Motherhood and Muffin Tops : May 2021

Wednesday, May 26, 2021

Old Summer Days

8:57 PM

This is our final week of reruns here on M&M. Next week, I’ll be back to new posts but, in the meantime, I thought we’d continue our stroll down memory lane- this one from 2017. Hope you all have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend.

With Memorial Day practically here, it feels like summer has arrived. I don’t know why but I’ve always considered summer to be officially kicked off only after Memorial Day weekend. Around here, most kids have already been out of school for a few days. We live on a street with a cul-de-sac and there are kids living in many of the houses. We love our sweet, little neighborhood but I can’t help notice that kids don’t stay outside like we used to when we were young. Of course, I see an occasional bicycle roll past or hear the faint bouncing of a basketball, but they certainly don’t reside outside like we did. It was almost like our job to be outside all day. Only bookworms and kids who had fever were inside on a summer’s day.

On the typical summer weekday, I’d stagger out of my room around 9:00, greeted by my mother who was anxious to get us, kids, outside so she could commence with the house cleaning. She’d get the bowl of made-from-scratch pancake batter from the fridge and melt the butter in the iron skillet. I’d get out the Mrs. Butterworth syrup and tub of margarine then go put on my cut-off jean shorts, t-shirt, Keds, and Pom Pom socks while she finished cooking breakfast. If it was a particularly busy day for her, she’d set out the box of peanut butter Captain Crunch and I’d pray the submarine prize would fall out into my bowl but with two brothers that rarely happened. Anyway, on days that she was on top of her game, (which was most days) she’d call us all to the kitchen where she’d fried up pancakes or made homemade biscuits or cinnamon toast and we’d eat until we’d had enough. By that time, I was hooked on the episode of Card Sharks on TV and Mama would fix my hair into a ponytail or pigtails while I watched to see who was going to win so I could move along with my day.

After Card Sharks, Bob Barker would start calling people to come on down on his long microphone and that seemed to be my mother’s cue to have everyone vacate the house for the day. It was like a fire alarm. The Price is Right theme music meant “EVERYONE OUT! MAMA’S GOTTA CLEAN!”
If you were still in there when the Cliff Hanger yoldeling started, you’d be assigned chores.

With a full stomach, we headed outside into the Mississippi sun knowing we’d been evicted for the day. By then, there was a small gathering of kids forming in the street. A brief meeting was held as the crown grew. We’d kick the gravel on the road and break sticks as we discussed all the possibilities that the day held. Country Jay, whiffle ball, baseball with a tennis ball, kickball, hide and seek, bicycle obstacle courses, fishing, fort building. If you can’t tell, the boys were in the majority but those things were fine with us, girls, too. I don’t know why but we always seemed to follow the sports seasons, so basketball and football were reserved only for the fall and winter months. Anyway, each possibility was carefully debated until one or two rose to the top. I mean, we were going to need some careful planning to fill all the humid hours ahead and it usually required a patchwork of activities to get us all the way to the end of it.

Fishing was usually better in the morning so that was a good lead off activity. We’d break up and everybody would head home to get their poles with instructions to grab some white bread from the Sunbeam bag while they were there. Not to limit ourselves to just one bait, we’d dig for a few worms under the pine straw mound that Daddy kept down by the back fence. The black dirt under that straw was a popular hangout for the long, slimy things. With dirt under our fingernails and a can of doomed worms, we’d climb the barbed wired fence over into the adjoining pasture where the neighbors had a small pond. On any given day, a couple of us would be left with long, bloody scratches down the back of our legs from the rusty barbs but we couldn’t be worried about lock jaw and things like that because the crabapple tree was just over the fence and they were the Sour Patch Kids of our time. We’d stuff our shorts pockets with the little sour gems and head to the pond.

The boys usually used the worms for bait because, while the girls didn’t mind digging for worms, stabbing them with a hook was another thing altogether. We’d use the white bread and toss our hooks into the water. After an hour or so of catching various forms of small fish, we’d head back to see what else we could find to do. Sometimes, a stop by the railroad tracks to lay out coins on the track before the train was scheduled to come by was in order. We’d go back and collect the flattened currency after it had passed. Children playing near train tracks must have been commonplace back in the 70’s. I guess our parents assumed we had enough sense to know that if a train was coming, we should get out of the way. I guess they were right.

By this time of day, it was usually humid and the southern sun was hotter than a $2 pistol as my Daddy used to say. I’d usually run to the house to get a little drink before the gang got started on another activity. Mama was usually vacuuming at this point with The Young and the Restless playing in the background and with the floor still wet from mopping, she’d shoo us away and bring a glass of Kool-Aid or sweet tea to the door. They weren’t the most generous portions but we were warned if we went overboard on the drinks, we’d ruin our lunch. Oh, the air conditioning felt so good from the door...if only we were allowed to stay in and enjoy it. But, there was cleaning still to do and the house hadn’t yet reached an adequate saturation level of Pine-Sol fumes, so we were sent on our way and told that she’d call us when it was time for lunch.

Lunch usually came after The Young and the Restless went off because, well, you didn’t want the house full of loud kids when you were trying to see what was going on in Genoa City with Nicki and Victor. This was about the time that Katherine Chancellor was missing and presumed dead after the tragic fire, so missing a day was not an option. Now, thanks to me, my mother’s Sunday School class knows that she watched a soap opera in the 70’s and early 80’s and for that I’m sorry. I’m sure they’ll extend grace.

Since there usually wasn’t enough time for another lengthy activity before lunch, we’d all agree to play something like Follow the Leader on our bicycles. Somebody would be selected as the leader usually through a process of eeny, meeny, miny, moe or something terribly sophisticated like that. The leader would hop on her bike and we’d all follow. She’d take her hands off the handlebars for a while and so would we. She’d zigzag from one side of the street to the other and we would, too. She’d pop a wheelie. We’d pop a wheelie. She’d rid off the side of a driveway and jump a ditch and we were right behind her. The fact that nothing stood between our delicate heads and the pavement only made the game more exciting. We looked like Hell’s Angels all lined up in a row with the roar of playing cards flapping in our spokes. Banana seats, baskets, handlebar streamers, and fluorescent bike flags as far as the eye could see.

About the time we’d be getting tired of that, we’d hear Mama yelling for us to come have lunch. It usually consisted of a hot dog, grilled cheese, or a fried bologna sandwich with chips, apple, and a piece of pound cake or a couple of duplex sandwich cookies. By that time of day, there was nothing that appealed to us on TV so, after we’d eaten and cooled off, we’d head back out. The other kids would trickle back out from their PBJ buffets and we’d usually decide to get together a game of kickball or whiffle ball. Captains were usually selected by drawing straws or picking a number between 1 and 20 and then the draft would begin. Of course, the older boys would go in the first round which included my older brother. And while I don’t like to brag, I went pretty early in the draft considering I weighed 70 pounds soaking wet and my arms looked like you could snap them like a twig. Players were picked, one by one, until it was down to the tiniest, most uncoordinated of the neighbors, but there was a place for everyone in the backyard league.

At this point in the day, most of us were barefooted. Shoes were only for climbing barbed wire fences and pedaling ten speed bikes with the spiky pedals. The side yard between our house and the neighbor’s house was a popular ball field because of its length, width, and overall turf quality. The bases were usually the bare spots worn in the grass from their continual use, while home plate was always the water meter cover. We’d play for innings and innings. We’d move in when one of the kids with two left feet came to bat and back way up when it was one of the older boy’s turn. And if someone hit the ball out into the woods, we’d all go tromping through the brush to find it.

We always had the rule that you could get someone out, not just by catching, tagging, or forcing outs, but also by pegging your opponent with the whiffle ball or kickball in the head as hard as you could or anywhere else on their body. This only added to the allure of the game. There was the occasional timeout called when someone would step on a sticker bush, or heaven forbid, a fresh pile of dog excrement. Of course, rules were usually made up as we went along to fit the circumstances. Like if the score was really lopsided, we’d declare that all the big boys had to bat left-handed or something like that.

Sometimes, later in the day, we’d splinter off and do things in smaller groups. If we were thirsty and didn’t have time to stop, we might get a drink from the hose. If the coast was clear, I’d go in to cool off for a minute with a pudding pop but then I’d be ready to find the others to climb trees, play board games on the carport, run through somebody’s sprinkler, play croquet, or find a swing set and make one of the legs pop up out of the ground when we’d swing really high. I knew if I stayed inside too long, I’d be handed a rag and a can of Pledge and I wasn’t really interested in that.

We’d play until the sun started to go down. The crickets started chirping. The frogs started singing. the mosquitos would begin nibbling on my skinny legs and, in the distance, we’d hear our Daddy whistle. He had a loud, two-part whistle that the three of us recognized as our call home. It didn’t matter how far away we were, we could hear it and it meant it was supper time. We’d pedal as fast as we could to a big supper of fried chicken, roast and gravy, or, sadly, sometimes, the dreaded salmon croquettes. We had to get fed, bathed, take in an episode of The Waltons or Barnaby Jones and then get some rest because, well, the next day, we had to do it all over again.

And we couldn’t wait.

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Wednesday, May 19, 2021

Oldie But Goodie

10:05 PM

In less than two weeks, Carson is leaving to work for my brother for the summer and so I’m taking this opportunity to get some use out of his young muscles while they are here at my disposal. We’ve worked on some projects already and, tomorrow, he’ll be moving beds so I can clean under them. He is as excited as you might imagine he would be about this plan.

In an effort to get all the good out of him while I can, I’m posting blog reruns this week and next week so that I can continue to chip away at my to-do list with my free labor. My social media feeds have been flooded with graduations, end of year programs, May Days, and recitals and I thought we’d go way back to a 2014 post about my memories of the glorious month of May. By the way- still celebrating my May birthday over here! I love when they keep going and going.

My Old Friend, May

May makes me feel a little nostalgic- like a school kid again. A May day has a different look about it. They’re just a little brighter and clearer than other days of the year. The birds even seem to sing a little louder. It’s a month that brings back happy memories for me.

Back in the day, when the calendar was turned from April to May, I’d get that excited feeling in my stomach as all of us, kids, knew that the end of school was getting so, so close. Invariably, at some point during the month, our class would enjoy some kind of special day whether it was a May Day at the school, a field trip out of town, or a day at a local attraction. Regardless, it meant no schoolwork that day.

I remember one year, my Mama took me to the local Sears Roebuck and I picked out a pink and tan striped shirt with matching pink jeans for my May field trip. I believe it was Garanimals and who didn’t feel extra chic in those? I got on that bus that year feeling extra cocky. I also remember that, for some reason, she always washed my tennis shoes the night before a field trip. I suppose it was from the same school of thought as having clean underwear in case of an accident or maybe it was just in case we ran into the governor or somebody important. Whatever the reason, I always went on field trips with clean shoes. On the morning of the big day, if the shoes weren’t quite dry, the hair dryer would take turns in each shoe to dry up the lingering moisture. .

Field trip day meant that I didn’t carry my usual Muppet Show metal lunchbox and thermos. No, field trips were brown bag occasions. Since there was no thermos involved, my mother would wrap the Chek cola flavor of my choice in a few layers of aluminum foil as this was the cutting edge of drink insulation in the 70’s. Throw in a Little Debbie cake, some Golden Flake potato chips in a fold over sandwich bag with a PBJ and you were ready to get on the bus.

May also brought the dreaded piano recital. It was always something you hated, but you knew in order to get to those 3 golden, lesson-free summer months that you had to do it and get it over with. I loathed piano lessons when I was little. I didn’t mind them so much when I got to be older, but when I was younger- yeah, loathe would be the appropriate word. I was always woefully unprepared for my lesson each week and, by the time I left the teacher’s house at 4:30 on Thursday afternoon, it felt like the world had been lifted from my 9 year old shoulders. Every single weekday, while the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the yard was filled with the sound of children playing, I would be sitting on the piano stool putting in my 45 minutes- pecking out beautifully moving pieces like “The Swan Song” and “Evening Prelude.” Forty-five minutes seemed like at least 13 months to a young girl, who just wanted to ride her banana seat bike with the long, flowing streamers.

Anyway, the recital always fell on a Thursday or Friday evening and it usually took place at a church and involved wearing a dress and playing your piece from memory. Playing from memory either went really good or really bad- depending on how nervous you were. Afterwards, you were awarded a plastic bust of one of the great composers. That’s what every 8 year old wants- a plastic head of dead man. That seemed to make all 85 hours you’d spent on the piano stool, that year, while your friends played outside - oh, so worth it. I still have my extensive collection of plastic heads somewhere in the attic. I always thought Tchaikovsky looked suspiciously similar to Ulysses S Grant, but I had plenty of time to think about things like that during the pieces that followed mine in the recital.

I remember at one recital, I was sporting my YoYo shoes and looking too good. I was to perform a Bach piece with which you’re never supposed to use the pedal. I always questioned Bach’s judgment with the whole pedal thing as I felt the songs were a bit flat without it. The night of the recital, I decided I would overrule Bach and my piano teacher and insert some pedal. I mean, what could she do- stop the recital? Oh, you’ve never heard Bach sound so good. Afterwards, I’ll never forget my teaching pulling me aside at the fancy cookie and punch reception and assuring me that Bach, had indeed, rolled over in his grave on that evening. I didn’t care if Bach was facing up or down, he was still dead and me and my plastic Mozart were outa there for three glorious months.

May always brought around the standardized tests, which was another one of my favorites. Back then, they seemed pretty easy and there wasn’t any preparation for them. You just bubbled in the correct circle with the golden #2’s that your mama had been instructed to send in the same note that asked that she get you to bed early. For the rest of the school day, we were able to do fun things like extra long games of kick ball or Mother, May I? Whatever happened to those fun playground games we used to play? Red Rover, Doggie, Doggie, Who’s Got the Bone?, Red Light, Green Light.

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Joni right over.” You’d back up a few steps, look for the weakest link between the two skinniest girls and try to ram yourself right through there. Maybe someone broke an arm or dislocated a shoulder and the game was deemed unsafe, and maybe Doggie Doggie is now thought to promote larceny, but we sure enjoyed it. There was never any homework or tests during that week, which meant you could play outside longer when you got home. This was another week of May that you could check off with little problem.

My birthday falls in May, which is another reason for its warm recollections. Birthdays weren’t HUGE like they are now, but just big enough to to make you feel awesome for the day. I remember having a couple of parties at the skating rink, but mostly my parties consisted of a cake in the backyard with the neighborhood kids. We’d get one or two modest gifts from the parents and a few little things from friends. Add a cake and getting to choose what was for supper and you had yourself a special day.

May was also full of end of the year programs, school plays, certificates and receptions with cake. You seemed to eat a lot of sheet cake that month with generous helpings of those fancy little, pastel mints. It was all very sophisticated. The May of my fifth grade year found me listed in the school program as part of a trio to perform “A Bicycle Built for Two”, which was choreographed with some alternating side to side kicks- not unlike the Rockettes- only not near as impressive. It was a moving number. My parents had to have been proud.

Then, there was the last day of school. Ahhh, you’d made it. There was nothing like that feeling when you placed your textbooks on the towering stack and returned to your seat to gather all of your remaining supplies out of your desk. Usually the crayons were about an inch long, at this point, with no wrapper left. You’d turned in all of your library books, thrown away the dried jar of white paste, gathered up what was left of your construction paper and were headed to the door that led to freedom. Freedom to stay up late enough to watch all of Hawaii Five-0 and have friends over to spend the night. From this point until fall, shoes became optional and Kool-Aid was always in the refrigerator. The last day of school opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

I don’t know how but, every year when May rolls in, I still get those same feelings. A month full of special days and treats. Doing things out of the normal routine. Having feelings of accomplishment. Anticipation of fun days ahead. Finally crossing the finish line.

It’s been a long time since I turned in a textbook, performed in a recital, or played Red Rover, but I still feel like I did back then- every May.

Hope you’re all having a great week!

JONI

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Thursday, May 13, 2021

When the Children Grow Up, Up, and Away

10:46 PM

I hope you had a wonderful Mother’s Day weekend with the people you love. We had to postpone celebrating my Mama until later in the month when my brother’s family can get here, but I did take her to dinner and to see Leeanne Morgan, last week, so she didn’t get totally ignored. Y’all, if Leanne comes near where you live, you must treat yourself. If laughter is the best medicine, that woman is dispensing it like a pharmacy.

I had a fabulous birthday/Mother’s Day weekend on the coast with my people. Blair and John Samuel are always such wonderful hosts. John Samuel boiled mounds of shrimp, fresh off the boat, because they know my affection runs deep for the boiled crustacean. Blair made a delicious lemon almond pie with whipped cream for my birthday dessert. That girl can cook. They planned a day at the beach, a trip to a hot air balloon fest and a visit to a really, really, really good Mexican restaurant- all things near the top of my favorites list. Before I go any further, I’m going to stop here and give you a couple of Blair’s recipes from the weekend because, as your friend, I feel like you need these in your life. They are legit.

Feta Dip:

7oz block of feta, 3oz block of cream cheese- both at room temp. 1/4 cup of herb infused olive oil plus more for drizzling, juice of 1 lemon, 1 minced garlic clove, 1 TB of minced chives plus more for garnishing, and salt to taste. Whip the cheeses until light and fluffy, then stir in the remaining ingredients. Serve with bagel chips. Holy Moly.

Pimento and Cheese Grits

3 cups of chicken stock, 1 cup of quick-cooking grits, 12oz container of pimento and cheese (she used Palmetto), 1/4 cup milk, 2 large eggs, lightly beaten, 1/3 cup chopped cooked bacon, 1 cup shredded cheddar, green onions, and salt and pepper to taste. Preheat oven to 350. Bring chicken stock to a boil and slowly stir in grits and cook according to package directions. Add pimento cheese and butter, stir until melted. Stir in milk and slowly add eggs until blended. Season with salt and pepper and add cooked bacon. Transfer to greased baking dish and sprinkle with the cheddar. Bake uncovered for 30-35 min. Garnish with green onions and get ready to slap your mama.

You’ll thank me later- except I did come home 2 pounds heavier than when I left here.

Anyway, we arrived at their house and Blair had everything fixed so beautifully. The table was set just so with festive, bright fresh flowers. She didn’t forget any of the little details and made sure our weekend was full of things I love- from morning to night. When we came in and saw everything she’d done, I could see the weight falling off of Davis’ shoulders as he was off the hook for making this year’s dual holiday weekend memorable. Blair had taken care of everything.

All Mother’s Day weekend, I watched Blair being the grown up version of my little girl. So animated, nurturing, and thoughtful. I was thinking what a joy it is for a mother to see her baby grow into a beautiful, accomplished woman. I’m amazed to see her doing so many things excellently that she once play pretended as a girl. It’s fascinating to see the ways she’s like me and all the many ways she’s far exceeded me. There are many moments when I’m so impressed that I have to ask her, “Where did you learn to do that?” -knowing the answer isn’t me. I have loved seeing the bright sparks of her personality kindle a wonderful career suited just perfectly for her and also a ministry that reaches people her age. It was a lovely transition when we could leave behind the need to parent and to be parented and embrace the desire to become dear friends as fellow women. It’s a joy to watch her build her own home with her husband and establish their own friendships, priorities, traditions, and ways of doing things. Some of them are so familiar- almost like looking in a mirror- and some of them are far better than anything she’s ever been taught by me. As a woman, there’s not a much better feeling than to see small hints of myself in my grown daughter- except a much better and much braver version. She embodies so many things that I admire and respect and I’m so very proud of the woman she is.

I decided that the difference between sons and daughters could best be summed up in the picture below from the weekend.

Blair had her gifts in pretty bags with matching tissue and beautiful cards. Carson re-taped the Amazon box that his gift came in and wrote his sentiment across the top- “You’re welcome, girl.” Of course, it was all in his dry humor language that we all love which helps him keep things from getting too serious, you understand.

After I got my big laugh from his presentation, I couldn’t help but think what a blessing a son is- but in such different ways. It’s been a pure joy to watch my little boy grow taller than me and to see his shoulders broaden and voice deepen. As a late bloomer, it’s only been in recent years that this spurt has taken place and he’s turned into a completely different person right before my eyes. To see him get tall and strong and watch the hints of boyhood fading under the muscles and facial hair- well, there’s something quite satisfying about knowing I had a small part in the building of a man. It gives me joy to know that the way he treats me will likely be the way he’ll treat his wife, one day. She can look forward to being a blessed recipient of his tender heart and his thoughtful and giving nature. I love that under all the sweaty clothes and insatiable appetite and many other manly things to which I cannot relate, the baby boy who once thought I was the center of his world, is now independent and ready to go it alone. I’ve enjoyed seeing him build so many new friendships in college with the same wit and charm I’ve always loved about him. Unlike a daughter, there are things we’ll never have in common or completely understand about each other because I’m a woman and he’s a man- each with our own sets of inclinations, stresses and expectations. As it should be, he’s learned a lot more from his Dad than from me-all the knowledge and skills a man ought to possess, but standing back and watching him become a man has given me so much pride- a kind I didn’t really know existed until recently. He is a good, good man- like his Dad- and I couldn’t be more proud of that.

Carson met us down there because he’d been at the beach with some college friends for a few days. Even though grown and independent, you can see he clearly still needed his mother to come along to make sure his sunscreen was applied properly. Ouch.

My family went to great lengths to give me a lovely Mother’s Day, but watching my babies as adults- using the gifts and strengths and personalities that I’ve seen in them since they could talk- are all this Mama’s heart ever needs. But, shrimp and Mexican food certainly never hurt anything.

Y’all have a great weekend!

JONI

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Wednesday, May 5, 2021

Perspectives on Mother’s Day

10:27 PM

I know I’ve been missing in action but, my word, it’s been one of those unusually busy times with some spring fever possibly mixed in there, too. It seems like I’ve had something to do every night for the last three weeks and when I did have time- well, I had the attention span of a school kid in May. Carson moved all his crapola home, this week, so I feel like I’m living in storage unit. On top of that, this hormonal brain fog. Geez- I can’t seem to string two words together anymore. If somebody knows what to do about that, I’m all ears- with not much between them but haze.

So, it’s finally the week we celebrate motherhood. We’ve been waiting for this for 51 weeks. Whatever you do, don’t forget your mother if you still have her here with you. Mother’s Day is usually a happy time with beautiful displays of gift ideas in all the stores. It’s fresh flowers and restaurant specials and sweet cards with pink envelopes. It’s popsicle stick picture frames, breakfast in bed, blooming hanging baskets, and gift cards for mani/pedis. But, I realize Mother’s Day doesn’t mean the same thing for everybody. Sometimes, there’s a more jagged side to it, too.

Maybe it’s your first Mother’s Day without your mother and it’s a day you’ve been dreading. Maybe you never met your biological mother but you’d love to know what she was like and if you look like her. Maybe you’re still patiently waiting for your turn to be a mother after months of disappointment. Maybe the word, mother, doesn’t bring up loving images for you and you’re wondering what there is to celebrate. Maybe this will be your first Mother’s Day as a mom and you never imagined that kind of love even existed. Maybe the kids who call you mother weren’t born from your body, but you couldn’t love them any more if they were. Maybe the window has closed on your chance to ever be a mother and this day tends to be a reminder of that. Maybe you made a decision in the past to end a pregnancy and Mother’s Day brings up a lot of guilt and regret. Maybe your role as a teacher, aunt, friend of the family- makes you a mother figure in young eyes. Maybe you’re the foster bridge between the past and a better future- willing to take on the eventual pain of goodbye for the good of a child. Maybe your children live far away and you’ll likely spend a lonely day waiting on a phone call. Maybe you never wanted to be a mother and directed your energy in another direction and you’re completely content with that choice. Maybe you’ll spend Mother’s Day next to a hospital bed wishing your child could be healthy like most other kids. Maybe you became a mother before you were grown yourself and you’ve reordered your plans to accommodate the unexpected. Maybe the one who called you mom is no longer here and you have lived out the nightmare of an unnatural order of death. Maybe you’re a single mom and feeling worried that you won’t be able to do it all. Maybe you’re a grandmother and thought your child raising days were over but now you find your grandchildren in your care. Maybe you did everything the right way, but another Mother’s Day will pass with no idea where addiction has taken the child you love. Maybe your belly is swollen with an anticipated arrival and you’re wondering what motherhood will be like and if you’ll be any good at it.

Motherhood has so many stories. So many wonderful possibilities and so many heartbreaking ones, too. It is the greatest gift and the hardest task ever given to a woman. That’s why Elizabeth Stone said, “Motherhood is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” It’s like issuing another set of keys to the very deepest part of your heart.

I’m not sure what the holiday will be like for you, this year. I know women who fit into every one of those categories. I’ve been in the presence of some of them recently and it’s made me more mindful of what their perspective might be, this week. If your Mother’s Day is spent missing someone you loved, may God pull you close to Him in your grief. If the day brings up regret and second guesses, may you feel God’s warm grace covering you. If the day is clouded with worry and uncertainty, may God settle your mind with His peace. If the day is a reminder of your disappointment, may God give you the gift of contentment. If the day stirs up memories of pain and hurt, may God give you the ability to forgive and move forward. If the day is greeted with physical exhaustion, may God grant you renewed strength and focus. If the day is filled with love, may God receive your gratitude all day long. If the day is riddled with questions, may God satisfy your mind with His answers. If the day brings out your loneliness, may God sit near the empty part of your heart and keep you company. If the day is brimming with admiration and appreciation, may God help you express it. If the day presents the opportunity to help another woman get through her version of the day, may God help you seize it.

The men in my life have been asking about gift suggestions, color preferences, and such for a couple of weeks now. That’s how I know the time is drawing near- my birthday is always the same week as Mother’s Day. This year, it’s the day after. With Blair (thankfully) at the helm, they’ll make my weekend especially nice and get all of my rapid-fire special days commemorated, so they can check me off their list for another year. We’ve been invited to Blair and John Samuel’s house for the weekend to celebrate. They’ve planned a shrimp boil, a day at the beach, and a night at a hot air balloon festival, so it will be a good time with my people.

I hope the same for you. Wherever or however you spend your version of the weekend, may God be near- in the joy and the tears.

JONI

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