Say It Enough, You'll Start to Believe It
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My house exploded over the weekend. It is in serious need of some TLC so, naturally, my first inclination was to make an iMovie preview.
Because I firmly believe in the motivational power of procrastination.
So what about you? How do YOU like to avoid cleaning?
“So, Kelli, how’s that home schooling thing going for you?”
Oh, how sweet of you to ask!
This is our last official week of home schooling (homeschooling? is it one word or two because I’ve seen it both ways and I can’t figure it out…). Honestly?
This has been the hardest year of my life.
Selling a house, saying goodbye to friends who were more like family, paying for our own move cross country, starting a new job, buying a new house, home schooling, visiting countless churches over the course of ten months, struggling to find our place, living under strain and stress…
This year has exhausted me.
I noticed something interesting in Africa. The women there are tough. Despite life’s adversities, they know how to dig in their heels and keep the home at any cost. Remember how the Maasai women actually build their family homes? It’s interesting, isn’t it? God has equipped us as women to know when it’s time to dig in, clench our teeth and do what needs to be done to keep life moving forward. He has created us with an inate ability to survive, not for ourselves, but for everyone around us.
In some regard, this past year has been something like that for me. I’ve been in survival mode, heels dug in, holding up the walls of the home. Because life was bumpy there for awhile. I just needed my family to be okay - I needed us to be safe and together and whole.
Home schooling provided that safety in a way. I’m so glad I had the kids home with me because I needed them near me and I think they needed each other. But as the dust settles and the light at the end of the tunnel widens just slightly, we’re evaluating and praying and trying to decide what’s best for next year.
Tools of survival...
I will be totally honest and tell you I’m really proud of what I accomplished with my kids this year. I didn’t really know if I could do this home schooling thing. In fact, I never ever wanted to do it. Ever. Ever, ever. Like most people I assumed that I wasn’t cut out to teach my kids at home.
But it’s not true. We are all fully equipped to do whatever needs to be done when it comes to our children. So if you’re thinking about home schooling, or wondering about it and you fear you can’t do it, just know that you can. I’m not saying you should. But I am saying you shouldn’t sell yourself short.
We women are tougher than we think.
Now that we are on the other side of the year, we are looking at different options. Home schooling isn’t out of the mix by any means, but neither is public school. Those are pretty much the two options we have at this point and it’s kind of scary, this decision to be made.
Part of me is hopping from foot to foot, Rocky style, trying to pep talk my way back in to the arena. I saw the benefits of what the kids and I accomplished this past year. I completely back the educational positives of home schooling. There is, by far, nothing like it. There are so many things I’ve loved about having the kids home with me.
However…
I also see the benefits of a school setting and there are things I haven’t enjoyed about having them home. There are pros and cons to both choices and it all comes down to what we think works best for the kids AND for me. So we pray and wait and prepare for whatever comes next, because after this year I’ve kind of decided there isn’t anything I can’t do.
Except maybe build a mud hut out of cow dung. I’m not sure I could handle that.
So what are you doing for school next year? How did you come to your decision?
Do you know what responsible adults do? They stay home, skip the beach on a gorgeous Sunday, and do respectable things like mow the lawn and trim the hedges.
That’s what responsible adults do and that’s what we did today. Despite a ridiculously amazing day and more than one invitation to head to the beach, we waved our hands proudly and said “No thanks. We are going home to do responsible stuff.”
So it was that after church we made our way home where we were greeted by a ready meal in the Crock Pot (responsible). Apparently it’s Star Wars week ’round these parts so a marathon was playing on TV. I set up a picnic for the kids in front of the TV because not only am I responsible, but I’m also fun.
Oh yes I am.
After a bit of relaxing, we put on our super responsible hard work caps and set to cleaning up the yard. A few days ago we discovered that our leaf blower and electric hedge trimmer had been stolen out of our garage (awesometown) so I grabbed a pair of manual hedge trimmers and spent the next two hours painstakingly clipping away at the bushes.
I’m typing this post with my chin because I can’t feel or move my forearms.
As I worked at taming the hedges that were slowly choking the life out of our house, Lee hopped on the mower and cut back our jungle of a yard. My, what a respectable pair we made, cleaning up the outside of our home, making it a haven for all who come to visit.
(Please come visit us.)
(Seriously. Florida is awesome.)
(And our hedges are trimmed.)
On one side of our house, not only had the hedges grown to embarrassing impressive heights, but so had the weeds. I think at one point I may have cut down Jack’s Beanstalk.
As I leaned in to pull out a rather pesky weed I felt something prick hard into my skin. I thought it was a branch so I moved to the side, but the stinging grew more intense and then I realized that I wasn’t near any branches and I looked on my shoulder and saw a wasp the size of my head staring at me.
He was all, “Wad up, yo? I’m stingin’ yo a…”
I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence because I started to scream and swat and run high legged through the yard and the wasp was screaming too, probably because I was screaming, but maybe also because I was hitting him. After he flew away I ran a few more circles around the yard for good measure and to send a message to all the other wasps that I was not to be messed with.
It’s at this point that I began to wonder what the neighbors must have been thinking.
Oh, and for the record, wasp stings hurt. A lot. If you tell your kids they don’t hurt, you’re lying.
Anyway, back to the hedges. I picked the trimmer back up and snapped away at the bushes with a vengence. Anger motivated me to push past the pain and trim the heck out of those branches. Then the kids came screeching around the corner.
“SNAKE!”
I had just been stung by a wasp so I had no interest in dealing with another of God’s creatures.
“IN THE GARAGE!”
“Tell your Dad,” I said through clenched teeth.
A few minutes later, the mower stops. We all remember what happens when Lee feels the need to defend the homestead from predators, right? If you haven’t read the story I will give you a short, two-word synopsis:
Possom. Crowbar.
So I wasn’t surprised when Sloan came running around the corner with wide eyes. “Dad needs you,” he said.
My husband wanted me to help him catch a four foot snake. I felt it would be more helpful if I just took pictures of him capturing it. Then the kids and I screamed endlessly as he chased it down and hacked at it with the passion of a man defending his family against the greatest of beasts.
That’s when our brand new neighbor came running across the street. And when I say brand new, I mean they moved in yesterday. Apparently screaming women and crying children is classified as “comotion” these days. He found me snapping pictures of my husband hacking the head off of a snake (and yelping) with our three children crying in horror around us.
Responsible.
Respectable.
We firmly believe in making a good first impression…
Yes, that's the snake's head...
In my house...
Cheater.
Dirty tricks.
Evil Hatchet Man.
Low.
Every one of these words was once used to describe the character of Chuck Colson, a Nixon Presidential aide who became one of the first to go to prison after the Watergate scandal broke and President Nixon was forced out of office. Back when the political game was won using cheap shots and dirty plays (I know, I’m talking about it as if it’s in the past…), Chuck Colson led the pack in the use of shrewd tactics.
But then, something happened.
Yes, he got caught and for many years people dismissed the change in him as nothing more than one more trick. But it wasn’t true. Nearly four decades of relentless and tireless work for prisoners revealed that Chuck Colson had truly been changed from the inside out.
Chuck Colson knew prisoners because he had lived with them. He had been one. What does a man who experiences literal chains do when he is released back to freedom?
“I could never, ever have left prison and accomplished what has been accomplished but for God doing it through me,” Chuck once said. In 1993 he is quoted as saying, “I shudder to think of what I’d been if I had not gone to prison. Lying on the rotten floor of a cell, you know it’s not prosperity or pleasure that’s important, but the maturing of the soul.”
Thank God for second chances. And third. And fourth.
Our past does not have to define who we are today. Redemption is sweet and offered to all. For 36 years, Chuck Colson faithfully carried out the simple command of loving “the least of these.” His ministry, Prison Fellowship Ministry, fought relentlessly for prisoners who, just like himself, needed someone to give them a second chance. He developed work-release programs, marriage seminars, training for prisoners to help mainstream them back into society when they got out.
Chuck Colson was a champion for the outcast of society and in so doing, he changed the course of how prisons are run and prisoners are treated, not just here in America, but around the world as well.
Why do we complicate the message of Christ? Why do we water it down, twist and contort it into to something that is in no way recognizable or appealing to others?
Love.
That’s all it is. Love people and love them well. Love them not because you have to, but because you want to. Love them when they are unlovable. Loving people doesn’t have to be so scary, but sometimes it will be hard. Love anyway. The poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden and, yes, the ones who have brought harm – they need love.
Sometimes love has to be a choice – not a feeling. As our pastor said yesterday, “Sometimes you have to do the right thing, even if it’s the hard thing.” Sometimes love is hard. But to give yourself over to loving the unlovable?
That’s character.
My husband spent a year under Chuck Colson’s leadership as part of his Centurian’s Program. Colson changed my husband. He helped shape him into the man and thinker that he is today. I am indebted to Chuck Colson for the way that he developed my husband into a leader who is quick to listen and slow to speak.
Chuck Colson was a man with a second chance and he didn’t waste a minute in using that second chance to change lives. What will you do with your second chance?
“We grieve that our brother, our founder, our inspiration is no longer with us. But we rejoice that Chuck is with Jesus, we rejoice as we reflect on his life and legacy and that we could be a part of that, and we rejoice when we think of all the redeemed in heaven who will greet him and thank him for the role he played in their salvation.” Jim Liske, Chief Executive Prison Fellowship Ministries
Faithful.
Courage.
Integrity.
Respected.
Set Free.
These are just a few of the words used to describe Chuck Colson in the days following his passing . Second Chances…
Here is a great article on Chuck Colson.
Normally I don’t jump on a lot of linkys because they intimidate the heck out of me, but I just adore the ladies at 5 Minutes for Mom and couldn’t resist partying with them this weekend. Especially because I get to party at home in my fat pants and without any make up.
However, there is currently a cold Margarita sitting right here next to me so this party’s about to start hoppin’!
This post is for all of you fellow partiers that are joining me from 5 Minutes for Mom. You can read a lot about me and my family on my About page, but I’ll add a bit here as well.
I’m Kelli and this is my blog. Obviously. I am a story teller and humor is both my defense mechanism as well as my outlet for simply enjoying this wild ride called life. The pages of this blog have evolved over the last four years as I’ve grown and matured as a mom, a wife, a writer and a friend. When you come here, I hope you laugh and walk away encouraged.
I try to keep things light-hearted around here, but every once in awhile life throws a curve ball and my posts become a little…heavy. Last summer, our family moved from St. Louis, a city we loved and adored, to Tampa, Florida. We love Tampa, we really do. It has a beach. Like an actual beach…not a patch of sand dumped in front of a pond.
But moving is hard and we still don’t feel settled. It feels like we are on the longest vacation ever in the history of all the world. But in the move we’ve found joy and laughter and a reignited passion for one another that I wouldn’t trade for anything else. We are being refined every single day.
I am homeschooling my kids this year. It’s been amazing. It may be the only year I do it, but I have been so grateful for the chance to gather my little ones under my wing and ride this wave of change together.
I am smack dab in the middle of writing a novel. It has the potential to be amazing. Or to totally bomb. I’m not sure, but I do know it’s a story that I’m supposed to tell and my characters are so engrained in who I am that it’s second nature to tell their stories.
My husband is extremely handsome. And that’s not an exaggeration – it’s a cold, hard fact.
I love Nutella. Like, maybe abnormally so. I would bathe in it. Is that weird? That’s weird isn’t it…
I love writing and blogging has been an amazing tool for me to expand myself as a person and a professional. Blogging has opened up a world of opportunity for me (some of it thanks to Janice and Susan who let me write for them on occasion and how grateful I am for it!). I have blogged from Austria, from Montreal and in three short weeks I have the amazing opportunity to travel to Tanzania on behalf of Compassion International.
I absolutely adore my job. Every day I’m in awe of what I get to do. Last night as my husband and I enjoyed a beautiful dinner on a palm tree lined street in downtown Tampa I proclaimed with delighted surprise, “I am an international writer. This is my dream job!”
And by God’s grace I get to do it primarily from my home where I can get up at a moment’s notice and play a rousing round of Pretty, Pretty Princess any time of the day. Because Lord knows I can’t resist my daughter’s huge puppy dog eyes.
It’s nice to meet you. Leave me a comment so I can hop on over to your place. Let’s party like it’s 1999 this weekend!
Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind of day that you text your husband at 3:45 and say something to the effect of, “I’m losing my mind. Tell me you’ll be home soon.” You probably follow up said text with a little yellow emoticon that looks something like this: 
I mean, this is a hypothetical example of the kind of text one MIGHT send, of course. *nervous laughter*
On one of those hypothetical days, your husband might reply, “6:00.” That’s it. Just some numbers. No sad faced emoticon to show how deeply he might commiserate with your impending breakdown. 
I mean, if we want to take this “hypothetical” exchange of texts a step further, you MIGHT reply with something like, “Ack! Um…okay.” Followed by another grimicing emoticon.
Really, how did any of us ever communicate without emoticons?!
If your husband is valiant and grand, he will likely respond with, “I will try to make it home earlier. I can be there by 5:15.”
To which you will (hypothetically) respond, “We’ll be alright. Don’t rush.” You will send this text while secretly hoping that he does, indeed, rush.
When your hypothetical husband walks through the hypothetical door at 4:45, you will hypothetically find him to be more handsome than ever he was before. He might as well be riding a hypothetical white horse and wearing a shield of valor.
So this may come as a bit of a surprise to you all, but this situation isn’t really hypothetical. That was my day today and my valiant husband actually DID walk through the door at 4:45 and promptly took the children to the park when he saw that desperate deer-caught-in-headlights look of mine that says, Sweet Jesus be near ’cause Mama’s gonna lose her mind.
After he announced the impending trip to the park, one of the children (who shall remain unnamed) (the one bearing the X-Chromosome) replied something to the effect of, “No thanks. I want to stay here with Mom.”
“Nope.” My response was immediate and firm. And maybe a little loud?
“Why?!” she cried, her face falling.
And before I could stop the words from spilling out of my mouth I replied, “Because Mommy needs a break from you guys. I need to be alone and I don’t want to be needed for a minimum of thirty minutes.”
And then her face fell and I immediately felt a flood of guilt because what a horrible thing to say. But of course I tried to brush off said guilt under the guise of my firm belief that “God does not operate out of guilt and therefore I will not operate in guilt either.”
But you know what umbrella God does operate under? Conviction. And there is a paper thin line between guilt and conviction that sometimes gets blurred and if we’re not tuned in to what’s happening around us we may get the two confused. I could assume genuine conviction to be nothing more than self-imposed guilt and brush it off since, you know, I REFUSE TO OPERATE IN GUILT. Ah, but I can likewise so often mistake guilt as conviction, thereby indeed OPERATING IN GUILT without even really realizing it.
Today what I experienced was conviction, though I tried with all my might dismiss it as “Mommy Guilt.”
The thing is, the sentiment I expressed to my child was true. I DID need a break and there’s nothing wrong with that. My kids possessed an extra measure of neediness today and on top of my massive to-do list and a house that seemed to have thrown up over night I was feeling wildly overwhelmed and caged. I needed to breathe.
I just wish I wouldn’t have made her feel like she pushed me to that point. Because she didn’t. It’s just the nature of motherhood and I don’t ever want my children to feel as though they are too much for me to handle. I don’t want them thinking I need a break from them so much as maybe every once in awhile I just need some time to clear my head.
When they returned, I fed everyone dinner, then closed myself in my office to continue said alone time. But not for long. Tia walked in shortly after just needing to talk. For as much as I seemed to need some time to myself, she seemed to need time alone with me.
And so we sat and talked and I learned a few things about my daughter in the process. She wants to have six kids, but she only wants to carry three of them in her tummy. The other three she wants to adopt from Africa and Asia. She wants three girls and three boys and she wants the doctor to cut the babies out of her tummy because some time ago I told her how babies are born and she’s been horrified ever since.
We talked for an hour, we snuggled, we read a book and I realized that I didn’t really need that time alone after all. Because honestly? It feels really dang good to be needed.
So to recap:
- My husband is my knight in shining armor.
- Guilt and conviction look an awful lot alike so try not to mix them up.
- And I am apparently raising a tiny Angelina Jolie.
The End.
Photo taken my my amazingly talented friend, Sarah, when she was here on Spring Break.
I have a confession to make. It’s not nearly as scandalous as my last confession, so please don’t be worried, but this confession is going to force me to make some changes, some of which might affect this little space I’ve created on the web.
The confession is two-pronged, because I don’t believe in doing anything small. Go big or don’t go at all, that’s how I roll.
First, I have a very nasty habit of biting off more than I can chew. I assume I can handle way more than I actually can and I convince myself that it’s fine, I don’t actually need sleep and Nutella for breakfast, lunch and dinner because I don’t have time to prepare a proper meal is perfectly acceptable.
Which, who am I kidding right? OF COURSE NUTELLA IS ACCEPTABLE AT EVERY MEAL!
Okay – so that’s the first part of the confession. I take on too much and assume I can handle it just fine.
The second part of my confession is I am terribly prone to laziness. It’s true. I am the dog from the movie UP. I can be perfectly engaged in an activity then SQUIRREL!
That’s me. It’s not ADD, though I would LOVE to blame it on that. I’m just easily distracted and I have a hard time pulling myself back.
I’ve struggled with finishing the school year strong with the kids. I imagine every teacher the world over feels this spring time tug when the rigors of a daily schedule must wage battle against the pull of a warm breeze and the call of the outdoors. The fact is, I’m tired. I want to be done and so do the kids. But we can’t, because learning should never end.
I read this post by Ann Voskamp the other day and it reignited my desire to do this home schooling thing well. Whether this ends up being the only year we teach our children at home or we decide to do it again next year, I want it to count. This requires that I fight the laziness that threatens to invade and dig my heels in.
I’ve lost momentum on my book. It’s a lot, this business of home schooling, maintaining a blog, writing a book, trying to keep a household running smoothly, editing a new manuscript and getting into shape.
SQUIRELL!
I need to finish the book and finish it well. Do you see a theme here?
So first order of business – GET MORE SLEEP!
Do you know how fascinating squirells are when you’re tired? Stunning little creatures…
My goal is to be in bed no later than 10:00 every week night most week nights because the whole stay-up-till-midnight-pretending-to-be-working-but-really-reading-blogs-and-surfing-facebook thing isn’t working for me. I’m tired. I need to sleep. I’m not a night owl and never have been. I’m accepting that and moving forward.
This means I need to be diligent with my time and get my butt out of bed early. In fact, I set up my alarm on my phone so that when it goes off, my screen lights up with the phrase “Get your butt out of bed you lazy A…!”
I firmly believe in tough love.
I am going to be kickin’ it on my book this month and I actually do have a book manuscript to finish editing. I will be here, too, but maybe not every day. And I’m going to add a third confession – that’s scary.
Shaun wrote about it last week. It’s sometimes difficult as a blogger to not blog because we fear the audience we’ve worked to build will go away. And honestly, I can’t afford to lose my audience right now. I’m counting on you guys to help me get the word out about Compassion International’s awesome work when I go to Tanzania next month. I want you right there with me!
So I won’t be far away this month, but I may not be here every day. Because I’ll be a little busier than normal trying to keep my head above –
SQUIRELL!
“We sat on the bed and cried,” she said as the rest of us listened quietly. “And my husband looked at me and reminded me that that part of our lives is over.”
My neighbor is preparing to drop her second child off at college in a couple of months and she and her husband will be empty nesters and it struck me as I listened.
This part of my life will end.
Some days it doesn’t seem that way. Life seems to drag forward at a snail’s pace and I feel like bedtime will never come. But before I know it, they’re tucked in and sleeping soundly and one more day has flown by, the dark quiet a reminder that this part of life has an end. The raucous noise and unsquelchable energy, the snuggles and hugs and kisses – they all have a stopping point.
And then…
I’m going to miss it. Like really, really miss it. Heck, I already miss it and it’s not even over yet. There’s a chance that could have something to do with the effects of the hefty dose of Nyquil I just took, but it’s hard to be sure. The fact is, I am going to miss this time in our lives so very much.
It’s not really fair that the first few years of child rearing are done in the fog of sleepless nights because it’s so much harder to remember when you’re a zombie. Just ask any zombie you know and they’ll tell you the same thing – you memory is the first thing to go when you enter zombiedom. You have to check it at the door and you don’t really regain it until your baby hits about 3 and you are afforded consistent sleep on a nightly basis.
And then suddenly your baby is four and you realize that you can’t really remember him like this anymore:
And you think, “How did I get here?”
It’s not like I didn’t know life flew by and I would miss these young moments. I have moments like this all the time, though, where it really strikes me – this time is short. I’m so glad I’m enjoying it.
Not every moment of every day, of course. That’s impossible. I don’t enjoy the constant bickering and having to repeat myself 152,641 times a day and the dirty feet on the couch and the crying over Lord knows what…I don’t enjoy those things. And I don’t think I’ll miss those things.
But I will miss this time, those minor annoyances included. I wish it didn’t fly by so quickly. I wish I didn’t love bedtime so deeply. I wish I could bottle up their laughs for ever and ever so I could listen drink in their innocence from now until eternity.
I really am going to miss this.
There’s also a chance, however, that if I don’t go to bed immediately I’m going to regret this little moment of nostalgia altogether. I need to sleep so that tomorrow I won’t be longing for bedtime the second my feet hit the floor. Sometimes the missing is entirely my fault.
So what about you? What are you going to miss? Or, if you’re already past the child-rearing years, what do you miss the most? What should we younger Mom’s be trying to hold on to as long as we can?
Alternately titled: Proof that I’m getting old because two days later I’m still worn out.
First order of business – I am over at (in)courage today talking about being uncomfortable. I’d love for you to read about the hope that God has placed in my heart despite the unsettled place I am in. Thank you for reading and for your support as I continue to work out the struggles of moving.
And on to my second order of business. Telling you random bits about my life…
We entered into our final ten weeks of curriculum this week and let me just tell you something – home schooling is exhausting. I’m wiped. Some days are jazzy fun. The kids get it. I’m happy.
Birds flit about the house chirping in perfect harmony.
But other days it appears that someone has tied a ten pound stone about all our necks, thrown us into the deep end of a pool and yelled, “Swim!” We stay afloat, but Lawdy we have to work hard.
The only things keeping me sane motivated are frequent scheduled breaks and Cuban Espresso. I like to call it caffienated sludge. It’s somethin’ potent, but it gets the job done. I feel great once my hands stop trembling. Come to think of it, the cartoon birds only flit about when I drink my sludge. Interesting…
Last week I laid out the kid’s lessons and gave them a great, big goal – finish it all by Friday and we will head to Busch Gardens. I wish I could adequately explain the zeal with which they attacked their Math books. Little tongues stuck out of their mouths in deep concentration as they worked through each lesson mothodically. Then they moved on to spelling and writing and Russian and reading and each time someone would start to complain I’d raise an eyebrow (which, incidentally, I never knew how to raise one eyebrow until I became a mom. It’s like I inherited that magic brow when my first born hit two) and they’d snap their mouths shut and put pencil to paper.
Call it motivation, bribery, reward -what.ev.er. We went to Busch Gardens.
I don’t have great pictures of the picture perfect reward day because who wants to carry a mammth camera around an amusement park?
Well, actually, I kind of do. I am going to bring my good camera next time because there are a lot of great photos to be taken there.
The photos I did get, though, were filled with three grinning, laughing, blond headed children who deserved a break. I am proud of my kids and the hard work they’ve put in this year. I’m not sure if we are going to home school again next year. We are still praying about it and looking at our options, seeking what’s best for them, for me and for our family. But for now, I am cherishing this sweet and challenging year I’ve had with my children. We have all grown and learned in different ways. I wouldn’t trade these months for anything.
This was his first big kid ride. I'm hoping he will be my child who likes roller coasters. No one else in my family will go on them with me.
Like my new tennis shoes? I was hoping they would provide a bit of motivation to work out. Turns out they aren't magical. They're just...shoes. Disappointing.
"Mom, I'm pettin' a Wallaby!" That might be my favorite quote of the day. Tia was enamored with these creatures.
Happy weekending everyone! May your days be filled with sun, laughter and maybe even a Wallaby or two!
My first car looked like this, only dented and rusty.
I learned to drive on a minivan. A maroon Nissan Quest to be exact. My mom pumped the invisible pedal in the driver’s seat as I quickly and um…haphazardly? navigated the streets of St. Louis. I was admittedly not a natural behind the wheel. I lacked spacial awareness. I can remember ducking more than once when I was absolutely positive the car on the other side of the road was headed straight for me. Turns out I was the one riding the center line a bit…
The weekend after I got my license I hit a parked car.
Yeah.
One particular afternoon, as I drove that sexy beast of a minivan alone (she had a sun roof, you know. *insert sexy growl here*) I zipped down the back stretch of Strecker Rd., the radio blasting the wicked awesome tunes of Green Day and The Dave Matthews Band, and I noticed a sign on the right side of the road coming up dangerously close. I leaned forward over the wheel, staring intently at the sign, wondering why on Earth it was set so close to the road when…
BAM!
I nailed the sign, the sexy beast rocked, and I panicked. I screeched into the parking lot of a nearby school and jumped out of the car to survey the damage. Nothing. I’d hit the sign with my rear view mirror. I popped the mirror back into place and headed home, determined to stay a little further away from the shoulder.
When I pulled into the garage, I was still shaking. I came in too fast and hit the garbage cans, crushing them.
Maybe I wasn’t quite ready for a license? I definitely wasn’t ready to navigate the sexy beast around town, that’s for sure.
Incidentally, I’m pretty sure my exact words after I hit the garbage can were, “I hate this stupid van. I’m never going to drive one of these again. I’m gonna be the mom with the sporty car when I have kids.”
Mmmmm….What would my sixteen year old self think if she saw me now? Driving a Nissan Quest. Midnight black, of course, because black is HAWT.
But I digress.
Shortly after the run-in with the inanimate objects, my dad came home with a car just for me. It was a rusty, dumpy Honda CRX. A mercifully smaller car which ultimately became my first love. I named her Stella.
Every morning I jumped into Stella and revved her up, listening to her whine and moan against the frigid St. Louis winter air. The heater never really worked properly and the car trembled something terrible if you hit 55 miles per hour, but boy did she have character.
I loved Stella for a lot of different reasons. First and foremost, she wasn’t a minivan. Ahem. Stella was just kind of quirky and fun. I felt like I made a statement when I drove to school. The statement was here I am. I have a car. It’s a piece of S*%$ but it’s mine and look at all the flecks of rust on her smooth white exterior.
I dunno. I just loved that car.
Until someone ran a red light my junior year as I turned left and totaled sweet Stella leaving me with whip lash and supreme sadness over the loss of My Precious. From there I had other cars, all of which had their own endearing qualities, but none quite as charming as Stella, my rusty, dumpy CRX.
My current (smokin’ hot) minivan is running a close second, though, what with all her scratches, stains and quirks. She’s paid for, is still chugging along and only has a few Tats at his point (i.e. rust marks) but will likely develop more “character” as time goes on. Gone are the days when I jam out to Green Day, Dave Matthews or, really, anyone grown up. My car rocks to the beat of KidzBop, which makes her even more endearing in an odd and sad little way.
And I’ve yet to hit a road sign OR a parked car in her.
Go. Me.
What about you? What was your first car like? Did you name it? And more importantly, are you today driving the car you thought you’d be driving when you were sixteen?
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