This Mega House

Berit has a book called The Little House that we love to read before bed. It tells the story of Little House when it was built in the 1800s and up to the point when it was surrounded by skyscrapers. 

Little House is sad because it can’t watch the stars anymore and everyone rushes by. It also can’t smell the apple trees. 

Eventually, the great great great granddaughter finds Little House and because it was so well built she’s able to move it back to the country. 

Little House is happy again because it can enjoy the slow life. 

I get attached to my homes and like to think of them as Little House. 

When we moved from our tiny rental into our home on South Leflore we named it Mega House. 

It was huge! Just like me actually, because I was 7 months pregnant at the time. 

Our house belonged to the late Dorothy Shawhan, former Delta State English professor, author, and so many other wonderful titles. 

She held her last class of each semester on her screened in porch filled with plants. 

I took her for creative fiction and non fiction so those classes consisted of reading our work.

She was always encouraging, even when my writing was trash. 

I like to think of Mega House as quiet and calm during those days. 

It soaked in the stories told and the stories she wrote in her living room surrounded by books. 

It kept her warm and safe and comforted. 

Mega House was very well read. 

A few years after I graduated I had the opportunity to interview Ms. Dorothy in the living room of Mega House for Spotlight

magazine. 

She told me about her writing process and what she loved most when reading. 

She gave me an autographed copy of Lizzie and once again told me how much she enjoyed seeing my byline. 

After she passed, Mega House became available. 

At the time we weren’t able to buy a home so I watched as the for sale sign changed to sold. 

But then, with a baby coming way sooner than we were ready for, another for sale sign appeared in the yard of Mega House. 

We cried and prayed and toured and prayed and cried again. 

Eventually, Brett and I sat in the floor of Mega House, with not even close to enough furniture to fill it, and were giddy. 

It was unthinkable that we could own something so special. So amazing. 

I think Mega House stretched its wooden bones and woke up that day. 

It had much to be excited for with a new baby and new adventures. 

We painted and cleaned, swept, and laughed. 

I placed Lizzie on a stand in the dining room, a treasure to both myself and Mega House. 

I think Mega House laughed too, and showed that when the ginkgo tree once again produced bright yellow foliage after having been dormant since Ms. Dorothy left. 

Mega House was excited!

In the middle of the night it comforted a tired mom during nursing sessions. 

In the day it held strong to the sticky notes of prayer placed all over the walls for that same anxious new mom. 

Months later when little hands and feet began to explore the floors I like to think Mega House provided a little extra cushion for some of those falls. 

Mega House gave us our first Christmas, our first bath, our first steps. 

Mega House laughed as we held celebrations, danced, sang, and played. 

Mega House kept us safe when we were sick or scared, and recently gave us that same cushion when we fell to our knees in prayer during a difficult season in our lives. 

I’ve never done something as hard as packing up Mega House. 

I think Mega House cried along with me I packed up our memories, swept the floors, and ran my fingers across the place where my baby took her first steps for the very last time.

We went room to room and said goodbye to Mega House. 

We mentioned a favorite memory for each room and it wasn’t difficult to think of many reasons to smile in each and every area of our home. 

We sat on the porch and everyone cried when we closed the door to Mega House one last time. 

I know people say a house is not a home and what matters are the people, but after loving and living in Mega House I have to disagree. 

Mega House loved us too. 

Mega House laughed and played with us, it protected us, it listened to our stories. 

We left Mega House and moved into Fancy House— a newborn home that will grow with Berit through the years. 

While I look forward to the memories to come, pieces of our family member are here. 

One of the doors removed during renovations sits in the living room corner with a wreath. 

The brick we used to prop open the swinging kitchen doors is on a shelf in my bedroom. 

We won’t ever forget Mega House  

I’d like to believe Mega House won’t forget us either. 

Unplug and squish through the mud

Sometimes it's hard to unplug. With cell phones, iPads, smart cars, laptops and answers at our fingertips, it's no wonder we are so easily distracted.
"Unplug" is a word we say a lot at our house. With a little one growing up at the speed of light, I want to make sure my eyes are on her rather than Instagram.
While I love to share with friends and family and do so regularly, watching her learn to walk is more important than Facebook watching her learn to walk.

This weekend we attended Delta Down and Dirty, a super cool fun run for kids in Cleveland.
Before the 8-year-old heat began, Nana (my nickname for Berit) trotted over to a particularly inviting mud puddle and watched as another little girl with long blonde curls stomped in the water with all of her might.

Nana was impressed.

She follow suit and before I knew it had mud all the way up to her knees and her pink glitter hair bow was pink no more.

After a very impressive jump, she fell right on her behind leaving the perfect mud imprint of her little bottom. She squished the mud between her toes and even grabbed some in her pudgy hands.

It's always good to have "play clothes" and spare clothes on hand

My favorite former fire inspector was standing close by and said, "Courtney, this is exactly how my generation used to play!"

I thought back to my own childhood in the Georgia red clay mud.
My dad loves telling the story of watching me play in a huge mud puddle in his brand new designer boots. My foot got stuck so I pulled it from the boot, stepped a few feet, and then put my now red muddy foot back in these new boots.

He claims he'd never even worn them before but just shook his head in love while watching me.
I did the same as I watched my daughter squish squish squish plop on Saturday morning.
Standing there, I vowed to keep her unplugged for as long as possible. Or at least take time each week to unplug with her.

I want her to keep these squishy and muddy memories safe in her heart just like mine so that she knows how important it is to put down our iPhones and spend a little time in the dirt.
Because in the dirt is where growth happens, not on iPhones.
Shortly after, we were off to the races, watching our favorite 8-year-old run as hard as he could through the course.

We cheered, we ran, we fell several more times, and when he crossed the finish line we got to shout, "You did it! You did it!"

I'm pretty sure shouts of accomplishment like that don't happen after a marathon of iPad Tetris.
Technology is so much fun, it's so important, and it's everywhere.

But so is family.
So are friends.
And so is mud.

This column originally ran in The Bolivar Commercial

Be the best ringleader

My life looks nothing like my Instagram feed. When I scroll through pictures I see gorgeous peonies perfectly placed in vases in beautiful white living rooms with fluffy pillows.
As we work on staging our home to sell I'm trying to channel my inner Pinterest girl and get similar looks with perfectly placed vases and pillows.
Then my child comes in with a sticky spoon and Nutella covered hands and her bow is around her neck and where are her pants and please stop pulling the dog's hair!
I turn on “The Greatest Showman,” the newest distraction, and as Barnum sings about coming to the other side because it's the greatest ride, I'm wondering how I can get dried Nutella out of blonde curls without causing tears.

I'm the ringleader to my own circus now.

Watching The Greatest Showman from her "seat"

Every single night I put each piece of my home back in place before throwing all of the clutter and crafts into a box, and then shove that box into a closet.
I fluff pillows and Clorox wipe counters. I pick up every single block from the floor because perfect Pinterest moms do not have blocks in their floors.

I've completed all of my tasks and checked off my to do list somewhere between midnight and 2 a.m. and at this point I've watched “The Greatest Showman” three more times.
Then, as I place my still dirty hair head on my should-be-ironed-pillow, my baby cries. I try to ignore it. I mute the monitor and watch the blinking lights go from green to red to green to red as her wailing crescendos into a sound that should be coming from one of P.T. Barnum's circus animals rather than my tiny daughter.

I climb back out of bed careful not to put anything out of place, go to her Pinterest perfect room where she has pushed the wall so hard the crib is now several feet from its original spot and her blanket is lying in the floor, discarded in a fit of rage from being left alone in her nursery.
I take a deep breath and try to calm her.

Once I realize the only calming thing is my arms I take her to my room where she finds that perfect spot that a parent seems to develop after their first child is born.
It's that warm spot from your elbow to your shoulder where babies just seem to fit perfectly and no harm can happen to anyone.

She's snoring before I have an opportunity to give her back her pacifier and push play on her movie.
In the morning the alarm shouts way too early and that little snorer is up and once again dancing to the musical talents of Zac Efron before I have a chance to take my first sip of coffee.
By the time I have shoes on, she has scattered more blocks, more dolls, several coat hangers, her Minnie Mouse vacuum, and someone's fuzzy toothbrush.

My house, no longer looks like Pinterest, Instagram, or even a crumpled Wal-Mart ad in the trash bin.
My house looks like the Warren Family lives here.

I got frustrated, and slightly overwhelmed. I raised my voice when I probably should not have.
But as I put the blocks back into the tiny bin, rushing because I knew there was a diaper to change and a dog to be crated before I ran out the door, a pudgy little hand dropped a red block into the basket.

She then looked at me, barely able to talk and exclaimed, "yay!"

Then she clapped. For me.

My house may not always look like Pinterest and Instagram and my follower count might have dropped by 150 people in the last month, but this morning I got applause from the smallest and most important fan I have.

So if your house is covered in blocks, crayons, or even toilet paper because somehow she found that too, just remember to take a bow in the middle of the circus. Because you're the best ringleader they will ever see. And right now, this is the greatest show.

This column originally ran in the Bolivar Commercial 

A Bible Journaling Entry from @planondeltatime

Hair vs. Popsicles

I appreciate good hair.
With a day off from The Bolivar Commercial and all bridesmaid duties behind me I didn't know what to do with myself.
Coach was home, Nana was home and it was so wonderful to have everyone together, which we haven't gotten to do much in the recent weeks.
We spent most of the day outside with popsicles and books watching Berit swirl around in her baby pool, climb up the slide and down, up and down, and make horse sounds, which is her new favorite thing to do.

Now, because I was a bridesmaid in a wedding the day before my hair was still in wedding mode so I'm sure you all can imagine I was feeling myself because I knew I looked cute.
Until I got sprayed in the face with the water hose.
Excuse me!

I was so irritated and wanted to stand up and shout at the perpetrator, which was Brett Warren by the way, until I saw Nana in her sprinkle tutu swimsuit and crocs with a popsicle grin cackling away at what her daddy had done.

Definitely siding with her silly daddy

These two outnumbered me and the cute hair was no more.
I knew I had two options, one was to go inside where I stayed clean and adorable, away from the obnoxious duo, the other involved sweat, sunscreen, and most likely mud because aside from horse sounds that's our other new favorite thing.

I wiped my face, put a hat on, and splashed in the baby pool with her.
I'm not a fan of being dirty, and if you didn't know this, I'm a bit over the top girly. However, I'm not afraid to put those feelings aside when it comes to spending time with my family.

We stomped in the mud, we slid on the pool slide, we read stories under the sun, and we ate a bazillion popsicles.

At the end of the day, I was sweaty, grimy, had mud up the side of my leg, and smelled like beach sunscreen but had so much fun spending hours outside with my sweet family.
When Coach and I put her to sleep after a good hose down and then a nice bath, it's easy to watch her snore and know that cute hair is not worth missing those popsicle moments.

This column originally appeared in The Bolivar Commercial

Seasons change quickly in life but we’re not alone

This week I've worn shorts, pants, sweats, sweaters, and tank tops. My grandmother used to tell me, "If you don't like the Delta weather, just wait a minute because it'll change!"
The constant changing of our weather got me thinking about the different seasons we experience in our lives and how we handle those seasons.

My family recently went through a particularly difficult season. The weather was rough, cold, dark and frankly, I was unsure if we were going to get out of this one.
There are so many different options when it comes to dealing with a difficult season. We can curl up underneath our covers and hide, which was what I wanted to do, or we can prepare for the weather with the right tools.
For me, those tools were friends and Jesus. I was so afraid of how to handle this season. I didn't want to leave my house because would other people know I was in a difficult season? Should I even mention it?

However, when I walked into my church and was greeted by a familiar face and asked that typical question, "Hey, how are you?" I paused.
Normally, I blurt back, "Great!" or "I'm fine and you?" But this time I didn’t. This season caused me to stop before giving back my typical cookie cutter answer while holding my Bible and preparing to take my place in the pew.
"I'm actually going through a really difficult season right now," I said as I held back tears.
This person's response was absolutely what I needed. She didn't say much. She put her hand on my arm, told me she loved me, and that she'd be praying for me. And I knew she meant every word. She even followed up with a much-needed coffee date.

After that moment, I knew that I could take on this season because I wasn't alone. There was someone else there with the right clothes for the season I was in. Someone would lend me a blanket, someone would lend me light, and someone would lend me a warm place if I ever need one.
In that difficult season, I battled the only way I knew how by getting on my knees in prayer and holding onto those I knew were praying with me.

By doing so, I was able to get through the dark days and now, as I drive from my house to the paper, I see color popping up everywhere as flowers bloom.
The Easter Cross on Court Street was extra bright this year and I'm not sure if it was the exceptional flower placement, or my coming out of a dark season and into a brighter one.

I read once that some seasons may seem so hard and gray; that it feels as if nothing will bloom ever again. It's when our seasons become the darkest and coldest that we have to put on our best coats, warm by the fire with our best friends, and for me, hold my best Bible, and prepare for the changing of the seasons.
Sometimes seasons last longer than we'd like, and some, like this dark one for me, is short and ends in brightly colored blooms on an Easter Cross.

The season may be better but the family photos are still challenging!

No matter what season we're in, I think it's important to remember what my grandmother said and just wait a minute because it will change.
For me, it's a bit more than that.
For me, it's just wait a minute because He will make a change.

This column originally ran in the Bolivar Commercial