We had been driving all day.  Scott had a fantasy league baseball draft.  Max and I set out to explore Nashville.  The hotel was supposed to be close to Music Row.  Max was anxious to see it.  We set off walking.  About two blocks in, Max decides we need to use Google Maps.  Google wants us to turn around and walk the opposite direction.  We dutifully follow her directions.  Suddenly, we are there.  On Music Row. However, it looks more like a neighborhood.  The music recording studios were in old houses.  Beautiful old houses, but old houses nonetheless.  Max tried to hide his disappointment.  We walked till we reached the end, then headed back to the hotel.

As we walked through the backside of the parking garage into our hotel lobby, a sign outside caught my eye.

“Max, did you see that sign?”

“What sign?” he responded.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him out to the front.  I pointed to the sign at the end of the block.  The opposite direction from where we had started out walking close to an hour earlier.

“It says Music Row is that way.  The way we just came from.  I told you that was it,” I insisted.

Max walked to the end of the block and looked down the street.  “Mom, that is NOT where we just came from.  It’s PAST where we just came from.”

My feet were aching in my tennis shoes.  My throat was dry.  I desperately wanted something cold.  But he was why we were here.  “Alright, let’s go see what we just saw.”

We went around the corner and the street kind of snaked around.  Construction was in progress on one side of the street.  All of a sudden I looked in front of us and said, “Oh, I think we are here now.”

It was pretty amazing looking at these huge music studios for Sony, Word, Warner, and SO many others.  Not in houses.  In fancy modern buildings.  Historic signs were everywhere, sharing the backstory of what we were seeing.  All the studios had the huge banners in front of them celebrating the songs they had produced that had been nominated for big awards.  Some of the artists we had heard of, some we had not.  We spent another hour walking and taking pictures of the REAL Music Row.

Needless to say, he was no longer disappointed.

I’m so glad I was wrong!


Play Me a Song

Scott flips the TV off.  Max turns to look at me.

“Are you ready for some piano?” he asks.

“I’m going to write a post, pack, and go to bed,” I reply. 

“Just a little song? Before you go to bed? To make you sleepy?” he begs.

I look at his face.  I smile at his pleading eyes. “Sure. I would love it.”

He bounds from the chair and heads to the piano.  He pulls the bench out in one quick motion.  

Then he begins to play.  Music starts to fill every corner of the house. I love that he can sit down and play.  I’m envious that he can sit down and play. I can tell it’s Spring Break because music floats through the air throughout the day. During the school year, music doesn’t float as freely.  Schedules and activities demand more time.  But music is who he is. It is his DNA.  He gets life energy from it.  When he is gone, my house will be so quiet.  I can’t think about that. I’m not going there.

Right now, I will enjoy my personal, private concerts. I will savour his music. I will appreciate his gift. I will be thankful for my son. 

Want: One More Day

I had a list.

I checked it often.

I scratched off:

get crown,

go on lunch date,



monthly reports,

put away books,

first college visit,

cheer at double-header.

I made muffins for breakfast,

and I went to a planning meeting for summer school.

I even DUSTED. cleaned the floors.

I cleaned the floors.


But I didn’t

catch up on “This Is Us”,

or plan for April.

What’s worse, I didn’t even attack my “to read” stack.


I want one more day!




Why are we embarrassed to ask for help?

What is it about asking for help that makes us feel weak?



When did society deem it unacceptable to ask for help?

Why did admitting you need help feel shameful?


In school, we encourage kids to ask for help.

We celebrate when kids ask for help.

We force them to ask peers for help before we address their need ourselves.


Why does it feel wrong to ask for help?

Why will I do everything I can to not to admit to needing help?

Will I ever learn that others can be blessed when I ask them for help?

When will I accept that needing help is a part of being human?



I need help.

It’s ok to ask for help when I need it.

Asking for help doesn’t make me weaker.

Asking for help makes me stronger.





Ummm…Excuse Me?

I try to keep my blog positive.  I feel like everyone has enough of their own worries that they don’t need to read my blog and hear mine.  So this is your warning.  I am about to rant.  Feel free to leave now.  I completely understand.  No hard feelings.

You are still here.  Great.  Here is my issue.  Sometimes, being a mom is in conflict with being a teacher.  Today was one of those days.

Last night, my boys arrived home from their baseball game at 11:00 pm.  Dad is the coach for the school team.  Both boys went.  Both boys played.  I could not go.  I was over 3 hours away for work.  When they got home, Max asked if they could miss first and second hour because the substitute band teacher was bringing somebody in to give a concert.  I said, “Sure.”  It was 11:00.  I had been up since 4:00 am.  I wasn’t thinking too well.  I figured I was tired.  They were tired.  They could miss a concert.  We take our boys to concerts.  I was not concerned with them missing this one.

This evening my husband comes home from practice and the first words out of his mouth to me are, “Teacher told Assistant Principal, who told Athletic Director, who told the Assistant Coach, who told me that the Head Coach’s boys need to be at school on time like all the other players even when they have an away game and come home late.”

Ummmm… excuse me?  He didn’t even make the decision.  I did.  If you have a problem with a parenting decision that I make, come to me.  Don’t go to everyone and their brother.  Yes, kids need to be at school.  I am well aware.  I can quote you chapter and verse the reasons why kids need to be in school. However, the last time I checked, they were my kids.

So, was I wrong?  Maybe.  Should I have made them go?  Probably.  But the last time I checked, missing two hours of instruction will not cause my kids to be delinquents.  And, last week, their report cards were sent home.  Said kid had all A’s and one B+.

Rant over.


Why Spring Break?

Why Spring Break?

to get a crown,

to have a lunch date with a friend and a get her a new “do”

to go to Wal-Mart–again

to dust the house-I think I last did when I put away the Christmas tree

to clean the floors and the bathrooms-ick!

to do monthly reports

to put away my books

to plan for April

to go on our first college visit

to attack my “to read” stack

to catch up on “This Is Us”

to do endless loads of laundry

to actually make my kids breakfast before they go to school

to cheer at a double header baseball game

to attend a planning meeting about summer school
This is why spring break!