If you fry it, they will come.

I realize it's been awhile since I've written. I've been thinking about it, but I've just not been inspired. I've also got a few books I want to write, but I've not had the time.

I sat down determined to write something tonight. I've started about 4 different entries and nothing seemed right. I started one about how I left my iPhone at work tonight and I feel lost without it. Bor-ring! I started one about this last weekend. Da-umb! Then it hit me! FRIED BUTTER! Yes. You read that right. Fried Butter.

My husband and I went to the Three River's Festival a few weeks ago. As we walked down the aptly named, "Junk Food Alley", we saw the traditional cotton candy, fried cheese, and other junk food glory all laden with gluten, sugar, and fat. As we rounded the corner, I saw one of the newest additions, Fried Candy Bars. These have been around for years now, but this booth had a little something extra. A few somethings actually. One was a Doughnut Burger. It consisted of 2 doughnuts with a burger in the middle. For only $0.50 you could add lettuce and tomato, and although I'm all for trying to make it healthy, that just sounded even worse than a burger on a doughnut. The final nail in someone's clogged artery coffin however was the fried butter.

Matt and I walked up closer assuming it was a typo or we were reading it wrong but no. Deep fried sweet cream butter. I overheard a rather rotund dude say to his buddies, "I tried that butter, man. It was amazing! You have to try it!" That was just before he was hauled off to the closest hospital. (Not really but I expected it.) How could that be good?! Admittedly, it's been ages since I've had real butter. The thing is, I never just ate it. It was always on bread or something. I rarely ever said, "Hmmm...I think I want butter." and then went to the refrigerator and took out a stick. 

I ventured up to take a closer look. Sitting in a grease laden paper boat were about 6 or 8 small dough-balls lightly fried and dusted with powdered sugar. They looked pretty innocent but I could not get over the fried butter. That's all it was. Butter. That's like eating a stick of butter let alone the butter that is in the batter. It was a moment that for once, I realized: people will eat anything if it is fried.  I'm a little afraid to see what's next. The mind reels with possibilities.

In NYC...the city that never sleeps

And here am I...never sleeping. Okay, okay. It is 10:30 and I went to bed about 10 but I've been up since 4:15 "not sleeping." At dinner I thought going to bed early was a great idea. Why is it though, that sometimes, your head hits the pillow and it's like you accidentally pushed the restart button? I was getting ready for bed and felt like I could sleep standing. Light's off, head hits pillow, and "HELLO! Did you order a "Second Wind" for one? We have it right here with a free side of 'Here's what you need to do instead of sleep'!" My travel partner is my mom. Her head hit the pillow and a few minutes later I hear her asleep just like I'd hoped. Even as I type, she's counting sheep. Me? I'm counting keystrokes.

Cooking became fun when I tried it.

Gluten Free Girl is at it again. A challenge. "When did cooking become fun?" Well, I'm not a huge cook lately, nor am I a professional trying to make my own recipes. But I think cooking became fun when I tried it. It was fun to create a recipe and have it turn out to the ooh's and ahh's of the table. So what if the Russian Borscht didn't turn out good. Is Borscht ever good?  When I tried to make a traditional English Roast Dinner though, that really knocked it out of the ball park. Bisto gravy included.

I went through a phase in my pre-teens where I wanted to go to Russia. I wanted to experience another culture. My parents took me to the library and I looked in the kids section for any cookbook that looked good. Yes. I was judging a book by it's cover. I chose Russian and my daring parents and 3 year-old brother allowed me to make it. They still tease me to this day. I can't remember what it ended up like and I remember most good meals. It was fun though. I was experiencing another culture from my little home in Grabill, Indiana.

When I returned from a year in Cardiff, Wales I missed the food. I bought a British cookbook and made the roast dinner. I've made many things from that cookbook. All great. Indian food. Great. It's the other cultures you can taste. That's what makes cooking fun. Experiencing other cultures or even celebrating our own with a homemade Thanksgiving meal. That meal, I'm happy to say, faired out far better than the Russian one.

I am woman hear me...wimper?

I don't like to think of myself as weak. In fact, I prefer to think of myself as invincible and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. In reality, I can't. I can barely jump up a few stairs in my house. Well, let me tell you, this last week was a struggle.

A week ago almost to the minute actually, I had my appendix removed. Stupid appendix. Who needs it? It succeeded in knocking me down all week and tomorrow, I'm to face the throngs of work for a day before going on a business trip. The thing it taught me was this: I'm human. Shocking, I know but I always thought I could do whatever I wanted or get whatever done that I needed to get done. Not so. Especially when you are wearing one of those darling hospital gowns that serve to flatter no one (my backside in particular). To be so vulnerable and tiny sucked. I couldn't get something to drink. I couldn't shower (no worries, as soon as I could, that was the first thing to happen!). I couldn't even sit up without that oh so comfortable hospital bed (and by comfortable I mean stiff as a board) that crinkled every time I moved. I even had jello for my first "meal". Lime jello no less. The anti-jello. I hate lime jello. Any flavor that is red is what I want.

Now here's the thing. I've never had surgery before besides having my tonsils removed so it was a learning experience. As a person with Celiac disease, I am used to having an endoscopy, waking up, falling asleep, and being fine. I expected this surgery to be the same. Wake up, fall asleep, be fine. No, these scars are actually scars, and there is a pain level on a scale of 1 to 10 associated with them. Right now, about a 2. At it's worse, at 10. Sometimes, the surgery pains were worse than the appendix pain when it was still attached. Stupid appendix. So this whole experience has led me to admit that I am not invincible. Especially if an organ the size of a worm can take me down for a week (gross right? organ. Not a fan of the word). Instead of roaring through the week, I whimpered feebly on the couch, bed, couch, bed, floor, and asked for water. Soaking up all of the sympathy until I felt sorry for the sympathizers.

This whole experience did lead me to one question though. Where is my appendix now? Was it thrown away in a trash heap? Poor appendix. It may have had to be removed from me but that seems a little uncalled for. We spent 31 years together. Least I could've had a moment to say good bye.

Ramblings of my former self

I went to save a document I started writing tonight and as I selected the save spot, I saw a number of folders and documents long forgotten. Books I had started to write ranging from short stories and poems, to kids books and novels. I found poems and prayers that showed God's faithfulness and encouraged me year's later. I also found old journal entries full of ramblings of a girl in her early twenties trying to figure out "life."

Wow. I'm glad I found these. It's really funny to see how strongly I felt or craved something. How anguished I was over a lost relationship that I laugh to think about now. Early entries wondering if my now husband was, "THE ONE" (he was/is, don't worry).

I used to keep a journal religiously in high school and college. I know exactly where they are right now too. They are in the guest room on the highest shelf above my wedding dress. (If anyone is curious, they have a secret alarm that will instantly trap you in a cage so consider yourself warned.) Part of me wants to read them like a novel and feel emotions of the 13 year-old Meghan up to just after living in Wales as a 25 year-old. What a life story! Oh the trials of a 16 year-old Meg frustrated by her first boyfriend. (the shame!) If I get the courage I may post one if only to make everyone laugh at me.

Sure I missed gaps here and there but it's pretty well documented. I remember journaling just before going to college my freshman year and trying to journal with my left arm since my right was broken. That's how dedicated I was to journaling. I've lost part of that. I need to go back. If only to laugh at my thoughts and assumptions about life, love and the pursuit of happiness (or boys, you pick).

Oh Jet Lag, We Meet Again (Or why you should go to Kauai)

I've become a pro at jet-lag. NOT getting it that is. Well, okay, I get it but not for long. Going to China 4 times in one year with a side of London, England will do that to a girl. However, I just returned from my vacation in Kauai and I have to say that this time, it is kicking my butt. I know I won't get pity, I just came from Kauai after all, but I'm trying to decipher where I went wrong. Here I am, at home, working (well, just finished) and it's 9:15pm. Why didn't I feel this awake when I was at work today?

Kauai was amazing. Matt and I went there for our honeymoon and when we got a lucky break at work we were able to go again. We read, relaxed, ate ice cream for dinner, went snorkeling, and ate way more food than we should have.  The temperature was great! I'm not normally into heat and stuff but the breeze made it perfect.

One of my favorite moments was, sadly, the second to last day. Towards the end of the day we went to Polihale State Park. It is at the end of the road all of the way to the west. There was an ominous sign saying that only 4-Wheel Drive vehicles were allowed (we had a rental car, does that count?). We'd received many warnings about how bumpy it was, not to get stuck, make it out there if its the last thing you do, blah, blah blah. So we did. Make it out there that is. We didn't get stuck. It was bumpy. Actually, that is an understatement. It was like driving on an oversized Cheeto. No joke. The dirt is reddish-orange, there were pot holes everywhere, and we were constantly dodging giant holes. Just imagine if a Cheeto was huge enough to drive on. That'd be a problem!

Poor Matt was driving and doing a far better job than I would do but I still felt the need to freak out (Sorry Matty). After 45 minutes on this giant Cheeto road we found the most amazing beach ever. It was the kind of beach that made you forget the ordeal it took to get there. It was quiet, with a gorgeous view. One end tapered off to where the island curved and the other end stopped abruptly at the beginning of the Napali coast where cliffs are ridiculously high and there isn't a way to get around it unless you go by boat.

We stepped up to the water and the temperature was perfect. It was bath water warm but NOT from the usual suspects. This is the ocean you know, not your neighbor's pool. The waves were gentle and the white sea foam created intricate patterns in the sand. The sun began to set and there wasn't a bird in the sky. It was a postcard picture of a beach in Hawaii.

It was the postcard picture that gave me this undeniable jet-lag. It was also worth it. How could it not be?

First thing I ever made...in an oven

There is this great blog called Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef. The "girl" is Gluten-Free like me! Well, on Twitter today, she challenged her followers to blog about the first thing they ever cooked as a kid. I said, "Biscuit Pizza's" but now that I truly think about it, it was something else entirely. I was five or six and alone with a baby-sitter. The Biscuit Pizza story was so interesting in my head as I wrote it. Now, I have to start over.

My brother, Andrew, was a baby. So, my parents, desperate for a night out, left us with our baby-sitter who shall remain nameless (fairly certain we are facebook friends). I decided that I was going to make a cake as a welcome home gift for my parents. Who knows where the sitter was. I got to work! I broke out my mom's "Better Homes & Gardens" red and white gingham cookbook (she still has it by the way) and chose what I thought would be the yummiest treat: Lemon Pudding Cake. I set my first grade self to work reading the ingredients, pretending how to measure, and making a masterpiece. I remember the baby-sitter coming in at some point. I think we baked it. The only thing I can remember is the taste. Oh my word was it bad. It tasted like pure salt! It was the grossest concoction known to man. I also remember the mess. It looked like a bomb exploded in the kitchen...just in time for mom and dad to waltz through the door.

Out of curiosity, I just went and pulled my own BH&G off of the counter. No Lemon Pudding Cake to be found. Maybe my version wasn't so bad after all. Maybe that cake was a bomb.

A little over here... a little over there...

As I created my first and only Twitter account (only because it kinda creeps me out and I'm not sure I'll keep it) I got sucked into immediately personalizing it. I spent my lunch break yesterday picking out a background pattern, couldn't find one, and then proceeded to do the same thing today.

As I looked at the patterns and colors I thought, "Is this what shows ME?" Who cares! It's Twitter. Here's the thing that struck me though: We are putting our "selves" out there on Facebook, on Twitter, on art pages, on blogs, on just about anything really. We then try to personalize it so we stick out from the masses. People put decals on their cars, skins on their laptops, photos on their blogs, all to show who we are or what we do. It's a little crazy. We have shared our "selves" with who knows how many people all in an attempt to say, "Hey! Hey! Look at me!" or whatever your purpose is (I admit I get a bit of the "Hey!" syndrome from time to time. I have a blog after all.) How much is too much though? Can it be too much? Where does the real you reside? Is it on Facebook or Twitter? I can't answer that for you but for me, I'm really starting to give it some thought. I'm also thinking about how much is too much and who sees what and where.

Banana Pancakes on the Brain

As life changes and evolves, so has my take on situations, things, people, and life in general. (I think that covers all of the bases.) When I named the blog, it's only purpose was to be cute. But, in life, sometimes you get great things (pistachio ice cream), some times you get bad things (mashed parnips, remember, I only like mine roasted). All in all though, it always seems to end up okay and for the best. That has been shown to me more and more lately.

I'm leaving for Hawaii on Saturday. Something I can't wait to do. MattyG and I are going to Kauai where we had our honeymoon. Life's gotten slightly simpler since we got married and so I'm excited to really get away and relax for probably the first time since we got married. Loving the idea. We're going to go mountain tubing, snorkeling, lay on the beach, read, eat Banana Pancakes (well, Matt will. I've yet to decide how to handle that impending gluten-fest), and Hawaiian shave ice. I can't wait.

Now, Fort Wayne is NOT a bustling city that you need to escape from but escaping wherever you are is good once and awhile. And before you get any crazy ideas, we are having housesitters so no keggers. :)

Now, off to work and listen to Jack Johnson while I envision eating fresh pineapple on a beach.

Room with a window seat

When I was a little girl, I always wanted a room that had one of those half-circle turret thingys. It would have a window seat that lifted up to show rows upon rows of hidden books. The seat would have a soft cusion (that is always pink in my mind for whatever reason) and perfect with a round window at just the right height so I could peek out and look at the people and trees as I read.

I never got that window seat. Or any window seat for that matter. But I still want one. There was a book I read as a kid called, "Betsy, Tacy, and Tibs." Tibs or Betsy (I can't remember now, it might have been Betsy) had a window seat and she would read for hours on that seat. She also wrote little stories that she kept in a tin under the seat and hoped to get published someday. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to write stories. There were a whole series of books on Betsy, Tacy, and Tibs. Their names always confused me though. Who would name their daughter Tacy? Tibs was short for something but surely there was a cuter nickname!

Monsters Under the Bed

When my brother, Andrew, was about 5 or 6, he was afraid to go to bed one night. He was afraid of being alone. When my dad asked him why, he said it was because of the monsters under his bed. To which my dad replied, "Andrew, there are no monsters under your bed." This greatly confused my brother. He said something that I thought about today. He said, "Well. Adults need to tell kids this then because if no one tells us, how are we supposed to know? Kids are scared of monsters under their beds and they wouldn't be if adults told them."
So true. How are we supposed to know if people don't tell us? I always expect to know the RIGHT answers...which I don't (don't tell anyone). How am I supposed to know if someone doesn't tell me? It's so funny. What level of it though is arrogance and what level is finding out for yourself? If Andrew had crawled under his bed and looked, he would've known there wasn't a monster under his bed. No Mike Wasowski to scare him and bring up his quota of screams. Just sayin'. If people don't tell you, and you don't try to find the answer, how are you supposed to know?

How?

I'm not sure how I've let so much time lapse since my last entry. Time is something that seems to either fly by or creep slower than a snail. It seems like I am still just out of college but no. Time has flown and I have officially been out 9 years. How the heck has that happened? It makes sense but I'm not sure how. I graduated from Anderson University in 2001. Now, I'm horrible at math but that makes 9 years I'm fairly certain.

When I was a kid, I felt like time took forever! Now, as an adult, it seems like it flys by. I don't have kids yet but I can imagine that once they appear, it will go even quicker.

None of this is news I realize but once and a great while it really surprises me how fast it all goes by.

The envy of mad skillz

I just returned from a business trip to NYC for the National Stationery Show. The show was a culmination of a year's worth of work crammed into about 2 months. It was nail-biting and exciting. It was frustrating. It was fun. And it left me with wanting to be more (much like my parents cat Max).

When I left the show I wasn't terribly motivated by the stationery and more motivated by the surface design. However, I just looked at one of my favorite design blogs and they had a recap of the NSS. Now, I just want to make people envious of my mad skillz. Why is that we are never happy with what we have? Maybe it's just me but I always want to be more. I want to draw better (which isn't hard to do!), design better, garden better (again, if I took the effort, I might be okay but who has time), cook better, and relax better. How's that for being a perfectionist!? Who fails at relaxing! Seriously!

My whole life has been like that. I was always aware of where I lacked the skills and never where I excelled. I wonder now if people ever envy my skills. Maybe someone saw my design and products at the NSS and felt the same way. How cool would that be?

One of my favorite design books is called, "Print & Pattern." There is also a blog of the same name. How cool would it to be in that book someday. I have so many ways I want to improve. I also have so many things blocking my way like time. Here's the thing though. If I truly wanted to be better, I'd find a way wouldn't I? Maybe that's why I'm working (after this blog anyway) tonight like I have for so many nights so I can get better. So people can envy my mad skillz. Oh to be the envy. I want to be in a blog other than my own. I want to write a book. I want to be featured. I want my 5 minutes of fame I guess. Excuse me Mr. Warhol but I'm ready.

Tap Tap Tap...

When I was a little girl living in Bay City, Michigan (all you Bay City-ites Hollah!) I used to LOVE going to the Sage library by my house. In my memory it was amazing. They had a fountain out front to splash your feet in. It had a statue of a lady in the center and she was beautiful. The kids section was the only one I ventured into. They had the best selection of books and I took part in the book club every summer.

I had two books in particular that I remember checking out so much they should have borrowed it from me. One was called "Marianna May and Nursey". It was by Tommy dePaola. I've never met anyone else who has read this book. It was amazing. This was the book I single handedly ruined at the library from getting it so much. It shaped my childhood which come to think of it may be part of the problem. I still remember nearly every word.

Marianna May had a problem. Nursey only let her wear white so she was always getting it dirty. Finally Nursey said she couldn't do anything. One of the house help (Marianna May was very rich) thought up a brilliant idea to make different colored dresses so she could roll in the grass, make mud pies, eat orange ice, and strawberry ice cream. (That was all from memory by the way!) From that, I too thought I should have clothes to match everything I did. Sadly, my parents didn't have the same thoughts or the same budget that Marianna's parents did. If I ever meet anyone else who read this book and loved it we are sure to be instant friends.

I can't explain how much I love this small saddle-stitched book. My favorite dress that she gets is so typically girly it makes me itch. It's the rainbow one so she can paint pictures. Yeah. I know. The only thing that could have possibly made me love it more was if it sparkled. So not much has changed really. (It's true! I still love rainbows and sparkles and I'm almost 31.)

The other book I can't remember the title of to save my life. It was a prize for reading books for the summer. It had a girl named Gwen in it who solved mysteries. The only thing I can remember is that Gwen tapped her teeth with her finger when she thought. Since Gwen did it, I thought all people who thought did.  I think that may have been the longest summer for my poor mom. As I thought, I tapped my teeth. Have you ever heard that noise before? On repeat? It's kind of annoying. Try it.....see! Annoying right?

(I was tapping my teeth as I wrote this FYI)

What I have in common with Pearl Jam...

I like jam okay and I love pearls but that is the closest I may ever come.

Friday, Matt and I went to a Pearl Jam concert at Verizon Wireless whatever it's called now. Since he sat through a Michael Bublé concert, I figured it was his turn. Having never really listened to Pearl Jam seriously, I was curious to see what it was like. My only experience had been Top 10 radio.

As we waited in line to get in, the storm clouds were getting closer and closer and my annoyance was getting higher and higher. I am SUCH a girl when it comes to getting wet. I don't like it. Not one bit. My hair gets frizzy or curly and all funky. I hate it. (insert foot stomp here)

We had been seated on the lawn in great seats for about 30 minutes (the last time I buy lawn tickets for multiple reasons) when they announced all people on the lawn had to get off because a storm was coming. So we went and sat in my car while it barely rained. Then they announced it was safe so we came back and that is of course when it let loose and I got drenched. Stinkin' rain!

So, long story short. After a really long wait, Pearl Jam rocked (even if Eddie Vedder was slightly drunk) but the crowd sucked. Oh my word! Let me say my darling, sweet, unthreatening hubby nearly got in a fight and I was nearly pushed down the lawn. This crowd was so drunk it was insane! Eddie Vedder even came out with a bottle of wine!

Matt and I were deconstructing our recent concerts and the audiences. Now, most have been on the lawn at Verizon so we have vowed to never sit there again but we are uncertain where we fit in the whole scheme of concerts. Here are our concerts we've been to together:

1. Collective Soul: 105 degree weather but no problems other than a third degree sunburn.
2. Third Day: Met the band, awesome.
3. John Mayer: Ridiculous teenyboppers where we felt ancient.
4. Collective Soul: At Pierre's. Enough said. I still feel violated.
5. Dave Matthews Band: Great show but the pot stench still turns my stomach if I think about it.
6. Michael Bublé: A mostly over 50 crowd with a sprinkling of drunk sorority girls
7. Pearl Jam: Drunkest crows (and band) ever.

I'm not sure what our next show will be. I'm thinking it's going to have to be another Christian band so I feel better about the experience not annoyed. Still, Eddie can sing. 

This one time at Farm Camp...

For people who know me well, they know this, I hate getting dirty. I hate working outside. I hate sweating. Basically, I hate any kind of hard labor...or labor at all. My parents knew this and thinking they were wise and could reform my evil ways, they sent me to summer camp. Not any summer camp. Farm camp. On a farm. Where you had to work...HARD.

This was possibly one of the hardest weeks of my existence. The first warning sign should have come when one of the primary items that I would have to bring was work boots followed by a straw hat. Yes, you read that right. A straw hat.

This "camp" or as I like to call it "seasonal free labor" consisted of feeding chickens, grinding corn BY HAND, milking goats, cutting the lawn with a manual lawn mower, picking cotton, and feeding the ravenous sled dogs that just happened to live there. The power was only on from 9am-8pm. We had to get up when it was still dark. You could only take a shower every other day and "fun" was playing with old-fashioned toys that couldn't fight back.

This concept was probably genius. It was a working farm that sold its produce and we were free labor. Not only that, but the people running the joint were charging my parents to have me work. Not the reverse! Needless to say, this attempt of my parents to get me to enjoy working in the wide world and understanding the joys of hard labor failed. I just resent the week that I had to use an out house, milk a goat, grind corn by hand, and feed the ravenous sled dogs.

This wasn't the only time they sought to improve my life skills. They also sent me to "Super Camp". Let me tell you, that was anything but "super". It revolved around learning. I'll leave you with that for now.

You can do it if you set your mind to it!

  “You have to have confidence in your ability, and then be tough enough to follow through.

  ― Rosalynn Carter  

I have this undeniable expectation that if I set my mind to do something, not only will I do it, but it will be perfect coming out of the gate. I remember the first time I realized this wasn't the case. I hadn't been out of college long and was house sitting for my parents. I think it was their anniversary or someone's birthday because I decided I would make a cake as a welcome home gesture. I was going to be all "Martha Stuart" and glaze this angel food cake. They would be amazed at my mad skills and it would be a success. It was not. The angel food cake turned out fine but it was from a mix so there wasn't any real danger involved there. The trick was a glaze that was sure to delight and amaze. The amazing part was how it didn't glaze at all it just got absorbed into the cake. Totally ridiculous.

So today, I sat down at the table to draw. Now, keep in mind that my husband is the illustrator, not me. In fact, when I went to college, I was going to stay as far away from art as possible because my mom was the artist. Not me! When I did end up in art classes the beginning of my junior year, I was seriously lacking in the drawing department. So I sat down with a fresh sketchbook all set to draw. I start and stop. Not going so good. Everything I drew was wonky and not perfect. 

Another example from today. Our house is great but the bushes out front are a mess. I decided to get out some pent up frustration out while pulling weeds and trimming bushes. After really going to town for what seemed like ages, I stepped back and laughed. The bush was now a stump and there was all sorts of leafy carnage laying everywhere. Mrs Greenjeans I am clearly not. I called in the reinforcements and my mom is going to show me how the do the rest. Yet another area where I am actually not perfect.

Thinking you are perfect and can do anything is great until you are slapped in the face by an over grown twig or wonky illustration. Then, it's just annoying!

Is this thing on?

Yes. Yes it is. Shoot. I didn't think people read this thing! I'm so touched that people are interested in what I have to say. I mostly just thought of it as a journal going out there no one has read or will read. Pressure is on now! :)

I haven't always been an only child. Part 2

May 1, 1992

I woke up for school and was so excited about the prospect of a slumber party at my friend Lisa's house. It was her 13th birthday party. The majority of the day is a blur. I can only suppose it was a standard day in the life of a 12-year old.

As the bus started for home, I noticed an ambulance parked on the side of the road. I turned to my friend Molly and said, "Wouldn't it be weird if I knew the person in there?" I did.

As the bus rounded for home, I saw police officers in front of our house on State Road 1. I got off of the bus and the wind was blowing really hard. My pastor came up to me and said there had been an accident. My brother, Andrew, had gotten off of the bus and been hit by a car. He was to take me to the hospital where my parents were waiting for me. I was told that he had some broken bones but they weren't sure how serious it was. I remember a lot of random things. Like a billboard with Dave Coulier on it for a celebrity hockey game.

After waiting at the hospital, we were told that he had too many internal injuries and he had passed away. Even as I write this, it seems like a former life. I was 12. Andrew was 7. You aren't supposed to wake up a sibling and fall asleep an only child. 

I remember a lot of people being at the hospital. I remember it being really dark. I remember after I found out I tried to call my friend Emily but couldn't reach her and instead called my friend Marissa. Her poor brother. Marissa was outside and I just blurted out, "Andrew just died! I'll call back." (So sorry Seth!) I remember not crying. I remember feeling like I needed to go make sure people were okay and that they knew we were okay. The rest is a dark blur.

My brother was an amazing little kid. He called eyebrows, byeows. Hamburgers were called hangaburgers. He had this little elf dance that was awesome and he could fight like a champ. I was your typical antagonizing older sister. I loved making him mad. It was so easy! He had one way to get back. He would bend in half and charge at me. He would only stop when his head made contact with my stomach as I flew backwards and got the air knocked out of me. The stories my parents and I have between he and I are just hilarious.

I also remember people being supportive in such a difficult situation. I also remember one misguided "friend" who said after I'd been back to school a few weeks and was crying in class said, "What. You're still upset about that?" Yes. Yes I was. I challenge you to be different. In fact, I still have my moments and it has been 18 years. I'm not ashamed.

The photo above is my brother Andrew and I when we still lived in Michigan. He's probably 3 which would make me 8ish. I love how I'm picking a bandaid and he's grinning like a fool. He always was happy.

These last few months, I've really been thinking about Andrew. What would he look like? Would he work with my parents, husband, and aunt at the agency? Would he be tall? Would he be married? My cousin Joe wondered if he'd wear hipster jeans. (That made me laugh) I'm sure he would. He had those darn Vanilla Ice stripes in his hair so who knows what he would've done.

I was talking to my cousin Joe on Monday about Andrew. He said he can't think of an area of his life that Andrew's death hadn't touched. I absolutely agree. He may have only been around for 7 years but his impact has far exceeded that.

I tell you all of this not for attention or even pity. Just to say this (let me get out that soap box again): If you have a sibling, be thankful. I've heard people say, "I wish I was an only child!." No you don't. Trust me. I've had the rare and unfortunate opportunity to see both sides. If I could change things, I'd chose the sibling way every time. Make the most of your time with them. You won't regret it. 

The night before Andrew died was my parents anniversary. I was babysitting Andrew and set up a treasure hunt. We had a blast! I've always been so happy that my last memory of Andrew was such a fun one! Imagine if we'd argued and fought. I really miss that twit but all in all, I'm glad I had him so I could miss him. (I hope that makes sense).

I haven't always been an only child.

There is a song that I love. It's called, "If I Could Forget to Breathe" by a little known artist called John Gorka. Here are the lyrics:


If I could forget to breathe
Forget to breathe entirely
It's happened down through history

And surely I could lose my head
Some night I could drink too much
And take it off and just forget

And I will learn all languages
I will speak in every tongue
From highnesses to savages
And to all beneath the sun

Someday I will paint the sky
I will build a ladder, make a roller
That could reach that high

And nothing that I do will pass
Everything I will and make and feel
And dream and know will last

I will rid the world of sorrow
Stop all wars and pain
I will tell you of tomorrow
As I rule the wind and rain

I can do it all it's true
But only when I've done all that
Oh will I turn away from you
Only when I've done all that
Oh will I turn away from you


There is something that is lost in just reading the lyrics. The melody is haunting and touching. Have you ever really looked at the words of a song and it doesn't mean half of what you thought it did? Yeah. All of my favorites I've decided are related more to the melody and music rather than the words. This is one case. 


When I was younger, say around ages 9-12, my dad played this album a lot. When I think about certain events in my life, this is "Meg's Theme" on that soundtrack. When I'm feeling melancholy, this is my go to song. When I'm "in the depths of despair" ala Anne of Green Gables, this is my song. 


This time of year always makes me pensive especially right now. I've not always been an only child. The time is coming close when I went from being an older sibling to being the only child again. I'll tell that story soon. It's on my mind a lot these last few months.