"Don't look at your Amazon Prime," Kim said. "I ordered your anniversary present on your account." "Oh, okay," I said, thinking I just wouldn't open up the website. Unlike Kim, who claimed to like surprises but then scoured the house like Nancy Drew, claiming that I always left a paper trail, I actually enjoyed the not knowing. Plus, this was year fifteen, so maybe I'd be getting a gift worthy of the one-third of my life spent together. Unfortunately, my new iPhone updated to version 14 and I now get updates of nearly everything from begging candidates to upcoming packages on my opening screen. I didn't even need to search for it. The message was right there waiting for me. Out for delivery today: Women's Citizen EcoDrive. A watch? I was flabbergasted. When Kim and I first met I had a lengthy discussion with her, confessing my fears of watch giving and how it always leads a couple to break up. Everybody knew about it. We agreed we would NEVER do that. Why risk something so severe when rings and other jewelry are equally as pleasing? Plus, I loved the watch I had bought as a graduation present to myself twenty something years earlier. It was perfect and no other watch would ever be the one. So when I realized my anniversary present was indeed a watch I was a little disappointed, not because of the watch itself, but mostly because I thought after fifteen years Kim didn't know me. I thought she forgot about our conversation and hurriedly picked some quick gift while cruising the internet. I spent the next few hours thinking of how I could pretend that I liked it because I am a terrible liar. But before Kim handed me the gift, she gave me a hand written letter. "Read this first," she said, as I sat down with my first cup of coffee.  In her letter she said she knew I was superstitious but did her own research of what to give for fifteen year anniversaries. The modern fifteen year gift is glass or a watch, symbolizing the time we've had and the time we plan to have in the future. Watches are a meaningful gift that is a way to tell someone that you care about them and want to be in every second of their life. Her letter ended with, "You and I have that magic that will debunk any superstitions. I'm ready to get matching tattoos, I'm ready to travel on Friday the 13th, and I'm not afraid to gift a watch to you." How could I be disappointed in those sweet words? She had thought of a meaningful gift. Maybe stepping on a crack wouldn't break my mother's back, maybe a broken mirror was just that, something broken. I guess I could be wrong about superstitions but I'm still going to make sure I look everyone in the eye during a toast because seven years of bad sex is just too much to risk. Just for the record, I do love my anniversary gift, it is brilliant and beautiful watch perfect for dress up occasions. When we do something fancy Kim can wear the new American Eagle jeggings and ankle boots I got her for our anniversary. Just for giggles, I looked up the worst things you can give as a present. A watch was not on the bad gift list but you know what was in the top three of worst gifts? Clothes! Well isn't that the pot calling the kettle black. I guess I'll be eating my words from now on!

Snow days in Georgia are rare, so when we actually get one, we try to make sure we appreciate Mother Nature to her fullest. It always humors me when I realize that we've had next to no lake activity for months but as soon as it starts snowing we're just drawn to the water: hot tub, lake, whatever. Years ago, before we got our foam dock floats replaced, our covered steel dock would often sink in the snow. Kim and I would have to scramble, quickly hopping in the paddle boat and kayak to tap the heavy weight off the roof in hopes of getting it on top of the water again. Today we are just appreciating the beauty of winter.  This morning we all sat in the hot tub with our coffees. Senia Mae, of course, made a snowball and started eating it. After a few tasty morsels she turned to me and said, "Wanna bite?" And in a moment of un-adultness I said yes.

Sitting in the salon chair yesterday, my stylist mentioned the stress of planning her daughter's birthday party after the last two years coincided with trips to Walt Disney World. "Now my daughter expects every birthday party to be at Disney World," she sighed as she rolled her eyes with a look of exasperation. "You've set the bar pretty high. It's hard to compete with the magic of Disney. How 'bout a bouncy house?" "That's what we're planning for this year," she said. "We thought we had the same trouble with Senia Mae's party last year," I said as she snip-snipped and my curly locks floated down the the floor. "I'd tell her: Senia Mae we need to decide where your party is going to be so we can send out the invites in advance. You know what she said?" "Mama, this is all just TOO MUCH!" "What do you mean too much? You sound like a Grandma!" "You know deciding who can come and who not to invite... it's just stressful. Can it just be the three of us?" I didn't tell her I'd love to save the hundreds of dollars to costs to throw a big party! I said, "Sure. We can have lunch at American Girl and how about getting a hotel room with an indoor pool?" She was thrilled about staying in a hotel. In her mind very few things compared to the importance of a hotel stay. Later on when someone asked what she was doing for her birthday Senia Mae said,"we're going on vacation." "Oh, to where?" they asked. "Senia Mae spouted off proudly, "Alpharetta."

An excerpt from my memoir: The Significance of Curly Hair My best friend Laura lived directly across California Road on the opposite end of the cul-de-sac. We spent nearly every waking minute together. Whether it was playing Barbies, riding bikes, or rolling down the hill until we almost threw up, we were practically conjoined twins. One exceptionally sweltering day we were caught up complaining about the heat and why we could never have a pool. While most days our burning desires were pacified by skipping through the lawn sprinkler while singing at the top of our lungs, this day was different. Skipping and singing was not going to be good enough. We needed more water. As Gram came around the corner of the house carrying her garden whip-it, we confronted her with the question that every kid bugs their parents with summer after summer. “Why can’t we have a pool?” I said pouting, looking like I had just taken a huge bite of crab apple salad. Without even batting an eye, Gram came up with a witty response, it was so quick that it seemed as if the words were just resting on her tongue waiting for us to ask. “Why do you need a pool,” she said with that glimmer of magic that made her eyes dance when she knew she was coming up with something really good, “when you can each have your own personal swimming receptacles?” Laura and I stared at her in wonder, hopeful with possibility and grateful that we were finally being heard. Both of us eight year old, twig legged, tangled haired girls looked up at her with bottom lips sticking out, as we listened intently to the fabulous, yet fantastical description of these personal swimming receptacles. They were round, chest high, and held enough water to cover our shoulders. “It’s like having your own pool all to yourself,” Gram said with such enthusiasm that we needed to know exactly where to get them. Laura and I both agreed that the receptacles were exactly what we were looking for, possibly the only things that would let us survive the excruciatingly hot day that still included many more blistering hours. Nodding to each other in unison, we asked Gram to explain one more time where exactly they were located, because she made it absolutely clear that we already had them and we could be swimming within minutes. “Oh yes, they’re right there behind the house, in between the hose and the bulkhead,” she said pointing towards the water spigot. Her voice remained steady and serious as she turned away from us, heading back inside the house. My last two toes caught a few pieces of tall clover in between them as we quickly pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and ran at a full sprint to the back of the house. In my head I imagined they looked like those see through plastic dunk tanks you hit with baseballs at the carnival. Scanning the back of the house from left to right I didn’t see anything big and clear and plastic. I looked between the hose and the bulkhead. There were no receptacles. Maybe she meant inside the bulkhead. Laura and I stood on the gray painted plywood doors, chipping from years of weather, and pulled on the metal handles with all of the strength we could muster. The doors didn’t budge. “Do you see them?” I asked Laura as I started to get frustrated. She shook her head. Jumping off the bulkhead we decided to look behind the house one last time, uncovering the hose, two brown rubber trash barrels, a shovel, and three milk jugs with twigs in them. Where were the personal water receptacles? We stormed back to the screened door demanding an answer. Gram met us at the door as she dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, the neck of her blue tank top moist with sweat after whacking down weeds with her whip-it. “We can’t find them. They’re not there,” I said abruptly, looking directly into her eyes through the screened door. We both informed her that they were nowhere to be found, we had looked three times. “I saw them there earlier, let me come with you and maybe we can find them together,” she said as her voice crackled slightly, trying to maintain her serious tone and not laugh. Laura and I turned around and sped down the five concrete steps with Gram in tow. “See, there’s nothing there,” I said pointing to the back of the house, dragging Gram up close so she could see with her own eyes that we were not skipping over anything. We had thoroughly scoured the exterior of the house, the personal water receptacles were not there. Gram smiled as she walked up next to the bulkhead, grabbing the two brown Rubbermaid trash barrels by their handles and flipping them over. “Here they are right where I said they were.” She pointed proudly at the barrels. “But those are trash barrels,” I said, “You said these were personal water receptacles.” My disappointment was building as I crossed my arms and stuck one hip out, temporarily annoyed at the ridiculous idea of swimming in trash barrels. “All we have to do is rinse any loose grass clippings out of these barrels and they are perfectly clean. We’ll carry them down to the bottom of the hill, sit them in the sun and fill them with water. You will each have your own personal water receptacle, much better than any pool you’d have to share.” Gram walked off carrying the barrels with us following like slugs. “Bring the hose down with you.” Laura and I tugged at the hose, each carrying three or four connected ringlets down to the bottom of the hill. When we reached Gram we handed over the hose and I sprinted back to the spigot to turn the water on, still skeptical of the idea of a trashy pool. Gram quickly rinsed a few strands of loose grass from the barrels and all three of us agreed that they looked good as new. She lined them up side by side and filled them each half full with water, placing a cinder block in between the barrels to use as a step to get in and out. I had Laura try it first; she was always a good Guinea Pig. Watching her skinny leg slide over the rim and into the water, I saw her eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise as her smile widened. “It’s great,” she said as she plunged her body up and down, “You should try it.” I reluctantly followed, still wanting to be upset but unable to keep the pout on my face. The cool water felt so refreshingly wonderful that before we even realized it, we were springing up and down in our personal water receptacles, singing, squealing, and having a big time. We jumped up and down and in and out, over and over and over again. We were having so much fun that we didn’t even notice that Gram went back to the house until she returned with a plastic flowered serving tray and two paper cups filled with Lipton Instant iced tea. “You must be getting thirsty with all this exciting activity,” she said in that I-told-you- so tone, handing over the cups as we gulped ravenously. Laura and I were bubbling over with delight, having absolutely no recollection of our sour moods thirty minutes prior. “These water receptacles are the best ever. I can’t believe we didn’t think of this earlier,” Laura said as she spun around in her tub. “Oh and thanks for the iced tea. We’re really workin’ hard out here.” Gram turned around then, letting us delight in our summertime glory, pleased at her accomplishment of the day. The joys and simplicities of life peaked that day, teaching me first hand a valuable life lesson: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If no lemons are available then iced tea will always do.

This title of this post was written in a love letter from my Grandfather to my Grandmother in April 1945 when he was still serving active duty in the Air Force. I never met him, he passed back in 1957, but the loss of my Grandmother, who's traumatic death happened suddenly ten years ago, left me feeling as if I had severed off my right arm. There are certain days I feel more positive about her being gone, but even after a decade our entire family feels the emptiness of her absence. Last week we had the pleasure of having my sister's four children down for a cousin's camp week at the lake. I have no doubt that Gram was looking over us, happy to see her great grandchildren making family memories that will last a lifetime.

The sweet “sirens” of caffeine addiction were calling out to me as I poured my second cup of coffee, realizing that it was time to wake up Farts, a nickname I had given my sister when we were kids. When she was really little she used to sit on my father’s lap and watch TV. My dad was not at all discreet about his bodily functions, so he would let one rip and start laughing right before Kristy said, “Dad, I LIKE farts!” Of course as an American, beer drinking, Three Stooges loving, blue collar working male, he found the comment absolutely hilarious, connecting with his prima donna toddler on a whole new level. Kristy and I used to play an old version of Jeopardy on the home computer, back when an Intel 386 was as close to lightning speed as we could possibly imagine. We had to name our own contestants and I would always sneak in her contestant’s name before I called her down to play. As soon as she sat down, the cartoon version of Alex Trebek would say, “OK, Farts, pick your first answer,” and I would burst out laughing. She would sit there giving me that “this is SO unfair” glare, gritting her teeth as she sat next to me fuming mad, but continuing to play anyway, because restarting the game could take up to twenty minutes. ***** I headed up the stairs with the intention of rising my mother and sister. They were both overly exhausted and probably could have slept all day, no one eager to confront the next task: going over the details of Gram’s funeral. The door to my parents’ room was slightly ajar and I could see my mother sleeping on her side through the crack. I gave a soft knock as I nudged it open so she wouldn’t be frightened. She struggled for a second, trying to appear more awake than she really was. “We have to leave in an hour.” I whispered. She nodded in response and I backed out of the room recognizing the role reversal that at some point happens between parents and children. Kristy appeared in her doorway like a more attractive, female version of Archie Bunker, slow moving and groggy, before I had made my way across the hall to wake her. “You didn’t need to be woken up after all,” I joked. “Yeah, who would want to miss this,” she smirked and shuffled towards the bathroom. None of us were what you would call “morning people,” we woke very slowly, moving about with a slightly forward leaning gait and foot shuffle, not speaking in full sentences for at least the first thirty minutes. Gram and Kim were the exceptions. As far back as I can remember, Gram was alert and ready to go before sunrise, maybe because that was the only time of day a widowed mother of four had an actual moment of solitude. ***** When I was about seven years old, McDonalds introduced their first line of refillable plastic coffee mugs. For some reason, Gram thought these new mugs were just awesome. If you arrived at the restaurant before 6 in the morning, for the early bird special, you would receive a free travel mug with the purchase of breakfast. Since the family only had one car, and neither my Mom nor Dad worked weekend mornings, we were guaranteed the use of the car both Saturdays and Sundays. Gram and I would wake up at 5:30 a.m., making sure that we were silent enough not to wake Kristy. It was fairly easy since Gram and I shared a double bed. We would have our clothes ready the night before, carefully planning our escape from the house without anyone else knowing. If splitting a plate of sausage and pancakes wasn’t exhilarating enough on its own, being the secret accomplice in deceiving my sleeping sister was enough to make this seven-year-old feel ecstatic. I remember the pride I felt when we shared our “secret breakfasts,” moments that were just ours. During those stolen meals, I had won the daily battle of “who gets Gram,” an unspoken possessive power struggle between Kristy and me throughout our childhood. We were always pulling Gram in opposite directions, hoping she’d secretly like one of us better. Fortunately she had enough love to divide between us equally, and solved the problem by making each one of us feel like we were individually getting more than the other. When the five people could no longer comfortably fit in the four-room cottage, my parents doubled the size of the house by adding a second floor. The new upstairs had three bedrooms as well as a second full bathroom and compared to the tight living quarters I had been used to, I remember feeling as if we now lived in a mansion. My parents had the master bedroom, while Gram and Kristy got twin beds and moved into the larger of the other two bedrooms. My room was a little bit smaller but came with all the privacy a nine year old would require. Having my own room was a great idea in theory, but deep down I was insanely jealous of my sister sharing her room with Gram, because I was the oldest and thought Gram was all mine. I came up with a fantastic way to trick my sister out of having Gram and Gram must have found it fun because she went right along with it. The nightly plan unfolded like this: Gram would pretend to go to bed in Kristy’s room, going as far as getting under the covers and faking sleep. When she was absolutely sure that my sister was sleeping, I gave her strict orders to silently tiptoe into my room and spend the rest of the night in my bed. I even kept one of Gram’s favorite feather pillows in my room to make the trip more enticing. To avoid any conflict between her granddaughters, she would have to wake very early and return back to her other bed. I don’t remember how long this crazy routine actually went on, but I imagine that it meant as much to her as it meant to us and on the life long list of things that really matter, it was worth all of the trouble. ***** If she wasn’t mad at me for teasing her, Kristy and I would sit together at the top of the hallway stairs, playing Uno or Barbie dolls, sometimes just talking and enjoying being with each other. In my room we would make a tent out of blankets, draping them from the brass footboard and hiding underneath, spending the night cuddled up in a ball as we shone our shiny metal flashlights on the wall, making shadow figures and giggling while trying to scare each other. It was easy to get the spooks as I told stories of the lonely old ghost woman who cried out in the night, “Who stole my golden arm?” making the sound of wind whooshing and tapping on the blanket as my sister jumped out of her skin. On schooldays Kristy would come into my room before she left the house and ask my opinion on her outfit. Some days I would not pay close attention, mumbling that her dress was fine as I focused on something else. I was a teenager with a bustling social life, busy focusing on who had broken up at school and what our clique was doing on Friday night. I had more important things than my little sister’s wardrobe to focus on. “What do you think of this?” she’d ask as I blew her off, looking for my other pink Converse All Star high top under the bed. “Yeah, that’s good.” I said in an unconvincing tone, still not giving her my full attention. “Would you wear it?” she spat back, her hands perched on her hips with her lower lip stuck out, intensely waiting on my response as if I was the fashion mogul of the world and my opinion would make or break the outcome of the day. If I said no, or even implied it with a smirk, there would be thirty more minutes of rummaging through the closet for the appropriate attire of the day, tops, skirts, and leggings strewn every which way all over the floor, looking as if someone had been on a crazed rampage searching the closets for hidden treasure. Eventually I would give in, going in her room and offering up advice. “You can’t wear a tight fitting shirt with tight fitting pants. If you want to wear those leggings than you need a shirt that is kind of loose. It’s the rules. Here, try this one.” When she left the house, she left feeling confident. Secretly I was, too, but would never admit that the older sister liked playing dress up with a real Barbie. My mom would do Kristy’s hair with the back down and a ponytail at an angle on one side, kind of like Punky Brewster. What Mom didn’t realize was that by the third or fourth grade the Punky Brewster look could put a huge target on Kristy’s back. With that hairdo and the large round blue glasses she wore, my poor little sister had no chance of being one of the cool kids at school, even though Mom and Betty swore that they read the fashion magazines and these styles where what everyone else was wearing. I was never fully sure that they were reading the “current” fashions. Having been the different kid for years, I knew on a deep level that school taunting to some could be considered “character building,” but I didn’t want her getting picked on like I did and would sneak my sister in to my room to re-do her hair, letting it down and brushing it out, using the curling iron to give it a little extra body. It gave her a more mature and sophisticated look rather than like she was going to ask to join the Double Dutch game. “There ya go….” I would say as I finished up, running my fingers through the base to separate the curls. We did this routine a few times a week. Sitting on the bench of my walnut armoire, I watched her confidence grow as she viewed her reflection in the mirror. Her face lit up as she thanked me and ran off. Since I was cool in her eyes, whatever I did was obviously superior to anything she or Mom could do. ***** Mom told me that when I left for college Kristy cried every day and slept in my bed for four weeks. I thought our relationship would always stay the same, even though I wasn’t around as much; we could talk on the phone and visit every few months, but somehow that wasn’t enough. We grew apart and she started to close herself off. Looking back I think I acted as a sort of buffer amidst the oil and water relationship between my sister and mother. I wondered if on some level she felt like I abandoned her, leaving her there to fight all the battles on her own. We had always been a team, she and I, taking it on together. I hated that I missed being an active part of her teenage years, but I was 5 ½ years older, and at that age the difference was tremendous. When I was available again, after chiropractic school, it was too late, that space in her heart had been replaced. She had found Matt and gave all the trust she had in me to him. Nowadays we could go months without talking, and even though we got along great when we were together, those occasions were so rare that our relationship didn’t have the same strength. I wasn’t the one she called when she needed an open ear, and I hated that my leaving in 1994 had caused such irreversible damage. It seemed like she no longer needed me. In Atlanta, I lived far enough away that I could consume myself in other things, pretending that the emotional distance between us didn’t hurt as badly as it did. That is until I met Kim and witnessed the closeness she shared with her Mom and three sisters. Even though they all lived in separate states, they managed to talk several times a week, keeping active in each other’s lives. If one happened to visit without the others, they would call all day, their excitement traveling over the phone line as they checked in, making sure whomever made the flight, jealous of what they were missing even if it only involved sitting around the table and catching up. They all appreciated the time they spent together and their closeness had value. I wanted to feel that again with Kristy. It was rare that my sister and I were both home without our spouses, reminding me of the forgotten dynamics of our relationship that got tossed aside in the busyness of our adult lives. Somehow time changed us, affecting things I usually don’t have the nerve to bring up when we are actually talking. But right then we were those sisters again, Farts and Doobla, the girls helping to hold the family together.

Aunt Jenny has been in town visiting from Illinois. Since her arrival Senia Mae has spent a significant amount of time with her: going to and from school, playing dollhouse, and hanging out at Sonic eating cheese toasties. Aunt Jenny is just the type of gal Senia Mae likes to keep in her right hand pocket because she's enthusiastic, fun loving, and most importantly, available. The two have practically been inseparable over the last few weeks. Last night after dinner Aunt Jenny and Savannah said goodnight and were heading back to Grandma's house for the evening when someone said to Senia Mae, "Unless you want to come with us and have a sleepover..." We have had some issues with sleepovers in the past and have tried to not pressure her into something she is not emotionally ready for, but suddenly she was enthralled with the idea. Her eyes lit up with excitement as she and Savannah ran back to her room to grab the essentials: bunny, her favorite book The Paper Bag Princess, pajamas, and of course, clothes for school tomorrow.

We are getting to the point with Senia Mae where we are realizing that we have to set limitations, with food, with television, with gifts, because with one child it is very easy to spoil them without even being aware it is happening. There is an unlimited amount of everything and we feel it is important for her to understand that you can not get what you want all of the time.  T he other day we were heading home from a packed day that had already been filled with shopping, then bowling, as well as a couple of hours at the arcade. It was a day filled with fun and excitement, and even though we had a great time, by the time we left I had had my fill of lights, whistles,and dinging bells.

What happened today is the hook that at pulls your heartstrings, the exact sentiment that makes parents wish that their little ones would never grow up. Until I had my own child I never knew what they were talking about because you just can't fathom love on that level. That particular type of adoration did not exist before and now it suddenly does. Oh how you want to savor it for eternity, store it away in a bottle for when you need just a little reminder of its sweetness. Yes, today was that day. The event was the annual Trunk or Treat in Senia Mae's preschool parking lot. I had dropped her off in her costume earlier that morning and the parents were to set up their trunks by ten thirty, so the students could trick or treat while school was is session. I had talked about decorating the trunk and handing out treats, assuming that Senia Mae understood the plan but left out that I was dressing as a witch, thinking nothing of it.