Growing Home
Sub: Foundation offers healing, support for Fort Hood soldiers
By Kristine Favreau
Killeen Daily Herald
For six weeks the soldier didn’t speak, until he spent a day toiling to plant new life into the earth. Something in that gave him the courage to speak again, and the words that flowed from his mouth held a haunting tale of body parts strewn across the ground in Iraq, body parts he had to collect. One woman’s patience and understanding held the key to healing for that soldier, along with the thousands of other soldiers she has touched.
“He came in here and wasn’t speaking. I took him outside and gave him five plants that needed to go in the ground. It took him all day to do it, but he got them planted. I told him if they didn’t get watered they would die, so he watered them every day for a week, still without ever talking. When I told him I had to go to Houston for a week and needed him to care for them, he looked me in the eye and said ‘Then you’re going to have to tell me what they’re called,’” Julie Curtis-Win said. “Once he started talking, he told me about gardening with his grandmother as a child, and before I knew it, he was telling me about picking up pieces of bodies in Iraq. My first thought was, I’m going to need more plants for this place.”
Win runs the Texas Military Family Foundation, a non-profit organization located on Fort Hood dedicated to meeting the needs of soldiers all across the United States. In a small government building surrounded by plants and flowers, Win does everything in her power to fill those needs, regardless of what they are. The journey that brought Win to the building with the bright red-roof and gardens used to heal wasn’t one she had planned.
Win isn’t the mother of a soldier, or the spouse or daughter of one either. She is a Master Gardener with the Texas A&M extension, who was working in Temple before the beginning of this war. Her first interaction with the Army came through the adopt-a-school program while she was working to build a greenhouse on campus. When the unit sponsoring her school received orders to deploy in 2003, Win wanted to be there to say good-bye. She called everyone she knew in the school district and gathered more than 6,000 cookies to give away at the manifest site.
“It was the hardest thing I’ve even been through,” she said. “Watching wives and children say good-bye, watching the soldiers fight back tears as they gave their children a final kiss.”
Setting up a table for the cookies, Win was mortified when a soldier asked how much they cost. “He wanted cookies to take on the plane, and I couldn’t believe that a soldier who was going off to fight for this country thought I would charge him.” said Win. That moment changed Win’s life.
Win said she knew she needed to do more, so she started going to every deployment with cookies, smiley face stickers, drinks, and whatever else she could scrounge up. For Win, that still wasn’t enough. She started bringing bags filled with toiletries and other items for the soldiers deploying. “While these soldiers are thinking of duty, honor and country; I am thinking of patriotism, motherhood and sacrifice. While they are walking out the door to board these planes, I am praying that their families will sustain the year long deployment and the soldier will return safely,” said Win. “Sometimes I receive calls on my cell phone an hour or so after soldiers leave that have used my phone while waiting to deploy and end up talking to the family member, often a mother, on the other end. I hope it is comforting for them to know that there is someone, actually a team of us, that are there with those soldiers deploying.”
Realizing there was a greater need; Win expanded her efforts to include north Fort Hood, the area where National Guard and reserve soldiers train prior to going to Iraq or Afghanistan. Securing use of a building, Win brought in pool tables and built a makeshift center for the soldiers, where she continued to feed and provide services for them. “There were 5,000 soldiers out there with nothing,” she said. “The day we opened up, soldiers came to me in tears, they were so happy to have something normal in their lives.”
Win spent two years on north Fort Hood before moving into an office in the bottom of a 1st Cavalry building. The Texas Military Family Foundation was born from Win’s determination to make a difficult situation for deploying soldiers something a little less stressful. Finding financial support from a silent partner, Win was able to hire a few staff members. In March of 2005, Win moved to the current location, which she has turned into a haven for soldiers from every branch of service. The new location houses 16 computers donated by Dell, a kitchen area, a donated big-screen television, recliners, cell phones, and numerous other amenities for soldiers.
The building is also home to a garden tended by troops trying to pass time between doctor’s appointments, surgeries, classes, and regular duty. “It’s healing,” said Win. “They plant something, and they nurture it, they watch it grow, and they have that instant gratification. It takes their mind off of other things they’re dealing with.”
What started as a service to deploying soldiers has evolved to become a home away from home for soldiers returning from Iraq. “This is where we come for comfort, where we come to heal and find peace,” said Specialist Timothy Wright. Wright came to TMFF after being wounded in Iraq. With his jaw wired shut, a tracheotomy in his throat and shrapnel lodged throughout his body, he made his way to Win. “I couldn’t sleep when I got back from Iraq. I felt caged in my room and I just paced the floor.” said Wright. “The first time I came here, I sat down in front of the TV and ten minutes later I was asleep, I had finally found some comfort.” Wright has healed from his physical wounds and Win has helped him heal from the wounds that run deeper. “She’s here to listen to us; it’s like a piece of home,” he said. “I love Julie, she’s really important to me.” The center is open 24 hours, 7 days a week, and 365 days a year. “If they need us, we’re here,” said Win.
Win continues to take care of soldiers at every deployment, every homecoming, and at the Soldiers Readiness Centers, where she provides snacks and drinks to soldiers who are processing either before or after a deployment, as well as providing assistance to soldiers in the barracks who are recuperating from injuries.
Nearly all of the renovations to the TMFF building have been done by soldiers who spend time there. “It gives them something to do until they’re ready to talk, or ready to leave,” said Win.
Win has assisted in the deployment of over 100,000 soldiers, and not all of them come back. “I know some of these soldiers I touch won’t come back, and I know of a lot of them who have already died,” she said. “And it’s the highest honor I can have to help them before they go, and be here for those who come back.”
The need for Win’s services continues to grow as more soldiers return from deployment and others prepare to leave. Win, without ever asking for anything in return except a hug, needs help now. The backer she has been supported by until now is financially unable to continue supporting her cause and Win is shouldering the responsibility of continuing to care for the service members. “I know people can only give so much,” she said. “But these soldiers give all, they’re willing to give their life.”
Win is asking that the community provide any assistance it can, even if it’s just gift-cards to a grocery store to help offset the hundreds of dollars she spends a month for food. “The absolute least I can do for a soldier who has just gone to hell and back, is have a fridge full of food for him to open,” said Win.
Contact Kristine Favreau at favreauc@kdhnews.com
Breakout:
For more information on the Texas Military Family Foundation, please visit www.tmff.us or contact Julie Win at 254-618-8109 or mail your tax deductible donation to: TMFF, 1610 South 31st Street, Ste. 102, Temple, Texas 76504. If you are interested in donating items, there is a wish list on the Texas Military Families Foundation web site.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Gym Speak
Have you ever walked into a gym and felt like you’d just entered another country? A country in which no other person speaks a language you understand. You can relax now fellow traveler. The language is simple once you have the basics down. Next thing you know, you’ll be sounding like a native.
Step. Power Step. Power Muscle Step. Step Mix. Huh what?? Step classes, still very popular, are the most difficult to decipher. Try walking into the wrong one and suddenly you have 2 left feet and no sense of direction.
Basic Step Classes are lower impact (lower impact meaning you won’t want to vomit 20 minutes into it) than other step classes. Perfect for beginners. Others in the classes are usually still learning the language as well. A slower pace and simple instructions allow you to learn at a pace that doesn’t leave you unable to move the next day. Any other variation of a step class will utilize the moves you learn in Basic Step, just jumped up a notch…or 50. Step classes are great cardiovascular exercises. Cardiovascular meaning about 5 minutes in your heart feels like it wants to jump out of your chest, and believe it or not, that’s a good thing. Stable sneakers and a super duper sports bra are must haves for the stepper.
Kickboxing is also a great cardio workout. Think Billy Blanks. Less jumping around than a step class, same results. Beginners or advanced can all benefit from the same class. The moves are easier to pick up, but the workout is no less intense. A kickboxing bonus is feeling like you can beat up the guy who just stole your parking spot. As much as you want to, try not to release your inner martial artist on the unsuspecting. Stable sneakers are a definite must have for this class as well.
Yoga, Pilates and Total Body classes are all lower impact. No jumping around, no need for the extra strength sports bra. These classes are not aerobic (heart stays in your chest). Aimed at toning and defining your muscles (making your wiggle have less jiggle) these classes aren’t for the faint at heart. Although great for beginners, people rehabilitating injuries, or post partum moms, you won’t get off easier by choosing a low impact class. Think about having to hold the walls to lower yourself on the toilet the next day. Working every single muscle you own, and some you weren’t aware you had, you’ll see faster results with these classes than any other.
The weight room: no, it isn’t as scary as it looks. Once you know what all of those contraptions do, the less they will look like medieval torture devices. Most gyms will walk you through and explain the equipment to you, as well as the best way to use it. Knowing what the trainer is talking about will help out. Let’s take a look at phrases you’ll hear repeated every 3 minutes.
Reps (repetitions): How many times you repeat an exercise in one sitting. Normally between 8 and 12.
Sets: How many times you will complete one set of reps. Usually it will be 3. So you would do the exercise between 8 and 12 times, take a break and repeat for 3 times altogether.
Core: Your abs (stomach) glutes (butt) and lower back muscles.
Crunches: An exercise designed to work your abs.
Cardio: Anything that raises your heart rate for an extended period of time. Aerobics classes, tread mills, and stationary bikes all fall in this category.
So when you walk into the gym and the person next to you says “I’m going to do 4 sets of crunches, 20 reps each because I really need to work my core before I hit the cardio” you’ll know exactly what that means.
The gym may seem intimidating when you first start out. It does for everyone. The most important thing to remember is you’re there. Getting there is much harder than learning what to do once you walk inside.
Step. Power Step. Power Muscle Step. Step Mix. Huh what?? Step classes, still very popular, are the most difficult to decipher. Try walking into the wrong one and suddenly you have 2 left feet and no sense of direction.
Basic Step Classes are lower impact (lower impact meaning you won’t want to vomit 20 minutes into it) than other step classes. Perfect for beginners. Others in the classes are usually still learning the language as well. A slower pace and simple instructions allow you to learn at a pace that doesn’t leave you unable to move the next day. Any other variation of a step class will utilize the moves you learn in Basic Step, just jumped up a notch…or 50. Step classes are great cardiovascular exercises. Cardiovascular meaning about 5 minutes in your heart feels like it wants to jump out of your chest, and believe it or not, that’s a good thing. Stable sneakers and a super duper sports bra are must haves for the stepper.
Kickboxing is also a great cardio workout. Think Billy Blanks. Less jumping around than a step class, same results. Beginners or advanced can all benefit from the same class. The moves are easier to pick up, but the workout is no less intense. A kickboxing bonus is feeling like you can beat up the guy who just stole your parking spot. As much as you want to, try not to release your inner martial artist on the unsuspecting. Stable sneakers are a definite must have for this class as well.
Yoga, Pilates and Total Body classes are all lower impact. No jumping around, no need for the extra strength sports bra. These classes are not aerobic (heart stays in your chest). Aimed at toning and defining your muscles (making your wiggle have less jiggle) these classes aren’t for the faint at heart. Although great for beginners, people rehabilitating injuries, or post partum moms, you won’t get off easier by choosing a low impact class. Think about having to hold the walls to lower yourself on the toilet the next day. Working every single muscle you own, and some you weren’t aware you had, you’ll see faster results with these classes than any other.
The weight room: no, it isn’t as scary as it looks. Once you know what all of those contraptions do, the less they will look like medieval torture devices. Most gyms will walk you through and explain the equipment to you, as well as the best way to use it. Knowing what the trainer is talking about will help out. Let’s take a look at phrases you’ll hear repeated every 3 minutes.
Reps (repetitions): How many times you repeat an exercise in one sitting. Normally between 8 and 12.
Sets: How many times you will complete one set of reps. Usually it will be 3. So you would do the exercise between 8 and 12 times, take a break and repeat for 3 times altogether.
Core: Your abs (stomach) glutes (butt) and lower back muscles.
Crunches: An exercise designed to work your abs.
Cardio: Anything that raises your heart rate for an extended period of time. Aerobics classes, tread mills, and stationary bikes all fall in this category.
So when you walk into the gym and the person next to you says “I’m going to do 4 sets of crunches, 20 reps each because I really need to work my core before I hit the cardio” you’ll know exactly what that means.
The gym may seem intimidating when you first start out. It does for everyone. The most important thing to remember is you’re there. Getting there is much harder than learning what to do once you walk inside.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
At what price beauty?
Wrinkles just aren’t funny. I’m sitting here trying to find a humorous spin on the fact that I have discovered wrinkles. On my face of all places. Knee wrinkles, no biggie, a few wrinkles on my hands? No problemo. On my face?? Okay, that’s just not funny.
If I take my glasses off and look in the mirror my skin is soft, supple and totally unlined. Did I mention I’m half blind without my glasses? As soon as I put the darned things on the truth slaps me in the face. I’m getting older.
I’m not sure who coined the phrase “Laugh Lines” but I’m not seeing the humor in it. At no point have I ever looked at those little lines and laughed. Not even a snicker.
So now what? According to the barely 20 year old woman on my television, wrinkles are no match for modern science. All I have to do is get deadly bacteria injected into my face.
WHOA! Hold up. Bacteria. Injected. On purpose?? My face?? Let me get this right, people pay money to have a deadly bacteria injected into their bodies, losing all ability to show facial expressions? Woohoo, sign me up!
Moving along, I could also get an acid peel. Sounds fun right?? I can have burning acid poured on my face to remove all the damaged layers of skin. After the skin peels off, I walk around for a month looking like Samantha from Sex in The City. Remember that episode? Her face made a child cry. I have children, it’s hard enough to get them to eat dinner, imagine the trouble I’d have talking them into eating their hamburger when it so closely resembles Mommy’s face??
There are always fat injections to fill out and plump up those pesky wrinkle lines. The doctor simply sucks some fat from my butt and injects into my face. Again with the injecting. The only thing less funny than wrinkles is needles. More funny than wrinkles would be the jokes my husband could make about me having my own butt for a face. Wrinkle free or not, I’m not subjecting myself to that.
When did wrinkles become such a bad thing for women? Men with wrinkles are distinguished looking but women just look old? I think not. It’s bad enough men get to be chunkier than women, but they get to have wrinkles in peace too? How the heck is that fair?
The thoughts of deadly bacteria, molting skin and a butt face have me reconsidering this entire wrinkle elimination idea. Looking a little more closely in the mirror, with my glasses on of course, I’m having trouble seeing why these little lines are such a traumatic thing.
The lines around my eyes? Those are from laughing at my children. The little crows feet around my mouth? I’m pretty sure I got those from puckering up to kiss my husband so often. I can’t believe I actually considered getting rid of those. No way. I earned them, and they are badges of honor. My face has a story to tell, and that story is filled with love and laughter.
The beauty industry can keep their needles, I’m keeping my face just the way it is. Wrinkled and happy.
If I take my glasses off and look in the mirror my skin is soft, supple and totally unlined. Did I mention I’m half blind without my glasses? As soon as I put the darned things on the truth slaps me in the face. I’m getting older.
I’m not sure who coined the phrase “Laugh Lines” but I’m not seeing the humor in it. At no point have I ever looked at those little lines and laughed. Not even a snicker.
So now what? According to the barely 20 year old woman on my television, wrinkles are no match for modern science. All I have to do is get deadly bacteria injected into my face.
WHOA! Hold up. Bacteria. Injected. On purpose?? My face?? Let me get this right, people pay money to have a deadly bacteria injected into their bodies, losing all ability to show facial expressions? Woohoo, sign me up!
Moving along, I could also get an acid peel. Sounds fun right?? I can have burning acid poured on my face to remove all the damaged layers of skin. After the skin peels off, I walk around for a month looking like Samantha from Sex in The City. Remember that episode? Her face made a child cry. I have children, it’s hard enough to get them to eat dinner, imagine the trouble I’d have talking them into eating their hamburger when it so closely resembles Mommy’s face??
There are always fat injections to fill out and plump up those pesky wrinkle lines. The doctor simply sucks some fat from my butt and injects into my face. Again with the injecting. The only thing less funny than wrinkles is needles. More funny than wrinkles would be the jokes my husband could make about me having my own butt for a face. Wrinkle free or not, I’m not subjecting myself to that.
When did wrinkles become such a bad thing for women? Men with wrinkles are distinguished looking but women just look old? I think not. It’s bad enough men get to be chunkier than women, but they get to have wrinkles in peace too? How the heck is that fair?
The thoughts of deadly bacteria, molting skin and a butt face have me reconsidering this entire wrinkle elimination idea. Looking a little more closely in the mirror, with my glasses on of course, I’m having trouble seeing why these little lines are such a traumatic thing.
The lines around my eyes? Those are from laughing at my children. The little crows feet around my mouth? I’m pretty sure I got those from puckering up to kiss my husband so often. I can’t believe I actually considered getting rid of those. No way. I earned them, and they are badges of honor. My face has a story to tell, and that story is filled with love and laughter.
The beauty industry can keep their needles, I’m keeping my face just the way it is. Wrinkled and happy.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Down with Diets!
Put down the diet book. Step away from the low-carb yogurt. Turn off the infomercials and relax for a moment. Remember what it was like before eating became a science project? All we did was eat sensibly and exercise and somehow we still managed to lose weight.
With the barrage of diet information we're faced with daily, it amazes me that we can manage to have a single meal without a mental breakdown. High-protein/Low-Carb, no carb, all grapefruit, no fruit,dairy or no dairy. Trying to remember the rules makes my head spin.
It's a good thing we can throw them all out the window. A healthy diet is simple, basic and it doesn't require a degree in nutrition. Nor does it require spending hundreds of dollars on books, meal plans or pills.The only thing you really need, you already have. Your own common sense.
14 pieces of bacon for breakfast? An all meat diet? A no meat diet? Those diet plans don't sound like a good idea because they aren't. They may be effective for short term, fast result weight loss,but those results won't last.
With every new fad diet we try we damage our bodies' ability to process vitamins and nutrients. We also disrupt our natural metabolism, which further impedes our weight loss success. The most important aspect of a healthy body has been completely ignored by the diet industry. Of course they can’t make a lot of money on it so don’t expect them to publicize it any time soon.
Here’s the big secret; our body needs food in order to function at its best. That means our brains need carbohydrates. Not empty carbs found in processed foods such as white breads, pastas and bleached grains, but the good, nutritious carbs found in whole wheat products like grain breads, wheat pastas and vegetables. Our bodies also depend on the fibers those foods provide. Dairy products are the best sourceof calcium and calcium is essential to maintaining total body health.Your body needs it every day not just to keep your bones and teeth strong over your lifetime, but to ensure proper functioning of muscles and nerves. Our muscles need protein in order to grow and repair the damage we do to them everyday.
The best diet is no diet at all. A lifelong eating plan consisting of moderation, healthy foods and exercise guarantees a fit, healthy body.
Donuts, fried foods, 3 bowls of ice cream, obviously a bad idea, but you already know that. Baked foods, steamed vegetables, salads andgrain breads, those are foods your body will thrive on. The added weight loss is just a bonus for treating your body right.
No more diets. No more low carb water. Burn the books and ban thepills. You know what your body needs better than the guy on TV trying to sell you 30 water pills for 300 dollars does. And guess what, it’s free! Just try eating sensibly and exercising for 30 days and see what happens. I think you’ll be amazed.
Next time you start to reach for a side of bacon and a bottle of cabbage juice, think how much more you’d enjoy some fresh fruit or a salad. Sit back, relax and giggle at the hungry, half crazed, food deprived woman hawking diet pills on your TV.
With the barrage of diet information we're faced with daily, it amazes me that we can manage to have a single meal without a mental breakdown. High-protein/Low-Carb, no carb, all grapefruit, no fruit,dairy or no dairy. Trying to remember the rules makes my head spin.
It's a good thing we can throw them all out the window. A healthy diet is simple, basic and it doesn't require a degree in nutrition. Nor does it require spending hundreds of dollars on books, meal plans or pills.The only thing you really need, you already have. Your own common sense.
14 pieces of bacon for breakfast? An all meat diet? A no meat diet? Those diet plans don't sound like a good idea because they aren't. They may be effective for short term, fast result weight loss,but those results won't last.
With every new fad diet we try we damage our bodies' ability to process vitamins and nutrients. We also disrupt our natural metabolism, which further impedes our weight loss success. The most important aspect of a healthy body has been completely ignored by the diet industry. Of course they can’t make a lot of money on it so don’t expect them to publicize it any time soon.
Here’s the big secret; our body needs food in order to function at its best. That means our brains need carbohydrates. Not empty carbs found in processed foods such as white breads, pastas and bleached grains, but the good, nutritious carbs found in whole wheat products like grain breads, wheat pastas and vegetables. Our bodies also depend on the fibers those foods provide. Dairy products are the best sourceof calcium and calcium is essential to maintaining total body health.Your body needs it every day not just to keep your bones and teeth strong over your lifetime, but to ensure proper functioning of muscles and nerves. Our muscles need protein in order to grow and repair the damage we do to them everyday.
The best diet is no diet at all. A lifelong eating plan consisting of moderation, healthy foods and exercise guarantees a fit, healthy body.
Donuts, fried foods, 3 bowls of ice cream, obviously a bad idea, but you already know that. Baked foods, steamed vegetables, salads andgrain breads, those are foods your body will thrive on. The added weight loss is just a bonus for treating your body right.
No more diets. No more low carb water. Burn the books and ban thepills. You know what your body needs better than the guy on TV trying to sell you 30 water pills for 300 dollars does. And guess what, it’s free! Just try eating sensibly and exercising for 30 days and see what happens. I think you’ll be amazed.
Next time you start to reach for a side of bacon and a bottle of cabbage juice, think how much more you’d enjoy some fresh fruit or a salad. Sit back, relax and giggle at the hungry, half crazed, food deprived woman hawking diet pills on your TV.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Settled Dust
Today I will let the dust settle in my house. The laundry in the dryer can sit for another day.
I’m going to play with my children instead. I’m going to sit on the sidewalk and eat a Popsicle, licking the sticky drippings from my arm. And I’m going to laugh the old laugh of childhood, the one that starts in your belly and shoots out before you have time to censor it. I’m going to smell the sunshine in my sons’ hair, and brush the grass from my daughters’ shoulder.
I’m taking them to the park where we can race down the slide and see who can swing the highest. Every moment today will be spent cherishing these 4 little people who make my life so insane.
Today I will not say in a minute, nor will I say not right now. Right now, and right this minute are more important moments in my childs life than the time I’m spending cleaning the counters. In a minute may never come, and I don’t want to miss out on right this second.
Today I will show my 15 year old that teaching her to dance on the back porch is more important to me than bleaching my toilets.
Children are a gift that never truly belong to us; they are simply loaned to us for a short time. Windows will always be dirty, laundry will always pile up, but children eventually go away.
When I am old and alone in my home, will I look around and admire the vacuum lines in my living room, or will I long for the days when my babies ran through the house and filled it with laughter? Will my children think of their childhoods and smile because mom always had time for a hug, knew all the silly jokes and wasn’t afraid to turn a cartwheel in the yard, or will they think back and say “Wow, my clothes always smelled so darn clean”?
Yesterday I gave birth to my oldest daughter and today she is on the cell phone with her friend. Where did the time go, and why did I waste so much of it worrying about how clean my house was and how polite my children are? Why haven’t I spent every single day basking in the joy of my children?
Some days I think “If only these kids would just leave me alone for 5 minutes”. Exasperated and exhausted I beg them to “Just go away!” One of these days, they’re finally going to do what I say, and they are going to leave me alone. They will head off to lives of their own and I will be left with an empty house, and glass doors that have no fingerprints on them. That used to sound like heaven to me, now it just sounds lonely.
Do you know it takes 2 minutes to answer a Childs question? It takes 30 seconds to get a really wet sloppy kiss from a 3 year old. In 5 minutes your child can tell you everything you never wanted to know about the stuff they found on the bottom of their shoe. 7 and a half minutes. 7 little minutes out of a 24 hour day. Can you think of a better way to spend that time? It sure is better than the 7 minutes it takes me to scrub my oven.
We wake up and expect our lives to stay the same. No one ever wakes up and thinks, I could lose my children today, I had better spend time with them. Turn on the TV, open your newspaper, and see how many mothers lose their children every day.
Take advantage of the time we do have with our children, cherish every moment with them. Kiss them good night and tell them stories of your childhood, hold their hands in the store and cuddle them in your laps for as long as they’ll still fit.
Next time they interrupt you, before you tell them to go away, keep in mind that someday they will.
I’m going to play with my children instead. I’m going to sit on the sidewalk and eat a Popsicle, licking the sticky drippings from my arm. And I’m going to laugh the old laugh of childhood, the one that starts in your belly and shoots out before you have time to censor it. I’m going to smell the sunshine in my sons’ hair, and brush the grass from my daughters’ shoulder.
I’m taking them to the park where we can race down the slide and see who can swing the highest. Every moment today will be spent cherishing these 4 little people who make my life so insane.
Today I will not say in a minute, nor will I say not right now. Right now, and right this minute are more important moments in my childs life than the time I’m spending cleaning the counters. In a minute may never come, and I don’t want to miss out on right this second.
Today I will show my 15 year old that teaching her to dance on the back porch is more important to me than bleaching my toilets.
Children are a gift that never truly belong to us; they are simply loaned to us for a short time. Windows will always be dirty, laundry will always pile up, but children eventually go away.
When I am old and alone in my home, will I look around and admire the vacuum lines in my living room, or will I long for the days when my babies ran through the house and filled it with laughter? Will my children think of their childhoods and smile because mom always had time for a hug, knew all the silly jokes and wasn’t afraid to turn a cartwheel in the yard, or will they think back and say “Wow, my clothes always smelled so darn clean”?
Yesterday I gave birth to my oldest daughter and today she is on the cell phone with her friend. Where did the time go, and why did I waste so much of it worrying about how clean my house was and how polite my children are? Why haven’t I spent every single day basking in the joy of my children?
Some days I think “If only these kids would just leave me alone for 5 minutes”. Exasperated and exhausted I beg them to “Just go away!” One of these days, they’re finally going to do what I say, and they are going to leave me alone. They will head off to lives of their own and I will be left with an empty house, and glass doors that have no fingerprints on them. That used to sound like heaven to me, now it just sounds lonely.
Do you know it takes 2 minutes to answer a Childs question? It takes 30 seconds to get a really wet sloppy kiss from a 3 year old. In 5 minutes your child can tell you everything you never wanted to know about the stuff they found on the bottom of their shoe. 7 and a half minutes. 7 little minutes out of a 24 hour day. Can you think of a better way to spend that time? It sure is better than the 7 minutes it takes me to scrub my oven.
We wake up and expect our lives to stay the same. No one ever wakes up and thinks, I could lose my children today, I had better spend time with them. Turn on the TV, open your newspaper, and see how many mothers lose their children every day.
Take advantage of the time we do have with our children, cherish every moment with them. Kiss them good night and tell them stories of your childhood, hold their hands in the store and cuddle them in your laps for as long as they’ll still fit.
Next time they interrupt you, before you tell them to go away, keep in mind that someday they will.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Spring for TNG
Spring has sprung
My hormones have begun
The sun warming the grass
makes me want to wiggle my ass
No snow falling from the sky
thoughts of your hand on my bare thigh
For a simple kiss
upon the first flower I wish
The bees soon will be loving the flowers
Rolling with you on my bed for hours
Spring breezes caress my face
I long for your touch in it's place
Grass turns green, snow melts away
Sitting on your lap, ready to play
Everywhere I look flowers in bloom
Forget all this sap, let's go hump in my room!
Monday, May 23, 2005
Pilates craze sweeps through Central Texas
The Pilates movement has finally made its way to Central Texas. For years athletes and celebrities alike have extolled the virtues of Pilates. Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow and Julia Roberts are disciplined students who credit Pilates for their outstanding bodies. Basketball
player Jason Kidd, golfer Tiger Woods and Boston Red Sox ace pitcher Curt Schilling are just a few athletes who have discovered the benefits of adding Pilates to their training routines.
Pilates is no longer seen as only for the rich and famous. Many gyms locally are now offering classes in this form of exercise that was first developed in World War I to help wounded and injured personnel recover quicker. Anatasia Dewald Of Copperas Cove, attends at Ace Athletics. " When I look in the mirror now I see an hourglass shape, before I started classes it was more like a 24 hourglass shape". Dewald has been practicing for a little over 4 years. After the birth of her twins she says her body recovered much more quickly than it did after her other children were born. "After sitting at a desk all day, a class is a great way for me to relax and decompress. I've also noticed more definition in my muscles and a big increase in overall body tone and flexibility".
"Pilates is designed to give you suppleness, natural grace and skill that will be unmistakably reflected in the way you walk, in the way you play, and in the way you work. You will develop muscular power with corresponding endurance, ability to perform arduous duties, to play strenuous games, to walk, run or travel for long distances without undue body fatigue or mental strain." Joseph H. Pilates
Pilates focuses on building the practitioners "core", which are the muscles in your abdomen, lower back and buttocks. Pilates conditions the body from head to toe with a no- to low-impact approach which is suitable for all ages and abilities. It requires patience and practice, but results will follow.
"The first three weeks, I was really disappointed," says Schilling,who incorporated Pilates into his off-season training program. "I wasn't sweating. I wasn't winded, which is what I associate with true exercise. "Then in the fourth week I started to understand the Pilates terminology, the idea of working from your center. By the third month I was more powerful and flexible than ever before. And I'd lost 15 pounds."
The benefits are not limited to physical appearance of the body. "I no longer have back problems, my back just doesn't hurt anymore. I also sleep better because it relieves stress" says Ann Hatfield, also a student at Ace Athletics in Copperas Cove.
Since Pilates is based on using your body in the most effective manner, the only equipment you need is yourself and a mat to lay on. Some advanced classes incorporate small hand weights or resistance bands. Similar to Yoga, Pilates focuses on breathing, concentration
and flow of movement.
There are beginners classes as well as a combination of Yoga and Pilates, known as Yogilates. For more advanced students there are Power Pilates classes, also called Pilates 2. Regardless of your experience or current level of fitness, you can find a local class that works best for you at Tree of Life Yoga in Harker Heights, Gym-X in Killeen or Ace Athletics in Copperas Cove.
player Jason Kidd, golfer Tiger Woods and Boston Red Sox ace pitcher Curt Schilling are just a few athletes who have discovered the benefits of adding Pilates to their training routines.
Pilates is no longer seen as only for the rich and famous. Many gyms locally are now offering classes in this form of exercise that was first developed in World War I to help wounded and injured personnel recover quicker. Anatasia Dewald Of Copperas Cove, attends at Ace Athletics. " When I look in the mirror now I see an hourglass shape, before I started classes it was more like a 24 hourglass shape". Dewald has been practicing for a little over 4 years. After the birth of her twins she says her body recovered much more quickly than it did after her other children were born. "After sitting at a desk all day, a class is a great way for me to relax and decompress. I've also noticed more definition in my muscles and a big increase in overall body tone and flexibility".
"Pilates is designed to give you suppleness, natural grace and skill that will be unmistakably reflected in the way you walk, in the way you play, and in the way you work. You will develop muscular power with corresponding endurance, ability to perform arduous duties, to play strenuous games, to walk, run or travel for long distances without undue body fatigue or mental strain." Joseph H. Pilates
Pilates focuses on building the practitioners "core", which are the muscles in your abdomen, lower back and buttocks. Pilates conditions the body from head to toe with a no- to low-impact approach which is suitable for all ages and abilities. It requires patience and practice, but results will follow.
"The first three weeks, I was really disappointed," says Schilling,who incorporated Pilates into his off-season training program. "I wasn't sweating. I wasn't winded, which is what I associate with true exercise. "Then in the fourth week I started to understand the Pilates terminology, the idea of working from your center. By the third month I was more powerful and flexible than ever before. And I'd lost 15 pounds."
The benefits are not limited to physical appearance of the body. "I no longer have back problems, my back just doesn't hurt anymore. I also sleep better because it relieves stress" says Ann Hatfield, also a student at Ace Athletics in Copperas Cove.
Since Pilates is based on using your body in the most effective manner, the only equipment you need is yourself and a mat to lay on. Some advanced classes incorporate small hand weights or resistance bands. Similar to Yoga, Pilates focuses on breathing, concentration
and flow of movement.
There are beginners classes as well as a combination of Yoga and Pilates, known as Yogilates. For more advanced students there are Power Pilates classes, also called Pilates 2. Regardless of your experience or current level of fitness, you can find a local class that works best for you at Tree of Life Yoga in Harker Heights, Gym-X in Killeen or Ace Athletics in Copperas Cove.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Welcome Home...Now Go Away.
The welcome home banners have been stored, the yellow ribbons put in the garage. A years’ worth of memories have been shared, the photo albums put away. We’ve remembered how to cook full dinners and share the remote. The lawn has been mowed. Everything I broke has been repaired. So now what?
It almost feels like our lives are back to normal, except for one thing. The husbands are sort of just hanging around. Aren’t they supposed to go back to work or something? I know they pretend to go to work, but PT in the morning and home the rest of the day just isn’t enough for me.
I love having my husband home safely, I really do. I’m just ready for some normal. I had quite a nice routine when he was away, and it didn’t involve finding ways to entertain him all day.
My house has turned into the lost dog shelter. Every time I turn around I trip over my 6 ft, 200 pound personal puppy dog.
For 12 months my husbands’ life ran non stop. No days off, no relaxing. Suddenly he’s back home with absolutely nothing to do. Wait, let me rephrase that. Now he’s back home making up things to do. Yep. Making things up. My linen closet has been reorganized, not that it needed it. My car gets washed every day. I’m not sure how I manage to get it dirty driving to the gym and home, but apparently it requires daily vacuuming. I have pity for any weed that thinks about growing in my yard. My husband maps out his maneuver, gets into stealth mode and sneaks up on the enemy. The enemy being the stray dandelion in my back yard. He will, under oath, deny the next statement, sadly, he’ll be lying. The man waxed the lawnmower. He waxed it. I have the cleanest, shiniest lawnmower on my block. I would think my husband was crazy, except I saw the man across the street polishing the trampoline.
I have to believe I’m not the only woman having trouble adjusting to Operation I’m So Bored. I’m one more "war story" away from going AWOL. In the past month I have both hosted and attended countless Welcome Home Barbeques. Picture 15 bored husbands and 15 frazzled wives. Add beer and food. The testosterone levels alone made me want to buy a corvette. I can’t even drive a stick. Throughout all of these parties the running theme in the kitchen is always "My husband is making me crazy, I wish he’d go back to work" Different husbands, different wives, same complaint. He’s just too "around". I may have heard this incorrectly, but I swear one woman mentioned something about hiring her husband a girlfriend. just to keep him occupied.
I understand the retired husband/insane wife syndrome so much more clearly now. When husbands retire their days become empty and somewhat meaningless, while ours stay the same. Too much togetherness is never a good thing. We rush the kids off to school and still have the husband underfoot. I’d like to pay the bills, do the laundry, clean my bathroom and start dinner without being interrupted 10 times to hear "Whatcha doin?" When I see a woman grocery shopping with her husband in tow, I want to reach out, hug her and tell her that I too would like to hit mine over the head with a sack of potatoes.
I’m grateful to have my husband home, and eventually he’ll head back to work. Life will return to some kind of normal. In a few months I’ll be begging for a 4 day weekend so we can spend time together. Right now though I’m still trying to find excuses to get him out of the house. When it comes down to it, I’m thankful my biggest complaint is that he is paying me too much attention.
The neighbor just called to tell me my husband is outside getting ready to wax our 3 year old, so I’d better get out there. When the going gets tough and the urge to thwap your man in the head arises, remind yourself how good it is to have his head where you can reach it.
It almost feels like our lives are back to normal, except for one thing. The husbands are sort of just hanging around. Aren’t they supposed to go back to work or something? I know they pretend to go to work, but PT in the morning and home the rest of the day just isn’t enough for me.
I love having my husband home safely, I really do. I’m just ready for some normal. I had quite a nice routine when he was away, and it didn’t involve finding ways to entertain him all day.
My house has turned into the lost dog shelter. Every time I turn around I trip over my 6 ft, 200 pound personal puppy dog.
For 12 months my husbands’ life ran non stop. No days off, no relaxing. Suddenly he’s back home with absolutely nothing to do. Wait, let me rephrase that. Now he’s back home making up things to do. Yep. Making things up. My linen closet has been reorganized, not that it needed it. My car gets washed every day. I’m not sure how I manage to get it dirty driving to the gym and home, but apparently it requires daily vacuuming. I have pity for any weed that thinks about growing in my yard. My husband maps out his maneuver, gets into stealth mode and sneaks up on the enemy. The enemy being the stray dandelion in my back yard. He will, under oath, deny the next statement, sadly, he’ll be lying. The man waxed the lawnmower. He waxed it. I have the cleanest, shiniest lawnmower on my block. I would think my husband was crazy, except I saw the man across the street polishing the trampoline.
I have to believe I’m not the only woman having trouble adjusting to Operation I’m So Bored. I’m one more "war story" away from going AWOL. In the past month I have both hosted and attended countless Welcome Home Barbeques. Picture 15 bored husbands and 15 frazzled wives. Add beer and food. The testosterone levels alone made me want to buy a corvette. I can’t even drive a stick. Throughout all of these parties the running theme in the kitchen is always "My husband is making me crazy, I wish he’d go back to work" Different husbands, different wives, same complaint. He’s just too "around". I may have heard this incorrectly, but I swear one woman mentioned something about hiring her husband a girlfriend. just to keep him occupied.
I understand the retired husband/insane wife syndrome so much more clearly now. When husbands retire their days become empty and somewhat meaningless, while ours stay the same. Too much togetherness is never a good thing. We rush the kids off to school and still have the husband underfoot. I’d like to pay the bills, do the laundry, clean my bathroom and start dinner without being interrupted 10 times to hear "Whatcha doin?" When I see a woman grocery shopping with her husband in tow, I want to reach out, hug her and tell her that I too would like to hit mine over the head with a sack of potatoes.
I’m grateful to have my husband home, and eventually he’ll head back to work. Life will return to some kind of normal. In a few months I’ll be begging for a 4 day weekend so we can spend time together. Right now though I’m still trying to find excuses to get him out of the house. When it comes down to it, I’m thankful my biggest complaint is that he is paying me too much attention.
The neighbor just called to tell me my husband is outside getting ready to wax our 3 year old, so I’d better get out there. When the going gets tough and the urge to thwap your man in the head arises, remind yourself how good it is to have his head where you can reach it.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Emasculating Mr. Right
We've all asked the question "where have all the good men gone?" and sadly I know the answer. We killed them. In our demands to be listened to, understood and treated equally we we took away everything that makes men, well, Manly.
As little girls we read beautiful fairy tales that inevitably end with the Prince saving the Princess and living together happily ever after. We then move on to romance novels filled with knights in shining armor and bad boys gone good. We dream of big weddings and houses with pickets fences, wrapped at night in the arms a big strong man. Then we grew up and took that mans balls away. Yet we continue to complain that we can't find Mr.Right.
We've demanded equality between the sexes, we want our men to listen, be attentive, understand us and even worse, empathize with us. We want our men to be evolved. We said it isn't okay to treat us like women anymore. Don't open car doors, don't tell us we're pretty, don't pull out our chairs. We actually convinced them we wanted to be treated like men. At the same time we browbeat them into becoming these sensitive pastuerized versions of their former masculine selves. Forget Yes Men, we turned them into Yes Dears. The thing is, it backfired. We got what we wanted, men who are caring, empathetic and considerate of our feelings. Little stepford men. Now that we have them, we don't respect them. Not one single bit.
Why do you think romance novels are so popular? They all have the same formula, boy meets girl, boy is dashing and sweeps girl off her feet. The end. Is the leading man ever a weakling or a yes dear? Nope. That book wouldn't sell. The leading man is always a manly man, strong, debonair, macho and very masculine. He doesn't put up with the heroines crap. He goes after what he wants, gender sensitivity classes be damned, and he gets the girl.
Deep down that's what women are looking for. We want a Man. A man to take control, sweep us off our feet and make us feel like feminine, beautiful, cherished women. We don't respect a man we can walk all over. We want to be challenged, we want passion and sparks and fire. We do not want a man mopping our kitchen floors. We may think we do, but honestly...how sexy is a man that you can push around?
Men are very simple creatures. We're trying to turn them into complicated male versions of ourselves with all the depth and complexities. It's not going to happen. Men want food, shelter, sex and praise. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Before men came to us, they were with their mothers. Mom praised him, made him feel like a big boy and rewarded him with hugs and kisses. Mom thought he was the smartest fastest strongest boy ever! He did anything he could to please her because she made him feel good about himself. Fast forward to his relationships with women. Jane wants Bob to get a better job. Jane tells Bob he isn't pulling his weight, he better get his act together, she berates him, demeans him and in effect, takes away his masculinity, which also takes away any desire to please her. In scenario two Jane wants Bob to get a better job so she tells him he is the smartest fastest strongest man ever! Bob, beating his chest, goes out and gets better job, because he wants to please Jane. When your mother said you'd catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, she knew what she was talking about.
Men are Men and Women are Women, Thank the Heavens. That's the way it's supposed to be. From the first hunters men have been responsible for providing for his woman, rewarded and praised for bringing home the bacon. Woman stayed around the fire, raised the children and communicated with each other. Men hunted together in silence. We, as women, developed communication skills from the very beginning. Men did not. They learned to express themselves with actions instead. Can you imagine a group of yappy cavewomen trying to track a bear? Silence was a necessity for men. It was bred into them. Why do we act so surprised when they don't verbalize the same way women do? Men are raised to keep their emotions in check, shake it off, hang tough. Playing football and your leg gets ripped off? Grunting is acceptable, crying is not. Once again, why do we act shocked that men are less emotional than we are?
Instead of complaining about how men aren't like us, why aren't we embracing the differences? I for one am very very thankful for a man willing to pump my gas, clean my gutters, mow my lawn or kill anything with more than 4 legs. I don't want a man to know what color nail polish I prefer, or understand why I have 14 pairs of black shoes. I want a man that simply says You look nice tonight.
Women are soft and pretty and smell good, men are big and strong and normally smell not so great. Men hunt, women nurture. Women empathize and men fix things. Men are rough and women are gentle Like Ying and Yang, like 2 halves of a whole, men and women complete each other. Until we accept our differences and start to appreciate how important they are, talk shows will continue to be filled with unhappy women, men will continue to have that "huh, what did I do?" look on their faces, and we'll all keep walking around trying to rip the balls off Mr.Right.
As little girls we read beautiful fairy tales that inevitably end with the Prince saving the Princess and living together happily ever after. We then move on to romance novels filled with knights in shining armor and bad boys gone good. We dream of big weddings and houses with pickets fences, wrapped at night in the arms a big strong man. Then we grew up and took that mans balls away. Yet we continue to complain that we can't find Mr.Right.
We've demanded equality between the sexes, we want our men to listen, be attentive, understand us and even worse, empathize with us. We want our men to be evolved. We said it isn't okay to treat us like women anymore. Don't open car doors, don't tell us we're pretty, don't pull out our chairs. We actually convinced them we wanted to be treated like men. At the same time we browbeat them into becoming these sensitive pastuerized versions of their former masculine selves. Forget Yes Men, we turned them into Yes Dears. The thing is, it backfired. We got what we wanted, men who are caring, empathetic and considerate of our feelings. Little stepford men. Now that we have them, we don't respect them. Not one single bit.
Why do you think romance novels are so popular? They all have the same formula, boy meets girl, boy is dashing and sweeps girl off her feet. The end. Is the leading man ever a weakling or a yes dear? Nope. That book wouldn't sell. The leading man is always a manly man, strong, debonair, macho and very masculine. He doesn't put up with the heroines crap. He goes after what he wants, gender sensitivity classes be damned, and he gets the girl.
Deep down that's what women are looking for. We want a Man. A man to take control, sweep us off our feet and make us feel like feminine, beautiful, cherished women. We don't respect a man we can walk all over. We want to be challenged, we want passion and sparks and fire. We do not want a man mopping our kitchen floors. We may think we do, but honestly...how sexy is a man that you can push around?
Men are very simple creatures. We're trying to turn them into complicated male versions of ourselves with all the depth and complexities. It's not going to happen. Men want food, shelter, sex and praise. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.
Before men came to us, they were with their mothers. Mom praised him, made him feel like a big boy and rewarded him with hugs and kisses. Mom thought he was the smartest fastest strongest boy ever! He did anything he could to please her because she made him feel good about himself. Fast forward to his relationships with women. Jane wants Bob to get a better job. Jane tells Bob he isn't pulling his weight, he better get his act together, she berates him, demeans him and in effect, takes away his masculinity, which also takes away any desire to please her. In scenario two Jane wants Bob to get a better job so she tells him he is the smartest fastest strongest man ever! Bob, beating his chest, goes out and gets better job, because he wants to please Jane. When your mother said you'd catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, she knew what she was talking about.
Men are Men and Women are Women, Thank the Heavens. That's the way it's supposed to be. From the first hunters men have been responsible for providing for his woman, rewarded and praised for bringing home the bacon. Woman stayed around the fire, raised the children and communicated with each other. Men hunted together in silence. We, as women, developed communication skills from the very beginning. Men did not. They learned to express themselves with actions instead. Can you imagine a group of yappy cavewomen trying to track a bear? Silence was a necessity for men. It was bred into them. Why do we act so surprised when they don't verbalize the same way women do? Men are raised to keep their emotions in check, shake it off, hang tough. Playing football and your leg gets ripped off? Grunting is acceptable, crying is not. Once again, why do we act shocked that men are less emotional than we are?
Instead of complaining about how men aren't like us, why aren't we embracing the differences? I for one am very very thankful for a man willing to pump my gas, clean my gutters, mow my lawn or kill anything with more than 4 legs. I don't want a man to know what color nail polish I prefer, or understand why I have 14 pairs of black shoes. I want a man that simply says You look nice tonight.
Women are soft and pretty and smell good, men are big and strong and normally smell not so great. Men hunt, women nurture. Women empathize and men fix things. Men are rough and women are gentle Like Ying and Yang, like 2 halves of a whole, men and women complete each other. Until we accept our differences and start to appreciate how important they are, talk shows will continue to be filled with unhappy women, men will continue to have that "huh, what did I do?" look on their faces, and we'll all keep walking around trying to rip the balls off Mr.Right.
Monday, February 07, 2005
My Life As A Cow
When I was pregnant with my first child, I was going to be a role model for moms everywhere. I was going to be the mom that the nurses were in awe of. The mom all women aspire to be. I would show people what giving birth and raising children was all about. My conviction lasted for oh, maybe 3 seconds after my first real contraction ended. And then it got worse.
Breastfeeding: The Reality. Nothing like the beautiful scene showed in hundreds of movies. Breastfeeding sucks. I had no idea what I was doing, I assumed that my child would naturally latch on and our bond would be complete. I bared my breast, looked down at my sweet little baby and waited. I kept waiting. I wiggled her a little closer and waited some more. She looked up at me expectantly and that’s when it hit me. I was completely unprepared for motherhood. My first parenting experience ended with her starving and us crying. This was not how things went in all the baby books I read. I could see them coming to take away my super mom coffee cup at any moment
Somehow my daughter and I managed to conquer breastfeeding, after many aborted attempts and pleas for help. Thinking I had perfected the art of lactation, I headed home once again convinced I was ready to be the mayor of Momville. Silly silly me.
I woke up and knew immediately that I was dying. The area where my breasts used to be had been taken over by gargantuan parodies of breasts. Amazingly, they were strikingly similar in shape and feel to my husbands’ bowling ball. As any calm, cool and collected woman would do, I called 911. My breasts after all, are of life and death importance. After stating my emergency, I think I actually heard the operator giggle. Not very reassuring when being faced with your immediate demise. After calming me down somewhat, the operator informed me that breastial alien invaders were not overtaking me; it was something far worse. My milk had come in. What did that mean? It wasn’t like I had placed an order for these, if that was the case; I’d already be labeling these bad boys for a quick return and refund. My husband was of no help. With as much drama as I possessed I flashed him my offending orbs, ready for his shock and concern over my health. What I got was a man dancing around in his underwear acting like Santa just brought him the world’s best gift. His request to play with his new toys earned him years worth of begging my forgiveness.
When I had envisioned breastfeeding, I pictured one nice steady stream coming out. Imagine my surprise the first time my child moved away from me mid-feed. I had some type of sprinkler system that farmers would pay millions for. I don’t know who was more stunned, my husband, who was a good 5 feet away, or myself. It’s all fun and games till someone loses an eye. After 2 weeks of breastfeeding, I had a new understanding of why women in tribes don’t wear tops. More than once I have nearly strangled myself attempting to wrangle the girls out of a "convenient" nursing bra.
As is the usual pattern when things start going well, we find ways to screw them up. Example A: The Breast Pump. At first it sounds kind of nice right? I sit, it pumps. Spouse and I are off for a wild night of dinner and a movie. Great, let’s get started. As soon as I took this…contraption…out of the box, I knew things were going to get ugly. First of all, I have a strong belief that anything requiring an outlet has way too much power to be attached to my breasts. This was the reasoning that led me to the manual pump. Obviously my ability to make sound judgments went the way of my perky breasts. I can barely work my juicer; imagine how effective manual pumping was for me. Electrocution fears aside, I went with the electric pump. For the first time in my life, I felt true sympathy toward cows. I’m considering switching to soymilk, just to save one cow from being hooked up the electric pump. I may possibly have mooed once or twice during my ordeal.
Having managed to pump without a trip to the ER I felt it was time to venture out. I expressed…which is a horrid term, there is nothing quick about this process…enough breast milk for a village of hungry infants, lined my temporarily deflated storage units with sanitary napkins, sans wings, and headed out the door.
Halfway through my moo goo gai pan I realized I should have brought the port-a-pump. At the rate I was expanding, I was liable to explode. Suddenly, my milk bombs sounded the alarms. Apparently they can hear my baby cry 3 minutes before I can. As a matter of fact, they can hear any baby within a 50-mile radius. My first night away from baby lasted approximately 2 hours. At home I rushed through the doors, expecting her to be screaming, just as miserable as I was. I was in no way prepared for what I saw.
There, like a little traitor, was my darling baby, gazing lovingly at her new friend the bottle. How could she? After all my pain and struggles, after I gave in to the pump? I felt so abandoned, so useless…so FREE!
Wait….could it be true? Oh my, could I actually reclaim my breasts? Could I wear a normal bra again? Could I tie my shoes without leaving wet spots on my knees?
Immediately I bought formula to last until she turned 18. I bought a sports bra tight enough to shoot the milk straight out of my nose. I burned the pump, donated the bras to house the homeless and tried to remember what my nipples looked like before they turned into #2 pencil erasers.
I know that breast is best. I am aware that I did the right thing for my firstborn daughter. I also know that millions of women have gone before me.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second daughter, I hunted down the old tight sports bra and strapped it on. My baby just turned 5, and I think it’s safe to take it off again.
Breastfeeding: The Reality. Nothing like the beautiful scene showed in hundreds of movies. Breastfeeding sucks. I had no idea what I was doing, I assumed that my child would naturally latch on and our bond would be complete. I bared my breast, looked down at my sweet little baby and waited. I kept waiting. I wiggled her a little closer and waited some more. She looked up at me expectantly and that’s when it hit me. I was completely unprepared for motherhood. My first parenting experience ended with her starving and us crying. This was not how things went in all the baby books I read. I could see them coming to take away my super mom coffee cup at any moment
Somehow my daughter and I managed to conquer breastfeeding, after many aborted attempts and pleas for help. Thinking I had perfected the art of lactation, I headed home once again convinced I was ready to be the mayor of Momville. Silly silly me.
I woke up and knew immediately that I was dying. The area where my breasts used to be had been taken over by gargantuan parodies of breasts. Amazingly, they were strikingly similar in shape and feel to my husbands’ bowling ball. As any calm, cool and collected woman would do, I called 911. My breasts after all, are of life and death importance. After stating my emergency, I think I actually heard the operator giggle. Not very reassuring when being faced with your immediate demise. After calming me down somewhat, the operator informed me that breastial alien invaders were not overtaking me; it was something far worse. My milk had come in. What did that mean? It wasn’t like I had placed an order for these, if that was the case; I’d already be labeling these bad boys for a quick return and refund. My husband was of no help. With as much drama as I possessed I flashed him my offending orbs, ready for his shock and concern over my health. What I got was a man dancing around in his underwear acting like Santa just brought him the world’s best gift. His request to play with his new toys earned him years worth of begging my forgiveness.
When I had envisioned breastfeeding, I pictured one nice steady stream coming out. Imagine my surprise the first time my child moved away from me mid-feed. I had some type of sprinkler system that farmers would pay millions for. I don’t know who was more stunned, my husband, who was a good 5 feet away, or myself. It’s all fun and games till someone loses an eye. After 2 weeks of breastfeeding, I had a new understanding of why women in tribes don’t wear tops. More than once I have nearly strangled myself attempting to wrangle the girls out of a "convenient" nursing bra.
As is the usual pattern when things start going well, we find ways to screw them up. Example A: The Breast Pump. At first it sounds kind of nice right? I sit, it pumps. Spouse and I are off for a wild night of dinner and a movie. Great, let’s get started. As soon as I took this…contraption…out of the box, I knew things were going to get ugly. First of all, I have a strong belief that anything requiring an outlet has way too much power to be attached to my breasts. This was the reasoning that led me to the manual pump. Obviously my ability to make sound judgments went the way of my perky breasts. I can barely work my juicer; imagine how effective manual pumping was for me. Electrocution fears aside, I went with the electric pump. For the first time in my life, I felt true sympathy toward cows. I’m considering switching to soymilk, just to save one cow from being hooked up the electric pump. I may possibly have mooed once or twice during my ordeal.
Having managed to pump without a trip to the ER I felt it was time to venture out. I expressed…which is a horrid term, there is nothing quick about this process…enough breast milk for a village of hungry infants, lined my temporarily deflated storage units with sanitary napkins, sans wings, and headed out the door.
Halfway through my moo goo gai pan I realized I should have brought the port-a-pump. At the rate I was expanding, I was liable to explode. Suddenly, my milk bombs sounded the alarms. Apparently they can hear my baby cry 3 minutes before I can. As a matter of fact, they can hear any baby within a 50-mile radius. My first night away from baby lasted approximately 2 hours. At home I rushed through the doors, expecting her to be screaming, just as miserable as I was. I was in no way prepared for what I saw.
There, like a little traitor, was my darling baby, gazing lovingly at her new friend the bottle. How could she? After all my pain and struggles, after I gave in to the pump? I felt so abandoned, so useless…so FREE!
Wait….could it be true? Oh my, could I actually reclaim my breasts? Could I wear a normal bra again? Could I tie my shoes without leaving wet spots on my knees?
Immediately I bought formula to last until she turned 18. I bought a sports bra tight enough to shoot the milk straight out of my nose. I burned the pump, donated the bras to house the homeless and tried to remember what my nipples looked like before they turned into #2 pencil erasers.
I know that breast is best. I am aware that I did the right thing for my firstborn daughter. I also know that millions of women have gone before me.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second daughter, I hunted down the old tight sports bra and strapped it on. My baby just turned 5, and I think it’s safe to take it off again.
This Old Hat
This Old Hat
The Red Sox win. Those may be the greatest words ever spoken. I couldn't wait to get up this morning and write about the World Series sweep. Myself and 4,961 other writers. I've started, backspaced, started again, deleted. All to no avail. I can't stop thinking about my hat long enough to concentrate on "the win". Yes, my hat. My dirty, filthy, sweaty, mangled Boston Red Sox hat. In celebration of this momentous ocassion I decided to treat myself to a new hat. I walked into the hat store at the mall and was greeted by no less than 5 people looking for Boston caps. Surprisingly the store has a great selection, considering I'm in Texas and you can't even find a Patriots hat, not that they've won the last 2 Superbowls or anything, but I digress. Back to the hats. Pushing through the throngs of hat hunters, I thought to myself, "this is awesome, Sox fans I can celebrate with". I should have known better. I had walked smack into the middle of a bandwagon. How do I know this you ask? My first clue was the woman who said "I love Mark Bellhorn, he's definately the cutest guy". I physically had to stop myself from screaming Get out, get away, don't you DARE touch that hat!!!! I caught sight of myself in the mirror with my nasty beaten hat on and realized a few things. People are going to jump aboard this crazy train. They will profess themselves to be huge fans and will buy every jersey, every hat and yes, even a bobblehead or two. A few of them may even become real fans. Eventually. For the majority of the new born fans though, they will never become citizens of the nation. They'll cheer for their new favorite team until we lose again. Yes, we will lose again. We will drop balls, throw to the wrong base, run into outs. We will say ridiculous things to the media, we will scream at the manager, the pitcher, the batter. They'll let us down in the bottom of the 9th. They'll lose to teams that are subpar, and they'll spank teams no one can beat. During it all, RSN will continue to believe, will continue to have faith. When Manny falls asleep in left field, we'll laugh and say "That's just Manny being Manny". Even if the 2005 Sox dominate all season, win the division with a 12 game lead over the Yankees and do it without ever throwing a ball into the stands when there's only one out and not two, these baby fans still won't be an integral part of the greatest fan base in all of organized sports. Buying a hat doesn't grant you admission into the nation. Until you have laid on your floor racked with sobs, yelling "Why, why did Pedro come back out, WHY??" it is impossible to understand the depth of devotion and heart it takes to be a Sox fan. Being a fan isn't something you proclaim, it's something deep inside of you that refuses to give up, a way of life, a mentality, a willingness to lay your heart out year after year, only to get it stepped on each time. This year was special, this team is special. This doesn't happen every year, as a matter of fact it didn't happen for 86. Are you, with your shiny new hat willing to wait that long again? I didn't buy a new hat. I saw my old one through different eyes. I realized that my ugly hat is everything that is the RSN. My hat has been to wins in Fenway and losses in Arlington. My cap's been used to dry my tears, and turned inside out to rally for my team. It has been ripped off my head and thrown across the room. This poor cap has been kissed, rubbed for luck, sweated in, and turned around so it wouldn't be in the way when I laid my head on the floor begging Lowe for just one more strike.I wore this hat when we lost 3 to the Yankees, but I refused to take it off, I kept it on through 8 of the greatest baseball games of my life. I sat next to my husband and my daughters in the ballpark and this very hat kept the sun out of my eyes so I could see the ball Johnny Damon tossed to me. The boys won that game too. Through the seasons this hat has been burdened with heartache and hope, tragedy and triumph. Amazingly it's come through it all in pretty good shape. Just like the Red Sox Nation. I'm proud of this hat, I'm proud of the stains and the sweat rings, I'm proud of that fact that you only have to look at it to know I bought it long before we had a chance of winning the World Series. To all the fans who climbed aboard last night, welcome to The Nation, I hope you enjoy your visit. As far as my hat, I'm putting it in my will, it's an heirloom now.
The Red Sox win. Those may be the greatest words ever spoken. I couldn't wait to get up this morning and write about the World Series sweep. Myself and 4,961 other writers. I've started, backspaced, started again, deleted. All to no avail. I can't stop thinking about my hat long enough to concentrate on "the win". Yes, my hat. My dirty, filthy, sweaty, mangled Boston Red Sox hat. In celebration of this momentous ocassion I decided to treat myself to a new hat. I walked into the hat store at the mall and was greeted by no less than 5 people looking for Boston caps. Surprisingly the store has a great selection, considering I'm in Texas and you can't even find a Patriots hat, not that they've won the last 2 Superbowls or anything, but I digress. Back to the hats. Pushing through the throngs of hat hunters, I thought to myself, "this is awesome, Sox fans I can celebrate with". I should have known better. I had walked smack into the middle of a bandwagon. How do I know this you ask? My first clue was the woman who said "I love Mark Bellhorn, he's definately the cutest guy". I physically had to stop myself from screaming Get out, get away, don't you DARE touch that hat!!!! I caught sight of myself in the mirror with my nasty beaten hat on and realized a few things. People are going to jump aboard this crazy train. They will profess themselves to be huge fans and will buy every jersey, every hat and yes, even a bobblehead or two. A few of them may even become real fans. Eventually. For the majority of the new born fans though, they will never become citizens of the nation. They'll cheer for their new favorite team until we lose again. Yes, we will lose again. We will drop balls, throw to the wrong base, run into outs. We will say ridiculous things to the media, we will scream at the manager, the pitcher, the batter. They'll let us down in the bottom of the 9th. They'll lose to teams that are subpar, and they'll spank teams no one can beat. During it all, RSN will continue to believe, will continue to have faith. When Manny falls asleep in left field, we'll laugh and say "That's just Manny being Manny". Even if the 2005 Sox dominate all season, win the division with a 12 game lead over the Yankees and do it without ever throwing a ball into the stands when there's only one out and not two, these baby fans still won't be an integral part of the greatest fan base in all of organized sports. Buying a hat doesn't grant you admission into the nation. Until you have laid on your floor racked with sobs, yelling "Why, why did Pedro come back out, WHY??" it is impossible to understand the depth of devotion and heart it takes to be a Sox fan. Being a fan isn't something you proclaim, it's something deep inside of you that refuses to give up, a way of life, a mentality, a willingness to lay your heart out year after year, only to get it stepped on each time. This year was special, this team is special. This doesn't happen every year, as a matter of fact it didn't happen for 86. Are you, with your shiny new hat willing to wait that long again? I didn't buy a new hat. I saw my old one through different eyes. I realized that my ugly hat is everything that is the RSN. My hat has been to wins in Fenway and losses in Arlington. My cap's been used to dry my tears, and turned inside out to rally for my team. It has been ripped off my head and thrown across the room. This poor cap has been kissed, rubbed for luck, sweated in, and turned around so it wouldn't be in the way when I laid my head on the floor begging Lowe for just one more strike.I wore this hat when we lost 3 to the Yankees, but I refused to take it off, I kept it on through 8 of the greatest baseball games of my life. I sat next to my husband and my daughters in the ballpark and this very hat kept the sun out of my eyes so I could see the ball Johnny Damon tossed to me. The boys won that game too. Through the seasons this hat has been burdened with heartache and hope, tragedy and triumph. Amazingly it's come through it all in pretty good shape. Just like the Red Sox Nation. I'm proud of this hat, I'm proud of the stains and the sweat rings, I'm proud of that fact that you only have to look at it to know I bought it long before we had a chance of winning the World Series. To all the fans who climbed aboard last night, welcome to The Nation, I hope you enjoy your visit. As far as my hat, I'm putting it in my will, it's an heirloom now.
Liberating A Nation
I married into The Nation 10 years ago. I cheered for my husbands team, and I called myself a fan. I had no idea what that meant until I found myself sitting on the floor in front of my tv, crying. Why? Why did Pedro come back out? I don't get it, I don't understand???? I looked over at my husband, and with such calm he said "It's ok, there's always next year." Well next year came, but my husband left. He's been in Iraq since March of 2004. Static filled phone calls at odd hours to ask "How did my boys do?" made me feel like he was right back on my couch and not thousands of miles away. Checking the scores, checking the stats, watching the games, all of it has gotten me through 7 months without my husband. If that doesn't make sense to you, I'm sorry. I don't know if I have the words to explain. If the Sox were okay, so was my Husband. When the boys were 10 games back, I knew it didn't matter. My husband was fighting, the Sox would fight too. Those men have not only carried each other through a year, they've unknowingly carried me along with them. I will forever be connected to this team, and I will forever be in their debt. I started this essay as a letter to my Husband, to sort of explain to him why This Is The Year. It took on a life of it's own from there.
Liberating A Nation
After watching the post game press conference after game 2 last night, I had one immediate thought. We are going to win the World Series.Suddenly it was all clear. This is destiny. This is finally The Year.
We were never going to win game 7 last year. Pedro could have come out in the 6th, and we still would have lost. We weren't meant to win. It wasn't time yet. The manager was wrong, the clubhouse was wrong, even the NL team was wrong. The Red Sox were not going to play their first world series in 17 years against the Florida Marlins. No way, No how.
Oh, but the Joy that is 2004. Everything adds up, all the pieces are in place, all of the signs are there. This is it. 86 years ago we won the World Series. 86, a number that'll live in the bowels of Sox history forever. 100th World Series, a new Century of baseball. A year in which no other 2 teams have the right to play in, except the Sox and The Cards.
It all started on an October night in 2003. Tim Wakefields tears on the mound after that fateful homerun didn't signify the end of a dream, instead it was the beginning of one. His tears soaking into the ground at Yankee stadium set the wheels in motion.
Grady never stood a chance. MY Boys Of Summer needed more than a coach, they needed a father. A man that could see past the hair, the uniforms, the antics, someone who understood that behind the aloofness they were warriors. Battle scarred, weary, but not yet broken. Men who wanted to play baseball in it's purest form. For the love of the game, the thrill of it.These boys don't always perform like Champions, running into outs on occasion, throwing to the wrong base once or twice. Even with their faults, you can see their happiness, their desire, their passion. New York can have discipline, we have Joy.They needed someone who "got it", and Theo went out and found him. From that, The Sons of Francona were born.
A Thanksgiving dinner was about to once again make history in New England. Theo Epstein sat down and broke bread with Curt and Shonda Schilling. Come heal these hurt and heartbroken men Curt, pick up the pieces and give them faith in themselves. Take them to the World Series. Lead them into battle. Right all the wrongs of old, and deliver us from "The Curse"
Even with Tito and Curt on board, something was still wasn't clicking. We saw it and felt it, but couldn't put our finger on it. We weren't winning. Falling farther and farther behind the Yankees, hopes and dreams quickly fading away. 10 and a half games behind the Yankees on July 31st. Once again, you could hear sighs echoing through a Nation in Despair.
Mere moments before the trade deadline on that seemingly hopeless July day, a Nations sorrow turned to Rage. How dare Theo Epstein. Has he lost his mind? Along the crawl screen on ESPN, millions of viewers saw the words...Nomar Traded To Cubs. Surely there was a mistake. Nomar is an icon in Boston. Even worse, we traded him for nothing, 3 nothings to be exact. Dave Roberts, Doug Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera. WHO?? Our season was all but dead and buried. Or so we thought.
Click.Click.Click. Pieces started falling into place. Click, no errors. Click, moving over runners. Click, turning double plays. Click, playing small ball. Click, Francona and his boys.Click, Minky, Cab, Roberts. Out of the ashes, slowly The Sox started to rise. And as they rose, we began to see one of the most beautiful teams in the history of baseball.
Quietly Jason Varitek orchestrated the men on the field. Steadily Curt lead a Bullpen of fighters, scrappy warriors willing to leave their hearts on the battlefield and their fates in the hands of the men behind them. Mannys crack of the bat woke up the sleeping giants. Ortiz, Damon, Kapler.Click. Slowly the injured soldiers trot back on the field, one by one. Their bodies bruised and beaten, ready to fight another day. Click. Suddenly the Sox had the best record in baseball in August. They were down, but never out. 10 games, then 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3....Be Careful Yankees, The Boys are ready for another round.
The past has never been kind to Boston. Instead of fighting History, this rag tag brand of warriors decided to change it. The Sox clawed their way into the wild card, facing the Angels. 3 games later the Angels were gone and history was altered. The Angels had never been swept in the Post Season. Until they were faced with men determined to right the wrongs of 2003.
New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox for the Pennant, part 2. Curt Schilling takes the mound for Game 1 and the Nation knows we'll win this night. How can we not? The plight of the Sox struck again as we realized immediately that whoever was on the mound, it wasn't Our Curt Schilling. This was 3 horrible innings of batting practice for The Yankees. Mussina was throwing the ball like he was getting paid per pitch, and our boys looked as though it was day 1 of little league. 7-10. We lost 7-10. That's ok, Pedro pitches tomorrow. Same story, different night. Pedro pitched well, Lieber pitched better.1-3 Yankees. It's ok, tomorrow we're at Fenway. 9 innings and 19 Yankee runs later, The Red Sox are down 3-0. No team in history has come back from a 3-0 defecit. Curt Schilling is out for the season, Derek Lowe is starting game 4 and our hitters have left the building. Hopeless. Not only are we going to lose the series, but we're going to do it in humiliating fashion.The curse rears it's ugly head again.
Let the game begin, quickly, lets get this over with so I can look forward to next year. But wait...something is different this time....Somehow we managed to pull off Games 4 and 5 with stellar performances by 2 unsung hereos. Derek Lowe, a star in the playoffs of 2003, had become an emotional, unpredictable pitcher, banished to the bullpen, brought back to a starting position in a leap of Faith by Tito, and Tim Wakefield,the knuckleballer whose tears stained the ground as he watched his dreams fly over the left field wall in game 7 last year. These men took the mound, and with each pitch, chased their own demons away. Each strike eased the burden they've carried this year, each out lifting the hearts of a nation, each inning laying to rest the doubts they had in themselves. The grit and determination from both pitchers allowed this story to go on. They forced a game 5, as well as a game 6...and that game 6 my friends, is where this story takes on a life of it's own. This is when I began to realize that forces greater than you and I were at work.
The fog swirled around the mound at Yankees stadium on Oct 19th. The mist drizzled down and dampened the spirits of so many fans. Until we saw what seemed to be unreal. Curt Schilling walking to the mound. His ankle bloodied and bandaged, his face tired and determined. Visions of Roy Hobbs were inevitable. Across New England, a sense of surrealness descended, we knew something was coming, and we were ready for it. With the first pitch it was obvious that this was our Curt. Our Warrior, Our Hero, Our Deliverance. Here was a man who had dug down inside himself and found what he needed to get him through this night. For us. For his team, for himself. Curt Schilling stood on that mound, head held high, defiance in his eyes. He stood in The House That Ruth Built, bleeding for a Nation, onto that Yankee soil, the same soil that swallowed Tim Wakefields tears one year ago. Blood and Tears together washed away 86 years of baggage. Blood and Tears exercised the ghosts of our past. The battle the Sox waged that night came not from Money, or Discipline, or pretty uniforms. No, it came from the hearts of men who had found their home, found their brothers, and found their place in a clubhouse filled with 25 of the strongest men in baseball. The 2004 Boston Red Sox don't play for Glory, they don't play for money or rings. They play for each other. They play baseball because they have to, because it's who they are, and what they believe. They fight and win and soldier on because they love each other as much as they love the game. No man wants to let his brother in arms down . Leave no man behind. If you stumble, your brother will pick you up. If you fail, he will succeed in your name. There is no curse on Boston. The pieces just hadn't been in place until now.
Guts, Bravery, and determination got them back to Yankees Stadium and Respect won them the game. Those men, those beautiful boys of summer, gave everything they had that epic night, they laid it all at the feet of Terry Francona. They gave him their trust, their respect,and their hearts. Tito understood these men and loved them anyways, for that his sons delivered him a win in a bloody 14 inning battle for the history books. Game 7 was merely a whimper from the Yankees. The Dynasty had crumbled without even a fight. The Sox had liberated a Nation. The past has been washed away in blood, sweat and tears. It couldn't happen any other way. This is our destiny, fulfilled by 25 men who banded together and refused to lay down and die.
The Sox took the field in Fenway for game 1 of the World Series. They walked out there a different team then we've ever seen. The Nation has always believed in the Red Sox, but it is only now they believe in themselves. They believe in each other. They have been to War and they came home changed men.
I feel blessed to watch this team play. They are the embodiment of baseball, and a team like this we will never see again. A team whose history together has entitled them to the 100th World Series Ring.
Liberating A Nation
After watching the post game press conference after game 2 last night, I had one immediate thought. We are going to win the World Series.Suddenly it was all clear. This is destiny. This is finally The Year.
We were never going to win game 7 last year. Pedro could have come out in the 6th, and we still would have lost. We weren't meant to win. It wasn't time yet. The manager was wrong, the clubhouse was wrong, even the NL team was wrong. The Red Sox were not going to play their first world series in 17 years against the Florida Marlins. No way, No how.
Oh, but the Joy that is 2004. Everything adds up, all the pieces are in place, all of the signs are there. This is it. 86 years ago we won the World Series. 86, a number that'll live in the bowels of Sox history forever. 100th World Series, a new Century of baseball. A year in which no other 2 teams have the right to play in, except the Sox and The Cards.
It all started on an October night in 2003. Tim Wakefields tears on the mound after that fateful homerun didn't signify the end of a dream, instead it was the beginning of one. His tears soaking into the ground at Yankee stadium set the wheels in motion.
Grady never stood a chance. MY Boys Of Summer needed more than a coach, they needed a father. A man that could see past the hair, the uniforms, the antics, someone who understood that behind the aloofness they were warriors. Battle scarred, weary, but not yet broken. Men who wanted to play baseball in it's purest form. For the love of the game, the thrill of it.These boys don't always perform like Champions, running into outs on occasion, throwing to the wrong base once or twice. Even with their faults, you can see their happiness, their desire, their passion. New York can have discipline, we have Joy.They needed someone who "got it", and Theo went out and found him. From that, The Sons of Francona were born.
A Thanksgiving dinner was about to once again make history in New England. Theo Epstein sat down and broke bread with Curt and Shonda Schilling. Come heal these hurt and heartbroken men Curt, pick up the pieces and give them faith in themselves. Take them to the World Series. Lead them into battle. Right all the wrongs of old, and deliver us from "The Curse"
Even with Tito and Curt on board, something was still wasn't clicking. We saw it and felt it, but couldn't put our finger on it. We weren't winning. Falling farther and farther behind the Yankees, hopes and dreams quickly fading away. 10 and a half games behind the Yankees on July 31st. Once again, you could hear sighs echoing through a Nation in Despair.
Mere moments before the trade deadline on that seemingly hopeless July day, a Nations sorrow turned to Rage. How dare Theo Epstein. Has he lost his mind? Along the crawl screen on ESPN, millions of viewers saw the words...Nomar Traded To Cubs. Surely there was a mistake. Nomar is an icon in Boston. Even worse, we traded him for nothing, 3 nothings to be exact. Dave Roberts, Doug Mientkiewicz and Orlando Cabrera. WHO?? Our season was all but dead and buried. Or so we thought.
Click.Click.Click. Pieces started falling into place. Click, no errors. Click, moving over runners. Click, turning double plays. Click, playing small ball. Click, Francona and his boys.Click, Minky, Cab, Roberts. Out of the ashes, slowly The Sox started to rise. And as they rose, we began to see one of the most beautiful teams in the history of baseball.
Quietly Jason Varitek orchestrated the men on the field. Steadily Curt lead a Bullpen of fighters, scrappy warriors willing to leave their hearts on the battlefield and their fates in the hands of the men behind them. Mannys crack of the bat woke up the sleeping giants. Ortiz, Damon, Kapler.Click. Slowly the injured soldiers trot back on the field, one by one. Their bodies bruised and beaten, ready to fight another day. Click. Suddenly the Sox had the best record in baseball in August. They were down, but never out. 10 games, then 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4,3....Be Careful Yankees, The Boys are ready for another round.
The past has never been kind to Boston. Instead of fighting History, this rag tag brand of warriors decided to change it. The Sox clawed their way into the wild card, facing the Angels. 3 games later the Angels were gone and history was altered. The Angels had never been swept in the Post Season. Until they were faced with men determined to right the wrongs of 2003.
New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox for the Pennant, part 2. Curt Schilling takes the mound for Game 1 and the Nation knows we'll win this night. How can we not? The plight of the Sox struck again as we realized immediately that whoever was on the mound, it wasn't Our Curt Schilling. This was 3 horrible innings of batting practice for The Yankees. Mussina was throwing the ball like he was getting paid per pitch, and our boys looked as though it was day 1 of little league. 7-10. We lost 7-10. That's ok, Pedro pitches tomorrow. Same story, different night. Pedro pitched well, Lieber pitched better.1-3 Yankees. It's ok, tomorrow we're at Fenway. 9 innings and 19 Yankee runs later, The Red Sox are down 3-0. No team in history has come back from a 3-0 defecit. Curt Schilling is out for the season, Derek Lowe is starting game 4 and our hitters have left the building. Hopeless. Not only are we going to lose the series, but we're going to do it in humiliating fashion.The curse rears it's ugly head again.
Let the game begin, quickly, lets get this over with so I can look forward to next year. But wait...something is different this time....Somehow we managed to pull off Games 4 and 5 with stellar performances by 2 unsung hereos. Derek Lowe, a star in the playoffs of 2003, had become an emotional, unpredictable pitcher, banished to the bullpen, brought back to a starting position in a leap of Faith by Tito, and Tim Wakefield,the knuckleballer whose tears stained the ground as he watched his dreams fly over the left field wall in game 7 last year. These men took the mound, and with each pitch, chased their own demons away. Each strike eased the burden they've carried this year, each out lifting the hearts of a nation, each inning laying to rest the doubts they had in themselves. The grit and determination from both pitchers allowed this story to go on. They forced a game 5, as well as a game 6...and that game 6 my friends, is where this story takes on a life of it's own. This is when I began to realize that forces greater than you and I were at work.
The fog swirled around the mound at Yankees stadium on Oct 19th. The mist drizzled down and dampened the spirits of so many fans. Until we saw what seemed to be unreal. Curt Schilling walking to the mound. His ankle bloodied and bandaged, his face tired and determined. Visions of Roy Hobbs were inevitable. Across New England, a sense of surrealness descended, we knew something was coming, and we were ready for it. With the first pitch it was obvious that this was our Curt. Our Warrior, Our Hero, Our Deliverance. Here was a man who had dug down inside himself and found what he needed to get him through this night. For us. For his team, for himself. Curt Schilling stood on that mound, head held high, defiance in his eyes. He stood in The House That Ruth Built, bleeding for a Nation, onto that Yankee soil, the same soil that swallowed Tim Wakefields tears one year ago. Blood and Tears together washed away 86 years of baggage. Blood and Tears exercised the ghosts of our past. The battle the Sox waged that night came not from Money, or Discipline, or pretty uniforms. No, it came from the hearts of men who had found their home, found their brothers, and found their place in a clubhouse filled with 25 of the strongest men in baseball. The 2004 Boston Red Sox don't play for Glory, they don't play for money or rings. They play for each other. They play baseball because they have to, because it's who they are, and what they believe. They fight and win and soldier on because they love each other as much as they love the game. No man wants to let his brother in arms down . Leave no man behind. If you stumble, your brother will pick you up. If you fail, he will succeed in your name. There is no curse on Boston. The pieces just hadn't been in place until now.
Guts, Bravery, and determination got them back to Yankees Stadium and Respect won them the game. Those men, those beautiful boys of summer, gave everything they had that epic night, they laid it all at the feet of Terry Francona. They gave him their trust, their respect,and their hearts. Tito understood these men and loved them anyways, for that his sons delivered him a win in a bloody 14 inning battle for the history books. Game 7 was merely a whimper from the Yankees. The Dynasty had crumbled without even a fight. The Sox had liberated a Nation. The past has been washed away in blood, sweat and tears. It couldn't happen any other way. This is our destiny, fulfilled by 25 men who banded together and refused to lay down and die.
The Sox took the field in Fenway for game 1 of the World Series. They walked out there a different team then we've ever seen. The Nation has always believed in the Red Sox, but it is only now they believe in themselves. They believe in each other. They have been to War and they came home changed men.
I feel blessed to watch this team play. They are the embodiment of baseball, and a team like this we will never see again. A team whose history together has entitled them to the 100th World Series Ring.
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