Morning Reflections 12/12

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Morning Reflection

It is quiet this morning.

The kids are away visiting relatives, and the house has settled into a hush.

All I hear is Waylon’s soft whine at the door — even he likes to bask in the early light of morning.

On workdays, I am up long before the sun begins its journey into the sky. But on mornings like this, a day off, I notice the sounds that arrive gently: the wind chime outside my window tapping out a soft, unhurried melody, the faint hum of a car in the distance as it draws closer.

A truck passes by, a large Christian flag whipping fiercely in the wind.

It gives me pause.

I feel a twinge of guilt for rushing through my morning prayers, promising myself I will return to them later, when the sun is setting and I can give thanks properly for this day.

I am sitting in a room full of boxes — remnants of a late night spent decorating, procrastinating over coffee, dragging out the start of my morning. The mirror reflects the passing of time: deeper wrinkles, puffy eyes asking for better sleep. And yet, I would not want to go back.

I remember reading in the Bible how God asked Solomon what he wanted. Before I even reached Solomon’s answer, I asked myself the same question — and found my heart echoing his words: wisdom.

Wisdom comes with age.

With trials.

With the events that shape us into who we become.

I long for simpler times — being young, raising a family, moving nonstop through days and seasons. Christmases flew by then, just as this season has crept up on me now. I am still decorating, and Christmas is only a week away. I don’t mind. My décor will stay up long past Christmas, shifting gently into winter. And when the tree is finally placed back into its casket of confinement, hidden away in the closet for another eleven months, I will smile.

As a child, the month leading up to Christmas felt like an eternity — the anticipation, the excitement. Somehow, I still feel that way. The childlike wonder returns when I see Christmas come alive in people’s yards, lights twinkling around town, hearts growing softer. I wish I could bottle that feeling and save it for a hard day — take it down from the shelf and feel that rush of joy again.

All I truly have are the memories of seasons passed.

Most of my family is now in heaven. I don’t grieve during the holidays — I rejoice. I remember the good times, and I make room for new ones. Jack has been asking about Christmas for months.

“Grammy, is it time to put up the tree?”

Not yet, baby. Soon.

And I know better than to put presents under the tree too early — he would unwrap every one of them. My heart is ready for what comes next. I carry the spark of Christmas joy with me still — older now, quieter, but no less bright.

The Season of Cards and Candlelight

There’s no better feeling of love than opening the mailbox and finding a Christmas card, handwritten and bearing your name. If I were the Grinch, my heart would’ve melted right then and there. There’s a certain kind of magic in holding that sealed envelope in my hands — that sweet, childlike anticipation that makes it impossible to wait. I’ve opened plenty of cards standing right there by the mailbox, unable to resist.

By the time I’d get to the house, I’d already be studying the handwriting — sometimes elegant and careful, sometimes hurried and full of personality — but each one precious in its own way. My heart always warmed as I traced the letters with my fingers, opening the envelope as if it were the very first I’d ever received. I’ve always loved a personal note, something written just for me, a reminder that I was thought of during the most sacred season of the year.

I’ve saved every Christmas card I’ve ever received. They rest in special boxes among my decorations, and each December, when I unpack them, I take time to read a few. The ones that mean the most are the cards from those who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting again, hearing their voices in my mind — it feels, for a brief moment, as if they’re sitting right beside me.

Every year since I can remember, my dad sent out Christmas cards. He would bribe me with free babysitting and a little Christmas cash if I’d address them for him. He always signed his name, sometimes adding a note, and I would sit for hours with stacks of envelopes and boxes beside me, my hand cramping as I wrote out each address. When the last one was sealed, stamped, and ready for the post office, I’d feel a quiet pride in the small mountain of holiday cheer we’d created together.

While I worked on his, I always wrote my own. My tradition was steeped in sentiment and ritual. I’d begin by putting on the Christmas music I grew up with — Frank Sinatra, Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and Nat King Cole softly filling the room. I’d light a few scented candles, make a cup of tea or cocoa, and line up my calligraphy pens — each one dipped in a different shade of ink — along with extra envelopes for the inevitable smudges that come with being a left-handed writer.

No matter where I lived, there was always a fireplace. Even if it was mid-November and the air conditioner was still running, I’d light a fire anyway. It wasn’t about warmth — it was about atmosphere. I’d sit at my table, pen in hand, the soft glow of the fire flickering across the page, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the room. I’d begin with one card at a time, finding just the right design for each person. Some were playful and full of whimsy; others were tender and deeply sentimental.

I would lose myself in the quiet rhythm of writing — sometimes for hours, sometimes well into the night. It was my peaceful time, my way of breathing in the season’s spirit of hope and love. I liked to think that maybe someone on my list needed that small reminder that they were remembered — that they mattered. And if I had your address, you were getting a card.

I’m ashamed to admit that last year, I didn’t send a single one. Each year, my list grows shorter, and the number I receive grows fewer still. It breaks my heart a little to see that tradition fading — that people aren’t as personal anymore. We live in an age of endless distractions and not enough time, myself included.

But I miss it. I miss that quiet connection — the thought, the pause, the love folded carefully into an envelope. Maybe it’s the world that’s changed, or maybe it’s just that we’ve forgotten the simple joy of reaching out with our own words and handwriting. Still, I believe in it — in the magic of a card chosen with care, in the ink that carries a little bit of our hearts across the miles.

The Man in the Autumn Light

 I remember the warmth of that Nashville afternoon as clearly as the silk scarf I wore — black with a pattern of faded florals in brown, navy, and cream. It was 1995, the fall of Memnoch the Devil, and I had gone alone to the signing. The air outside the little bookstore was restless, full of chatter and turning leaves, and I remember thinking how ordinary the day seemed — no candles, no velvet drapes, none of Anne’s gothic spectacle. Just sunlight, the scent of ink and paper, and a slow-moving line of admirers waiting to meet a woman who could make the dead feel more alive than the living. 

I had been standing for hours. My black leather pants had begun to cling, the silk shirt soft against my skin, the scarf draped loose around my neck. I leaned against the brick wall beside a girl who talked about Anne’s novels and our favorites, our words tumbling out in easy, polite rhythm. I remember nodding, smiling — and then, as if a breeze had changed direction, something shifted.

He came walking across the parking lot toward me. Tall. Dark-haired. The sunlight glinted through the layered strands that fell across his forehead, and his skin — my God, his skin — was flawless. Pale, luminous, like light through marble. He wore dark sunglasses, and even from where I stood I could tell there was no imperfection on his face. Not a shadow of whisker, not a freckle, not a single mark. 

He stopped in front of me, and the air changed. I’ve always been sensitive to electricity — when I step out of my car under the power lines near work, I can feel it, a low hum that makes my skin prickle. That’s what it felt like when I looked at him. That same quiet vibration rising under my skin, like the world had turned into static and I was caught inside it.

 He looked down at me. I looked up at him. We held each other’s gaze for only seconds, but it stretched into something longer — not time, exactly, but a pause between heartbeats that felt infinite. The girl beside me laughed softly and said something — an introduction, a name: Rick. He spoke too, his voice rough at the edges, not deep but textured, like velvet worn smooth in places. I don’t remember the words we said. Maybe we talked about Anne, or her books, or the line itself. I only remember the pull — that quiet, terrifying magnetism that made me afraid to touch him because I thought I might feel an actual spark.

 We stood like that for what must have been two hours. Two hours of small talk, of silence, of pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of space between us. He smiled once — not a grin, not a laugh, but a smirk that curved his mouth in the most devilishly beautiful way. I smiled back, the same restrained echo, like a reflection in dark glass.

 When it was finally time to go inside, we moved together, though I can’t remember walking. The line carried us. I remember meeting Anne — how kind she was, how she looked at me like she truly saw me. I remember clutching my book afterward, the signature still wet. But what lingers most is the moment outside after it was all over.

 The air had cooled; the wind caught my scarf and lifted it like a black wing. I walked toward my car, feeling the silk brush my skin, my hair tugged by the breeze. I turned once before opening the door, and he was there — watching me. I met his gaze, dark glasses hiding what I wanted most to see. For a heartbeat, maybe two, we stood caught in that same suspended current. Then I got in my car, still holding the book to my chest, and drove away. 

On the way home, I thought of him — the way his presence filled the air, how my body hummed as if I’d stood too close to lightning. I was married then. Morality, responsibility, all those familiar words pressed their weight against the wonder of what had just happened. But still, the thought came — what if? 

I never saw him again. 

Years later, unpacking boxes, I found the scarf. The edges were frayed, the silk softened with time, but when I lifted it, the air seemed to remember. I could feel that faint electricity again, the memory of autumn sun and flawless skin and the whisper of something not entirely human standing before me.

 It was only a moment, but it burned itself into my memory — bright, electric, eternal. And even now, when the light hits just right, I swear I can still feel the current dancing across my skin.

--R

The Street Where Autumn Still Lives

 

Introduction:

Every year when the air cools and the leaves begin to fall, I’m reminded that memories often live in the smallest, simplest things — the smell of cut grass, the sound of wind chimes, the first chill that makes you reach for a sweater. Sometimes those tiny moments open a door to the past, and suddenly you’re not just remembering — you’re there again.

The Street in My Memory

Sometimes the simplest things can take you back to a place in your memories—especially this time of year, when the morning sun takes its time to rise.

I sat looking out a black window in the early morning hours. As the sun began to climb, so did my window, the cool morning air drifting seamlessly into my office. It made me reach for a sweater and pour another cup of coffee to quiet the chill.

I turned back to my computer—time often slips away when I work. I like to stay busy, sometimes forcefully so, especially these past few months, when my emotions have been in overdrive.

Then the wind caught the chimes on the front porch.

The soft, unexpected sound made me pause.

Outside, the leaves were swirling downward in a lyrical dance, the smell of fall filling my senses—a mix of dust, air, and earth.

And just like that, I was back in my childhood—

to the little colonial town with the tree-lined streets and old homes that seemed to whisper stories of their own.

I could almost hear the tap, tap, tap of my Mary Janes as I skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. It was the long way to school, but I didn’t mind.

Light filtered through the trees in the early morning; the dew on the grass caught the sun and sparkled like diamonds. I wore the pink poncho my grandmother knitted me—I still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. It was still too warm for my faux-fur coat, surely a hand-me-down, but I felt special anyway.

Down the old sidewalk I went, kicking at the leaves as I skipped. The houses stood tall in their grand splendor, their yards full of color and the scent of autumn and dew. I can still hear the rustling of leaves as cars passed by, but I was oblivious to everything except that moment—walking beneath a canopy of trees, the morning wind sending a flurry of gold and red around me like a snowstorm of autumn.

That memory is where the child in me still lives—the part filled with wonder and enchantment. Even now, I can feel that giddy little girl again, skipping without a care in the world.

Then a phone rings in the distance, pulling me back to the present. I hit the answer button, and the memory fades—like the wisp of smoke from a blown-out candle.

But even as I greet my customer on the other end of the line, I feel it linger—

a quiet peace, a lightness of heart,

and the warmth of home, carried on an autumn breeze.

 

Each fall when the wind moves through the trees and the world turns gold, I go home again — not in miles, but in memory.

And that’s enough.

An Evening with “Goodness of God .”

An Evening with “Goodness of God”

Tonight I found myself drawn back to music I love, and I downloaded Goodness of God, sung beautifully by CeCe Winans. It brought back so many memories of playing piano with my children and dreaming of sharing music with Jack when he was a baby.

I haven’t really sat down at a piano in a very long time—my piano is in storage, I'd go over and get it out and play sometimes the acoustics were always great in there lol, but I do have a keyboard. It’s not fancy, but it works well enough for this piece, which isn’t too difficult.

I’ll have to improvise a bit since I don’t have full use of my left-hand pinky after breaking it a few years ago. I used to love sitting at the piano, but I always needed to be in the right mood to play, since I can’t play by ear and have to read music.

Still, I always dreamed of having a piano. When Jack was a baby, I wanted to play for him while he slept. I know that might sound corny, but I also remember playing for my girls when they were little—they’d dance and sing, and it was always so much fun, especially around the holidays.

We’ll see how this goes—I’ll share some audio tomorrow if it comes out decent!

My Weight Journey Update – August 24, 2025

 

I know, I know. It’s been a minute since I posted. But in my defense, I’ve basically been sailing… just not the skinny-sailing kind. More like the “floating around in the same spot for three weeks” kind. Yep, no weight lost. But also none gained — which, let’s be real, is a miracle considering I’ve been living in a house that’s basically a sauna with walls. A steam sauna, please ! do not get Tennessee weather mixed up with the infrared saunas of the South-West. We are not the same!

Because when your AC dies and your thermostat reads 77 degrees inside, motivation dies right along with it, along with the bill and your will to live.  Who in their right mind thinks: “You know what would be fun in this heat? Cardio.” Nah. I’m already sweating just walking to the mailbox in my cat slippers. That’s my Olympic event.

So the last few weeks have been me, PT, and not much else. Gym membership? Too expensive. Fighting traffic just to sweat in front of strangers? Nope, not in this lifetime.

And then there’s me and Jack’s little Friday morning ritual. First stop: McDonald’s. Jack calls his sausage-egg-and-cheese griddle a “biscuit.” (Not sure what dictionary he’s reading, but okay, kid.) Then we hit Dunkin. He’s strictly a chocolate glaze or pink-with-sprinkles guy — except he only eats the top. So yeah, I buy him two. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to sneak in a French cruller like it’s not going to ruin my diet. (Spoiler: it ruins nothing but my self-control.) and let's not forget the tea spritzers!

Breakfasts have been the biggest struggle. Eggs, egg whites, avocado, gluten-free toast, oats. Oats. More oats. At this point I could publish a cookbook called Oats 101: 150 Ways to Torture Yourself With the Same Ingredient. Gordon Ramsay wouldn’t even yell at me — he’d just cry into an omelet. Yeah- I'd like to see that. Make me a Martini and get me a chair! 

Lunch? Leftovers. Dinner? Plain and simple, and I’m fine with that. But since my brain was melting along with my willpower, I tried AI. Yep, I gave it my pantry list, and it spit out a whole week of meals. It actually worked. (Take that, TikTok “AI is coming for us all” crowd — it can’t even make oats exciting, but it sure can plan a menu.)

Health-wise, I’ve been wrangling thyroid, hormones, and adrenal nonsense. Nothing dramatic — just enough to make me want to throat-punch lab work that never gets ordered.

But today I made a big move: I walked on my lunch break instead of napping. The road by my house is flat, perfect for walking or biking. Downside? The local NASCAR wannabes who use it as a racetrack. So if I don’t show up next week, please have someone check the ditch.

Still here. Still sweating. Still showing up.

My Summer of Sweat: A Tennessee Tragedy (Comedy Edition)

It’s hot. It’s fucking hot. Like, if Satan opened a sauna and charged admission, Tennessee would sue him for copyright hot. 

Disclaimer: Yes, I know there are folks worse off than me. I’ve met them, prayed for them, and probably sweat on them too. But if you’re offended by complaining or swear words, keep scrolling—no need to clutch your pearls while I roast alive in my own house.

Act I: The Betrayal

There I was, minding my own sweaty business, when I noticed it felt a little toasty in my office. At first, I blamed the dog. He has a PhD in vent-blocking. But nope—vent was wide open. Thermostat said 78. I had it set to 74. That’s murder in Mississippi temperature.

I tried the classic “off and back on again” trick. Killed the power, waited 20 minutes, fired it back up. She cooled. I rejoiced. Twenty minutes later? 77.

“Fuck.”

Cool air was gone. Sanity was gone. Patience? Never existed. The only thing that did exist was hot flashes, high blood pressure and anxiety.  I called the repair guy and let  it simmer at 77.

Act II: AI & Cousin Sarcasm

In desperation, I asked AI for advice. It told me to check the filter. Spoiler alert: I live with 5 dogs, 2 cats, and a quilting bee’s worth of pet hair. The filter looked like a damn shag carpet. AI told me to replace it every 2 weeks. Every 2 weeks? Shit, I don’t even replace my underwear  that often.

AI then casually suggested I open up the cover and check the compressor. WITH electricity involved. Excuse me? Me +  live wires = obituary. Electricity and me? Not the best of friends. 

 Nope. I called my daughter’s cousin. AI was like, “Great, free labor!” Wrong. The only thing that man gives me for free is sarcasm. Henceforth, he is Cousin Sarcasm. Sorry David . 

Repair guy shows up, shrugs, and basically says, “Ma’am, your AC is 10 years old. It’s just tired. Can’t keep up with humidity.” Translation: “Buckle up, buttercup. You’re screwed.”

Seriously? Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a Matrix where all the bad people go to live in a constant loop of doom. 

Act III: Summer Fashion Week

So I’ve been marinating at 76 degrees for weeks. It’s fine—as long as I don’t move. If I attempt to clean? I’m in a wife beater and boxers. My new summer uniform. Forget lingerie—I’m serving Walmart chic.  Sometimes I forget and get in my car wearing  my kitty slippers and no bra. It’s the heat makes you do weird shit. 

Act IV: The Igloo That Never Was

I ordered a window unit. Dreamt of sleeping under three blankets, nose hairs frozen, heart rate normal. Delivery delayed. And delayed again. I was practically writing love letters to this box before it even arrived.

When it finally did, the damn window screen was stuck tighter than a pickle jar lid. I fought it. Lost. Punched a hole straight through it. Said screw it, bent the frame like the Hulk, and shoved that unit in with duct tape and spite. 

But plot twist—the unit was designed by folks who must live in the northern hemisphere . The gaps were so wide, I could see my neighbor grilling dinner. By this time I was sweat profusely 

 I sent photos to AI for help. AI gave me a whole Lowe’s shopping list.  Said to turn the unit on cool off and come back, Even AI knew I was pissed. I said nope, boxed it back up, and kissed my igloo dreams goodbye.

Act V: Portable Hope (and FedEx Lies)

Found a portable unit online. Easy install! Easy removal! Delivery in 3–5 days! I tracked that sucker like it was Christmas. Delayed. Then delayed again. By this point, my blood pressure could power a windmill. Between the heat and hot flashes I was ready to extend the wardrobe to birthday suit , a cold beer and a cigar. 

Finally, FedEx guy shows up with a box looking like it had been through a bar fight in Tijuana. Actually I went to Tijuana, once. woke up in a ditch, another story for another time.  I still had hope. Opened it slowly, heart racing… and bam. Oil. Everywhere. Scratches. Used. USED. My igloo was secondhand swamp trash.

Refund requested. Dreams shattered. Serenity? Gone. My new plan is to store my boxers in the freezer like popsicles and pray I don’t stroke out before October.

The Final blow  in the Matrix. 

Oh, and did I mention the $7k I dropped on my car that still runs like shit? Or the big bucks crawl space dehumidifier I had to return? Yeah. I’m broke. So don’t ask me to buy your kid’s chili supper tickets, Girl Scout cookies, or wrapping paper. The only charity I’m funding is the Sock Drawer Survival Fund.

But hey—I’m alive. Barely.

ok, maybe the wrapping paper so I can wrap my pennies in it since this grinch will be handing out wish presents this year. 

🔥 The End. (Please direct all sympathy, ice cubes, and margaritas my way.) 🔥

note: this was a 2.5 page satire and my editor cut it down, said my comedy needed to be short and sweet, as I tend to drag out the punchline.   

Grief

Grief:

Deep sorrow,
especially the kind caused by death.

It cuts like a serrated knife

that doesn’t care how much pain it causes
or how much you bleed.

It’s a sorrow only the one feeling it

can truly endure.

Grief doesn’t care about time.

The world keeps moving
in its monotonous grace—
but for the grieving,
the world stops.

It’s quiet.
Defunct.
Still.

Nothing matters except the pain.

It torments the soul.
Makes us irrational,
illogical.

Our thoughts race—
or they vanish completely.

And yet…
we feel.

The ache never fully leaves.
Even for a pet.

I once asked Dr. Wojo
why losing a pet hurts so much.
He said:
because they are short years.

I would add:
they are loyal,
and they love without condition.

I’ve had to sit back and watch—
three human beings,
a tiny family,
all loving a dog.

As my dad would have said:
Why are you crying over a damned ol’ dog?

But I cried harder over my cat
than when my dad died.

Her death, years ago,
still hurts more than my dad leaving.

She knew my secrets.
Slept on my pillow.
Woke me with the tickle of her paw.

But that’s another story.

Today—

I am an outsider looking in.

Trying to explain to a three-year-old
why his best friend, Maggie,
won’t be sleeping beside him tonight.

Watching through my window
as my daughter weeps—
not just tears,
but that deep,
shuddering kind of sorrow.

Seeing her dog, Waylon,
look at her with eyes
that seem to understand.

And I think he does—
because he feels.

Watching my son-in-law,
sitting with his back to a tree,
holding his son’s best friend in his arms.

And me—with an inescapable dread.

Because this isn’t over.
It’s just the beginning.

Grief is a loop.
A never-ending replay.

Then I’m washing dishes,
looking into the field where Maggie ran,
and I feel… nothing.

Time stops for me too.

Because I am trying to carry the grief
of three people on my shoulders,
praying to God to make it stop.

I can’t save them
from the irreconcilable dread they feel.

And that—
is what hurts me.

The spiritual gift
I never asked for: empathy.

My grief goes out,
their pain comes in,
and I swallow it whole.

It sits there
until I can do something with it.

I can’t pray it away.
It lingers.
It spoils.
Until it works its way out.

Until then—
I am melancholy.

This is the beginning
of quiet days ahead.

That is how I process:
alone.
Silence.
Solitude.

Yesterday,
Jack wanted a firetruck at the dollar store.
I didn’t get it for him.

But between asking about Maggie
and the firetruck,
I took him this morning.

Four dollar stores later,
the fifth had it.

It was hot.
I was tired from not sleeping.
My head was pounding.

The sunlight—
like a flashlight
burning into my eyes.

I needed to get home
before I got sick.

If I had,
I’d have had to drive myself
to the ER.

Jack sang the whole way home,
and I drove—
trying not to think about my head.

I made it.
Took medicine.
Laid down.
Felt better.

Stayed out of the heat.

My house is wrecked,
needs cleaning.

I don’t care.
Not today.

Time is slow.

To you reading this—
it’s just a story.

You may leave a prayer,
or a heart,
and we appreciate that immensely.

But you’ll never understand—
just as we’ll never understand
your pain.

Maggie's Big Sky Adventure

One day, Maggie grew the biggest, softest wings you’ve ever seen.

She gave them a shake, and *whoosh!* — up she went, flying into the clouds.

She floated past birds, waved at the sun, and even ran along the top of a rainbow

(because Maggie could run anywhere).

Every now and then, she looks down from the sky, spots you playing,

and gives a little tail wag just for you.

And if you ever see a rainbow, that’s Maggie’s way of saying,

"HI Jack! I'm still here, and I love you . 

Between the Field and the Firelight

 

August is a strange and beautiful threshold.

The sun still burns with heat and humidity, the insects chirping their way through the early evening, singing a screeching melody of unpleasant sound.

Dusk comes a little earlier now and settles in its home just southwest of my farm. And the air feels different.

It shifts—especially toward twilight.

It’s patient—the kind of air that seems to pause between breaths.

Still humid, still thick, yet brushed with a murky coolness that hints at change.

People wait for the first fallen leaf like it’s a signal, a quiet permission to welcome spice and firelight.

Autumn makes us wait.

The threshold teases us, holds us just long enough to remind us that nature unravels in its own time—not ours.

I wait patiently, knowing the trees will shed their skin, the leaves dying a most glorious death.

It happens quickly.

Nature grants us no mercy, no time to linger.

Autumn arrives like a sigh and vanishes just the same.

It’s a sad and enchanting hour—this threshold between the end of summer and the beginning of autumn—that changes us.

We anticipate cooler nights, a fire in the fireplace.

And as I live, I love to live by candlelight—to read, write, and reflect.

I’m patiently waiting for the chance to sit outside and look out across the field with a good book, reflecting, reading, or simply dreaming.

(photo courtesy of Victoria Magazine) 

Listening to the crickets chirp their melodic songs that lull me to sleep.

These are sounds and feelings I cannot explain—it’s the mystery of it all.

I wait… patiently.

A Prayer for My Daughter, Sarah

Dear God,

Tonight I come to You with a heart both heavy and full of hope, lifting up my daughter, Sarah, in prayer.

Lord, I ask that You be her strength. Wrap her in Your peace and heal the tender places of her heart — the ones burdened with emotions she’s carried quietly for so long. As those feelings rise to the surface, meet her with grace and compassion. Let her feel Your presence and know, without a doubt, that she is deeply and eternally loved.

She grew up without the steady presence of her earthly father, but You, Lord, sent her a father in my dad — her Papa. He stepped in as her dad, her mentor, even her mother, while I was doing my best to pick up the pieces of my own broken heart and find a way to survive. Papa gave her safety, love, and joy — and she gave him a reason to keep going. She lit up his life the moment she arrived.

And now, her son carries his name — Jack — a living legacy of the bond they shared. God, what a gift. I see so much strength and tenderness in Sarah as a mother. She is nurturing, fierce, protective, and devoted. I see the way she loves Jack, and in that love, I see You. I see her healing through him. I see her growing, learning, and loving in deeper ways than she even realizes.

You know, Lord, that I named her Sarah — not after anyone, but because it means “little princess.” When I was a little girl with not much else, I had one book: A Little Princess. I read it until the pages wore thin, and when she was born, I knew she was my own little princess. A precious light in the dark. A gift.

God, I ask You to heal her heart, her mind, and her body. Free her from the weight she carries. Help her release what no longer serves her, and let her see the beauty and love that surrounds her. Remind her of all the love she’s always had — the seen and the unseen. From her Papa, from her grandmother who wasn’t of her blood but loved her just the same, and from me — always from me.

I pray that she forgives those who may have hurt her, and that she learns to offer that same forgiveness to herself. Teach her to love herself as You love her — without condition. Let her know that I have always lived for her, not for myself. And that I will always stand beside her, cheering her on, helping her follow her dreams and her destiny.

In Your holy name I pray,

Amen.

"She is clothes with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." 

Proverbs 31:25 

Glue it, Crash it, Bleed on it: 4 fingers , and an ER trip: Just another Friday

   

The day started like every Friday… wait, no. Let me rewind because this Friday rolled in with the grace of a drunk raccoon in a tutu

Jack, the 3-year-old tornado with a Buzz Lightyear mission, woke up before me—which is already a crime against humanity because I’m up at 4:50 a.m. on Fridays to babysit him. He was ready to conquer the world… or, more specifically, get his hands on “his scissors.” Not just any scissors—his scissors. The sacred, mythical, camper-residing scissors.

So, being the responsible adult (barely), I handed him two perfectly good, small pairs from my craft room. But oh no, that would be too easy. He looked at me like I’d just offered him a spoon to cut steak. “These aren’t my scissors,” he whined with the conviction of a man who’s been personally betrayed.

I told him, “Fine, we’ll get your scissors from the camper—after we clean the playroom.” And wouldn’t you know it? He cleaned like Speedy Gonzales on Red Bull.

I asked his mom where the scissors were. “In my office on the shelf.” So not in the camper at all—liar, liar, preschool pants on fire. I handed him the EXACT scissors he demanded and he said (shocker) “These aren’t mine.” Kid, I will eat these scissors if they aren’t yours.

He finally settled into cutting paper and coloring (while I watched like a hawk because, reminder: HE’S THREE and wielding blades). You already know about the handcuffs and Big Bird getting arrested, so I won’t even go there. Just another day in the crime-ridden world of toddler imagination.

His dad rolled in around 1:30 p.m., and I practically handed off custody and announced I was going to nap like I’d just returned from war. I was emotionally drained from Jack and still mentally exhausted from worrying about Waylon, the Ugg-boot-chewing dog who now resides in my home because the camper is too small for his majestic chaos.

So I nap. Or try. But between Sarah texting every 30 minutes about the dog, my sister calling like we’re giving away gold bars, and scam calls trying to renew my nonexistent car warranty—I gave up. Productivity? Ha. Cute idea.

I planned for a quiet night. Hot shower. Fresh jammies. Maybe a book. Then BOOM—plot twist.

My son-in-law calls  with a casual “Hey, some kid tried to do a wheelie on a four-wheeler and wrecked into the fence.”

The same fence he previously wrecked with a trailer. That poor fence. That fence has seen things. May it rest in pieces.

He says the kid’s okay, but in the back of my mind, I’m like, “Wait… is that the little hellion who backfires his four-wheeler in front of my house so I think it’s a drive-by?” Because if so… karma’s got four wheels and no helmet.

Now I’m in the yard, in pajamas. My yard, my rules. I’ve mowed in PJs, I’ve probably hosted an HOA violation or two. Who cares?

I’m talking to my son-in-law when my daughter pulls up, crouches behind a tree stump like she’s reenacting a scene from Call of Duty: Toddler Ops. We exchange a look like, “Is she on something?” Then she runs at Jack, who’s nowhere near the stump, and misses entirely. A+ sneak attack.

She returns from the car, this time clutching her hand with a dish towel and a dramatic “I think I need stitches.” We laughed. Of course we did. Sarah’s dramatic? Noooo, never.

She says she cut her finger trying to remove a tag from a dog toy with a keychain knife. I’m sorry, what? Did the toy fight back? My son-in-law offers her some Gorilla Glue—because naturally, this house doubles as an urgent care and hardware store. We are laughing because we don’t think she is serious.

But I, being the good mother, get dressed (thankful I’d already showered) and we jump in her car because it’s faster and has better A/C. Priorities.

We hit the road. Sarah’s squeezing her finger, groaning in pain, and I’m like, “Put on your damn glasses and help me spot deer.” Because nothing says “stress test” like driving 70 mph through deer country with a bleeding child screaming about flappy skin.

She’s moaning about blood oozing while I’m reminiscing about the time I puked on my dad in the car . You know, casual girl talk.

Then comes the slow driver. 20 mph. In town. I’m ready to go full Mario Kart on them but Sarah, now revived from blood loss, screams, “DRIVE!” Her blood sugar’s back and so is the sass.

We get to the hospital. It’s packed. Four ambulances. Lights flashing like we pulled into a rave. I whip around near the ambulance bay and she’s screeching, “You can’t go this way!” I respond with, “EMERGENCY! I DO WHAT I WANT!” until I realize… yeah okay, she’s right. Had to reverse outta there like Austin Powers in that hallway scene. Thank God for backup cameras.

Inside, she’s all “Just glue it up, I got things to do.”

We get in the room, it’s a closet. Ok now Im dizzy. Small spaces? Not my vibe. Then I get an idea. When I broke my finger and dislocated 2 of them she took a pic of us at the ER. I thought I would return the favor and paste it all over social media. Serves her right 

Doctor Barbie shows up—looks about 12 years old but speaks like an adult, so I guess she passed the test. Sarah tells her to patch her up so she can GTFO. They start discussing blood and flappy skin, and I’m trying not to faint until Sarah holds up a kitchen towel like a war trophy. Thanks. I’ll treasure the memory.

I spot my yellow-and-white check kitchen towel. Covered in blood. My good towel. The one that matches my porcelain hook. And she’s BLEEDING ON IT.

She offers to wash it. I told her, “No, just keep it. Free gift with injury.”

They glue her together like a Dollar Tree craft, and we head out. Her finger’s “throbbing,” but she needs Walmart. And food. And more attention.

By 11 p.m., I’m home, wired, watching Dollar Tree crafting videos—the ones where they hot glue 47 wine corks to a mason jar and call it farmhouse chic. I figured they’d knock me out.

Nope. 1:40 a.m., still awake.

And then… crack of dawn… here comes Jack.

Talking about handcuffs.

And donuts.

And I’m out of coffee.

Send help.

 This One Today…

Normally I watch Jack until his dad gets home from work on Fridays around 12–1 PM. But today, his dad went out of town after work to meet up with his parents. 

Of course, Jack was up at the crack of dawn—just as I finally got comfortable on the couch, propping up my old knee like it was a precious antique. Normally, I let him watch cartoons for a bit, but this morning he wanted to go straight to my house. So we did.

He was still too sleepy to eat, so we sat on the daybed in his playroom, and I turned on the toons. Now, his mom doesn’t like him to have much screen time, but Grammy (me), with a sore throat and a nose that wouldn’t stop running, made an executive decision: beggars can’t be choosers, so… get over it.

Naturally, we channel surfed for 40 minutes until he landed on the same monster truck video he’s already seen 10,000 times. Classic.

He asked a few times to play the Elefun game I got him from a junk store, and I saw an opportunity: “If you’re good and listen to Grammy,” I said, “we’ll play after nap time.” He agreed. Whew. This isn’t my first rodeo—blackmail and leverage are parenting skills I perfected years ago, and yes, I’m still sharp.

I told him that after breakfast we could clean the playroom and head to the park near his dad’s work. But first, I asked the magic question: “Do you want dun-duns?” (That’s Dunkin’ Donuts in toddler talk.)

His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. See? Grammy knows what she’s doing.

We had breakfast, cleaned the playroom, and he even tried dressing himself. Not bad for a 3-year-old—his shorts were on backwards, but points for effort. I asked multiple times if he needed to go potty. The answer was always no. This is going to be a battle… I never had to potty train a boy. Sarah was a breeze.

We headed out to the front porch where his monster truck collection lives. He played quietly for a bit while I found a rabbit finger puppet and made it talk to him. He cracked up. Eventually, I gave in and said, “Let’s go get dun-duns.”

In the car, he asked for the windows down. Fine by me—I’m all about the fresh air, and the A/C barely sees the light of day anyway. We talked about our plans, dumped the trash, dropped off some stuff at Goodwill, then hit Dunkin’.

Thankfully, I asked what kind he wanted because, surprise, he didn’t want the pink one this time—he wanted chocolate. Growth! I asked if he wanted a drink, and he patted his cup and said, “No, I have one right here, Grammy.” Logical king.

I gave him his gooey donut and a napkin, which of course he dropped. But don’t worry—Grammy travels with baby wipes. Always prepared.

We made a quick stop at Hobby Lobby because I figured the summer stuff would be dirt cheap. It was… what was left of it anyway. And like the fool I am, I took him down the toy aisle.

He was in front of me pushing the buggy, talking about monster trucks. We browsed surprise toys—he didn’t like them because “he didn’t want a surprise.” Makes sense. No monster trucks, but then—he found a Corvette. Of course, it was more than I wanted to spend, so I tried to sway him. Yeah… no. Not happening.

We looked at cats, dinosaur puppets, a cool rocket, a talking microphone—I almost had him at the $2.99 paratroopers, but no dice. I even offered the puppets and the paratroopers if he’d put the car back. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right. An hour later, the Corvette was riding home with us.

On the way to the car, we passed a homeless man and his dog. I gave him all the cash I had and asked if his dog needed anything. He said no, they were fine. I wished him a good day, prayed over him, and he said, “God bless you.” As we drove off, Jack asked, “Grammy, why did you give him money?” I said, “Because he doesn’t have what we have. And we don’t want him or his dog to go hungry.” Jack said, “Aww…” and I swear my heart cracked right down the middle.

Next, we got some lemonade and hit the park. Jack ran to the rope ladder and climbed up, but when I told him to go down the slide, he froze. Said it was too hot. I felt it—it wasn’t. I think he just got nervous. I encouraged him, but he backed out and came down the rope ladder like a champ. We swung, sang some songs, and then he suddenly said, “Grammy, it’s hot. I want to go home.” Alrighty, home it is.

On the way out, he said, “I want to go through the tunnel!” I was confused—there’s no tunnel here. I turned the A/C on and kept driving. Turns out he meant the train overpass downtown. Ahhh, toddler logic. We passed the fairgrounds where we saw monster trucks months ago, and he got excited. “Monster trucks! I want to go!” I explained they weren’t there right now, and he said, “Check.” So, we drove in, he checked, confirmed I was right, and we moved on.

Then he saw the car wash and shouted, “I want to go to the car wash!” Okay. Why not? he loves the car wash . when we pulled out I said windows up or   windows down? "down " he said ! we  are living our best chaotic lives.

He asked about police cars, and I said they were all out on patrol. He asked if we could drive by the police station because he wanted to check to make sure they were all ok.  I told him the station was  a few streets over and he insisted.   So we did. We even found the "tunnel" along the way. At the station, we talked about how police help people—just like firemen, doctors, and farmers. He nodded wisely. Three-year-olds are philosophers in disguise.

Back home, he played with his new car while I tried to get him to nap in his tent… but so did all four dogs. I knew this wouldn’t work. So I said, “Grab a pillow, we’re taking Maggie and Ollie to the camper.” It was freezing in there, but it felt amazing. Now I know why the electric bill was $358—those A/C units don’t quit.

He napped while I cat-napped under the covers, then went to binge social media. Could I have mowed the lawn? Sure. Did I? Absolutely not. It was hot and my nose was still dripping like a leaky faucet.

When I woke him, I reminded him the Elefun game was waiting. He leapt up like he’d been faking sleep all along. Ran to the house, grabbed the game, and… disaster. The box had empty wrappers, a used tissue (gross), and no butterflies. You can’t play Elefun without butterflies!

I was livid. I paid $15 for batteries and Jack waited two days for this. I snapped a photo and posted it to the store’s Facebook page—of course, they have a “no returns” policy. Something told me to open it in the store. Should've listened to that voice.

Sarah called and said she was headed home to pick up Jack so they could meet his dad at the hotel—with a pool! I thought about booking a room, too, but… five dogs. Guess who’s on poop patrol tonight?

After I dropped him off, I saw two young entrepreneurs selling lemonade on a corner. I was parched, so I stopped. Ordered two. One of the girls asked, “How’s your day going?” and I said, “Perfect! How about yours?” I gave them a nice tip—these girls hustle around town and deserve it.

While I was there, two trucks and a Jeep pulled in, then two more cars. I love that the community supports them. The lemonade? Delicious. Probably just mix, but it was cold and I drank both cups like it was a spa treatment. I chuckled to myself thinking, I should’ve asked if it was gluten-free, sugar-free, and made with filtered water. (Kidding… kind of.)

So here I am, writing this and missing Jack already. Sarah said he cried, saying he wanted to go back to Grammy’s. I offered to meet them again, but she said they’d be fine. Later she said he cried again—this time because he missed his dog. Grammy might be off duty for the night, but with five dogs, two who love to pee on everything and one that poops like it’s a competitive sport, it’s not exactly a vacation.

Wish me luck.

I Just wanted to be Electrocuted by Grace

 When I posted yesterday, I mentioned that even as a kid, I always knew God was there. Not in a way I could explain—just a quiet sense of something bigger, something steady. Even while I was dealing with the loss of one parent and the absence of the other, I felt Him.

But let me be real: I was angry. Really angry. There were times I looked up at the sky and shouted, “I hate you!” I didn’t trust Him. I didn’t believe in anything except that life hurt and nobody was showing up to fix it.

At 16, I was crying in the backyard with my dog, who honestly did more emotional heavy lifting than most humans. I was trying to grow up, figure out who I was, and hold myself together with duct tape and emotional chains. . And while I knew God was there, I wanted Him to be something I could physically reach out and grab—or if I’m being completely raw, someone I could punch in the shoulder and say, “What the f**k"

I still prayed. Still read scripture (even when I didn’t understand half of it). Went to church off and on. But I carried this deep ache that didn’t line up with all the stuff I heard about a merciful God. If He was so loving, why did it feel like I was getting emotionally and physically sabotaged by life at every turn?

I’m not going to take you through my denomination history—just know I’ve made the rounds. Raised Catholic, wandered around spiritually, tried different churches, different messages, hoping something would stick. And even through the anger, even through the grief and numbness, there was always something deep down whispering: He’s still here.

But I didn’t want whispers. I wanted answers. I wanted to be electrocuted by Grace.  

Then one day, as I got older things started to crack open.

My sister Jackie told me something about our mom—how when she got sick, she didn’t want treatment. She already had a disease, and the cancer on top of it just wore her down. But through it all, she had faith. Real faith. The kind that says, God’s got this, even if I don’t. She believed He would take care of us, that He wouldn’t leave us. And somehow, that got through to me.

Her trust made me realize how blind I’d been to how present God actually was in my life. Even in all the years where I felt abandoned, I wasn’t. I just didn’t have the eyes to see it yet. Slowly, the layers started peeling back.

And then, years later, I had a daughter—born exactly nine months after the date of my mom’s death. That’s not chance. That’s a divine mic drop. A gift from God and, honestly, probably a little nudge from my mom. I’ve believed that from the beginning. There are little signs, little winks from heaven if you're paying attention. I wasn't back then but I get them in multitude's now. 

These days, I’ve made peace with God. We’re on speaking terms, and it’s no longer me yelling into the void. When life hits me hard, I don’t ask “why” —I just ask Him to help me walk through it. And sometimes I add, “Hey, if you could move this black cloud to another county, that’d be great. I’m out of dry umbrellas and running low on caffeine.”

I Have to get this on Paper

  Pssst… scrolling again?

Cool, you can keep going. I won’t lose sleep over whether you read this or not.

What I write in my blog? It’s “stuff.” True stuff—but still just words on a screen. I’m not here for likes, hearts, pity, prayers, or emotional hugs from strangers on the internet. I write to get it out. To unpack the mental storage unit full of memories that, let’s be honest, aren't exactly rare online.

Yes, I know—many people have suffered. As kids, as adults. There’s always someone who’s had it worse. I’m fully aware. I know people whose stories make mine look like a Disney short. Doesn’t mean mine doesn’t matter.

You’re welcome to read and say, “boo hoo, little Polly had it rough,” and that’s fine. This isn’t a competition. I don’t need you to validate my experience—this is my story, not a trauma bake-off.

And no, I don’t share everything. You’ll get the rest someday when I finally write that memoir (working title: “Fill in the Blanks and Pass the Beer”). For now, it’s bits and pieces—my catharsis, not your content.

Once, I confided in someone when I was really struggling. Their response? “You should come to work with me if you want to see people who really have it bad.”

Spoiler alert: they completely missed the point.

Here’s what I’ve learned—just because someone’s suffering looks “worse” doesn’t mean yours doesn’t matter. Pain isn’t a contest, and empathy isn’t limited stock.

So, I’m leaving this here.

Hop on, or hit the X.

I’m writing anyway. 🖤

Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

 Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

The last post? That one was easy. This one... not so much.

This is dedicated to the one that sent me the book and my mom. ....

Today, I got a package in the mail from some very sweet friends—honestly, they might as well be family at this point. Right on top of the gracious pile of love and thoughtfulness was a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

I saw the cover and immediately started crying—not just tears, mind you. We’re talking full-blown, nose-running, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of crying. Then I opened the cover, read the inscription... and started boo-hooing loud enough that I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t pop their heads over the fence with a broom in hand like, “Ma’am, you okay?” You know I would have given them the finger and told them to fuck off because you know. I'm nice like that . 

That book. That book. I remember my mom reading it, and naturally, I had to read it too. I must’ve been barely a teenager—maybe not even quite there yet—but I still remember the words. We talked about it, me and my mom. Really talked. Gosh, I miss her.

I've read it many times over the years, and I even have a few old copies stashed away in storage. But for some reason, tonight was the first time I truly understood its core. Really felt it. Jonathan is this seagull obsessed with flight—not just flapping around for food like the rest, but perfecting the art of it. Perfecting himself. He gets kicked out of his flock, and that exile leads him on a spiritual journey. He meets others like him. And eventually, he returns—not to fit in, but to help others break free.

Lately, I’ve been having dreams—strange, beautiful ones—and they’ve been making me think hard about life. I keep waking up with this lingering feeling: This is what my life should have been. Not that I regret the path I took—I wouldn't trade my family for anything—but if I could have changed something... I would have changed ME.

When my mom died, my sisters were off at college, and it was just me and Dad. He threw himself into work—gone before sunrise, home long after dark. Eventually, my sister moved back and started commuting to college so she could help raise me. She gave up so much, and I’ll never forget that. I’m still humbled by her sacrifice. But no matter how much love there was, it just wasn’t the same.

My mom had this way of bringing out the creative spark in me. I remember one Valentine’s Day, she gave me paper and supplies to make my own cards. I didn’t want to—I wanted store-bought like the other kids. Sure enough, they laughed at mine, ripped them up in front of me. I ran home, fighting back tears. I am crying as I am writing this because I can still remember the way it made me feel. I guess  just admitted I have feelings....who knew?

Honestly, it's a wonder I ever touched paper crafts again—but now? They’re my favorite.

My mother gave me the gift of art, literature, history. She taught me about kindness and God. We watched old black-and-white movies together. She taught me how to sew and embroider before I even turned eight. I still have my first handmade doll, stitched from a mitten.

When she died, it felt like everything died with her. The world she had opened up to me—the one that felt endless and full of wonder—just... closed. No one else seemed to understand what was inside me. All those bright, swirling things in my brain? I locked them away. Because who wants to be friends with a nerd?

Back then, therapy wasn’t what it is now. If you mentioned it, people assumed you were unhinged. Nowadays, you can have a full-on breakdown and book a therapist on a lunch break like you're ordering DoorDash. But me? I stuffed everything down, deep, because that’s what you did. Later in life, I managed to get a few therapy sessions in, but money ran out before we could dig deep enough to find the roots of that inner child. (Yes, I have all those self-help books. And frankly, I hate them. It’s always some overly chipper stranger telling me how to feel. “Just let it go,” they say. Oh really, Karen? How? Through the window?).

I became what the world wanted. I followed the crowd. I masked my pain with a version of myself that didn’t feel like me. Angry. Guarded. Lost. And let’s not even start on body shaming—yes, it existed back then too. We just didn’t have Tick tac  or Snapchat to immortalize the trauma. Thank the good Lord.

I became one of the flock. I flew in circles, doing the daily grind, never quite knowing what it felt like to soar.

People love to say, “You made your choices. You could’ve done it differently.” And they’re not wrong. But I was just a kid—alone and directionless. I didn’t know which road to take.No hand to hold no guidance (Well, I always knew God was there, so let’s just leave that sacred truth right where it is.)

I tried to do differently with my daughter. I nudged her toward her dreams—and you know what? She followed them. She reached for more and got it. I always told her not to let anyone hold her back. That she was bright, strong, and capable of being anything. And I meant it—even when she came home and casually dropped, “Hey Mom, I bought a house.” (I had whiplash from that one, but proud? Oh, endlessly.)

One day she asked me, “Mom… there has to be more to life than this, right?”

I looked at her and said, “There is. You just have to find it. Priorities shift with family, but that doesn't mean you stop dreaming. The earth shifts. Stars die. And still, we go on. You’ve got to reach inside.”

And I think now… it’s time I reach inside, too.

Time to find the strength Jonathan had—to remember how to fly. Because if I don’t? I’ll regret it. I can feel the end of my dash starting to dim, and I don’t want to go out never having let those beautiful things inside me breathe.

Some days, I still feel like that little girl, holding torn paper hearts, with a head full of dreams and nowhere to put them.

But maybe… just maybe… it’s not too late to let them out. To soar. Even just a little.

me.... in my big beautiful world

the Journey part Deux

I weigh myself tomorrow. I use the scale at work—it’s the same kind the doctor’s office uses, but somehow, it never agrees with their numbers. Yikes! I just want one scale to rule them all, and to be consistent. Is that too much to ask?

Last week was a challenge. I admit it—I visited the cookie jar one too many times. But they’re gone now (RIP, sweet soldiers), so that’s done. Moving on!

My home physical therapy is wrapping up. It’s helped about 85%, which is pretty good, but I’m still in pain... and now I’ve developed a brand-new ache. Not sure it’s any better than the old pain, which regularly clocked in at a 9 on the Richter scale. Yes, that’s the earthquake scale, and yes, my knee has been that dramatic.

Thankfully, my chiropractor gave me some extra stretches. They’re helping with mobility, and he’s great at keeping me motivated. Best part? He doesn’t judge me when I slip up. He just says, “Be consistent. Keep moving.” That’s his motto—and now, apparently, mine too. He suggested adding just one new healthy thing a week. Like an extra glass of water, five more minutes of stretching, or being more mindful with meals. Baby steps. And let’s be honest, baby steps are the only steps I trust these days—especially with my track record of tripping over full-sized goals.

Back when I used to work out more regularly, I’d make these elaborate calendars on poster board. I tracked everything—sleep, vitamins, exercise—and yes, I decorated them. Stickers, highlighters, glitter... the whole motivational-art-show vibe. I’ve been thinking of doing it again, but maybe this time I’ll go with a dry-erase board. It’s easier to update, and more forgiving when I, say, skip leg day. Again.

I’m a visualist—I need to see it all laid out: a month at a time, not just one week. At the end of each month, I’d tally up how I did, what worked, what flopped, and what totally tanked (usually snacks). Then I’d adjust and move forward.

Speaking of food, I need to add some new breakfast options—something quick and easy for mornings when I’m flying out the door with one shoe on and no coffee in my system. That’s my goal this week: better breakfast, plus a few easy dinners. AI has actually been great for that! I just type in what ingredients I have, and it spits out recipes like some kind of futuristic chef. It even found a chicken recipe I thought I lost forever. AI for the win!

I haven’t started counting calories yet. That’s... later. Right now, I’m just trying to eat better and stick to those baby steps. If I do too much too fast, I’ll burn out and wind up curled up in a blanket with three donuts and no regrets.

I remember when Sarah was diagnosed with diabetes, and we had to weigh, measure, and count everything. I used to pre-portion her snacks and label them with the carb counts so she could just grab and go. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, I was doing math like a nutritionist/accountant hybrid—factoring fat, fiber, and sugar to make it all work. I have a feeling I might be headed that direction for myself soon, and honestly? I dread it. Like, seriously dread it. (Is there a support group for people who fear food math?)

A friend sent me a link to some easy dance videos on YouTube. I need to start doing those—just ten minutes a day to get my body moving. I’ve been walking on my breaks at work and after dinner—mostly around the driveway and yard. I don’t want to go too far and have to call for help or send up smoke signals.

I used to walk down to the pond and around the property line after dinner every night—if I wasn’t mowing the lawn until dark, that is. Ah, the glory days of multitasking cardio and yard work.

Right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen/dining room table in my pajamas, typing this. I should close the drapes, but... meh. Let the neighbors enjoy the show.

My goal this week is to add ten extra minutes of exercise or stretching each day. I just pop in my earbuds and hit play. There’s something about music that plugs directly into my brain and overrides all the “I don’t wanna” circuits.

Oh—and the bench in that photo? The one with the prickly pillow? Yep, I sit on it and do side stretches and back stretches. It helps my hips and lower back. That bench helped me get my body back in the day. I couldn’t afford a gym or fancy equipment, so that bench was my gym. I had a routine I stuck to for over a year, and I got toned. I even had the beginnings of a six-pack—and no, not the beer kind.

Moral of the story? You don’t need fancy stuff—just a little determination and maybe a stubborn streak.

Fingers crossed the scale doesn’t lie tomorrow... although I have a feeling it’s going to anyway. Scales are like toddlers: unpredictable, moody, and often wrong. But we love them anyway. (Sort of.)