From "Survivor" to "Son"

A little over two years ago, I received a text that would affect the next two years of my CASA volunteer work.  A text involving a darling little boy that needed a CASA.

The text was from a case manager I had worked with on my first CASA case with CASA of Central Texas.  Together, we saw the adoption of a wonderful teenage girl into the perfect family for her (A Forever Home).  But this text was not about Kym. 

It was a picture of a little boy, fast asleep, his dark hair swept back, and a canula placed in his tiny nose, with oxygen being pumped through to help him breathe. 

It took my breath away.

And I wondered … how did this case manager have a picture of my grandson?  Taken some several months prior when he was hospitalized with a virus that caused him respiratory distress. The similarity, uncanny.

Upon second look, and the text that followed, the message was clear:

“Ryan needs a CASA!”

A Court Appointed Special Advocate.  Someone who advocates for the best interest of children in foster care. (For The Kids) 

Another text.  This TWO-YEAR OLD is in the hospital because he almost overdosed on methamphetamines.

My heart raced, hurting for this gentle little soul, who, through no fault of his own, lay in a hospital bed.  Fighting for his life. 

And fight he did, for five days.  I later found out, the staff at the hospital were not altogether sure that he would survive.

A foster mom was in place and went to sit with him every day while he was hospitalized. 

I escalated the need to my CASA supervisor, who confirmed that the judge had already put Ryan’s case on a list of children who needed a CASA. 

“Do you want the case?”, my supervisor asked.  My initial response was “YES!”.  But I wanted to give another CASA, one who was waiting on just the right case for them, to have the opportunity to advocate for Ryan while he was in care.

A couple of days later, my supervisor informed me the case was mine, if I still wanted it.

How could I possibly say no?

By this time, Ryan had been released from the hospital and was living in his first foster home.

With the Coronavirus Pandemic in play, my first visits with Ryan were conducted via FaceTime.

His foster mom described him as shy, clingy, playful, and VERY loving. And those characteristics shone through during our calls.  He showed me his room and ALL of his toys.  I read him books.  I showed him my dogs.  And we played games.  All through FaceTime.

When possible, and if it’s in the best interest of the child/ren, children in foster care are placed with a family member.  It means continuity for the child, a familiar face.

A few months later, Ryan went to live with his biological grandmother. 

FaceTime visits became in-person visits and upon my first with Ryan, he gave me the biggest hug.  And my heart simply melted.

I sat on the floor with him and we played.  With all of the toys.  While his grandmother shared how things have been going.

Considering Ryan’s young age, it was his caretakers who I relied on to share information about how he was doing and what his needs were; in this case, that meant Ryan’s grandmother and babysitter.  To Ryan, I was simply “Ms. Sharon” or “Mrs. Miller”.  And someone who would get on the floor and play with him.

I delivered Christmas gifts, an Easter basket, and celebrated his third birthday with him, before he was moved to another family member’s home.

A young couple, who were also related on the biological father’s side of the family.

Ryan’s new foster parents had seen him regularly while he was living with his grandmother, so the transition to their home went smoothly.

Upon my first meeting with them, I immediately liked them.  They were genuine, caring, and despite not yet having any children of their own, they were most intuitive to Ryan’s needs.

Having a grandson just a tad older than Ryan, I was able to share ideas with them on potty training.  And how to deal with threenagers.  We talked a lot about the stages of child development and what they could expect.

And always, always, they had Ryan’s best interest in mind.  His safety.  His well-being.  Exactly what I look for when advocating for my CASA kiddos.

On my second visit to their home, I drove up to their house and Ryan was anxiously awaiting my arrival.  I could see his little face, eyes wide and the biggest smile, shining through the glass door.  He was jumping up and down excitedly, repeating, his foster mom said, my name. As I stepped out of my car, he ran to me and wrapped me up in the biggest hug.

THIS.  Is everything. 

And Ryan and I played.  And played.  And played some more.

During our monthly visits, Ryan and I played chase.  And he introduced me to all of his animals.  He asked about my dogs.  We went to the park, where he challenged my fear of heights by taking me to the very top of the playscape.  

We played with dinosaurs and Pokemon figures.  We played chase some more.  We climbed in tunnels (well … he did – I was too big to fit through them) and played with Kinetic sand (THE most fun!) And we played chase. 

He was Batman and I was Cat Girl (not to be confused with Cat Woman, of course).  I watched him watch YouTube videos and practice the drums. And we went to the trampoline park. 

And we played chase.

I always knew that when I was going to see Ryan, I would get a second workout that day. We played hard. 

Ryan’ doctors cleared him of any long-lasting effects from the drugs he ingested.  This was such a relief!

He attends Pre-K and is on target with other children of the same age.  Physically, he's doing well too.

Seamlessly, Ryan began calling his foster parents “Mommy” and “Daddy”.  They didn’t encourage it, it just happened.  As if he knew that they were worthy of such titles.

It didn’t take long for his foster parents to know they wanted to adopt him.  They couldn’t, they said, imagine their lives without him. 

But first there was the matter of parental rights. 

In most foster care cases, the goal is to reunify the child/ren with their parent(s).  But this was the kind of case where the Department didn’t intend to reunify him with his biological mother due to the degree to which she endangered him. 

The biological father’s rights were terminated early in the case.

And when the county no longer served as his mother’s place of residence, she began participating in services.  Tasks that needed to be done in an effort to regain custody of Ryan.  

Until she wasn’t.

She ultimately relinquished her parental rights voluntarily, clearing the way for Ryan’s foster parents to adopt him.

In the 11 months since, Ryan has had 4 caseworkers. Each one dealing with a growing caseload.  And trying to get up to speed on Ryan’s case.  And then, there was the paperwork.  Files that needed to be redacted.  And evaluations that needed to be completed (along with their own set of paperwork).

That’s where I come in.  Not that I can help with the paperwork.  But I continued to be there for Ryan.  Providing each new caseworker with any info they might need in order to move the case (and more importantly, the adoption) along.  All the while maintaining contact with Ryan and his foster parents. 

And Ryan was thriving.

This loving little boy who loves animals, playing dress up, music (and playing musical instruments), and anime’. He has a smile that will light up a room.  And he’s safe.  And HAPPY!

He’s recently gotten into Karate. And for a four-year old, he shows a surprising amount of discipline.  He can do a kata and has one heck of a side kick.  And don’t even get me started when he throws down “The Hammer”.  I’m just glad I don’t have to spar with him!

A few weeks ago, his foster mom sent me several pictures (she’s always been so good about doing so).  In a series of seven, the very last one shows Ryan holding a picture of a sonogram.  And proudly wearing a shirt that reads, “I’m going to be a big brother”.

I literally screamed for joy.  Thank goodness I was home alone, lest my husband think something was wrong.

When I saw him next, Ryan proudly told me about the baby in his Mommy’s tummy.

The following week, his foster parents signed the necessary paperwork (yes, more paperwork!) to adopt Ryan.  I got the same-size lump in my throat that I did when I knew Kym’s adoption was imminent.

Because of the number of cases being seen in family court, there would be no hearing in front of a judge.  Court orders were routed to all parties associated with the case for signature.  And once the judge signs, it’s official.

While on vacation a couple of weeks ago, I woke up one morning to a message from Ryan’s mom. 

“WE ARE OFFICIALLY/LEGALLY PARENTS!”

My heart swelled three sizes that day.  The grin on my face, unremovable.  My heart was full.

His parents have said they wouldn’t know how to adequately describe to Ryan, everything I’ve been to him throughout these last two-plus years.  Truthfully, I don’t know how to adequately describe how much this little boy means to me. 

I hope to watch Ryan grow into the charming young man I feel he’s destined to be.  To be the best big brother. To be loved. To be safe.

To be a son.

 

*Names have been changed to protect the child’s privacy.

 

Hook, Line & Sinker

My first memories of fishing were (mostly) with my dad.  During the summer months, he would come home from work, we would load up the fishing poles and chicken liver (which was judiciously used for bait.  Um … ewwww).

We drove a few miles to the farm of some family friends.  A brother and sister, neither of which had married, and who lived together on the farm where they were raised.  They leased their land for hunting in the fall.  And in the summer, we fished!

Each of us had a bamboo fishing pole.  Totally old school, right?

Actually, they’re considered “Vintage” or “Antique” now.  I’m not sure what that says about me, but we’ll leave that right there.  

These “Vintage” bamboo fishing poles now run between $45-$50 on the open market.  I wonder if Mom & Dad still have them - we could cash in!

The line was attached to the end of the bamboo stalk and casting was done in much the same way you would with a rod and reel.  Except there was no reel to reel.  And no whinging sound when you cast. 

Just a warning to watch your swing (lest you land your hook in the person next to you) and the gentle plop of the bobber as it hit the water.

We were fishing for catfish.

I don’t remember catching any myself (though I’m sure I did.  everybody gets lucky once in a while.)

But I do remember sitting and waiting.  The sun reflecting off the water, glaring into my eyes.  

And waiting.  And being told to be quiet (hey!  I was always the child that had “talks too much” on her report card.  True story!)  

And waiting.

I believe that’s what’s called a lesson in patience.

The first time I recall casting a true-to-life rod & reel was on a family trip to the coast.  We went on a nighttime fishing excursion in the Texas Gulf Coast.

I came away with a 12-inch eel and a baby sting ray (he was a fighter).  And I have a vague recollection of catching a smallish perch.  I also avoided getting seasick.  So there’s that.

My parents bought a ranch many years ago.  Complete with stock tanks.  They stocked the tanks, two with catfish and one with bass. 

When the fish were big enough, we began dropping our lines.

The fish were plentiful, and they really DID like chicken livers (which were still, in my opinion, ewwww.)  One by one, we would pull catfish out.  

And stopped only when it was determined that we had more than enough (ie, Dad didn’t want to be up all night cleaning them).

During my second marriage (Leaps & Bounds), my then-husband and I took his two small daughters to fish for the first time.  (My son, basically having grown up going to the ranch, had many fishing outings under his belt.)

It was that trip when I hooked a fighter.  My goodness, this one fought.  You would’ve thought I had a Marlin on my line (though we know this wasn’t possible).

I nearly had him to shore.  I could see him.  He was HUGE! When …

SNAP!  He broke the line! 

One of Jerry’s few redeeming qualities was that he was determined not to let that fish get away.  He jumped into the tank (shin-deep), ruining a pair of boots in the process, and drug that sucker out of the water!

That huge sucker on the end - that's MINE!

At the end of the day, I had caught what I think must still be the record for the ranch:  a 17.5 pounder! 

(My parents may tell you differently – that someone else, maybe even my son - had bested my effort.  So maybe mine was a record for that day.  I’ll take it!)

Redfish!  It's what's for dinner!

A few years ago, my girlfriends and I took a trip to Destin to celebrate our 50^th birthdays.  Loretta & Christina went on a fishing excursion. 

Since I wasn’t feeling very ‘patient’, I chose not to go.  They caught plenty of red snapper, which were cooked to perfection by the restaurant we dined in that night.  Thanks, friends!

Fast forward to 2020 and the pandemic hit (Don't Stand So Close To Me).  Not to be deterred by travel restrictions, the hubs and I bought a travel trailer (We Be Trippin').

In setting up the trailer, Keith dug out his old fishing gear and loaded everything into Plan B.  We dutifully then went to Academy to purchase our fishing licenses. 

What is happening to me???

Our first trip out, we went to Port Aransas.  Keith remembered a place just off of the ferry, where fishing was a premium.  They call it Redfish Bay.

We dropped line after line.  And worm after worm was gobbled up as soon as they hit the water.

Fishing was at a premium that’s for sure – lots of fish, lots of stolen bait.  For thirty minutes, we basically fed the fish.  Tricky little bastards. 

At least the beer was cold.

Last year, Keith and I took Plan B to the coast again.  This time, to Port Isabel.

We parked Plan B in a community that sat on the waterway and our particular spot backed up to a canal.  Perfect for dropping a line whenever the mood hits ‘ya.

Worms were apparently in short supply (or no supply at all) as none of the bait shops we stopped at were carrying them.  Keith went with the next best thing:  shrimp. 

“You like shrimp,” he said, “so why wouldn’t they?” 

Whatever kind of “they” might call our canal home.

Dusk and dawn.  Apparently, those were the best times to drop your line.

The next morning, we made our way to “our” dock.  I believe the fish must’ve still been asleep because there were very few takers.

That night, however, was a different story!

Thanks to whoever placed a green light in the canal!  The fish were swarming the light and it seemed an appropriate target for our lines.  Easier to see the bobber dip below the water too!

We were hoping to bring up the bigger fish we could see circling the light (or perhaps they were circling the smaller fish!).  Instead, we saved many a perch from imminent doom and certain death by the bigger fish.

Or maybe we merely gave them a moment of reprieve as they were all too small to keep.  So … it’s a catch-and-release canal.  Okay.

The next morning, coffee in hand, we sat on the dock enjoying the quiet.  Only broken by the sound of the gulls as they woke up and took flight.

Watching the fish jump about, I grabbed my pole and baited it properly.

One by one, Keith and I pulled them in.  Sometimes both at the same time! 

And one by one, we threw them back (as only the smallest of perch were biting).

Until … I caught a spotted trout!  And we thought that would make for good eatin’.  If only we had four or five more.

Challenge accepted.

Many hours were spent on that dock.  Sometimes in my pj’s with coffee in hand.  The sky a blend of pastels as the sun came up.

Sometimes in the evening, after a scrumptious meal was had, and a nightcap was required.  The moonlight flitting across the water.

However, it would appear that word got out amongst the other spotted trout and they chose a different canal to call home.

We never did get to cook up our catch as what was worth keeping was barely more than an appetizer.

Keith has spent all week getting Plan B ready.  Our land yacht, she’s got a new coat of wax.  

The fishing poles are loaded in the pass-through. 

And our fishing licenses are renewed.

Just us, our Bentley-boy, some hot coffee, cold beer, and lots and lots of fish in the sea.

The water is calling and we must go.

 

 

Going for the Gold

On the heels of the closing ceremony of the 2022 Winter Olympics in Beijing, I can’t help but wax nostalgic over watching the games as a young child.

For two weeks in the winter and two weeks in the summer, I was glued to the TV watching every minute of Olympic action that was broadcast from the other side of the world (and occasionally from the U.S.).  

Usually, that meant three hours at night during the week and all-day Saturday and Sunday. 

Fridays and Saturdays were my favorites, because my parents would let me stay up to watch the late-night coverage until visions of medals were dancing in my head.

There was a feeling of pride, even as a 7-year old, when Team USA stood on the podium.  A knot forming in my throat and tears spilling down my cheeks when they took the gold, the stars & stripes were raised, and the National Anthem played.

I can’t really say which I liked better.  Winter or Summer Games.  I liked them equally.  And for different reasons.

I’m not a huge fan of freezing temps, but the one thing I like about Winter is being able to dress cozily. 

Cozy sweaters. 
Cozy sweatshirts. 
Cozy coats. 
Cozy scarves. 
And the occasional cozy hat.  (I’m not a big hat-wearer as they just don’t look right on my German-style block head.)

As a child, sitting in the grocery store shopping cart, I would surround myself with all of the things my mom tried to put into the basket.  It was a good day when it was winter-time, and I could wrap both mine and my mom’s coats around me too.

Oddly enough, I’m somewhat claustrophobic. 

There’s a difference, right?  Between being cozy and being claustrophobic?

Curling up in a blanket.  Cozy.

Riding in an elevator in Europe.  Claustrophobic.

But I digress.

Given my affinity for all things cozy, it’s no small surprise that the first time I saw bobsledding, I fell in love with the sport. 

Just imagine.  Two or four athletes all crammed into one tube-like vehicle on blades.  Sliding down an icy track.

Cozy.  Right?  RIGHT?

And this year, the monobob.  Be still my heart.  Not one, not two, but THREE bobsled events!

Imagine my delight when the now-defunct Astroworld theme park had a bobsled-like rollercoaster.  Man, I loved that thing!

There is a “Winter Bobsled Experience” in Salt Lake City, where wannabe Bobsledders (raising my hand here!) can ride down the track used during the Winter Games held there in 2002.  I have two words:  Bucket.  List.

Another event, similar to bobsled, the Skeleton, is one I'll take a pass on.  Thank you, very much!  Heading down an icy slide head first with nothing to protect you should a crash occur.

That's a no for me, Cotton.

If you’re reading this, you probably know I was born, raised, and still reside in the great state of Texas.  So it should come as no surprise to you that I’ve never been a big fan of ice hockey.

Until, that is, a group of amateur hockey players donning the red, white and blue took the ice in Lake Placid, NY in 1980. 

I’m pretty sure the odds-makers in Vegas referred to Team USA ice hockey as a Longshot (pun fully intended).  Unless the bet was that Team USA would lose.

Boy how they surprised everyone!  The excitement of watching them advance further into the tournament was palpable across the nation.

It was a Friday night in February.  My parents had some friends over.  Their daughter, one of my very first childhood friends.

Team USA was playing Russia in the medal round.

Russia’s team, stacked with professional players. 

Terry and I, age 14 at the time and both boy-crazy, had picked out our Team USA crushes.  I can’t remember who her pick was.  But for me, goalie Jim Craig had me swooning.  Or was it Mike Eruzione?  Or Mike Ramsey?  Or maybe Jack Hughes?

Laying on the living room floor, watching the game, snacks in hand, and, as a couple of teenage girls, waiting for a glimpse of our crush(es) without their helmets on.

Our living room erupted as Al Michaels called the final seconds of the game. 

“Do You Believe in Miracles?!?!”

The Americans had done it!  They had beaten the heavily-favored Russian team 4-3 and would go on to win the gold medal that year.

This Texas-girl was ecstatic!

Next to bobsledding and ice hockey, I also enjoyed watching skiing even though I’ve never snow-skied a day in my life.

Of course, I’ve never ridden in a bobsled or played ice hockey, either.

My mom always enjoyed ice skating.  I couldn’t for the life of me fathom why. To me, it was straight-up, yawn-inducing boredom. 

Fast forward to “these games” in 2022, and I actually enjoyed watching ice skating.

Perhaps it’s something about my age.  And the fact that I’m no longer as graceful as I once was (but really, was I ever graceful?  If you know me, I’d prefer you not answer that.)  And that, as a gym rat, I can appreciate the athleticism it must take to perform such daring fetes.

I did try ice-skating once.  I was in college and there was an ice rink inside one of the local malls.

Even though I spent most Friday nights during my middle school years at the roller-skating rink, I found ice skating to be much more of a challenge. 

One tiny blade and a shoestring was all that stood between me and a broken ankle.

I needed a very stiff drink afterwards.  Nerves being nerves and all.

Just a few months after the Winter Games, the Summer Games began.

Yes, boys and girls, (at least the ones who are a couple of decades younger than me), the Olympics were held every four years.  Not alternating Summer and Winter Games every two years.  

Every.  Four.  Years. 

That’s a long time to wait for 2 weeks’ worth of excitement.  Especially when you’re a kid.

Bar none, my favorite summer Olympic sport is swimming, followed closely by diving.  Given my love for all things underwater (Under the Sea), that shouldn’t be a surprise.

Then again, given my fear of heights (there’s no way I could climb, much less go off of a 10m platform) and the fact that I nearly drowned at summer camp when I jumped into the deep end of the pool without really knowing how to swim, maybe it is a surprise.

Watching Mark Spitz win 7 gold medals in 1972 was awe-inspiring. 

And Michael Phelps?  Amazing.

But watching Greg Louganis hit his head when he came off the 3m board at the 1988 Seoul Games is one of those memories that is forever etched in my mind. 

That horrific injury is so embedded (I can still see it when I think about it), that I didn’t remember he went on to win gold in that same event, having returned to the pool a mere 25 minutes after the concussion-inducing accident. 

Google is your friend.

Beach Volleyball is also must-watch TV. 

I wasn’t much of an athlete when Athletics were introduced to us in Middle School.  I really excelled at Bench Warming, though.  So there’s that.

As an adult, I decided to tap into that inner bench-warmer and tried my hand at Softball and even joined a Sand Volleyball league.

You know the kind of league I’m talking about. Beer drinkers that also think they can play volleyball.

My sand volleyball career came to an abrupt end when, during a warm-up one random Tuesday night, I bumped the ball and felt a pop in my left-hand ring finger. 

But I played through and actually had the best game I’ve ever played.  I ate sand while successfully digging the ball, allowing my teammates to score.  And I even, at 5’5”, spiked the ball that night too, making a point in the process.

The next morning, my finger was two sizes too big and turning various shades of red and purple.  An X-ray showed a hairline fracture that required merely a splint to be worn for 10 days.  No problem.

Until the night before my follow-up.  When I picked up a load of laundry, pulling my finger in the process.  And ultimately separating the bones further than bones are supposed to be.

One surgery later and I had a shiny sawed-off nail (which, in the medical field, is called a “pin”) placed in said finger.  And learned how to type using just 3 fingers on my left hand over the course of the next six weeks.

Fast forward 24 years and I was afraid I had separated the bones of that same knuckle just this past weekend while clearing rocks and raking fill in our backyard.  Thankfully, there was no break this time, just one hyper-extended finger.  I’ll be as good as new in a few days.

Again.  I digress.

Track and Field events (yes, all of them) are also favorites. 

Tell me.  When I say Decathalon, who do you think of?

For me, it’s the person formerly known as Bruce Jenner.  What a remarkable Olympics he had, winning that event in 1976.  Breaking the existing world record at the time and going on to earn his spot on the Wheaties box.

I certainly wasn’t going to eat the cereal (I’m more of a Special K kind-of-girl). But oh, how I wanted that Wheaties box. 

I tried out for the track team too.  And was named the equipment manager.

My only memory of going to track meets when I was in middle school was being at one in the pouring rain at the local high school.  Everywhere the equipment needed to be, was a mud pit.

And I ceremoniously ruined a brand new pair of shoes that day.

My mom.  Not a fan.  Thus ending my esteemed equipment manager career.

I did, however, set foot on the starting line of the track used in the very first Olympiad held in 1896 in Athens.

That’s about as close to glory as I’ll ever get.

That and working out alongside two-time Paralympic Gold Medalist Jen Lee, a goalie for Team USA sled hockey.

Jen, a fellow Longhorn, and one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, is on his way to Beijing soon.  I can’t wait to cheer him on from halfway across the globe.

Go Team USA.

 

 

New Year, New Me

For as long as I’ve known Keith, he’s taken the last day of the year to write down his goals for the following year.  Before he retired, he actually had two sets of goals:  one for business, one for pleasure. 

He encouraged me a few years ago, to put into writing, my goals for the following year.  That was December 2019.

My list consisted of Health & Wellness goals, as well as Travel goals (Don't You Ever Stay Home?)  And I threw in some objectives for Creativity as well.

As you might imagine, there were very few goals that were met in 2020, the year that, along with Bruno, we don’t talk about. 

We did manage to get one trip in before the world shut down (Don't Stand So Close to Me). 

And I did manage to create one photobook every month (and in some months, two).  It happens when you’re stuck at home with no place to go.

And I can concretely say that neither of us had on our 2020 Goals, to serve as Grandparent Day Care for two months.

This past December, as I sat down to create my Goals for 2022, I reflected on my 2021 Goals. 

The goals which sat on the end table in the living room. 

The goals that were buried under Keith’s goals, various pamphlets, and all of the remotes. 

The goals that I hadn’t looked at.  Since January 1, 2021.

And I crossed off one goal.  ONE.

And even that was only partially complete. 

The goal:  to meet our friends from England, the Stringers, at Walt Disney World in the fall.  Evan and I, along with our friends Susan, Anne, and Rob made it to the House of Mouse, but sadly, our borders did not open up in time for the Stringers to make the jump across the pond.  They were there in spirit, at least (and on cardboard).

In all fairness to me, where my Health & Fitness goals were concerned, rotator cuff surgery (Twist & Shout) hampered my ability to achieve several of them.

A couple of the goals (specifically those related to the home) should have been achievable.  Should have.  

Cleaning out the garage would require Keith's help, yes.  The man has more tools than a mechanic and carpenter combined (but I'll be damned if he doesn't have use for every single one!).  

And cleaning out the pantry.  We've done this one time in the last 10 years.  One.  I'm happy to report that we didn't find any canned goods that were congealed to the pantry shelf (which has reportedly happened in his pantry before, complete with the guts of said can spilling out onto said shelf.)

Having beaten me to the punch, Keith produced his 2022 Goals first.  And kept asking where mine were. 

Um … “I was just going to work on them when you commandeered the computer!”

Never one to say never, I dutifully transferred several of the tasks from 2021 onto the list for 2022.  And in keeping those lofty home-related goals from 2021, I'm still aiming to clean out the garage and the pantry.  

And I’m happy to report that I’ve already crossed one off of the list!  Actually, it was crossed off before the clock struck midnight on January 1^st, 2022!

To clean out the front closet.

It had become the somewhat of a hoarder’s dream.  With everything from a Bosu ball to an old, dusty mattress topper thrown in with our luggage, backpacks, Christmas wrapping paper, a high chair, an old VCR, Evan’s baptism outfit (you can’t stick something that precious in the attic!), a foam roller, a pack-and-play, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Check.  Done.  Onto the Next.

I’ve dusted off the self-inflicted expectation to create one photobook per month.  Here it is, February 3rd and I can say that …

I am already behind. 

At least I have started the first photobook.  At least. 

I also recently and very accidentally deleted a photobook that I had started a couple of years ago (and that I had summarily forgotten about).  When you do stupid stuff like that, it doesn’t exactly help you to meet your goals, now does it?

I’ve replaced my goal of writing one children’s book with writing a totally different children’s book.  It’s one that I started last year and I would love to see it published before we change out the calendar for 2023. 

This.  Is.  Accountability.

I want to sell stuff that I no longer use and think maybe someone else might find them useful.  Golf equipment (because I haven’t picked up a club since 2005) and scrapbooking supplies (because … Photobooks.)

And BOOM!  The golf clubs sold this week!

Under the category of Travel, well … we’ve already lost some and we’ve won some.

We made the painstaking decision to cancel our trip to Spain and Portugal, which we should be on as I write this.  We simply didn’t want to hassle with all of the Covid restrictions, paperwork, and because they’re currently experiencing a surge like we are, and masking the entire time. First world problems, I know.

We do have on the calendar, time with the Grands at the lake.  And have booked an RV trip with the little nuggets too.  Ten days to take them to Arkansas and introduce them to Keith’s family.  (My, aren’t we brave?)

And remember that partially completed goal of meeting the Stringers in Walt Disney World?  Well … we’re planning to see them not once, but TWICE this year. 

We’re getting a re-do on our visit to see Mickey.  And as an added bonus, we’re taking our pumpkin-girl along for her very 1^st trip to Walt Disney World!

And then … we’ll get to watch the youngest Stringer marry one of the very best dudes in all of England.  We’ve known Georgia since she was a wee girl and wouldn’t think of missing the opportunity to see her say “I Do”.

Keith and I are celebrating our 10-year anniversary this year (I know – we can’t believe it either!).  That definitely calls for a special trip.  Somewhere.

Technically, we’ll celebrate on the day of, while we’re at Walt Disney World.  But this anniversary deserves something a bit more.  We have a couple of trips in the planning process (one very exotic one that will take us half-way around the world).  Surely one of those will be worth consideration for celebrating our “Aluminum Anniversary”.  

I can assure you it won’t be the 10-day camping trip with the Grands.

And I’ve vowed to find inspiration.  Of some kind.  Every month.  And produce at least one blog post.  Every month. 

Fail.  (see the date of this posting.)

I had a difficult time in finding inspiration last year.  It was tough for many reasons but losing my friend Lisa the day before my birthday, impacted me more than I realized.  And when I finish the afore-mentioned children’s book, I’ll dedicate it in her honor.

Lisa was a runner.  Also in her honor, I’m training to run a 5k.  Her memorial 5k. 

If you know me, you know how much I despise running.  I abhor it.  I detest it.  And I always have. 

But this feels right. 

I’m four weeks into my Couch-to-5k program and I haven’t given up yet!  I’m also finding running a lot easier with each week.  Though … I have to run a 1k later this week and can’t say I’m exactly looking forward to it.

For you, my friend, I will not quit.

Like eating an elephant, I’ll tackle my goals one bite at a time.  Perhaps this saying (one of my favorites!) will help you in tackling yours.

To your health, wealth, and happiness in 2022!

Cheers!