my number.

That’s the rule.

You have to lock your knees and present your shoulders and y’all.

With the rules.

But here’s the thing.

I love the rules.

The rules are freeing.

There are weight categories. And age categories and open and raw and I have like no idea in all of this sweet world, what all they mean or what they’re all for but I like them.

I like knowing what I have to do to get a white light.

I wish there were white lights in parenting.

Ya know, like when you nail it, Jesus just flashes three white lights in the corner! Way to go! Good parenting moment!

That would not at all be weird or creepy.

I love lights. I need lights.

Side note: The lights need to match. Like a theme….all white or all colored or all twinkle or something, but not all of everything.

Not all of the things.

Not all of the lights.

For the love.

Later we won trophies. And once again I felt like a princess. I love trophies.

I love winning.

I love seeing my girls winning with trophies.

They are gold and shiny and big.

I may have been obnoxious in my celebrations. Possibly.

I’m not sure.

I remember a very quiet auditorium and a very loud “Woo Hoo!”

I may have been happy about winning.

I won second place in my very first powerlifting competition.  Let’s forget—for just one moment—that there were only two of us in my weight category and focus on the trophy.


My sisters and I.

We came.

We did hard things.

We went 500 flippin’ miles, and many tight singlets, beyond our comfort zone.

We left with shiny hardware.

(Granted, it’s not the Miss America crown and granted, I can’t wear it on my head.

Maybe. I suppose. If I…


I’ve already ordered pink knee sleeves for the April meet. I think that will help complete my ensemble.


No big life lessons today y’all.  It’s Wednesday. Feels like Monday. Emma Claire woke up sick, Coulter forgot his math homework. I helicoptered and took it to school because yes, that’s what moms do. My husband’s out of town and I stared at the celling fan from 1 a.m util 4 wondering why people cheat and leave and lie. I wondered weird things. And thought about hard things.

It’s Wednesday and it feels like Monday and it’s so peoplely out there and the hats that I wear, the mom and the wife and the trainer and the coach and the writer and the daughter and the stepmother and the boss, well the hats have fallen off.

They are in a heaping pile on the floor. I can’t remember which one to pick up.

So today I thought I’d write about winning.

And trophies.

And figuring out a way to wear my trophy on my head.

Like a crown.

It’s prettier than a hat, anyway.




The Most Wonderful Time? Really?

I love Christmas.

I love lights and decorations and red balls. I love fresh greenery and I love baby Jesus and grown-up Jesus and I love all things Christmas.

And I love singing, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

But no where in my home will you find those words because what I learned during my time in the fire—my time in the middle of the wilderness—is that this is not, in fact, always, for all people the most wonderful time.

Made all the worse by the idea that it should be wonderful.

The most wonderful.

But what if it’s not? And that’s OK.

What if empty chairs fill empty tables.

What if expectations of Santa’s sleigh bag don’t match expectations of this month’s paycheck.

What if it’s good and hard and festive and hard and merry and, yet.

Still hard.

What if it’s beautiful to celebrate the arrival of a Savior but that it’s not a wonderful time.

Here. Now.

For me, it is. Now. Today. But I can remember not so far off  and so I pass by these humans. Their eyes sparkly and sad and knowing and longing and I wonder for them—

Is this time wonderful?

Jesus is. But is this time?

Turn on the news.

I quit watching the news in the summer of 2008. Coulter had just been born.

Wait. That was 2005. Jingle Bells! I haven’t watched the news in over ten years.

I’m really OK with that. Coulter gets to watch CNN student news at school and is currently working on bettering his Donald Trump impersonation so we’re good.

What would happen if I did turn it on? Would our President be goading Russia (is that a word? ya know, like what Coulter does to Emma Claire to make her mad?) or tweeting about football players kneeling during the anthem.

I think the bigger issue is not that they stood or kneeled but that our President has time to tweet about it.

Football players. Hello, people. Not. The most wonderful time.

And for the record I stand. And I sing. Loudly. For all the world to hear.


What would happen? If I turned on the news? Would I hear that a journalist I began almost every morning with, for 10 plus years, had dropped his pants for a colleague.

Men. Here’s a word. Gross. Take for just a second that this is not assault (which it is), and just hear this word.

We are not visual. And you are gross.

And I haven’t eaten for a week at the thought of Charlie Rose exposing himself to women expecting to interview with a revered journalist.

Shame on them for expecting that he’d have his pants on.

Men. Gross.

Not a wonderful time.

And it’s not really Charlie. I’m not currently eating because the singlet I purchased to wear in our super-strong-awesome power-lifting competition came out of the box looking like a singlet for an 18-month old. It might fit Emma Claire.

Apparently it stretches.

Anyway. I don’t watch the news.

And for the record, I’m not really on Facebook anymore. 😉

So I’m decorating with the red balls and fresh greenery and I’m celebrating but something is missing. I wanted a print with a cute little saying. I went to 5 different stores looking. Searching. I even went to the uber-uber-uber Donald Trump lover’s cute little boutique and was willing to give them my money if they only had that missing piece.


I go to my friend and ask her to create what’s missing. “I want it to read, ‘A savior is born.'”

“Ok,” she responds. “Becky wants something that says, ‘A weary world rejoices.'” And I stop in my tracks.

Yes. That’s it.

Becky will not at all be surprised that I’ve copied her. I’m fancy-fancy like that.

For the Love.

A weary world rejoices. Fall on our knees.

In humility.

In grief.

In confession.

In awe and praise.

And know that this is precisely why He came.

So that a weary world might rejoice.

It may not be the most wonderful time of your year. You may not even like red balls or fresh greenery or the movie Elf.

Bless your heart.

But for you, Jesus came. For our weary souls. He came.

Rejoicing is different than being happy.

Rejoicing is soul. Rejoicing is spirit.

Rejoicing says, my heart is weary but I celebrate anyway.

Yes. That’s it. Weary, weary friends. Rejoice. A savior is coming.





Ann Voskamp says that “expectations kill relationships.”

The first time I read that I thought it was the stupidest thing ever.

Stupidest? Most stupid?

5 years later, not quite so stupid. I’ve seen the deaths.

I’ve felt them.

Just weeks ago, I saw a friend’s Facebook post that read, “unspoken expectations lead to resentment.”

Not so stupid after all.

I only mention it came from his Facebook feed, because unlike the rest of the world, apparently, I’m still “on Facebook”.

That’s my favorite thing these days. “Ya know, honestly, I’m just not on Facebook anymore.”

Honestly? Really? Then how did I know you’re dog’s been sick for the last two weeks and you have a new hamster named Rambo and that you had mac-n-cheese for dinner?

Evidently, not from Facebook.

I digress.

I see this. Unspoken expectations.

I have very high exceptions. For myself. For others.

For you.

But I’d like for you to figure them out on your own.

I don’t want to have to tell you.


Thank you very much.

Sometimes these expectations are reasonable. I expect that if you have a driver’s license you know how to count the number of stops at a 4-way. Imagine my disappointment over this.

I expect that if you vow to forsake all others, that you will—well, again—you can imagine.

I expect my children to be respectful and kind and keep their rooms clean.

Well, at least the respectful and kind part.

I expect my husband to do all the hard stuff that I don’t want to do.

That’s the Biblical approach. 😉

This morning I was supposed to take Emma Claire’s red sweater to her dad’s so that he could he could make sure it was clean and ready for their family Thanksgiving.

Surprisingly, as I never forget anything, I forgot. Emma Claire walked out of her dad’s house, (which, of course is also their house, but I can’t bring myself to say that so I simply refer to it as “Teakwood” and our home, is ya know, home-home. ) This is not entirely a bad thing. Teakwood sounds very stately, kind of like Southfork Ranch on Dallas.

So, really, it’s a compliment. And a slight insecurity on my part.


(In case you were unaware, that’s what the kids are saying now. Apparently the “er” of whatever proves too difficult.)


I forgot the sweater. Emma Claire turned to her dad with this look that said, “Yup. Just as we expected.”

She got into the car and said, “Dad wasn’t really surprised.”

Just trying to meet expectations.

I said to Emma Claire, “as it turns out, your mom also knows how to do laundry.”

Mike smiled.

“OK, Mike knows how to do laundry. What-evs Regardless, the red sweater will be ready.”

Because, again, with the hard stuff.

Laundry. Men. Galatians. Look it up.

Last December I promoted a “night owls”  class at our training studio.  Four nights a week for 4 weeks to help stay on track during the holidays. I never expected for it to last past December.

Primarily because I’m not a night owl.

Or an early bird. I’m like a mid-morning Peacock.

I rock the mid-morning.

But the night owls persisted and what I learned is that when you commit in December, when your new year’s resolution starts in December, you are ready.

Ready to show up and do hard things.

Actually that’s redundant.

Or maybe an oxymoron. I can’t remember. But showing up is the hard thing.

Several weeks ago, I went to see Jen Hatmaker speak and she told this beautiful story about sister Elephants.

When a female elephant is alone in the wild, she is either injured or giving birth. Her sister elephants surround her and kick up dirt and protect her. If giving birth, afterward, the sisters turn to the wild and they trumpet her news. In part out of protection.

In whole, to celebrate.

This group of women showing up and doing hard things led to other groups of women showing up and doing hard things and even more other groups of women showing up and doing hard things, and I imagine their influence ripples far past our small little tribe and tonight this strong group of night owls, will be celebrating.

I asked them each to bring an elephant gift.

Not a white-elephant.

An actual elephant.

Because over the past year I’ve watched them circle and kick up dirt. Circle around a teacher who was being bullied by a parent, circle around a friend whose husband looked for meaningful work, circle around  a worried mom, a proud mom, a desperate mom. I’ve watched them show up and lift heavy weights and leave behind even heavier. I’ve watched them kick up dirt in protection of their tribe.

And I watched them trumpet. A half-marathon, a performing daughter, a new p.r., a new job, successes at work, triumps at home.

A new book. A new author.

And this group trumpeted. Assured. Affirmed. Protected.

And tonight we celebrate with elephants.

And sangria.

I’ve competed with women my whole life. Piano contests, beauty pageants, you name it and it was a competition.

I expected that you were out to beat me and I expected myself to win.

Lisa Burke in high school. Stella was her name in college.

Seriously. I can’t remember the red sweater, but I remember those names.

Paula. Debby. Shantel.

Debby is my friend and my sister in Christ and we taught Kindermusik together. We were colleagues, but bless my heart y’all, for me, it was a competition to see who had the most families in each class. The saddest part? Pretty sure no-one else knew it was a game.

Knew it was a competition. Which, looking back makes it a whole lot easier for me to win.

What in the actual hale?

This past year, I’ve begun to understand that not everyone’s against us.

Against me.

Not everything is a competition.

Not everyone is a competitor.

I’m learning this and how late I am to the party.

To the table.

I’ve begun to understand that we don’t need to fight other women for a seat at the table.

We need to build a bigger table.

A round table. With no hard edges and no beginnings and no endings and a round table that we can keep adding leafs to and keep adding sisters to and when we’re hurt and vulnerable we can sit in the middle and when our sisters give birth to children and projects and dreams then we can turn around from our table and trumpet the news.

I think I’ll always struggle with holding people (myself and others!) to unrealistic expectations but I’m growing in grace and I’ll work, first, to at least speak out loud these expectations.

I think I’ll always struggle with a competitive spirit, but I’m growing in grace and I’ll work, first, to at least compete with you and not against you.

And finally, I think as a loner (big ol introvert that I am), I’ll always struggle to lean in and draw close to other women. To other people. To my sisters and my brothers.

I’ll always struggle with cancelled plans. As in, not cancelling them.

I’ve found my seat at the table. And it’s lovely and open and round and you are welcome.

This past year, I’ve become less of a competitor and more of a welcomer. The Lord has blessed me with a colorful tribe of elephants and I’ll be sharing my experiences of sisterhood and friendship in a new, monthly Devotion Book, called Elephant Sisters.

But I’m going to need your help. Will you come round my table and share your stories of friendship. Let’s write this one together. The only expectation will be laughter.

#elephantsisters #comingfallof2018night owls collage


Top 10 Lessons Learned.

I’m learning things. Good things. Hard things. Just all the thing-things. At least ten. Certainly more than ten and soon it will be 10X10 but for today. Just this.

The top 10 lessons learned since writing a book.

  1. Most folks are happy that you’ve written a book. But most is not all and not everyone is happy that you’ve written a book. It’s not that they’re unhappy, per se. It’s that they simply don’t care. This was surprising to me, thus a lesson learned. I thought everyone would think this was just the best thing since peanut butter and sliced bread. My dad thinks so, though, so that is enough.
  2. Writing a book feels a little like having a baby. Weird, I know. It starts with that feeling you had with your first pregnancy. A few weeks or maybe a few days it occurs to you, an educated women, that this baby inside of you is going to have to come out. And you panic a little, like it doesn’t seem physically or biologically possible. There’s just not



The night before Pearl launched, I had the same feeling. Panic. Like oops, here I am all fat and pregnant and I totally forgot that I was going to have to push this baby out.

I totally forgot that y’all were going to read my book.

So then you present your baby to the world and you wait. Will they love my baby? Do they think my baby’s cute? Or are they looking at my baby with that “bless her heart, maybe she’ll grow into that nose” kind of look.

My book. It’s my baby and I want you to love it.

3. My original goal was to write a book that someone other than my Mother would read and we’ve gotten there so everything else is gravy. However, I must’ve secretly thought a few other people would read it because I acknowledge them in my very super-fancy acknowledgement page. At first this page included about 4500 people starting with my first babysitter, Mrs. Bell. I finally landed on acknowledging those who had faithfully walked through the fire along side me. What I should’ve done was consider who might actually read said acknowledgements. Because I’m starting to think that a lot of them fall into category 1 and will never know that they played a starring role in my book.

4. I prefer writing to sales. I and I was going to say I prefer writing to sailing but see what happens with spell check? It implies that I know how to sail. I don’t. And I barely know how to sale.

5. My children are watching. OK, this is cheating a little bit. I already knew they were watching. But when Emma Claire told me that writing my book had inspired her to become a writer, and when Coulter said that he thought “Uhm, yeah right” when I told him I was going to write a book but then, ya know, I did and he seems slightly impressed by that, well then that was the reminder. Our children are watching and I’m going to keep showing. Growing. Teaching. Leading. All the good words. And do y’all know how hard it is to impress a 12 year-old?

6. People read their story in yours. This was my hope. My prayer. But y’all! When it happens it is the best. The best-ity-best best.

7. People respond (if they respond) in one of three ways. 1. Oh my gosh! This was so great. I read it in a night.” 2. Oh my gosh! I relate so much to your story. Here’s what I’m going through. Can we talk? And 3. Interesting. I really like how you colored in the lines. What a pretty shade of blue that it. What a rewarding experience this must have been. The #3 people are trying hard to be nice. I appreciate the effort so much, but it’s a little bit like the mom who’s trying to compliment a child’s artwork and she has no flippin clue what it is, so she just compliments the colors.

Nice job coloring inside the lines. Way to go.

8. People surprise you. Friends, colleagues, students, family, sorority sisters and even strangers known only through words  and social media have shared and cheered and trumpeted the news and they’ve bought books. Too many books. All because I asked.

9. Reach for the stars and land in the clouds, right? My first week goal was 500 books. We hit close to 400 and I’ll take the clouds. I love having crazy stupid goals because the view from the clouds is beautiful too. And because I’m such a sailer (see above) I know that now we adjust the sail and we find new ways to share my story which is His story.

10. Writing is easy. Publishing is scary. One-day is easy. Someday, too. But today? Scary. Nichole Nordeman tells this great story about a friend who’s mom had died. They had the hard task of cleaning out her house and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Totally overwhelmed, the man’s wife suggested that they just open the garage. Nothing else. Just open the garage. As Elisabeth Elliot says, do the next right thing. Open the garage. Now, a year later Nichole learned—after sharing this story all over the country on the Belong Tour—that the man’s mom wasn’t dead. She had just moved.

Seriously. Read that again. So funny. She wasn’t dead.

But the story is still so good. What are you waiting for? Open the garage. Take the next step. Do the next right thing. Writing is easy. Publishing is hard. Journaling is easy. Sharing is hard. Closing yourself away from community is Oh. So. Easy.

Moving toward others in the mess of life is hard. What’s your easy? What’s your hard?

I have opened my garage and bless my own dang heart, you’ve seen the mess. Maybe now’s the time to open yours.

11. Duh. Every top 10 needs a #11. My best lesson YET! A reader challenged me to think further, study further, dig further on a topic that I wrote about in “Pearl”. She handed me literature and then challenged me to do my own research. You know what’s amazing about people reading your book? When they challenge you to make your next one even better.

Ok. So. I know you’re way to busy to read my blog because you are, well—duh—busy reading my book.


There are these words and they are going crazy. Dancing. Bounding. Demanding my attention.

These words feel like lessons. Growing, learning, changing more now than even during the writing.

Even during the living.

It occurs to me. I’m a case-study, spot-on people-pleaser middle-child. And people-pleaser-middle-children should probably not write books.

I write in my book that I don’t care what you think about my book but holy-moly I think I was mistaken about that!

I think I really do care!

A friend wrote yesterday, “I’ve sent it to my mom but she probably won’t like the Donald Trump parts.”

Dang it! I forgot that she would have to read that part. And I forgot that all my Republican friends would have to read that part. I’ve been under the assumption that my Republican friends (which accounts for about 99.9% of my friends) who vote one-issue or who couldn’t vote for Hillary voted for Donald Trump because they had to.

Not because they actually wanted to.

But what if I’m wrong and what if my Republican friends are angry with me because I call him out for not wanting to rape an ugly girl.

I think I said it nicer in my book. I can’t remember.

My people-pleasing darts are firing big-time because if I know you have my book and I haven’t heard from you in like 5 minutes then it occurs to me that you must hate my book and you want your money back. And you don’t want to be my friend anymore.

It occurs to me that I have the self-confidence of a toad.

Or a frog. Which one is smaller.

It was suggested to me that I’d gone about this process in many of the wrong ways. Well not only do middle-children not like to “not please”—we also don’t like to get things wrong.

Maya Angelou says that when we know better, we do better. I didn’t know.

Maybe I’ll do better next time.


Perhaps if you’d shared more. It was suggested.

Perhaps if you’d asked for feedback. It was suggested.

But here’s the thing. How do you ask for feedback about your life?

Hmm. Don’t really like the story on page 52.

Gosh, me either. Except, ya know, it happened. So. There’s that.

I didn’t ask for feedback. I didn’t want feedback. Feedback for this story, my story felt like censorship. And I had censored myself for so long that if I erred, I wanted to err on the side of too much.

Too much truth.

Too much sharing.

Too much hope. Too much joy. Too much.

Last night I went to see Jen Hatmaker who was originally my least favorite author because her trying to be funny and talk about Jesus at the same time was just super annoying but then became my favorite author because she talks about Jesus and y’all.

She is so funny.

Last night, though, I sat about 50 feet away from her as she cried her eyes out talking about the past year.

Having come out in support and love of her gay friends, she received death threats. Received torn-up books that had been burned in her mail. Her children received threats and she was literally scared for her life.

FROM CHRISTIANS, Y’ALL! Here let me tell you about this God I love. Let me tell you the stories of Jesus but, oops, let me tear up the death threat I just sent a fellow sister first.

Y’all. The time of judgement will come but it is not today and it is not for us and I think we’re gonna be a tiny bit surprised when the day comes.

God promises judgement not only for what we have done, but for what we HAVE LEFT UNDONE.

I don’t want to be the Priest or the Levite who crosses the street when he sees the bloody and the beaten and the broken. Actually, let me put that another way. I’m done being the priest and the levite.

I want to see. I want to stay on the street.

So many lessons from last night. It wasn’t a program. It was church. She didn’t talk. She preached. We worshipped. It was holy and good and challenging.

Reading from Mark. Or maybe it was Matthew. For the love, I’ll have to look it up again but the man asks Jesus about getting into heaven and Jesus responds that we are to love our neighbor as ourselves and then the guy asks, yeah, but who is our neighbor. We’ve read it hundreds of times. But then, y’all. She drops it. She says.

We are still asking that question today. WHO IS OUR NEIGHBOR??

We want qualifications. I’m pretty sure he’s too dark, too poor, too weird, too annoying, too gay, too liberal, too conservative to be my neighbor. Surely you didn’t mean, him, Lord.

Here’s the thing. Today. 3 Things. Wait 4.

  1. I’m starting my next book , “Elephant Girl”.  A daily devotional for women. Turns out you can be funny and talk about Jesus.
  2. I’m starting my third book.  “Naked TV and other family traditions” and you’ll just have to guess what that’s about. Although for the record, I do not watch TV naked with my family, but I do love family traditions.
  3. I’m done crossing the street. I’m done looking the other way when people. God’s people. All of his people. Any of his people. Are hurting.
  4. I’m going to quit asking who my neighbors are and start loving them instead. Even the ones who planted plastic flowers in the dirt. And who have pumpkins out next to a welcome sign that has snow on it. Next to a plastic vine that goes around their mail box. Next to two trees that ALREADY HAVE THEIR CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON. Yes. I’m going to start loving my neighbors.

(PS:  As I call out others for judging it occurs to me, while talking with the kids about Donald Trump, that I do the same thing. I asked for their forgiveness for my snide comments and judgy attitude. I told them that God had called us to be discerning. And sometimes it’s easy to hide our judging hearts under the false piety of being discerning. So please forgive me for that. )

The Book

It’s ready.

From start to finish it took one full year.

And it took 15 years.

Or maybe 45.

I didn’t write a book because I got a divorce. I wrote a book because I’m a writer.

And I wanted to write a book.

I’ve always wanted to write a book.

The first book that I started was about fighting to save your marriage. Like that movie where the girl gets on the train, and where the girl doesn’t get on the train and it shows both of those lives. Yes, like that. I was going to be the Elizabeth Gilbert who didn’t get on the train. Who wept on the bathroom floor, crying out that there was nothing more impossible than staying and there was nothing more impossible than leaving and then I was going to stay.

And I did. Until I couldn’t.

The second book that I started was my tell-all. Anne Lamott says that we should tell our stories and Anne Lamott knows things. Important smart-people things and so I was going to tell my story.

All of it.

Looking back at my posts during that time, Lord have mercy. I was angry.

And if you had any opinion, any insight, any thought whatsoever that didn’t line up with my “I am the victim in this thing and just leave me alone already” theology well then bless.




I didn’t write this book as some form of therapy. Journaling is for therapy. Therapy is for therapy. Laying your soul bare and writing a book is—well, now that it’s out, I’m probably going to need therapy.

This book was censored in two ways and two ways only.


And Emma Claire.

Every word. Every confession. Every thought. Every page. I wrote with their little voices reading along. Not for today. Today’s too soon but for when they are older.

Several months ago, Coulter asked me what the book was about. I told him that there were sad parts and funny parts.

For the record, the funny parts are only funny if you have a sense of humor and understand a little something called sarcasm. If you don’t, well again..bless your—ya know—heart.

Coulter asked, what’s the funny part? I thought, trying to remember if there were actually any funny parts and I said, well I kind of make fun of Donald Trump. Well, not President Trump so much as his wall. I make fun of the wall. But I do it in a funny way. Like, maybe even hysterical way.


I can’t remember.

Oh. My Gosh. Men in black suites are totally going to come and take me away.

He laughs. Like maybe it’s “you had to be there” kind of funny and then he says, thoughtfully.

“Mom, the part about the wall? I wouldn’t put that on the cover.”

That is really good thinking, Coulter.

And I only mention the wall because Emma Claire has planned a book tour to Mexico.

Throughout this process I think people want to know why. Why are you writing a book? Sometimes it comes across with this weird “who are you to write a book” voice and sometimes it comes across with this weird “who are you that anyone would want to read your book” voice and the voice that was projected was always one of doubt. I wrestled and I tangled and I doubted myself and I doubted the process and then I finally landed on this. It was profound and deep and pivotal and it goes a little something like this—

Because I wanted to.

Because I’m a writer. Because I’m a storyteller. Because I’m a truth teller. Because life is really hard and really good and we need to laugh more and judge less.

Ok, so here’s the thing. Why should you buy my book? And not just one book, but several, several books. Like for your friends and your mother and your sister and your boss and , ya know just people in your life. I offer you the top three reasons.

  1. The book will sell for $16.95. That’s like 2 1/2 cups of coffee at Starbucks. And caffeine won’t make you laugh.
  2. I use 5 bad words. For those of you who’ve known me a long time, that’s worth the price of admission right there.
  3. I tell the truth. It was hard. My editor would call me out on stories where she sensed that details had been left out. Telling the truth is hard. We need to hear truth. Read truth and start telling the truth. If you don’t read my book, then find another author, another book that tells hard and real and good things. Facebook is fun but it’s the highlight reel. It’s impossible to celebrate “beauty from ashes” if we don’t acknowledge the fire.

Pearl acknowledges the fire. Whatever fire you’re walking through today my prayer is that you will come out of it and not even smell like smoke.

My prayer is that if you have a foolish, crazy dream that most people will think is ridiculous and you have no idea why you want it other than that you do want it, then what are you waiting for? Write your book. Tell your stories. Record that album. Take a painting class. Start an iPod. Wait. Not an iPod.

What’s that thing where you listen to people talking? I know it has pod in it. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I also can’t remember that Wednesdays are early outs. Every dang Wednesday, my poor C-man texts me. “Mom, where are you?”

Please buy my book.

Pretty please.

With a cherry on top.

*should be on amazon this week…I’ll keep you posted.

**thank you. really, really thank you!









My life

Ok. So. Let’s play a game. A pretending game.

Let’s pretend that unbeknownst to you, someone has been following you around for say, the past 10 or 15 years.

Let’s say they’ve been listening and watching and well, spying.

And taking notes.

Yes. In this pretend story, it’s like a film crew for the Kardashians only you don’t know you’re on film and they aren’t actually filming you, they are writing about you.

And composing.

They are watching, writing, composing and singing.

A friend of my sister’s jokes that she’s going to make a musical about my family, about our lives but she is late to the party.

It’s already been written. Only not about my family.

About me.

Only what if we are not pretending. What if this really happened and one day, all spruced up to see a friend you haven’t seen in more than 20 years—well, spruced up would be a stretch given that you were running so late you didn’t even have time to shower and you were hungry so you did what any self-respecting southerner would do upon arrival into the motherland and you grab a whataburger and you spill mustard on your white shell and you forget to say “no onions” and while you could remove them, you really like the said onions so you eat them and then stop for gum. Yes. All gussied up.

For a night at the theatre.

About 5 minutes before I sat down, I noticed a message from my friend. “Are you familiar with the show?”

No. No I was not.

The show was being presented in what’s called a black box theatre. Small and extremely intimidate; “connecting people with performers in a purposeful and uninterrupted way.”

In other words, you can’t leave.

Not that I would’ve.

Well, I totally would’ve, but I couldn’t.

So I didn’t.

We are no longer pretending here, in case you’re confused.

I have mustard on my shirt. I have onion on my breath and I’m sitting next to one of my closest friends for the past 25 years getting ready to watch another of my closest friends and bar none, the most talented man I’ve ever known.

He walks out on stage and begins to sing. I think, I might cry a little bit. It’s emotional hearing this voice that I love.

Scene 1, 2, 3….I forget. Little weird. Little awkward. Little funny.

My friend leans over, “did you know what this show was about?”

Uhm, no. The only thing that matters is that I get to hear my friend.

Scenes 4, 5, 6. Little weirder. Little awkwarder. Less funny.

My friend leans over, “you didn’t read the playbill did you?”

I laughed. Like a nervous laugh. Like that laugh that’s followed by a little gulping sound and then I begin to cry. I think it’s going to be fast and precious and a little dab will do you but, no.

I was wrong.

Oh. So. Wrong.

I close my eyes. This is not real. This is just my friend. He’s singing to  me. I love to hear him sing.

More crying.

My friend leans over, “this is going to be the longest two hours ever.”

The man to my left looks at me with both concern and secondary embarrassment.

I’ve managed to embarrass a complete stranger.

This woman gets up and sings a song that I wrote. Dang plagiarist. This composer even won a tony.

My tony, thank you very much.

And I become un.freakin.done.

Un done.

So. so. so un-done.

She sings and I can’t catch my breath. I know that if I can just catch my breath this will be fine. All fine. Even funny perhaps. But I can’t catch my breath.

I ask my friend for a tissue. She hands me a suede glass case.

We are far beyond dabbing. I blow.

At one point the story becomes someone else’s. At some point the story becomes different. The woman who sang the song that I wrote that someone plagiarized and won a tony for, doesn’t get divorced. So at that point our stories diverge.


Her husband, the character played by my friend, has had all that he can endure and stands in front of a bus and takes his own life.

Outside the theatre, waiting for my friend, I notice that he is deeply emerged in a very serious conversation and I’m annoyed and impatient and still crying uncontrollably.

No-one could possibly need him as much as I do at this point. I will first hug him. I will then chew his you-know-what for not giving me a little heads up to the story-line. He looks at me, “I’m so sorry!”, his first words.

We walked to a local pub, my two friends and I and we shared and we laughed and we loved and we cried and it was all-shades of wonderful. At one point my actor-friend said, “I don’t want to one-up you or anything, but that couple I was talking to you before you walked up?”


“Yeah, 20 years ago, her mother stood in front of a bus. I forgot to tell her the story line too.”

By now, my tears are all dried up and I’m left with this crying-hangover-headache.

We talked about college, marriages and divorces. We talked about passions and dreams and I showed everyone, even strangers, my book cover. My actor-friend is gay and toward the wee hours of what would soon be new morning, we talk about scripture and faith and religion and pig-skins and fat people and the gays.

Jen Hatmaker says in her new book that people will sometimes hate us because of Jesus, but they should never hate Jesus because of us. That our sanctuaries should be a place of grace and refuge and that our faith, and the sharing of our faith, should never leave those hurting, more hurt. Those wanting to be loved, less loved. Those wanting to be heard, less heard.

We want these gifts. These gifts of beauty and theatre and song and dance and we want there to be beauty. But so often we don’t want to acknowledge the package that delivers these gifts. These graces. I want to hear you sing, my friend, but please don’t tell me about your life.

I want to see the beauty of your dance but I don’t nothing else, thank you very much.

Y’all! What is wrong with us? What is wrong with Christians if we turn more people away than we welcome in. What if we want the gifts but nothing of the person who shares them.

Their talents, but not their friendships.

Their hearts (which they lay bare) but not their souls.

I left that night feeling hopeful and grateful and a little bit like, “Really, Lord?”

My friend, in her beautiful way said right after the show, “At first, I thought. Wow. This is going to pick a scab. Then I thought, no, this is like harvesting organs when the person is still alive.”

I felt like my insides had turned inside out. And I had the headache to match. I wondered as I drove back home that night what in the Hell the Lord had been thinking to send me to this particular show. I mean, it’s not like he was surprised. You probably aren’t supposed to say things like to God, but we have a special understanding.

So what’s the lesson, Lord?

To show me that the forgiving and the healing and the hoping are not over? To remind me that while all is well and all will be well, there is this rippling, this pulling of the thread that just won’t tear and ravels on?

Or was this not about me at all? Was this about seeing my friend and hearing my friend and being reminded that Jesus came because God loves us. To be reminded that the “greatest of these” is not judgement or correction or denial but love.

To love God. To love others.

The first time I heard my friend sing was in a pasture somewhere in Arkansas during and outdoor pageant. He sang:

“There were bells on the hill, but I never heard them ringing, no I never heard them at all, ’till there was you. There was love all around but I never heard it singing, No I never heard it at all ’till there was you!”

Of course, I thought he was singing just to me; straight to me and only for me.

Turns out I was wrong. Occasionally this happens.

I think maybe, in the middle of the third row of that tiny black-box theatre. In the middle of the third row that I could in no way escape with the embarrassed man to my left and my “no longer owns a suede glass case” friend to my right, I heard the bells.

Ringing of understanding. Ringing of forgiveness. Ringing of hope.

Perhaps it wasn’t the crying that gave me the headache. Perhaps it was the all the ringing.

I love my actor-friend. I love that he chased dreams I forgot about. I love his kind heart and his generous spirit and his humor. And I love that after so many years and so many memories that it was him, God chose him, to tell and explain and love hard on the story that was my life.

This wasn’t a night of Oklahoma. This wasn’t the Music Man.

But it was real. And hard. And good.





Bouncing Balls


Here’s the deal. Full disclosure.

I have ICS. (Inappropriate crying syndrome).

I also have ILS. (Inappropriate laughter syndrome).

And occasionally, though not often, I have IFOS. (Illogical freak-out syndrome).

My doctor explains it by saying that the balls that bounce around in my head don’t bounce high enough. Or fast enough. Or maybe they’ve been left in a car in the winter in Nebraska. According to Coulter if this happens to your balls, they will for sure deflate and never be the same again. Not that we’ve ever left balls in the car or shoes or food or bras or —


I take a tiny little pink pill with a very low dosage of the good stuff to combat ICS, ILS and worst of all, IFOS. And it works. It works so well that you decide you no longer need it.

This is much like a diabetic deciding one morning to stop taking insulin. Or someone with high blood pressure deciding he doesn’t like the way the blood pressure medicine makes him feel so one morning he just stops taking it. As if his blood pressure is all of a sudden, normal.

This is a random example, obviously.

So here’s a day in the life of a 40-some mom whose balls don’t bounce just right who one day decided she didn’t need her bouncy-ball-insulin. Or more like 10 days.

Day 1. I feel fine. I tell Mike that I’m going off my bouncy-ball-insulin and if I threaten to divorce him I don’t really mean it.

Day 2. I feel fine. There is no mention of divorce and only one mild episode of IFOS.

Day 3. I decide to send a chapter of my book to my mom to see if it is offensive. I quote Anne Lammot using the f-word, although I don’t say the f-word, I say, ya know, the word. Also have a tiny joke about liking vodka. Two things. 1. I should not have sent just one chapter out of context to my Mother. 2. I should’ve read the chapter during a family meeting with a therapist on-hand. 3. Yes, I know I only said two things. But the third thing is this, I wrote that chapter months ago. The sending of a hard chapter with no notice and no softening and no family meeting with a therapist only happened because of my balls. Ya know, not bouncing.

Later on Day 3. Mike and I are in-charge of the church potluck (dinner on the grounds!). And by in-charge, I mean we were supposed to put food out and then put food away. A lady hands me a box with a casserole dish wrapped in a towel. I take it out. She says she doesn’t want it out. I burst into tears and have to go home.

Literally. I went home. We left the kids in the sanctuary and went home.

Later, later Day 3. I go to bed.

Day 5. Training an in-home client I notice a small house for sale on the lake. It’s darling. It’s on a lake. I must buy this house. I call the realtor. It’s a neighborhood that would not come remotely close to our budget. I’m talking the number before the zeros would totally be the wrong number and yet I call again. And again. I say to Mike, I want to move to the lake. We need to go look at the house. I start looking for boats on pinterest.

Later Day 5. Coulter is confronted by a police officer at Greg’s house. Evidently he is (was) a suspect in a theft. Coulter. Right. The same kid who won’t let me enter through the exit door at Walmart has now started stealing credit cards. Coulter. The same kid who won’t let me use the bus lane for a 6:45 a.m. school drop-off  when there are no buses to be found because, and I quote, “it isn’t worth the risk”. Of course me not taking my insulin has nothing to do with Coulter being at the wrong place at the wrong time, but you can imagine how well I dealt with this.

Day 6. I tell my mother that no-one believes in me. Nobody thinks I can write a book. Nobody thinks I can run a business. Nobody thinks I can raise my children. I am done with this life.

Day 6. I text my friend, Come Lord Jesus. Like today. Let’s just do this thing already. And please take me with you the first time. I do not have a whole 7 year tribulation in me. I’m done. I am tired of being a grow-up.

Day 7. I have a terrible headache. Crazy-gross headache. I work all morning. From 1pm-4pm, that’s 3 hours if you needed help with that, I sit in the salon chair trying to become blonde. My head hurts so badly I think I will die on the spot. My talented colorist keeps coming over and peeking at my hair, then she makes a weird sound, squints her eyes and says confidently, “let’s just give it another 5 minutes.”

Ya know, how bout another 5 minutes.

Well, let’s just blow it out and see.

I think I’ll curl it just a touch and let’s see if that helps.

Well, I tell you what, stop by tomorrow and we’ll look then. The lighting isn’t great in here.

Maybe I’m not really a blond? Well then seriously, come Lord Jesus.

I have wrinkles and fine lines and my sister who’s almost 50 looks younger than I do and my mother who’s 70 has nicer skin than I do and I’m a grandmother with an 8 year-old (who is home alone throwing up after my friend’s husband picked her up from school because I couldn’t very well leave the salon with foil in my hair) and my biz partner with Rodan and Fields has like 4200 people on her team and I started the same year and have like 1. Well not, “like” 1. I actually have one.

My sister.

I am a failure. At everything. To everyone. This is how I feel.

I work all afternoon.

Later later, day 7. I think, I’ve actually lost track of time.

I’ve taken 4 children’s advil. My head still hurts.

I work until 7:15. My husband’s youngest son from his second marriage has a football scrimmage from which I’m picking him up and so I throw on my Bergan shirt and I stare into the sun and look at little people throw balls. I have no idea which one is my husband’s youngest son from his second marriage because I am blinded my the sun and my mind wanders to the solar eclipse. The scrimmage takes forever. Afterwards I see the players scatter and come find their moms.

My charge is no where to be found. I ask friends, I ask moms and walk through this dark tunnel where boys are eating hotdogs and I walk awkwardly close trying to see if I know any of them and I want to cry. God in heaven, how I want to cry but I don’t cry and I continue to look. It’s now almost 9 o’clock. If I ever make it home I will  never leave again. I’m never coming to another football game or basketball game and I just need to find my house. And advil.

I call Mike. IFO. Although this was not really irrational. I was mad. And scared. And starting to panic a little.

My husband’s youngest son from his second marriage beeps in. He had gone home with his mother.

I call Mike again. TJFOS (Totally Justified Freak Out Session).

Later Later Later Day 7. We talk about the difference between being respectful and being selfish. We talk about what it’s like to make a commitment and what it’s like to be scared and confused and embarrassed. We ask for the computer password.

Good times. Where’s the advil?

Day 6, 7, and 8. Mike has no idea how hard I am pursing the purchase of a new house. The realtor has not called me back. It’s as if my phone number or the sound of my voice has given him reason to believe I can’t afford this house. I can’t. But he doesn’t know that. And I’m highly offended that he’s assuming it.

My mother says that we are not to be highly offended.

Day 8. I tell my clients we are moving to the lake. One client has been in this particular house and since it’ll be a fixer-upper, she casually mentions that it’ll be great just as long as I don’t have a need to fix everything at once.

Hmmm. About that. I do love a good DYI project.

Wait. I mean DIY.

My friend, Misti looks at me and says, I’ve got one word for you. “Suburban.”

Come to think of it, I think I had tried to quit my insulin when I bought my suburban as well. You remember my suburban, yes? It’s so pretty and pristine and even though it’s 10 years old, you’d look at it and think it was brand new. A gentleman walking by the other day said, I love that color. It’s a beautiful truck. I replied, “Have you ever looked at a woman and just thought she is absolutely beautiful, what a gorgeous woman and then you got to know her? And she turns out to be a complete bitch? Yes, well, that’s my suburban.”

Did I just talk to a strange man about beautiful women and cars and b-words?

Later day 8. The realtor finally answers. The closing was that day. That day. The day that I was going to buy the house. It had sold. Closed.

Whatever, thank you Jesus.

Later, later, later day 8. I call my doctor. Bouncy-ball insulin, please.

I’ve never considered for a moment that I suffer from depression. I don’t. It’s different But my brain is a like a chemistry project that just didn’t quite work. Like maybe they were supposed to add H20 and instead added CO2. Which just happen to be the only symbols I can remember. My mother did not think I needed chemistry for college and so I didn’t take it. Looking back, I’m pretty sure it’s because she didn’t think I could pass it. 🙂

Mothers do know best.

I don’t like take medicine. But like Coulter, I prefer balls that haven’t been left out in the cold. I prefer my balls to bounce.

Pretty sure my family prefers it as well.

Now, just between us, if anyone hears of a house on the lake for sale will you please let me know.




Nothin Hurt.

4th of July.

This year, I celebrated our freedom with a nap, a Netflix binge and another nap.

I haven’t been home since last February.

Some people own their own business and they work 24-7-7 and they never take a vacation and they never take a nap.

I started my own business so I could go on vacations and take naps.

And most of the time, I remember to tell my clients.

Well, some of the time.

Sorry, JoAnn.

4th of July also marks the end of baseball season and for the record, Club Fitness will be closed next June 2018. Being a baseball mom is a tough gig.

I love baseball. I first fell in love with the game as a freshman in college.

The game.


I forget which.

My heart has since moved from the Razorback diamond to the Nighthawks.

I love watching these boys play. They are rock-stars, in my humble mom opinion.

And I love our team of moms and step-moms and lesbians who are getting married-moms. I love our awesome coach-dads and step-dads and ex-step dads and single dads and the all-american 2.2 kids with a dog and picket fence dads.

Coulter’s team is a picture of America and what I believe the land of the free actually represents.

Baseball is my favorite.

I’ve learned a lot over the past few years about how to be a good baseball mom.

Evidently it’s poor form to yell at the other team’s kid in the outfield to “Drop it! Drop it! Drop it!”

It’s also poor form to yell, “Crime in Italy, are you blind, ump?”

If you have young children, I’m sure you’ve read the blogs that have been posted and re-posted about our role as a youth-athlete parent.

Shut-up, clap and tell them how fun it is to watch them play is pretty much all we are supposed to do.

So boring.

What’s curious to me is that no such blog posts  circulate regarding the umps or the coaches. Or, gasp.

The players.

My number one goal is to encourage my son. I do tell him he’s fun to watch because he is. My number two goal is not to embarrass him.

Having said that, if the ump makes a jack-ass call, I’m probably gonna say something like, ‘’Come on blue!”

That’s it. I’m not gonna say, “Come on blue, that was a jack-ass call, you jack-ass.”

I wouldn’t say that. Because nice baseball moms don’t do that.

And it would embarrass my son and people know that I’m a Christian and Christians are not supposed to call people jack-asses.

I read that somewhere. Maybe Phillipians.

We drew the lottery when it comes to coaches. I could not be more grateful for the men who lead our boys.

That has not always been the case. One of Coulter’s first experiences was with a complete jack-ass of a coach and he once told Coulter not to bother showing up to the next game.

He was 8.

I emailed the coach that Coulter didn’t understand jack-ass sarcasm and therefore had taken the advice literally and would not be at the next game.

In the end Coulter decided to show up for his team. Not his jackass coach but his team.

I didn’t actually call him a jack-ass coach in the email, again because of the Christian thing.

I’ve read the posts. I understand my role.

I’ve learned that Coulter doesn’t like me to yell, “Come on darlin’ you’ve got this! Mommy knows you can do it, “ and that my husband prefers me to not yell, “sucker!” when we strike someone out.

Whatever. Message received. But I’ve got a little something to add.

For the moms who sit quietly behind the fence, knitting afghans and politely clapping, I offer this:

Dear Blue,

You are not volunteering, you are being paid. I know this, because I took out a second mortgage on my home to pay for your salary. I am happy to pay your salary so long as you know the rules.

So know them.

Next. Please make your calls audible. It helps the knitting go more quickly when we know if a pitch is a strike or a ball. Sometimes you sound like my 2 year-old grand daughter playing the quiet game.

Speak the hell up.

And know the rules. Wait, I already said that.

You are human. You won’t be perfect. I get that. But our kids are trying their best and so should you.

Speaking of kids.

Youth athletes.

Did I mention the second mortagage?

Try your best. Care. Show up.

Parents are investing in you. Not in your future career as a MLB pitcher but in your future, period.

I love watching Coulter play baseball. I love watching him become part of a team. Learning how to win and lose and fail and get back up and not give up and watching him play ball, baseball in particular, is fun.

But this isn’t a gift. It’s a contract. An investment.

And I think it’s fair to expect a return on my investment.

You aren’t six anymore. This isn’t t-ball. We aren’t going to yell “that’s OK buddy” when you miss a fly ball because you’re building sandcastles in the dirt.

And the cartwheel was cute when you were 6.

You’re coaches have invested crazy amounts of time and energy and their own second mortages to invest in you. You owe them. You don’t owe them perfect at-bats or perfect fielding or even a winning season. But you owe them your best.

You owe them passion and grit and determination.

And when you show up with that, then it’s easy to fall in line as the well-behaved baseball mom. Because when those kids show up, they are crazy-fun to watch.

Senator Sasse has written a book called the Vanishing American Adult. I haven’t read it yet, because I’m boycotting the big publishing companies who publish your book because, oh I don’t know, you’ve done the hard work of becoming an senator 🙂 and for some reason, owning your own fitness studio and being a baseball mom don’t seem to garner the same attention—whatever.

I’m teasing.

I will be reading said book.

The real reason I haven’t is because I’ve been very busy reading, “Stop dressing your 6-year-old like a skank”

I’m fairly certain they are pretty much the same book.

I think it’s OK to expect our kids to show up. To work hard. To try.

I know all the good baseball terms. I yell “OK, turn two, battle two,, strike two” like the best of them. One thing you’ll never hear me say is “OK, nothin’ hurt.”

Nothin hurt.

2 reasons.

Coulter hit a batter once last season and I yelled “Nothing hurt!” My husband looked at me and said, “Well except the batter”. I burst out laughing and then couldn’t quit.

ILS. (Inappropriate laughter syndrome)

Laughing when a player gets hurt is not considered proper baseball mom etiquette.

Also, If you strike out because you forgot to swing, I’m not gonna yell nothing hurt. If you forget to catch a ball because you were checking your snapchat, I’m not gonna yell nothing hurt and if you drop your iphone 5 on the concrete and shatter the screen, I am so not going to yell “Nothing hurt.”

I’m just going to yell. Or sing.

And when you want me to buy you a new phone before Friday because you are an American child and you need a phone like you need a hip, I’m going to quote from a book that I haven’t read about adults vanishing.

He doesn’t understand that I’m not buying him a phone because I want to teach him about hard work and delayed gratification. So I explained further. We had a lesson on entitlement and how that in this amazing land of the free, one must work first and get paid second. He still argued and debated and presented his case so finally I gave up. I’m like, look. It’s Mr. Ben’s fault. Some where in his book (after I read it, after I finish reading, “Bless your heart, Tramp”, ) I’m certain I’ll find strong evidence that I’m not supposed to buy you a new phone.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of a new phone. Wait. That doesn’t sound right.

Sorry darlin’. You can do this. You can do hard things and survive with a shattered phone. You can work to earn money. You can save it. You can do hard things. I believe in you.

Nothin’ hurt.

Unless you cut yourself on that shattered mess of a phone. In that case, I apologize in advance for laughing.

ILS. The struggle is real.


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