To My Wife, Times Nine

I can't believe it's been nine years. It's practically impossible to fathom, when I try to look back and think about other 9-year periods in my life. When Adrienne and I first met in August 2010, nine years seemed like an eternity. Hell, nine years prior to that day, I was just starting my junior year of high school. I was just getting my driver's license. For all intents and purposes, I was a child. If I'm being totally honest, even at 25, when I met Adrienne, I was still a child. But, despite how crazy it sounds, here we are. Nine years down, a lifetime to go. I absolutely cannot wait to find out what the next nine years will hold for us.

Last year, since it was our 8th anniversary, I wrote about eight reasons why I love Adrienne. I figured I would do something a little different for year nine. While I could, no doubt, fill an entire Encyclopedia Britannica-like volume with minute details and stories from the last near-decade, I decided to focus on one or two "stand-out" moments from each of the last nine years. Some are major rites of passage any one of us might focus on in our own lives, while others are seemingly minor moments in time that have resonated with me, and will continue to do so, forever. No matter the significance, each has been a major part of the fabric of us, and will forever be a part of our story. Without further ado, a brief history of the greatest nine years of my life. 

2012-2013: The easiest one, here, would be the purchase of our first home. We closed on our house at 425 Eastern Valley Estates in July, and it was a dream come true for us. It was the neighborhood we wanted, it was affordable, and it was perfect for a couple with no kids. It was a benchmark, there's absolutely no question. But my favorite memory from our first year was our Spring Break trip to Asheville, North Carolina. We walked around downtown, saw Neil Young ordering appetizers at a bar, and rode around the city on a short bus, touring local microbreweries. I had so much fun on that tour, I invited a couple we met to have dinner with us, much to the chagrin of Adrienne. Chester was a nightmare for his babysitters, but that didn't stop us from deciding to spend an extra night in Gatlinburg, just because we drove by it. Spontaneity was a big part of year one.

2013-2014: There's a lot of things I could pick from year two. We started to settle into married life, and we had a blast. We traveled a lot. We went on our first beach vacation to Santa Rosa Beach, we went back to Gatlinburg to celebrate our anniversary, and we saw the Avett Brothers twice, including our second New Year's Eve show in Charlotte. Here and there, when we had extra money, we made small changes to our house. But, my favorite part of year two was when we bought The Cheetah. We spent basically every weekend on the lake in that big pile of 1980s blue carpet and crappy vinyl. We spent countless hours, made countless memories, on that old boat, and although it's bad luck to have a boat without a name, we simply couldn't find anything better than "Cheetah." I'm glad we never fought it.

2014-2015: There were a lot of great memories from year three...How could we not look back fondly on me tearing my Achilles, being virtually invalid for three months, and Adrienne cleaning my toes with Q-Tips because I couldn't reach my feet? But, my favorite memory of that year was finding out Adrienne was pregnant for the first time. She called me at work, and I remember cutting her off before she could finish her sentence, "Nope! You're not going to tell me this over the phone, while I'm at work. I'll be home in an hour!" The next day, I walked into the office, and within five minutes, my boss, Jen, looked at me and said, "What's wrong? You're being weird...Is Adrienne pregnant?!" I'm certain all color left my face, as I tried to vainly deny her assumption, but it was impossible. I simply replied, "You cannot tell Adrienne that I gave it away...We haven't told anyone yet!"

2015-2016: The only, and obvious, choice is Charlotte being born. I remember practically every vivid detail of that entire day, and most of the next. We had a doctor's appointment scheduled for 9:00 AM on Tuesday the 29th, and the nurse told us Adrienne was having contractions (they were just so faint, she couldn't feel them yet). So the doctor scheduled us to come to the hospital the next morning at 5:00, but her contractions were bad enough that evening that we went ahead to the hospital around 6:30 that night. Things were slow-going after that, but Charlotte finally made her arrival at 5:15 PM on Wednesday, December 30. Ringing in the new year will never come close to being that special.

2016-2017: My favorite memory from year five should be us moving into our new house, and all the excitement that comes from that. It all happened rather quickly...Adrienne and I weren't even really considering selling our house and moving; I had just started a new job, Charlotte was barely a year old, and we craved routine and normalcy. But, we did it anyway. And I don't regret it at all. But, for a month, when we were between houses, we lived out of suitcases in Doug and Jackie's small, two-bedroom apartment in town. We had no space, we didn't have 90 percent of our stuff, we only had one bathroom, and it was absolutely fantastic. We look back on that month in the summer of 2017 as happily as any other span in our time together, and we talk about it often. We quickly realized we didn't need half the stuff we had at our old house, and, in many ways, we were better off without it. We crammed a whole lot of fond memories in those few short weeks, and I miss those days.

2017-2018: The best part of year six came at the very end of it, when Delilah was born on September 8th. We were so much more relaxed than when Charlotte was born, and we approached the trip to the hospital like we were checking into a hotel. I was so enthralled in Kentucky beating Florida in football for the first time in 31 years, I didn't offer much help in the delivery room as we waited on Delilah. I'm certainly not proud of that, but hey...We had been through that before, and I knew Adrienne had it under control. Watching Charlotte interact with her baby sister for the first time is one of the most amazing things I've ever witnessed, and it makes me smile every time Charlotte or Delilah asks to watch those videos (it's quite often).

2018-2019: Delilah got to spend her first night in a hotel when we went to Gatlinburg in May, and it was such a fun trip. Charlotte was old enough to actually realize that we were on vacation, and she still talks about that trip to this day. We were supposed to be in Gatlinburg right now, but ya know, COVID (to hell with COVID). But, my favorite memory from that year (and watching Delilah and Charlotte grow during that time produced literal countless memories) was Father's Day. There was nothing particularly special about the day. We didn't go anywhere, we didn't do anything. We sat on the back patio, and the girls played with their water table, and sat in their kiddie pool. It was one of those days, one of those moments, where I knew, as it was happening, that it was special. The four of us have had dozens of other days just like that, but for whatever reason, that one sticks with me. It was the perfect day.

2019-2020: Adrienne and I don't get a whole lot of time to spend together, without the girls, but we try to make time for that on occasion. COVID (to hell with COVID) has made that a little more difficult than it has been in the past, but luckily we were able to go to Gatlinburg for a few days to celebrate our anniversary. Because of COVID (to hell with COVID), we didn't really plan on doing much. We just wanted to relax, and spend time together. We did make time to hit up the Arts and Crafts Community (it's tradition), and had the best burgers we've ever eaten at Split Rail Eats, but the majority of the trip was spent ordering Uber Eats or DoorDash, playing pool and air hockey in our cabin, or listening to music while we sipped an adult beverage on the deck, overlooking the Smokey Mountains. Talk about recharging your batteries.

2020-2021: Adrienne and I had a blast when we went to Chicago for a wedding back in December of '19, and we couldn't wait to take the girls there. We are fortunate to have family that live right in the heart of the city, and they offered up their beautiful home and it made our trip so much more comfortable than it would've been in a hotel. But, more than that, it was so cool to just walk around residential neighborhoods, visit Wrigley Field, and truly feel immersed in the city. We certainly did our share of touristy stuff (we shopped on Michigan Avenue and visited the Field Natural History Museum), but because of the circumstances, it gave us the illusion of being locals for a few days. And I'm so glad Charlotte and Delilah got to experience it. Charlotte told us the other day, we're not allowed to go back to Chicago without her and Delilah.

Nine years used to sound and feel like a lifetime in itself. Now, it seems like the blink of an eye. Obviously, a lot has changed for Adrienne and I since October 6, 2012...We've moved three times, changed jobs, had two beautiful little girls, watched them grow, experienced unfathomable joy, heartache, fear, and everything in between. But, if given the chance to do it all over again, I'd do it without a second's hesitation, and wouldn't change one, single thing. I love you, Adrienne, so much I can't stand my life. Happy 9th anniversary!

To My Other Three-Year-Old

English author Emma Darwin refers to it as the itch of writing. Essentially, it's just a desire to sit down and write; it could be a short story, a letter to a friend, a journal entry, blog post, poem, song lyrics...Whatever. I experience it often, and rarely for the same reason. Sometimes a significant event in my life has taken place, and I want to record my immediate thoughts on it so I don't forget them as time passes. Sometimes I may read a news article, or see a movie that stirs an emotional response that I feel the need to express. Other times it's for no good reason at all. I may be standing by the grill waiting on burgers to finish and the thought will cross my mind. I could be sitting on the mower, making the 12th pass through the back yard. Maybe it's just boredom. Regardless of the circumstance that causes it to manifest, I really think the itch, at its core, is just a desire to tell a story...To communicate.

I've wanted to write for a while, now. Between noteworthy happenings in my own life and the emotional rollercoaster that has been our collective existence the last several months, there's been absolutely no shortage of potential topics. But, for whatever reason, the words just wouldn't come. I've sat down at my laptop no less than six times the last few weeks, stared a blank screen for half an hour, written an absolutely god-awful paragraph, deleted said paragraph, stared for thirty minutes more, then just given up and watched King of Queens reruns. When you have the itch of writing, and no presentable prose appears, it can be infuriating.

Luckily, today is Delilah's 3rd birthday. I wouldn't really need a reason to write about my girls, but I figure a birthday is as good a reason as any. God knows Delilah is an absolute treasure-trove of material, so this should be one of the easiest pieces I've ever had the privilege of writing.

I never thought anyone, or anything, could have my heart the way Charlotte does. That little girl had me wrapped around her little finger when she was nothing more than a black and white dot printed on some thermal paper. For me, it was all over but the shouting.

And then came Delilah. And, whew, boy...She has given Charlotte an absolute run for her money.

I've touched on this before, but there's just something about the second child that makes you take your guard down, in so many different ways. Delilah can get away with twice as much as Charlotte could have ever even considered. And it isn't because our love for Delilah is any stronger than it is (or was) for Charlotte; it's just that she was lucky enough to come along after Adrienne and I had come to the realization that we aren't terrible at parenting. Charlotte was the guinea pig, and Delilah was everything after.

Maybe there's just something about being the baby...Delilah is just So. Damn. Cute. Adrienne and I joke about it often: There's something different about Delilah. I swear, there are times where I feel like I can't look directly at her. It physically hurts me. I am absolutely certain that Charlotte had the same affect on Adrienne and I when she was three. The thing is, though, she was first...We weren't disarmed, just yet, like we have been with Delilah. We hate to fall into some second-child, some baby, stereotype, but...It is what it is.

Charlotte and Delilah are so similar in many ways, but total opposites in others. Charlotte has an incredible ability to think of others. She always wants to play with Delilah...She wants to share toys, or take turns when they pick something to watch on TV. Almost daily, we get a report from school about how Charlotte offers help to other students, respects her teachers, and listens attentively. Delilah, on the other hand, is so independent. It's as if Charlotte is a dog, and Delilah is a cat. Delilah wants to play with Charlotte, but on her own terms. If she wants to sit and play with her Paw Patrol characters or "Barbie animals," she will. If Charlotte tries to join, and she doesn't genuinely want her to, Delilah loses her mind. She hasn't quite figured out how to share...Or, at least, she hasn't decided she wants to. And as much as Adrienne and I try to discipline Delilah in those instances, it's just not the same.  

Delilah is just so funny. And smart. And articulate. So much so, in fact, that we'll look at each other and wonder, "How does she even know those words?" A good example happened just last week. I had left a water cup on my nightstand from the night before, and Delilah happened across it. She brought it to me and deadpanned, "You need to drink this, Daddy, so you stay nice and hydrated." The only reply I could muster was, "Uh...Yes...You're right. Thank you." Things like that happen almost daily.

It's obvious that Charlotte's influence has had an exponential impact on Delilah. We thought the same things and had the same reactions to things Charlotte used to do (things she still does). But, for some inexplicable reason, we are still surprised every single time. And yet...It's just not the same.

I think the way to describe my feelings is best articulated in the Avett Brothers' song, "Murder in the City." They, so eloquently put it, "I love you, and I'm proud of you both, in so many different ways." I can only imagine how much that sentiment will grow in my own heart and mind as my girls continue to mature and change.

Happy Birthday, Delilah Rose! We love you so much, we can't stand our lives.

To My Wife...

It's nearly impossible to believe that Adrienne and I have been married for eight years. We can all relate with how it seems that each passing year seems to go quicker than the last (I won't bore you with my theory as to why that is), but it still doesn't seem possible, despite the fact I've been present for every single second.  It feels like just yesterday we were going to see Step Up 3D on a blind date on August 12, 2010, despite our mutual reluctance and overall disdain for blind dates. But, at the same time, it feels like an entire lifetime.  There was the time before, and the time after.  Like two acts of the same play.

I can't safely assume our time together has been all that dissimilar from countless other "love stories," but it certainly seems that way to me. To us. It's special, unique, and has an air of "meant to be," when you consider how it all occurred. But, again, I won't bore you with all the details. This isn't about how it all began...It's how it's played out. Eight years chock full of love, laughter, tears, and growth.

There are literally thousands of reasons why I love Adrienne, but, for our eighth anniversary, I've chosen eight of them.  In no particular order...

1. I love her for her frankness. When I approached Jackie with my intentions on marrying Adrienne, and asked for her blessing, she pointedly asked me why I wanted to marry her daughter.  I don't remember everything I said (nervousness and anxiousness can dilute your memory, I guess), but I do remember one thing in particular. I told her that I loved how Adrienne spoke her mind. I loved that I never had to doubt, for one second, where I stood with her. I never had to guess how Adrienne felt. A lot of folks might find that characteristic abrasive, but I have always admired it. I, unfortunately, don't possess that level of courage, and I love that about her. It isn't about wondering, or caring, what other people think. It's about doing and saying what you think is right. We should all aspire to live our lives that way.

2. I love her for the thoughtful and loving mother she is. I always get worked up when I see fathers portrayed in TV shows or movies as bungling, unprepared idiots that seem to be incapable of surviving if the mother so much as goes shopping for a couple of hours. I like to think I'm far better than that. And yet, in those few instances when I feel like I've thought of something she hasn't (like preparing water bottles for the girls before we go on a trip, or packing a change of clothes in the diaper bag), I find she's four steps ahead. She thinks deeply about possibilities that I don't even consider.

3. I love her for how she balances me out. I'd like to think I have the same impact on her, and, in all honesty, I probably do. But, it's not the same. I worry about money, and the house, and bills, and all those superficial things that, in the grand scheme, don't really matter. "It's going to be fine," she'll say. And guess what? She's right. It always is.  She worries about the girls when they bump their head on the floor, or when they get hit in the face by a wayward hula hoop. "It's going to be fine," I'll say. And it always is. But, I'm not sure my reassurances have the same effect. I hope they do.

4. I love her for always motivating me. Most of the time she doesn't even try, or is even aware she's doing it. But she pushes me to be a better father, husband, brother, son, and man every single day just by being herself. She gives me countless reasons to wake up in the morning, go to work, and live my life as positively as possible. And when I fall short, she doesn't even have to point out my pitfalls. I recognize them, and I do everything I can do to correct them. She loves me, regardless.

5. I love her for making me a better father. She does it just by demonstrating how good of a mother she is every single day. Being a parent is really, really hard. You just do the best you can, and hope you make the right choices. You want to make sure you balance out the level of praise you give for good behavior with the punishment you give for the bad. You hope the level of affection you show to each child is equal, so neither ever feels inadequate in any way. You try in every possible way to ensure they feel loved, and you hope you set them up to have better lives than you ever wished you could have. Ultimately, you just hope you don't screw up. Adrienne does that with more grace, ease, and adequacy than I could ever think possible. Watching her makes me constantly self-evaluate my own performance as a parent, and I can't thank her enough for that.

6. I love her for being my best friend. We never seem to run out of things to talk about. We can poke fun at one another when we do or say dumb things. We laugh constantly. We can dance in the kitchen (much to the delight of our girls). We can hang out in bed, on our phones, and not say a word. We can watch recorded episodes of Dateline and pinpoint the killer within the first five minutes. On those rare occasions when we get to spend time together, with no kids, it feels like we are dating all over again. As a picture hanging in our living room reads, "We were together. I forget the rest."

7. I love her for not being my better half. I've always hated that cliche, because she isn't that. She's filled the cracks. She's made my good parts better. She's hidden my imperfections. She's shown me the roadmap to turning my weaknesses into strengths. She's made me whole. She isn't my better half...I'm me, because of her.

8. I love her 'cause it's simple. And it always has been.

More Lessons From a One Year Old

From the moment Adrienne and I learned we were going to have a second child, we vowed to one another that we would do everything we could to make sure we raised her as her own individual.  Just because Charlotte did things a certain way, we told ourselves, didn't mean Delilah had to be the same.  We weren't going to compare the two in that way, and we didn't want Charlotte to influence how we treated Delilah.  Every kid is different, as we'd been told thousands of times from folks with far more experience in raising children.  So, we were very judicious in our mental approach to parenting with her...We were going to treat her like Delilah.  She wasn't Charlotte, and we couldn't go about it the same way.

I'd like to think it was our incredible skill and proficiency as parents that led us in that direction with Delilah.  But, if I'm being totally honest, it's probably more human nature than anything else.  When Charlotte came along, despite countless offers of parenting advice from friends and family, Adrienne and I had absolutely no clue what we were doing as parents.  And, as most people tend to do in times of absolute incompetency, we erred on an absurd side of caution.  We were both a nervous wreck when we left to go to the hospital for her delivery.  After she arrived, we kept hand sanitizer within arm's reach at all times.  When the nurse told us we could stay an extra night if we wanted, we couldn't say yes fast enough. The first time Charlotte showed the slightest sign of discomfort, we rushed to the ER, only to find she was suffering from a bad case of gas.  If a pacifier so much as grazed the side of our shirt, we'd throw it in the left side of the sink, filled with Dawn Pure Essentials (we used Member's Mark brand, or, if we were feeling saucy, Ajax, on our dishes).  Every article of clothing was washed in Dreft, and that was non-negotiable.  When Charlotte sat in the living room floor, we built a small pillow fort around her in the event she invariably fell over.  It took an act of Congress and multiple scientific journal articles to convince Adrienne that an off-brand of formula wasn't going to cause irreversible damage to Charlotte's cognitive abilities as she grew. 

In the case of Delilah, things really couldn't have been more different.  When we checked into the hospital, we might as well have been checking into a Hilton for a long weekend getaway.  We were calm, relaxed, hoping we'd only have to stay for a night, maybe two at the most.  I watched Kentucky beat Florida at football for the first time in 31 years while Adrienne was in labor, as if I were watching in my living room at home.  I'd periodically offer up a half-hearted, "You doing ok?  You need anything?" Without actually taking my eyes off the television.  Not my proudest moment, to be sure, but hell...I knew she had this!

When we brought Delilah home, we were still cautious and careful like all parents are with newborns.  But things were different.  If her pacifier dropped to the floor, we picked it up and brushed it against our leg and gave it back to her.  We still washed her bottles and pacifiers in the left side of the sink, but the customary Ajax did just fine.  If she cried an abnormal amount of time, we just walked around the living room and rocked her until she finally went to sleep.  As she grew, when we sat her in the living room floor, it was alright as long as we were close enough to see her.  If she happened to fall over, we'd say, "You're okay!" and just tilt her back upright.  We even bought Luvs diapers by the case...With Charlotte, Adrienne only used them, and reluctantly, when they were given to us for free.

Of course, none of that was a difference in the care or attention we've paid to Delilah.  It was simply putting into practice lessons we learned with Charlotte.  Mainly, kids are incalculably tougher and more resilient than we give them credit for, and, almost always, will be just fine.  In all reality, treating Delilah differently than Charlotte hasn't been all that difficult.

Charlotte was a really easy baby, but Delilah has been even easier.  She only cries on three discernible occasions: when she's tired, and tries not to fall asleep; when Adrienne leaves the room; or if she's asleep, and has a bad dream.  She'll end up in this half-awake/half-asleep state where her delirium leaves her inconsolable for a few minutes.  But, 99% of the time, she's as happy and easy-going as a baby could possibly be.

Charlotte never really crawled all that much, and Delilah crawls all over the house.  She shows little to no interest in any age-appropriate toys, especially when there's a perfectly good dog food bowl and dirty pair of shoes sitting in the corner.  Unless she's sleepy, or eating, she'd rather do anything than sit still and entertain herself.  She is CONSTANTLY on the move. Charlotte, on the other hand, could sit in the floor with a pile full of books for a half hour or more, and be perfectly happy.

In recent weeks, Delilah has really started to show her personality.  She loves Chester and Winston, loves her sister, and loves Team Umizoomi.  My favorite sound in the world right now are the squeals and barely discernible "Da!  Da!" when I walk in the door in the afternoon.  She's trying to walk, and can take 3-4 steps at a time.  She loves to play games like peek-a-boo, and loves to throw food in the floor for the dogs.  She even does that when we're at restaurants, as if they're there, too.  And she has the best smile and laugh...My goodness, I love her laugh.

From day one, Adrienne and I set our minds to making sure Delilah (and Charlotte, for that matter) always knows she's loved and valued as an individual.  Truth be told, over the last year, they've both made that part pretty easy.  I certainly don't want to wish away the time, because it hurts my heart to think about how much has changed just in 12 short months.  But, part of me can't wait to see the wonderful person she'll become.  We love you so much, Delilah Rose...Happy birthday!

I Look Like a Banker in This

I really didn't plan on publishing this post.  Initially, I didn't even plan on writing it.  I've been in a weird state of shock the last couple of days, unsure how to even begin to process the fact he's gone.  Mostly, I've just been internalizing it all.  Reminiscing on little snippets of time I've compartmentalized in my memory over the years.  Over-analyzing old text messages and wondering if a different wording here or there could've made any difference.  I've laughed about old jokes.  I've teared up thinking about his family.  I've felt guilty, for a variety of reasons.  Writing would normally be the therapeutic outlet where it'd all start to make sense, but not now.  I usually write for me, not for anyone else.  And, at least for now, I didn't want to.

But, then, while mowing the yard Thursday afternoon, I remembered a conversation Ryan and I had about a year ago.  He randomly told me that he loved reading my blog, and was always excited when he saw I had posted something new.  He said he liked how honest my writing appeared to be, and he said he felt like anyone could relate to most of the stuff I wrote about, even if it was a story straight from my own life.  I'm not sure any critique of my writing has resonated so strongly.  I told him how much it helped me make sense of things, sometimes.  I told him how it was like turning the heat down on a boiling pot of water.  It could calm the violence.  It could quiet the noise.  I told him to try it...Maybe it would help.

So, this time, I'm not writing for me.  I'm writing for him. And his family.  And all the people that loved him, because, like me, they're all hurting right now. 

Ryan wasn't my very first friend.  Aside from my sister or a couple of my cousins, that designation goes to Josh Riley, whom I met at St. Matthews Pre-School when I was four years old.  We were "buds," as he always liked to say.  Josh was the lone guest at my 5th birthday party at Showbiz Pizza in February 1990 (I have photographic evidence to prove it), but after the pre-school year ended in May, I don't think we spoke again until we were teammates on the 7th-grade football team.  But, Ryan was my first "best" friend.

We met in 1st grade at Benton Elementary, that much I know.  It's strange, though, because you'd assume something as life-altering as meeting your first best friend would be something you'd always remember.  But I don't.  I only have a handful of memories of anything from my life before he came along, so it's like to me, he was always there.  One of the first vivid memories I have of our friendship happened in the hallways of the old Benton Elementary building.  It was at the end of the school year, and we were talking about how we were both going to play baseball for the Dodgers that summer.  Neither of us really knew what a "dodger" was, so we started acting like we were dodging objects being thrown at us, like a dodger was a badass mascot of some kind, like a Wildcat or Lion or something.  I'm sure to the average onlooker we probably looked ridiculous, but we thought it was awesome (as a side note to that: I remember being jealous of Ryan because he had legitimate stirrup socks that actually matched our uniforms.  You know, the ones that fit over plain white socks.  I, in my impatient excitement, had my mom buy me those cheap "stirrups" with a royal blue stripe running up the vertical side, because I knew we were the Dodgers and their primary color was royal blue, before finding out our uniforms were inexplicably navy blue, despite the fact Dodger blue is absolutely not navy blue).

While my memory isn't totally clear, I'm fairly certain my first sleepover was at Ryan's house.  Eric Johnston's house was a few hundred feet away, so he'd always come over, too.  We used to play tournaments on RBI Baseball for Nintendo in his basement.  We'd play basketball in his driveway, and kickball in the yard next to his house.  To this day, the only broken bone I've ever had occurred during one of those epic kickball battles.  I dove with the ball in my hands, trying to tag my sister, and fractured my left hand in the process.

The first time he spent the night at my house, I remember crying from the frustration of being unable to fall asleep because he snored so loudly.  I went to my parent's room complaining, begging my mom to do something, anything, to make it stop.  I ended up with a blanket on the couch.

As we grew up, sports was always at the center of our friendship (and continued to be until the end).  Some of my most cherished memories from my childhood come from All-Star baseball teams, and the Bulldogs.  Or the battles we shared on the basketball court as teammates in the county league.  In 4th grade, we won the league championship, mostly because Matt Henson scored 90% of our points. In 8th grade, we were on the green YMCA team together.  In the league tournament, I missed a free throw in the closing seconds that would've tied the game and send the game to overtime, but Ryan got the offensive rebound.  He was hacked on his put-back attempt, but it wasn't called, and his potential-game winner barely rimmed out.

When we both played on the Bulldogs, most of my memories don't even come from time on the field.  They come from our time together with one another, and our teammates, off it.  The NBA Jam tournament we played in Austin Beck's mom's van on the way to Tarkio, Missouri for the CABA World Series.  Homerun derbies in the field in front of our hotel with foam bats and balls we all got at Pizza Hut, mimicking our favorite players' batting stances.  Hotel High Jump in Caleb Curtner's hotel room.  Counting the number of times I could sneeze after tapping myself in the nose.  I'll never forget those days.

Ryan was one of those rare people that just didn't have enemies.  I mean, for the love of God, I can't think of a single person on this planet that didn't like him.  We all strive, whether intentional or not, to be liked.  To be liked by virtually everyone, Ryan didn't even have to try.  He made being liked just look so. Damn. Easy.  He was easy to talk to.  He could fit in with literally any group of people, and could do it flawlessly.  I had different groups of friends, to be sure, but never felt even a slight hesitation about including Ryan with any of them.  He had an uncanny ability to find common ground with anyone he came in contact with, and could read people better than anyone I've ever been around.  It just came so naturally to him.  And he could make you laugh.  God, could he make you laugh.

I've written before about how I feel like life, as we grow older, becomes segmented.  We tend to designate certain times in our lives to particular files in our memory, like a card catalogue.  Early-childhood, elementary school, middle school, high school, college, post-college-pre-marriage, marriage, marriage-pre-kids, marriage-post-kids, etc.  It's totally arbitrary, but that's basically how it goes for me.  We don't always sit around and contemplate the individuals that come and go, and how they indent themselves into particular eras of our lifetimes.  But, times like now, when we lose someone who has had a profound impact on our life, we tend to do it.  And Ryan's impact on my life is incredibly profound.

There are plenty of people that could say they had a closer relationship with him than I did, especially in the last 10 years or so.  Truth be told, since we graduated high school, most of my interactions with Ryan were via text, or the occasional phone call.  In fact, until today, the two of us hadn't been in the same room in almost a decade.  But, despite that, I know our friendship was unique.  Or, at the very least, it felt unique to me.  You see, Ryan was one of those once-in-a-lifetime people we encounter that can make every single person in his life feel like the most important at any given moment.  And now, as his sister, Noele, said on Facebook, "We will never be the same."

The Ryan I remember from our childhood and the Ryan I came to know towards the end are not the same person.  He had his demons, and he had his struggles, and he reached out for help on numerous occasions.  It would be easy to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been if I had done or said something differently.  God knows I'm going to, whether I want to or not.  But, I also know that the Ryan I knew wouldn't want that.  He'd want us all to remember the good times.  He'd want us to remember the times he made us laugh (those are countless).  He'd want us to remember that, at his best, he was an incredible father, brother, son, and friend...The type any one of us would like to have.  He'd want us to picture him with a smile on his face, wearing his Reba McEntire shirt, and giggling as he quoted lines from Billy Madison or Major League.  At his best, Ryan was really the best among us.  So, I'm going to choose to remember him at his best.  Quite frankly, the rest doesn't even matter.

Rest easy, brother.  I love you.

So Long, My Friend

It's a bit strange how, as we grow older, the people we call friends mold and evolve.  When we are kids, our friends are almost exclusively other kids, of roughly the same age.  Most of them, we meet at school, or church, or through involvement with sports or some other extracurricular activity.  They typically develop from simple proximity.  Being at the same place, at the same time.  In many ways, the friends we have when we're young aren't the same as those we make later in life.  Quite frankly, we don't have too much of a choice, when we haven't yet figured out who we are.  A major part of those first friendships is just that: discovering ourselves (what we value, what we despise) by the people with which we are surrounded.

As we go through life, as we grow and change, the people we ultimately call friends change, too.  A few of those initial friendships may have lifelong staying power, but the vast majority come and go, sometimes as quickly as they arrived.  And, sure, a lot of acquaintances that ultimately turn into friendships happen by sheer happenstance, not too unlike those early ones.  But, instead of school or sports, it's people we meet at work.  Or at a bar.  Or through mutual friends.  And instead of just being comprised of people of the same age and demographic, our friendships diversify.  They look and feel different than they used to, take on different dynamics, and come more from the result of personal choice, as opposed to who happened to be sitting next to us in English class.

My friendship with Steve Ragle was sort of a mix.  We met purely by chance, by being in the right place at the right time.  But, I made the choice to be his friend because I valued the same things he valued.  Because he made me laugh.  He brought me joy.  He taught me things. God knows I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life, but being friends with Steve Ragle was not one of them.  And when I really think about it, it wasn't really much of a choice.  It was easy.

That's what's funny about friendships, and how they look as we grow older.  There's no real reason Steve and I should have been friends.  We never had much in common.  I was in my late 20's when I met Steve; he was in his 60's.  Adrienne and I didn't have kids, yet; Steve had four grandchildren.  I worked as an insurance agent.  Steve was a retired contractor, and Vietnam veteran.  I liked AC/DC and Boston.  Steve liked Southern gospel and old-school country.  We couldn't have been more different, as far as friends go.

I met him through his daughter, Leah Kate, who was a teacher at North Jackson with Adrienne.  We grew close with her and her husband, Luke, and frequented the pool at their house in the summer.  Steve would ride the hundred yards or so from his house to theirs on a motorized scooter...Not because he needed it, but because it was just fun.  I guess that's where I met him.  Truth be told, I don't remember meeting Steve for the first time.  It was just like he had always been there, like I had known him for years.

But, despite our differences, Steve and I became fast friends.  We never really talked about anything life-shattering; I didn't confide in him about anything real.  Most of our conversations revolved around his fishing stories, or old houses he built.  Or boats.  We exchanged funny stories about idiots we saw out on the lake, over the years.  We poked fun at Luke, sometimes when he wasn't around, but mostly when he was.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't make up excuses to go visit him at his shop: I needed to borrow a tool, or inflate a tire on my lawnmower.  I needed help winterizing my boat, or to just pick his brain about some random project I had at the house.  I learned a lot from him.

I guess part of it was selfishness.  If I ever needed anything, I knew Steve would have the necessary tools, and the knowledge, to help me out.  The spray gun to paint the furniture for Charlotte's (and now, Delilah's) nursery.  The lathe and tile grout to make a sideboard, now sitting in our kitchen, out of an old shipping crate we found in Adrienne's grandma's attic.  The new sink and counter-tops we installed in the kitchen of our first home.  The display case he built for Adrienne's father's old rifle.  Our house is littered with small pieces of Steve's handiwork. Little daily reminders of the memories made with him.  And I am so thankful for that.

Steve really became a sort of father figure for me.  My dad is fantastic, and helpful anytime I need it. But my parents live over two hours away, and sometimes you need to borrow a weedeater like, yesterday.  Sometimes you need someone to help you change the blower motor on your 25-year-old furnace, because it’s November and your wife is seven months pregnant and there will either be working heat in the house, or you'll be in a hotel.  I have absolutely no doubt there were times when Steve would look down at his phone, see me calling, roll his eyes and sigh, but pick up anyway.  Always answering the same way, with an enthusiastic, "Hello, Zach!"  Always knowing damn well I had a stupid question, or needed his help.  And he never hesitated. Never even thought twice.

I will forever regret the fact he never met Delilah.  I will forever regret the fact that Adrienne and I talked about how we needed to take the girls to see him and Kathy dozens of times over the last several months, and never did.  We kept waiting for the right time; when the girls weren't sick, or when it was just a bit more convenient.  We kept thinking we had more time.  We didn't.  

The old saying goes, "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family."  I wasn't lucky enough to be able to call Steve family.  I just had to settle for friend.  But, considering the fact I knew him as "Papa Steve," from day one, I'd venture to guess he didn't think of Adrienne and I (or Charlotte and Delilah) as anything less than family.  If he did, he certainly didn't show it.  Either way, it's a choice I'm eternally grateful to have been able to make.

You will forever be missed, Papa Steve.

To My Three-Year-Old...

It's been almost two years since I wrote on the blog.  About that long since I wrote anything of substance, really.  Each Christmas Eve, we go to dinner at Jackie's house and Liza has traditionally written a poem she recites before the meal that recounts the previous year and all the goings-on in the family.  Back in 2015, she "retired," and relegated that responsibility to me.  So, I've written a little narrative for that the last couple of years.  But, admittedly, my entry last week was mediocre, at best.  It wasn't necessarily for lack of trying, I guess.  I mean...I wanted it to be good.  But it was one of those pieces where you know, as you're writing it, it is the textbook definition of "mailing it in."  I just wished it had been better.  And, in all honestly, there's no particularly good excuse for it not being good.  I mean, I had a full 12 months to prepare.  I had four nuclear families, all with an abundance of exciting things, from which to pull material I could include.  And, yet, I waited until about noon (we were leaving our house at about 4:00 that afternoon) on Christmas Eve to even open my laptop.  You could call it procrastination.  You could call it laziness.  You could call it lots of things, really.  But, the fact of the matter is, I've been pretty busy.

The last year has left me with countless inspirations to write.  An almost daily onslaught, as a matter of fact.  Watching a growing toddler will do that.  But you know what else it does?  It makes you tired.  It makes you find time to relax that you don't really have.  It makes you turn into a makeshift photographer and videographer because you can't bear the thought of forgetting some seemingly minuscule event, that a year later, you'll be SO GLAD you recorded.  Like hearing how she used to pronounce "cow" (like co-wa).  Or a facial expression she makes when she's modeling her princess dress.  It makes you get out of bed, after you've JUST gotten comfortable, so she can rock for the third time.  It makes you think you could write about all those things every single day, but you'd rather just experience them.  Then, before you know it, they're turning three years old, you've hardly written a single line, and you're not sure if you can even really refer to them as a toddler anymore.

I can't believe I haven't written more, honestly.  I haven't written on the blog at all since May 2017, and about Charlotte since her first birthday (I haven't written at all about Delilah, yet, but that's an argument for another day).  It's silly.  That beautiful, smart, witty, independent little girl has provided me with enough "writing" material to last a lifetime, and here I sit...Still wondering what to say.

She does something on a daily basis that leaves Adrienne and I completely slack-jawed...Wondering how in the world we've gotten to this point so incredibly quickly.  I know it's cliche to say it feels like yesterday, but it really does.  It feels like just yesterday we were loading up and heading to the hospital to wait almost 24 hours for her to make her arrival.  It feels like just yesterday she was mumbling her first words, and taking her first steps.  It feels like just yesterday she was squealing at the first notes of "Second One to Know," by Chris Stapleton (something she still does).  And, at the same time, it feels like a lifetime ago.

You see, when you have someone so amazing filling your days with incalculable joy and laughter, that tends to happen.  Adding a baby sister to the mix only magnifies it, because it adds a new dimension to the incredible human being that was already there.  Charlotte has always loved her baby dolls, and we weren't overly worried about her ability to adapt when Delilah came along.  But the love and patience she has shown towards "Baby Dewiwah" still astonishes us on a daily basis.

Not too many folks can say they've lived as much as Charlotte has in three short years.  She's cooked tacos with Dad, driven an RV (a bus, as she calls it) with Uncle Jamie, ridden a trolley in Gatlinburg, been a princess and mermaid in the living room, become a world-class big sister, fed a ham sam to the boys, watched Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer 10,000 times, and stolen my heart twice as many.

I may not write as much as I should, or even as much as I want to.  But, I can promise you, my time has been well-spent.  It's been spent watching Charlotte grow, love her sister, and trying desperately to hold onto the time.  Happy birthday, Charlotte Claire.  Your mother and I (and pretty much everyone that knows you) love you more than you'll ever know.

To Charlotte's Mother...

After Adrienne and I had been dating for a while, and gotten to the point where marriage, kids, and future plans became approachable topics of conversation, we pretty much universally agreed: We both wanted three kids.  Two boys and a girl, or three girls, or one boy and two girls...It didn't really matter.  We just both knew we ultimately wanted to have a big family.

As time went on, and we naturally came back to the conversation, things slowly changed.  Three kids might be too many.  In fact...One kid might be too many.  We liked being able to go out any time we wanted.  We liked being able to book a hotel on Thursday, and leave on Friday for a weekend getaway.  We enjoyed the freedom, and weren't sure we wanted to restrain ourselves by the immense responsibility a child brings.  We weren't necessarily against having kids, but we certainly didn't have to be parents.

I say that because our conclusions tended to change from time to time.  We could be out for dinner, sitting next to a screaming infant, throwing food and shoving drink glasses and silverware off in the floor, while the father wrestled with another kid who wouldn't stop staring over the side of the booth and making funny faces at Adrienne, and the mother would be curled up in the fetal position in the corner of the booth mouthing "help me" to anyone who happened to be paying attention.  In the car on the way home, one of us would invariably say something like, "You know...I just don't think I want any kids," and the other would emphatically agree.

Then we might see pictures of someone's baby shower on Facebook, and our opinions would soften a bit.  "You know...I wouldn't mind having a kid, someday.  But definitely not anytime soon, and definitely only one."  The other would reply with, "I was just about to say the same thing...But, yeah, just one."

We'd see a birth announcement where someone surprisingly gave birth to triplets, and we'd look at each other and say, "Nope...A whole lot of nope."  Then we'd see family pictures of the triplets with Mom and Dad and say, "Well...I don't guess it would be all that bad."

And so it went for a few years.  No matter what "decision" we made at any given time, it would change within a few weeks.  I think, in the backs of our minds, we always knew what direction we'd ultimately go.

And I am so grateful we did.

Adrienne was born to be a mother.  When she undertakes any challenge, she pretty much universally excels.  Things just come easy for her.  But there is nothing she does more brilliantly than being a mom.  Nothing else really comes close.

I'd like to spend the rest of this entry telling you all about the amazing things she does for Charlotte, and I could speak in generalities about how she keeps our family together with her thoughtfulness and care.  I could talk about how, no matter the level of exhaustion she feels after a long day, she plays with Charlotte from the moment she gets home to the moment she goes to bed.  I could talk about how she always makes sure Charlotte eats supper, gets her bath, and reads her books for a few minutes before taking even five seconds for herself.  I could tell you how she takes time to set out clothes for the next day, do laundry, prepare meals for Charlotte, and cleans her dishes twice a day.  I could tell you how she does all that while also cleaning the mess I made in the kitchen, picking up my clothes that I mindlessly leave in virtually every room in the house, and generally taking care of all the things I don't want to do.  And I'd be telling the truth.

But, when I think about Adrienne and the amazing mother she is, none of those things really comes to mind.

What makes Adrienne such a wonderful mother are the things that happen when no one else is around.  The "conversations" they have while she's changing Charlotte's clothes in the bedroom before we leave the house.  The constant string of giggles and belly-laughs that emanate from the bathroom as they make faces in the mirror after bath-time.  The unmistakable tune of "You Are My Sunshine" being hummed from a darkened living room, only broken by the rhythmic pop of the old recliner as it rocks.  The crash of dozens of plastic pieces of food being dumped in the kitchen floor, followed by, "Oh boy, Charlotte, what are you going to make for Momma?"

One of my favorite things in the entire world is just being with Adrienne and Charlotte.  Lying in the living room floor, stacking blocks, flipping through books, playing the same song on her rocking horse over and over and over and over and over again.  Doing little else than spending time as a family.

But, the truth is, some of my favorite experiences don't even involve me.  They're just a collection of little moments where I get to soak up memories in my own way.  I can sit in a back bedroom alone, or watch through the cracks in the blinds.  I can linger in the hallway just a few seconds longer than I need to, so that I don't ruin that one perfect second for Adrienne and Charlotte.  I just love listening to Adrienne be a mother, when she doesn't know I'm there.  Sometimes, the best seat in the house is one without a view.

There's no such thing as the perfect parent.  But, Adrienne comes as close as humanly possible.  You don't have to see that to know it.  Happy Mother's Day, Adrienne.  Charlotte and I love you so much, we can't stand our lives!

If It's in the Cart, It Better Be on the List

I'm a planner.  I like to make plans.  I not only enjoy the feeling of knowing where I'm going and how I'm going to get there, but I even enjoy the process of making plans.  I like making lists and slowly marking things off as I go.  I like prioritizing tasks and mapping out my day.  I like having the illusion I'm in control of a given situation because I've allotted amounts of time for specific projects.  When I don't have that feeling, I can almost be overcome with anxiety.

I understand the impact this can have on people around me.  I can easily become agitated when plans inevitably go off the rails.  I can be downright insufferable at times, to be honest.  I can be bossy.  I can whine.  I can complain.  I can even recognize all those things as they're happening, and yet am powerless to stop it.  I need a plan to alleviate my anxiety, and yet I am equally anxious when things don't go as planned (which is always the case).  I'm basically a walking catch-22.

My friends constantly give me a hard time about this aspect of my personality.  For the last couple of years, Adrienne and I, along with our friends Leah Kate and Luke, have gone on vacation to 30-A in Florida.  I will spend a week developing our meals for the week; I determine which nights we are going out for dinner, and which nights we'll eat in.  I'll make the grocery list for our meals, go shopping after we've arrived, and get genuinely upset when, on Tuesday (pasta night), Leah Kate and Luke decide to instead (on a whim, of course) go to McGuire's in Destin, forcing Adrienne and I to go out for dinner an extra night.  I mean...How dare they?

It's funny, though...That anxiety I feel about plans going awry really only applies to little things.  Changing the weekly meal schedule because we'd rather eat a cardboard box than baked fish and roasted carrots.  Deciding to swing by Old Navy on a rainy Saturday despite the fact I was fairly certain Kohl's, Ollie's Bargain Barn, and Chick-Fil-A were the only stops to be made.  Grocery store purchases without first putting them on the list.  Arriving in Louisville with no less than 3 hours set aside for dinner and drinks before a Chris Stapleton concert.  Things that literally have no bearing whatsoever on life in general.

Real things?  Major things?  Jobs...Money...House...Cars...Kids?  Eh...It'll all work out, even when it doesn't seem like it.

When Adrienne and I first got engaged, we made a pact.  We were both actively seeking employment as teachers, and were applying all over the state.  Every county or city school system (even ones with a common centralized location within realistic driving distance) that had openings for which we were both qualified, we applied.  We decided that the first one to get a job would determine where we would both go.  We could have gambled and waited around hoping we'd both get jobs around here, but we couldn't really afford to be picky.  It was an open-ended plan, but at least it was a plan.

When I got hired at Montgomery County in May 2012, we decided we were moving to Mount Sterling.  Adrienne also got hired there a few weeks later, so it appeared to be the perfect situation.  We told ourselves we were diving in head first: We were going to go to football games on Friday nights.  We were going to go to car shows and flea markets on Saturday afternoons.  We were going to make new friends and have dinner parties at our small apartment.  We were going to find the best local restaurants and watering holes, and get on a first-name basis with the wait staff.  We were going to immerse ourselves in Mount Sterling culture.  We were going to make it work.

That lasted for about three weeks.  Adrienne was so homesick by the end of August, the only part of that pact we actually kept was the one about watering holes: We'd be at a high-top table at Don Senor by 4:30 on most Friday afternoons, enjoying "a margarita the size of my face" (Adrienne's words, not mine).

So, that plan went to hell in a hand basket almost immediately.  And despite the fact it had an enormous impact on virtually every aspect of our lives, its enormous failure didn't bother me.  It was never easy, and sometimes I had no idea how in the world we were going to make it work.  I just knew we would.

Kind of like right now.  When Adrienne and I bought this house, we figured we'd be here at least 7 or 8 years, maybe longer.  It was in a great neighborhood, it was affordable, and there was room for our family to grow...It met all the needs we were looking for.  We had no reason to even consider leaving any time in the near future.

And when we least expected it, when our plans for moving couldn't have been further from our minds (we actually discussed adding on and renovating less than two months ago) a new house fell into our lap and we figured we couldn't pass it up.

Adrienne and I, along with a group of her coworkers, were in Nashville a few weeks ago and one of them was discussing and showing pictures of a house they were building to sell.  Adrienne commented, totally in passing, "Wow, that's going to be a beautiful place.  Zach and I would love to have a house like that someday."  A simple, totally meaningless observation.  It was never thought of, nor mentioned again after that brief moment.

A couple of days later, he asked Adrienne if she was really interested in the house.  She said, sure, depending on a few things.  He provided details.  Our ears perked.  We looked at the house.  Loved it.  Loved the location.  Talked about how it fit everything we wanted.  We discussed putting our house on the market.  Our house was on the market for all of six hours before we had a written offer.  We accepted the offer.  We put our house under contract to sell, and put the new house under contract to buy.  And now we're picking paint colors and flooring.  We're moving.

It is incredible how much things can change in a just a few weeks.

We didn't plan on this.  I didn't have "sell our house and buy a new house" on my honey-do list clipped on the fridge.  Two months ago, Adrienne and I were discussing new bathrooms and kitchen cabinets; we just assumed they'd be here, and not at a new house.

It's scary.  It's overwhelming.  It's exciting.  It's fun.  It's terrifying.  It's stressful.  I wonder how the hell we're going to make it work, how we're going to get everything done.  But I know we will.  I'm not sure how...We're just sort of going with the flow.  But it will all be just fine.

That is, until we move in and Adrienne tells me she doesn't want baked chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner.  It'll be planned, after all.

Lessons From a One Year Old

I wish I could say that I have lived my life without regrets.  I wish I could say that I've always tried my hardest to make sure that when I got older I wouldn't be able to look back and say, "I wish I had done that differently."  I wish I could say I always paid close attention to mundane details of everyday life, and I wish I could say that I know for certain what the roses smell like.  Truth is, I can't say any of those things.

It's so easy as an adult to look back on one's childhood and assuredly comment on how easy things were.  While I am almost certain my childhood was generally happy and worry-free, it's unfair for the 31-year-old version of me to sell my 9-year-old self so short.  Sure, a 9-year-old's struggles are mostly laughably minor to an adult, but when you're the kid living it, there are truly life-and-death scenarios faced on a daily basis.  Now that I'm grown, I don't recall many of those everyday struggles I faced as a child.  But I do remember always hoping and wishing to be older, so I could do whatever I wanted, so I wouldn't have to worry about those things anymore.  So that life would be so much easier.  The grass is greener, and all that.

If I could sit and talk to the kid version of me, I honestly can't think of all the things I'd tell myself.  But, despite the cliche nature of it, I'd implore myself to live life in the moment.  I'd plead with me to realize that life and time are so precious.  I'd exhort myself to stop wishing away the time.  All those amazing things we so earnestly look forward to almost invariably fail to meet expectations, and the ones that do are always worth the wait.

"Enjoy the wait!" I'd scream at the top of my lungs.  Don't kid yourself into thinking that when you get to "that point" (whatever "that point" may be) you'll slow down and appreciate things more, I'd tell me.  You won't.  You'll be there, realize it wasn't what you hoped it'd be, and you'll go right back to wishing you were some other place or some other time.  I'd preach to myself to enjoy the journey.  I'd beseech myself to soak up every minute detail of every day.  All the sorrow.  All the joy.  All the heartbreak.  All the laughter.  All the love.  All the misery.  All the boredom.  All the loneliness.  All the thrills.  All.  Of.  It.

If I were able to tell the kid me all those things, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here wondering where the hell the last year went.  Maybe I would have listened to me.  Maybe I would have recognized all that stuff long ago, so by the time I was here, with my baby girl turning one, I'd be far more experienced at paying attention to every single second of every single day.  Maybe it wouldn't have taken her being born for me to realize just how fleeting time is.

If Adrienne and I had a nickle for every time we've said, "Just look at her," during the last year, we'd be able to retire today and put her through college two or three times.  Admittedly, I failed to see the significance of everyday occurrences before Charlotte Claire was born.  I always felt like I had all the time in the world.  I took a lot of things for granted.  Without even trying, without even knowing she was doing it, Charlotte taught me that.  She taught me to stop.  She taught me to wrap my memory around every second of every day.  Every smell, every giggle, every belly-laugh, every stumbling step and fall, every squeal of joy, every cry, every indecipherable word, every smile, every happy hand clap, every 2:00 AM party, every wave bye-bye, every horsey ride and patty-cake, every hot dog dance and look in the mirror...All of it.  If I could sit and talk to the kid version of me, I'd already know to pay attention to where all the time goes.  Since I can't, it took Charlotte Claire to make me understand.

A year used to feel like a long time.  It doesn't anymore.  The past year has been a conundrum for me.  It's gone by in what seems like the blink of an eye, but has also felt like an entire lifetime in itself.  I obviously can remember my life before Charlotte came along, but I feel totally disconnected from it.  Instead of seeing memories, I feel like I'm watching a movie of my life, starring someone that looks like me.  It's all familiar and resembles the true story, but something is missing...Something's just not quite right.

If I could sit and talk to the kid version of me, I'd tell me to live life in the moment.  So that when Charlotte Claire came along, I'd be far better at paying attention and filing away the memories.  If I were able to talk to the younger me, maybe my biggest fear as I write this wouldn't be forgetting something that happened yesterday, or today, or last week...Some little thing that is the best thing in the world right now.  Maybe I'd be so versed in the Art of Now, I wouldn't have so many forgotten memories.  Maybe I wouldn't have so many regrets. 

Maybe I wouldn't have learned so much this year.

Happy Birthday, Charlotte Claire.  I love you more than I'll ever be able to tell you.

Is There a Troubleshooting Guide for This?

Over the last few weeks, I've been asked when this blog post was coming.  One would think that an enormous life event like having a child would warrant any number of posts, and with relative ease.  However, to my own surprise, that hasn't necessarily been the case.  Choosing what to write has actually been rather difficult, and finding the time has been even harder.  So, I apologize for the delay.

Since the day I found out Adrienne was pregnant and we began sharing the news with our friends and family, people have been quick to offer advice.  We've been given tips on how we should feed the baby, when she needs to sleep and for how long, what doctor to visit, what brand of diapers to buy...And almost invariably, someone at some point would jokingly ask, "So, are you ready?" Then they'd follow that with a belly laugh, as if they were the only one that really got it.

I'd usually offer a wry grin, and a response along the lines of, "As ready as I'll ever be."

"May as well be, right?  No going back now!" They'd say, with another fit of hysterical laughter.

The truth is, those conversations were never as enjoyable for me as they undoubtedly were for the person I was talking to.  It wasn't the fact they were giving me unsolicited advice or offering up some totally predictable one-liner.  Much of the advice was appreciated (what the hell did I know about having a baby?), and unfunny comments became their own running joke.  It wasn't that.

What actually bothered me was the fact that every single time I got asked that question, I had to lie.  Because, truth be told, I was never ready.  I was scared to death.  In the days and months leading up to Charlotte's birth, I'd experience virtually every emotion one can encounter on an almost daily basis: unfathomable joy at the thought of being a father.  Crippling despair.  Sickening worry.  Back to happy.  A cold-sweat sort of anxiety.  Simple ease.  Gut-wrenching nervousness.  The roller coaster that I experienced was unbelievable, and would almost always arise at the most random of times.  And my mindset would return to normal just as quickly.

I thought about what Charlotte would look like.  I thought about what kind of personality she would have.  I imagined falling asleep on the couch, while she napped on my chest.  I imagined how I would feel the first moment I laid eyes on her.  And as wild and unrealistic as our imaginations can often be, nothing I imagined even remotely compared to what it was actually like.

I would guess for the average person, there are probably only 4 or 5 moments one can recognize as life-altering.  Like, as the event is occurring, you realize its significance without the benefit of hindsight.  One of those, my life will never be the same after this moment kind of things.  The moment I saw Charlotte is one of those.  I'm sure I'll make countless missteps and never really figure things out.  But, the moment I first laid eyes on Charlotte, was the moment I was finally ready.

The last six weeks have been an unbelievable whirlwind.  Watching her change and grow everyday has gone so far beyond any of my expectations that finding words to describe it is almost an impossible task.  I always expected to celebrate the big milestones, but I've come to cherish the subtle nuances of her that come on a daily basis.

I love how she clenches her fists up under her chin as she eats.  Sometimes she stretches her neck out as far as it will reach, tilts her head back and strains her eyes toward the ceiling.  We refer to it as "turtle face," because, when she does that, she resembles Cecil Turtle from those old Looney Tunes cartoons.  I love listening to little involuntary grunts and sighs she makes while she's sleeping.  In the last couple of weeks, she's become far more aware of her surroundings, and has started reacting to our voices.  She giggles softly from time to time, and it's just the best thing ever.  I love when she's bright-eyed and stares holes through me, or when she moves her mouth along with mine, attempting to mimic my movements in her own way.

I love listening to Adrienne talk to her when she's not really aware I'm listening.  I love watching the faces they make at one another the way only a mother and her newborn daughter can.  I love looking into her eyes, desperately trying to figure out what she's thinking.  Or wondering if she's thinking anything at all.  I wonder what it must be like to genuinely discover something new every single day.  Like a light bulb.  Or your own reflection.  Or how it feels to move your arms.  The feeling of Dad's beard brushing your cheek.  I wonder what it would be like to never take anything for granted.  Not because you're extraordinarily conscientious, but because you're incapable of it.  I am constantly in awe of that innocence.

All that being said, I'd be a liar if I said everything was wonderful and perfect.  It isn't.  Adrienne and I are discovering a level of pure physical exhaustion I'm not sure I knew existed.  The second we begin to fall into any semblance of routine (finally!), Charlotte decides she is bored with the status quo.  I've forgotten what it felt like to relax for longer than five minutes.  Even when Charlotte naps, Adrienne and I spend so much energy trying not to wake her that it makes it impossible to relax ourselves.  I've been peed on.  I've been puked on.  I've discovered smells that have absolutely no business coming from such a small human being.  And I know I've not even begun to scratch the surface of what's to come.  It is absolutely terrifying.

And, yet, I've never loved more, smiled more, laughed more, and anticipated more than I have the last six weeks.  Everyone told me I had no idea what being a parent would be like until I experienced it for myself, and they're most certainly right.  Truth be told, I still don't really know what it will be like.  I have no idea what I'm doing, and I have no idea how in the world I'm going to succeed at this.  But, for some reason, I'm ready.

May as well be, right?

Now That's One Tough Act to Follow

Thanksgiving week has always been one of my favorite times of year.  When I was in school or teaching, obviously the 5-day weekend was always nice.  I'm a huge college basketball fan, and "Feast Week," as it has been coined, has always provided a great jump start to the upcoming season.  There are great movies on TV all weekend long, and of course the chance to spend time with family while enjoying delicious food.  It's a great week all the way around.

My earliest memory of Thanksgiving came on November 23, 1989.  It was one of the rare occasions my sister Lensey's birthday happened to fall on Thanksgiving Day.  I remember getting up to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, like we did every year, and like I still do to this day.  I remember watching Lensey open her birthday gifts before we left to spend the day with the rest of our family.  She got some yellow toy van (I've spent the last half hour trying to locate a picture of it online, but can't remember what line of toys it belonged to) and, because I was still young enough to warrant gifts on my sister's birthday, I got a couple of Police Academy action figures.  I don't remember anything else about that particular Thanksgiving, but those minute details have stuck with me every since.

Although I know I should do it all the time, this time of year always leaves me reflecting upon things that I'm thankful for.  I'm thankful for my parents; I'm thankful for their unending support and guidance throughout my life.  I'm thankful for my beautiful wife, and the sure-to-be beautiful daughter she's preparing to bring into this world.  I'm thankful for my job and my health and my dogs.  I'm thankful for lots of things...Even if I don't always think about the fact I'm thankful for them.  It just sort of goes without saying. 

But, today, that isn't the case.  Today, it isn't going without saying.  Today, I'm thankful for one very special thing:

My sister.

Despite the countless hours we spent arguing and destroying each other's toys (I guess a Raphael in four pieces is a fair trade for a headless Ken doll), Lensey was my first friend.  When I was a baby, she spent nearly every waking moment by my side, providing me with a never-ending source of entertainment.  As I grew older, she would organize games of "house" or "school" and let me join in the fun, where I was almost always the kid she bossed into chores or homework.

She helped foster a deep love for great music, like New Kids on the Block.  I remember a TV special she taped where each member got to play out a dream sequence (I think Danny got to play one-on-one against Michael Jordan), and I got to watch it 15 million times from 1989-1991.  She would let me sit in her room and watch her play Super Mario Brothers or Tetris, and she even let me listen to her read books before I was able to.  You see, I didn't mind being bossed around for those first few years...I just liked being able to tag along.

Even as we grew up and butted heads from time to time, I continued to learn new things from her on an almost daily basis.  I learned when dealing with Mom and Dad, sometimes it's best to just shut your mouth (although that one was more in theory than practice, for me).  I learned what a hard-working, well-rounded individual did on a daily basis.  I saw what true, unadulterated kindness looked and sounded like.  I felt the influence of one of the greatest role models anyone could ever hope to have.

Lensey is one of the most genuinely nice people I've ever met in my entire life.  I've never seen her get into a knock-down, drag-out fight with anyone except me, and only because I know exactly how to push her buttons.  As many softball games as I saw her play, I never once witnessed her talk even a little bit of trash.  I could count on one hand the number of times I've heard her curse (three).  But I couldn't even begin to count the number of times I saw her be kind to someone else.  I couldn't begin to count the number of times I heard her say something complimentary to another person.  I couldn't begin to count the number of times I saw her laugh in the face of obstacles.  In a world that seems to pride itself on focusing on the negative characteristics of nearly everyone, it is a rarity to find someone that makes that practically impossible.  But, my sister does.

I've watched my sister succeed at virtually everything she's ever undertaken in her life.  She was voted class favorite in 1st grade.  She was a cheerleader, all-star softball player, varsity track letter-winner, field commander in the Marching Marshal band, and I'm not sure she ever spent a single day of her life grounded.  She had countless friends, sprinkled in from every conceivable walk of life.  She was a salutatorian in a graduating class of almost 300.  She won a partial scholarship at Murray State as a member of the rowing team.  She graduated with a degree in nursing in barely four years.  She's been incredibly successful in her professional career, given birth to two beautiful children, molded a house into a lovely home, and done it all with more grace and ease than most people can muster for just about anything.  Needless to say, she made life very difficult for a younger sibling trying desperately to follow her giant footsteps.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my wonderful sister for helping mold me into the man I am today.  And I can't wait to introduce her to my daughter, so she can have the same amazing influence that I did.  Happy birthday, Lensey!  I love you!

Don't Worry 'Bout It, Brah

I have to be honest...The first time I met Derek Reul, I couldn't stand the guy. 

He was loud and obnoxious and seemed to be the total opposite of myself in every conceivable way.  Or at least that's how it felt after that first three or four minute interaction.

But, as time passed, I came to be reintroduced to him on several different occasions, and my disdain slowly (and I stress slowly) began to melt down to slight dislike, to apathy, to tolerance.  And before I knew it, and without even knowing how it took place, I guess you could say I liked Derek Reul.

Hell...Derek Reul was my friend.

Derek was one of a kind.  I know that's the sort of thing you hear said about people all the time, and in most cases it holds no meaning.  It's just something nice people say about other people because they're expected to say it under these types of circumstances.  But that's simply not the case with Derek Reul.  He was one. Of. A. Kind.

Derek was such a unique individual that describing him to someone that didn't know him is practically impossible.  Derek's style was stereotypical of the average fraternity bro, but somehow he pieced it together in a way that made it totally Derek Reul.  He would wear the usual khaki shorts and polo to the golf course like everybody else, but play his 18 holes in penny loafers with no socks.  And despite an onslaught of laughter and ridicule from us, he'd own it.  The way only Derek Reul could.

Therein lies some of Derek's charm.  Almost without fail, any time a group of us got together, sooner or later, we'd all get a huge laugh at Derek's expense.  But he exuded a confidence that was cartoonish in its fervency: totally unrealistic, and yet, a characteristic that made me consistently envious of him.  No matter how many times he ended up as the butt of a joke, he always laughed and said, "Don't worry about it, brah," before sauntering away, as if he were the only person in the room that really "got it."

To demonstrate that point, on one occasion, me, Aaron Stanley, Derek Stitt, Matt Sexton, Jimmy Mullaney, and Derek were all sitting around in Stitt and Sexton's apartment watching the Masters on television.  I made some critical remark directed towards Tiger Woods or some other golfer, and Reul immediately called me out on it.

"Come on, Edwards!  Since you're better than Tiger I guess you can give him tips on how to play golf," he said, at his customary volume, which was almost always way too high for the circumstances.
"I never said I was better than Tiger Woods, Derek...But I'm sure better than you," I snapped back.
"Whatever, dude.  I could beat you, no problem," he said.  I'm not sure he actually believed it, but that's that Derek Reul confidence.
"Ok," I said.  "Let's do it, then.  I'll even give you a five stroke lead, just name the time and place.  Hell..I'll give you a 10-stroke lead, and I'll STILL beat you," I said defiantly.

And the wager was set.  I don't remember what stakes we actually put on the round, if any.  And anyone that ever saw Derek play golf knows that he was arguably the worst golfer that had ever swung a club.  But that didn't keep him from trying, anyway.

We went out to Connemara in Lexington a few weeks later, and as we made the turn to the 10th tee, Derek's 10-stroke lead had dissipated into a 12-stroke deficit.  I don't think we even finished the round.

It's that kind of story that encapsulates Derek Reul in my memory.  And one of many that still gets told and retold everytime me and any of those guys get together.  In fact, we spend an inordinate amount of time telling Derek Reul stories, even if he isn't with us.  And I think that may be the kind of legacy any one of us would want to have.

Derek Reul was loud.  He was obnoxious.  He was uncouth, and borderline inappropriate on occasion.  He could disappear for hours at a time, and when asked where he was, could tell a whopper of a lie, simply for the fun of getting a reaction out of us.  But he could do it with so much enthusiasm and detail that it left you thinking, maybe he is telling the truth, even though every fiber of your being told you there was no way.

But, despite his faults, Derek Reul was one of the most loyal people I have ever met in my entire life.  If you needed him for anything, and I do mean anything, he'd drop whatever he was doing and be there with bells on.  You always knew where he stood, and you never doubted for a second that he had your back.

He loved his friends.  He loved his family.  He loved his God and country.  He loved Ronald Reagan, Carl Weathers, and the Green Bay Packers.  He loved crappy 80s pop music, and singing karaoke while doing his patented "air keytar" dance move.  He loved life, and you knew it simply by watching him live it.

I wish I could say I kept in touch with him up until the end, but I can't.  Sometimes life tends to get in the way, and it's been almost five years since I last saw Derek.  We spoke on the phone or texted occasionally, and those conversations almost always revolved around some funny memory from our days in Lexington.  And, to some degree, I think I prefer it that way.

I wish I had gotten the opportunity to say goodbye, but I know life doesn't always work out the way we want it to.  And I also know Derek wouldn't want me, or anyone else, to sit around sadly wondering what might have been.  That's just not his style.

Derek would want us to laugh.  He'd want us to keep telling those same funny stories over and over.  He'd want us to remember the good times we had with him.  He'd want us to go to a karaoke bar, toast to 'Merica, take a shot of peppermint schnapps, and sing "Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car" at the top of our lungs.  And he'd want us to smile.  And that's exactly how I'll remember Derek Reul.

Rest in peace, brother.  You'll be missed more than you know.