JJ spent the morning “driving Miss Averi” all around their pretend Kansas City in our living room.
“Averi, do you want to go to Union Station and play with Thomas the Train?”
“You do? Well, sorry. It’s closed.”
This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
It has become a ritual of mine to take photos of the cemetery here on Fort Leavenworth at various times of day, in different seasons, on holidays, and under certain weather conditions. There’s something about the pristine uniformity of this military cemetery that makes it so beautiful to me. And never is that more true than when the grounds are covered in a blanket of clean, undisturbed snow.
I look at the innumerable headstones and remember that each one represents a living soul: a man, woman or (in some cases) teenager who was willing to take an oath to defend our nation against our enemies.
This post is not as much for the entertainment of my loyal readers as it is solid evidence for JJ to produce when his future therapist asks the question, “So when exactly did the nightmares begin?”
JJ will pull up his shirt sleeve to reveal the smartphone imbedded on his forearm. He’ll say, “Siri, show me the photo.”
With all the hustle and bustle of my parents’ visit, I didn’t have time to get Brian a Valentine’s Day card last week. I broke the cardinal rule of romance: ALWAYS get a card. The little-known, second rule of romance is this: ALWAYS fill the card with enough cash to offset the cringe-worthy sappiness of the card.
In an effort to evade the freezing rain in Atlanta, my parents came to town on Monday evening—two days before the day we all planned for them to arrive. Two days before the day the house would have been clean. Two days before the day the furniture would have been dusted. Two days before the day I would have had meals planned, prepared and frozen.
I know. Even I didn’t believe that last one.
Sometimes I’m able to capture my children in a way that—despite my photographic ineptitude—will forever stick in my mind. This is one of those instances.
Well, we had our first snowstorm of the season this week, and I can’t even begin to tell you how excited we’ve all been about it. So, I’ll show you in a photo:
If you hang around this blog for more than a minute, you’re bound to stumble on a post (or 70) about my ongoing struggle with depression. I have remained very transparent about my love-hate relationship with medications because I know that so many of my friends, family and readers have a similar story to tell. Our culture, our physicians, the entire field of psychology, and even the church (!!!) have fully embraced the idea that depression is something that we can—or should—medicate with psychotrophic (mind-altering) drugs.