Vote for me!

I wouldn’t make a great politician – all the campaigning just isn’t my thing. Writing about it as a reporter, sure. Doing it myself, well, not so much. But next weekend, I'll be putting my campaigning hat for my run as at-large director with the Society of Professional Journalists.

As we converge on Las Vegas next week for the national SPJ conference and journalism convention, SPJ chapter delegates will select a new slate of board members.

After serving on the board for six years as a regional director, I took a break to have a baby and just to let someone else have a turn (I have a feeling the folks in my region might have let me stay indefinitely!). This year I decided I was ready to return to board service, but in a different role. So, I’m running for the at-large director’s seat against two other very capable SPJ members.

Why head back to the board table? It’s simple: I really love this organization. I’ve been a member for 15 years and honestly can’t imagine not being a member. It’s a piece of who I am. Just as journalism is a piece of me, so is SPJ.

I'll save the rest of the story for my campaign speech, but wish me luck! Here's a preview of my campaign stickers:

'Excited' barely covers it

To say I’m excited that my husband comes home next week after working 11 months in Africa would be the understatement of the decade. Excited barely scratches the surface of my emotions. Aside from the joy of having help with an independent and headstrong 2 year old, I’m just happy to have my best friend back.

Here are just a few of the many things I’ve missed:
• Someone to roll the garbage can to the curb on Monday mornings.
• Back up in the murder of a particularly large and fast-moving Palmetto Bug.
• A foot warmer when I go to bed with cold feet and am too lazy to get up and find socks.
• A hug when I feel sad, stressed or discouraged.
• Someone to laugh at inside jokes. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen something hilarious that only Clint would find funny.
• In-house tech support. Although I have learned how to install Windows on a new laptop and set up a new wireless router.
• Someone who can make our two Labs mind with the simple snap of his fingers.
• Parenting support and all that goes with it.

I could go on with a list a mile long. But we’ll keep it simple and say I’m excited.

Just call me an athlete

Mention a sporting activity to me and I automatically groan. Please don’t ask me to join the church softball league or an office dodgeball game.

My dislike of sports goes way back. Even as a small child I preferred to stay inside and read books rather than go outside and play, where I might encounter bugs and – horror of horrors – sweat!

I’ll give myself credit for trying over the years. I always wanted to be an athlete, shooting a winning basket or crossing the finish line in a relay race.

A few failed experiments at organized sports:
• Tee-ball: I spent most of my time in the outfield, stepping on ant hills. But, darn, I looked cute in that batting helmet.
• Third grade pee-wee basketball. Let’s just say that wasn’t a very good idea.
• Fourth grade pee-wee cheerleading, which wasn’t too terrible, but based on the fact I’m in my 30s and still can’t do a cartwheel put a damper on my cheerleading career.
• I detested gym class and was one of those poor kids picked last for any team.

By junior high, I’d given up on sports and focused on things I actually enjoyed and could do well, such as music and writing. Plus, I went through a chubby phase and a cheerleading uniform would not have been flattering. In high school, I was thrilled with the fact we only had to take gym class in the ninth grade and then we were released from that mandated torture.

Let me pause here to say I do think children should learn good physical fitness habits, but the way gym class is structured is terrible. But that’s an entirely different blog post I’ll save for another day.

I made one more attempt as an adult to participate in a church volleyball team. I’ll sum that one-game experience up with the fact I don’t really like having a hard ball flying at my face and a resulting criticism from a teammate confirmed the fact I am not good with team sports.

I’ve done much better in recent years with solo workouts at the gym, Pilates classes, biking, hiking or running (that's me at left running a 5k) – activities in which no one depended on me to hit a ball, run a base or hold up a pyramid of humans.

So, I’ve given that sad account to drive home what was a very exciting moment for me a couple weeks ago. I was referred to as an “athlete.”

I’ve started doing CrossFit, a fitness program often used by the military and police academies. It’s different each day – lifting weights, doing pull-ups, running, swinging kettle balls and a variety of other exercises to build strength, stamina and, I hope, the muscles in my arms and stomach. The nice thing is it can be customized for your level.

The trainer and owner of the facility sends out e-mail newsletters and refers to CrossFit participants as “athletes.” And, so, for the first time in my life I’ve decided to claim the title and wear it proudly. By the way, my other big accomplishment is I’m sweating and I don’t even mind.

A happy ending

I really love when people want to know how Clint and I met. If you ask Clint, you’ll get a 45-minute story with lots of detail and a few anecdotes that do not paint such a flattering picture of me. Because Clint isn’t writing this, I’ll spare you the lengthy (although entertaining) story and give you the abbreviated version:

I met Clint when I moved to San Angelo, Texas, to take a job at the newspaper there. I was 22 years old with the ink barely dry on my journalism degree. I was ready to take the on world as a newspaper reporter and visions of a Pulitzer Prize danced in my head.

Clint was living in San Angelo finishing up Air Force ROTC at Angelo State University and taking a few grad classes. He too was armed with a journalism degree and was working part-time at the same newspaper. My first impression when we met was that he was very tall (he is 6’3”) and he had very blue eyes (now I get see those eyes in our daughter).

Let’s just say I thought Clint was a very nice guy but I had no romantic feelings for him at that time. He, on the other hand, thought I was the most stunning woman he’d ever laid eyes on and knew we were destined to be together. You can probably see how differing views can cause some problems.

We’ll jump ahead a bit to when Clint asked me if I wanted to go out to dinner. He picked me up in his then-new Chevy extended cab and off we went to a Chinese restaurant. I really thought we were just going out as friends so I chatted the whole time, totally comfortable and with no first-date jitters (because it wasn’t a “date,” right?).

This went on for quite some time – dinners, a rodeo – all with me just thinking we were friends while Clint was blinded by love. Finally the poor guy had enough and after one of our evenings out, asked just where this thing was headed. I can best describe my reaction as: deer in the headlights.

Understandably disgusted, Clint went off to his home in Arkansas for a visit, ready to write me off and move on to greener pastures. I started to realize I may have done something very stupid.

Fast forward to me coming to my senses and calling Clint to ask if we could get together. I like to this of this next event as truly our first date. He made me dinner (bacon-wrapped shrimp stuffed with cheese and jalapenos and quail – he really went all out) and we sat outside eating and talking. The evening ended with what would be our last first kiss.

The next year we were married. I like to say our relationship had a strange start but a happy ending.

I really can’t imagine my life without Clint. I thank the good Lord that he helped me see the amazing man that was right in front of my face. Like any marriage, ours has had been filled with joy and laughter, tears and heartache. Not every day has been easy, but having a wonderful husband certainly helps pull you through.

OK, so that account may have been a little long, but I can guarantee Clint’s is even longer. Yet, I never tire of hearing that story because I know how it ends.

Happy 10th anniversary to my wonderful husband, friend and partner for life. And thank you for knowing we belonged together even when I didn’t.

Let the countdown begin

We are down to less than three months until Clint is home from Africa. I'm super excited and have added a countdown to my blog (see left). Whoohoo!

One, please

OK, this may sound snarky, but here goes.

I get an e-mail newsletter from WhattoExpect.com, including toddler tips, articles, etc. Today's e-mail included this:

No matter what age your firstborn is, you may be feeling nostalgic for those early infancy days and thinking dreamy thoughts about baby number two.

Clearly, I am atypical because I never feel nostalgic for those early infancy days. I am sorry, but that's just the way it is. I find this a tough concept for many people to understand, hence the odd looks I get when people ask if we're having another child and I say, "No." If you want to have more than one child, that is wonderful for you and I'm thrilled you're happy. Some of us are just one-child kind of people and that's perfectly OK.

OK, end of snarky.

Sweet lessons

As parents, we spend a lot of time teaching our children important life lessons - kindness, generosity, honesty, work ethic. But sometimes - like last night - we have the chance to teach our children about the simple pleasures of life: enjoying the taste of summer corn on the cob.