Happy Birthday, Mom

My mom celebrated her 50th birthday Sunday — and by celebrate I mean did as little as she could to commemorate the milestone. Last month, we surprised her with a small party and she opened gifts, chatted and ate cake with a great grin on her face. But as Davin and I met her and my dad for dessert — because the German chocolate cake I attempted to make from scratch decided to stick to the pan and utterly ruined my gesture — she tried to downplay the inevitable. In turn, I endeavored to comfort her, telling her she’s the youngest 50-year-old I know, and certainly the prettiest.

But the truth is, she is much more than that. She defines the word Mother, and I don’t say this boastfully, but honestly. From the moment I took my first breaths, she has put herself second. I can’t count the sacrifices she’s made over the years, and as much as I’ve tried, I can never seem to repay her … but I haven’t given up.

The earliest memory I have is my mom rocking me during the night when I was 4 or 5. I used to get terrible ear infections, but somehow being in that chair with her soothed me. When I was sick from something else, I’d call out to her late in the night and she’d come running. Sometimes she’d crawl in my bed and rub my back, telling me stories about her favorite aunt, Marie, and sharing other memories from when she was a child. And then I'd fall asleep.

In a way, this is how it's always been ... figuratively, I mean. She's always come running when I needed her, whether I'd fallen and needed picking up or my world had come crashing down and I needed comforting ... and my tears wiped away.

We had our battles, of course. The first ones were over what clothes she had picked out for me to wear. Others were over boys that I shouldn't have dated ... and I learned the hard way. There were even some when we were planning my wedding.

I remember watching her put on her makeup and jewelry when she and my dad had special nights out, often for military balls. How I looked up to her.

Looking back, I know she has always meant well and always wanted the very best for me.

She gave up a career to stay at home with my brother and me. She'd send us off to school each morning and be waiting for us when we came home, snack in hand. She'd drive us to this practice and that lesson. She volunteered in our classrooms, bringing cupcakes and other goodies to my classmates and me, helped decorate bulletin boards and chaperoned field trips.

Somehow, she managed to keep the house spotless, the laundry washed, folded and ironed and the cupboards stocked. We don't have children yet, and I still have a problem keeping up with our household responsibilities.

No matter where we lived or for how long, our house always felt like a home.

My mom kept both of us looking our best, and that didn't mean dressing us in expensive, stylish clothes. To this day, I'm not sure she's ever bought anything at its actual price. When we lived in Panama, she sewed several of my outfits ... and bows and scrunchies to match. Even our Halloween costumers were homemade. One year, my brother and I were M&Ms ... I think I was a crayon, too, though my favorite was the poodle skirt, which I twirled around in endlessly.

Our birthday parties were planned well in advance and always cutely coordinated. My mom was the best hostess and she still is ... she's a much sweeter version of Martha Stewart.

I wanted for nothing, and yet we lived quite simply.

I was the loneliest my first two years of college because she and my dad lived 10 hours away. Saying goodbye after visiting for a few weeks was awful. My heart breaks even thinking about the possibility of us moving out of state one day, however good the opportunity we'd be given.

Over the years, we've become shopping buddies and each other's confidant.

She was my wedding planner, and even threw my shower, and I contend that a professional couldn't have done a better job. The night before, I went in to say goodnight and we had our cry, her whispering that she felt she was losing her little girl. I'll never forget that moment. I told my dad that just before we reached the end of the aisle, I was stopping to say one last goodbye to her as that single girl.

I still look up to her and still want to learn from her, like I did when I was a child. Though I need her less in some aspects, I need her more in others. I don't think I can possibly express all she means to me, but I'm sure she understands. She has an amazing mother, after all.

I wonder what kid of mother I will be. I've had the greatest example and in so many ways ... in the kitchen (though I should have paid more attention here), in serving, in patience, in caring and in loving.

I suppose that's the greatest gift I can give her — sharing all of her with my some-day daughter.

Quote of the Day

Preface: There have been times in the past when I've felt the presence of that proverbial black cloud, hanging so closely above my head that I could reach up and touch it. In recent years, it hadn't visited, and I understandingly didn't grieve its absence. But then last week it came calling — in all of its down-pouring glory. In an effort to keep this a positive place, though, I am abstaining from advertising my recent quandaries, and instead offer up a hopeful, I'm-gonna-make-it passage because I'm learning that I cannot cry over things I cannot control:

“All of us have bad luck and blessings*. The man who persists through the bad luck — who keeps right on going — is the man who is there when the blessing comes — and is ready to receive it.”

—Robert Collier

(*I've tweaked the author's words, though, and replaced "good luck" with "blessings.")

Today I'm loving ... more fall fancies

Quote of the Day

“In life as in dance: Grace glides on blistered feet."

—Alice Abrams

Dance with me

My parents are taking dance lessons.

I think it's the sweetest thing.

They just had their first class on Monday, where they learned the box step from an older fellow who's been dancing most of his life.

They say it's something they can do together once a week, taking a break together from the busyness life throws at them when they're apart.

I say it's romantic. They just celebrated their 29th anniversary. I just marked my first. It's hard for me to picture being by someone's side that long, experiencing life and all of its triumphs, all of its troubles. I wonder what it will be like to buy our first house, to see my husband become a father, to watch lines grow on his face — and mine ...

I think my mom probably wondered the same things, quietly. I want to be able to, like the two of them, not let the day-to-day wear on our relationship; to keep that spark faintly lit, even when kids come along, bills show up unexpectedly, plans get changed. That's probably why I still have wedding pictures on my desk, 15 months later. I never want to forget how emotionally overwhelmed I was that day. It was wonderful.

Because when laundry piles up, cleaning calls, groceries have to be bought, dinner needs to be made, meetings need to be attended ... it can be emotionally overwhelming, too. And then it's not wonderful. Still, we strive through the difficulty, all the while reaching for romance ... and finding it.

That's why the dance lessons seem so endearing, so intimate, so dependent on patience and trust to keep steps in sync.

It's the perfect metaphor of marriage.

Today I'm loving ... success!

After much persistence, I'm finally getting what I want: a new work laptop.

I've had a heavy hand-me-down for the past two years, lugging it around to meetings and interviews, and it's been going out on me for probably the last year. Programs quit unexpectedly and often, with just the slightest bump, it shuts off. Meanwhile, new reporters to the newsroom or others who haven't been around as long as me have been given the light, little Mac iBook. And I've had it's grandmother.

But today, all of my nagging, er asking, has paid off.

Victory is mine.

Quote of the Day

"The most essential factor is persistence — the determination never to allow your energy or enthusiasm to be dampened by discouragement that must inevitably come.

—James Whitcomb Riley

Today I'm loving ... inspiration

... to grow

My faith, untangled

When my parents married, my mom chose to leave behind the Catholicism of her childhood and attend a Methodist church with my dad. My brother and I were both baptized as babies in a Protestant church and that’s the type of service we attended while stationed on military bases.

Back then, we attended Sunday School before service — where we usually made a Bible-themed craft out of a paper plate and pipe cleaners — and sang out of hymnals, along with the organ and the robed choir. As a kid, the highlight of going to church was seeing friends or spouting out the Scripture verse I spent all week memorizing.

I can remember singing the songs, “Jesus Loves Me" or “Go Tell it on the Mountain,” and learning the motions to “Pharaoh, Pharaoh.” Santa Claus brought us many of our Christmas gifts, but it was stressed that the baby Jesus was still the real "reason for the season." During Easter week, my brother and I would sit at the kitchen table with our parents and each night open a Resurrection Egg. Each plastic egg contained some miniature visual from the week leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection — a crown of thorns, a purple cloth or a goblet, for example — and we would read the corresponding Bible verse.

I only ever listened to contemporary Christian music and I never felt I was missing anything. I still really don’t. In sixth-grade, I got introduced to Steven Curtis Chapman and Michael W. Smith, watched McGee and Me and listened to Adventures in Odyssey. In ninth grade, I fell in love with the Newsboys and Audio Adrenaline — I went to a gazillion of their concerts — and some guy named Tony Vincent who I haven’t heard from since. (I apologize if these people and things are Greek to you … Google them if you have some time :)

I know I was taught all along about staple commandments: honoring my parents, telling the truth, being a peacemaker, not fighting with my brother, etc. I gave a weekly offering from my allowance. I had a student’s study Bible and a Precious Moments Bible — one Old Testament story told me I couldn’t hide from God and there was a little illustration of a Precious Moments child in a closet with a blanket over his head, trying … it made me wonder if that meant God could even see me in the bathroom.

I was told that Jesus loved me and died for me and my sins, but I never understood a) how HUGE that was and 2) that he hoped I would love him back. In high school, when Jars of Clay sang, “I want to fall in love with you,” I couldn’t comprehend it. And honestly, I still struggle with the idea.

Through no fault of their own, my parents and other adults in my life didn’t really talk about what it meant when I became a Christian at 11 years old. I knew I had accepted Jesus into my heart, but I thought that he was just hanging out with me all the time and that I needed to be a good daughter, student, sister and friend. Don't get me wrong, my parents were great examples of what it meant to love others — even when it was hard — and serve others , and to walk daily with Christ. But for me, it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized the two core commandments Jesus gave — love God and love others.

Along with this — and blessing those less fortunate — I also realized how much Jesus desired to have a relationship with me. I tried several times to build it. I would go a week reading my Bible, following along in a study book, and praying before bed. Often I would fall asleep in the middle of praying, realize it in the morning and feel guilty about it all day. And remarkably, I’d repeat the cycle later that night.

To shorten this a bit, I strayed away from Jesus in college and for a few years after graduation — I went to St. Mattress every Sunday — and instead became depressed with my relationships — or lack thereof — and a thankless, this-is-not-what-I-expected job. But a few years ago I came crawling back to Christ with a tear-soaked face and a hanging head, which he gently lifted and wiped. Then he whispered, “I missed you.”

When I came back, I saw something different: for the past few years, a generation has awakened to a realization ... things should be a lot simpler, like they were when Jesus walked dusty streets. There is less 'organized religion' and more non-denominational churches, like the ones my parents and I go to. Dress is casual, hymnals are out and praise songs are accompanied by an array of instruments. Activities for kids are vibrant, enthusiastic and stress loving God and others.

Church (which is actually people, not a building) isn't supposed to be about seeing friends — though it is nice to have that common-hearted fellowship — but coming to serve those who are seeking and to worship.

Christianity isn’t about being a good person or being moral or following certain rules. Anyone can check those boxes. Check out this verse: ..."small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." Matthew 7:14.

There is also this one: "For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast." Ephesians 2:8-9.

I still think it’s important to make the right decisions (in what you read, watch, listen to, say) because then there’s this verse: "Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen."

And wow, do I have to slap my hand and start over with that one each day. Sometimes I'm a terrible picture for Christ ... gossiping, losing my patience, being unloving and unlovable.

The faith I follow, as I wrote earlier, isn’t about isolation from the rest of the world, but it is "being in the world, and not of it." My faith isn’t about judging others — we each have enough planks in our own eyes to get out first — but of picking each other up. It isn’t about following a routine or rules; it isn’t about being a ‘goody-goody or, even worse, an ugly repellent. Rather, it’s about intrigue, passion, acceptance and challenge … and walking that road less traveled.

I’ve vented repeatedly to my husband about getting this across to people. Then my dad gave me a book by Don Miller: “Searching for God Knows What.” He talks about, with wit and creativity, what it means to know who God is, not in the self-help Christianity many cling to or the kind that squeezes Him into a box, to be taken out only during times of crisis.

I’m only into the fourth chapter, but in the third, I came across what my mind had been trying to articulate.

Here are three excerpts that wowed me. They are long, but worth it, so please read.
“... if it is a story about humanity falling away from the community that named it, and an attempt to bring humanity back to that community, and if it is more than a series of ideas, but rather speaks directly into this basic human need we are feeling, then the gospel of Jesus is the most relevant message in the history of mankind."

..."Jesus was always, and I mean always, talking about love, about people, about relationship, and He never broke anything into steps or formulas ... I began to wonder if becoming a Christian did not work more like falling in love than agreeing with a list of true principles. I had met a lot of people who agreed with all those true principles, and they were jerks, and a lot of other people who believed in those principles, but who also claimed to love Jesus, who were not jerks. It seems like something else has to take place in the heart for somebody to become a believer, for somebody to understand the gospel of Jesus."

..."If the gospel of Jesus is relational; that is, if our brokenness will be fixed, not by our understanding of theology, but by God telling us who we are, then this would require a kind of itimacy of which only heaven knows. Imagine, a Being with a mind as great as God's, with feet like trees and a voice like rushing wind, telling you that you are His cherished creation. It's kind of exciting if you think about it . Earthly love ... is temporal and slight so that it has to be given again and again in order for us to feel any sense of security. But God's love, God's voice and presence, would instill our souls with such affirmation we would need nothing more and would cause us to love other people so much we would be willing to die for them. Perhaps this is what the apostles stumbled upon."

Today I'm loving ... these fall fancies

Dried corn husk votives — who would have thought corn could make such a cute craft?

Better get to baking some bread!

Quote of the Day

A reminder for those days of disagreement with others ...

"Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?"

—Walt Whitman

Home is where the Army sends you: Part II

It was not wanting to be separated as a family for a year — my dad was offered a tour in Korea — that sent the four of us to Panama (the country!) from 1990-93. When we reached our cul-de-sac-situated quarters on Ft. Clayton, my mom was thrilled to see that this time, the cockroaches were welcoming HER to THEIR world. My dad chased after one group with a blowtorch. And my brother and I stared in awe at what was our new backyard: a humidity-soaked, insect-flooded jungle ... dotted with pretty flowers.

At all times of the day, we'd see several different creatures come crawling or flying out: sprinkler-sipping iguanas, colorful toucans and this rodent-like fella (an agouti) and his family. We'd watch the noisy Capuchin monkeys swing from tree to tree, and look for the caiman crocodile that was rumored to live in the large pond across the road and down the hill from our house. And every once in a while, military police would show up at the end of our street to halt traffic and help a very slow moving three-toed sloth across that very busy road. I remember my mom telling me to stay away from them (the sloths) because their fingers, which were more like sharp claws, could rip your heart out. Now that I'm older, I'm sure that isn't entirely true — I've seen zookeepers holding the ugly little guys. One of the most interesting insect finds was the praying mantis who perched himself on our car one day — and the cutter ants that would take down an entire bush, piece by piece and in a straight line, like little workmen.

I didn't understand why we had bars on nearly all of our windows — until my 11th birthday when a man with a machete showed up, opened the side door (in the kitchen) and stuck a ball of masking tape into the lock hole so he could come back to an unlocked home when we were asleep. Fortunately, my dad pulled up and saw him, grabbed a baseball bat and chased him into the jungle ... then threw the masking tape-ball away.

Our school was on the base, along with the pool, the post office, our church, the movie theater that showed films that came out in the states six months earlier, my dad's office and the tennis courts where I had my first lessons. We'd leave the base, which overlooked the Panama Canal, to go to the commissary for groceries and the PX for clothes, electronics, jewelry, etc. Only with a group of people or with my dad did we go into Panama City. At stop lights, men would come up and wash our car windshield — even to our protesting — and then wait for my parents to give them money. When we'd go to the open-air mall, the women sales associates would literally be on our toes following us around, afraid we would take something. I guess that's why my mom did most of our clothes shopping when we went to Michigan for two weeks. And when we did go home during the summer, we either flew backwards for four hours in some crazy Army airplane, or sat on a bench in the back of a cargo plane and kept earplugs in our ears because the engines were so loud.

For family vacations, we'd head over to the Atlantic side for a few days. There were some beautiful ocean views near the place we stayed, and my brother and I would try not to drown in the water's crazy waves. We stopped in this one particular town, where we bought some birds and then tried to find the mountain range shaped like a sleeping princess -- there was a folk tale about her that I can' remember today.

Our first Christmas in Panama was so strange. We picked out a tree in a lot filled with others that had been shipped in. We were able to stand in our church's live nativity — I was an angel — for hours and not feel frost-bitten. And I rode my new bicycle up and down the cul-de-sac in shorts and a tank top.

For fun, my dad took my brother and I on a 'safe' jungle excursion somewhere way off the base. The one snake that I do remember seeing was actually slithering around the playground our neighborhood friends used to hang out at — the same place we'd bring a tape player to and listen to the Top Gun soundtrack. Wow.

There was some normalcy among the strange: I fell for the New Kids on the Block, even their Christmas album; got braces and color-coordinated the bands at different holidays; had a crush on my sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Lyle; was one of the 'Teas' in the Nutcracker at Christmastime; learned how to use the Dewey Decimal System; learned how to 'see' Bloody Mary and (fake) scream when I "did;" and cheered for a youth flag-football team — and then never again.

But of all the frightening things I experienced while living in another country — like no rain for six months — there was nothing more scary than sending my dad off to war (in the Gulf). We all worried, but no one like my mom. I wore a yellow ribbon to school each day and remember watching the news -- and their night-vision views -- of the all the bombings. Finally, after six long months, the phone call came: he was coming home.

Sure, it was a relief when we finally began packing for our new assignment in Virginia, but living in Panama was an opportunity I'll never forget - jungles and all.

Rembering

**I would have posted this earlier, but I've been in bed all day with what I think is strep throat ... sadly, I saw nothing this morning on the morning shows about 9/11, just brief blurbs. Sad, sad.**

Seven years ago today, my heart held its breath.

Like everyone recalls, it was a beautiful morning. With a French vanilla coffee freshly dispensed from the dorm café’s fake espresso machine, I had settled at my desk inside the campus accounting office, ready to file reports, as was the usual routine each Tuesday. I occasionally glanced up at the TV hanging just beyond my seat that blared CNN Headline News, a station that tended to repeat itself every half-hour.

I was about two weeks into my third year at Western Michigan University, eager to become an expert in the journalism field, a major I had decided to change to the previous spring. I was thankful to be returning to my cushy job in the administrative building that paid pretty well and allowed me to work on my homework when my handful of responsibilities were completed. I was also thankful that if I wanted, I could go home on the weekends. It was a luxury I had not been afforded for my first two years of college because my parents had moved to Washington, D.C. after I graduated from high school. My dad was assigned to the Pentagon, and after that, he was going to retire. Over the summer, he and my mom found a home about 40 miles north of Detroit, close to my grandmother. My dad helped us move in, and then headed back to D.C. to finish up his career through October.

When I looked up at the TV that morning, it was only because I had heard a commotion. Our office was the only one that had a television, so employees from other departments and students in line to pay bills were staring up intently at the screen, watching the North Tower of the World Trade Center burn. I stood up and walked a little closer as the other viewers speculated about the cause. Then, there was the explosion in the South Tower. I know we all stood in shock as we realized that what was going on was far more than an accident. The crowd began to disperse about a half-hour later, and as they did, I caught a sentence scrolling down along the bottom of the screen that made my whole body go weak: “Fire reported in Pentagon.” I spoke up, rather loudly, asking if any of the women I worked with had seen that. Then the station flashed the picture. Smoke was billowing out of the building that was supposed to be untouchable. My boss, Liana, said to me, “It’s good your dad isn’t there anymore.” I gave her a blank stare, cried out, “Yes, he is,” and began to hyperventilate. Liana and my friend Jackie rushed over to my desk and walked me to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and trying to calm me. Then we went to Liana’s desk and dialed my mom. She was nearly speechless and didn’t want to talk to me. Since Flight 77 had crashed into the building, she had been bombarded with calls — and none of them were from my dad.

Inside the Pentagon, he had been walking to get a Starbucks when he felt the massive structure shake. He thought it may have been a bomb after briefly seeing what had happened in Manhattan. And then there were rumors about a plane. My dad tried to call my mom, but he couldn't get through. People began to evacuate and out on the lawn, my dad and a group of men had taken their shirts and soaked them in water to cover their faces, ready to head back inside the burning building to look for survivors. But the flames and the fumes were too strong.

The plane had hit the recently renovated section of the Army side. That meant that there were fewer people when it struck. Still, my dad knew a few who had been killed, mainly secretaries. One of the men who survived almost didn’t, and suffered terrible burns all over his body. He wrote a book. It was fascinating.

One thing my dad noted: when he was out on the lawn that day, everywhere he looked he saw a military chaplain. Everywhere. It turned out there had been a conference that week ... or God just knew there would be a need for some guardian angels.

Back at Western, I ran to my room and tried to get my little brother to come over and sit with me while I watched the news. We still hadn't heard from my dad. I laugh still when I remember his response: "Amy, I have to go to class. Dad would want us to go to class." Then classes throughout campus got cancelled. He came over, but stayed only briefly. I guess it was his way of dealing with the unknown.

My dad finally reached my mom around 11:30 that morning. And we all began to breathe again.

I still find my dad heroic for his attempted efforts that day — and all of those who tried with him. Today is a constant reminder to me of how easy it is to take people for granted ... and so I don't take this anniversary lightly. It's something I'll never forget.

Today I'm loving ... patience

In waiting.
In understanding.
In life.

Quote of the Day

Drag your thoughts away from your troubles... by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it.

—Mark Twain

Today, I'm loving ... a fall-flavored latte

Even though I'm still dotting aloe on my slightly sunburned skin, I can't help but be in the mood for one of these. *sip* As I slipped into a pair of jeans this morning — for the first time since May — a flavorful cup of java seemed the perfect complement to today's cool temps.

Quote of the Day

We are each of us angels with only one wing and we can only fly embracing each other.

—Luciano De Crescenzo

Shots from the sea

A few photos from the girls' getaway, which I have to say was one of the most fun excursions I've experienced and also the most emotional, since I couldn't see or speak to my husband for three days. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Hannah rocked the boat Thursday night, which sent us to our bunks a little seasick. But the remaining days were sun-soaked and spectacular. You don't realize how small you are until you're out in the middle of the ocean. We docked in Freeport on Saturday, unable to visit our scheduled stop — Nassau — because of the coming storms. Still, we got in a swim in the salty Atlantic, sunbathed a little more and stopped in at a few shops. Some on the island were already boarded up, waiting for Ike to blow through. I counted my blessings in the taxi, realizing that most of Freeport's residents make their living selling jewelry or homemade goods, feeding tourists or driving them around. Our driver shouted to another, "You're a lucky man," as he loaded five people into his van. At just $5 a person, I wondered what they do when the season slows or storms come through. Then I felt guilty about regretting the purchase of an $80 Guess watch.

We ate too much, slept late, caught a few shows — one a tribute to '80s music – and shared a lot of laughs. But still, my favorite part of the trip was my husband's welcome home. There's really nothing better.

Quote of the Day

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

—Anais Nin

Cruisin?

Tomorrow, I head out into the open seas ... with a mix of emotions. I accepted an invitation from a friend in the springtime to board a cruise ship — a first for me — for four days of fun in the Bahamas. There will be four of us — just girls — soaking in the sun, the sand, the wind and the waves.

I will say that I'm not as excited as I should be because I will be without my husband — for the first time since we've been married. I'll also admit that I'm slightly nervous. There still isn't word about whether the trip will be canceled or rerouted due to Tropical Storm Hanna, which is supposed to strengthen back into a hurricane by tomorrow. And Ike, already a hurricane, is following close behind, trailed by Josephine.

So, if everything goes as planned, I'll be seaside — but hopefully not seasick — until Sunday, back home with a glowing tan, new friendships and memories I can look back on with a smile.

The merry go round

Today marks day three of the national media circus, i.e. the coverage of the pregnancy of vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin's 17-year-old daughter.

It also marks day three of my embarrassment in sharing the title of 'journalist' with those leading the mob attack against a family that has done nothing but reiterate its support for the high school senior and request privacy — because after all, this has nothing to do with politics. It has everything to do with a news media that has let go of its roots and forgotten its real role: to inform. Not to analyze; not to editorialize; not to endorse. It's like a merry go round that it can't stop nor jump from. And the sad part is, so much of the American public is buying into the bias, encouraging news stations and Web sites to beat a dead horse — as long as its on the 'Right' side of the fence.

MSNBC and the Washington Post are titillating viewers with exposes on the daughter's boyfriend and Slate is running a “Name Bristol Palin’s Baby” contest; US Weekly has “Babies, Lies, and Scandal” on its cover; and the Today Show had Dr. Phil weigh in on the rise in teenage pregnancy. Seriously?! But somehow, it's applauded and awarded when it's the storyline of a movie (Juno) or when single celebrities have babies. Yes, then it's celebrated.

There is so much more going on in the world, in this country ... but the simple reality is the media is gunning for the election of Obama/Biden — and they'll stop at nothing, even if it means plastering the face of a teenager on the cover of every newspaper from here to Timbuktu.

Bristol should be commended for having her baby, not criticized. I'm sure the situation actually makes the Palin family more relate-able to so many families around the country who have been faced with a similar situation — in and out of the church — and loved the child and grandchild just the same. (By the way, parents can preach abstinence all they want — but they can't follow their children everywhere.) And the pregnancy doesn't make Palin an absent mother, nor would it prevent her from helping McCain lead the country. That's the dumbest argument I've heard yet. And do you know who's saying it? Feminists! Feminists who are supportive of working mothers! Being one hasn't stopped Palin from being a successful governor and it certainly wouldn't get in the way of a vice presidency. Does it limit the women who have been elected senators or governors or first ladies? No!

When did the right become so wrong?

Quote of the Day

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

-Emily Dickinson

Home is where the Army sends you

I have great memories of each place I called home over the years. Unfortunately, I feel like in moving so much, everything kind of got mushed together. Still, what I can remember, I'd like to share over the next few weeks. So here's looking back ...

When we moved to Fayetteville, North Carolina, I started kindergarten - with my 'Dorothy Hammel' haircut - and my parents bought their first house. It was a beautiful colonial on a block that was just blooming. They had to lay the grass and plant the trees. And I know today they regret selling it. During the summertime, I clung to my next door neighbor, Nicole, who was a few years older than me. I would set up a 'house' in the garage, marking off rooms with wood chips. There was one rather large one that I pretended was the remote to the TV.

In Fayetteville, I got chicken pox — which I then passed onto my little brother — and began to learn to play the piano. My mom also enrolled me in ballet and we soon realized it wasn't meant to be: in pictures from our first performance, with me in my silver tutu and glittery tiara, I was always a step off from all of the other girls.

I remember being completely outgoing and hyper in school ... and still wonder when and why that part of my personality changed. Buying lunch was a treat. Instead, my mom packed up my mid-day meal in that year's lunch box. I know one year I had a Care Bears-themed box, and I was especially excited when mom would fill the thermos with Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Yum. In either second or third grade, one of the boys in my class taught me to crack my knuckles ... it's a bad habit I still have today.

I don't remember how often my dad would be gone ... but pictures show it. The Army would send him out to the field for weeks at a time. And when he'd go out of state, the pageantry of his return was pretty impressive. We'd head over to Ft. Bragg and watch tanks get parachuted out of military planes, followed by the soldiers. I don't understand the draw of throwing yourself into the open air, thousands of feet above land. But at that age, I stared up in awe, trying to find my dad, not worrying that his parachute wouldn't open or that he would fall somewhere and we'd never find him. I thought he was so brave — and I still do. One Christmas, my mom sewed together hundreds of fabric Army boots, which she filled with goodies for the soldiers away from their families for the holidays. Then she made me an elf costume and had me pass them all out.

Our vacations were two-week trips back to Michigan to visit the grandparents. My favorite part of those long car rides was either sleeping stretched out in the folded-down backseat of the station wagon or getting to sit in the very back seat and stare at the cars behind me. I also loved driving through the lit tunnels carved out under the mountains.

I got introduced to Vacation Bible School in Fayetteville, and ever since, even as an observant adult, haven't been able to find a better one. I can still picture my mom in clown makeup and cowboy boots. I'm not sure why we did that on the last day of the week, but it still makes me laugh.

Before we left for our next assignment, my mom bought me an 'autograph' book and I made sure all of my third-grade friends signed it. It was in Fayetteville that I first felt the sadness in saying goodbye. I always wonder what happened to all of them.

Quote of the Day

Two today:
"I've got two daughters: 9 years old and 6 years old. I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby."

-Barack Obama, April 3, 2008
*****
"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned. We're proud of Bristol's decision to have her baby and even prouder to become grandparents. As Bristol faces the responsibilities of adulthood, she knows she has our unconditional love and support."

-Sarah Palin, September 1, 2008