Southern Living

I went to visit my momma today. On the way down, I listened to some country. I go through music kicks; for weeks, I will only listen to 91.9 or contemporary Christian. Then I'll switch it up and add some motown or maybe some classic, old-school rock. I haven't been into country recently, but I just finished two books about cowboys, Texas rangers, and country living. Thus, I sort of fell back into the southern/country trend.

I listened to a couple of songs that got me thinking about being southern. More than that, growing up as a southern girl. There is something about being born and raised down south. I feel like there are certain things that define most of us. Sure, there are things that have happened (or sadly, are still happening) in our region: racism, discrimination, poverty, and LAWD let's not talk about today's heat wave. (108 degress in Columbia. Seriously?!) First, I want to clear up some misconceptions about southern girls. We are not all racist, we do not all fly the confederate flag in our front yard, and we don't all drive around with curlers in our hair and a Salem light hangin' out of our mouth.

The beautiful thing about the women that I know (southern or not) is the variety. It is amazing to compare and contrast all women and their personalities. So what does define us G.R.I.T.S.? There are a few things, in my opinion.

• Let's talk vocabulary and level of intelligence. I might not be the brightest candle on the cake, but I believe I can hold my own when reading, writing, and speaking. I might use the words "y'all" or "baby" quite frequently, but these are logical grammatical choices :) Y'all is a valid contraction: you + all. And baby actually has multiple uses: it may refer to my small child, my significant other, or someone who's been hurt (i.e. "poor baby").  Phrases like "Bless her heart" or "Thank you, Jesus!" also come out quite a bit. To me, these phrases are pretty self-explanatory. Bless her heart = God, bless that poor girl. Give her some direction/insight/help. Thank you, Jesus = Thank you for helping us, Lord/ Glad that's over/ We are blessed.

• Forget a man driving a BMW, Mercedes, or some other luxury vehicle. I'll take a man in a truck any day. And a man who can fix things or build things? Even better. A man who can aim and shoot a gun? Thank you, Jesus! Seriously, I love my husband's sense of family and heritage. I love how he plays the tough guy role with our son, but he melts when Trafton gives him hugs or kisses. I secretly love the farmer's tan that he gets when he works and sweats outside all day. He came home the other day with tan/dirty legs and stark white feet. To me, this symbolizes self-motivation and a desire to work and finish things. You know that Chesney song, She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy? That's some southern truth right there, y'all :)

• What else makes me thankful that I was born and raised in the south? The food. I'm not a picky eater. There is something about southern, home cooking that makes you feel good. Why else would it be called "comfort food"? It's really sad when you have the number for Lizard's Thicket memorized; when you can call on your way in to town and pick up southern cookin' for you and your family. I'm not one for deep-fried Snickers or Oreos or any of that mess. (Someone actually told me that the fair offers deep-fried butter now. BUTTER?! Seriously, that's sick.) But I can put away some home-cooked veggies, fried flounder, and tea.

• Southern women are well-rounded. Remember that variety I mentioned? Some of us possess quite varied interests. I grew up dancing. I loved hairbows and cute outfits in school, but I would build a tree house or a fort with my brother in a skinny minute. I would literally take in ANY wounded animal (or human, for that matter) if my bank account could afford it. But if someone takes advantage of me or someone that I love? We'll just say it can get ugly. I like to decorate our home and shop, but I like shooting a gun and riding on the four-wheeler. I LOVE my God and His word, but I'm not going to snub you if you're not so sure about it. I may not want to live your lifestyle, but Lord knows I'm done my fair share of sinning. So I'm just gonna keep on loving you and hope that you do the same for me.

• Our ability to make fun our ourselves. Jeff Foxworthy was born and raised in Georgia. His portrayal of southerners is hysterical. Here are a few of his "You Might Be a Redneck If..." declarations:

You think "loading the dishwasher" means getting your wife drunk.

You ever cut your grass and found a car.

You own a home that is mobile and 5 cars that aren't.

You own a homemade fur coat.

Your wife has ever said, "Come move this transmission so I can take a bath."

You've ever hit a deer with your car...deliberately.

Your school fight song was "Dueling Banjos".

Your mother has "ammo" on her Christmas list.

You think a subdivision is part of a math problem.

You've ever bathed with flea and tick soap.

You think "taking out the trash" means taking your in-laws to a movie.

The dog catcher calls for a backup unit when visiting your house.

People hear your car a long time before they see it.

You ever lost a tooth opening a beer bottle.

Your kids take a siphon hose to "Show and Tell."

You see no need to stop at a rest stop 'cause you have an empty milk jug.

You consider the fifth grade you senior year.

You think suspenders are a type of shirt.

The first words out of your mouth every time you see friends are "Howdy!" "HEY!" or "How Y'all Doin?"

Hmmm, would love to say that none of these apply to us, but....well, yeah. I'm sure the dog catcher would be a little intimidated coming to our home. And you can definitely hear my husband's truck coming around the corner before you can see it. And the last one? GUILTY.

The bottom line is that I LOVE where I am from. I know that when Chris looks at me, he sees a strong, intelligent, somewhat feisty female. I know that my daddy looks at me and sees his baby girl. I am protected and loved, but also respected. I have sisters and friends who I love dearly. I see and hear so many folks knock the south and southern living- whether it be on facebook, in movies, or on television. There are folks who complain about the way we do things once they move down south. We must be doing something right- people just keep on coming. And if you are that unhappy with the southern way of life? Maybe you should move somewhere else, hon'.

Daddy's Day

Today we celebrate the men in our lives! I know so many great fathers, but David Lee is the epitome of a good daddy. He is special to me for so many reasons...

I am a self-admitted "daddy's girl". I would love to say I'm not spoiled, but I'd be lying and Christopher would probably call me out on it. Actually, I consider "spoiled" to mean that you are given much but don't recognize or appreciate it. I may have been spoiled back-in-the-day, but as I've grown up, I have realized more and more all that my daddy did for us and all that he sacrificed. My dad has always provided for me and my brother, but not necessarily in the way you'd expect. Yes, we grew up with toys and other gifts. But it's more than that. We share a sense of humor and our level (or lack) of patience. He gave us wonderful memories and experiences that we will never forget. He modeled what a husband should be to a wife; I learned what to expect from the man that I married.

My daddy is sensitive. He can crack a joke or tease with the best of 'em, but he can also hold your hand and make you feel better during some tough times. When I was in labor with Trafton, I remember desperately wanting my dad. Once he arrived at the hospital, I remember laying on the hospital bed and having contractions with Chris on one side and my daddy on the other.

This is the day that Trafton smiled for the first time. And who else would he be smiling at?!

Why PAPA, of course.

Here's that sense of humor in play.

Hmm. Don't really need to describe this one.

While he's sensitive, loving, and forgiving, my dad is also one tough cookie. Countless marathons under his belt, daily workouts, and a soldier for God. A few years ago, I decided that I wanted to run a full marathon. During the weeks and weeks of training, I found myself wondering what I'd done. Some training runs felt great, while others were awful. Some days I thought, 'I got this. I can do it.' While other days, self-doubt filled my brain.

On race day, I was a nervous wreck. Daddy and I woke early, shared toast and coffee, and then came up with a distraction for the day. Instead of focusing on the pain, we focused on the 26 names that we wrote on our arms. Each mile, we'd pray for and share stories about the 26 individuals who we agreed on.

I never "hit the wall" or stopped to walk, and I KNOW that this was because of two reasons:

1. God is faithful and steps in when we cannot finish things alone

and

2. My daddy did everything he could to encourage, push, and love me to the finish line.

And it worked.

One of my favorite things about my daddy is his desire to help people. Whether it's his own family or a complete stranger, he would literally give the shirt off of his back if someone needed it.

(He might grumble while doing so, but he'd still offer it.)

Strong, generous, accepting, loving....Christopher has some big shoes to fill as the man in my life :)

Makin' Music

This morning we went to our first "Kindermusic" class: myself, Trafton, and Nana (my mom). I was apprehensive before we even left. T is a little over 19 months old, so I know that he loves to explore and he does NOT love to sit still. (Unless, of course, he is looking at trucks or reading one of his favorite books.)

There were 7 kids there today, all with their mamas. It was a diverse group in more ways than one: ages ranged from 6 months old to an older sibling who was probably around 6 years old. The room was also filled with different skin colors and different abilities. One little boy was adopted and was hearing-impaired. Be still my heart! I had to stop myself from staring at him out of amazement and love.

My worries grew at first while I watched all the other children- how they sat with their mothers and remained quiet as others filtered in. Meanwhile, my curious son greeted everyone by walking right up, staring at them, and sometimes smiling.

I thought...no, I HOPED that once the instructor started to speak and sign (it was a singing and sign language class) Trafton would stop exploring and wandering, and instead sit and listen. Ha! I was a tad bit embarrassed as he continued to check everyone out and make his way around the room. Every so often, he would return to me, squeal "Mama!" and fall into my arms. Other than that, my little independent explorer was doing his thing. I tried to hard to let him "be free", but my inner kindergarten teacher was about to pop when he refused to sit on the carpet and listen. I had to draw the line and get him once he discovered the instructor's doorstop. It was one of those springy types, the kind that you kick or move and it springs back in position with a loud, vibrating "BBBBOOOOOIIIINNNGGGG" sound. Yep, right in the middle of the teacher's chat with the mamas, Trafton discovered this fun, new "toy". He sprung into action (no pun intended) and several heads turned as the sound echoed through the room. He quickly stood up straight, looked right at me, and smiled. It was as if he was proudly declaring, look what I found mama!

My fears lessened as other children slowly loosened up and begun to explore and wander. Despite the physical limitations of some, each child responded in his own way to teddy bears, scarves, balls, and singing. By the end of our time together, children were rolling, crawling, or running every which way.

I have to say: when the instructor dumped several teddy bears in the middle of our circle and let the kids have at it, Trafton made sure that each child had one. He quickly picked one up and I thought 'oh no, I hope he'll share'. Well, my little man sure showed me. Not only did he share the first bear that he picked up, he proceeded to give all the smaller children a teddy. He even picked up one of the last teddy bears and gave it back to the instructor. This sharing might seem like a small victory to some, but I'll take it! I love that he wanted to take care of others' needs.

When it was time to clean up, Trafton continued to make me proud. He stopped playing and began picking things up to hand to the teacher. (Yes, he had a hard time giving up the bag of cheerios that she gave us to play with, but who can blame him?!)

My favorite part of the class?? During the teddy bear song, all the children held a bear and we sang a song and learned some sign language to go along. Once finished, the children were allowed to play and explore with the bears a little more. Liam, the young black child who had been adopted, made his way over the us on the rug. Along with hearing impairment, Liam obviously had some physical limitations as well. Walking was difficult, so he crawled over to Trafton. I asked Trafton to give his bear a kiss. (Background info: T. loves to kiss and hug. "Kisses" involve pursing his lips together and making a humming sound). After my son kissed the bear, he held it out to Liam for him to have a chance to love on the bear. Liam leaned over and pushed his face against the bear and smiled. I think a little precious drool also came out- I LOVED IT. I thought my hormonal behind was going to burst into tears.

Not sure who go more out of the class- T. or his mama :)