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We’ll all be traveling this week: Dan to NYC and the rest of us to Indiana.  Each of us is going to need a little bravery.

Dan, because he will be staying in Harlem and overcoming a language barrier to work with West African immigrants.

Me, because I’ll be driving for 7 hours by myself with with 2 kids in the backseat.  And one of those kids is Madeline.

I know we’ll both return home happy, tired, and with many grand tales of adventure.

Wishing you adventure and bravery this weekend.
Happy Friday!
-Kate

(I’ll still be here blogging next week, perks of living in 2012.  ”To be absent from the home is to be present with the internet,” or something like that.  Stay tuned!)

Expectations matter.  If we explore the roots of all our disappointments and frustrations we come to the conclusion that,

“I just didn’t expect you to say (or not say) something like that.”

“I didn’t expect you to react (or not react) this way.”

“I didn’t expect you to have that opinion.  It surprises me.”

“I didn’t expect to have to do this by myself (or I didn’t expect you to want to do that by yourself).”

“I didn’t expect to have to spend my money (or not spend my money) like this.”

“I didn’t expect that you’d want to spend your time doing this or that.”

The only reason you’ve ever been mad at your brother, your boss, your mother, father, husband, wife, neighbor, or drive-thru lady at Wendy’s  is ultimately this:  ”I expected to be treated differently, not like this.”

If, say, I expected that on Mother’s Day my children would cease to act like 4-year-olds, that they would be well groomed, well-mannered, patient and selfless, and that they would sit still and eat their Asian food all by themselves while their father and I had adult conversation over dinner at P.F. Changs – well, then I would be understandably disappointed.

Luckily, this Mother’s Day was not my first rodeo – I knew better.

However, I did think that we would go to one of my favorite  bistros and that we would order our food without incident.  I thought that Madeline would enjoy her turkey sandwich while Sam ate cheerios in his high chair.  I thought that the kids would be delighted when we took them to Coldstone so that I could get one of those coffee ice cream with almonds and Heath bar concoctions.  I thought that they would go to sleep when we got home (HA HA HA) and that Dan and I could watch the last Harry Potter movie while we snuggled under a fluffy down comforter.

Instead I fed Madeline her turkey sandwich for breakfast this morning because in a moment of exasperation at the restaurant we told her that she was not allowed to eat anything else until she ATE THAT SANDWICH.

It is still sitting on the table right now.

Also, during dinner Dan left the restaurant and ran across the shopping center to buy pacifiers at Publix because my happy, chill baby was not acting happy or chill.

When Dan returned, Madeline was laying upside down on the booth, her head under the table and her feet in the air, showing the wide world her Little Mermaid underwear.  Sam was whimpering and writhing in his chair, surrounded by 17 baby toys all of which he grabbed just long enough to throw to the ground in protest.  Dan stepped over the pile of toys in the middle of the aisle and handed Sam a pacifier.  Sam took it, looked at it, and threw it on the ground.  Then started crying.

We were that family.

At this point, my wonderful, precious husband sat down, reached across the table to take my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said,

“Remember that scene at the end of Twister?”

(My life has the makings of a real romantic comedy.)  ”Yeah…” I said.

“You know when they’re strapped to that pipe, and the tornado is beating them up and there’s stuff flying all around and they’re wet and filthy and tired and trying not to die?  But they look into each other’s eyes and it’s supposed to be this big romantic moment, like they were meant to be together?

That’s married with children.

This is my best marriage advice: don’t marry the person you want to spend a day at the beach with – there are dozens of those.  Marry the person whose eyes you can lovingly gaze into while you’re strapped to a pipe in the middle of an F5 tornado.”

Dan is my tornado person.

(After dinner, we went to Chuck E Cheese instead of Coldstone because Madeline was not allowed to eat ice cream.  I had nightmares about the freaky animatronic characters on stage.  It is 2012, why do these still exist?  We rented Harry Potter, and Dan let me explain the WHOLE back story because it was Mother’s Day and he loves me.  He patiently listened to me talk about “horcruxes,” “the elder wand,” “Dumbledore,” and “the sword of Griffyndor,” and just as I reached out to push play, Sam woke up.  12 times.)

To be honest, it was a wonderful day that I suspect I will remember for a long time.  I am married to my tornado person, and if I have to be battered by an F5 tornado for the next twenty years, I want these beautiful faces to be the ones swirling around in it.

Doesn’t Sam look so enthused about being related to me?  He can hardly contain his joy.  He is practically glowing.  Happy Mother’s Day!!!!  It’s all about your expectations.

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Happy Friday and Happy Mother’s Day weekend!  Catch you on the flip side.
-Kate

I’m signing off the internet for the weekend.   No, really.  I mean it.  Almost every week I’m guilty of signing off with my “Happy Friday” post, then posting some essay I finished at 1:00 am on Sunday morning because something about the word “weekend” makes me feel like there are no consequences for staying up late.  This is just as untrue now as it was in college.  Slow learner.

But it is Mother’s Day Weekend, and I am going to live it up, mom-style.  (Mom-style means I will celebrate by making everybody all their meals and cleaning their living space, but I will do it happily and with a little extra spring in my step because there will be fresh flowers on my table and I’ll be feeling all appreciated and validated and stuff.  There WILL be flowers, right family?  RIGHT?)

Madeline made some really adorable presents at preschool this week, with her little painted hand prints plastered all over them – they are hanging on the fridge now, warming my heart.   But as sweet as this time is for me, it would be foolish (and pretty self-centered) of me not to acknowledge that this day is really, really difficult for a lot of people.  For a lot of friends.

I have friends who have recently, or not recently, lost their mothers.

I have literally dozens friends who have lost their children through miscarriage or otherwise.

I have friends who struggle with infertility, who want to be literal, biological mothers so badly it makes them ache and howl inside.

I have friends who are fighting and waiting for their children they will bring home through adoption.

I have friends who are single parents.  (Many of whom have young children and are without family close by to pull out all the stops for them this weekend.)

Now, none of that should mitigate our celebration of mothers and motherhood this weekend.  Nothing should temper how joyful and thankful we are for the bond between ourselves and our mothers; ourselves and our and babies and families – it is the bond that makes this world turn.  In the words of philosopher John Mayer, “Boys will be strong, boys soldier on, but boys would be gone without the warmth of a woman’s good, good heart.”

I’m just saying be aware.  Be sensitive; open your eyes and love on every single person you can.

Here are a few of my favorite reflections on motherhood for you to peruse and enjoy this weekend.  Happy Mother’s Day, all!

REFLECTIONS ON INFERTILITY AND MISCARRIAGE
“Enough” and “Enough, Part 2” from Shauna Niequest:

At one point this winter I was feeling so tender and raw about it that at dinner with my family, I said, “If any of you are pregnant, I just need you to tell me now.”  I said this to my almost 60-year-old parents and my single brother.  They stared at me with confusion, but that point, nothing would have surprised me.  My phone’s probably pregnant.  That chair over there probably just got pregnant without even trying.

I became the person that people don’t want to tell. I hate that. A friend told me her happy, fantastic news, and just a second later she burst out crying, afraid for how this would make me feel. I hate that. I work really hard to arrange my face in such a way that approximates uncomplicated glee. And I am happy for them, of course. But sometimes just after the happiness is the desperation. Some days are easier than others.  At one point I told Aaron that if I found out I wasn’t pregnant that month, I’d break something glass, just to feel it shatter. I was counting the days all the time, recounting, hoping. 

“The Ten Worst Things To Say To Your Infertile BFF” from Fancy Little Things:

7.  How is getting pregnant coming along?  (I can only be one of two things:  pregnant, or not pregnant.   Since I haven’t mentioned it to you, dear BFF, assume the latter.)

REFLECTIONS ON ADOPTION
This video, “Our Adoption Story” and a slam-dunk post on the Mommy Wars from Rage Against the Minivan:

I don’t much care if you breastfed your kid until they started kindergarten, or if you fed them formula from day one. I don’t really care if you turned your infant car-seat forward-facing prior to age 2, or if you homeschool, or if you send your kids to daycare while you go to work. Do you cosleep? Did you circumcise your son? I DON’T CARE.  Do you babywear? Push your kid around in a stroller? Use a leash for your kid at Disneyland?  Whatever.  Good for you. When it comes to issues of motherhood, there is one issue I care about: some kids don’t have one. All of these petty wars about the choices of capable, loving mothers is just a lot of white noise to me, Quite honestly, I’m often astonished at the non-essential parenting issues I see moms getting their panties in a wad about. Particularly when there are so many kids in this world not being parented at all.

“Don’t You Have ‘Enough’ Kids?” from We Are Grafted In:

“I do not walk around telling people that they should not move because the house they have is “enough” or that they should not get another TV because the two they already own are “enough” or that they should not buy the latest iPhone because they just bought the last version and that should be “enough.” Can you imagine how inappropriate it would be for me to say that to a friend?  People judge us, believing it is was wrong and foolish that we went into debt to pay for an adoption of two children, but think nothing of going into debt themselves for a newer car, a bigger house, or even the latest computers, gadgets, and fashions.”

“She Knows Better Than Most” from Marvelous in Our Eyes:

After the usual, “Thank yous and God blesses”, she said, “…and God be with those children who haven’t got Mommies and Daddies yet.”  This was completely unprompted by me and out of the blue…she knows more about this than most of us can even imagine!

REFLECTIONS ON SINGLE PARENTHOOD
“Of Heartache and Shame” from Abby and Eva:

I recently read a post by another single mom here comparing single mothers to widows and it stirred a lot of emotions I usually suppress. You would think that after four years, I wouldn’t care much what people think about single moms or the stigma that is associated. I appear to be pretty tough and I’m a good mother…Actually, I care a lot.

REFLECTIONS ON HOW DIFFICULT IT IS TO RAISE LITTLE PEOPLE
“I Don’t Want To Raise A Good Child” from Proverbs 31 Ministries:

 Really, nothing makes the mother of a toddler feel more incapable than seeing her naked child splashing in the mall fountain. Except maybe that toddler refusing to get out and said mother having to also get into the fountain. I cried all the way home. Not because of what she’d done that day. But rather because of how she was everyday. So determined. So independent. So insistent. I would beg God to show me how to raise a good child.

“Don’t Carpe Diem” from Glennon Melton:

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I’ve heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they’ve heard there’s magic in the climb…They try because even though it hurts and it’s hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers — “ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU’LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN’T!” TRUST US!! IT’LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!” — those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

“The Dreaded Year” from dooce (**Warning** Very foul language alert):

Three-years-olds. They are awful, horrible people. I didn’t say they were the WORST people but only because I’m sure there are murderers out there who listen to Nickelback. You’ve never lived with a three year old? It goes something like this:“Stop. Stop. Stop. STOP IT. STOP. STOP. No. NO. NOOOOOO. STOP. STOP. Put it down. Put it down. PUT IT DOWN. NOW. STOP. No. No. NO. NO. STOP. NOW. NOOOOWWWW. STOP IT. So help me god, put the fish back in its bowl.”

My Mother’s Day post from last year, “Wherein I Propose My Mathematical Theory.”

So it’s not just that you have less time because you’re parenting multiple kids.  It’s that you have less time to clean more things.  AND there are more people moving their more things around – and you have to supervise them and clean it up, with your less time.  It’s not addition – it’s multiplication.

Now go love on your mamas!

Some days are gangbuster days.

Some days I go gangbusters on my life and answer ALL the emails, update ALL the sites, practice ALL the piano/braille/reading/self-help skills, or clean ALL the things.

But most days are not gangbusters days.  Most days, like today, are bit by bit days.

Most days I don’t go for a run and eat fish for dinner.  Instead I think, I will not eat this handful of pretzels because they are 7 calories I won’t have to burn.

Sometimes I get on my hands and knees and scrub my kitchen floor with Dr. Brommer’s peppermint castile soap so hard that my arms are sore for a few days.  Most days I don’t.  Most days I think, I will take this dish to the kitchen as long as I’m walking that way, because it’s one less task I’ll have to do later.

Most days I don’t clip coupons or play the drugstore saving game.  (Confession: I have never done those things and have zero interest in starting.)  Instead, I buy a store brand here, say no to coffee there, and ask for the earrings for my birthday.  Six cents, two dollars, six dollars that I’ll have to spend on postage, or a kindness for  a friend, later.

Gangbuster days are great.  The productivity and sense of accomplishment from one good gangbuster day can tide you over for a month until the ever-elusive “inspiration” and “motivation” strike again.   But most days are not gangbuster days.  Most days are bit by bit days.

A calorie here, a minute there, a dime here, a task there.

I believe that much of our dissatisfaction is rooted in comparing our bit by bit days to other peoples gangbuster days.  Our lives to other peoples blogs.  Our ugly truth to other peoples best foot forward.  We compare our kitchens to other people’s Pinterest kitchens and it was a losing battle from the start.

I believe in making things happen. I believe in hard work, late nights, early mornings, coffee, prayer, and grace.  I believe in chasing dreams and in self-improvement.  And I believe it’s okay to do all those things bit by bit.

I am taking ownership of my time today, minute by minute.

I am taking ownership of my mind today, mood by mood.

I am taking ownership of my body today, calorie by calorie.

I am taking ownership of my home today, task by task.

“Bit by bit . . . she had claimed herself. Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.”
Toni Morrison

A roundup of the videos I’ve been enjoying this week:

You will cry from laughing

1. My cousin-friend T.J. made this video to audition for the part of best man at his “brother-friend’s” wedding.  I cannot stop watching it.  ”Goood Morning VietNAAAAAAM, to the wedding of Nick and Lindsey….One time Nick put Icy-Hot on his armpits!” [Here]

2.  German film director Werner Herzog reads Where’s Waldo.  Totally ridiculous and fun, especially if you loved the books as a child.  (Or, let’s be honest, love them now.)   “Ver to begin.  Top left cornah.”  [Here]

You will cry because you are human and have a heart

1. “The hemoncology floor of Seattle Children’s Hospital performs Kelly Clarkson’s song ‘Stronger.’”  Completely adorable, but also, perspective.  Health might be the easiest thing to take for granted; thankful that hospital stays are not a daily, long-term reality for my children.  Also, how awesome are these nurses?  Thankful for my friends who spend their lives caring for sick kiddos that aren’t their own.  [Here]

2. I don’t know if this will serve to make me purchase more P&G products, or even watch the Olympics, but it definitely served to make me cry.  That tiny little blonde girl waking up in the morning is my Madeline.  And the laundry, lawd the laundry.  [Here]

3.  A beautiful singer/songwriter battling chronic Lyme disease sings one of her songs.  A few things about this:  1. She’s beautiful.  2. Her voice is beautiful.  3. The song is beautiful.  4. And my favorite part of the video is that, because Alisa is so sincere, you can see her exhaustion, her sickness, and her discouragement – then she starts playing the piano.  She lights up; she’s transformed.  An artist for sure, beautiful, creative soul.  Song begins at 2:20  [Here]

More stuff to look at

1. Loved this article at Rachel Held Evans, “Why Smorgasboard Christianity is Good for Kids.” [Here]

“You can’t expect kids to just fall into a faith tradition or “find God for themselves”—I mean, you can do that, but I think it makes faith unnecessarily difficult. Sure, some kids learn how to read by themselves, but most kids need a teacher. Likewise, some kids might find God all on their own, but most kids (heck, most adults!) need someone pointing the way. A faith practice is one of those things that must be passed on, handed down.”

2. And this one at Jeff Goins Writer, “The Shocking Truth About Launching A Writing Career.”  Which applies to all of life, not just writing.  [Here]

“So the most ignored secret to becoming a real writer, the shocking truth about turning pro, is this…” 

3. And finally, a brilliant project that makes me thankful to live in the melting pot that is the USA.  The video here is fantastic.  [Here]

Whatever you want to call it, Stanton, 28, has been walking the streets of New York for hours every day for a year and a half, taking pictures of the city’s people for his Humans of New York project. He estimates that he has shot about 4,000 portraits over that time, and heard as many stories. He calls it a “photographic census” of the city. 

 Have you found any cool stuff on the interweb lately?

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Right now, I want to be on a beach far away.  I want to be wearing a maxi dress, all freckley and just a tiny bit sunburned, sitting on a deck of a restaurant, sipping a glass of water with beads running down the side, eating fresh seafood with my husband.  At sunset.  And there should be live music, too.

That is what I want.

Instead, I am wearing my pajamas, and eating fish sticks for lunch with Madeline.

It’s not so bad actually, the important things are the same.  I’m wearing something comfy, sitting with one of my favorite people on the planet, eating seafood.

May your Friday be filled with grand day dreams and sweet realities.
Happy Friday!

Kate

Sometimes we play a game called “Scar Wars” with our teenagers.

Scar Wars is a great game in which each participant tells the story of one of his or her scars.

Ideally, you would tell your best scar story.  The scar story that is the most gruesome, the most shocking, the most idiotic, the most suspenseful, or the most hilarious.  As you might imagine, the game quickly becomes an exercise in storytelling, exaggeration, one-upmanship, and vocabulary.  The winner is often the one who can come up with the most convincing description of pain – “searing, excruciating, blinding, debilitating” – that sort of thing.  If not, then it’s the person who was doing the most moronic thing when they got scarred.  Like the last time we played, Caleb won for holding a gas can too close to a fire in his back yard when it combusted in his hands, giving him a tiny cluster of perfectly round scars where the drops of burning gasoline landed.

(You can see why this is a great game for middle schoolers.  And boys.  And those with a flair for the dramatic.)

Sometimes we use a bracket system to determine the winner, and sometimes we use a trusty applause meter, but no matter the method, winning Scar Wars comes with the respect and bragging rights due a good scar.

Today, in honor of Star Wars Day (“May the 4th be with you”) I decided to share some of my best Scar Wars stories with you.

Most idiotic:
 One afternoon, as my little brother and I were playing unsupervised in the basement (all good stories start this way), we decided, “Let’s take these old couch cushions and stack them in a big pile.  Then let’s stack these books onto this folding chair onto this swivel chair and use our masterfully constructed tower to climb up on top  of the deep freezer.  Then we can jump off the top of the freezer onto our cushion pile!”

And that is what we did.

The thing I like about this story is that it is impossible to predict where the injury occurred.  Did I fall off of the book/folding chair/swivel chair tower?  Did the deep freezer tip over?  Did my brother land on me?  Did  I miss the cushions?    The possibilities are endless.  Here’s what actually happened:  I made it up the swivel chair, then the folding chair, then the books and onto the freezer successfully.  I was perched on top of the freezer, crouched down so that my head wouldn’t go through the ceiling tiles.  I launched myself off of the freezer and landed onto the soft, springy pile of couch cushions.  In fact, the cushions were so springy, that they in turn launched me (and by “me” I mean “my forehead”) right into a protruding corner of the wall.

At this point I had a very intense multi-sensory experience.  First I heard my brother go “WHOAH!”  Then I felt my head pounding, then I saw swirly blackness, then blood.  Then a lot of blood.  A minute later we were upstairs and my dad was gently cleaning my face and saying, “You got a little boxing cut right in your eyebrow.  It’s really small, they just bleed a lot.  What were you guys doing anyway?”

“Oh, we were just jumping off of the deep freezer.”

I think that all kids should play unsupervised in basements so that they can amass these kinds of character-building experiences.

My little eyebrow scar, with me in every photo since 1993. (In my right eyebrow, your left. Well, not YOUR eyebrow...you get it.)

Biggest scar:

One afternoon, my little brother and I were playing unsupervised in the cul-de-sac.  We were building bike ramps with Erica and her brothers.  You know bike ramps – where you put a cinderblock in the middle of the street and 2 big pieces of plywood going up one side and down the other.  As bike ramp professionals, we knew that the trick to getting some serious air was to back all the way up to the end of the street, pedal as hard as you could (so that your bike reached maximum velocity by the time you hit the ramp), and then jerk up on your handlebars just as your front tire hit the peak.

Why did our parents let us do this?

You might not know this yet, but there is an irrational, first-born, competitive, insecure, perfectionist monster living inside of me.  I have a problem saying no.  I want to be the valedictorian of everything.  I wanted to be the valedictorian of bike ramp jumping.

I stared intently down the street at our make-shift ramp. Focus. I leaned forward onto my toes and pedaled with all the strength in my thighs and calves and abs and arms.  And just as my front tire crossed the little black line where the two sheets of plywood met, I yanked up on my handlebars with gusto.  And I flew.

Then, in slow motion, I flipped.  An X-Game-caliber 360°.
Then I landed.
Then my bike landed on top of me.
Then my friends rushed over with great concern.
Then I looked up and said, “Did you guys see that?  I flew like 3 FEET in the air!”
Then I hobbled inside and my mom poured peroxide on my knees and I hated her.
Then I was a legend.

(You absolutely should listen to comedian Brian Regan talk about his bike ramp experience here.  Laugh out loud funny.)

Most miraculous:
When I was 17, I was in a car accident that should have wrecked me.  I was driving at night, in the rain, on the freeway, heading home from a show downtown.  I realized, through the sheets of rain, that my exit was coming up quicker than I thought.  I should have gone on to the next ramp and circled back through town, but I didn’t.  I switched lanes in a hurry and my car hydroplaned.

I fishtailed the whole way down the exit ramp, all my efforts to regain control in vain.  In slow motion I spun twice and hit a tree, right on my driver’s side door – I must have been going at least 45 miles per hour.

I remember seeing flashlights, a blonde woman inside the ambulance, watching them cut off my clothes, waking up inside a CAT scan on a bright orange backboard and picking tiny shards of glass out of my shoulder.  Then I woke up for good and my Dad was there.

When we went to see the car, we were stunned.  The drivers side seat was gone.  The impression from the tree was so deep that the door was bent in past the center console.  My steering wheel was sticking out of the drivers side door – right through the metal.  The roof had waves in it; it looked like half a car. The tree struck right where I was sitting.

I didn’t break a single bone.  I didn’t have a single cut on my face.  In fact, I didn’t really have any cuts at all – a couple little nicks from glass, a tiny one on my shoulder and one on my elbow.  I walked out of the hospital that night a little nauseous, a little bruised, and on A LOT of muscle relaxers, but largely, miraculously, fine.

Most disgusting:
The scar, formerly known as the black crater of burnt flesh on my forehead, formerly known as a pyogenic granuloma, formerly known as skin cancer, formerly known as “what the heck is that bump on my head?”  (Story here.)

So happy Star Wars Day, and happy Scar Wars day.
May the fourth be with you!

(Share your best Scar Wars story in the comments and I’ll do the applause meter in my house.  I’ll also share my favorites in a post next week.  Spread the word. #Scarwars)

Today’s post is brought to you by preschool, Pinterest, and Monty Python.  The real stuff of life.

Madeline’s end of the year program was this morning, and she had to come dressed up as a minnow or a whale.  I chose a minnow because I am a kind mother.  (Actually, it’s because I’m not a crafty mother and after 10 minutes on Pinterest, a fish costume seemed a lot easier to rig.)

She was precious, even if she had all ten fingers in her mouth for the entire performance.  Minnows are slimy, and I am persuaded that she was going for truth in acting.

It poured rain today, so Madeline “swam” in her fish costume for a while.  While she was intermittently stomping and twirling in a giant puddle, I couldn’t help but think of this little dialogue.  One of my favorites from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

King Arthur: I am your king.
Woman: Well I didn’t vote for you.
King Arthur: You don’t vote for kings.
Woman: Well how’d you become king then?
[Angelic music plays... ]
King Arthur: The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in the purest shimmering samite held aloft Excalibur from the bosom of the water, signifying by divine providence that I, Arthur, was to carry Excalibur. THAT is why I am your king.
Dennis: [interrupting] Listen, strange women lyin’ in ponds distributin’ swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. Oh, but you can’t expect to wield supreme executive power just because some watery tart threw a sword at you. Oh but if I went ’round sayin’ I was Emperor, just because some moistened bint lobbed a scimitar at me, they’d put me away.

I love this beautiful, strange woman, lyin’ in puddles.

**UPDATE: THEY WON!  Thanks so much for your help!  Y’all are good people.**

Okay, here’s the deal.  I have this friend Erica.  She was my VERY FIRST friend when I moved to North Carolina.  At the ripe age of 6 we wrote plays together and created roller skating performances for our parents in her garage.  She stuck with me through my most horrific, embarrassing acting.  We rode to high school together for a few years and kept secrets for one another – she is that kind of friend.

And guess what: she is getting married!

MAZEL TOV!

But last month, something really mean and ugly happened to my sweet friend.

One evening as her fiance, Jesse, was walking home from work in Atlanta, he was violently assaulted by 2 strangers.  Jesse required major facial reconstructive surgery.  He and Erica postponed their wedding as doctors rebuilt the right side of his face (which was completely shattered) with titanium plates and plastic implants.

They are a precious, brave couple of people who are very much in love.

So here’s what I think we should do:  I think that we should bless them.  I think as much frustration and sadness as these strangers added to Erica and Jesse’s lives – we should add love and grace and joy 10x over.

(This post is in no way sponsored or solicited.  I just believe in loving people in every way we can. Just throwing that out there.  Carry on.)

Erica and Jesse have entered into a contest to win a wedding photography and coordination package worth $7,000.  (Erica is a photographer herself, so the pictures she’ll have of her day are a priority to her, more than flowers, dresses, food and all the other wedding what-not.)  The contest ends tonight at midnight, and she and Jesse are a bit behind.

I hereby launch the “For The Love of Erica (and Jesse, Too) Campaign.”

Will you go vote for my childhood friend?
I promise to share the gorgeous photographs of her wedding with you when they win.

Here’s how to vote/bless:

1.  Go to this Facebook link (here).

2.  Like their status. (The link will take you directly to the status with their names in it – Erica and Jesse.)

That is all.  You’re done.  Go treat yourself to an ice cream for having done a kind thing today.

The contest closes at midnight, so if you could hop on that, that would be great.  If you feel so moved, share the link to this blog on your profile, so that your friends who don’t read here (but should) can vote for Erica and Jesse, too.

C’mon guys.  Let’s spread the love.  For the love of weddings, love, childhood friends, good surgeons, anti-mugging and bullying, photography, and Erica.

Thanks a million,
Kate

That’s Jesse’s old face.  Don’t worry, his new one is just as handsome.