Here's to You, Dan Janton

Though his naturally thick, jet-black hair resembles that of a man in his 20s, my husband Dan Janton is now 50 years old. We’ve talked many times about how surreal it sounds to say he’s 50, with such a youthful bride no less, but here he is, half a century old, and, if I do say so, aged to perfection.

It was Dan’s good looks that grabbed my attention 20 years ago and it’s his good looks that keep him in my good graces when he’s annoying. I think he’s the best-looking guy in any room, a nice piece of arm candy for me, his much younger wife.

Dan wasn’t the guy I thought I’d marry. Before I met him, I imagined a southern boy in Carhartt denim, maybe a twangy voice – what I got was a preppy golfer who pronounces “aunt” in a weird way, because he is a Yankee…something else this Georgia girl never imagined.

What I remember most about our early, get-to-know-each-other months, was: 1. This guy is obsessed with golf. 2. He is adorable with children. 3. He thinks his friends hung the moon. Many years later and all that’s changed is his number of weekly golf rounds.

Dan’s heart for children is one of his best qualities. While I was his girlfriend, dreamily doodling “Keri Janton” on scraps of paper, I turned to mush watching Dan with kids. He’s never been the guy who shies from holding babies, rather the one with his arms extended, his deep voice raised an octave as he nuzzles their little faces. How badly I wanted to have a litter of babies with this man and how thankful I was when we welcomed each of our three, beautiful boys.

Dan is an amazing father, completely smitten with his sons. He’s the kind of dad who says ‘I love you’ multiple times a day, who gets out in the yard to play catch and have Nerf wars, who digs the deepest moats for the boys’ sandcastles, who plays his music loud, often resulting in spontaneous dance parties. He loves to watch games with a pile of babies on his lap and he loves to talk to the boys about everything, from their days at school to their wildest dreams. He is an incredibly encouraging father, so proud of all their efforts, so supportive when they struggle. I love to watch Dan as he watches his boys, his adoration for them so obvious. Years ago, at the end of Max’s school Christmas performance, while all the parents applauded from their seats, Dan went to the front of the class where Max stood amongst classmates, he dropped to his knees, and leaned over a row of chairs to kiss his boy.

Dan couldn’t wait to coach our kids in sports and now has more than 13 seasons under his belt between basketball, soccer, and baseball. Our kids love having him as their coach and he’s only caused me to hide beneath my hat in embarrassment one time throughout all these seasons. Dan is a wonderful coach. While he’s competitive and loves to win as much as the next guy, he loves the children more. He has a way of being simultaneously instructional and fun. He wants to help the player improve and he wants to instill a love for the game. Every time we are at the ballpark, little boys run up to hug “Coach Dan.” As we walk away, Dan puts his hand on his heart and smiles at me. He loves those kids, and they love him right back.

Beyond his regular Friday golf rounds, Dan doesn’t do much socially, neither of us does unless it revolves around the kids. We’re in that phase of life and relishing it. That said, I know Dan would love to see his friends more often, because he loves them dearly. He grew up with a band of brothers, friends who were more like family, who he still holds in highest esteem. Along with that crew in Connecticut, he has friends from the Navy, a bunch out in Acworth, sports dad buddies, and probably upward of 100 pals from golf – whether they be industry friends or friends he plays with. Dan is gregarious, occasionally ornery (especially if golf isn’t going his way), and fiercely loyal. Not once have I seen him be envious of a friend’s achievements, only proud and celebratory. He is the same person in public as he is behind closed doors, genuine, honest (sometimes a little too honest), and caring.

I didn’t doubt Dan would be a good husband, but he has exceeded my expectations. It’s been quite a road, watching the 29-year-old guy whose primary thoughts were about making the PGA Tour, evolve into a 50-year-old man who prays with his little boys every night and puts his family above all else. I knew he’d love me, but I couldn’t have fathomed just how much. I could’ve never anticipated the tragedy we’d face and couldn’t be more thankful for the way Dan continues to lead us.

Dan is the antidote to my self-doubt. He sees my flaws and loves me anyway; he never leaves me or greets me without a kiss. He hears my dreams and says, “you will.” I can be a nervous creature, second-guessing, worrying, very private and protective about plenty, while Dan is bold, confident, reassuring, unafraid to show all his colors. When I look at life through Dan’s prism, it’s clearer, simpler. It’s the way I want to be.

Dan is one of the richest men I know. He loves a budget, and an assessment of needs verses wants (so fun), but he often looks around, puts his hands up and says, “we’re so fortunate.” We used to read a Seuss book to the boys, “The Best Nest.” It’s a story about two birds who are on the hunt for the perfect home, only to realize they had the best nest all along. Dan refers to our house as “the best nest.” He reminds us that the love and memories shared within these walls is unmatched and that if we’re together, we have all we need. Material things are fine, but for Dan, it’s the experiences and time spent with those you love that make life wonderful.

Dan Janton is not without quirks. He requires a minimum of five pillows each night, can handle exactly zero spice in his food, and can be found stretching multiple times a day, no matter the setting. It’s not uncommon to be mid-conversation with Dan when he pops into a downward dog position. I have photographic evidence of such weirdness taking place on the side of a highway, in a parking deck, on the beach, on a baseball field, and in the replica of Noah’s Ark in Kentucky. He has shamelessly stretched across America.

I think the number 50 has hit Dan a little hard. Despite having a vibrant child bride, he’s feeling a bit old, a little creaky in the joints. My wish for my sweet husband today, as he reflects on 50 years gone by and the 50 that lie ahead, is that he looks at this precious tapestry of life and sees nothing but love.

As he walked out the door this morning, a small wooden cross in his pocket and Max in his heart, I looked at Dan with so much gratitude and respect. He is not a perfect man, but he tries his best every single day. I’m so proud of all he’s accomplished, both professionally and personally. I’m so proud of the person he is and so grateful that he’s the father of our sons. He is worthy of all the praise and celebration he receives. I’m so happy he was born on this day, so happy he is doing something he loves today – playing golf (of course), and, most of all, so happy that I, his incredibly young wife, call him mine.

My Famous Friend, Robert Blan

Originally Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

Robert Blan was proud of the girls in his life. He’d lean back in his seat, rest his crossed arms on his chest, and regale me with anecdotes about his daughters, Robin and Vinci, and his dear friends, Danica and Heather, pharmacists at Sherwood’s Drug Shop where he sipped coffee every morning for most of his life.

When I met him in August 2022, he bragged about all of them in a way that made me envious. Robin, Vinci, Danica and Heather are all adults, but I loved how he referred to them as girls, affectionately, fatherly. How wonderful it must feel to be one of his girls, I thought. I spent a lot of time with Mr. Robert, as I called him, over the following six months. He shared countless memories with me, and, along the way, Mr. Robert and I created some of our own.

I learned about Mr. Robert from my mom. She saw a friend’s Facebook post about an 89-year-old man who was the last remaining member of a long-standing coffee club. He sat alone at a table in a pharmacy every morning, drinking coffee, and chatting with passersby, said the post. Very familiar with my affinity for senior citizens, my mom knew this was a man I’d want to meet, and a story I would want to write. She told me about him on a Friday afternoon. I was sitting across from him the next morning.

Mr. Robert was friendly with all the customers at Sherwood’s, greeting them, exchanging niceties, and he was just as friendly to the new faces, including mine. We sat together at the small round table, his home away from home, and he told me the story of his life, chapter by chapter. While the article I wrote for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution focused on Mr. Robert’s relationship with Sherwood’s, I heard countless stories that, though they didn’t go to press, made an impression on me.

Mr. Robert moved to Buford as a child and never left. He married his high school sweetheart, Mildred, they raised two daughters, and he worked at Eastman Kodak for 35 years.

After he retired, he drank coffee every morning at Sherwood’s with a big group of friends, many of whom he’d known most of his life. He and Mildred used to take long drives that Mr. Robert timed just right, so Mildred could gaze upon the most beautiful sunsets.

A carousel of vivid images streamed in my head as he detailed story after story. It was a simple life, but it sounded extraordinary. There was joy, there was heartbreak, all narrated with conviction. He missed Mildred, who passed in 2011, he missed his coffee club buddies, most of whom had died, but he was one of the most content people I had ever met.

The world outside was bustling, anxiety the buzz word on everyone’s lips, but next to Mr. Robert, I felt nothing but calm. Time slowed as we talked, and I savored every second.

I had a handful of interviews with Mr. Robert and all his girls. They’d been so warm, welcoming me into the fold. Once the story was published, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to any of them, so I didn’t.

Vinci brought Mr. Robert to watch my sons’ youth baseball games, and I’d take my sons to the pharmacy to visit with him. In December I attended Mr. Robert’s 90th birthday party, which his daughters hosted at the pharmacy. I continued visiting him at Sherwood’s nearly every week. With his story displayed on the wall across from us, Mr. Robert and I sat, now side by side, my hand between his two, as he introduced me to customers as “the young lady who made him famous.”

After dropping my children off at school in March, I received a text from Danica. I didn’t read it entirely, but saw the words fall, hospital, and very bad. I immediately changed lanes and drove to the pharmacy. I rushed inside, still wearing pajamas, and Danica told me everything. Mr. Robert, who had recently experienced a couple ministrokes that exacerbated his dementia, walked out of his home in the middle of the freezing cold night, and fell in the road as he was heading who knows where. Doctors said his chance of survival was unlikely. Danica and I wrapped our arms around one another and sobbed.

A day later, I visited Mr. Robert in the hospital. It broke my heart to see the cuts and swelling on his unconscious face, to see his daughters with their tear-stained cheeks, but I was grateful to be by him once more, to lay my hand on his chest and thank him for his kindness, his influence, for the stories he shared with me.

I lay my head near his, close to his ear, hoping he’d hear me in his deep slumber. “I love you,” I said, words I felt since the moment I met him. I received a call from Robin 30 minutes after I left. “Dad passed. We think he was waiting for you.”

Days later I stood before a crowded room and eulogized my friend, Mr. Robert. I told everyone, as I told those he introduced me to at Sherwood’s, I did not make Mr. Robert famous with the AJC story. He was a legend all on his own, a salt of the earth, humble man who never wanted more than exactly what he had.

I recalled many of the stories he had told me, including the details of the canes he hand-crafted. More than once, he’d held up his cane in the pharmacy and walked me through his process, step-by-step. The canes were made of hickory from the grounds where he once hunted. “Ounce by ounce,” he’d say with authority, “hickory is stronger than steel.” Mr. Robert was like hickory. Better than one could ever fathom.

I visited Mr. Robert’s grave a couple of weeks later. I gave my respects to Mildred and took comfort knowing that, after years of missing her, he was with her again.

I continue to visit the pharmacy. I don’t sit in his chair. I can’t do that. I sit to the right of it, where I sat when he’d hold my hand, and I drum away on my computer, writing stories and remembering the one that led me to that very spot. It’s my hope to carry Mr. Robert’s torch in some small way, to be a friendly presence at his table in the center of his beloved pharmacy, grateful for simple pleasures, the friends behind the counter most of all.

I met Robin for coffee one afternoon, and, recently, the pharmacists and both of Mr. Robert’s daughters took me to dinner for my birthday. We laughed as we shared stories about him. “This would make dad really happy, seeing all his girls together,” Robin said.

I wish I had as much time with Mr. Robert as they had, but I’m so grateful for those six precious months. I had wondered how good it must feel to be one of his girls. Now I know.

Bottomless Bucket List

My sons and I created an ambitious summer bucket list on their last day of school in May. Caught up in their enthusiasm, my heart swelled at the thought of lazy mornings, baseball games, Vacation Bible School, riding water slides, visits to the library, and all of us snuggled up on the couch for movie nights.

As an avid photographer and memory preserver, I decided to take a picture to represent each day of their summer. I started a private Instagram account and uploaded a daily photo. I numbered each accordingly – Day 1, Day 27, and so forth – and wrote a caption. The plan is to surprise my kids with a book of these photos, so they’ll always remember the summer when they were 8 and 6. I will print a copy for myself, too.

There were 68 days of summer break for my boys, including weekends. As my grid of photographs expanded, a colorful collage splashed with ice cream cones and sun-kissed cheeks, my heart sank. The days were going by so quickly. I felt a rush of emotion at the thought of summer ending, of sending them off to school again, and thinking of how much bigger they’ll be next summer. How can I slow it all down?

Much as we want to see our kids grow and thrive, the proverbial ticking clock is omnipresent, whether you’re literally counting the days on Instagram or not, and it stings. There’s an axiom that went viral a while back, a reminder to parents that we have just 18 summers with our children, so we should make the most of each one. While it’s a good reminder to live in the moment with our kids, I hate thinking about it. I don’t want to number our days or years together. I don’t want to imagine a finish line with my children. I want to picture a road that stretches beyond the horizon.

We checked almost everything on our bucket list this summer. We never made it to the beach, but we went on an epic road trip, continuing the quest we began last summer to visit all 30 MLB ballparks. We didn’t make it to the splatter art place, but the boys spent hours and hours playing with Legos and soldier figurines. We never made it to Fernbank, but we had a blast at the Lake Lanier Islands water park.

While I feel sentimental about summer ending and school beginning, I don’t feel disappointed by anything we didn’t do over those 68 days of summer. We took our time, played plenty of days by ear, laughed, bickered, and stuck to one another like glue. We missed out on nothing. I refuse to have anxiety of what we didn’t get to, rather anticipation because those to-do’s still lay ahead. Yes, time moves fast, babies don’t keep, yadda yadda, but, God willing, there’s so much more for us. There are more adventures to chase and memories to make, and no date of completion is required. I hope we never check every box on our list. I hope there’s always another whimsy to pursue, game to play, vacation to dream up, another photo book to create. The kids will grow and so can the bucket list we share with them.

We’ll miss toting them around on our backs like sherpas and watching them hold hands as they jump into the pool, but time has proven that each new phase holds so much goodness. There is more. Here’s to keeping an active bucket list with our children and maybe letting a thing or two linger until next summer. May an incomplete list be a comfort, a bit of hope, a reminder that there is always something to look forward to.

Twelve

It’s the music he loves most. He favors his brothers’ songs, but he’s memorized them all, two teams’ worth of walk-up songs. His hands go up and his head nods as he runs up and down the fence line, singing the songs, and cheering on each player by name. He is the most enthusiastic person at every youth baseball game and he’s his brothers’ greatest fan.

Everyone knows Max. It’s his curls and big smile, his signature hello and hi, guy, delivered with a one-of-a-kind inflection. He is cheerful and friendly, a magnetic force that draws you in, leaves you happier, lighter. Some call him “the mayor.” It certainly fits.

Max loves church and school. Middle school is on the horizon. When he began preschool at age 4, I’d wake him by stroking his back. His eyes would open, and he’d immediately start talking about his day, excitedly listing the names of all his classmates. This is still our morning routine and friends are still his favorite. He collects them everywhere he goes.

Max has his own room with a big moon nightlight he’s had for years. He’s always loved his quiet space for bedtime, but there’s a third bed in his brothers’ shared room that’s for him whenever he wants to join them. Dan and I love when all three sleep in the same room. We listen outside the door as they laugh and carry on. I sneak in when they’ve fallen asleep. I kiss their faces, tousle their hair, and, of course, take pictures of them, my sweet trio.

Max is happiest when he’s outdoors. He’s always been that way. I have a jogging stroller customized for him, and we run all over the neighborhood and through parks. His brothers ride their bikes alongside us. He waves at everyone and laughs uncontrollably when we race the boys. We’ll do anything to make Max laugh.

When Dan walks through the door, Max alerts the entire house, just as he’s done since he was a toddler. Daddy home! Daddy home! Daddy here! Dan is greeted as if he’s walked into a surprise party – a cacophony of celebratory hoots and hollers as all our sons hang on his limbs, and clamor to be the first to share the details of their day.

Homemade pizza is the most requested dinner by all the boys. Max still likes to help roll the dough and sprinkle on the cheese and pepperoni. He had a g-tube for years, but he eats by mouth now. We never rushed him, but we always knew he’d meet this goal. I used to dream of the day when he’d have a favorite food, something he’d crave and ask for over and over. I had a feeling that milkshakes would be at the top of his list, and I was right. I make them all the time and delight in watching them be devoured.

Though most kids don’t enjoy errands, Max loves them. All around town, from Kroger to “TarTar,” he wants to be out and about. When he was tiny, I called him my sidekick. Now I’m his. Going to a store without him would never feel right, or as fun. When he was 6, I needed to make a quick trip to a sporting goods store. As quickly as I cranked the car in the driveway, I jumped out of it and ran back into the house where Dan was watching the three boys. I grabbed Max and said I’d be back in a bit. I couldn’t bear to run the errand without him. Everything was better with him in tow. Max was on my hip as we entered the store. I kept looking at him, melting over his sweet face, unable to wipe the smile off mine, feeling overjoyed as I thought I get to take this guy everywhere with me for the rest of my life!

He turns 12 today. He wants sprinkles on his cake and lots of music. When he was 5, we threw him a “band party.” We’re doing that again this year because no party could be more perfect for Max. The band will play his favorite songs, Mumford & Sons mostly, and the venue will be filled with friends and family. Flanked by his brothers, Max will blow out his candles. Dan and I will watch them with watery eyes, feeling like the luckiest parents in the world.

Next Saturday morning we’ll be at the Miracle League field for Max’s game. Yes, he plays baseball, too, just like we always hoped, and Dan coaches him, just as he does the other boys. Mumford & Sons blares every time Max walks up to the plate. His brothers stand at the fence and cheer him on let’s go, Maxie, you know what to do. When he swings and hits the ball, there’s a ruckus in the stands, a blur of someone jumping, screaming, losing her ever-loving mind. It’s me, his mother, Max’s greatest fan.

I always think about what life would look like if Max were still here. His brothers ask how tall he’d be, what shows he’d like, if he would prefer this or that. I spend a lot of time considering the answers. I know Max like the back of my hand, my entire being intrinsically devoted to him and his brothers. I know his life here would still have challenges, but, as it always was with Max, those challenges would be eclipsed by joy. Our world would be brighter, our hearts would be whole. My imagination takes me to beautiful places with Max, from here to heaven, as often as I can endure it. I carry him in my heart and write stories about him in my mind and on paper. I picture him everywhere we go, in every new phase of life, at every birthday we celebrate without him. Grief is indistinguishable from our love, the two both so consuming and ever present, but we know sadness isn’t the way to honor our boy. He was the most effervescent, joyful soul. He deserves smiles, and laughter, and so much celebration. So, we will light candles, and send balloons up. We will make a wish and pray we find him in our dreams. We will continue to share his legacy as best as we can, through his foundation, by loving one another, and by loving others. Wherever we go, he’ll go with us.

Max forever. Team Janton always.

Wonder Years

The mothers who have gone before us say savor these days, these precious days. Even now we look at photographs with glassy eyes, thinking wasn’t this just yesterday. Some weeks are a climb, some phases so challenging, but there is rest, too, and laughter, and so much magic. We delight in our full laps, warm pajama snuggles, little hands that fit inside our own and know this is the work we were created for. The gift of it all is not lost on us.

Those were the days, we’ll say years from now, but take heart: while time is fleeting, love is not - it thrives where the soil is rich. They won’t always be little, but they’ll always be our children. Our bond is eternal. Our hearts will flutter when we see them at every age, their faces different, but the same. Memories will wash over us, pride and affection illuminating us from the inside out. For the rest of our lives, we’ll remember their wonder years, our babies’ age of innocence. We’ll say I was the one they were running toward, and my arms were spread wide. I was there for it all.

Lucky us.

Stop playing with it before it breaks.

If I go look and find it…

Please just try a bite.

It’s different when an adult says it.

I’m so proud of you.

You don’t need a Band-Aid.

Can I do this without an audience?

It’s the medicine that tastes like bubble gum.

I’d love to hold you.

Where’s your daddy?

Don’t make me say it again.

Let me tie your shoe.

I guess someone doesn’t want to go to the party.

Inside voice.

Because you’ll get cavities.

I wouldn’t yell if you listened the first three times.

I promise I won’t let go.

Please stop.

You are so smart.

You know this will end with one of you crying.

That movie again?

Let’s play the quiet game.

Please don’t say that at school.

Please don’t do that in public.

I could eat you up.

I will turn this car around.

Because you made the mess.

It’s too early.

I told you to go before we left.

On your mark, get set…

Who’s there?

Orange who?

You are amazing.

Hands to yourself.

But you have a night light.

Did you say thank you?

No, you look like me.

Polo!

It won’t hurt, I promise.

I’m watching.

I think that’s plenty.

Good night nobody. Good night mush.

Don’t bring that into the house!

Mommy’s just resting her eyes.

Wash your hands.

You did it all by yourself!

Watch your tone.

I don’t know why it just is.

Stranger danger!

Sharing is caring.

Make a wish!

Five more minutes and that’s it.

You make me so happy.

No running.

Yes, it looks just like a bear riding a unicorn.

No snacks before dinner.

Because Santa is magic.

Is it alive?

Please double check.

No hitting.

What’s the magic word?

Don’t cry, mommy’s here.

But you know better.

I have snacks!

Because I said so.

Bow your head and close your eyes.

Did you look both ways?

Let’s snuggle.

You said you’d take care of it.

Please go to bed.

I promise there’s not a monster.

Because baths make us clean.

You can’t wait up for the Tooth Fairy.

Let me kiss your boo boo.

What matters is what you think.

Please don’t make me say it again.

What’s that smell?

Don’t touch!

But I like how you say psssghetti.

I’m going to yank on three.

Wipe your feet.

That’s very interesting, but you need to go to sleep.

Don’t tattle.

Surprise!

Clean clothes don’t go in the hamper.

I love you.

But naps are fun.

Hold my hand.

More than anything in the entire world.

Ella Grace

Dear Ella Grace,

Some words are better left unsaid, while some press against our hearts until they’re shared. I give you my words with so much love, and I hope they wrap around you like a hug.

It was a crowded day at the ballpark, and you caught my eye – those curls, that sweet face – you were all I could see. Our paths were so close to colliding and when they didn’t, the weight of my grief fell upon me.

I spent the next couple of hours thinking of you while a baseball game was played before me. When we left the park, my husband, sons, and I went to dinner at Maria’s, which was completely empty except for one family: yours. We were seated in a booth behind you. I wept as I told my husband about you and who you reminded me of. It was no coincidence that we were both at that restaurant, I told him, and I knew I couldn’t let the moment pass by.

When your family stood to leave, I sparked a delicate conversation with your sweet mother. I asked her about a syndrome, then I held up my phone to show her a picture – the reason for my inquiry. Ella Grace, you precious girl, have a syndrome that is nearly identical to that of my son, Max. When Max was born, we were told he was 1 in 30 million. Crossing paths with you, recognizing features, felt like nothing short of a miracle.

The bond between our families was instant. The immediate rush of love, empathy, trust, gratitude – all so deep and genuine. As your mom and I wrote to each other later that evening, I confessed that I wanted to hold you so badly, that when I saw you at the park it took all I had not to scoop you into my arms and bury my face in your beautiful curls. Your mom, ever so gracious, gave me permission to do so whenever I want.

Weeks later I sat in the middle of a store, flipping through children’s books. At the sound of little feet on worn hardwoods, I lifted my head to find the greatest surprise…you. You walked straight to me and climbed onto my lap. I fought off my quivering chin and smiled as we read a book together. I hugged you over and over, touched your sweet curls, and silently thanked you for letting me do so.

And again, just weeks later, I felt a presence nearing as I spoke with a restaurant hostess. I turned around and there you were - by complete surprise- running toward me.

There’s a song I love called “The Goodness of God.” When I’m struggling, it’s hard to trust every word, but the lyrics tug at me…Your goodness is running after me…I sing those words and I think of you. I think of Max, I think of God, and I think of life’s curiosities. The pain of losing Max has not left me, but neither has God, and now I’ve met you, a little angel who instantly took residence in my heart. You were around before I ever realized it, living a bright, precious life, but now our paths have intersected, and I’m so grateful for every moment we’ve shared. Our encounters are a gift, so much goodness, rushing at me every time I look up and find you.

While I absolutely adore you for who you are, I hope it’s okay to also adore you for who you remind me of. I can give you no better compliment than to compare you to my Max. My curly-headed boy was a beacon of happiness, a triumphant lover of music and people, whose light continues to shine. What I’d give to see you two run around that ballpark together.

Ella Grace, I have loved you from the moment I spotted you. A wonderful life lay before you and, now that I’m in your world, I will cherish every glimpse I get.

Shop Small, Love Big

I have a shop around the corner from home, a place where friends greet me, where my kids are spoiled with attention, where I can always find that perfect something. It’s a place I love to sneak to for a breather, a small shop I love to support, and, consequently, where I’ve found support time and time again.

It was the Christmas season of 2017 -- the Christmas that barely was. There was no tree in my house, no Christmas spirit within me, but there were still presents to be purchased. My son Max had gone to Heaven just two months prior and, though it was also my baby’s first Christmas, I had no enthusiasm for the impending holiday. I wanted it over.

I hadn’t been to Mint Juleps, my shop around the corner, since I lost Max. The girls in the shop knew me best with my three boys in tow. Max, the oldest of my tiny crew, is the one who always said “hello” and engaged them with conversation. Max loved the girls at Mint Juleps, and they loved him back.

Like his mama, Max was a big fan of Adele, especially her bellowing hit “Hello.” During a visit in the shop one day, the girls played “Hello” on the speaker in the store just for my boy. His face lit up, his arms raised in the air, and he kept saying “hello” in an Adele-like English accent. The girls at Mint Juleps made his day and warmed his mama’s heart a million times over.

Going back to the store without Max was a step forward and I didn’t want to take a step without Max. As I attempted to peruse each item, all I could see was my son, his smile, his perpetual joy, and I was overcome with pain.

I stood in the middle of Mint Juleps and wept. While I cried, I was embraced. Both Michelle and Teri came over and they wrapped their arms around me. They cried with me and shouldered the weight of my loss. They have continued to do so for five years.

Because of Max, I made a million connections that I would not have made otherwise, Mint Juleps included. I’m a friendly person and I have always loved people, but Max, with his engaging personality and knack for greetings, gave me no option- together, he and I made friends wherever we went.

I am confident Max opened the door for me with Mint Juleps, that because of him, the girls in the shop recognized me and we became closer quicker. Because of my boy’s enthusiasm for people, I had a warm opening that led to quick bonds. God, what an angel you gave me.

When I launched Max’s eponymous foundation, the girls at the shop stepped in stride. Whatever I did, they cheered me on and contributed however they could. They’ve supported our golf tournament, promoting it in the store and connecting me to vendors. Mint Juleps has a featured booth at Max’s Moon Run each year where they enthrall kids with their toys, sell treats with custom stickers for my boy, along with a slew of other cute items. Those precious shop girls show up again and again, and their presence is never lost on me.

This year we are hosting a Christmas party at Mint Juleps to benefit Max’s foundation. Max’s music teacher, Miss Mary, will be singing carols, friends will be bopping around, greeting each other with hellos and hugs - Max would love it. My shop around the corner will be bustling in honor of my boy, and the thought of that…words don’t suffice.

Last Christmas, four years after the year I wept in the heart of Mint Juleps, the girls in the shop helped my husband and little boys shop for me. My babies left with full arms and full hearts. When I walked into our home that evening and found a load of new packages beneath the tree, I felt the boys’ eyes on me and saw proud smiles lift their full cheeks.

Days later, I thanked the girls at Mint Juleps for helping the boys pick such perfect, thoughtful presents. They laughed as they recounted how fun the experience was. I especially loved the part my husband Dan shared, that he got to the counter and didn’t care about the cost, because the experience was so delightful. When Dan says the cost is inconsequential, I know it must have been special.

I’m so grateful for Mint Juleps. They’re unlike any other store, any chain, or Amazon. It feels special to hear their bell chime when I walk through the door, to smell the yummy scents wafting in the air, to touch all the pretty things, and catch up with friends as I mosey through the maze of beauty. It’s a small town, old-fashioned experience, one that may slip through our fingers if we don’t love on small businesses enough.

Shopping small has given me so much - precious friendships, best of all. I’m invested in Mint Juleps, and they’re invested in me. God bless the shop around the corner.

Thank You, Captain

Derek Jeter broke my husband’s heart when he retired from the Yankees in 2014. There are millions of Jeter fans in the world, and my Dan is definitely one of the most devout.

This summer, eight years after Jeter tipped his hat for the final time, ESPN featured a miniseries documentary called ‘The Captain.’ Dan and I have watched it together, we’ve watched it with our kids, Dan has watched it on his own a handful of times - we’ve loved it. Dan is completely enraptured by Jeter and all the Yankees footage, as are our children. I like all that, too, but I also love remembering that time in our lives, when Dan was watching Jeter and I, just a lovesick gal, was watching Dan watch Jeter.

As it goes with couples, Dan introduced me to his love of Jeter and the Yankees, and it wasn’t long before I had pinstriped spirit wear of my own. Although I’d often go cross-eyed when Dan carried on about the Yankees’ history, and tossed out hundreds of memorized stats, I appreciated his passion and found it endearing. I jumped in and became a bit of a fanatic, too. I created a tradition of giving Dan Yankees ornaments every Christmas, which are now displayed each year on the Yankees Christmas tree. While reading People magazine years ago, I came across the recipe for Derek Jeter’s favorite pancakes - from scratch with a dozen or more ingredients. I was flipping those suckers multiple times a week, whipping egg whites, and wiping flour across my brow like an IHOP pro. Sometimes the process was a pain, but it was always worthwhile and felt special. I made those pancakes because I love Dan and because he loves Derek Jeter and the Yankees. That’s the same reason I wrote this poem in 2014.

Thank You, Captain

It was our very first date when he told me about you.

He spoke of the Yankees and his beloved #2.

“Derek Jeter?” he said, shocked I didn’t know.

But this southern girl learned fast, oh, would my knowledge grow.

I learned of all the greats: Babe, Joe, Mickey and Lou.

Don Mattingly and Yogi Berra, Pettitte, Posada, and you.

He spoke of history and tradition, the pride of the pinstripes.

His love of America’s game and how the Yankees do it right.

I took this inspiration and painted a room for my love.

Gray on the bottom of the walls, navy pinstripes up above.

The room displays many pictures, relics and balls from his youth.

A couple jerseys hang in the closet, a 7 and, of course, a 2.

He took me to Yankee Stadium and I thought he might propose.

Nothing gets him more lovey-dovey, than when the Yankees play at home.

Eventually, we did marry. You were represented on our aisle.

A ring-bearer wore your number, with a Yankees hat and a smile.

And when our son was born, oh yes, you were there, too.

“We have a future Yankees shortstop!” His first words upon meeting our Roo.

We drove to Tampa for Spring Training, and I saw you way up close.

I enjoyed the view as you stretched and ran. Yes, I think I liked you the most!

So many games he’s asked me to watch. So many stats he thinks I’ll remember.

We cheered together on your 3,000th hit; we were proud of you, Mr. November.

When your retirement was announced, he sighed heavily and shook his head.

The Yankees without Jeter…it’s enough to make tears shed.

We watched your last home game. His eyes glistened when you tipped your hat.

He clapped his hands and cheered you on as Bob Sheppard called you to bat.

I got caught up as I watched him, this man I love more than words.

What’s it like to love a team like that? To love a player so much it hurts?

It’s like y’all are his family, this team he’s loved his whole life.

First as a boy and now as a man, who’s brought in a son and wife.

Sunday we’ll watch your final game. We’ll cheer as you take on Fenway.

I know he’ll cry, but I’ll perk him up, with your favorite pre-game pancakes.

And when you walk off to retirement, he’ll tip his hat and say “see ya around.”

Yep, we'll see you again in five years, when they welcome you to Cooperstown.

Jeter, thanks for all you’ve given him, and, in return, all you’ve given me.

I want to thank you, Dan, and the good Lord,

for making this girl a Yankee.

Dan and I went on to have two more little boys after this was written…three precious boys of our own. They’ve all worn pinstripes.

These Arms Were Made For Children

Originally Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

As often as I think of her, you’d assume Hazel was a dear friend, but I barely knew her.

She was my grandmother’s constant companion in the nursing home in Lawrenceville. Together they sat in the hallways and at a dining room table for every meal, sharing silence in lieu of conversation. Before the onset of dementia, Grandma was the most talkative, lively woman in any room. A spark. I don’t think she’d noticed how illness had chipped away at her chattiness. And it annoyed her that Hazel was so quiet.

“She don’t talk none,” Grandma would say while Hazel sat beside us. I’d nod and bulge my eyes, hoping Grandma would understand my cue of concern for Hazel’s feelings. If it did bother Hazel, you’d never know.

I loved taking my children to visit my grandparents. It’s something I had looked forward to since I was a little girl. I began preparing for motherhood around age 5, naming my baby dolls, imagining all the different gender combos I might have, and fervently praying my grandparents would live to hold all my children.

My grandparents were the best of everything — the best couple, parents, friends, entertainers. I’ll never know a better man than my grandfather, Mac Hughes, and I’ll never want to be more like anyone than my grandmother, Peggy Hughes. She was as Southern as buttermilk cornbread, feminine, anything but demure, effortlessly entertaining and beautiful. I craved her presence through every phase of my life, no more so than when I became a mother. Seeing her cradle each of my baby boys was the realization of a deeply seated dream.

In 2017, after my third son was born, I frequently buckled my boys into their car seats and headed to the nursing home to visit Grandma. (Grandaddy joined her there a couple years later.) I always stopped during my drive to buy Grandma a fountain Diet Coke, her favorite. How tickled I was, walking through the nursing home doors, flanked by two boys with the third, plump and pert, on my hip. For as long as I live, these are the days I’ll recall as my happiest.

I’d find Grandma, usually nodding off in the hallway, and usher her to a spot where we could visit privately. As if their wheelchairs were linked train cars, Hazel would fall in line behind Grandma. After a few visits I began to wonder, was Hazel following Grandma, or was she following my children? It was the boys, after all, who she watched the entirety of each visit. And it was the boys who conjured the only smiles that spread across her ivory face.

As kids can be, my middle child would clam up at attention from strangers, especially at the nursing home. Sometimes the residents reached for the boys as we passed in the hallways. That environment can be intimidating to many kids, but not my oldest son, Max. For him, the nursing home was social hour, where he delighted in the chorus of greetings and weathered smiles.

During one visit, we were chatting with Grandma before dinnertime. The residents were gathering, and my kids stuck out like ice cream on a salad bar. Multiple pairs of bespectacled eyes were on them, and Max reveled in the attention. Unabashed, he walked from senior to senior, throwing out his buoyant “hellos” like confetti, little gifts the residents were overjoyed to receive. It is Hazel’s expression I remember most. That was the first time I saw her lips part, revealing her teeth, and the crinkles in the corners of her eyes.

One day we were visiting Grandma (and Hazel) in the nursing home’s TV room where there was space to spread out. My big boys walked figure eights around the ladies’ wheelchairs, and my youngest, 7 months old at the time, was in Grandma’s arms. Grandma gazed and cooed at him affectionately, while Hazel watched with a smile on her face and a baby in her arms. Yes, Hazel had a baby — a baby doll. Grandma commented on it a few times, winding a finger at her temple to imply Hazel was cuckoo. Dementia was no match against Grandma’s wit.

It seemed Hazel saw no difference between her plastic-faced baby and the chubby, squirmy guy in Grandma’s embrace. Hazel sat the doll on her knees and bounced it as though a play date had commenced. I played into the scenario while Grandma, God love her, looked like a shaken can of her beloved Diet Coke, laughter bubbling out as she told her great-grandson to say hello to the baby doll. Truth be known, my baby was enthralled.

On subsequent visits, it became common to see the baby doll swaddled in a blanket, resting in the nook of Hazel’s arm as she perched in the hallway. I always found humor in the sight, but I also wondered if I was getting a glimpse into my future.

I’m sad to say my baby years are over. I always wanted three children, but, after I had my third, I vividly remember the feeling of maybe we’re not done, even though my husband lovingly informed me that, yes, we were definitely done. I felt fulfilled, so very fortunate and in love with my three, absolutely, but I felt I could keep going, that I had the capacity to love more, biological, or not. Those thoughts and hopes withered when our precious Max died in fall 2017 at just 6 years old. He had a catastrophic stroke a day after undergoing heart surgery to repair a congenital anomaly. When his life on earth ended, innumerable dreams went with him. While there’s a spot in my heart that may always long for more babies, a bigger family — what I want most is Max, for our life to carry on as it should have, with him at the helm of my little trio.

My sons are everything precious and wild that mothers have spoken of for centuries. Together we’re carrying on a tradition of love and belonging, a language both spoken and unspoken, that mothers and children intrinsically understand. It’s the greatest privilege of my life. Not a day passes when I don’t think about how, for this blink of time, they’re all mine (and, sure, my husband’s, too).

These boys, who’ve thrown themselves to the ground because their Lego tower collapsed, who surprise me with bouquets of tiny, handpicked flowers — they are light in the darkness. These boys, who drop trou anywhere (anywhere) when they “gotta go,” who light up as jumbly, mispronounced words spill out of their mouths — they belong to me. I am so grateful. They need me to rub their bellies, wipe their tears, noses and bottoms, tie their shoes. They run to me when they’re happy, sad and everything in between. “Watch me,” they say, “Please lay with me,” “I did it all by myself,” “I love you with my whole heart.” I’m the girl in their lives, the one who puts the Band-Aids on their knees, the one they seek every time she leaves the room to pee, and the one they pray with every night. Our bond is sacred, eternal. These are my little kid years. I cherish these days and know one day I will miss them desperately.

I wonder if Hazel knew this kind of love. Did she nurture sweet babies? Did she watch them grow into adults? Did she become a grandmother? And her baby in the nursing home — I wonder if it had a name. Was it the baby she always dreamed of having? Was it the baby she lost long ago? I wonder and I wish I had asked.

Hazel died in early 2019. Grandma never mentioned her again, but a caregiver said she saw Grandma looking for her friend in the hallways and in the dining room. I know Grandma missed Hazel’s presence. I did, too.

When Grandma died the following year, I doubled over and wept. Just as when I lost Max, I thought, I will never love anyone like I loved her. No one will ever love me the way she loved me. But then — a surprise. Unlike when I lost Max, when I lost Grandma, the pain was eclipsed by peace. I kept thinking about Grandma’s life, long and colorful, and felt comforted by the thought of her with Max. My glorious grandmother, holding my beloved son.

When my nursing home days come, I hope I’m like Grandma. Though I’d never expect to be as beautiful, I hope I keep my humor. I hope people gravitate toward me, and I hope I have grandchildren who yearn to keep me company. But I also hope to be like Hazel, with a baby doll, or three, or five, nestled in my lap. People may look twice when they see me. Maybe my children or grandchildren will be forced to suppress their giggles, but it won’t bother me, of that I’m sure. I’m a mama with arms made for children. Age won’t change that. So please, if you see me in my wheelchair one day and wonder if my swaddled baby dolls have names, just ask. I promise you they will.

Bleacher Betties

Baseball season is here and I’m so tickled. I love watching my precious baby boys, decked out in caps and jerseys, running around on a bright green field with their buddies. They say these are the days, and I get it. It feels so all-American and special to be part of the baseball tradition. What makes the experience even better are the friends cheering next to me. I didn’t know a single one just a couple years ago, but now I’m a member of the Baseball Mom Sisterhood and we are such a good time. I could’ve been stuck with a heap of hussies to navigate the little league years with, but thank heavens, I was not. There we sit, a bunch of Bleacher Betties, shoulder to shoulder, hollering for the cutest things to happen to baseball pants. We shout for the IronBirds, the Brewers, the Yankees, whoever our boys are that season, and we are all in, man. We are bedazzled in the latest team flair, rooting for our kids like it’s the World Series.

The mix of personalities on the bleachers is such a delight. I love to see a mama’s chin quiver, her hands fumble as she attempts to video her little guy sliding into home.  I love the moms who get their 10,000 steps by pacing during the game, and the ones who could scale the fence like Spiderman at any second. I love the solidarity of bitterness that spreads from mom to mom when the other teams’ fans are obnoxious. I love to see a mama exhale when her kid catches a pop fly. I love the moms who know everything about everything and keep the rest of us sorry souls informed. I love watching the calmest mom transform into Hulk when her little 7 lb 12 oz baby is on the wrong end of a bad call. I love to cheer for their boys, and I love when they cheer for mine. We all have a touch of crazy, some flags just fly higher, depending on the day or the play. Our boys are a hoot, we’re a hoot, it’s all a hoot. Here’s to another great season of baseball! God bless our boys and the game they love. May our little ball players always remember: those crazy mamas on the bleachers are their biggest fans.

Bleacher Banter

•     My butt is frozen to these bleachers. I’m ready for spring.

•      I’m sitting on the surface of the sun.

•      Crap, my fan died.

•      What do I smell in your Yeti?

•      I can’t eat, too nervous.

•      We are not going to the concession stand again. Watch your brother play!

• Here, take $10 and buy whatever you want.

•      I am NOT going to be team mom this year.

•      Sure! I’ll be team mom!

•      Dear God, please help Tommy knock the snot out of that ball.

•      Dear God, I’m sorry for the things I said about a 7-year-old pitcher.

•      That coach needs to get it together. I don’t care if he is my husband.

•      I don’t want him to feel stressed. JUST RELAX AND HAVE FUN, BABY!

•      MATTHEW BENJAMIN SMITH, WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE!

•      Nothing cuter than watching a little guy learn the game!

•      Does he know this isn’t dodgeball?

• Hey, as long as they have fun, right?

• I WANNA WINNNNNN!!!!

•      Just tell me what happens, I can’t watch.

•      Oh my Lord, did you see that?

• HEADS UP!!!

•      Have you seen the bathrooms at this field? I’d rather find a bush.

•      Those coaches are being too hard on Thomas.

•      THOMAS, RUN LIKE YOU’RE ON FIRE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

•      Do you know how much money I just spent on that bat? Ridiculous.

•      Do I want a spirit wear shirt in every color? YES! Did you see my new game day bracelets?

•      Oh crap, where’s the baby?

•      He’s getting kicked out of the game for cussing! Good Lord, he’s working with kids for f#!@ sake!

•      Do the other team’s moms think this is a fashion show?

•      Oh, my outfit? I just threw on some Lululemon leggings, my Coach belt bag, and Golden Goose sneakers. I also had a blowout.

•      I’m telling you, he was so active in utero, I knew he’d be a ball player.

•      White pants. Great.

•      Our coach is an angry bird.

•      Our coach is too laidback.

•      Only four scrimmages this week? Do we want to win Saturday or not?

•      All I’m saying is that sweet angel baby out there is going to play for the Braves one day.

•      Oh, he’s just tired. Or his belly hurts.

•      It’s a little league game. It’s not that serious.

•      I want to see birth certificates for that team.

•      That umpire is the sweetest old man.

•      That was a stupid call, blue. You know it, I know it, we all know it.

•      I am not cooking dinner after this.

• We decided to go with a different t-ball team. It was the best move for his career.

•      HE WAS SAFE!

•      He would’ve been safe if that kid wasn’t blocking the d@#& base!

•      I’m going to let it go. Whatever. It’s a baseball game.

•      5 minutes later You saw he was safe, right?

• Bedtime prayers Lord, we all know Johnny was safe. Amen.

•      No, I can’t keep the stat book. No habla ingles.

•      Well, he meets with his batting coach tomorrow, then there’s his agility class, then he has a tryout for a travel team, so maybe we can fit in school, I’m just not sure yet.

•      He keeps grabbing himself, do you think he has to pee?

• OK, I packed the bleacher seats, folding chairs, a blanket, snacks, drinks, an umbrella, a spray fan, a neck fan, a sweatshirt, a jacket, a hat, a visor, sunscreen, toys for the baby - baseball ready!

•      I was supposed to bring team snacks today?

•      I had a calligrapher personalize each goody bag with the boys’ monograms, I threw in some collectible baseball cards, then I had an artist create replicas of each boy on the cookies. It was nothing.

•      I thought we could order some pizzas in the parking lot and call that the team party.

•      If each family contributes $5,000 we can rent out Six Flags for the team party.

•      We should just pitch a tent and call this ballpark home.

•      Game day! I love it.

Chandler Patterson

Some stories stay with us forever. Chandler Patterson’s story has woven itself so deeply into my being, it feels like my own. I wrote a piece about Chandler for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I had a focus and a word limit and when the story was handed off, I didn’t feel finished. I wasn’t ready to move on from this man I’d focused on so intently, who I’d watched videos of, and whose family I’d hugged and prayed for. After thinking about him daily for over a week, I realize I’m not meant to let go of his story. I’m meant to share it. It is my sincere hope that you, dear reader, will share it, too.

Chandler Patterson’s life was cut short when he passed in June 2021, just three weeks after his wedding. His death was a tragic headline, but the 27 years prior were precious. As mentioned, I’ve watched video of Chandler and seen picture after picture of this gregarious man who “loved to talk.” I never met him, but wish I had. I love everything I’ve learned about him. I’ve watched the footage of a 6-year-old Chandler, standing before his church, professing his love for Jesus. I’ve watched his rehearsal dinner speech countless times, where he gushes with love for his family and friends and emanates joy and levity and adoration. A familiar feeling stirs when I speak to his family. I want to hug them, cry with them, laugh with them. I want us to sit around a table, sharing stories and I want to hold their hands on their heaviest days. Their pain is my pain. I understand it all too well.

My husband and I recently visited StillFire Brewing for the release of Dude 21, a beer created in honor of Chandler. I met Alyssa, Chandler’s wife, who I’d previously interviewed over the phone, and so many of Chandler’s friends and family, including his parents, Breck and Lisa Patterson. While talking with someone, I looked across the room to see my husband and Breck exchanging numbers. Two broken-hearted fathers. When I met Lisa and saw tears in her eyes, I fought to keep my own at bay.

Chandler Patterson was a handsome 27-year-old, wise beyond his years. He gleaned his outlook on life from his father and grandfather and would’ve surely passed it on to his own children. In his wedding vows, he told Alyssa that he always hoped he’d marry someone like his mother. Someone kind, godly, and beautiful. Alyssa was his dream realized.

The speech he made at their rehearsal dinner was impromptu. He talked about legacy and character. He spoke of how he wants to be remembered when he’s gone, not knowing that would be just three weeks later. He was at complete ease in front of the crowd. He was warm and engaging, charming and well-spoken. At the beer release party, multiple people asked if I’d seen the video of that speech. I’d answer yes and comment on how poignant his words were. They’d say, “I wish you could have met him.” I’d say, “I feel like I have.”

I’ve absorbed so many precious anecdotes from his family, so many examples of Chandler’s great character and his love for God, America, and firefighting. And when I hear his words about how much he loved people, I think about my Max.

When people used to ask me to describe Max, to tell them about his favorite things, my first thought was he loves people. In his obituary I wrote “he was a collector of friends.” He and Chandler both had a way of drawing people in, sharing perspective, light, and humor.

The desperation I feel to keep Max’s legacy alive, to make him feel as present as ever, is exactly how the Patterson family feels. They’re clinging to Chandler’s words, his pictures, all their memories with him. They’re dedicated to sharing his name and his message and I am, too. Please take a few minutes to watch Chandler’s speech. His words are a gift to his family, and, I believe, a gift to all who hear them. Please watch it, share it, show it to your children. Show them the brave, strong firefighter who put others first in all arenas of his life. Show them a man who prioritized his faith, led with his heart, and left no words unspoken.

PURCHASE DUDE 21 BEER in honor of Chandler. Proceeds benefit a firefighter education fund.

WATCH Chandler Patterson’s rehearsal dinner speech and please share it with others.

READ about Chandler and Dude 21 beer in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

I Am a Blood Donor

Originally Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution

It was 2007, I was 25 and had no interest in being a blood donor – too squeamish, I claimed – but I thought it was a great thing for other people to do. Arthur Stoltz was 85 that year and the recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Red Cross for donating nearly 15 gallons of blood. I sat next to him at the award ceremony because I was writing a story about his accomplishment for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Mr. Stoltz told me about how he became a donor 51 years prior. His son was born with jaundice and needed a complete blood change. Mr. Stoltz eagerly rolled up his sleeve to donate blood for his boy, and he chose to keep going once his son’s transfusions were complete. He also volunteered for the Red Cross for 40 years.

Mr. Stoltz and I were accompanied at our table by a mother and her young son who had a condition that required blood transfusions every three to four weeks. I was in awe of Mr. Stoltz’ selflessness and by the challenges for the mother and her child with medical tubes streaming from his shirt. I was moved and oblivious to how my life would ever resemble theirs.

I became a mother in the summer of 2011. My son Max, a beautiful boy with dark curls and full features, was born with Costello syndrome, a rare disease that effects about 1 in 30 million. I wrote about our journey with Max in 2015 for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Max’s diagnosis came with an assortment of health concerns, including feeding issues. He was fed by a nasal-gastric tube until he was three months old, then a more permanent gastronomy tube was placed in his stomach. Despite the health issues, Max was a happy, outgoing boy who loved people, music, and walks in his stroller. He was a doting big brother and enthusiastic about most everything.

Max needed mitral valve repair surgery in October 2017. Though all appeared to be fine after the operation, a stroke was discovered about 24 hours into his recovery and, after trying all we could to save him, including a plasma transfusion, he passed days later. His absence is both excruciating and numbing. I am constantly amazed that my mind and body still function, as there isn’t a part of me, not a finger, nor a hair on my head, that does not ache with grief.

Three years have passed and one of Max’s little brothers is now in kindergarten. When his school promoted a blood drive in August, my mind flashed back to that night years ago with Mr. Stoltz and the woman with her medically fragile son. That is when the irony of their lives and mine struck. Her boy with the tubes beneath his shirt, my Max with his. Without much thought, I hit register and signed up to donate blood for the first time in my life.

I was nervous when I arrived to donate that fall morning, afraid I would get queasy, but also determined, with Max’s face ever-present in my thoughts. As I sat there waiting for my turn, someone caught my eye. Monica Mangram, Max’s occupational therapist had walked through the door. Over the years, I had shared Max with a handful of doctors, nurses, teachers and therapists, and they loved him dearly. When I lost Max, I clung to those people, my “Max people” as I call them, as they are a comfort and a reminder of precious days. It felt serendipitous, purposeful that Mangram showed up at the blood drive. We donated side by side, laughing and talking, and then, without the slightest cringe or gag on my part, it was over. It was quick, painless, and I felt like a complete fool. It was the simplest of tasks for me, yet life-giving for another. I felt guilty, even selfish for avoiding the experience for so long.

Throughout Max’s six years, he and I logged many visits at the Aflac Cancer and Blood Disorders Center at Egleston Hospital for his quarterly cancer screenings that are protocol with Costello syndrome. We frequently saw cancer-stricken children who regularly received transfusions. In the past two years, I have had two friends, including another of my “Max people,” fight for their lives after tremendous blood loss during childbirth, and my husband’s boss is currently fighting a blood cancer that has required the transfusion of 16 units of blood. Our bodies have 10 units.

The need for blood is constant and donations are scarce. According to the American Red Cross, an estimated 38% of the population is eligible to donate and only about 8% of that number actually donates. Seventy percent of first-time blood donors do not return to give again.

I am now a regular donor. I will give my fourth donation this month. I have the American Red Cross app on my phone, I register for drives as soon as I leave another, and I receive occasional notifications about where my blood is being delivered.

I have thought many times about how much blood I could have donated if I had started when I was 16, the minimum age to donate with parental consent. Twenty-two years, six donations a year – I could have given over 16 gallons by now, surpassing Mr. Stoltz’ record. I am determined I still will. I will continue to donate blood for the parents whose children are fighting for their lives, for friends and family, for strangers, and in memory of Mr. Stoltz, who passed in 2019. Most of all, just as Mr. Stoltz gave for his son, I will give in honor of mine.

So, You Married a Golfer

First off, you are not alone. There are many of us and this is a safe space. Let’s retrace your steps. Maybe that will bring clarity and explain why you are not a victim, but a willing participant of your circumstance.

Remember that first date? You’d never dated a golfer before. There were guys who played high school football and baseball, and that one who played water polo in college, but this date was your first dalliance into the golf world- and it was awkward. All you said was you knew nothing about golf, then he launched into a monologue. You smiled, nodded and wondered if you were a pervert for giggling when he used the words “shaft, head, ball, and hole” in a sentence.

Your first time on the golf course was fun. He let you drive the cart! The putting green felt like the right opportunity to wow him with your acrobatic skills, but you quickly learned cartwheels on delicate greens are frowned upon.

The years went on, as did his oral dissertations about the game. He relived each round with you, hole by hole. If you could go back, maybe you wouldn’t have been such an engaged, patient listener. Dating darlings beware: too much enthusiasm will only encourage him to keep talking. Assess your schedule. Decide how much time you’re willing to sacrifice for his romantic ramblings about golf.

After his PGA Tour dreams were dashed, he married you and resigned to life as an amateur. Luckily, he still has ample opportunities to play. And it’s lucrative! It seems golf and gambling go hand in hand and are much more acceptable than spending money at say, Target or a nail salon. Yes, golf gambling can always be justified. He was making money for the family. It was basically work.

When he strolls out the door for his rounds, clad in colorful, coordinated ensembles complete with belt and hat, keep your chin up, sister. You look great in those leggings and that Dolly Parton T-shirt. As for your hair, scrunchies have totally made a comeback.

When he shows off his new golf balls, you take a moment to marvel. You squint your eyes slightly, feigning concentration as he yammers on about spin, the feel, or something. You may even throw out a comment like, “Wow, that Bridgestone B really brings out the dimples in the ball.” You are the coolest.

As he kisses you goodbye, he says he’ll see you in a few hours. Oh, but you know better. An average round lasts four hours. Then there’s the drive - 30 minutes there, 30 minutes back. Plus, he’ll likely get there early to warm-up. Also, there may be an emergency, also known as an E-9, when he and the guys must play an extra nine holes. You grit your teeth and say “sure, a few hours. I’ll just be here, doing everything. Have fun!”

He often texts throughout his round to give you live updates. As he raves about the gorgeous weather and brags about his birdies, you resist shooting a birdie of your own and mention nothing of your current chaos. You don’t want to mess with his precious juju, nope, not you. So, you send a thumbs up emoji, a kissy face emoji and a message like “watch out, Tiger!” This reminds him that you’re both supportive and adorable.

Over time you became an expert on his routine- the whole song and dance he performs at each tee. You call it the “shimmy and set.” He stands five feet back from the ball. He narrows his gaze, takes in the hole before him, and walks evenly paced steps, like a member of the Queen’s Guard. He turns and snaps into position, bending his upper body over the ball, fingers laced around the club. He readjusts, pinching the seams on his shoulders and pulling his shirt up a notch because…you have no idea why. His shoulders bounce slightly, his hips roll just a touch, he breathes and swings (dear God, finally). You don’t bother watching the ball- his body language tells you everything. If it’s a bad swing, he immediately walks away from the tee (see also: cusses or throws club in lake). But, if the swing is good, he becomes Mary Poppins: toe popped, chin up, broad smile, golf club twirls and lands on his shoulder.

The 19th hole often beckons and what a dud he’d be to miss out, but, get excited, he has great news to share when he walks through the door.

“We’re planning a big weekend away,” he says.

You look up from the pee stain you’re scrubbing out of the carpet. Thank God! A trip! He really is the best.

“Yeah,” he continues, “the guys and I are going to Florida for a weekend- 36 holes a day. Oh, and we know a guy, so we’ll be playing for free.”

Your nostrils flare and foam bubbles at the corners of your mouth as you grab your phone and furiously text your friends.

“Does no one have hook ups for, like, anything? A beach house? A condo in the city? A room over a garage somewhere? And can we please find a hobby? Tennis? A wine club? Bar hopping? Something that lasts a minimum of six hours?”

So, there are five big tournaments each year that he must watch. You agreed to this in the prenuptial agreement. There’s the British Open, The U.S. Open, the PGA Championship, the Players Championship and, of course, The Masters, when you will dress the family in coordinating green ensembles and serve pimento cheese sandwiches with Arnold Palmers. And, though he did not shed a tear when your third child was born, Jim Nantz’ dramatic voiceover at the beginning of the tournament coverage…Hello, friends…will make him weep. His eyes will glisten when the champion pumps a triumphant fist in the air. He may even refer to the victory as a team effort. “We did it,” he’ll say, because, you know, telepathy.

This is your life now. This is what you chose and these are the habits you supported, you poor little lamb. You were so eager through the dating years, smiling, listening, golf clapping. Now -  aren’t you cute - you’re a golfer’s wife. You’ve only got yourself to blame.

Peace Be With You

Sometimes I tire over the constant chatter about fitness and nutrition. I get the importance of being healthy, but the mania and pressure of “high school skinny” - ehh. Been there, tried that, I’m ready to coast on common sense. I want to eat delicious, healthy food, as opposed to choking down powdery mixes, and I want to do workouts that make me happy, not the ones I dread more than a dental drill.

We all know it’s hard to fight off the pressure and comparison. In my life, I have been cursed, blessed, whichever, to have a slew of close friends who are inexplicably thin and fit. They work out like fiends and eat super clean every day. Explain that to me. There are no double chins, not even during their pregnancies, and bikinis always, even during their pregnancies. As if a fit exterior isn’t enough, these friends of mine are thoughtful, funny and supportive. I hate them.

I wonder if you are truly bonded with a friend if you can’t occasionally lament about the challenge of choosing kale over the #1 combo. If you’ve never muttered expletives at a scale or identified with a classic “Cathy” comic strip, you may not understand. My friends and I who have weathered Weight Watchers, paleo, keto, boot camps, wasted gym memberships, from couch to 5k programs and glorious binges followed by guilt - we’ve been through the trenches. “I’ll start Monday” is our battle cry and sometimes we really do start Monday.

No matter shape, size, cravings or physical prowess, something all my friends understand and agree on are leggings- follow me here, I have a point. We never thought we’d see leggings circle back from the 80s and become a wardrobe staple, but here we are with drawers full. The obvious reasons we wear them are that they are comfortable, much more so than jeans, and they’re versatile. They’re the antithesis to the bridesmaid dress that “you can totally wear again.” We wear leggings all the time: to bed, to work, to the gym, on a date. They’re as varietal as underwear, offering cuts, colors and fabrics to fit your fancy. They’re Superpants! Spandex by day, pleather by night! Note to user: Please bend over to test the transparency of your Superpants. The great Leonard Cohen once said “there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” He is exactly right.

The athleisure variety of leggings is a fan favorite. We know them as “yoga pants.” Though we may be unsure if a chaturanga is a Mexican dish or a pose, we reserve the right to call our leggings yoga pants. That name implies promise and intent, as if yoga is where we’re headed right after the Chick-Fil-A drive through. The Catch 22 with yoga pants, and most leggings, is that they’re like the friend who doesn’t tell you the truth for fear of hurting your feelings. Maybe you wonder if your constant snacking during the Great Quarantine of 2020 has taken a toll. Maybe your favorite shirt feels snug…is it time to wind down your Wine Wednesdays? But the leggings, bless them, they still fit! They’re as forgiving as priests, stretching to accommodate you just as you are, “come on in, extra 5 pounds, peace be with you.”

Leggings are our uniform, our go-to for comfort, style and fitness. They are fashion in 2020. It’s the biggest trend I can remember since low-rider jeans, when our butt cracks were on display for a decade. In a time when body image and comparison is such a constant, perhaps we should lean (or stretch? bend?) into leggings as stewards of acceptance. They’re really on to something- that bit of common sense we all need. They’re as much a symbol of fitness as they are of the “all bodies are beautiful” movement. Whether you’re 5 pounds up, 5 pounds down or could care less, leggings, like good friends, are supportive. Nutrition and fitness are so important, but so is sanity. Always remember the Superpants credo: “Get moving, give yourself grace and don’t worry…we’ve got your crack.”

A Spoonful of Juice Newton

I’ve always been big on singing. I sing to my kids, I sing in the shower, and in the car. I sang to my dogs when I was a little girl. I’d stand in the backyard and belt out “God Bless the USA” like a tone-deaf Miss America. In college I constantly serenaded my sorority sisters. No one ever said so, but I believe my renditions of ‘NSync and Shakira songs were paramount through the perils of freshman 15’s and Greek life mixers. These days I have a magnet for my minivan that reads “I’ve got the music in me!” It’s flair from my sons’ music class, but the message speaks to my soul.

My favorite time to sing is when I’m baking. I bake at night after my boys go to bed. I throw on an apron; I whisk, I measure, and I bust a lung, harmonizing to Pandora Radio. While my husband Dan supports my baking endeavors, he isn’t enthusiastic about my singing career.

When it comes to music selection, I admit my favorites are an obscure (slightly embarrassing) mix. I know lots of my girlfriends indulge in rap. While I’m not opposed to rap, I’m not hip to it either.  My wheelhouse is a blend of old country music, 80’s rock, and musicals. Give me Bonnie Tyler, give me Pat Benatar, throw in a hair band ballad and let’s fire up the oven.

I’ve been enthralled by musicals, like Bye, Bye Birdie, since I could talk (Ann-Margret, bless her, is her very own essay for another day). Though I know every song and blink in the movie, I really hit my stride with “A Lot of Livin’ to Do.” I just need you to know that. I usually follow Bye, Bye Birdie with another nostalgic soundtrack: Grease 2. Stephanie Zinone, my alter-ego. She is everything I’m not, until, of course, I start baking. When Dan asks me to lower my volume a touch, he sees his wife in flour-dusted pajamas, a knot of hair atop her head, but in my mind, I’m doused in black leather, tossing my mane wildly as I sing about my badass fantasy boyfriend. My most recent “Cool Rider” performance before an audience was after my baby shower in February 2015. I was 8 months pregnant. There was a kitchen barstool substituting as a ladder, laborious breathing, a cameo by Braxton Hicks, and cankles. The following night, I was in the hospital on oxygen for two hours.

As I continue amateur hour in my kitchen, I perk up when I hear my homegirls: Bette, Dolly, and Cher. My dream team. Years ago I had to choose between seeing either Bette or Cher perform live in Las Vegas- it was my very own “Sophie’s Choice.” I ended up at Cher’s show and was in such awe, I was rendered mute and couldn’t sing along. I watched her prance across the stage in leather and fishnets, my eyes glistening with tears, wishing I could turn back time and be a singer, or at least a glorified groupie. I would’ve been great at that.

While bouncing around my favorite Pandora stations a few months back, I discovered Juice Newton radio. I was instantly transfixed. One minute I’m Dolly, singing “I Will Always Love You,” (The original and best version. Let’s not make this a thing.), then I’m belting out a jaunty duet, “Islands in the Stream,” with my dear friend Kenny Rogers, wishing my apron had sequins and perky, umm…microphones. When a song ends, I eagerly anticipate what’s coming next and then - oh yes- “Lookin for Love” from the Urban Cowboy soundtrack starts to twang. Now, not only am I singing, I’m quoting the movie (Fine, forget it!), two-stepping, and sifting. Look at me multi-tasking! Dan passes through to grab a snack and I ignore his smirk. I am a country idol slash Betty Crocker goddess. Let me live.

Then, like an answered prayer, Juice Newton’s “Angel in the Morning” is humming in my ears. I float around the kitchen, checking to see if the cake is rising as I sing “just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby…” I have so much conviction, you’d wonder what I’ve been up to when not corralling toddlers. Yes, it’s a risqué song about a one-night stand, but I’m a performer - maybe not a method performer, but I embrace my lyrics. Do you think Reba McIntyre knows what it’s like to be a hooker named Fancy? Probably not, but that gritty ginger nailed it and so do I. That’s how legends, and my Snickerdoodles, are made.

Singing is my stress reliever. It’s my way of tuning out the junk that clutters my brain. It makes me happy and keeps me productive in the kitchen. Juice Newton is the secret ingredient in all my baked goods.

Almost

Maybe it doesn’t feel real because it happened during the quietest hours.  Like the tree falling in the woods when no one is around…if a miscarriage happens while everyone is asleep, did it really happen?  Maybe it was just a nightmare.  But the hospital bracelet was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.  Maybe it’s surreal because I latched on and allowed my brain to swirl off in a million directions, planning and delighting in every detail.  And even though there was a shadow cast from the start, maybe it’s surreal because I had forced myself to think that something miraculous would happen.

Surreal or not, I did have a miscarriage.  Only a few even knew I was pregnant, around 8 weeks or so.  I wanted to hold the news close until we had our doctor appointment, but once the appointment came and things went awry, I held the news tighter. 

The doctor said the timing could just be off.  I thought I was 7 weeks, but maybe I was 5 and that would explain why they could only see a gestational sac.  I couldn’t wrap my head around how that was possible, but I tried not to over-think it.  I just hoped and prayed they’d discover a heartbeat at the next appointment.  So, two weeks later, we returned. 

I prepared myself for the worst and was nearly stunned when the ultrasonographer told us what she found. There, deep inside me, was a tiny baby, the size of a grain of rice, with a strong heartbeat.  My hand covered my face as big, happy sobs escaped my body.  I looked to Dan who had a huge smile and a steady stream of tears.  Everything was fine.  A new baby would be born in the fall. 

But it was only minutes later when Dr. McDaniel told us that there was a subchorionic hemorrhage.  He said it could dissolve on its own, or it could be a sign that the pregnancy wouldn’t stick.  The pit in my stomach throbbed and a familiar wave of nausea overwhelmed me.

We left the appointment with an ultrasound picture, a due date and a million emotions.

I knew I was pregnant for a long time.  I took the test back in February, the morning we left for our trip to Kiawah.  Dan and I had just decided to start trying and I was amazed that it happened immediately.  Instead of blurting the news out like I did with Max, I decided to wait to tell Dan.  I wanted to share the news in Kiawah and make it a bit grander than shining the bathroom light in his face at 5 a.m. and sobbing uncontrollably.  

I waited until Saturday night when we went to a beautiful restaurant that overlooked an oceanside golf course.  When the three of us were seated, Dan suggested we take our time and start with a cocktail.  Unsure of what to say, I told him I had diarrhea and should avoid alcohol. Smooth  So, when the server arrived with my sweet tea and Dan’s beer, I immediately suggested we toast. 

We raised our drinks, Dan looked at Max, then at me and said “to our amazing family and this awesome weekend together in Kiawah…” I butt in, clinked my glass against his and said “and to Max becoming a big brother in the fall.”  To say it was a perfect moment doesn’t really do it justice.  Dan was stunned.  We were both laughing and crying, kissing each other, kissing Max, who was extra adorable that night. It was more than I could have asked for.

We went to the beach the next day, wrote “big brother” in the sand and I took a million pictures of Max sitting next to it.  I was in heaven.

Even when the doctor appointments followed Kiawah and cause for concern persisted, I let myself get excited.  I couldn’t refrain from picking out bedding, thinking about paint colors, and baby names, fantasizing about how amazing it would be to have another baby.  I kept thinking about this great gift we were giving Max. I kept thinking about how happy I was that they’d be so close in age. I kept thinking we were so, so lucky.

I tried to stay calm when the bleeding started. I told myself it could be nothing big. I read stories online about others who had bled and everything turned out fine. I called the doctor and was told not to worry too much unless cramps accompanied the bleeding. I hadn’t cramped at all, but I bled for days. I just kept thinking how unnatural it felt to bleed during pregnancy, but I dug my fingers into the sand, grasping at hope.  

Easter Sunday was a difficult day. The bleeding increased and I didn’t feel well. I wasn’t cramping, but I was uncomfortable. I kept my feet up and stayed in sweats all day.  I was relieved that I had a doctor appointment scheduled for Monday, but that appointment never came to be. 

I woke up around 1 a.m. with back pain.  At first it felt like part of a dream, but then I sat up and realized what was happening.  I took long breaths to see if I could make the discomfort go away, but it only grew stronger.  I went to the bathroom and knew I was in trouble.  When I returned to the bed, I felt just as I did when I was in labor with Max. I was having contractions that made my back and lower abdomen burn. I started to cry as Dan’s hand cupped my shoulder.  Eventually, I gained enough composure to say it out loud, “I’m losing the baby.”

For the next 20 minutes or so, I writhed in pain and begged my body to fight.  I can will myself  to do so much. My mind can push my body to keep running when it’s fatigued, or go from asleep to alert when Max needs me in the night. But, much as I pleaded with my body to hold on to this baby, it let go. 

The pain was gone by the time we got to the emergency room.  Our wait was minimal, as we were the only patients in sight.  While I knew what had happened, I prayed over and over on the way to the ultrasound. I turned my head away from the screen and closed my eyes, praying I’d hear that beautiful heartbeat, strong as a galloping horse. There was nothing, but “I’m so sorry.” 

The doctor told us that, if a miscarriage has to happen, this was the best kind to have.  My cervix had closed and there was no evidence of a pregnancy.  I was numb and fatigued and empty. No evidence of a pregnancy.

When we walked out of the hospital, I thought back to a day in July, 2011. Max had been in the NICU for a week or so. I was living with him in a private room, unwilling to leave the hospital. After some prodding by the nurses, I stepped outside to get my first glimpse of the sun and breath of fresh air in more than eight days. Instead of it being a refreshing experience, I suffocated.  I was consumed with thoughts of how it was supposed to be, how I dreamed it would be and all the questions that had yet to be answered. I watched nurses escort new parents, giddy and proud, out of the hospital, their new bundles snuggled up in car seats. I thought of my baby upstairs, hooked to multiple cords and machines, and I thought of the car seat, the one I spent so much time picking out just for him, and I sobbed.

I was supposed to leave the hospital with this baby in the fall.  I wasn’t supposed to walk out after just 8 weeks, at 6 in the morning, with a pamphlet about miscarriage. 

Mom was at the house watching Max for us, so I went upstairs and told her the news.  She held my hand, stroked my hair and my mind was empty.  She told me to get some rest and she would stay and watch Max.  When I climbed into bed, I looked at the clock.  7 a.m.  I was pregnant just six hours before and now it was all over.   

I woke a couple hours later and walked out of the bedroom to find my boy, squealing and smiling the second he saw me.  I went to him and held him for a long time, listening to his laugh and kissing him over and over.  It wasn’t long before I was singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”  I felt self-conscious a couple of times.  Should I really be singing right now?  I had a miscarriage just hours ago.  But then the greatest thing struck me.

One of the many reasons I want another baby is because I hoped it would heal us.  I hoped we would have a healthy baby and a typical hospital experience.  I thought that might heal the wounds that were left from the overwhelming months of fear and sadness that surrounded Max’s birth. 

But while I was laughing uncontrollably with Max, clapping my hands and blowing raspberries on his belly, I realized I didn’t need another baby to be healed.  Max heals me every single day.   

That child may have come with some surprises, but he is the greatest thing that has ever happened to us.   He is beautiful and happy and funny and smart and he’s ours.  There are so many women out there who, like me, have wanted to be a mommy since they were little girls, and some of those women will never get the chance to know how amazing it is to be a mother. The thought of that is suffocating and so heartbreaking.  Having a miscarriage is certainly a sad, unfair situation and, while I’ll definitely take time to feel my feelings, I can’t be consumed with sadness, it’s just not possible, when I get to love and hold my son every day.  Losing this pregnancy will always feel surreal.  It’s been nearly two weeks and I still can’t believe that it happened, but I’m not left in a dark place.

I’m still sad, still disappointed, but I’m also filled with so much hope.  We want another baby one day and it can still happen.  Those names I love and that bedding I’ve picked out, it can still be a reality, and I pray it will be.  And not because we need that baby for healing, only because we want that baby so very much to add to this precious dynamic of ours.  But, if that dream doesn’t come true, I’ll remember what Dan said to me in the ER when I told him how sad I was by the thought of never having another baby. 

“If we don’t get our way and it’s just you, me and Max for the rest of our days, we’ll spoil him like crazy and continue loving each other and enjoying every second,” he said. “I think that’s a pretty great life.” 

Though I pray I read back on this one day with Dan and our two or three children sitting next to us, I know Dan's right.  Life is so good and there’s still so much to come. Max is ours, we’re Mommy and Daddy, and I’m so thankful.