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.

“Forget the former things;
   do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
   Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

-Isaiah 43:18-19

May 2012 be the best year of our lives!

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?”

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.

November might just be this tired mom’s favorite month of the year. I used to think it was October, what with the arrival of autumn and all the fun family events surrounding Halloween. And my October was truly delightful—I finally made good on a two-year promise to my kids that we’d host a Halloween party, and we all had an awesome time enjoying friends, food and fellowship.

Halloween night, we met up with friends who combined trick-or-treating with a hayride, and I’m convinced that riding around, snuggled in a blanket on a warm bale of hay, is the only way to go.

It was such fun to see my little two-year-old Jonah running around dressed as a perfectly-sized Yoda from “Star Wars,” thrilled to discover the joy that is trick-or-treating. At the first house, he wasn’t sure about the whole thing, but then he realized he’d been given rare, precious candy. When the people at the second house gave him a pack of M&Ms, he clutched it in his little fist and said, “Eat snack! Eat snack!” all the way back to the car. And then he was hooked!

But even though it was a blast and worth every minute of work that went into it, I’m kind of glad that the Halloween madness is over.

November feels like pure peace after all the hurrying and scurrying to accomplish everything on our October calendar. The weather is still perfect, the leaves are at their beautiful peak of fall color, and the Christmas craziness has not yet begun—no matter how hard the retailers try to prematurely shove it down our throats. I refuse to accept it, as stubbornly as a toddler clamps her mouth shut against a spoon heaped with boiled spinach.

This month is a gift I look forward to every year, a blessed lull in an overscheduled calendar, a time for Thanksgiving and family, a time of peace. I want to relax and enjoy the downtime, not turn November into an extended December, no matter how wonderful the holidays might be. As the book of Ecclesiastes says, “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” For me anyway, the purpose of November is to rest and focus on gratitude.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could bring a little November into every day? My friend Tiffany Hendra is one of the most inspirational people I know. She posted something on Facebook the other day that resonated with my soul and reflects this concept of finding a bit of gratitude and peace in every day.

She suggested that each night, just as we take a good, hot shower to wash away the dirt, sweat and grime from the day, we should also take an internal bath before going to bed, to cleanse away the cares of life.

Unclench your jaw, let out a long exhale, loosen your shoulders and clear your mind. Let go of any drama or irritations that plagued you that day, forgive those who offended you, and give thanks for the gift of life and the comfortable bed you sleep on.

November is the perfect time to do this on a larger scale. Instead of fretting over what December might bring, instead of starting the Christmas planning and shopping, just release all the stress and enjoy the gifts hidden in today. That steaming mug of coffee, the brilliant red cardinal hopping among the orange and golden leaves, the cool breeze refreshing your lungs, the soft flannel enveloping your shoulders, the calmness in knowing there is nowhere else you have to be but enjoying life in this very moment—all those simple things are the gifts of November.

Take the time to enjoy them, won’t you?

1. It’s easy to get busy with life and neglect my poor lil’ ol’ blog!

2. Other people look at them and just see messy, rambunctious, destructive, loud boys, but I consider every one of my sons ” my darling.”

3. Once upon a time, a mom woke up to find her whole house clean, her children well-behaved and a hot, gourmet breakfast served to her in bed. Then her husband handed her the credit card and said, “I have the kids today–enjoy a day just for you!” And she went shopping, and got a pedicure and treated herself to lunch, and met friends for dinner and came home happy and satisfied.

4. But then she woke up to screaming kids, a messy house and cheap coffee for breakfast and realized it was all just a dream … the end. (LOL!)

5. What is it? (That was Eli’s catch-phrase when he was about two. LOL)

6. I’d rather enjoy life sooner than later.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to finding some deals at the consignment sale, tomorrow my plans include Zach’s softball game and tons of cleaning and Sunday, I want to rest some, work some, worship a lot!

Make your own Friday Fill-ins list here!

This column ran in yesterday’s edition of The Covington News.

They say that energy is wasted on the young. I think that the concept of time is wasted on them, too. Remember when you were little, and it seemed that an entire lifetime stretched out between summer vacation and Christmas? Sometimes I wish life still passed by in that slow-as-molasses way, where there was time for everything you wanted to do. It isn’t fair how life speeds up as you get older, how one minute you’re hugging your newborn, and the next, they’re toddling away from you.

At least that is how the past two years have felt to me. My sweet little Jonah turns two years old tomorrow and I can scarcely believe it. The only thing that makes the time feel longer is when I reflect on how many months I’ve gone without a full night’s sleep—then it feels like the boy should be applying to UGA right about now.

But the bigger part of me doesn’t even mind the exhaustion, because I know that barring some truly miraculous heavenly intervention, this is my last baby. And oh, how I have cherished Jonah’s babyhood! Some would say too much, particularly when I complain about that lack of sleep. Because let’s face it—I could’ve been better about sleep-training him, and by now he’d be sleeping in his own bed independently every night like his brothers were by this age. I could’ve had a third child who never came into my bed unless something was awfully wrong.

But that would’ve meant giving up our nighttime cuddles, and listening to him cry and I just haven’t wanted to put any of us through that. So instead of simply tucking him in and saying prayers, I have to lie down with him for half an hour before every nap and bedtime—and he invariably ends up snuggled between me and my husband at some point before daylight breaks.

Does that equal lazy parenting? I don’t know—I think these days the politically-correct term might be “attachment parenting.” I just call it cherishing time that flies by too fast and will never come again. And if that makes me wrong, I don’t want to be right.

I was made to have babies. Well, my soul was made to have babies—my body fought me every step of the way. I’ve had multiple miscarriages, and without medication to treat polycystic ovarian syndrome, I’d have never had any of my sons because of the infertility associated with the disease. Maybe it’s a hidden blessing that children didn’t come easily to me—if they had, I would’ve had ten, and heaven knows we wouldn’t have been able to afford that.

But my heart could’ve easily opened to a dozen children and I think that’s why Jonah’s second birthday is so bittersweet for me. It marks the end of the baby years. He’s getting so tall and thin. We look at his baby pictures, and my older sons laugh at how chubby Jonah used to be. I miss those pudgy fat rolls, those toothless smiles, the way his tiny body curled so perfectly against my chest.

Now he’s all long and lanky, and so busy—turning his yogurt into finger paint, drizzling juice on his daddy’s chair, and scribbling on the wall with thankfully washable crayons. He can point to and correctly name all numbers 1 through 10, and most letters of the alphabet. Today, he saw a picture in a book of a boy sleeping, and started snoring at the image. He loves making goofy faces and sound effects, and when he burps, he shouts “Funny! Funny! YAY!” and loudly applauds himself. I can thank his big brothers for teaching him that.

He exudes joy, except for when he’s feeling shy, or I’m making him do something he doesn’t want to do, such as walk into a room full of strangers. Then he collapses onto the floor and freezes, telling himself, “OK…” in this shaky little voice, like he’s trying to convince himself that it really will be OK.

That’s pretty much how I feel as my baby turns two, and we close the chapter of life that included having babies at home. Like Jonah, my chin is quivering and my eyes are misting as I say, “OK…” But just like my boy facing something big and unknown, I’m doing a terrible job of convincing myself that there is anything fine about it.

I’ve been thinking about my grandparents a lot lately. All four of them are looking down on me from heaven now, and I miss them so. What a blessing it was for me to grow up with all of them involved in my life — some more than others, of course, but all four of them were truly precious to me. It’s a blessing to have known them, as many people have never had the privilege of knowing their grandparents.

Anyhow, there are things that remind me of them and I thought it would make a good Top Ten list. So, here are ten things that remind me of my sweet grandparents.

1. Classic white Dove soap. My grandmother Honey never used anything else, and the smell always takes me back to being six years old, enjoying long baths in the old iron tub after spending all day making mud pies and playing in the yard at their clapboard house in East Atlanta. I love my fancy-schmancy Bath and Body Works bath gels in every fragrance imaginable, but like my Honey, I’ve always used Dove on my face. And sometimes, like tonight, I wash all over with Dove, just so I can enjoy a fragrance that was part of the safest, happiest days of my life.

2. Sauerkraut. Funny to jump from something that smells so good to something that stinks so bad, but my grandfather, Toto, was a first-generation Austrian/Ukrainian immigrant and he loved the stuff. So my grandmother learned from his mother how to make it every way imaginable. I was quite old before I realized that not everyone ate sauerkraut all the time! LOL I made kraut and sausage for a family dinner on Sunday, and that smell of sauteed onions and sauerkraut just brings me back to their kitchen.

3. Pipe smoke. I’m beginning to see a theme with this list, that it’s usually fragrances that trigger the strongest memories. I read somewhere that is true because the areas of the brain that process smells and memories are very close together. My Grandpa Allen smoked a pipe when I was a little girl, and I always loved the smell of it. I’ve been tempted to buy a small package of pipe tobacco and just burn some on a plate, like incense, to enjoy that scent again.

4. Baking. My Grandmother Allen, or Granny, as we called her, loved to bake. Now, she wasn’t quite the cook that my Honey was, but she could definitely bake. Every year at Christmas she started baking cookies a month or two ahead, and always baked a fruitcake — not the red/green/gold kind that gets joked about, but a soft, sweet, spicy cake that was actually really tasty.

5.Fruitcake! Not just because of Granny, but because Toto loved fruitcake — and I’m talking about the red/green/gold brick-shaped kind that nobody else eats. I can remember sitting at the table with him, trying to enjoy a slice right along with him, but I never could make it through a piece! LOL

6. Volkswagens. My mom’s parents, Honey and Toto, always had at least one VW and their son, my Uncle Mike, was a VW mechanic for ages. Funny that I inadvertently married a VW man as well!

7. Giant circa-1970 four-door sedans. I couldn’t tell you the make or model of the cars my paternal grandparents drove, but Granny and Grandpa always picked us up in some kind of massive boat-like vehicle with leather seats. This was before seat belt laws were in effect, and I can remember sliding around in the back seat with my two sisters, banging into each other as Grandpa flew around turns in the road. Good times!

8. Game shows. I always go back to long, leisurely summer days, sprawled out in Honey’s living room in front of the wooden console TV with my sisters, as we watched Wheel of Fortune, The Price is Right, The Newlywed Game and Pyramid. She loved watching game shows, and continued to enjoy them until the end of her life. I can just see her now, in her chair, working a word-search puzzle book as she called out answers to Vanna White. I remember wondering how she could pay attention to both things at once, until I grew up and discovered that I, too, could multitask!

9. Santa Claus. Toto played Santa Claus every Christmas through most of my childhood. He always grew a real beard for the occasion, too. All the Santa memorabilia I put out each December reminds me of him, especially the big Santa light-up figure we have on our front porch, because it used to be his. I don’t care if anyone thinks it’s tacky — that Santa will always be the centerpiece of my outdoor Christmas decorations.

10. Red roses. They were my Honey’s favorite flower and one of mine as well. My garden will always feature a red rose bush in honor of my grandmother.

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