The first Christmas wasn't pretty.

Not the very first Christmas.  I’m talking about our first Christmas with a kid. 

When Christmas rolled around in 2005, Teague was 3 weeks old.  I was fat (and not happy about it).  And Colin and I were so sleep-deprived that we didn’t actually take any pictures on Christmas morning. 

However, the days leading up to Christmas were filled with dress-up torture for our newborn thanks to my mom and the multitude of holiday outfits she had purchased for her very first grandchild.

After spending this morning going through old photos, I couldn’t help but post these horrid pictures.  Sorry Teague.  You’ll find out about this one day and be incredibly embarrassed.  But you’ll love me anyway.



This is the most hideous outfit ever!  It looks like a clown suit!



His eyes are crossed!



He actually looks disgusted!



Refusing to acknowledge us or wondering where his feet are?



Throwing this in as a reminder that my arms CAN be that fat.



And this is to prove that he actually was really cute when not being tortured.  :)

Happy Holidays everyone!!!

It's getting personal. The training, that is.

I’m not sure if there’s a list of things you should or should not say to a personal trainer.  I mean, they probably hear a lot of cuss words.  And whining.  And grunting.  Maybe even some salon-type gym gossip.  But when I met my personal trainer yesterday and he asked me what my goal was, I told him I want to be a total badass.

I can’t be sure if he looked so shocked because he was expecting me to provide him with a more specific goal.  Or if he was looking at all 113 pounds of me thinking, “Yeah right.  You couldn’t be a badass if you tried.”  Or maybe he just didn’t expect me to use the word “ass” in goal-setting.  Regardless, eventually he humored me and said he’d help me achieve whatever I wanted.

Now, if you’ve been following the blog, you already know 2 things:

1)      I didn’t believe in exercise until 4 months ago.  I thought running was the devil and gyms were designed to kill you.

2)      I am now completely obsessed with running as evidenced by the two 5Ks I’ve completed in the past month, and I now go to the gym at least 6 days a week.

It’s funny how much my mindset has changed.  Not only do I feel a million times better and love my newfound endurance and flexibility, but now I want to feel stronger.  It’s kind of like this: Now I know if someone was chasing me I could get away.  But what I really want to know is could I fight back? 

I don’t want to be a cage fighter or a kickboxer, but I do want to feel like a badass.  And as I fill out this form for my trainer, that’s exactly what I’m going to write.

Six Years...In Cake.

     Once upon a time, I used to blog.  Then life got in the way for a few months.  But now, the blog is back!  And what better way to celebrate its return than with my favorite food group in the entire world: CAKE.

     Yesterday Teague turned 6.  Which means that six years ago yesterday my Mom started the tradition of making him whatever kind of cake he wanted for his birthday.  But my Mom is special.  She can't just make a run-of-the-mill sheet cake.  Or even use a pre-form pan to design a character. 

     Nope.  She starts with an image of a character or an object and literally builds it from the ground up.  Or table up, I suppose.  Making cake on the ground is gross.

Anyway...

     In order to celebrate Teague's birth for one more day, and to celebrate how talented his Nana Pam is, I decided to post pics of each cake she has made over the past six years.

They have brought us so much joy and I hope you enjoy seeing them now!

Year 1 - The Backyardigans

Year 2 - Elmo

Year 3 - Dinosaur

Year 4 - Horse

Year 5 - Medieval Times Castle

Year 6 - GraveDigger

Face off.

     One of my greatest joys in life is watching my kids face off with animals.  Not in a fight to the death kinda way or with anything particularly dangerous.  But I absolutely love when I get a shot of the boys squaring off with an animal as if they aren’t going to turn and run if it gets an inch closer.

Teague vs. Peacock is a classic.

Teague vs. Mystery Cow

Crews vs. Rooster

Crews vs. Goat.

Today, I captured Crews vs. Cow.

I could do this all day…

M-M-M-Monster Mash.

             Nope.  This is not a post about Halloween.  It’s a post about how Teague wants to have a monster truck party for his 6^th birthday next month and I have no idea how to pull that off. 

            We’ve thrown some fantastic birthday parties over the past few years.  We’ve rented the Fun Bus.  We’ve had jousting in an inflatable obstacle course.  We’ve danced to Yo Gabba Gabba.  Even constructed a horse out of cake and had a petting zoo.  But what do you do at a monster truck party?

            Teague’s answer?  You drive monster trucks. 

            And since that’s not going to happen, I’m looking for fun ideas.  Currently at the top of my list is renting a jump castle and ignoring this lame, redneck-themed party altogether.  I wanted to have a Harry Potter party with a potion mixing station and broom rides across the zip line, but that was quickly rejected by Teague.  Instead, I’m searching for Gravedigger invitations and looking at cups shaped like giant tires.

            I guess my days of picking a theme and decorating how I see fit are over.  Crews has already decided his birthday party will be tractor-themed.  And honestly, at this point, all I can think is, “That Mississippi blood runs deep.”

Let the decorating begin! Again...

            Fall in our house is a very exciting time.  Not because the kids are back in school, football is plentiful, and there are more opportunities than ever to cook fantastic meals, but because holidays abound and I love to decorate the house.  It all begins with Halloween.  I pull out box after box of window clings, fake Styrofoam pumpkins, bowls, hanging spiders, ghastly candles… You name it, we got it.

            But what I really love is decorating the outside of the house and the yard.  Although we are most well-known in our neighborhood for our extreme Christmas decorating (It’s truly a Winter Wonderland that attracts a crowd of kids each night in December), we try to kick it off right in October with some not-so-spooky enhancements.

            I’m always chomping at the bit to start decorating a few days before October, but this year we were on the cruise and I got a late start.  As it turns out, it didn’t really matter because my spooky yard has been destroyed by two straight days of rain and insane wind. 

All day Saturday, I made Colin position and stake down inflatables.  He spent the whole afternoon running power cords and setting timers.  I carefully hung all of my bats, spiders, and bat sconces then placed various pumpkins on the porch and stairs.  It looked awesome.

            Fast-forward to today and my two 12-foot-tall pumpkin stack and Frankenstein inflatables are lying in a heap in the bushes filled with water.  Most of my bats and spiders are scattered around the front half-acre of our property.  And enormous live oak limbs bigger than me are littering the driveway and landscaping.  Oh, it’s scary all right.  Scary that I have to go fix that mess. 

Maybe we’ll turn it into a family activity.  The boys are pretty good about helping if it involves being outside.  Who am I kidding?  There are puddles to be splashed in and mud to be stirred.  Looks like I’ll be going it alone.

The one with the camera.

            It’s well-known that I love a camera.  Any kind of camera.  I love pictures.  I love videos.  I never delete any of them.  Even the terrible ones where every single person is looking the other way or has their eyes closed.  I have a plethora of external hard drives overflowing with pictures.  Oh, and did I mention that I like to be the one who snaps them?

But being a camera hog (okay, and a picture hoarder) has one big downfall: I am hardly ever in the pictures I amass.  So last week on our Disney Cruise, I forced my mom and dad to walk all over the ship and take pictures of me.  Not by myself of course, but of the whole family.  We have only a handful of photos since Crews was born that include all four of us and even fewer of just the boys and I.  So after two early evenings of dragging the kids around, I’m happy to say we got some shots.  Notice I didn't say they were all good.

I love this one.  And they aren't even looking at the camera.



Not such a great shot of me, but gotta love Crews' Captain Morgan pose.



Yet again, not looking at the camera...



He won't scoot close to me and his eyes are almost closed.  Awesome.



STILL not looking at the camera and there's a huge phone in the pic.



Too much flash.



Oh well.  I’m still grateful for the memories.

Surrogate families.

           I’ve blogged about Kate before.  She’s my sitter/friend/third child/life saver/personal baker/lifeguard/schedule keeper.  In other words, she is family.  A very big, important part of my family.  And we love that she feels so at home in our house that she’s here most of the time.  I think it also gives her real family in Kentucky peace of mind that she has a place to go and people that love her while she’s far away.

            This summer, we were lucky enough to meet Kate’s whole family when they vacationed for a week at Seabrook.  I’d met her dad, the fabulous Mike Czerwonka, once last spring.  He and Teague are besties.

But Kate's Mom, sister, and even her grandmother came down at the end of July, and it was so nice to put faces with the endless stories we’ve heard over the past year and half. 

When the Czerwonkas first arrived, they were sweet enough to take our whole family out to dinner at the Fat Hen.  But even better than the delicious meal we shared at that hightop table, was that they invited the boys to spend whole days with them out on the island, truly making our family feel like a part of theirs.

While I was preparing for my trip to LA, Kate and her family would pick up the kids (sometimes their bikes too) and drive them all the way to Seabrook for a day full of fun in the sand, time in the pool, sea critter exploration, long bike trips to restaurants, and apparently, pink lemonade.  If you know Teague, you understand why drinking pink lemonade is a big deal.  He doesn’t try anything.  Ever.

The morning I flew to LA, I left before the kids woke up.  Kate had planned a special morning for them since I was leaving.  She came over super early, picked them up in their PJs, and drove them out to her family’s place on Seabrook where they had a special chocolate chip pancake breakfast.  Family style.

We are so incredibly lucky to have this relationship with the Czerwonkas.  It’s fun, and effortless, and reassuring.  All the things family should be.  I can’t wait for them to visit again.  And next time, I hope I get to tag along!

Choosing a school.

           It’s that time: We’ve started to receive letters from local schools wondering if we have any interest in them for Teague’s venture into first grade next fall.  I’ve known this was coming since the 2’s.  I’ve spoken endlessly to other parents about their preferences and experiences.  And now, it’s time to start visiting Open Houses.

            Honestly, the whole process stresses me out.  We’ve had three great years at Ashley Hall where we’ve made so many great friends and Teague has gotten all of the love and support he needed to crawl out of the shell he used to live in.  Sometimes, I wish he would inch his way back in.  Just a little bit.  Just enough to stop being so sassy.  Can you refer to boys as sassy or is it just called defiance?

            That said, I think the most difficult part of this decision is figuring out how to handle all of the information coming at me.  Some people have very strong feelings about certain schools.  And I worry that you can’t truly know a school until you’ve been a part of it.  Of course, each child is different and their needs vary.  So what works for my friend’s kid may not work for mine.  Teague and Crews don’t even attend the same school.  They each go where they fit best.

            But first grade is a whole new world for us.  It’s the beginning of our (real) elementary school experience.  And I want to make the best possible choice for Teague so that he can make friends and remain with them for years, just as he did through preschool and kindergarten.

            It looks like November will be a busy month.  Teague will turn 6 (Really?!) and we have multiple schools to visit and tour.  All the while, he is growing like a weed, reading, and losing teeth.  That infant I used to drag to Gymboree is long gone and has officially been replaced with a big kid.  I can’t wait to hear his opinion about where he goes.

Fridays, Sundays, Food, and Booze!

            For me, Friday means I don’t have to rush around the following morning making lunches and packing school bags.  I don’t have to get pancakes on the table by 7; teeth brushed by 7:30; and shoo the boys out the door by 7:45. 

We get to slow things down.  Watch silly shows.  Ride scooters in the driveway.  Plan our Sunday Funday activities with friends.  And of course, know that lots of home-cooked food and delicious adult beverages will be present.

            I usually start planning my weekend menu on Friday morning (typically with the help of Amanda and Kate’s requests).  They know my personal cookbook inside and out, and the texts start pouring in mid-week for Sunday Funday, a now years-long tradition in our house.

Summer Sunday Funday always implies 4 things:

1)      A cheese plate- There is always 3!

2)      Swimming and lots of other kid-friendly activities.

3)      A minimum of two entrees-Because once I start cooking, I can’t stop!

4)      Beer, wine, and Colin’s signature drink of summer which changes each year.

I tend to steer clear of the drinks of summer.  Liquor and I don’t mix.  I’m generally a red wine drinker, but when out by the pool (or anchored in the harbor) I’m a beer kind of girl.  During the hot months, I love nothing more than a smooth Blue Moon.  Sometimes, I’ll reach for a Sweetwater Blue though last year my beer of choice was a Shock Top with an orange slice.  And yes, I can settle for a Bud Select now and then.

But with the weather cooling down, and Sunday becoming less of a pool day and more of a football fete, I’m looking forward to the spicier brews.  One of my absolute Fall favorites?  Pumpkinhead Ale.  I haven’t spotted it in stores yet, but I’m on the lookout.  It is the perfect accompaniment to thick soups and robust stews.  It stands up nicely to hearty meatballs and even goes down well with braised short ribs.

Today, because it’s cool and overcast, I’m feeling inspired to make Beer and Cheese soup.  I use a delicious local beer (Palmetto Pale Ale), sharp cheddar, and leeks to create this dish.  It’s like liquid, golden, Heaven in a bowl.  With bite!  And who knows?  Maybe I’ll just keep right on cooking until Sunday.  I could always fill up the freezer.

Insight in unexpected places.

Sometimes advice or discouragement comes from the most unlikely sources.  From time to time, an unexpected conversation becomes incredibly enlightening.  And sometimes, talking to someone you don’t know all that well is great for gaining perspective on a situation you are too close to.

It’s funny how we get bogged down in our own issues.  I know sometimes I’m wandering through a dense forest of interwoven thoughts and fail to see the individual problems obscuring my view.  So when I went to a meeting yesterday expecting lighthearted fun (which there was) and then ended up discussing more serious topics, it was more than food for thought.  It was a frickin’ banquet.

From writer’s block and people’s tendency toward change, to appropriate therapeutic interventions and confidentiality concerns, it was grill or be grilled for hours.  And though unexpected, like most occurrences in my life, I think it happened for a reason.  It gave me perspective.  Reminded me how different everyone’s path can be.  And that often, regardless of how much we know, it can be hard to practice what we preach. 

I forget how not black and white things are.  Especially when you’re fully immersed in raising kids.  With them, it’s: You do “fill in the blank,” then “blank” happens.  But being a grown up is different.  We all make decisions for different reasons.  We act upon them in different ways.  And though sometimes it would be much easier to tell someone the way they are doing it is wrong, there are plenty of things people just have to learn for themselves.  And my fellow conversationalist was correct: “People can surprise you.”

My house is like Thunderdome.

            Every day around 5 my house transforms.  The day begins with home being a fun place to race cars and build things.  But early each evening, it becomes a ring for fighting to the death.  I remember when I used to dream about the day that Crews would be able to fight back.  After all, Teague spent the first 22 months of Crews’ life beating the crap out of him.  But back in February, when Crews realized he didn’t have to take it anymore, I recognized I’d made a mistake in wanting him to fight back (Jess, I think you warned me more than anyone else!).

            Regardless, no matter how fantastic our day has been; how many activities we have participated in; or how well everyone has gotten along since 6:30 am, there is something about 5 o’clock that flips the boys’ crazy switches.  They may be playing quietly next to one another on the floor or looking at a book together on the beds in the playroom.  But when the clock strikes 5, someone is going to get smacked in the side of the head with a tractor or thrown into a chair.

            I always have to ask my friends: Is this just sibling rivalry?  Is it just because they’re boys?  Do they really hate each other?  I have no idea.  I’m an only child.  And I certainly didn’t walk around smacking people as a form of conflict resolution when I was a kid.

            For a while, I entertained the idea that the boys were on a sugar high or perhaps a sugar crash at that particular time of day.  But after 6 months of this happening daily without fail (and adjustments to their overall sugar intake), I think it’s just their dynamic.  So I’ll keep prying them off one another and sticking them in time outs.  And maybe one day, Thunderdome will find its way back to the 80’s movie Mad Max and stay there.

Happy Friday! Here's a great recipe!

     I know I’ve been discussing football, chili, and cooler weather for over a month, but this morning when I stepped outside and found that it was 61 degrees, I just couldn’t help but share one of my favorite soup recipes!

French Onion and Wild Mushroom Soup

Serves 4

…………………………………………….

4 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

3 large onions, thinly sliced (Use the slicing tool in your food processor to save time!)

1 bay leaf

1 ½ teaspoons ground thyme

Salt and pepper

One 32 –ounce container beef broth (You can use chicken broth, but it’s not as rich.)

One 1-ounce package mixed dried wild mushrooms (I find them in the canned vegetable aisle.)

1/3 cup dry sherry or cooking sherry (Buy it once, it stays good for months.)

Sliced crusty bread

1 large garlic clove, halved

½ pound gruyere cheese, shredded

1)      In a heavy pot, melt the butter and olive oil over medium-high heat.  Stir in the onions, bay leaf, and time; season with salt and pepper.  Cook until onions are softened and browned, 25 minutes.

2)      Meanwhile, in a large saucepan, bring the broth, mushrooms and 2 cups water to a boil.  Lower the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.  Remove the mushrooms using a slotted spoon, and slice.

3)      Preheat the broiler.  Pour the sherry into the onions and cook over medium heat scraping up any browned bits.  Stir in the mushrooms and the hot broth.

4)      Toast the bread under the broiler, rub with the garlic, and top with the cheese.  Broil until melted.  Ladle soup into bowls and and serve with the toasts.

Why YA? (That’s Young Adult or “teen fiction” just so you know).

            People often ask me why I write for teens.  Especially since high school was definitely not my most favorite time.  I think the answer is rather straightforward: Teen stuff is raw.

            I don’t mean raw in a raunchy way.  I mean that everything you experience as a teen is novel.  Intense.  Concentrated.  And why shouldn’t it be?  You have no life experiences to temper it.  New things are fun and exciting.  They are addictive in a way that knows no limits.  When you’re a teen, you are invincible.

            Until that thing happens, which shows you you aren’t.  That’s why writing teen fiction is so pleasurable.  Not only do I get to define what’s right and wrong, I set all the boundaries and limitations of the world in which my characters exist.  I get to remember my own strengths and weaknesses and decide if a protagonist will have them too.  I have the power to make decisions I didn’t make when I was young.  My characters get to choose differently (Well, sometimes).  And it’s fun to think about what a big deal something is when you have yet to see something bigger

            When I was in LA for the writer’s conference, I heard someone say, “Teens are stupid.”  I couldn’t disagree more.  Naïve?  Yes.  Stupid?  No way.  Teenagers are savvy in a way only teens can be.  Remember how sneaky you were in high school?  Think about the hours of planning that went into something really trivial.  I’m not even talking about busting out of the house after hours.  I’m referring to a simple act like telling your parents you were seeing one movie then sneaking into another.  It required an insane amount of forethought because you hadn’t done it before.  And when you got away with it, it was positively narcotic. 

            Then think about your life with the addition of some paranormal or dystopian element.  A world where one or many things exist that isn’t really possible.  For me, that’s where the fun begins.

            I’ve written about a girl who remembers her five previous lifetimes with someone and knows that choosing to be with that person again means one of them is going to die.  I created a world in which love is being eliminated because the government thinks it will be easier to rule without such an intense emotion.  And most recently, I’ve been working on the story of a girl who awakes in a beautifully perfect afterlife after a heroin overdose, only to discover people are dying there too.  Yeah, I know.  Not exactly uplifting.  But compelling.  At least to me. 

            So that’s why I write teen.  It’s painful and sensitive and visceral and primal.  It’s authentic.  And I love it.  But I am not looking forward to having two teenaged boys who are addicted to what’s raw.  In only 7 years, I will have a teen and an almost tween.  No doubt, they will give me good material for my books…

I can tell you what it’s like to eat in a restaurant wearing only a robe.

             In a year chock-full of new experiences and big decisions, one of the biggest and most impactful was going to Mii Amo in Arizona for four days.  I was super-nervous about leaving the boys and not too keen on going to the desert.  I’m definitely an ocean and palm trees kind of girl.  Cactuses and dirt?  Not so much.

By definition, Mii Amo is a destination spa/resort nestled in the side of red-rock-filled Boynton Canyon outside of Sedona.  It has repeatedly been ranked as the world’s best destination spa, and its associates pride themselves on providing a journey of transformation and exploration. 

But you also put on a robe within five minutes of check-in, and you don’t wear clothes again until check-out.  And that just pretty much rules.

            It’s impossible to describe all of the things that make this spot so unique.  As soon as I stepped out of the car, I felt different.  Grounded.  Connected to the canyon in a way that doesn’t make sense.  It may have something to do with the strong Native American ties there.  After all, there is Blackfeet blood in my veins.  But as much I enjoyed the calming atmosphere (there is a focus on natural light, water, and pure materials such as wood and adobe brick), the red clay wraps, the past-life regression, the hot stone treatment, the aromatherapy, and the endless massages, I have to be honest: the experience was totally bolstered by the complete absence of clothes for four days.  Even in the restaurant.

            I’ll admit.  That first night sitting at a community-style table with all the new arrivals in robes was a little strange.  My first thought was, “I wonder if these people are wearing underwear?”  Then, as course after course of some of the freshest food I’ve ever consumed arrived, I kind of forgot about the robes.  And the idea that I was surrounded by underwear-less people.

            By Day 2, I was totally in my element and pretty much never wanted to wear anything but a robe again.  Well, a robe and my Uggs.  My feet are perpetually cold.  Indoors, outdoors, eating, sitting by the fire, and hanging out at the smoothie bar…all done in a robe.  It’s liberating. 

            Of course, there just had to be that one guy who always seemed to forget that he was wearing a robe.  Everybody there got a glimpse of his goodies.  My mom and I actually laughed until we cried at dinner one night because of this man’s perpetually agape attire.  Actually, I think the whole restaurant was cracking up.

            There were so many things I learned about myself during my time there, and I cannot wait to go back again.  For my birthday, my mom gave me a trip back there with her and hopefully, we’ll go in January.  There’s still a lot learn and a lot more relaxing to be done.  And yes, a lot more robe sitting. 

How far can I push it?

           On August 20^th, I posed a question: Is it possible to be an exercise convert?  I quickly received a lot feedback on Facebook, via texts, and emails.  Most of the responses were things like, “Who is this person and what have you done with my friend/daughter?”  But many others were incredibly encouraging and full of resounding “Yes’!”

            The following day I decided to start biking.  As most people who know me are aware, I don’t do many things small.  I’m either going to completely immerse myself in an endeavor or avoid it completely.  In this case, I decided the only way to answer my question was to throw myself all in.  Much to my surprise, I found I adored biking and used it to discover new places every day.  Then I started pushing myself to bike harder, faster, longer.  And to do it for a minimum of an hour each day.

            On Saturday, I woke up and rode all over my end of James Island.  And when I reached the neighborhood of one of my favorite parks (Sunrise Park, next to the James Island Yacht Club: Hands-down the best panoramic view of Charleston and the harbor), I hopped off my bike, left it by a tree, and started running.  I’m not really sure where the desire to run came from.  I’ve certainly never felt such an urge before.  But after two solid weeks of biking, I actually had the strength and stamina to make it to the park, up the hill, and all the way down to the end of the dock.  That’s when I stopped and took this pic:

I seriously felt super-human.

After running back to my bike, and eventually making it home, I thought, “Now I get it.  I understand why people do this.”

            Sunday morning I woke up at five and decided to bike early.  When I got to the end of my driveway and realized just how dark it was, that I had no lights on my bike, and no way to see the path on Fort Johnson, I made the decision to run.  (I know, it’s probably not that safe to run in the dark either, but at least this way I could stay in my neighborhood.)  My goal was to make it to a stop sign several streets away.  But when I got there, I realized I didn’t need to rest yet.  A few more streets over and I really started to feel the burn.  Then I remembered what my runner-friend Katie told me about hitting that point where you think you can’t possibly go any further and how if you just push through it, you feel a burst and it’s wonderful. 

            She couldn’t have been more spot-on.

            Reaching that point, that gray area where I wasn’t sure if I could do it, and then breaking through, was one of the most powerful things I’ve ever experienced.  It’s fun, and addictive, and precisely what I need right now (I’ve been experiencing a little writer’s block). 

This morning, I ran twice as far as I did yesterday.  Tomorrow, I might go even farther.  And who knows?  Maybe some other activity will come along that I enjoy just as much.  Now, if I could just design the perfect playlist.

Ok, I get it: Visit the tree.

         When something keeps popping into my mind for no apparent reason, eventually I’m forced to give in and pay attention.  This has been happening with the Angel Oak recently.  Situated on John’s Island, about a 20-minute ride from my house, sits one of the oldest things- living or man-made - east of the Rockies.  It is a live oak that some estimate to be about 1,500 years old.  The circumference of its trunk is over 25 feet and its widespread branches shade over 1,700 square feet.

            Though I’ve lived in Charleston for a combined 10 years, it took me almost 9 to make it out to the Angel Oak for the first time.  Afterwards, I probably visited it 10 or twelve times in a six month period.  Then I didn’t return for a year.  But over the weekend, something in the back of my mind kept telling me to go.  And while biking with a friend yesterday morning, the tree came up again.

            So today after dropping the kids off at school, I headed straight for the tree.  There wasn’t a soul in sight as I pulled up to the gate.  (The perimeter is fenced off for the tree’s protection and it doesn’t open until 9).  Instead of getting frustrated that I had to wait half an hour, or sitting in my car Facebooking, I grabbed my bike off the rack and set out on the long dirt road that extends in either direction from the tree. 

Usually, I would throw in my earbuds and get lost in the music, but the sound of birds chirping, bugs buzzing, and a strong breeze rustling the leaves, was simply too enticing to drown out on a perfect Lowcountry morning like today.  A half hour later, shoes full of sand and a thick layer of dust from my knees to my ankles, I made my way back to the tree and found a sunny spot to lay down.

Nothing utterly magical happened.  There were no signs.  Not a singular life-changing event.  But there were definitely a few moments of clarity and insight.  I think what I like most about being under that tree is that it reminds me how tiny I am.  Not physically, though I do feel miniscule beneath its branches.  But that worrying about things is fairly inconsequential.  I really believe everything happens for a reason.  And if my brain kept nudging me to go there, then there was probably a greater reason for it.  After all, a connection between me and trees just keeps cropping up.  But that’s for another blog…

That time I drove a car in one side of a building and out the other.

           There are a million ways to make the front page of the paper in Central Florida.  Most of the time, it has something to do with shooting someone or being the person with no teeth who is interviewed after witnessing the shooting.  But if you are me, you make the front page of the paper because you are driving down the road, minding your own business, and have a seizure.  At least they think that’s what happened.  We never got a straight answer. 

            In January 2004, I was in grad school and leaving work.  I had just administered an hours-long gifted assessment to a tween-aged girl and I was on my way home to eat before running a therapy group that evening.  I clearly remember sitting at the stoplight, waiting to make a right hand turn.  At the time I had a silver Lexus RX300 and when the light turned green…well, I don’t remember anything after that.  Apparently, I successfully made the turn and drove a few hundred feet before banking toward the right, hitting a curb, and launching my SUV at least five feet high into the bay windows of a store.  The car went all the way through the building and exited through the opposite wall.

            Here’s how it looked.

            When I regained consciousness, I was on a backboard being lifted over my backseat and out the trunk of my car.  I had no idea what had happened.  I didn’t even know where I was.  All I knew was that I couldn’t move.  I was terrified.  And there seemed to be sirens and people talking from every direction. 

I couldn’t focus on the EMT’s face, but he just kept telling me that it was amazing: There wasn’t a scratch or bruise on me anywhere and my car was firmly lodged inside of a building.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  As they lifted me into the ambulance, I got a glimpse of the destruction.  And when they asked me who they should contact, I remembered that my parents were across the country and my husband was out of town.

The following hours are hazy.  They were filled with an extensive battery of tests, an endless amount of blood work, and relentless questioning.  And when I was released a day or so later with no visible injuries, I was told that I must have had a seizure.  I spent months on seizure medications which made me feel completely insane.  I didn’t drive for over 60 days.  And my memory was completely shot (A not-so-pleasant side effect of the unnecessary meds).  It was probably the most helpless I’ve ever felt in my life and thank goodness, I had such great friends (Even one who lived with Colin and I!), family, and faculty mentors for support.

It was a very long road toward recovery for something that couldn’t even be identified as a specific event.  I even spent time at the Cleveland Clinic in South Florida searching for a diagnosis.  I wanted an answer no one could give me.  Ultimately, my specialist told me to move on.  He said the likelihood of something like that happening again (based on all of the testing and my history) was exponentially low.  He said it would have to be the “perfect storm” of events.  He believed it was a combination of my extreme caffeine intake and ridiculous level of stress.

I still count my blessings that I somehow managed to unconsciously navigate my car into a window.  (A quote from a witness stated, “Hollywood would’ve had trouble setting up a stunt like that.  She was lucky she didn’t hit a wall.”)  I couldn’t agree more.  I’m sure that hitting a wall would have been much worse.  And apparently, my car was really my saving grace.  It held up beautifully. 

I haven’t had a single issue since that day and I don’t think I ever will.  There’s just a balance there that didn’t exist 7 years ago.  And I need to remember that every day when I worry about the little things.