2010 Year in Review

When I'm older and think back to 2010, I'm pretty sure it'll be one of the Top Five years of my life. I don't think it has so much to do with the events that happened even though some great things happened in 2010. And I don't think it's about the places we went -- but we did get to go to some pretty cool places throughout the year. I think it was simply because of the shift that took place inside of me this year that I've written about so many times. I just became so content. Content with what I have. Content with what I don't have. Content in what I do. Content in it being Tuesday, not doing much of anything at all. Content is such a great feeling. Sure, I'm happy. But contentment is better than happiness in my opinion. Happiness is too much expectation, too hard to keep up, too much of a let down when you don't. Content is more real to me. Whether happy or sad, you can still be content.

2010 held alot for me personally. I did things in 2010 that I've never done before. I was the Team Mom for 12 screaming girls of Harley's cheer squad. It was fun in a crazy-chasing-girls-around kind of way. I was also the assistant Team Mom to Brenden's football team. Anyone who knows me, also knows of my fear of roller coasters. And not to be a Fraidy Cat in front of my 7-year old son, I rode a kid-sized roller coaster with him multiple, back-to-back times. Yeah, I know this isn't a huge deed notable especially for courage, but it was still monumental in the grand scheme of my yearly doings. On the downside of never-done-before things lies the inexplicable happening of deleting Bryce's birthday pictures. I know, right? But somehow, it happened. Big dislike. The other thing worthy of noting on the downside list would be backing into my husband's parked truck......twice. Yeah, never done that before -- well, I couldn't really say that the second time......

The year also held alot for us as a family. March held a grand event that the older kids had asked for for months -- as in, on their birthday wish lists. In May, I won a family pack of passes to Kings Island. We didn't get to go as much as I'd liked, but we still got to rot there a few days over the summer. June took us to Indianapolis where we had our first professional (ok, me with a self-timer does not constitute "professional") family portraits taken by a super-sweet couple. (I cannot believe I never blogged about this!?!???) We also took our first family vacation -- which included my in-laws. For 5 days in July we got all tourist-y in Gatlinburg, Tennessee where we took in the Upside-Down Museum, outlet malls, salt water taffy, go-karts, putt-putt, good 'ol southern barbecue and a purdy, panoramic vision of the Smokies.

I turned 34 this year and spent the night with a group of fantastic friends. Most of them my best friends. Ever since I was young, I have spent my birthday at the Bradford Pumpkin Show and insisted on spending the big 3-4 this way, too. And yes, I will spend next year's big day there as well. This birthday was pretty much the same as any other of the 33 I'd had, only this year I opted for birthday apple dumplings instead of a birthday cake, FTW!!

Thinking back on specific dates I can remember of 2010, only three pop into my mind. Obviously, the day we got married will forever be etched in my mind. But two more significant dates are left standing. I spent Labor Day consoling my husband after losing his mom unexpectedly at the age of 53. The days after that were gruesome and bittersweet and left me grateful for what we have. And October 24th, 2010 was the last day Chris coached Brenden's football team. Typically you wouldn't think it'd be a monumental date for me -- the supportive wife -- but it was. It's knowing that bittersweet feeling he had inside. Those kids on that team were like part of his family -- no, our family -- and knowing he won't see them on a day-to-day basis anymore nearly broke my heart for him. I see how he's positively impacted them. And I know he was one of the only good influences some of those kids had. That makes me sad for them.

I don't remember any big achievements of the year. Or failures. Actually, I don't really like that word because even the whole backing-into-the-husband's-parked-truck held a profound learning experience. And a lot of jokes.

Music has a funny way of attaching itself to certain years or parts of my life. There are events and years of my life that come rushing back to me when I hear a particular song. Guns 'n Roses' November Rain instantly makes me think of 1992. Aerosmith's Angel will always take me back to my junior high gym to my 8th grade spring dance. This year will be no exception. Every time I hear Like a G6 I will go back to this summer. Riding to and from football/cheer practice, trips to the mall, or the grocery store. I'd have my windows down and sunroof open, the sun would be on my face and I would be belting this song out at the top of my lungs. I didn't care who could hear me, it made me feel free and much younger than I really am. A friend of ours posted this one on Chris' Facebook page the day of my mother-in-laws memorial service. I had never really paid close attention to the lyrics of that song until then. And they were perfect. And, as much as it pains me to admit this, I will forever be able to close my eyes and hear my kids belting out this song from our basement. It also shames me to admit that I know the words to this song. Lame, but true.

All in all 2010 was a great year. I spent a lot of time watching Modern Family, The Office, 30 Rock and football. We spent the majority of our money on groceries. We cried some days and we laughed nearly everyday. Sometimes we laughed so hard we cried. We wouldn't trade any of it for anything. And this is why:


Kids: Created by us
Memories: Recorded by me 1/1/2010 - 12/31/2010
Music: Oh! (What a Glorious Thing) by Akira the Don
Love: Out there for the taking

Office, schmoffice.

So, every day I check out my blog stats to track how many visitors, where are they from, etc. I'm pretty sure if I didn't have proof that people actually READ this blog (before my blog stats, the only way for me to know people read it, is if they leave a comment. I get virtually no comments. Just sayin'....) anyway, if I didn't have proof that people read this thing, I probably wouldn't keep updating it.

But, I have quite a following -- or so I've found out. I have people over in England (Hi Ashley!) and in Wichita, KS (Hi Jennifer!), someone in Fort Worth, Texas, Mountain View, California, Georgia, Indiana and Kentucky. I have readers from my old company, Mead, and some photographer friends I've just met. My best friend's mom in Florida reads it nearly every day and Aunt Leah will read it as long as I promise not to make her cry. My clients follow my blog and so do my friends and family.

In fact, if it were up to my friends and family, they'd make me write a book. I'm not so sure what I have to say is that important but it could definitely fall under the "entertaining" section. For sure. I mean what else would you call shooting out car windows with BB guns or getting peas stuck up your nose?

So imagine my surprise when I checked my log this morning and found this:

Executive Office Of The President. AYKM? And it wasn't just an "oops, how did I get here?" stumble, it's a repeat visitor! I KNOW what I have to say isn't THAT important or that amusing for that matter. Not in the slightest.

But I will admit that, for a small millisecond, it did make me feel pretty good. Short-lived, but it was there.

And while I'm at it, a big "Thank You" to everyone that stopped in check out what I had to say over the course of 2010. It's ok to leave a comment, too, while you're here....say hi, tell me I spelled something wrong, or what you had for lunch! I don't care. I just love hearing from you.

Oops

I still get giddy when it comes to Christmas. Giddy, like a four-year-old, laying in front of the Christmas tree, staring at the gifts as if I would be able to tell what was inside of them with my supertoddler x-ray vision.

I love the excitement of wondering what is inside of each box, delicately wrapped and lovingly tagged "To: Mom". When Taylor was able to start reading, I would tag some of the gifts from funny people. "From: Dora". "From: Scooby Doo". "From: Drake and Josh"......Spongebob......Your Crazy Mom. It's even carried over to Chris and the boys now. "From: Old Lady", ChickenHead (that's what Bryce used to call me all the time), Beyonce, The Cook, The Maid...and on and on and on. It's so funny to watch their faces when they see who it's from. And they must've caught on...I have one under the tree this year from "BooBoo".

And since we've been together, Chris and I have been pretty lax with each other's gifts. There are quite a few gifts that we know about from the other. But, there are a few that we like to keep secret until Christmas morning. You know how it goes -- you're out shopping together and see something that you like, and they respond with the "Ok, get it. But you'll have to wait until Christmas to have it." deal. That's how it was with my luggage set this year, and Chris' digital tape measure.

And kinda what happened with my coffee mug.

I say "kinda" because it was more like an accident than an intentional thing.

He was working away up in his office. I was working away down in mine. He yelled down to me "Did you order anything for $36??"

"No", I said. "Nothing."

"You didn't order anything for $36 from Photojojo?? Are you sure? Come up here and look," he hollered.

When it hit me.

I had sent him a link a few weeks prior for a coffee mug that I had put on my Christmas list. It had to be that.

By the time I had gotten to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to his office, I had a huge smile plastered across my face. I looked at him, grinned, and he looked back at me all clueless-like.

"The coffee mug I had on my Christmas list was from Photojojo," I said. His clueless look was quickly replaced with a "aw-man-you-weren't-supposed-to-know" look.

"Oops," he said, followed by a smirking "Merry Christmas, babe".

A few days later, a box came in the mail with my "oops" Christmas gift. Since I already knew what it was, Chris let me open it. But, then I had to wrap it and "can't have it until Christmas".

The lady at the supermarket

I was in a hurry.

I had just enough time to get in and out of the store with the necessities written on the post-it pad in my mind.

a book for Harley's exchange at school
bread crumbs
cheese
chicken

I grabbed a cart and barreled towards the book aisle in the back of the store. My quick pace had me dodging in and out of aisles, nearly running over a wandering three-year-old by the jewelry counter.

I hurriedly picked out a book and went on my way. As I tore around the corner, standing there in front of the cough syrup, I saw her.

Her scarf caught my eye. It was a square of red and blue paisley with fringe around the edges. She had folded it in half to form a triangle, wrapped it around her head, and delicately tied it underneath her chin. Her long, dirty, white hair hung from under it as if it were mocking the fringe.

Over her layers of sweaters and sweatshirts, she wore a brown coat. From the obvious cracks and peeling on the outside, you could tell it was made of something other than genuine leather. Her sweatshirt hood peeked out from the collar and her soiled, cream colored, cable-knit sweater hung from the bottom. She had black sweat pants on -- at least two sizes too small an a hole in one knee -- no socks and grey sneakers. Her shoes were so worn that the soles were an inch thicker on the outside of her shoe than inside by the arch.

She was pushing her own two-wheeled cart. You could see paper bags arranged neatly under the clear plastic wrapped around it and her two bungee cords kept everything from shifting around.

Her face was round and her skin was aged. Her face attired wrinkles and a kind, content smile. She glanced at me, with her tender eyes, as if I broke her concentration, flashed a smile, and quickly went back to her task at hand.

There was a stack of coupons in her gloved hand. If I had to guess there were probably 50 of them in her stack. One by one, she'd take them off the top, find the medicine pictured on it, and place the coupon behind the price tag on the shelf. She was close to me at the end of the aisle and when she moved to the opposite end, to find the Advil Liquigels, I could see the mass amounts of coupons tucked down the shelves. There had to have been at least 3o, maybe 40, coupons sticking up like tiny white flags.

I watched her for a few more seconds, as she wrapped up the medicine aisle, carefully placing the coupon where the next lucky shopper could spot it. And as she walked away, I noticed her feet peeking out of the soles of her shoes.

And in those 20 seconds it took her to walk out of my sight, I felt it wave over me like a broken dam.

Here is this sweet, little, old lady putting coupons on products that she couldn't afford and had no intentions of buying. Just so someone else could reap the benefits. People she didn't know. People who would never know it was her that put them there. She probably didn't have a family to go home to. Or kids that cared that she wasn't wearing socks in her hole-soled shoes in the middle of winter. Instead of worrying about what she was going to fix for dinner, she was probably worried about where she was going to FIND dinner.

I continued on through the store with a heavy heart. I felt bad for her.

She looked absolutely content with what she was doing, and the simple pleasure of exchanging hellos with the passersby in the store. So why did I feel so bad for her? Was it because she hadn't had a warm shower? Or company while she was shopping? Was it because she was helping someone else -- people she didn't even know -- save a $1 on Nyquil?

I get so wrapped up in thinking that I have it so bad. Wishing personal relationships with people were different than what the are, having to deal with bad behavior from a 9 year old, burning the chicken casserole or backing into my husband's parked truck in the driveway. When, really, it isn't that bad at all. I could easily have it so much worse.

I don't know the sorrow of burying my husband of 53 years, or to be bedside next to my dying child with cancer. I don't know the emptiness of having a loved one fighting in a war.

I'm sure it's only human to lose sight of what you do have only to focus on what you don't have or how bad it might be from time-to-time. I'm sure I'm not alone in this either. You get so busy with day-to-day life...work, school, kids, schedules, bills, laundry and on and on....that before long you find yourself in a place that has no roses to stop and smell. Even if you are a positive person, you find yourself blanketed in negativity. Everything has become so convenient for us with our iPhone apps, take-out dinners, and DVR that we take so much for granted. In a way, we just expect it to be there and be perfect. And then when it's not, we act as though the world has fallen out from under our feet.

Our feet with hole-less shoes and clean socks.

So thank you, lady in the supermarket, for reminding me to count my blessings today and actually being grateful for them.

O Christmas Tree

I can remember decorating the Christmas tree when I was a kid. My sister and I would spend hours and hours putting multi-colored bulbs on the lower half and then fight over who had more of the silver, stringy, icicle stuff. Then, when we thought it looked too bare, we'd make paper ornaments and hang them on the tree with twist ties we recycled from loaves of bread.

It was always put in the same spot. Year after year it'd go in the front family room (or as my parents called it, the "good" living room -- good for what? is the queen coming over???). Anyway....our house was kind of an open floor plan on one side. The "good" living room opened up to the dining room and that opened up to the regular family room. (Would've been AWESOME for a bowling alley!) Mom liked the tree in the front room so you could see it from the outside....and so you could admire it from the inside at night.

My parents always insisted on a real tree....although my dad would probably beg to differ on that since he was the one that always got stuck on the clean-up crew. But the smell was so worth it. Even now, if I pass a real tree and close my eyes, I can see myself with those silver icicles in my hand. Of course, I can also still feel the prick in the arch of my foot come February when you're scuffing your feet on the carpet to shock your sister.

Now that I think about it, I don't even know where the real tree came from. I don't remember going out to the country tree farm all Griswald-like, trekking miles in the freezing snow, chopping it down and then lugging it back to the car. And I don't remember going to some Mom-and-Pop stop where they were in aisles, lined up like some evergreen tent. Yet, year after year, there it stood, proudly boasting in our "good" living room.

Not much has changed, really, from when I was younger. I still love putting up the tree. I'm finally able to put all of the bulbs evenly on the tree -- not just at the bottom. I just don't have anyone to fight over the icicles with.

It has to look perfect. Like, staight-out-of-Martha-Stewart-Living-magazine-perfect. I traded in the multi-colored lights for only red and white ones. Red and silver bulbs (placed perfectly thankyouverymuch), silver and red ribbon, candy canes, garland and a big white star at the tip top. Perfect.

Since none of the kids were here to help me decorate this year, I dediced to do something a wee bit different. Last year I took one still picture of the final outcome of the tree -- at night, all lit up. But this year, I decided to do a graduation from start to finish.

Any of my friends -- and especially my husband and children -- will tell you what a big, fat dork I am. It's ok. Really. I know this and I wear it proudly.

You'll see.

Influential cups of coffee...

Today he would have turned 88.

And even though he's been gone for 3 years, he still remains the most influential man in my nearly 34 years of living.

My grandma called him "Jimmy Joe" or "sweetie pie", but I called him Pappaw.

He was an old school man. Having been raised through the Great Depression, he was not only frugal but also extremely resourceful. He saved money, cat food cans, twist ties off of bread, and peanut butter jars. And had a use for every single one of them.

It was quite obvious that he came from Cherokee blood -- with his coal black hair, deep chestnut skin and distinct cheek bones. He was a man of few words but knew when to raise his voice. Stern, but gentle. Impressive, but humble.

I lived with my grandparents throughout different parts of my life. When I was born, my mother took me home to her house -- their house -- where we shared the first bedroom on the left just up the stairs. We lived there until I was a toddler. Even though I was small, I can still remember the smell of the fireplace or the feel of the felt on the pool table. I can remember the smell of sawdust in the air and the sound of the seagulls. And in my mind I have etched a picture of the dashboard of his Volkswagon Beetle and can feel the panting of his dog, Sugar Babe, on my cheek. To this day, that place still feels like home to me.

Then, after my parents divorced in the 5th grade, we moved into their overly gigantic house on Pearl Street. There he taught me to carve with wood in his basement workshop, and grow potatoes in the backyard garden. The same house that I got a Casio keyboard for Christmas, where my grandma taught me to play rummy. That house was the best house for hide-and-seek...even for friends that have snuck in to help you with homework. The upstairs hallway smelled like his aftershave and the kitchen always smelled of grandma's oatmeal cookies.

And when I separated from my husband, with a daughter of my own, I moved into their spare bedroom until I was on my feet again. By then, they had scaled down to a smaller house, but still, somehow, managed to cram all that comfort into it's four walls. Comfort that was served to me inside his fish chowder and green beans, or in an apple sliced by his pocket knife at the picnic table. And the countless cups of coffee.

It was the world's best coffee to me -- and to him. And if you would have asked us, we both would have told you that. Except grandma hated it. "You could pave a street with that stuff" she'd say.

It was an old coffee pot -- not the electrical kind -- but the kind you'd use on the stove, or over an open campfire. It was made of aluminum and was lovingly covered with dings and scratches. That pot showed its age like rings of a tree or birthday candles. It only made about 5 cups of coffee at a time and, depending on the conversation, was forced to pull double shifts.

It was over those long, strong cups of coffee that we tried to solve the world's problems. We would chat about nothing......and everything. He'd listen as I'd cry over relationships gone bad, occasionally putting his worn hand over mine in his quiet way of saying 'it'll be ok'. We'd laugh at stories of my ornery mom as a kid, that resembled me as a kid, that resembled my daughter at the time. It was over those same cups of coffee where he confessed of being "sick and tired of being sick and tired" a month before he passed away.

The Internet isn't big enough for me to list all of the things I've learned from him. It's a list far bigger than I. Some in depth lessons and some simple. Most of them taught with a cup of coffee in our hands.

I know most of the waterfowl by watching his steady hand paint their feathers.

I learned to appreciate fine wood --what it feels like under your fingertips and the smell of it running through a band saw. I find myself running my hand over table tops and dressers, smiling at the thought of him teaching me about the grain.

He gave me his secret to his famous green beans. But I can't tell you what it is.

I can't eat a tomato without thinking about his massive garden.....the two of us, sitting on overturned 5 gallon buckets, salt and pepper shakers in hand, eating tomatoes right off the vine. "You have to come out here and talk real sweet to 'em. That's how you get 'em to grow the good, juicy, ones."

He taught me about failure, and that it's okay. "If you don't ever make a mistake you'll never learn."

I learned what it felt like to be poked in the elbow with a fork when I had my elbows on the dinner table. He was big on manners.

I learned what unconditional love was -- how to give it and how to receive it -- by his example. And about respect -- by his example. How to love your spouse -- by his example.

And even though he's passed on -- probably sitting on a heavenly river bank, fishing with my mom -- he still continues to teach me. I'm passing his lessons onto my own children. Lessons that they'll pass on to children of their own.

That coffee pot held his legacy. I'm just the spout.

Saturday morning with Aunt Ericka

Friday night I sweet-talked my sister into letting me take my niece (you read about her here) for the night. Like all night.

I forgot how much fun it was to have a one-year-old in the house and immediately remembered why I leave the alphabet magnets on my fridge. (Ok, I admit, Chris and I sometimes exchange corny "I love you"s with them.) Dani entertained herself for about an hour (maybe longer?!?) with those things. She take 'em off, she'd knock them off, she'd pick them back up, I'd say their name or color and she'd try to say it. She was so content with those stinkin' magnets. (T -- if you don't have any of these, I'm totally getting you some!)

I also was quickly reminded what it was like to sleep in a bed with a one-year-old. I was kicked in the ribs and smacked in the face more times than I could count. I won't complain though because she was close enough to smell the baby lotion that I put on her, and that is a smell that I don't get much of these days.

You guys all saw what I did last time she came home with me. Why should breakfast time on a Saturday morning be any different??!

(are you kidding me with those eyes right now? Seriously. Even in black & white they look amazing!!! 100% real, 0% Photoshop, too, BTW.)

Game of the Year

I never would have thought I'd ever pick up a glove again (or bat), I mean, I haven't played softball since I was 13. But when I got an email yesterday afternoon from Taylor's softball coach, it was obvious that I didn't have a choice. I HAD to play whether I liked it or not -- regardless of my athletic skill.....or lack thereof.

So, last night Taylor's softball team (um, did I mention it was a FAST-PITCH softball team!?) and the moms of all the kids, played in our own version of a Pros vs. Joes game. Which was realistically more like 10-year-old-Pros vs. Middle-aged-out-of-shape Joes. We struggled with almost every aspect of the game, except our team name. We started out as the "Kid Crushers" but then affectionately turned that into the "Cannon Crushers".

It's hard to put your finger on the best part of the whole evening. Sure, it was fun to be out there playing with your daughter in a sport that they love to play, and it was emphatically hysterical seeing moms with batting helmets 6 sizes too small. But, I think the funniest part of the night was realizing how out of shape us Mom's really are. I mean, I fully support anyone that claims that Chasing Kids should be an Olympic event, but carting your kids to and from practice twice a week doesn't really stretch out your hamstrings. (And let's be honest here, I was probably the one that did the LEAST physical activity since I pretty much had a camera in my hands most of the night.) I'm sure there are other Crusher teammates that really struggled to get outta bed this morning. Our "cat-like reflexes" were more like tortoise reactions. Our feet stopped when we wanted them to, but our bodies didn't.

Lucky for us, our salary cap wasn't even close to being extinguished, so we were able to scout and draft a few "young'uns" to help us out. (Thanks Gabby, Haley and Erin -- and anyone else that stayed over from the 12u practice to play!!)

(yes, I was totally playing left field at the time I took this picture. C'mon....photographers never sleep.)

(that's me and Taylor in the bottom left-hand corner)

I can't decide on my Play of the Game yet….it's a toss-up between Audra (Kara -- the pitcher's -- mom) getting a hit off her daughter (that girl throws a mean change-up, too) or Jess (a Young'un we acquired in a trade early this spring) cranking one clear out to the fence.

I'm sure the girls enjoyed as much as us Moms did. I mean, when's the last time you got to talk smack to YOUR mom and not get in trouble for it?!? Plus, they ended up winning the game 10-8. I'm sure they'll be gloating about that for a while. At least until this bruise on my ankle from a wild pitch goes away.

The view from the deck

Every year in July, Dayton hosts an elaborate air show. In my 32 years, I think I've been to it twice.

And this year wasn't any different.

Infact, I could see everything I wanted to see from my deck.

The USAF Thunderbirds.

Planes really aren't my 'thing'.....but picture taking sure is.......

My own angel

It's been weighing on me for the last couple of days now, and no matter how distracted I am with new gear, kids, life, etc. I can't seem to shake the increasing thoughts about her.

Her. I say that like she doesn't have a name or I've forgotten what it was. Like we were only brief acquaintances and not blood. I say that like we didn't see each other day in and day out for 15 years. Or maybe I say that to keep her memories at an arms length to protect myself from the sharp pain of missing her.

As if she wouldn't have been proud enough of me for being a mom -- a great mom -- I know she'd be proud of me for diving head first into my photography business. And no matter how excited I am to start this book of my life, it's somewhat bittersweet to do it without seeing her excited reaction smeared across her face. This venture gets added to the long list of monumental milestones in my life that she's missed, like another notch in Life's belt who happens to be on Weight Watchers.....and Adkins. The older I get, the more things get added to the bottom of that list -- always at an increasing rate.

It amazes me how the sense of smell can instantly take you to an otherwise forgotten memory. Like the smell of Doublemint gum taking me to Sunday morning church service, sitting next to my Grandma who let me have a half a stick to chew instead of singing hymns. Or the smell of a sawdust-y garage taking me back to my grandparents house on Strowbridge Drive in Sandusky where I'd skid the wheels of my Big Wheel down the straight runway-esque sidewalk. Or how the smell of a growing corn field whispering on the summer breeze takes me back to long summer days on a farm where my Aunt Leah encouraged our imaginations to melt as fast as our Jell-O pudding pops on the back porch. Or how I can pass a strange woman in the mall wearing White Shoulders perfume and I'm rushed back to the last Mother's Day with my mom as if it were just last month.

I can hear her laughter in my mind when Harley or Bryce says something funny. I can hear her encouraging words when the doubt creeps in as if she's sitting across the table from me, with her piping hot coffee in front of her, and a lit Winston Light 100 in hand. She'd tell me that I'll be fine and she has faith everything will fall into place. Then she'd tell me how proud she is of me for being daring enough to follow my dream.

I take comfort in her as my angel. I believe all of the signs I have seen, all of the subtle hints that have been strategically placed, were all done by her hand.

I have an amazing number of supportive people who are encouraging me in this. Some I get to see every single day (or close to it)....others I "see" with my heart.