That Old Bag

Our relationship was not always this strained. In fact, in the beginning, I was kind of entranced by her, mesmorized by all that she stood for, all that she meant. She was the unknown. All that she stood for seemed so glamorous and mysterious.

My first encounter with her began with a sad goodbye to my then boyfriend as he took his first step toward becoming a Marine at OCS Juniors. It was my first taste of the many goodbyes to follow, and there she was. I watched as he walked off with her, into the unknown. I spent the next 6 weeks wondering, waiting for phone calls, looking for letters. It was a long six weeks and it was my first taste of what would eventually characterize our life. Eventually he came home, with her, and it was wonderful. I came to realize that sometimes seeing her meant it was good again. All was right in my world.

As the years went by, she came and went more and more. I saw her off to another OCS, short dets, 6 deployments, and so many "short trips" in between. It has not always been love. In fact, there were many long nights I would watch her appear and the heavy weight of a hard goodbye was at hand. The sight of her often times would bring me to tears. She no longer mesmorized me, she no longer seemed somewhat mystical. She only reminded me that soon she would join Patrick and he would be gone. She symbolized during those times long nights, lonely periods, and heavy loads to carry alone. Just the very sight of her two deployments ago made me physically sick. I hate to see her sitting there, almost in a taunting way. Reminding me he was leaving.

And she doesn't always stir up bad feelings, in fact, sometimes her presence makes me smile. Just seeing her in the corner, makes my heart feel joyfrl. She comes home, she always has and when she does, I love her. She reminds me that deployments end, he does come home.

Today I ran into her in the garage. The sight of her sitting there alone gathering dust made me smile. They tell me she won't be needed for at least 2 years and I am going to hold on to that. I am going to pray that she sits there. He doesn't need her. I don't want her. Over the years she has taken a beating and no longer stands quite as tall. She symbolizes a long career nearing its end, a career that has taken him to places far away from me fighting for the very freedom I love. She has been faithful in that when she takes him away, she brings him home. I am thankful for that old, faded seabag. But I am even more thankful that she isn't needed right now.

Not yet, baby girl, not yet.

I have spent the better part of my adult life teaching; I have taught in elementary schools and now as a Mom and a home school mother, I am still teaching. Everyday and every moment, if I am purposeful, is a teaching moment, a chance to train, a chance to give wings. I enjoy teaching and I always have.

I can say most of my teaching in my own home has been fruitful and I have loved to see the result of my teaching. Some obvious, some not as much. Most of their learning made my mothering easier in some way and it was always an exciting time. I loved teaching my children to sleep through the night, to walk, to use their words or sign language. I loved the fruit of teaching my children to buckle their own seatbelts, to use good table manners, to pick up their own toys, and to tie their own shoes. I loved the end result of toilet training, blowing noses, using utensils, drinking from a cup, swimming, and walking through the grocery store. I have enjoyed my children learing to ride their own bikes, shower by themselves, make their beds, and brush their own teeth. I have recently taught my boys to clean their own bathroom, do their own laundry and am currently walking them through the basics of cooking. I have taught them all to clean the litter box, the little messes from June Bug in the back yard, vacuum, do the dishes, and swiffer. I love watching them dust their own rooms, change their own sheets on their beds, do their hair, and get a snack. So much of what I have taught them has allowed us more time to enjoy other things and I love the confidence and independence they are gaining with each new skill learned.

My last child will start Kindergarten in the fall. I will get to teach the basic concepts of math all over again, the lifecycles of a butterfly, and patterning. I have discovered though as I approach yet another "last" in my children's young lives, there will be one thing I dread teaching for the last time. I am not ready to teach Caley how to read.

I know that may seem so very strange, but let me explain. Since my Logan, now 12, was a newborn, I have read to my babies. Every night. Without exception. We have always had a bedtime routine of bath, bottle, books, bed. Obviously, as they got older only the bottle changed. We have always done this. I loved the smell of a small baby or antsy toddler on my lap pointing to pictures, talking about the colors, or quietly sucking a thumb or finger just listening. Quick kisses while turning pages or lingering chubby fingers pointing to pictures are what I can picture in my head. Sitting on beds with all four or on the floor with just one. There has always been someone in need of a bedtime story in this house. As the years have gone by, my readers have become more independent. Chapter books are much more common and beginning last year with Lillie Grace, the quiet time in individual beds is the norm. The only sound this past year upstairs at bedtime has been my voice or Patrick's reading to Caley, sometimes both girls, but rarely all four. There are moments still that they will all gather for an oldie but goodie like Dogger, any of the Punchinello books, or The Big Hungry Bear. As Kindergarten approaches though, I can see one of my "lasts" in sight.

Last night, my three older ones had retreated, clean, to their beds and were all engrossed in their reading. Logan is reading Carry a Big Stick, Cole, Old Yeller, and Lillie has started a puppy series, Goldie. As I was picking out a book from the shelf to go snuggle with my K, she emerged from her room, wet curly hair and toothpaste remains on her chin, and one of her new school books in hand. "Mommy, will you teach me to read really quick?"

"Why K?"

"I want to read in my bed like Lillie all by myself."

I pictured snuggling with a wet hair little girl, singing read aloud books with two year old boys, smelling the sweet smell of clean babies after a hard day of play, jammies, and Are You My Mother? I am not ready to say goodbye to Dogger, Goodnight Moon, The Cat in the Hat, Angelina Ballerina, or Goldilocks. In one sweet moment, tickled at her confidence in herself....or in me...I was sad. I longed for my sweet chubby one year olds, the sound of a new diaper under clean jammies, and the smell of baby soap in wet hair. My job requires that I be out of a job one day. But it didn't have to be that day.

"Not yet, baby girl, not yet."

Sweet 16

"You knew what you were getting into when you married him though."









This comment came from a friend when we were hanging out at the pool a few years ago as my family was preparing to embark on our first year long deployment. We had done several 6-8 monthers, but never one this long and I felt it was rocking me to my core. I was struggling to wrap my brain around that length of time without Patrick and I was sharing some of my fears from the kids to his safety and this was her response. It sounds kind of harsh in hindsight but that is not how she said it nor do I believe how she meant it. She knew we had been together through all of college and I was fully aware of his ambition to have a flying career in the Marine Corps. But that was it. At 19 or 22 how could I possibly know what I was "getting into" marrying this man that I had come to love through my years at Texas A&M? Our lives "together" up to that point had been characterized by football games, yell practices, dancing at The Hall, classes, lunches in the MSC, Silver Taps, Wild and Wooly Wednesdays at Double Daves, drives home on weekends, dinners at Pop's BBQ, and hanging out with friends. I knew I wanted to marry him, but at that point in my life I did not give any kind of thought on the marriage that would follow the wedding. All I knew up and to that point was that I would get a flower ceremony at my sorority house, I would have a beautiful ring to show to my friends, and I could start looking through those magazines I had longed to look at since my sister's wedding my freshman year in college. It was the next step. I was graduating, he was graduating; it's what you do. Did I foresee the months of separation? The long nights? The worry from his choice of jets? Never. Not once.





Fast forward 16 years. I have the luxury of hind sight. God's hind sight. We were put together 16 years ago by a God we both believed in but had no relationship with...not yet. He knew. He knew what it would take for us to "make it." He knew what I couldn't know 16 years ago. He knew. He knew that we would struggle. That I would struggle with this lifestyle that I should have known "what I was getting into." He knew it was not what I pictured. He knew I would come to a point I wouldn't think I could hold on. He knew. He knew I would need a relationship with His Son. He knew I would not last on my own. He knew my lonely nights and my anxious thoughts. He knew what I could not know. He knew I would come to a breaking point in this military lifestyle. He knew that it would be hard and there would come a point I would crumble. He also knew that there would be that moment when I gave my life to Him that it would be the turning point in my life, my marriage, and in my growing family. He knew the man Patrick would become. He knew that we would both come to Him and change us in ways only He could. He knew He could give me a love for my husband that would allow me to live this lifestyle. Only He knew that we would be here 16 years later. Sweet 16 years later.





Thank you Patrick for the last sweet 16 years.

Who they see

"#1 Mom"

"You are the best Mom a girl cood have."

"You are a good Mom."

"There's not one mom that does a better job being a mom than you."

"I'm the luckiest kid in the world to have you for a mom."

I read these words this morning, like millions of moms across this country reading the same words I'm sure, smiling and hugging and thanking and reading. There were flowers and breakfast made, the Celebrate plate found its way to my spot, there were presents, kisses, and lots and lots of appreciation. After church and Sunday school, we had dinner out, I was given a pass to enjoy an afternoon nap, and then an leisurely trip to the pool. My day was perfect. I was surrounded by the wonderful children God has blessed me with and the man I couldn't imagine living without.

As the house grew quiet as little bodies took baths and crawled into bed, I was picking up from the day's festivities and I came across my four homemade cards. As I held them in my hand in the quiet, I sat down to read them once again. They seemed different now in the dim light of dusk and the quiet that is so very rare in my days. I read each one, studying the pictures they each drew and really took a minute to take in the things they wrote. As happy and as appreciated as their words made me feel this morning~ convicted and challenged was how I felt tonight reading them. Their words came from their hearts, that I was sure. They were writing about the things their young eyes see and the overall picture of what their little minds remember. But to me, sitting here, they opened my heart to the things that sometimes challenge me; the things they don't see.

They don't see the struggles I have when I am so very tired and I don't want to get up and unload a dishwasher, fix breakfast, work through a sibling argument, or make my bed. They don't see my rolled eyes at yet another dirty pile of clothes in the laundry room, the ironing that grows in the basket, or the bathroom that needs to be cleaned. They don't see my heart when I am feeling unappreciated or hurt from a thankless task completed. They don't see the jealousy sometimes that creeps when I have homeschooling work to do as other mothers have their days. Thankfully they don't see the grumblings and complainings as I work on lesson plans or grade papers or pick up after a messy school day. They don't see the days I struggle to be patient when milk spills, dirty shoes skip across my floors, or chores go unnoticed.

As I read their words tonight, I couldn't stop the tears. They didn't come because I think I am a bad mom, but because I know my shortcomings in doing this job God has called me to do. I know where I fall short, I know where I fail, and I know my struggles. Their cards challenged me to want to be better, to want be the kind mother they see, to want to be more content, to be so focused on serving my Jesus that His appreciation is enough. What they don't see, I know He sees and He is strong enough to walk me through those times, those moments, and those days and cause those stumbles and those falls on my journey as a Mom to grow fewer and farther between. I am thankful for the things they don't see. I am thankful for who they still think I am. I am thankful that their love is so forgiving. I am thankful for who they see when they look at me. I can only pray that God allows me to get a little closer each day to be the Mom who they see.

Red Dirt Trail

Ahhhhh...Springtime....flowers, green, cool weather, sunny days, and red dirt. Red dirt? That's what I said, R-e-d D-i-r-t. At our house, it's everywhere: the car, the garage, the back porch, under the bar stools, in bathrooms, on the laundry room floor, in my washer, in socks, on shoes, in my carpet, and I even found some in my dishwasher one night. Red dirt can only mean one thing-Baseball!

At the beginning of each season, I love our first trip out to the fields. They are raked perfectly and the dark, thick white lines cut it into a perfect diamond. The white fluffy bags begging to be stolen and the red dirt. The contrast is almost, well, almost beautiful. I love the sounds of baseball, the feel of baseball, and the excitement of it all. Boys are everywhere with that uniform I love so much. I love to see sweaty little boys with red faces, dirty pants, and baseball caps. I love the bats sticking so high out of bags and the sound of their cleats as they walk past.

Eventually, the magic wears off a little as our days and nights are consumed with team practice, batting practice, and games...so many games. The piles of dirty baseball pants that never quite come clean and inside out socks that hold spoonfuls of red dirt. I still love it, but like anything else, what once held magic now becomes a chore.

I had gotten to this point after 10 minutes of sweeping up the spoonfuls of red dirt that fell to my laundry room floor from the rightsiding of an inside out sock. Not to mention the red dirt that graces the floor of my Suburban that not 30 minutes before I had tried to gently remove from my floor boards without spilling anymore. As I got the washer going, secretly praying that my Spray n Wash would miraculously remove the red dirt stains from Logan's game day pants, I noticed Cole removing socks as the three of the Fitzgerald boys were deep in some conversation in our kitchen. I didn't hear a word of it as I, in slow motion, watched the 10th spoonful of red dirt hit my floor that week. As I went to grab the broom and dust pan, I thought of all of the things I would say...until I heard their conversation. And I was reminded once again, why I love red dirt.

The three were in the process of hashing out the intricate rules of baserunning; when to run, when not to run, when to lead off, when to watch coaches. I heard Patrick explaining rules, acting out the scenerios, and being so animated I could almost picture the play in my head. They discussed batting, fielding, and dugout etiquette. Eventually the conversation turned slowly to life's lessons of dealing with their peers, bullies, tough coaches, working as a team but having individual responsiblities as well, obeying coaches, paying attention, and being ready for the "next play."

It occurred to me why I love baseball so much...aside from the obvious. An old song from Brooks and Dunn reminds me that lessons can come from everywhere. There is life at both ends of the red dirt trail that leads from the ball field through our cars into our home. The end on the field teaches my boys so many skills. Baseball is a unique sport in that it is a team effort but there are moments of individual effort only~hitting, pitching, catching a fly ball. These boys learn to work together but they also have to learn to pull their own weight. Every moment counts and one rally hit can turn a no-way win into a big W on the board. Even when it seems slow, things are always happening and you can't stop to space out for even a moment. I love the comraderie in the dug out and the double line walk of "good-game" at the end. Out there in that red dirt, they are being boys, working hard as individulas, and yet, becoming a team. Quick lessons are given between innings as boys are running out to positions or through the fence of the dug out.

But as that red dirt makes it to the car and into our home, it also brings with it life lessons. I love to watch Patrick encourage and teach through the chainlink fence of the dugout, but there is also something to be said when he climbs in his truck with a red-faced son and in the miles between the field and home, lessons are taught, mistakes are discussed, and plans for doing things differently are made. I've seen tears at the ball field become hoots of laughter pulling up to our home. I love the final statements of, "Ok, now remember..." Patrick is tough on our boys, much tougher than I could ever be, but I wouldn't have it any other way. He is in the process of making young men. They need this time of teaching from their Dad. In our home, pointers are given, maybe even an extra few minutes out in the park in front of our house to pitch the ball and tweek little details. It's like they are a team themselves and it is their "thing." The three of them go through game changing plays, good tips on second base, and batting stances as they eat their heated up dinners. The converations always include their teammates, good and bad, and Patrick is so faithful at weaving God's way into his discussion with them.

And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up. Deuteronomy 6:6-7

Baseball becomes a "when you walk by the way." As they walk through the lessons of teams, competition, good sportsmanship, hard work, friendships, and life, Patrick is teaching them diligently. He is teaching them to be men, strong in stature but also strong in their witness. He is teaching them things that I would have never thought of. They are seeking his advice and his help and basking in his encouragement and praise. He is such a good Dad. And he is providing life lessons on both ends of that red dirt trail.

Happy

There's something to be said for truly happy people. People who can see the good in something even when there really doesn't seem much good in it at all. I know one of these people. He's genuinely Happy. Give him a minute and he'll find the good in it all. He will worry about those who most would direct anger toward. His path is changed, he shrugs and presses. He takes a stituation that would leave most bitter, and finds the good. He resents no one. He blames no one and in the end, he's better because of it. This morning's message was on this exact thing. Joseph was much like this. He stuck it out. He found the good in a situtation that didn't have much good in it at all. His path changed, he shrugged, and pressed. He had much to whank about and yet didn't. He had much to leave him bitter, yet it didn't. He blamed no one and was better because of it. He knew God was ultimately in control. God uses people like this. I want to be one of these people. Happy.

It's a Boy!!

"It's a Boy!" the doctor shouted after a long, hard labor that ended with me lying down behind a big curtain and my man next to me with a mushroom-type head cover on.

A Boy? No way. No way. That was all I could think as Patrick gave me a kiss on my forehead and began what would become his routine for each child, of following very, almost too, closely and watching every movement made with our newest addition. As I lay there alone on that table in this cold, bright place, all I could think of was the three words, It's a boy. Almost as quickly as that thought came, I was out and slowly waking in recovery. Alone again, behind a curtain, it all felt like a dream. Nurses were coming in and out and I could hardly remember the events of the last 7 hours. It didn't seem real. Slowly the day started coming back to me and I remembered...I had a boy. Wow. A boy. It didn't seem real.

The entire 9 months I had convinced myself it was a girl and in the process, I think I had convinced Patrick too although I knew he would love to have a little boy. You know, the football-throwing-fishing/hunting-buddy kind of boy. I had the same picture, only with a girl. My mom had two girls, my sister at this time had two girls. I knew girls. I grew up with many girl cousins. I had a brother but with him came two more sisters. I was having a girl. I was convinced. So much so, that I only pictured myself with a girl, I shopped for girl things, I picked out girl names, and I decorated our generic room in my mind with the new girl things I was going to add once she arrived.

No girl. It was a boy. In recovery, I still had not held him. In my groogy state, I had only seen him wrapped up head to foot with just a little nose and two eyes showing. It could have been a girl the way they presented him. I had not yet held him, I didn't know him, I couldn't picture him, I hadn't seen him. It was so unbelieveable. I didn't seem real.

Fast forward to today, knowing what I know now, 12 years later. "It's a boy!" would have had me grinning from ear to ear. Knowing what I know now, 12 years later. I would have anticipated the wonderful moments that come from having a boy, this boy in particular. Past all of the jumping, running, ball throwing, collarbone breaking, team cheering, air soft playing, hunting, fishing, there is a young man who is the neatest boy I know. He is very loving with his sisters, and they adore him. He watches out for them without being asked and he reads to them just because. They come to him when they are hurt or tired or want to be held and he always stops to do just that. He is tough on them and often keeps them in line. I never worry about my girls when Logan is at the helm. He is a great older brother to Cole. He is the most patient older brother I could imagine. He jokes with Cole, shares, plays around, and talks late into the night with him. 98% of the time, they are buds. He is the first one to jump out of the car to help me get in, the first one to grab a load out of my arms when he sees me coming and is the first one to help unload groceries from the car. He is the "man of the house," a responsiblity he has put on himself when Patrick is gone. He secures the garage at night, takes out trash, locks up doors, and checks on me. He has a hard time leaving if he knows I will be alone and is very quick to make sure I am ok. He loves to talk on his terms and I have learned the art of being quiet around him until he is ready. He still loves to be read to and prays daily for his family. He's got the funniest sense of humor and can take a joke better than anyone I know. He can laugh at himself, and unless losing a board game, does not take himself very seriously at all. He needs hugs more than he lets on and loves to weekly measure his growth by is-he-taller-than-his-mom-yet. He challenges me daily to be a better wife and mother because I know he is watching, and if what "they" say is true, he will look for someone like me one day.

Going back to that day in recovery. Knowing what I know now. I would shout at the top of my lungs, "It's a Boy!"

Happy #12 Pickle.