When I was pregnant with my first child, Zach, I made a statement that came back to haunt me. It was in response to the outpouring of unsolicited advice I received from experienced parents.

Parents who’ve been around the block a few times tend to offer a lot of advice to newbies: “Put a hat on that baby—it’s cold outside! Don’t let him suck his thumb—it’ll make him buck-toothed. And make sure you enjoy every minute because time flies!”

I’ll admit I’ve been guilty of saying that last sentence to new moms myself.

One thing they told me was how much I’d need regular breaks away from my kids to keep my sanity. I honestly felt mortified when I heard that—and I openly disagreed with them. After struggling with infertility for seven years, I couldn’t imagine I’d ever want to be apart from my delightful little blessings.

Granted, my kids are delightful. But now that I’ve been in the trenches a while, I get it. Nothing resets a mom’s Happy Meter like a date night with the husband, a ladies’ night out, or a weekend trip away. So, needless to say, I have eaten the words I uttered in ignorance.

That experience makes me reluctant to share what’s on my mind this week. Because here I go again, talking about uncharted parenting territory, acting like I know what I’m talking about. I’m afraid that I’ll soon be asking someone to pass the honey mustard to help me choke this statement back down.

But I’m going to say it anyway: I really don’t think the teenage years are going to be as awful as everyone has warned me.

It’s hard to believe, but my oldest son turns 14 tomorrow. So we already have one year of adolescence under our belts. And parenting my way through it was not scary at all. Now, I think that’s largely because Zach is a pretty awesome kid. I’m not going to say he’s perfect, because he’s not—no child, or parent for that matter, is perfect. He has his faults. We all do. But overall, I am just so proud of him, so thankful for the man I’m seeing emerge from the boy I’ve loved so dearly. I look at him sometimes and know that God must really love me, to have given me a kid like him.

Everyone said that teenagers are moody. Mine’s a little moody—but I’m worse than that even without PMS. They said he’d be sarcastic, that he’d talk back. Yeah—I’m afraid that trait got passed down on my DNA and pretty much reared its ugly head in each of my kids as soon as they started speaking.

Which, if you’re reading this, Zach Apted, is not an excuse for that behavior. We all need to work on controlling what comes out of our mouths.

I’m sure we’ll be facing new challenges once he’s able to drive, and works away from home. Just the thought of those things makes my heart sink a little. I guess that extra freedom could bring with it the terrible battles everyone says I should brace myself for?

Maybe it’s my naivety speaking, but I just don’t think the teenage years have to be a nightmare for any of us. Zach even has great friends, people that are likable and kind. He does his chores, and helps with his baby brother, and when I told him about a group of Ugandan orphans, the first thing he wanted to do was send all of his money to them. And then he brainstormed for days about other ways to help them out. That kid truly has a heart of gold.

So does it have to tarnish? Is it truly inevitable that the teenage years are turbulent and full of strife? I’m just not believing that it has to be that way.

No one ever told me that I’d enjoy my older kids as much as I do. So I plan to continue on, optimistically, hoping for the best. I might have to eat my words again someday, but don’t pass the honey mustard just yet.

Twenty one years ago today, I stood before a handful of friends and family in a little church and said, “I do” to the man of my dreams.

Except, he wasn’t exactly the man of my dreams. That guy I fantasized about for so long was a filthy rich businessman with a professional athlete’s physique. The guy I thought I wanted would give me everything I ever desired. He would spoil me and take me on fancy vacations and bring me roses and bottles of fine wine. He’d hire me a maid and a nanny, and buy me a new car every year.

For the longest time, that is what I thought I wanted.

And then came Donnie, a quiet, boyish-looking artist with a thin, lanky body and barely a penny to his name. We met in the way so many couples do—at college, through a mutual friend—and I only wanted to be friends. I told him, in no uncertain terms, that as an artist, I could never be in a relationship with another artist. I knew myself well enough to know that such a pairing could never work out. Two creative people would be too competitive, and couldn’t possibly be compatible. It would be disastrous. I just knew it.

Because I was twenty years old, and I knew everything.

Boy, was I stupid.

I almost let him go. After college, and a brief time dating, Donnie went overseas with the navy and I pursued my career in advertising at an agency in Florida. I’d gotten over the notion that two artists couldn’t get along—in a very short time, Donnie had become my best friend, the easiest person in the world to talk to. I loved discussing art with him, and religion, and every single topic that was supposed to be difficult just flowed between us in harmonious conversation.

He’d already declared his love for me, and I cared for him deeply. But how could I be sure he really was “The One”? Wasn’t I supposed to hold out for that man of my dreams? If I worked in the corporate world long enough, would he come along, sweep me off my feet and be the Prince Charming I’d dreamed about since childhood?

Though it was long-distance—and this was before email, Facebook and international cell phones—my relationship with Donnie continued to grow, along with my confusion. He told me point-blank that divorce was not in his vocabulary—if I married him, it was for life. Instead of reassuring, I found that terrifying. I mean, this was 1990, not 1770. If marriage didn’t work out, you split up. How could you make such a huge decision and not provide yourself a way out? That didn’t make sense to me.

It does now, but back then, it scared me so much that we nearly broke up. I still remember that night on the phone, him in Scotland and me in Florida, the pain in his voice as he said he couldn’t keep waiting forever for me to make up my mind about marrying him. And I’ll never forget the pain in my heart as I wept my way through a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream and finally knew that maybe Mr. Right didn’t         always show up packaged like a girl expects.

After a couple of decades together, I’m so glad it didn’t. God knew that Donnie was everything I truly needed and wanted in a man. I didn’t need material wealth; I needed wealth of character, compassion and integrity. I didn’t need someone to whisk me off my feet; I needed someone to plant them, finally, on truly solid ground. I didn’t need gifts of roses and fancy vacations; I needed someone who’d build a home with me so happy that I’d never need to go away. Sometimes I look at him, and our beautiful children and it takes my breath away that I get to experience something as precious as this life we’ve built together.

This girl’s fairy tale came true. And we’re living happily ever after.

Not to start the New Year off on a downer, but I just read the first blog post I made in 2011 and realized how poorly I did at meeting the goals I set for myself 12 months ago. Someone once said that New Year Resolutions were just a “to-do” list for the first week of January. I’m not sure I even made it a whole week on some of these goals.

I didn’t lose 50 pounds—I did lose ten pounds, a couple of times, but found them again the moment I fell off the dieting wagon. I did not start any new book manuscripts, nor did I follow a successful writer friend’s advice and directly contact the editors of a couple of national magazines and convince them to publish my work.

I meant to do that one. I really did.

I didn’t work on my sons’ scrapbooks at least once a month. Actually, I don’t think I even glanced at the darn things all year long. For the past few years, the only scrapbooking I’ve done happens on a few frantic evenings in late December, when I rush to create photo calendars for the grandmothers and aunts in the family.

My eldest son, Zach, will be 14 in a few weeks. I am still scrapbooking his kindergarten Christmas play, if that gives you any indication of how far behind I am on that project.

I did not plan monthly menus and stick to them while grocery shopping, nor did I fully master couponing. My bank account wishes that I had. But I didn’t.

And forget that comment about embracing the FlyLady.net’s cleaning routines to get my house in order. If anything, it is even more chaotic than it was a year ago, and being disorganized is biting me now in the most painful way.

However, not everything was a totally epic failure. I’d say my spiritual life is about as healthy as it was this time last year, neither greatly improving as I’d hoped, but not deteriorating, either.

I didn’t keep any weight off, but I exercised more than I have before, and had a better attitude about fitness in general. While exercise didn’t become a routine part of every day, we joined a pool over the summer and will likely do that again. So my commitment to exercise more often was at least partially fulfilled.

I don’t know if I was a more patient teacher with my kids during our homeschooling time—I guess you’d have to ask them that question. I’d like to think I’m continually improving in this regard, but I am not convinced that I’m where I need to be yet. I won’t be happy until my patience level falls somewhere between Mother Teresa and June Cleaver.

Speaking of the Cleavers, I can say that I kept my commitment to make my husband a higher priority, and I hope that he noticed. I think he did. I know that I feel closer to him than I did a year ago, and I hope that he feels the same way, too.

I am not giving up on my poor house, either. Before I sat down to write this, I worked on a new daily schedule and created a weekly checklist for our FlyLady chores. Doing so actually sparked the idea for this column. So I’m hopeful that 2012 will bring improvement in that regard.

Of course, I’m always hopeful in January—and I refuse to believe that past failures have to influence what I choose to accomplish this year. Actually, I find that’s the real value in creating New Year Resolutions—the power is not so much in defining the goals, but in looking back a year later and examining yourself to see how well you met them, or attempted to, and how life has or hasn’t improved because of your actions.

I don’t need a new list of resolutions—every item on last year’s list is still worth pursuing and fulfilling. It might take a few years to meet all these goals, but that’s OK—it’s my list. I’ll accomplish it in my time.

I know this probably sounds strange, but one of the most profound moments of my entire Christmas season happened while I was in the kitchen, making candy.

I make a mean peppermint bark. It’s basically crushed peppermint candies mixed into melted white chocolate, then broken into chunks after being spread out and cooled. I also add dark chocolate drizzle or chopped Andes mint candies to mine, because who doesn’t like a little extra chocolate with their chocolate?

In years past, I delegated the candy-crushing to my husband. Those little round Starlight mints are very difficult to break, and Donnie, with his greater upper-body strength, could always accomplish the task in no time.

But last week, Donnie wasn’t home and our guests were due to arrive any minute. I had no choice but to handle the pulverizing myself.

I placed the candies in a zip-top bag, and smacked it a few times with my heavy rolling pin. It barely flaked the edges off a couple of the mints. So I tried rolling the pin over the bag, pressing hard, and still—nothing. I realized that if this candy was going to be made, I had to mimic my husband’s actions and really put some muscle behind it.

So I did. I slammed that rolling pin as hard as I could onto one of the candies and watched it shatter into a hundred tiny bits. Then I moved to another, and another, and suddenly, it felt very satisfying, like doing something deliciously wrong.

And that’s when an experience at a therapist’s office came to mind. Years ago, while my husband was deployed to Iraq, I saw a therapist to help me through the experience. Next to her sofa was a basket of foam baseball bats. I asked what they were for, and learned that they were useful for venting anger; clients could use them to hit the sofa pillows to let out their angry feelings.

I laughed. I told her that I could not imagine doing that, or even needing to do that. It seemed so barbaric. She just smiled her quiet smile and said, “Perhaps that’s a sign that you, more than others, might actually need to do it.” And I thought her response perhaps indicated that I wasn’t the crazy person in the room.

But last week, as I smashed that candy, something clicked. And I knew exactly why she thought I needed a little “bat therapy.’ I also wondered why it took me 43 years to figure this out.

I began to put faces and feelings onto those mints. Bam! That is for the person who totally used me. Slam! That’s for the relative who is rude to my two-year-old because he doesn’t behave like she thinks he should. Crash! That is for the extreme poverty that is hurting my friend. Smash! For the person who lied about my family.

Oh, it felt so stinking good.

And that was the finest, most gloriously crushed peppermint I’d ever worked with—by the time I was done venting, some of those red and white chunks were reduced to pure powder. The resulting candy was probably the best-tasting batch I’d ever made.

I already run a small side business making birthday cakes. Maybe I’ll add a candy component to it as well: Kari’s Krushing Kandies, featuring Powerfully Pummeled Peppermint Perfection, or P4 for short.

Just know that if I ever show up smiling like a Cheshire cat, bearing a bag of P4—you’ll know it’s been a rough week.

Maybe making peppermint bark is the secret to world peace? Because if more people found positive ways to vent their anger, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other.

Thank God for my kids and the Christmas gift they inadvertently gave me. If it hadn’t been for their friends coming over, I wouldn’t have been rushing to make candy on short notice. And who knows how much longer this woman, who was raised to believe that nice girls didn’t act out, would’ve missed out on the delicious, peace-bringing release of physically venting negativity.

‘Tis just before Christmas, and here in my house

I hurry and scurry, like a fat little mouse.

The stockings are hung by the chimney, but bare—

Oh where did I put what I bought to go there?

The gifts are in hiding, all still unwrapped

Though I’ve worked my tail off and wish I could nap.

I’m a cleaner, a chef, a crafter and baker

Like all busy moms, I’m the Christmas-dream-maker.

But I’ve fallen behind, fear it won’t all get done

For I’m just one woman—not three, two, but one.

And I sadly display my most dreadful old trait:

I oft wait to do things ‘til I’m running quite late.

And this makes me crabby, my spirit not bubbly,

I’m scolding my kids and nagging my hubby.

For I need their help, but they’ve no time to spare,

They’re driving me crazy, I’m pulling my hair.

The tree’s still half-naked, there’s no wreath on the door

There are toys and clutter strewn all on the floor,

The bathroom is grimy, the dust bunnies run free

The laundry’s in piles straight up to my knee.

The Christmas dinner menu has not yet been planned,

And devoid of a manicure are my tired, old hands.

I haven’t yet thought of what I’m going to wear

Or what I might decide to do with my hair.

I still need to clean, to dust and to sweep,

To scour and scrub and oh yeah—to sleep.

But slumber’s for sissies and there’s no time for that.

I’ll have to rest vicariously through Max, my cat.

And I can’t help but question, as I do every year

Why I procrastinate, which kills all my cheer?

It’s not like the holidays show up by surprise—

I know that they’re coming, this I realize!

But yet I still behave like I had no real clue

Of the stress of December and all I must do.

I know it’s coming, I know what it requires

I shouldn’t act like I have unlimited hours.

But you know, when it comes to the end of the day

When Santa’s already zoomed in on his sleigh,

I forget all the craziness of the days before

And marvel and wonder at all that’s in store.

The best part of Christmas is seeing my boys

Smiling and laughing and playing with toys.

Reliving the magic from a child’s point of view

Is the most fun thing any adult can ever do.

And that joy is what’s remembered, for sure

I won’t recall all of the strife we’ve endured

No one will think about that dinner I cooked,

Or worry over how clean our little house looked.

Christmas isn’t about making perfection renewed

It’s not about the presents, the tree or the food.

But it’s about faith, and family and love

And a sweet little Baby sent down from above.

I tell myself that, sometimes minute-by-minute

As I look toward that day and the joy within it.

Because the spirit of Christmas will come and stay,

Nothing on Earth can ever keep it away.

After basking, at last, in that warm Christmas cheer

Comes a week full of peace that I always hold dear.

Beyond the festivities, a sweet time to rest

While the kids are lost deep in their toy chest.

Come Monday morning I’ll exclaim aloud

To lingering relatives and folks who still crowd,

“Go spend your gift cards, take off to the mall,

And dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

Then I’ll pick up the paper, the gift bags and bows

I’ll plop down, relax and prop up my toes.

And I might just crawl back to my flannel-sheet bed

To start resting up for the long winter ahead.

And now as I bring this work to a close

I thank you, dear readers, for heaven knows

How grateful I am for each one of you

Your support, your love, your feedback, too.

Before I go, one last thing I must say

As we rush ever closer to the holiday—

Merry Christmas to all, draw your loved ones near.

May God bless you and give you a Happy New Year.

As I prepare to celebrate Christmas, I’m noticing that this December feels different. It mostly looks the same, in that we’ve been attending parties and drinking eggnog and cuddling up with the kids to watch our favorite Christmas movies. Most of our traditions remain intact—except for the one where we go crazy buying presents for people who already have everything they need. My kids will still have presents to open Christmas morning, of course. But the chased-after extravagance of years past is something I no longer wish to pursue.

This year, I’ve become acquainted with poverty like never before. I knew that 80% of the world’s population lives on less than $10 a day. I’ve read that there are 163 million orphans in the world. But over the summer, two reality checks barged into my comfortable little life and shook me to the core. One was Compassion International, a great organization that works to alleviate poverty worldwide. The other is Pastor Ronald, a Ugandan man I’m now blessed to call my friend.

The orphan crisis in Uganda is shocking. Google it, and put a face to it by visiting Pastor Ronald’s Blood of Jesus Ministries website at www.bojmu.org. This primary school teacher and his wife have taken in 25 children, formed a makeshift orphanage and greatly struggle to keep everyone clothed and fed.

Yet when you see pictures of them, their wide smiles and bright eyes radiate a joy that is rarely seen on American faces.

It puts me to shame.

And as an aside, that’s why I’ve been so annoyed by this whole “Occupy” movement. Those miserable-faced people sitting around whining have no clue about how blessed they are. No clue at all. They moan about being the 99%, when the reality is that compared to the rest of the world, they are also part of the wealthiest 1%.

Wouldn’t their passion be better spent on actually helping somebody in need? I want to shake them and say, “Go dig some wells in Africa. Feed street children eating out of landfills in Cambodia. Do something instead of trashing public property and whining about how bad you’ve got it! Because even in your self-made, dirty tent cities, you are living in freaking luxury compared to the real 99% of the world.”

The Occupiers don’t have to be there—they can pack up and return home. If they struggle to find a job, our country has an infrastructure to help support them. The real 99% of the world live without these options. And there are so few of us wiling to give up our pursuit of comfort and entertainment long enough to even care.

I spent most of my life in that category of people. As a teen, I overheard a respected pastor comment on organizations that help the very poor. He said he never contributed to them because the plight of the impoverished was the result of corrupt governments, and his donation couldn’t fix that.

I subconsciously internalized his opinion, and kept my eyes shut to this particular reality until God forced them open last summer. Now, poverty has a face, many faces, all equally precious. Now I know about Haawa, and her desire to become a doctor so she can help the suffering of her people. I know that Tony is an outstanding student with big dreams of a better life. And I’ve been personally prayed for by sweet little Violet—imagine how humbling that feels, to know an orphan is praying for you. And because of what I know, I can’t just nonchalantly blow $5 on a latte when I know that money could provide 50 cups of cooked rice to fill their bellies.

So that is why this Christmas is different. The holiday has always been about giving, but like Ebenezer Scrooge, I’ve seen the truth about myself and am compelled to make my giving truly count for something.

I keep thinking of another favorite reformed holiday villain. “And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?”

Every morning in December, I enjoy a laugh as I look out my front window and see our 8-foot-tall inflatable Santa flattened on the ground. It’s just so funny to see the jolly old man face-planted in the dirt, quite realistically reflecting the way I feel at the end of every December day—totally, utterly deflated.

All this merry-making is exhausting, don’t you know?

Decorating my yard with an assortment of giant inflatable Christmas characters isn’t quite my first choice in holiday décor. If I had it my way, the house would be elegantly trimmed in white lights, draped in real evergreen garlands entwined with yards of lustrous ribbon, accented with oversized, antiqued ornaments. My front porch would feature topiaries in urns, with sparkly baubles on their branches; my front door’s wreath would project an equally beautiful grace.

But a couple of years ago, my father-in-law gave us several blow-up lawn characters, and my children love them. They simply adore them. So how can I say “no” to their annual pleas to blow them up? Zach and Eli engage in great debate every year over which ones we’ll display—because even though I can’t say “no,” I can’t bring myself to allow all of them to appear at once.

This year, Santa, Snoopy, and a snowman snow globe won. I guess they are kind of cute, in a kitschy sort of way.

Of course, it’s rather hypocritical of me to call those lawn ornaments kitschy after doing what I did to my outside refrigerator. Yes, like all proper middle-class Southerners, we have an outside fridge parked on our carport. Most call it the beer fridge, and ours has occasionally hosted an adult beverage or two. This extra refrigerator came with the house, and the main reason we kept it is that I wanted the freezer space for stocking up on groceries at case lot sales at the Fort Gillem commissary.

But now the commissary is closed, and I can’t afford to stock up anyway, so except for when we fill it with leftovers at the holidays, our “beer fridge” usually sits empty.

Enter Pinterest.com, also known as “Crack for Crafters.” I would say go there at once, request an invitation to join, and dive right in. But for anyone with even one creative gene, Pinterest proves highly addictive. I’ve already led too many friends astray down that burlap-strewn, glitter-sprinkled, creatively destructive path. Perhaps someone will start a 12-step group for us soon.

When I saw the refrigerator snowman on Pinterest, I just had to make one for myself—immediately, if not sooner. I originally planned to decorate the fridge in my kitchen, but then I recalled the wisdom of choosing my battles as a mother. It’s hard enough to keep the toddler-boy away from the Christmas tree; I knew Jonah would dismantle my snowman daily if he had easy access to it.

Anyhow, even the most craft-impaired can manage this project. Simply cut the snowman’s features from colored cardstock and apply them with masking tape. The whole thing takes about 30 minutes. You could decorate any solid white door in this manner for a quick, festive accent. I even saw someone make smaller snowman features and apply them to alternating white kitchen cabinet doors—not that I would have the time or patience for that.

So if, like many of us with kids at home, you find your Christmas décor trending more towards kitschy than elegant, maybe add a Frosty the Fridge to your home this December. He coordinates ever so well with an eight-foot Santa and friends.

And speaking of friends, while I might sometimes yearn for a more elegant holiday decorating scheme, our crazy, colorful décor always makes people smile. And even I can admit that smiles and laughter are worth much more than quiet nods of stylish approval.

Through the month of November, many of my friends have kept track of things they’re grateful for through daily Facebook posts. It’s been rather amusing to see how the deep gratitude for spouses, children and siblings mentioned at the first of the month trickled down into meager appreciation for things like coffee and rainbows last week.

I can’t wait to see what people are listing on November 30^th—I fully suspect that some will be reaching for straws and I’ll see things like septic tanks and egg salad listed.

Not that those things aren’t worthy of gratitude.

Anyway, it made me start thinking about some of the odd, random things that I’m thankful for. I doubt any of these things will come to mind when we’re praying over our turkey dinner tomorrow, but I’m grateful for them just the same.

1. By the time he starts college, my son Jonah will be sleeping in his own bed. Granted, he’s not given me any concrete reason to hope for this in the two years he’s hogged my bed—sideways—but friends tell me I can be fairly confident that by college, this co-sleeping stage will, indeed, come to an end.

2. No one in this family has vomited in almost two years. Chalk it up to an odd form of OCD or emetophobia, but yes, I do take note of the time between puking spells. Now, we have been positively inundated with snot over the past week, but it’s been a record-setting while since a bonafide stomach virus wreaked havoc on our home. I probably just jinxed myself by writing those words, but I hope not.

3. There aren’t any new dents in my minivan! I haven’t backed into another concrete column, haven’t had any shopping carts ping the trunk, haven’t had any more children crash their bikes into the rear fender. All those marks are still there, mind you, but I find they coordinate nicely with the hole in the carpeting, the sagging headliner and the steering column that honks like a dehydrated goose every time I turn left.

4. I’m truly grateful for the geographical distance between myself and a few certain crazy people because it has kept me out of prison. And staying on this side of the jailhouse is a good thing indeed.

5. Feeling ever so thankful that it’s 14 more months until my oldest can get his learner’s permit. It’s going to take every one of those 613,606 minutes to build up the courage I’ll need to climb into that passenger’s seat. Why? Because I’ve seen that boy drive on the Xbox—and it’s not pretty, y’all. Not pretty at all.

6. I can still afford cheese. As grocery prices have risen, I’ve noticed cheese really shooting up in price. My family eats a lot of cheese, because, let’s face it—just about anything is better with cheese. Except coffee, of course. I can’t imagine the mutiny in this household if we ever ran out of cheese. Even the little guy loves his string cheese and Kraft singles—if we don’t unwrap them quickly enough, he tries to bite through the plastic.

7. I’m thankful for the smooth, chocolaty, nutty goodness that is Nutella, and that sometimes, I actually get to eat a whole tablespoonful before the kids devour the entire jar.

8. Tomorrow, at approximately 3:55 p.m., my house will be clean. It’ll be over by 4:01 p.m, but I will have enjoyed a full five minutes in a clean environment—if Jonah doesn’t drag out his puzzles in that time frame—and I will be reminded of what I have to look forward to around 4:00 on December 24^th, the next time the entire house will be clean all at once.

9. I’m glad that the Hair Club for Men now includes women, because I should start trying to potty train Jonah soon. Between that, and acquiring a newly-driving teen, my already-thinning hair will definitely need some surgical intervention in the near future.

10. And finally, I’m thankful for all the horrible people who’ve thrown stones at me throughout my lifetime, because I used them to build a pretty strong foundation for one really awesome life.

Except babies aren’t supposed to be still, or quiet or placed inside boxes. It was the most terrible, beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, this wake for a longed-for, stillborn first son.

And I thought again what I’ve thought so often: no parent should ever have to bury their child.

It makes sense when an 80-year-old dies. We grieve their passing, but we know that it’s coming and it seems right; a natural progression of what happens after a long and full life. But when a baby dies, especially in utero, just days before he was scheduled to be born, it doesn’t make sense. There is no way to make sense of it at all.

I know too many friends who have lost babies. Most are like me, experiencing miscarriages at different seasons of gestation, some tiny souls passing so early that no one but the mother grieved their deaths. But several are like the sweet lady I visited last week, just days away from becoming a mother—but at the last moment, it was stolen away.

Two of the stillborn babies I know died at the hands of medical malpractice. I had my own questionable experience with one of those incompetent physicians several years ago, a cruel experience that left me wanting to report his actions to the hospital. But I opted not to say anything. As you can imagine, my blood ran cold when I later learned that he was responsible for one of those babies’ deaths.

Last week’s little angel got tangled up in his cord—a completely freak accident that no one was responsible for. So when I learned of his passing, I found my own feelings surprising. Why did I feel an odd sense of guilt?

On the surface, that doesn’t appear to make sense. But I believe the emotion I felt is called “survivor’s guilt.” I felt similarly when my husband Donnie came back from fighting in Iraq. It didn’t seem fair that I got to have a physically whole spouse return when so many soldiers came home with disabilities—or didn’t come home at all.

Honestly, the definition of grace as “unmerited favor” took on a whole new meaning for me after the war.

The reason I felt survivor’s guilt over my friend’s loss is that I know it could’ve been me. My second child, Eli, was my easiest pregnancy. But the delivery was very traumatic. He had huge shoulders which compressed the cord as he tried to be born. His heart rate dropped into the 30’s and getting him out was an ordeal involving too much cutting, a nurse shoving down on top of me to force him out and a baby’s broken clavicle. It turned out that the cord was wrapped tightly around his neck several times, and my aptly-nicknamed Monkey Boy had somehow managed to tie three true knots in his umbilical cord.

Just one true knot can kill an unborn child. Yet, my son lived. And aside from that fast-healing broken shoulder, he was perfectly healthy.

It’s easy to say that it was God’s will for Eli to be alive. He is a delightful child and I can’t imagine life without him. But knowing how close we came to possibly losing him makes me all the more aware of what my friend lost last week. And I struggle to wrap my mind around the depth of that loss—I’m not sure that any loss is greater.

Every child is a miracle, and if you’ve been given one or more of them, make sure that they know that. Every life is a gift. Kids are messy, amazing, frustrating, beautiful blessings, and we approach Thanksgiving, I’m struggling to find words powerful enough to express the gratitude I feel for each of my children.

I wouldn’t have believed it if someone predicted I’d give birth to two picky eaters. My older sons actually refuse to eat fresh fruit. I struggle to understand this behavior.

Both of them opened up like baby birds for pureed peaches, plums, even prunes when they were infants. Zachary loved Gerber bananas, but the first time I gave him the real fruit, he gagged on the texture and has hated them ever since. Eli consumed his “nonnies” like a proper monkey until he got old enough for Zach to influence his choices. Sadly, it’s been a year since he’s eaten a banana.

I look at these darling, intelligent children and wonder how they can refuse fruit? What is there not to like about the honey-sweetness of a crisp red grape, or the heady perfume of fresh golden pineapple? Other kids eat this stuff. I know, because I’ve seen them. Heck, I was one of them.

I don’t remember being allowed to dislike much when I was a child. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always eaten just about anything. I can only recall three things I refused to eat back then—fried green tomatoes, rutabagas, and liver.

I’m a proper Southern lady, so I always wanted to find a fried green tomato that would knock my socks off, something so delicious that I wouldn’t notice the sour sting of unripe tomato. After years of recommendations to try them at the Blue Willow Inn, I finally did. Good heavens, they were fabulous, like no green tomato I’d ever tried before, topped with a sweet red tomato chutney. If you’ve never had them, you must go.

I’ve also outgrown my aversion to rutabagas. My mom and my grandma, Honey, taught me how to cook them right. I get the whole pot to myself because the men in this house abhor them. They gripe about how the house smells when I boil a rutabaga. They have a lot of nerve. It’s not all that different from the air quality when they eat too many baked beans. Rutabagas are my sweet payback.

I still cannot force my lips to open for a piece of liver. I remember crying at Honey’s table because I couldn’t bear to eat the fried chicken livers we had cooked together. I loved to help her cook, and I owe much of my culinary ability to her example. But seeing that yellow Styrofoam tray of blackish, bloody blobs before they were breaded and fried made it impossible for me to eat them.

Several years ago, my husband and I had lunch with friends at a Scottish pub. Liver and chips was the daily special, and my husband and our friend Steve actually plunked down perfectly good money for the foul stuff. They relentlessly teased me to try a bite. I finally caved just to silence them.

“I’ll be nice and give you a piece without too many tubes,” said Steve, smiling as he began surgery on his plate. Too many what? Sure enough, he sliced around something white and hollow embedded in that horribly dark meat. It looked exactly like a wobbly piece of cooked macaroni. Steve removed it, and then offered me a liver chunk as big as my thumb.

I protested at the size of it. He cut it in half. I made him cut it in half again and again until it was the size of a pencil eraser.

Oh, it was vile. Even without a tube.

So, it’s not as though I can’t understand food aversions. I just get stuck on anyone disliking something as heavenly as fresh fruit. I have to admit that my sons have made some progress. Both now enjoy applesauce, along with apple, peach or blueberry cobblers and pies. They eat fruit in yogurt and smoothies, often without realizing it.

Steve’s wife, Heather, insists that once our boys become teenagers, they’ll be so hungry that they will wolf down everything we set before them. I can’t wait until they’re happy to see me coming at them with a big bowl of fresh fruit. But they are on their own if they ever want to try liver.