Only in Wanchese

"I'm going for a run, honey!"

"I really don't like you running at night...at least take Tuff with you," my sweet husband told me.

Mind you, Tuff is far from the definition of his name. He is 70lbs worth of white lab snuggles. So I chuckled to myself when it was suggested that I bring him along.

It was a quiet night. Missy Elliott and I were totally flipping it and reversing it when out of nowhere, a chocolate lab appears. I jump out of my skin because naturally, I didn't hear him coming. #thanksdrdre Tuff, being startled by my squeal...barked, scared himself and dove in between my legs.

The chocolate lab seemed harmless. He was wagging his tail and very excited to see company at 9 something at night. I tried to shoo him away so we could carry on...right about the time that Tuff decided he must defend his mother's honor & jumped at said chocolate lab. As luck would have it, I also went flying towards the chocolate lab, since at some point, the leash had gotten wrapped around my legs. I landed head first, feet and legs in the air, in the middle of the lab-argument. #fantastic

They both stopped and looked at me wide-eyed. Tuff braced for impact, knowing he was getting ready to get in big trouble. However, I couldn't sufficiently scold him because not only was I tangled in the leash, but I was also tangled my dang headphone cord. I looked like a calf that had been roped in a rodeo!

I finally got to my feet and the damn chocolate lab was still there...bouncing like bunny rabbit, I'm assuming singing "where are we going?! what are we doing?! are you my mommy?!" Again, I tried to shoo him...nothing. I picked up a stick & threw it, thinking he would chase it. No, he jumped up and caught it midair. #impressive Finally, I decided we would just run for it, assuming that eventually he would get tired of running and stop.

Except labs never get tired...of anything...ever.

He ran all the way home with us, trying to race/play with Tuff the entire time. When we strolled into the driveway, he joined us...like "So this is where we live...cooooool!" I yelled go home- and off he went.

My upper body certainly wishes I would've thought of that sooner. Shew! Next time, I'll opt for my pepper spray instead of my lab! #thanksbabe

Nothing Runs Like A Deere, But I Try!

I watched the posts rolling in the day of the Outer Banks Marathon. I was particularly excited to see one special runner cross the finish line and post a photo with her mama. She ran for her daddy, who she lost the year before to cancer.

A few days later, I sent her a message...

I'm so proud of you! You inspired me...maybe next year I will run with you!

She replied, "Yes!! FYI there is a half in April!"

I looked up the Flying Pirate online immediately. Although I've started 'couch to 5k' about 10 times and quit when it got tough, something in me was really excited about trying again...and you know, trying for 13.1 miles and not just a little over 3.

April 23...I read it and started to cry. I started typing my reply...

I just googled it...it's the first anniversary of Daddy's diagnosis. It's meant to be!

She replied, "Perfect! We will run in your daddy's honor!"

I knew I would have to start training soon- otherwise, I would never make it. The next weekend I broke out my running shoes and hit the pavement. I ran to the end of my road and back- running one minute, walking the next and so on...it was a little less than 2 miles and I cussed, when I wasn't gasping for air, the entire 30 minutes. My lungs hurt. I felt like I was going to cough up a blood clot and possibly die. At one point I looked at the sky, in true Fred Sanford form and whispered, "I might see ya soon, Daddy!" 

When I made it home, I collapsed on the couch and didn't move for the rest of the day. As the shock wore off, so did the pain that I thought I was in. My muscles forgave me and I realized something...I did it. I took the first step and nothing bad happened. 

The next morning I got up and did it again. This time, trying some of the breathing tips I read about during my post-run couch-coma, I didn't think I was going to die...not one single time.

That was in November and I'm still going strong. I alternate using the Couch to 5k app with other apps for running. (Couch to 5k builds you up from walk/run to running. Each day you run a little more, walk a little less.) When one run seems rough, I do that same run again the next day. I started not only tolerating my runs, but enjoying them...even looking forward and depending on them!

I never thought I would be a 'runner' (granted I run slower than a turtle in peanut butter) but I think I am. It resets my mind and gives me peace. I have found that I need my runs more than I need coffee in the morning. (And that is saying something.) I don't stick with just mornings or just evenings- I switch back and forth. Sometimes, if I have a really stressful day, I do both...not for my body or for training, necessarily, but for my sanity and the safety of others. 

Knowing that I'm running for my daddy gave me the drive to try it, again- and stick with it this time. In the still of my early morning and late evening meetings with the asphalt, I feel his spirit with me. I hear him telling me to take it easy, bud...but don't give up. 

So Don Deere...on April 23 I'm going to do my best to run like a deere. ;-)

Real Life v. Social Media Life

Think back to childhood without social media- what did our parents do during downtime? My mom would call her sister to discuss her day, during what little bit of downtime she had. They didn't share gossip unless it was something overheard at the salon my mom kept books for- or something my aunt might have heard or seen at the marina. {Which lets face it, between those two places- they had a plethora of topics to cover.}

What do parents today do? They scroll and read about others lives on social media. I am guilty of it too- other people are interesting- in a way that a zoo is interesting. It is entertaining to watch a human or a giraffe in it's own habitat, interacting with others...but does that make me want to be come a giraffe? Not so much...{I'm pretty tall as it is}

For the most part, we as social-medialites don't post our every move on facebook- only that we would like others to know about. Mostly the really highs and really lows get blasted for the world to share- the mediocre argument about who didn't fill the dogs water bowl up? Not so much. {totally me}

I often hear:

"So-and-so is so happy...just look at her pictures. Did you see the post about the present her boyfriend bought her? She's so lucky..."

Sure, so-and-so is probably very happy.

"I want that...why doesn't my husband do that," they say.

Every relationship is different and beautiful in its own way. I am truly blessed in my marriage. My husband helps tremendously- but things that he does for me aren't things that I post on social media- nor are they be things that would make someone think that I am blessed. Cleaning out a water trough? Dragging the horse pen? Telling my butt looks good? #superblessed

Jealousy is toxic and contagious. When you surround yourself with jealous people, inevitably you become jealous too- you start questioning your own lifestyle and wondering if you're really as happy as you think you are.

Guess what? Comparing your life to someone else's is like comparing apples to oranges. 

Seeing God's Plan

About a month ago, I did a photoshoot for precious family that attends our church. After the session, as we were chatting about the heat and humidity, the sweet church-member let me in on a little secret.

"On September 14th we are doing a dinner for the daycare- since it's the 25th anniversary. Your mom knows about the dinner- but she will be our guest of honor and that part we are keeping a secret. We want to do something really special to thank her for all she does," she told me.

I was overwhelmed with warmth. This woman isn't one of the founding members of the church/daycare- in fact, she hasn't been in our area permanently all that long. But she felt it in her heart to make sure that our church and community knew how hard my mom has worked to keep and grow the daycare to what it is today. How amazing. {I cried a little in the car on the way home. #truestory} 

As the weeks passed by, my mom told me she had asked this person and that person to stand and speak at the dinner...still not knowing the focus was on her. I decided to ask if I could join in and speak too- since my perspective was a little different from a parent of a child attending the center, a founding member of the mission or a social worker who had worked with the center frequently. I saw it all...the sweat, the tears, the stress...but mostly, the love and the sign that God showed our family this was my mother's true calling.

So I stood in front of a packed house & shared my memories:

My name is Eden Saunders- I'm Kathy's daughter. I was introduced to the daycare at the ripe old age of 7. 

Like many things in life- mom's work with the daycare began accidentally- or so we thought, it was definitely God's plan. Initially, we were searching for a church. The search for the perfect church is kind of like looking for the perfect house. You don't look for just a house- you look for a warm, comforting environment- something that you can turn into a home.

At that time, we had visited many churches. Most times leaving with my mom having a completed grocery list and me terrified because the preacher had yelled for an hour about hellfire and damnation. 

That all changed the day we walked into the little house across from the high school. I remember it clearly- the preacher wasn't dressed fancy- he was in a black short sleeved shirt with khaki pants. He was propped against the railing on the back porch smoking a cigarette. (Maybe I shouldn't share that part- but it's a memory.) He shook my hand and introduced himself as Mr. Tom. Not pastor- or Reverend...just Mister.  

We took our seats inside the home...and from the moment we walked through those doors- that is what it was....it wasn't a house, it wasn't a church, it wasn't just a building...it was a home- God's home.

I looked around the little room. There were toys on shelves lining the walls and not benches or pews like the other churches we had visited- only plastic folding chairs. During the service, I noticed my parents and I watching and actually listening as the preacher spoke- not making a grocery list or looking outside and thinking of plans for later in the day. 

While we knew this was going to be our church home from that first day, I don't think our family realized the plan God had in store for us the morning he sent us to the small home on Wingina. 

Not long after that Sunday- my mom began working at the church's mission daycare. At that time, it was only open during school months- and catered to teenage moms. These moms were encouraged to come visit or feed their babies during school breaks- they were welcomed into the center just as we were on that first Sunday. Monday through Friday- the building was a daycare center...and on Sundays it was a church. For years chairs and toys were rearranged to accommodate both the growing daycare center, as well as our growing church family.

As years went on, I watched my mom raise not just newborns, but their single-mothers (and some fathers) too. She took the time to ask them about their lives- not because she was nosey- but because she cared. She held them accountable for their actions- whether positive or negative. She was proud of them when they shared report cards with her- and reprimanded them when they skipped school. She was more than a childcare provider to these young parents- she was their family provider.

I could stand here and share stories for hours about how amazing my mom is- but she wouldn't want me to do that. I will say that I have watched her leave home early to pick up a child for daycare, knowing they wouldn't have a ride if she didn't bring them herself. I have seen her stay late in the evening- feeding a child an extra snack at 5:30, knowing that would be the last food in his or her belly before they returned the following day. I've seen her wash dirty children- go to the store and buy fresh formula for them because theirs was spoiled. I have heard our home phone ring in the middle of the night- a teen mom, whose water had broken with her second child- and the only person she trusted to care for her youngest child, was my mother. She didn't hesitate- my mom left immediately and picked up the youngest child and brought her to our home for the night.

This daycare center is so much more than just a daycare center. But then again...my mother, she is so much more than just a mother- or just a director. God's plan for her was to help this center become what is is today...not just a place for children but for families.

Thank you for taking the time tonight to honor this incredible mission...and my wonderful mother.

We hugged and cried. Then she cut the cake, which was decorated with flowers to match the garden and sign that is in front of the daycare- which honors both my mother and father.

"Don & Kathy's Garden...Roanoke Island Presbyterian Daycare"

Then we all cried again. ;-)

Horse Junkie

When I was little, I cared about one thing and one thing only: horses. {Not much has changed.}

I would eat, sleep and breathe horses. At the playground, my besties and I would canter around- pretending we were riding our steeds out in the wild west. I dreamed of one day having my own horse in our backyard.

I was like a junkie with a habit and my parents were total enablers- stopping me at every horse pen all across Dare County to snuggle and sniff real live horses. We befriended many horse-owners, as they'd grown accustomed to finding us in their yard. {We always asked permission. #consideratehorsejunkie}

After many visits to our friend's barn, who had become known as "GraMa" {because her grandchildren were close to my age and she had ponies, so naturally...she was my GraMa too} I began riding any spare horse or pony that was available. I was quiet and calm and was told I was a natural with the horses. I didn't know what that meant at the ripe old age of 6, but I felt pretty confident it meant I was in. #score

The summer before my seventh birthday, GraMa began telling my parents about this horse festival called Mule Days. Basically, it is Woodstock for horse people. You camp in a field with your horses for a weekend- you ride your horse (or buggy, if you will) everywhere you go, since the town is mostly shut down to vehicle traffic.

I stopped listening when she said "Eden would love it....horses.....*something something* riding....*something else* she can ride one of our horses and in the carriage"

"When is it?" my dad asked.

"The last weekend in September, every year!" she said.

Conveniently, the last weekend in September happens to fall right around my birthday. I remember the conversation so vividly.

"Daddy, I want to go to Mule Days for my birthday. I don't want a party or presents. I just want to go to Mule Days," I begged. {I remember this conversation so vividly because it happened about 9 million times before our departure}

From the twinkle in his eye, I figured he wanted to go as much as I did. Daddy loved horses and more than that- he loved seeing the joy it brought his little girl. #bestdaddyever We would ride on Sundays with GraMa and her girls and grandkids in preparation for our big adventure.

"Alright, Don...when are you getting Eden a horse," she would ask.

"If she saves her money and can buy a saddle at Mule Days, then I'll know she is serious about wanting a horse," he said.

I was on it. I put every nickle and dime into a blue velvet bag I had stashed away as a barbie-shoe holder. By the time we were packing up for Mule Days, my little bag seemed to weigh more than I did. I was sure I would have enough money for some kind of saddle. {Real dollar amount, I had about $85}

I remember pulling into town in our old grain truck- Mom, Daddy & I all crammed onto the bench seat together. The back of the truck was filled with hay and we were towing the lowboy with two carriages on the back. {#oldschoolgypsy}

"Look, a horse!! Another one!! There's two!!" I shouted.

"Calm down, bud!" Daddy said, half laughing, half aggravated with maneuvering a giant trailer through herds of folks on horses.

After settling in to what I thought was absolute heaven, we walked down to the tack vendors to start searching for the perfect saddle for the perfect amount of money. I met an older cowboy with a long-twisty mustache with nicotine stains around his nostrils. He looked gruff but approached me and my little blue bag of change.

"Can I help you find something, miss?" he asked.

"Um, well...I am here to buy a saddle. I don't have a horse yet. But my daddy promised me if I saved all my money this summer and if I bought a saddle- he would get me a horse," I explained.

I handed him the bag. As he peeked into the bag, he knelt down to be level with my eyes.

"You pick out whatever saddle you want, baby. I will throw in all the fixings," he said.

I wasn't even sure what that meant. But I left there with a beautiful black leather saddle with silver conchos, a new pad, girth, and bridle to match.

The next year, Daddy and I rode up to the same vendor on our horse, Sham, that I had gotten for Christmas a few months after my saddle purchase. I was so proud to show him all of the tack on my very own horse. {The story of how Sham arrived on Christmas morning is a post in itself.}

It takes a village to raise a true cowgirl.