Life Skills

Summer is a long time to have the kids at the house.

For two months, I have to keep this pack of malcontents docile and entertained. There is so much pressure in summer—pressure to have fun, make memories, go to new places and do new things. I don’t want to go new places and do new things. Honestly, I just want to survive. We have so much already going on that we are in essence tied to the house.

My thought was: how do I make the most of this limited time I have with the kids so that they are engaged?

I have long advocated that kids learn important life skills before they leave home for college. Part of this was spurred on by watching the college episode of “Chopped”. While I was not expecting these four pre-adults to be masters in the kitchen, I was filled with abject horror while watching round after round of frankly inedible slop being served because of simple cooking errors. My own trial run at self-sufficiency had its own hiccups, a fact my parents gleefully relive as they remember the time I called for instructions on boiling an egg.

There are so many instances you run into as an adult that you feel poorly prepared for--things like applying for school loans or getting your first apartment, filling out applications, managing a household. These are unavoidably adult undertakings that can positively or negatively impact the success your first few years out of the house.

With this in mind, I decided to make this a summer of Home Camps that teach life skills.

There are few (unofficial) experts I have called in for reinforcements. My mother is doing a bi-weekly baking camp. Last week, she taught all the Abilene grandchildren that are old enough to be taught, a group of six ranging in age from 2 to 10, how to make homemade bread. The two smallest, Clara (3) and Maryn (2) were not able to grasp some of the deeper concepts but they were able to help mix and measure, pour and knead. They were all so proud of the product of their work, which engaged them for several hours and yielded four loaves of bread, a dozen rolls, and a braided loaf.

It was Mom’s week off so I used the time to teach my own how to make communion wafers so that we could discuss the significance of the unleavened bread. I believe it was only slightly sacrilegious that I allowed the children to mold them into cat shapes with the cookie cutters.

Next week Mom is coming to show them how to make apple butter and pumpkin butter, how to peel and slice and can. Maybe we will do crackers or rolls to spread the delicious product on; we will see.

My brother Jarrod has also contributed a higher skill: reading and signing a contract. He is going out of town and needed someone to care for his pets while he was away; he made Emerald apply and interview for the position, then drafted a simple contract for her to read over and sign, making sure to note that as she is not yet of age that her parents had to sign as well. I am hoping to engage him for a robotics course later in the summer as well.

Cousin Jessica, who is a talented artist, has (schedule allowing) agreed to come do an art camp one day with the kids, and Cousin Justin is going to teach horseback riding while we are in that area.

Most days lay more firmly in my domain, however, and so I have written down a list of skills that I would like to see them master and have crafted lessons around teaching them.

One that shouldn’t be a thing but you run into it more than you think you would: making a doctor’s appointment.

Telephone etiquette, overall, is an often overlooked but crucial, dying skill--how to listen without interrupting, polite tone, not nodding when someone asks you a question (seriously, why do they do that? Do they think they are on FaceTime?). Making and keeping appointments is important. Especially for September birthdays, you can’t call day-of or week-of and expect to get seen. You have to plan and schedule ahead, get your spot claimed early because a flood of students are going to be getting their well-checks and sports physicals.

My sister Amber works at the doctor’s office where our children are seen, so I called her and gave her a heads up. Then I coached Emerald through--looking up the number, listening to the automated system, speaking clearly and at an appropriate volume, saying please and thank you, answering all the questions. Afterwards, I showed her how to add it to the Google family calendar so that she could remember it in advance and we could all see it when making other appointments.

Another important skill: Cleaning.

It was kind of a revelation to me when I realized that my definition of clean and the children's’ was vastly different. Mine was “everything is picked up and put in its place”; theirs, “there is a clear walkway”. To them, it didn’t matter how much stuff was under the furniture or up against the walls or on top of surfaces, as long as you could walk through the room without stepping on things.

My mother had been pestering me to watch Diane from Denmark who cleans by a popular system called “Zoning”. Basically, you divide your house into six manageable areas. Each day, you clean in that one area and that one area only. On the seventh day, you rest!

Just kidding. There is no rest. There is only more mess.

On the seventh day, you clean the whole house. But the goal is 80% clean, 80% of the time, which means that on that final day you shouldn’t have too much mess accumulated.

We are trying the zoning system combined with another cleaning trend: the power hour. For one hour, and one hour only, you clean as hard as you can in that one area. After that hour is done, it doesn’t matter if you have anything left, you are finished. Michael particularly likes this because it sets a tangible end goal that isn’t “perfection”. Our zoning goals are:

Sunday: Yards
Monday: Bathrooms
Tuesday: Living Room/Playroom
Wednesday: Bedrooms
Thursday: Kitchen/Dining Room
Friday: Entryway/Hallway/Laundry Room
Saturday: Big Cleaning Day

I am not going to say much on that at the moment because we have only instituted it for a week so I cannot yet speak to its efficacy, but I will let you know more later on.

But during that time, I show the kids what you need to know--how to dust, avoid mixing chemicals or using too much, how to sweep and mop and load a dishwasher properly. It is somewhat slow going. My mind keeps saying “it would go so much faster if you did it…”. I have to keep reminding myself: if I don’t want to be the only one doing this forever, they have to learn it. With that spirit in mind, they are also helping do laundry, beginning to end.

Other life skills I have been working on teaching them:

Basic first aid and what to do in an emergency
Gardening and yard work
Grocery lists, meal planning, reading labels
Simple sewing
Letter writing, gift wrapping
Basic car care--how to wash a car, put in fuel, check fluid levels
Finance--how to make and stick to a budget, write a check, tithing

They are learning a lot and having fun doing it. We make a lot of time for entertainment-only pursuits, too. Days are very long in the summer so there is a lot of time to fit in everything, and we don’t have to have a lesson every day. Most days we wake up and eat breakfast, then go for a walk while it is still not too warm. Then we sit in the backyard and do devotional. They play while I do some writing or cleaning or working on whatever I have going at the moment; at the end, I have them come help clean as well--their power hour is only actually about thirty minutes because I have found you can get them to work really hard for about that long before they lose interest. Then there is lunch; afterwards, the younger kids go down for nap while Emerald and I have our bonding time. Afternoons we go our own way and do our own thing until Michael comes home and from there the day starts its steady downward slope toward bed.

It is important that I work as well to better myself, so to that end I am trying very hard to work on improving my temper and patience. Life gets so very frustrating and overwhelming when you feel like no matter how hard you try, you are falling behind. This diet can be discouraging--our choices feel so limited and prep time is outrageous. We eat five to six times a day: three major meals and two (to three) substantial snacks, and each time it requires nearly an hour of prep. I can’t make things in advance because Gabriel will find and steal them, like the homemade toasted almond granola bars I made for Sunday morning breakfast. He ate two dozen of them while we were sleeping. It was very frustrating.

Michael’s grandmother, Grannymom, gave me a lot of books that have actually helped with that. One of which Michael and I are reading together: “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff...and It Is All Small Stuff”. It gives practical and insightful advice like developing your compassion, allowing yourself to be bored, and practicing patience. Every day, I try and focus on attempting a new skill to soothe my ferocious temper and low tolerance for annoyance.

I think we are getting better. More and more of our day feels smoother, kinder. The kids’ bodies and minds and spirits are being fed, and it shows. They aren’t acting as desperate for attention, their attitudes toward one another are softening.

And I feel, just for a brief moment, like maybe...we can survive this summer.


--Andie
(Rare Post Script: If you have a skill you would like to teach at Home Camp, let me know!!)

Modified Diet

Tula had been getting these weird rashes on her face.


All of my kids have sensitive skin—they don’t burn in the sun, but their cheeks turn a bright lobster red from any amount of time outside. They have all (except Benjamin) had patches of eczema that come and go since they were babies, and we have had to be diligent about which sunscreens, soaps, lotions, and creams we use on them so it does not cause irritation. Tula’s occasional reaction was interesting, but not necessarily of note.


At first, I thought it was just teething rash. The other three would get a little contact dermatitis when they ate, so it could be that, too. I had learned that if you washed off their face and hands, it would pass after about a half hour or so.


Tula’s was more persistent though, and had the distinct white center indicitive of hives. Each time, it would get a little more wide spread—it started with just around her mouth, then blossomed out to her cheeks, around her eyes. The whites of her eyes turned red and she would scratch at them. Her nose would run, and she would sneeze and cough as her little nails raked paths across her skin.


I kept a food log and noticed when it happened:


Scrambled eggs.

Chocolate chip cookie.

Cheetos.






I had been off of dairy while nursing her because it caused such intense distress in her—as a new infant, she spent hours and hours screaming in the evenings until she fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. We tried activated charcoal and medicine for acid reflux, but the only positive change happened when I finally cut out all dairy. It was missed, but worth it when our evenings started passing uneventfully.

Originally, my intention was only to nurse for the first six months. When that came and went, I decided to supplement until she was on more solid foods. At nine months, still getting the primary bulk of her nutrition through me, she was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes; nursing was such a comfort to her through that difficult time and through blood sugar crashes that I pushed back the timeline to a year.

One year, and then she would be officially done.

Around that time, my good friend brought me farm-fresh goats milk to try. It felt like a safe bet. Many people can do goats milk when cow milk does not treat them right. I gave T a bottle of it, which she sucked down, smacking her lips and saying “mmmm! Ahh! Mmmm!”




I felt like I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. This baby would not be nursing forever.

Turning around to check on her, she has the most widespread and severe rash she’d had yet.

Alarming as it was. she wasn’t wheezing, so I called the nurse to get dosing on Benadryl and made a note to bring it up a Tula’s one year check-up in a few weeks. From there, we got a referral to an allergist here in town for testing.

Using a back-scratch year, allergist determined Tula was allergic to eggs, milk protein, and soy. We will have to undergo further testing in the future, but we have to eliminate all three from her diet for the time being, including their presence in baked goods.

Which meant that I, who (despite my best intentions) is still nursing her several times a day, would have to modify my already limited diet as well.

I get questioned on my vegetarianism a lot, particularly in this state where it seems to be a lifestyle incomprehensible bordering on deviant.

March 2015 was when I stopped eating meat. Starting out, I was classified as ovalactopescatarian because I still ate eggs, dairy, and fish, but as of this actual post I am functionally vegan.

It started out as curiosity more than anything else. I wanted to know:

Would this help me with my migraines?

I vividly remember the first time I experienced a migraine. I was about seven years old, in the second grade. Mom sent me to lay down on her bed at the back of the house, away from the noise. The sink in the master bathroom had a leak that would drip, drip, drip. Each little droplet of water that splashed in the basin felt like it landed on my temple like a lead bullet, drilling deeper and deeper into my skull. My vision blurred a sharp contrast between the light and the shadows. Everything looked like it was vibrating and pulsating, this nightmare sequence of the environment advancing menacingly toward me and dancing away. At some point I vomited, but I was in too much pain to drag myself away. I lay there for hours, wishing unconsciousness would take me.

I was Ben’s age.

It never ceases to amaze me how long people will accept the unacceptable because we grow accustomed to it. Michael accepted being ill every time he ate shrimp, taking it at face value as the toll paid for that particular indulgence. I lived with weekly migraines for decades as just another unavoidably unpleasant facet of life.

In the same way, I tolerated extended periods of anemia and the associated symptoms: being chilled down to the bone and trembling, lightheadedness, weakness, lethargy. Each time it was rediscovered, I would be re-prescribed iron tablets and iron-rich foods in the hope that the unpleasant side effects of those were worth enduring for more stable red blood counts counts.

These were things I adapted to. I wasn’t happy about them, but after years of ineffectual treatments that seemed to make the situation worse, I acquiesced to these as less desirable facets of how my body functioned. Resigned, I stopped looking for a solution--I lived my life around migraines and intermittent anemia, focusing on treating the symptoms instead of looking for the underlying cause.

The vegetarianism started out as a whim based on the question: could this possibly have an impact on my migraines?

For the first two months, I felt kind of ridiculous and gross. I was bloated a lot of the time. Eating out at restaurants became tedious, particularly Mexican food that uses lard in beans and stocks in rice. People were puzzled by my decision, and wanted to be supportive but they genuinely didn’t know how. They wanted to know to what extent was I limiting myself? Was this just cutting out red meats, but still eating fish and poultry? Would I eat dishes made with chicken stock? Was it an ethical thing?

Why would anyone want to stop eating meat?

One thing that sincerely bolstered me through those early days when I was questioning myself and feeling ridiculous was my cousin, Sean. He, separately and concurrently, also decided to modify his diet. His was more based on unethical farming practices and cruelty to animals, but it encouraged me to keep going because he was persevering.

As my body adjusted to the increase in fiber and grew accustomed to this new fuel regimen, I started noticing...I was feeling better. It had been months since I had a migraine or a cluster headache, and all my blood work showed a healthy amount of iron. My hair, teeth, nails, and skin were healthier, shinier, stronger. My face lost the post-pregnancy puffiness and my weight, which for years had wildly fluctuated, finally stabilized. The amount of sleep I was getting did not change but I had so much more energy, rarely needing naps to get through the day. I even started running, a wild deviation from my norm, and found that I actually quite liked it.

It seemed my gambit had paid off and had exceeded my expectations, improving my health and quality of life in ways I had not anticipated.

The biggest, and by far most welcome change, was the lessened symptoms of my endometriosis.

Some women experience endometriosis to a certain extent after cesarean sections; it is a condition that causes endometrial tissue to grow in places it should not, causing pain. My particular brand ranged from very uncomfortable to downright distressing. Difficult to diagnose, the first time I had a name for the agony I was experiencing I was sitting on the floor of the doctor’s office, curled in on myself and hunched over the trashcan as they helpfully suggested, “have you tried ibuprofen and a heating pad?” as though I was 13 years old and first experiencing womanhood.

This...this was unacceptable. But after a barage of physicians that treated me as though I was exaggerating the amount of pain I was in, after ineffectual treatments ranging from oral contraceptives to injections to minor surgery that provided temporary tempering at best, it became an unextractable part of my life.

When I altered my diet, all of that--the visits to emergency rooms and prescription painkillers and knowing I would be completely out of commission three days out of every month...all of it just stopped.

I kept waiting for it to come back, flare back up, more ferocious than ever. It never did, and my new modified diet saw me through by far the healthiest pregnancy I ever had.

These unacceptable things I had been living with for so long were no longer a part of my life.

Tula’s allergies certainly further limit the scope of what I in particular can eat. I am making a clean sweep--all groceries have to be things that Tula can eat to avoid possible cross-contamination or accidental contact. The soy was the hardest part, surprisingly. It is in a lot of preserved foods, so we have primarily shifted our focus to whole foods. We are very thankful that it does not include gluten or nuts as then we would simply starve. A typical meal day’s meal plan might look like this:


Breakfast: Homemade bread with black currant jam, diced ham

Mid-morning snack: Whole grain sweet potato muffins

Lunch: Whole wheat spaghetti noodles with garlic mushroom marinara, zucchini

Snack: Vegan banana coconut “ice cream”

Dinner: Pork fajita rice bowls with cilantro lime rice, shredded red cabbage, avocado, and radish

For the meat portions, I substitute additional veggies, beans, or mushrooms. Meal prep time has gone way up, which is somewhat tiresome, but because I have the kids home with me I can use it as teaching time and have them help, which is a lot of fun for them. I also like that we are eating smaller meals more often because it is better for everyone and I have had less fussing about residual hunger.

Before we talked with the allergist, Tula’s blood sugar was completely unpredictable. It felt like we couldn’t win because she was all over the map. Since making these...I hesitate to call them “simple” changes because I have struggled navigating it thus far, but since implementing these changes, Tula has become much more stable--with the same amount of insulin, we are seeing considerably fewer highs, and less frequent or devastating lows.

And wouldn’t you know it, the rashes stopped appearing on her face.



Food sometimes becomes such an obstacle for people because we have been blessed to take so much joy in it. God made food to be pleasurable and we have been blessed with an abundance on which to avail ourselves, but that sometimes obscures the primary function of food--as fuel, intricately and intelligently designed with rich nutrients to help our bodies to grow and to flourish and to thrive.

Not having to deal with all that nonsense I used to--the migraines, the anemia, the endometriosis…

That has been worth anything else I may have given up.
--Andie

Million Word Reader Celebration: Guest Writer, Emerald

It was a long and hard journey, reader, getting to 1,000,000 words (or more accurately for me, 5,000,000), but oh was it worth it! Getting to go to ACU for fun and games was amazing! 

Our first station was outdoor fun and games. It was filled to the brim with games, including mini golf, marble run, sticks, tic-tac-toe, bowling, and more! Our second station was science! Fire, electricity, pressure, and explosions made that station truly worthwhile. 

Next up was lunch. Reader, mere words cannot describe how the wonderful grilled chicken, sour cream and onion chips, and White Chocolate Macadamia cookie tasted in my mouth. My beloved father joined me for this eventful lunch. 

Up next--my probable favorite station-- Zoomba! The dancing- oh, the dancing!- nearly changed my life forever. However, my blood sugar crashed to the 30's and I had to eat peanut butter crackers afterwards. 

The final station- Code Bracelets! We picked 2 colors and picked up a Morse Code paper, and we set to work figuring out what our message would be. My good friend Ian decided on “ Tacos for life “ for his message. The goofball. Mine was going to be an emergency bracelet ( AAA SOS AAA ) but sadly, my bracelet popped at the last second and I had to put my beads in a plastic bag and finish it at home. 

After that, we all raced outside for water and fruit snacks (don’t even ask me how all of my fruit snacks were red ) while we waited for the bus. We zoomed back to school- this time our bus had seat belts -and got back to school, where we told our fellow classmates the tale of our adventure. 

Reader, if you are a young child in the GT program, I encourage you to read next year! My personal recommendations are: “Harry Potter”, “Percy Jackson and the Olympians”, and “The Heroes of Olympus” series. Pretty much every book ever written by Rick Riordan. “Levan Thumps and the Gateway to Foo”, “Gregor the Overlander” (and the sequels), and “The Mother-Daughter Book Club” series, too. Any book you can find! 

Reader, Go out there! Accomplish what I could accomplish! 

-Emerald

Three Houses

This is a story of three houses.

To get a rental in this town, you have to be aggressive (which we are not) and willing to make a quick commitment (which we also are not) because things get snatched up so quickly.

Michael and I are more of the type that sit down, discuss, pray, go over budget, discuss, pray some more, and then!....the opportunity has passed us by.

Our current house was great because it got us here to Abilene, but it wasn’t intended for our family. Since we moved in, we have had another child, making an already too-small house even more cramped. There is no dishwasher so we have had to wash all the dishes by hand. There is a one car driveway that the landlord put in for us, but one of us always had to park on the street. And we are directly across from campus (specifically the stadium) meaning every single time there is any event whatsoever, there are cars clogging up our street and taking up our parking and making life generally more annoying.

After the unpleasant incident with the first rental house, we decided to make a few phone calls from signs we saw nearby. Of those, three emerged as possibilities:

A four-bedroom on the other side of Campus Court across Ambler

The house next door

And a dark horse contender on the other side of 10th.

We go and see the first one, which turned out to be too small. When we move, we know that it will likely be our home for quite a while because we tend to settle in. The bedrooms are smaller, more suited to the college students that typically rent properties like this. It has a small backyard and roses out front and a garage the current residents are using as a cool hang out area, but Michael and I know before we leave that it wasn’t the right fit for us.

The next day, we walk over to see the house next door.

A lot of our problems—proximity to campus, busy streets—would still have to be dealt with, but there was a two garage and additional parking. This house was beautiful and spacious, four large bedrooms, and an additional office off the master. The backyard had a covered patio that was topped with a super cool deck which meant we could host things. Not a ton of yard for the dog, but it also meant less mowing. Rent was higher but manageable for that much extra space. We would really be able to breathe.

The family that owned it could only offer it for a year though, as their youngest son would be taking over it in his junior year. If it hadn’t been for that stipulation, we might have said yes to it that day, but the idea of having to move again so soon stopped us.

Our hopes rested on this one last house.

The owner of the too-small first rental mentioned that he would have a four-bedroom available at the beginning of May, over on Scott Place. If we’d like to see it.

It was on a quiet street, near the end of a cul de sac. Little kids ran and played in neighboring yards, and it was quiet and peaceful and definitively suburban.

The very nice landlord met us at the door and let us look around. It was several hundred more square feet than our current house, with two living areas, two dining areas, a two car garage, and three bedrooms. He said he was going to get construction in there to convert the formal dining area into a fourth bedroom, but came down on the rent price when we said three bedrooms would be fine for now.

This home sparked my imagination. I could hear in my head my mother-in-law asking, “where would you put your Christmas tree?” Rhonda loves Christmas and that is usually her first question about a new place. I could see our stockings hung from the mantle over the (functional) fireplace, the tree decked out and lit up next to it.

The laundry room has a perfect area for the dog’s bed, and the covered back porch would be the best for Gabriel’s hammock swing. Ben and Emerald would be thrilled they still have pecans to collect and sell to my mother in the winter. The sprinkler system in the front would keep our grass so green and lovely.

And y’all. My closet.

There is more storage places everywhere, for stockpiling the girls’ diabetes supplies and Gabe’s incontinent supplies, for putting away all of these things that right now have no place. There are places I can put all my Christmas decorations.

There’s even a dishwasher!

There are still some considerations we have had to make. Currently, there is no washer and dryer, so we will have to get some. We have two living rooms to fill with furniture but in a parallel to our first apartment, we only have one recliner. We are on the lookout for new seating options. Neither of these things concern us too greatly because they are fixable problems.

I didn’t want to get my hopes up because I loved this house with its soft carpet for Tula to crawl around on and its charming wallpaper and the serenity that envelopes it from all sides.

Yesterday, Michael got the keys. Today we started moving in.

And I have not been able to stop grinning.

I got my house!

—Andie—

Stories

Monday, I did actually write.

My style is very much “stream of consciousness”; I rarely pick a topic and sit down and just type precisely what I intended to say. Which is why I have such difficulty writing anything substantial--there is no structure. I just start and see where it takes me. A lot of the time, it actually works out and I manage to piece together enough coherent thoughts for a blog post. When reaching down deep inside my psyche, usually what comes up is fairly tame in nature.

Occasionally though, what I end up writing is too personal. While I strive for as much transparency here as I feel appropriate, there are obviously some parts of our lives that must remain private. The biggest filter I have to run it through is:

Is this my story to tell?

I am a story collector. I love to hear people talk about their lives, their hopes and dreams and interests. I want to know what makes them the way they are, why they believe as they believe and what brought them there. People are so fascinating, and I enjoy getting to know them better. The interconnectivity that weaves all these individuals together fuels my voracious imagination.

So when I sit down to tell the story of my little family, I have to be conscious and respectful that I only tell my truths, my stories.

Michael is mostly fair game as our lives are often completely inseparable for the last decade plus. I try not to speak directly for him; before I post, I always have him proofread and give approval.

The children are a little trickier because while our stories run so parallel, I do actually want to protect their privacy to a certain extent while still acting as a chronicler of times they are less likely to remember independently. It is a matter I handle with as much delicacy as I feel possible while still conveying the principles I am trying to get across.

There are certain subjects that I feel so little ownership over, even as they relate directly to me and inform great portions of my life, that I have avoided talking about them here or anywhere at all.

My biological father--my mother’s first husband--is one such tale. They divorced when I was younger than Tula, and his appearances in my life were so few and sporadic that most of what I could tell you about him would be gleaned from others’ relayed experiences. What I do remember was not wholly flattering, but I can’t imagine my girlish recollections would be entirely accurate either. I imagine the truth lay somewhere in the middle--not a complete villain, but scarcely a saint either, and (by choice) a pieceplayer in our adventure.

I also cannot be persuaded usually to touch politics with a ten-foot pole, a subject which I feel I have less authority to speak on the more that I learn.

Childhood is mostly fair game, as long as I don’t embarrass my brothers and sister (who, as far as I can tell, are wholly impervious to shame), but I can’t imagine it would be excessively interesting to anyone nor particularly relevant to what is going on now. (Unless you find enjoyment in my embarrassment. I was painfully awkward.)

What I ended up writing earlier this week was based on a prompt I found on the Abilene Writers Guild website: First Love.

The wheels in my head began to spin away as I thought about my first serious boyfriend and how little I understood then about relationships and men in general. I ended up writing quite a lot on the subject, starting with what I was raised to believe about love and dating and puberty and sex. There were so many misconceptions that I had, and that ignorance caused me quite a bit of heartache and trepidation, led me into situations I was ill-equipped to handle.

By the time I had reached the end (or as much as I would be able to get out at the moment), I knew it wasn’t something I would be able to share. It was too personal, too exposing, not for graphic content but because it cut too much to the heart of me. I had to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, drink ice water to loosen the tightness in my chest.

My early relationships were not great in the way that all young relationships suffer. He was not a good boyfriend, I was not a good girlfriend because we didn’t yet know how to be better. It is a practice course where everyone involved only stands to be hurt, but we do it anyway because it’s how you learn. No amount of relationship books I read (looking at you, “Chocolate Chili Pepper Love”) could have prepared me to know what I wanted and needed from a romantic partner like finding out exactly what I didn’t. As much as this story was my own, it also belonged to that hapless boy I knew so long ago, and it didn’t feel right for me to put it out there.

The more I thought about it though, the more I felt the point of the prompt, and the more I really thought about first.

My first date with Michael, we sat on the couch in Katie Rogers dorm because I had sprained my ankle falling down to flights of stairs rushing to meet him. It was swelling and purple and didn’t bother me much because this goofball in a Hawaiian shirt was making me laugh.

The first kiss Michael and I shared was halfway between my dorm and his, with all the stars out and the air was cold so he wrapped me up in his leather coat to keep warm.

The first time Michael and I made dinner at his apartment, we had no utensils except for plastic ones stolen from the school cafeteria. After trying several times to flip bacon with a fork that was rapidly melting, we had to borrow one from the married couple next door. That became the only fork we had when we couldn’t scrape together enough money to buy food, little less household items, so we would share it while we ate the very worst tunaless tuna helper sitting together in the only recliner we owned.

Mila the miniature pinscher was our first pet, this adorable, horrible screech-monster we were in no way ready to take care of. We had to take her back to the pet store because we weren’t supposed to have her in the first place, and Michael held me while I cried.

Our first apartment, which we called The Dank with no trace of irony, whose air conditioner went out every year and perpetually smelled like the tacos we couldn’t afford from the restaurant next door, but we were so proud of because it was just ours.

The first time I saw Michael cry, when he saw the sonogram picture of our little gummy bear baby Emerald.  His eyes may have been misty again the first time he held that red-headed infant in his arms and introduced himself as “daddy”.

When the doors of the church opened, the song “Gaelic Morn swells, and I saw the man that makes me so happy beaming because this is the happiest day of our lives. Michael’s grandfather introduced for the first time as husband and wife.

Michael is the story I chose for myself, my first and true love. His birthday was toward the beginning of the month which we celebrated per his wishes as totally innocuous day without note. He’s not big on people making a fuss over him. Personally, I think he deserves grandiose fanfare everyday, this man that works so hard to provide for his disaster-prone brood. The humor and patience with which he handles our oft-stressful, exhausting, chaotic circumstances gives me the strength and courage to keep going when I want so desperately to give up. All day, I try and do things to make his life easier or to make him happy because he is the best part of my day.

For me, it always comes back to him. When I exhumed all of that yucky, personal junk the other day, all I ended up uncovering was thankfulness for the path God put me on that led me to this goofball I married.

I think that’s the better story anyway.

—Andie