No joke, I’ve been looking for old globes at thrift stores and flea markets for over two years. Finally, my dad was getting rid of one from his old office and I happily accepted it into my home.
Then it took me over a year to find a second, and I snagged it without hesitation because it was my dream globe. Size, price, and coloring – just what I wanted. Then I found 3 more last weekend and now I have a (temporary because I’ve been asked to paint a couple for friends) collection.
I like the globes so so much that I redecorated my bedroom around them.
I don’t really know how to write a post about my husband on his first Father’s Day. What do I say about this sorta-daddy?
The one who flips kids upside down 100 times in a row and let’s them throw beach balls at his face for fun
The temporary-papa who took our first foster placement in at midnight all by himself, read her a story, and tucked her in
The man made our second foster placement fall so in love with his new “Daddy-Dave” so quickly that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be as loved by D
The Daddy-Dave who fell asleep on the bed next to the pack-n-play in the middle of the night because our D wasn’t sleeping well
The man who rescues me with a quick foster-dad, foster-son trip to the park when a certain little toddler has poured a mug full of cold coffee on his head, the floor, and the kitchen counter on purpose after a really rough day and an even rougher week
The man who was described as gentle and loving to D’s birth mom and has earned the description time and time again
The man who makes my tired-mama days feel lighter and better every moment he is here and cheers and laughs with me on my happy-mama days
That Daddy Dave.
I guess what I can say is that I’ve never been so thankful for the man he is, for the ways he helps me, and his commitment to our family. I love him, I love him. Happy Daddy Dave Day.
Going in to foster care, my brain was trying desperately to align with my heart and my reality. My heart said, “mother.” My reality said, “not now.” And my brain stood in the gap, grasping at puzzle pieces, trying to fit it together.
If you had asked me at the beginning of that foster care journey what I imagined it looking like, I would have told you I imagined a newborn baby girl. It’s what my dreams held, what my home felt most prepared for, what I longed for the most. As my plans often do, that idea got pushed away and reformatted and became something new and wonderful.
Today I got a call for a 4-day-old, drug-exposed baby girl. I don’t know her name or her history. I know I would have loved her fast and deep. I believe my heart would have realized a dream it’s been dreaming since I was a little girl. But I know it wasn’t what’s best for us.
What’s best for the sweet boy asleep down the hall is that he is my priority. I am fighting a hard battle for him and with him. It is us against history, against genetic wiring, against statistics and generalizations. He deserves every bit of the fight I’ve got in me.
So, sweet baby girl, I’m praying you are safe and sleeping tonight in a room down the hall from a mama who is ready to fight for you.
My sweet friend, Angela, got tickets to see Dawes play at the Ryman tonight and couldn’t use them. She knew I loved them (understatement) so she offered them to me.
I flipped out. I was flitting around the house after she called me, squealing and singing. The Ryman is a magical place, most of you know that already. Going to see my favorite band play at my favorite venue was a big big deal. Then she was like, “meet and greet after the show as well,” all casual-like and I had two heart attacks because one wasn’t dramatic enough.
Turns out one pass was an all-access pass so I SAT ON THE STAGE OF THE RYMAN WHILE MY FAVORITE BAND PLAYED ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS EVER. And then I had another heart attack.