We Went On Faith

Faith Marie Garcia...born on October 7th, 2006...and is my reminder that nothing in life is for certain and not everything goes the way YOU want it to...it's all up to the big guy upstairs.

January 2006, one week before my 28th birthday, Johnny and I found out we were having another baby. I wasn't "late", but I knew. A woman knows her body, and when something isn't right, then SOMETHING ISN'T RIGHT. I took a home pregnancy test only to discover a very faint pair of pink lines...yes, a pair...and those of you who have taken one of these knows what those two pink lines mean. I went to the doctor and he verified what I already knew in my heart. I was early, like 2-3 weeks along early, if that, but three days later I would miscarry. Had I not gone with my gut instinct, I never would've tested, I never would've gone to the doctor, and I never would've known; it would've just passed as my normal cycle, BUT, I did test, I did go to the doctor and I did know. When I went back to the doctor to confirm that I was no longer pregnant, he reminded me of several things...that I had one healthy baby already, that I didn't have to go through the physical pain some women do when they miscarry, and more importantly, he reminded me I was fertile. If I was really trying to get pregnant, he suggested that I get right back to working on that, because now was the time. So we did.

February 2006 we found out we were pregnant again, and this time there was no mistaking the dark pink lines that stared up at me from my 2nd little, white pee stick. :) This pregnancy was different from my first one. I "showed" faster, I ate more and I was bigger. I carried lower and the back pain was something fierce. During my fourth month, my doctor sent me for my triple screen...to test for birth defects, down syndrome and abnormalities that may already be detectable in the baby. I had done this same test before with Mary Frances, so I didn't sweat it. I probably should've.

I remember being at work, at Dr. Sertich's office, and it was a Tuesday. We didn't see patients on Tuesdays because he was in the O.R. those days, so it was time for us to get caught up on paper work, new patient packets and anything else he left for us to do. A call came in for me and one of the girls came to get me and said my doctor's office was on the line. They didn't call me with my results the first time around, with Mary Frances, they said if everything was normal and ok, then they wouldn't call -but they WOULD call if something came back abnormal or positive. My feet became like lead and it felt like an eternity before I got to the phone in the break room. It was my doctor's nurse, she was calling to let me know that my triple screen came back positive for down syndrome and that the doctor wanted me to see a fertility specialist on Thursday. After a few "uh huh's" and "ok's", I hung up. I stood there, not really sure what had just happened, and trying to figure out what to do next. Liz came in and asked if everything was alright, but after one look at my face she knew something was wrong; we had worked together long enough to know each other's faces. The next few hours are a blur...I called Johnny, my mom and my sister. Johnny didn't know what to say, he was quiet and asked the who, what, where and when for the fertility specialist. My mother and my sister assured me that everything would be ok, and that I shouldn't get worked up until I knew something.

Right. Stay calm. Don't get worked up. That's like telling water not to be wet.

I cried most of the afternoon and evening. Did I do something wrong? Did I get pregnant too soon after the miscarriage? Did I lift something too heavy? So many questions ran through my mind. I was scared, angry and feeling tortured...I'd have to wait 48 hours to see the doctor. Could I keep it together that long? Johnny and I talked more in the next 48 hours then we had in the last 48 days. The nurse at the fertility office had asked me to bring in a few things and to prepare myself for a full exam, sonogram and all. She also told me to come prepared with an answer to the question of whether or not I wanted an amniocentesis. A what? I had never heard of it. I asked my mother what it was and very bluntly she told me the doctor wanted to puncture a hole into my uterus and see if the baby had down syndrome. She also said, "You're not gonna have one, so tell them no when the doctor asks." Uh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize this was YOUR body and YOUR baby. She tried to justify her point, but I wouldn't hear it. Instead, I got online and looked it up for myself...

"Amniocentesis is a prenatal test that allows your doctor to gather information about your baby's health from a sample of your amniotic fluid, the fluid that surrounds your baby in the uterus. The most common reason to have an "amnio" is to determine whether a baby has certian genetic disorders or a chromosomal abnormality, such as down syndrome...it is usually done when a woman is between 15 and 20 weeks pregnant...women who choose to have this test are primarily those at increased risk for genetic and chromosomal problems, in part because the test is invasive and carries a small risk of miscarriage."

I cried again. And again. I realized what my mother was trying to tell me. Why have an amnio, if all it's gonna do is confirm that the baby had down syndrome? I wasn't going to have an abortion, that wouldn't be an option for me. All an amnio would do was create a bitter feeling in my heart and something that the baby would sense and feel. It was better to not know. To let God decide. And so Johnny and I did just that. Thursday came and went. We opted to NOT have the amnio. The doctor did a direct sonogram and we got to see the baby's heart chambers, spinal cord and vital organs on a 40 inch flat screen. We left with some amazing pictures and assurance from the doctor that things would be ok. Johnny and I didn't have time to talk alone until Friday night. We cried together and really talked things out. The conversation shifted and soon we were talking about names, something to take our mind off the stress. Johnny said he had thought of one, but wasn' t sure if I'd like it. He reverted back to our conversation we had prior to the visit with the fertility specialist and our debate over the amnio. He said, "We need to go on faith that we're supposed to be the parents to this baby, and faith that this baby was meant to be ours...so let's name her Faith." Just when I thought I couldn't cry anymore...I cried again.

Faith Marie was born at 7:50am, at 7 lbs 8 ounces and 19 1/2 inches long. She had ten toes, ten fingers, and all the perfections of a newborn. She was healthy and beautiful...and still is. She was my blessing...my miracle...and my test of faith. She's Johnny's "little darkie" and my precious girl. I learned what it meant to love equally, but differently. I learned to never take things for granted, to love unconditionally and to love with all my heart every day of my life. Faith was never going to be born with down syndrome, she was going to be born perfectly healthy. God knew exactly what he was doing. Why we continue to question Him is beyond me.

I will question his sense of humor though, because really, another girl? (sigh) I guess only He knows what He has in store for us, but whatever it is I'm ready. So bring it on.

Till next time...

"Pine Tree, oh Pine Tree..."

To Scott Villareal and Gerry Garza, I dedicate this blog...thank you for inviting me to something that changed my life completely. I will forever be indebted to you. To Michael Ramirez, thank you for sending me a song today that was the inspiration I needed to finally write this blog.

"...and may the spirit of God, the spirit of love, be with you all your days." - The Blessing Song

I remember sitting in the caf at the Lake, it was still pretty early in the fall semester. I was a freshman and everything was still so new. I still couldn't decide what student organizations I wanted to join and I didn't know very many people on campus yet. I did manage to make friends with a few classmates, and so I waved at them as they walked through the caf on their way to their next class. I still had about an hour or so till my class started. Shortly after feeling a little better about myself and knowing some people, a guy everyone called Bullfrog walked in the caf, saw me, waved and walked over to sit with me. We had met at the UWAC and chit chatted about all kinds of things. It didn't take me long to learn he was a HUGE heavy metal fan and was someone I knew would be a good friend to have.

As we sat in the caf and talked, a few students walked in and started placing tent cards on the tables with an advertisement for something called a "4th Day Meeting" on one side and on the other side something called "Dillo Awakening #14". I didn't know what either of these things were, but Bullfrog did. He asked if I had heard about it and when I said "no" he went on to share with me a little about what it was about. He said I should consider going to it and that I would have a good time. He said it would be a good way to meet new people and maybe make new friends. At that moment, one of the girls placing the tent cards on the table stopped to talk to him. I glanced around the caf and noticed a guy sitting by himself and I thought I recognized him. When I asked Bullfrog if he knew him, he said, "Yeah, that's Scott." I remembered Scott from high school (story to come at a later time) and I was surprised to see him there. Bullfrog wasted no time in shouting across the caf and saying, "Hey Scott, did you go to Antonian?" I was mortified. Needless to say it didn't take long for Scott to join in on our conversation about this Dillo Awakening thing and he too encouraged me to consider going. He echoed Bullfrog's thoughts and while pointing back and forth between them said, "...plus, we'll both be there, so you know it's gonna be fun!" A few days later I'd bump into them again in the caf and tell them I was going to Dillo Awakening. They smiled a devilish grin, gave each other a high five and said, "Great. We'll see you there." I had no idea what I had just gotten myself into.

I never expected that 3 days at a place called Camp Sionito, in Bandera, Texas, would have such an impact on my life and would bring me to people who were to be a part of my life, whether for a season or a lifetime, and change it forever. I listened to fellow students talk that weekend about what it meant to be a "C", their faith, about themselves, and their thoughts on reconciliation. I experienced a community hug and for the first time in my life I sat by a campfire and made s'mores and we sang church songs. I learned what a palanca was and what it meant to "live your 4th day every day". It was a weekend I gained two brothers, David and Adrian, and two sisters, Rachel and Kelly. As a family we learned to brown-nose the Cook Staff, create a mystical body, pay homage to Pine Tree, and put ourselves in each other's hands in a trust fall. I didn't want the weekend to end. I wanted to wake up again to the music of "Rise, and shine, and give God your glory, glory, Rise and shine and give God your glory, glory. RISE and SHINE and give God your glory, glory children of the Lord". I wanted Dillo to last forever; but nothing lasts forever. Before I knew it, it was Sunday, and the weekend was over. It was time for us to leave and live our 4th day.

Now, it didn't take me long to find out that I could go back, not as a retreater, but as a staff member. Shortly after our return from D.A. #14, it was time to plan D.A. #15 and so I attended my first 4th Day Meeting. Never did I imagine that my experience as a staff member would outweigh and outdo my experience as a retreater. It was so much more than I expected. I learned all the background to Awakening, the planning, the recruiting, the anticipation of who would be a part of D.A. #15. I didn't realize the entire weekend was planned and directed by students, under the guidance of the Campus Ministry office of course - can't have Awakening without Wayne and Fr. Miguel! There were so many staffs to choose from, to serve on...Table Staff, Cook Staff, Music Staff, Gopher Staff...then there were those that were secretly chosen by the Rector's...like Angel Staff and P-Staff. I learned that speakers were nominated and voted on...Rector's gave the first and last talk, What is a C? and the 4th Day talk. As a staff we voted on who would give the Faith Talk, Self Talk, the Reconciliation Talk, and the Palanca Talk. We voted on themes, t-shirt designs and colors and registration fees. Rector's and CMC's worked on logistics, like location, agenda, scheduling 4th Day meetings and so on. As Awakening got closer nominations were made for the following leadership team and were voted on; results were always given at the end of the weekend and the torches were passed. So much to do, so much time devoted to each of these things, and I did it all, again and again.

I served on staff for D.A. #15 thru D.A. #22...I made so many memories, so many friends and learned so much about who I was and who I wanted to be; but more importantly, I learned the traditions and the spirit that is Dillo Awakening...

I learned that Tracy Chapman's song "The Promise" would forever remind me of Club Med and P-Staff of D.A. #15. It was here that I experienced prayer at its strongest, where Bullfrog gave new meaning to a liturgical dance, where I sacrificed sleep in order to keep a 24 hour vigil rotation to pray for retreaters I had never met and where I learned what it was to have faith - faith that I was on the right staff, faith that Maya wouldn't leave when she realized I wasn't there, and faith that I wouldn't forget the steps to our dance...

I learned that Pine Tree wasn't just a broom and clearing your throat before paying homage to Pine Tree could win you an applause, whether you recited a sonnet, caressed the broom as if it were your Juliette or talked to it like you were Cartman and Kenny from Southpark, just clear your throat and you'd be fine...

I learned where it was the staff went right before a speaker got ready to talk and what "speaker support" really meant when it was my turn to first talk to the retreaters about Reconciliation, then about the "palancas" in my life and finally what it meant to me to be a "C"; it would be during one speaker support, right before my palanca talk, that I realized Gerry Hill was meant to be in my life as my friend, my confidant and my brother...

I learned that staying up till after midnight, on both Friday AND Saturday night, working on palancas and listening to Gerry Hill tell stupid jokes over the microphone in the kitchen at Sionito, while Nancy Cruz kept yelling at him, reminding him HE was a rector that year, wasn't the smartest thing to do when we had to drive about an hour back on Sunday afternoon, but we did it anyway...

I learned at D.A. #16 that I never wanted to be a Rector if I had to eat what Gerry and Nancy ate at Rector Breakfast, until I realized what came after. I would be blessed to serve as Rector for D.A. #22 and watch my future brother-in-law experience what I did; I'd also experience Rector Breakfast for myself, "Peaches" style, while Adriana threw down her Rector Breakfast like a champ...

I learned that Cook Staff was the hardest staff to be on and required the most work, but if you had Angelica Montalvo as your staff head, a chef named Javi on staff and a Michael Ramirez to keep stirring the pot, then being on THAT Cook Staff was gravy...BUT, I also learned that being Table Staff Head was the coolest thing I would ever do at Dillo #18 and having a Table Staff retreat in Von Ormy would be the one thing that would bring us together as a staff, laughing and crying, eating and praying, and where we all learned how many crispy tacos Gerry Hill could really eat...

I learned that giving the Reconciliation Talk would be the hardest thing I would ever do at Dillo, because it meant forgiving those that had hurt me and asking for forgiveness from those I had hurt; and while it was the hardest thing I did, it was also the most rewarding when I heard a retreater get up and say they didn't want to be there that weekend, and tried leaving, but it wasn't until they heard my talk that they realized why they were meant to be there - David Smith will always hold a special place in my heart for making that journey, as a speaker that year, completely worth the struggle...

I learned that next to giving the Reconiciliation talk, listening to Maya give the Self Talk and Julio give the Palanca talk, would be the next hardest thing to do - because listening to two very different stories from the two people who meant the most to me at the time, and knowing there was nothing I could do to make things better for them, or change what I had done, was truly heartbreaking for me and a humbling experience I wasn't prepared for, but it would also define the moment in which I realized Maya would always be in my life...

I learned that Wayne's grilled cheese sandwiches, singing "City of God" on Saturday night, sneaking P-Staff onsite for Community Hug, crossing over the water and sitting on the rock chair down by the river at Tecaboca, are what made Dillo Awakening complete...

I learned all these things and so much more. For me, Dillo Awakening was my escape. It was where I went when I needed to cry, laugh, be angry or just be at peace. It was where I went when I thought the world turned its back on me, and when I thought I turned my back on the world. I gained a new perspective on my life and that of my friends - and I learned never to judge a book by its cover. The spirit of Dillo runs through my veins and resides in my heart; it's what I think of when I think I can't take any more. The blue trunk in my house is more than a storage box, it's a keeper of memories, songs and prayers. It's what I open up every once in a while and take a moment to read what others once said about me; reminding me of who I am.

To all those who are a part of the Dillo family I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane and for those of you who have not experienced Dillo, I can only hope that you now have some understanding of what the spirit of Dillo means to me and so many others.

And to Dillo Awakening, I thank you...for opening my heart and giving me what I needed, because "...when the melodies are gone, in you I hear a song".

Till next time...

"I would send you a bouquet of sharpened pencils..."

It's that time of the year again...Teachers are hustling getting their classrooms ready. Parents are on the hunt for the poly-propelene folders and ziploc bags for their kids. High school freshman are nervous and sick, wondering where they'll fit in at that monstrosity of a place they call high school. High school seniors can't wait to be the coolest one's on campus, not realizing they are beginning the end of a journey and about to embark on a new one in just 10 months. College students are moving into dorm rooms, buying books and dreading having to park on campus - well, at least UTSA students are. Meanwhile, parents of these said college students are anxiously watching their bank accounts, waiting for that tuition check to clear. Merchants like Walmart, Target, HEB and others are busy stocking their shelves with notebooks and folders, crayons and markers, towels and bed sets, lamps and trash cans, and kleenex - for elementary kids and for mom's of first year kinder students. It's Back to School time...and it's one of my favorite times of the year!

As a student I always looked forward to this time. It meant buying new uniforms (uh, did we forget the dreaded brown plaid skirts and white oxford shirts I wore?), new shoes, a new haircut, the start of the new volleyball season and my favorite...new school supplies! There's just something about the smell of the inside of a new box of crayons, or the smell of a fresh roll of scotch tape that gets me all giddy. Yet, nothing beats the smell and feel of a newly sharpened, yellow, #2 pencil. The first stroke onto the brand new sheet of looseleaf paper...oohh, how I wish I were a student right now.

Now, as a parent to an elementary aged daughter, I look forward to shopping for her. Sure, I could choose to be wise and pre-order a box of supplies for her, and save myself the hassle of shopping and fighting the crowds...but where's the fun in that?!?! It's all about giving her the option to choose, to know she picked out those colors for her notebooks, those eraser tops for her pencils, that back pack and that lunch box. Plus, for a brief moment, I can remember what it was to be a student and reflect back on my time with my mother and shopping for my own things.

High schools are buzzing with excitement...awaiting the arrival of a new batch of fresh-fish! High school freshman are sitting nervously on the bus, wondering if they picked out the right outfit for their first day in high school. Should they have brought their lunch instead of gambling on what the cafeteria is selling? Is this skirt too short? Are my jeans too baggy? Do I still look like a junior high student? So many things going through their mind, so many fears and worries. The comforting thing about it is, they're not alone. Parents of these first time high-schoolers have just asked themselves these same exact questions...I should've packed his lunch...Her skirt WAS too short, I should've told her to wear the capris instead...Those were his dad's jeans!...My baby looks so young on that bus. But in four years, these same parents and students will look back and wonder how they got through this first day, how they survived the next four years and what will happen now.

This is not only an exciting time for elementary and high school teachers and students, but for those college students and their parents, it's the start of an entirely new chapter in their life. It's a time for parents to let go. To believe they've done everything they could to prepare their student for the world that awaits them, but to also know that no matter how well prepared they think their student is, heartache and life lessons are inevitable. No amount of preparation will make it any less painful. Mothers will leave their sons at their dorms, wishing he would have let her have her way with the room decor and bathroom setup. Fathers will leave their daughters at their dorm rooms, but not before doing a perimeter search, planting hidden cameras, and gathering fingerprints and background checks of roommates, suite mates and resident assistants.

College students will anxiously be waiting for their parents to leave so they can rearrange what mom did to the bathroom and remove the cameras dad planted...but more importantly, so that they don't have to see the tears of fear and worry they have in their eyes. They'll stress over whether or not their roommate likes the choice of TV or refrigerator they agreed to purchase, or that they'll even like their roommate! They'll worry about classes and professors, due dates and finals, and which student organization to join. New freshman will forget everything they were told at orientation and seniors will be happy just remembering to have applied for graduation! Financial aid offices will be swarming with students asking for emergency loans, just so that they can get that much anticipated refund check back. Admissions will argue with those students who claim they submitted all their paperwork by the deadline, only to learn mom was so busy color coordinating the dorm bathroom and bedroom, she forgot to mail in test scores. Advising centers will be flooded with new and returning students, some needing to register for the first time and others asking why they are on probation...uh, can you say minimum GPA?!

I feel privileged and blessed to know I have survived some of these milestones...I myself survived elementary and middle school. I got through high school and college, experiencing those inevitable heartaches and life lessons along the way. I've been the first time parent to the first year kinder student, and I had my own box of kleenex. While I have yet to experience any of the others I've talked about, I know some who are going through them now, and I'd like to take a moment to wish them well...

To my sister Loretta and my brother-in-law Lorenzo, Leslie is a smart, beautiful young girl. She has the ability to stand up for who she is and be proud of where she comes from. Southwest HS is lucky to have her on their campus, and they should be honored to have her as a Lady Dragon. You did good. She will be successful not only because of her natural abilities and talent, but because she has you as parents.

To my brother Joseph, you have the unique blessing of having had experienced first time freshman 3 years in a row, and now you'll experience 3 seniors in a row...Maggie will do her best and she will make you proud. Regardless of the past, this time is precious for her just as much as it is for you. Cherish it. Be there for her. It may take her some time, but eventually she will see what you did for her, what you sacrificed and how much you love her, till then, don't stop trying.

To my sister-in-law Cathy, Steve is an amazing kid. I can only imagine how hard today must have been for you, but he will be fine; and so will you. You've done the best you can, you've given him all you could, now it's time to just let go. He'll come home, eventually, maybe for the summer, on the weekends to visit, on the holiday break, or to come home and say he's found that special someone and is following her to New York. Whatever it may be, just know and believe you've done your very best. Steve is gonna be Steve. He's going to make mistakes. He'll be disappointed. He'll get hurt, drunk, fail a test, miss a class or, at the very least, show up late ;) Whatever he chooses, whatever he goes through, continue to be there for him and remember to let him know that no matter what happens you'll always love him.

Finally, to my mother, this was the time of year you looked forward to the most. The excitment of learning who was on your team, where your classroom was, and who the new teachers were so you could take them under your wing; but this year, it's very different for you. There is no campus to go to, no classroom to setup, no new teachers to guide. For now, all you have are the memories of August's past, but it should bring you great comfort and a smile to your face to know that somewhere, on some campus, in a classroom set up in it's one-of-a-kind way, sitting behind a desk, is a teacher looking at a picture with you in it, and thinking to herself, "Man, I miss her, but I'm so glad I knew her. I learned from one of the greatest teachers I've ever known, and I only wish everyone could've been as lucky as I was and had HER for a teacher." You changed so many lives mom; and while this isn't easy for you to go through, just remember the journey you took and all the stops along the way. I love you.

So, whether you're the student, the parent, a school official or university president, everyone is anxious about these first few days of school; and even though there will be a mixture of emotions everywhere, in the city of San Antonio, on a street called Dawn Trail, is a mother who is looking forward to her next milestones and the road ahead of her...and nothing will keep her from stopping to smell the pencils.

Till next time...

Not Even Dora Prepared Me for This Adventure!

Madelynn Grace Garcia...born August 20th, 2008. Two years ago I was blessed with my third daughter. A few days ago I categorized her as the completion to my "trifecta of divas", and indeed she is! We celebrated her birthday on Friday at took the trio of divas to McDonald's. As I sat there talking with Johnny, I found myself thinking back two years earlier, and what an adventure it was, and has been, since that day.

When I learned I was pregnant December of 2007, it never occurred to me that I would have another girl. I figured after two girls, I was due my boy. God obviously had a different plan and a somewhat distorted sense of humor. On our way to see the doctor, Johnny and I talked about what we would do if it was a boy or a girl, but we referred back to Faith Marie, and realized we just wanted the baby to be healthy. (Faith's story to come later.) But deep down, we both secretly knew what the other wanted, even if we didn't say it out loud. Once in the exam room, I laid there, nervously waiting for the doctor to come in - I was always nervous, at every visit...you'd think after 2 babies I'd be like, "Sup doc? Ready to do this?" but yeah, not so much.

Dr. Jones came in, said hello and asked how I was feeling. After my regular responses of feeling fatter, tired all the time, my backaches, etc., etc., he finally asked if we were ready to find out what we were having. The lights went down, the screen turned to me, Johnny by side and cold jelly on my belly...now all I needed was a tub of popcorn and an overhead voice reminding everyone to turn off their cell phones because silence was golden.

After a few minutes of trying to get the best angle, and listening to Dr. Jones mumble under his breath that the baby was being difficult, didn't want us to see, showing us the feet, the legs, the toes...I was like, "Doc, any longer and you're gonna have to prescribe ointment for the sono burn you're giving me with that thing!" But before I said anything, he said the 9 words I'd heard two times before..."Right there. You see those three little white lines?" Yes, the same 3 lines that sealed my fate with Mary Frances and Faith Marie. The same 3 lines that determined whether or not I would give Mary Frances' clothes away. The same 3 lines that now had Johnny and I in a silence neither of us could explain. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, but really was only about 5 secs, we both smiled and said, "Yes doctor, we know what THOSE 3 lines mean."

I accepted that, for whatever reason, God was blessing me with another girl. For His reasons, this was to be my life. A mother of three girls. I would be challenged with remembering their favorite colors to wear, of changing out closets every 3 months, of coming up with new ways to comb their hair and the endless debate of who was the cutest (my own personal debate of course). But the truth of the matter is that, my girls are each distinctly different, they are each their own person. I worried during Maddie's pregnancy whether or not I'd love her as much as I loved the other two. It was the same worry I had when I found out I was pregnant with Faith. It's amazing how you can love 3 different people with the same kind of passion, every day of your life. Maddie is my reminder that things aren't going to happen the way I want them to. She's here to remind me of what it is to be consistent, fair and just. To not forget about her, but to also not forget about her sisters. To show me that it's possible for me to love her as much as I do her sisters.

So, with Dora and Boots by our side, and on the cake, we celebrated Maddie's big day with family, friends and the South Texas heat! I watched with admiration at the young toddler she's become. Her smile. Her hair. Her eyes. Her antics. Her skinny leg jeans. She's as beautiful today as she was two years ago. She's her mother's daughter and her father's gem. Tonight, right now, as I watch her sleep on my bed, I wonder what it is I did to deserve such blessings in my life; and while I may never know the answer to that question, I do know that I'm on the adventure of a lifetime, and not even Dora knows how it will end!

So as Dora would say, "Hasta luego!"...Till next time...

When It Rains, It Pours...

It's been 44 years - 44 years of changing lives, one student at a time.

When the rain started coming down last week I thought to myself, "Great. Mud. Humidity. Bad hair days. Ugh." That was the extent of my complaints and annoyances. I was also bothered, because I knew it meant that Mary Frances would have rain on her field trip to the zoo on Thursday. She'd have to sit on soggy grass, trying to hold an umbrella with one hand and eat with the other. Then of course, I was also irritated with the fact that I would have to fight with my own umbrella trying to walk to my building at work, fighting the wind that was quite determined to turn my umbrella inside out forcing me to get wet; but while the rain brought me so many aggravations, it would take only one text message to change all that.

"...today may have been her very last day. She's ending her 44yr teaching career in a wheelchair." It was a text from my sister letting me know the results of my mother's MRI. An impacted fracture in the left knee; bound to a wheelchair for the next 12 weeks. This was supposed to be the grandest finale of them all. We've watched her struggle with the decision to retire for the last few years, and now, when she's finally ready, working at preparing herself for these final months, this happens. When I spoke with her, the frustration and desperation in her voice was almost more than I could handle, but I kept it together, for her. It was the least I could do; she'd done it so many times before for the rest of us. At that moment I was angry. Angry that for someone who does so much for everyone else wouldn't get her chance to "walk" away the way she wanted to. Angry that I wasn't their to sit with her. Angry that I lived so far. Angry that my sister could be there and I couldn't. But after only a few minutes of being angry, I realized I was wrong to feel that way; I needed to be grateful.

It was such a mixture of emotions for me. I knew I was being angry FOR her, but deep down I knew it was something that needed to happen. God has been trying to get her to slow down for a while now, but she refuses. Always taking on more than her share, always being the last one there, always putting everyone and everything else before herself...God had enough. I told her that the next morning when I called her. With a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes I reminded her that this was God's way of saying He was gonna do things His way, not hers. I told her that He had plans for her, but that He needed her to be healthy. She understood, but through her own tears she admitted what I had suspected, that it was the "not knowing" that bothered her. The idea that she now had to depend on others when all the while she was the one being depended on. I'm sure you're wondering why I would be grateful over something that was causing my mother such sadness and despair...well, it's quite simple. Having her realize, even through force, that she needed to slow down gives me the hope that she'll be around longer. She'll have no more deadlines, or whiney students, or paperwork to do that would keep her up till all hours of the night, just the responsibility of taking care of herself; allowing others to be there for her. In a matter of 48 hours I aged 10 years. More than ever I realized I was no longer the child, but the adult. I'm completely grateful that the injury isn't as worse as it could be and that she'll only be in the wheelchair for 12 weeks, as opposed to 12 months, but what's heartbreaking is to see her feel truly helpless; phobic of having to be stuck in a chair. While this may be her reality now, what we see is something completely different.

My mother is a go-getter. A fighter who refuses to go down without a fight. I refuse to accept the idea that this is it for her and while she may not return to the classroom I still believe there's something more she will do. She has spent her life teaching so many...students, teachers, her family, the church and anyone who dared to cross her path. Regardless of the untimeliness, we will celebrate her accomplishments, her selflessness and the difference she has made for so many. I don't see last week's rain as such an annoyance now, instead, it was exactly what we all needed - wash away the old and begin anew. The rain may have made it dark and cloudy those few days, but the sun will rise and tomorrow is a new day and while we may not know what tomorrow holds for her, I'm just happy knowing that, God willing, she has a tomorrow, and another, and another...

Till next time...

The House That Built Me

"It's a small town, south of San Antonio, just take I35 South, like you're on your way to Laredo, we're between Loop 410 and 1604 off 35"...some refer to it as the V.O., others say I live out in B.F.E., many joke they have to catch a flight to get there and some joke about having to stop at the rest stop before getting there. Regardless of the jokes, it's Von Ormy, the town I grew up in and where my home is.

A small house at the end of a dirt road and unless you know where to turn, you'll miss it. It's our secret, Torres Lane is known only to those who live on it. We are a family of six, my parents, an older brother, an older sister and my baby brother. I grew up next door to my aunt Yolanda and uncle Ysidro, who are like another set of parents to me, with my cousins, Frank, Danny and Rosanne, that were and, still are, like having two more brothers and another sister. My grandparents lived at the corner. I was blessed to have family surround me my entire childhood.

Our house was small, simple. It wasn't anything lavish or over-the-top, but had all the makings of a happy home. Do you remember our room Loretta? Two twin beds on either side of the room, with the yellow flowered bedspreads, your stereo in the middle and a dresser in the far corner next to the way-to-small closet. We were years apart in age, but we still shared a room. I remember watching my sister get ready for school, in her brown plaid skirt and white Oxford shirt that, I too, was destined to wear one day, standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair singing whatever song was on the stereo, whether it was REO Speedwagons' "Can't Fight This Feeling" or Journey's "Faithfully". To me, she was cool, and fun and everyone liked her and I wanted to be just like her. I still do.

My older brother is even a few years older than my sister is, sorry Joey, but what I remember of him growing up in our house is his love for Star Trek and always looking good in a suit. He still does. I remember the red radio he gave me one Christmas and how excited and grown up I felt. I had my very own radio. I could play any cassette I wanted and listen to any station I wanted to. I could record my favorite songs off the radio. It was blissfully awesome! My brother's room was on the other end of the hallway, smaller than our room. It had the dark brown wood panels with the little grooves between them that were perfect for thumbtacks to pierce through to hold up whatever poster he had up. We had the same kind of panels in our room, but of a different color. I used every bit of those grooves on my side of the wall for my Bop Magazine posters.

By the time my younger brother Billy graced us with his presence, Joey had already moved out and shortly after Loretta would follow and the two would be roommates in a house up the road. Billy did everything an annoying little brother would do, pick fights, tattle on everything little thing I did, even put a live salamander in my hair. We fought, sometimes more than we needed to, and sometimes it was ugly. But, he's still my brother and I love him. I remember a time when he did something wrong that really upset my mother, and she was getting ready to spank him..yeah, my mom is hardcore old school, wooden paddle and all! I remember hiding around the corner of the kitchen on the phone with my sister, crying, telling her, (sobbing)"Mom is gonna spank Billy with the paddle and he's crying and crying..." I knew there wasn't anything Loretta was gonna be able to do, but it was at that moment that I realized I would be the one to protect him, to defend him. Now, don't get me wrong, if he messed up, then I'd be the first one in line to call him a dumbass, BUT, unless you lived in that house on Torres Lane, you couldn't say anything about my brothers or my sister. You still can't.

Our house was witness to all our fights, our happy moments, our struggles and triumphs. We each have our favorite memories and the things we remember the most about living at home. For me, it was the hallway that made a perfect "U" in the middle of the house. It was one of my favorite places. Before central air and heating, we had wall units. One air conditioner unit was in the front room and the other in my parent's room. We also had a wall heater unit. During the winter, I remember waking up a little earlier than everyone else just to be able to lay down right in front of the heater. I'd take my pillow and a small blanket and fall asleep nice and toasty on the floor. Of course, I'd wake up to my mother yelling at me because I either overslept or I was getting the blanket too close to the heater and she was accusing me of trying to start the house on fire.

So many memories were made in our house and so many traditions created, from leaving our shoes out for St. Nicholas to leave us a present to making Easter nests so that the Easter bunny knew where to leave our baskets. Birthdays were never forgotten; but they did get smaller as we got older. I remember for my 21st birthday, a monumental moment, I came home with some of my girlfriends from the Lake because my mother insisted she see me that night before I went out. I walked in to my aunt Yolanda handing me my first official, and legal, drink as a 21 year old, a margarita on the rocks. Those of you that know my mother, know that she doesn't drink, but she toasted with me anyway to my special day. I can remember endless late-afternoons in the winter, when I was in junior high, walking up the sidewalk with my dad, coming home from a long afternoon of basketball practice. Before we could even get to the end of the sidewalk and walk up the steps, which was surrounded by a black wrought iron railing, my dad and I could already smell the tortillas and beans cooking inside. We couldn't get in there fast enough. I could go on and on because the memories are endless and are always present, but I'd be typing forever (too late, I know).

What's important to know is that it was my mother and her never-ending efforts to keep us a family, to remind us how important it is to love one another, to be there for each other and that we would be nothing and have nothing without God in our lives. She is the backbone to our family. The rock we all come crashing against when things get rough...unexpected pregnancies, car accidents, divorce, a night in jail and all the things we're never ready for in life. She's the encyclopedia of advice, whatever the concern or worry, she always has the right words, even if it isn't what we want to hear; but she always reverted back to her faith and the belief that with God all things are possible.

While I give much credit to my mother, my dad is just as important. I'm not gonna lie, I'm a daddy's girl, always have been. He can make anyone laugh at the drop of a hat, he's the Hispanic version of Bill Cosby; at least that's what my mom says, but we all agree nonetheless. My dad is simple and loveable and strong and forgiving and loves unconditionally, all at the same time. As Johnny likes to call him, he's the "Don" of Von Ormy, a lookalike to Paul Sorvino, and the President of the white t-shirt club...but he's still my dad. I smile when I think about all the times I remember him walking into the kitchen, where my mother would be cooking something, in mass quantities of course, and he'd simply turn her around and they'd start dancing to whatever tejano song she had blaring on the kitchen radio. He was at every one of our sporting events, from Joey's all-star baseball game in Mexico City to my basketball tournaments in Victoria to Billy's golf tournaments, even Loretta, as uncoordinated as she was to play sports, no one twirled a wooden rifle better than she did during the half time show for Holy Cross....no really, no one else did because she was the only one, but he was there for her too. :) He was there for all of us. When my dad wasn't working night shifts at Kelly AFB or playing golf, he was at home with us, with his family.

Our house was our security blanket, and now, even as adults, it still is. It's where we run to when we think we've had enough of life and need to be reminded of what it is we have and what we should be grateful for. It's where I go when I need a break from city-life and take in the simplicity of all the small things I grew up with. Where dinner starts out with just four of us, and by the end of the night, there are ten of us there and we've danced in the kitchen and aunt Yolanda has made us a cazuela. A house where everyone walks in a friend and leaves as family.

Now, as a mother and homemaker, I stop and wonder if I'm making my house a home for MY children. Will they look back and say, "My mom and dad did it right. This is our home." I hope so. I hope that my girls will continue to love each other and be there for one another as I am for my brothers and sister. I hope that the friends and family that have come through my doors have felt the same kind of welcome as my friends and family did walking into my parents' home. I hope that my family is as proud of me as I am of them, because it was our house, our home, that built us all.

Till next time...

All's Fair in Love and War...Until Someone Scratches

Everybody loves a little competition.

It's March...for many guys it's more than just the Ides of March, it's March Madness. Time for team selections, bracket drawings and wagers over which college is gonna take it all the way...will it be Kansas or UConn...Kentucky or Duke....and it goes on and on. The heat is on to pick THE team, to have the perfect bracket and bragging rights for a year. I can't decide what's worse, March Madness or the madness over Fantasy teams; seriously guys, your teams are fake.

While I poke fun at my husband and my brother in law and all those others that partake in the craziness of ESPN-land, I can't deny the fact that I, too, am just as competitive. I think I've had that competitive drive since birth. I competed with my sister when I was in the fourth grade and she was a junior in high school and it was over a prom dress. I actually cried at the fact that I couldn't have one and she could. I competed about everything - my grades, how many books I could read, how many points I could score, just about everything. I started playing sports in the fifth grade and my competitiveness only grew; but I enjoyed my athletic years, from volleyball to basketball to softball, I did it all. Except for track. There was something about running in circles that didn't do much for me; that, and I couldn't see myself jumping over anything mid-run; it was an accident waiting to happen. Once I was in college I accepted the fact that there were athletes MUCH better than me. I wasn't going to play college volleyball for Florida State or be the starting point guard at the University of Conneticut. It was a fact I couldn't deny. So, when life gives you lemons, make a margarita and enjoy! I played club volleyball at the Lake, and that was about it. It wasn't until I met Johnny that my REAL competitive drive came out.

Johnny has been playing pool since he was nine. It was something he did with his dad and continued on with his brother. It runs in the family, from his uncles to his cousins, it's a family thing. To make a long story short, playing pool is a way of life, for the most part. Our first date was to Fast Eddies pool hall. I remember getting there and thinking to myself, "Oh how fun. He'll probably let me win and be cute about it." Yeah, not so much. I'd be nice about it, but then who am I kidding, he kicked my ass all night long. I remember telling him, "You know, you could let me win a time or two." He said, "My dad always said never to LET anyone win. A win is earned." Fine. Two can play that game. I'd explain my point, but that's a little too personal for my blog. ;)

Needless to say I've come a long way since then. Johnny joined a league shortly after we started dating and continues to play; it's become a family thing and I can pretty much hold my own. We have a table at home and our girls understand that it's something we do; Mary Frances has even started to pick up a stick and play with her daddy. I won't deny the fact that I enjoy playing the game myself. Tuesday nights is our night to play. When I can make it out there to play, I go to win. Talk about competition! Bottom line is, I don't like to lose. Johnny has taught me the skill of being a good loser, whatever that means, but I try and suck it up and say "Good game." It's a little more difficult to say when it wasn't a good game. Tonight I went to play and I was in an especially grouchy mood. My game of nine ball wasn't what I wanted it to be. I missed a couple of straight in shots and scratched on my last attempt to win. What the hell!!! When I was done playing, I swallowed my pride, put my big ass tail between my legs, walked over to my opponent, put my hand out and said, (gulp) "Good game". Ugh. I hate that part of a losing night AND I still had a round of eight ball to play. I ended up playing the same person and truly kicked some ass. I felt people watching our match, whispering over some shot I made and then realizing I was Johnny Garcia's wife, then I could hear the "Ohhh's". I tease him all the time about that, but it's true. But oh how easy it is to walk with my head held high and wait for my opponent's "good game". What I sometimes forget is that it may be just as hard for them to do the same.

We all have a competitive drive; sometimes over the most trivial things like, who can be first in line at Best Buy the day after Thanksgiving; or who gets the closest parking space at UTSA; or how about being the first person to report that Tiger Woods was a dumb ass; or the won who wins the girl; let's not forget about being the one at the highest level in Farmville; or, in the case of my two roommates that summer, the one who could eat the most tacos on Taco Sunday at Taco Bell! Competition is healthy, it brings out the better part of us...sometimes. It's also a tough reminder that there is always someone else out there who is just a little better than we are at something. We can't always win and we can't always be in first place. I know I won't win EVERY Tuesday, but I can try. That's all any of us can do, is try. But I do love Johnny's joke, "What do you call the student who finishes last in medical school?....You call him Doctor!" He didn't finish first but he's still a doctor!

Till next time...

"America is my country and Paris is my hometown." - Gertrude Stein

I'll always feel that way about Dublin.

It's the middle of March, and for many high school and college students, it's the time of the year they look forward to next to the Christmas holidays...Spring Break. I walked across campus today and couldn't help but smile and enjoy the sunshine, the breeze and the lack of craziness on campus. Probably because the students have started their break early. As I strolled through our Sombrilla I found myself thinking back to Spring Break of my senior year in high school. It's 14 years later and I remember it like it was yesterday.

Sr. Jo was our senior English teacher, our Art teacher, the junior class moderator and our friend. She made going to school bearable and, more often than not, enjoyable. She'd be the one to teach me to write a true research paper while Sr. Agnes worked on my creative side. Sr. Jo would also be the one to open my eyes to the world. She offered the girls of my small high school an opportunity of a lifetime, to travel the world, to cities we'd only read about in class. I was fortunate enough to be one of those girls. Sr. Jo made sure to not let this experience interfere with school, so her trips every year were scheduled during the week of spring break. Originally, we were supposed to go to the Scandinavian countries - Denmark, Norway and Sweden. It was the fall semester of our senior year when she got word that the countries we were to visit would be under snow during the time we were scheduled to be there. She was given two options: #1. Take the trip as scheduled. We would get a private tour and it would just be us. (No offense to my fellow travelers, but I saw them everyday, the idea was to go and meet NEW people.) OR #2. Change our destination. And so she did. When she told us we'd be going to England and Ireland I about fell outta my chair; March couldn't get here any sooner.

I can't begin to describe the excitement and fear I felt days before we left. There was so much I would experience. I had a passport. I had traveler's checks. I bought luggage. But I also had never flown, so, much of my fear was focused on my flying experience. As we boarded our plane, I looked back at my parents and I realized what an opportunity they were giving me; little did I know it would be the one of the greatest things they could have ever done for me. I knew that when I returned I would not be the same daughter I was when I left.

I didn't own a CD walkman, which was the hot item at the time; but I took cd's just in case I borrowed someone else's. In the meantime I journaled my trip (big surprise, right?). I took pictures. Loads of pictures. I visited with strangers on the plane; anything to pass the time. In between flights we'd do the Macarena at the Cheers tavern in Memphis airport and ride the indoor child's merry-go-round at Minneapolis airport. When I did have a chance to borrow someone's walkman, I listened to the Cranberries. I usually only had the chance to borrow one for a little while, so throughout the trip I only had it long enough to listen to 2 cd's in their entirety, both by the Cranberries. I bring this up because those of you that know me, know that when I hear "Dreams" or "Linger" I get lost in thought. I smile at the memories, remembering my amazement as we flew over the dark Atlantic or how grown up I felt as I made my way through customs all by myself. I still remember the sense of adulthood I felt as I had my passport stamped for the first time. I was really here.

England was everything I imagined it to be and more. From the double decker bus to the red phone booths to Big Ben, I saw it all. I stood at Tower Bridge and in front of Buckingham Palace in awe, taking in every moment, every sound, the people, the accent, the life of another city. At that moment I realized that Von Ormy and San Antonio was not all there was. There was a whole other world out there, and I was in the middle of it. Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Starlight Express" gave me a new sense of appreciation for theatre - I was at a musical in London's West End; even as I type this I have to stop and think and realize, yet again, that I was really there. I really went to Westminster Abbey; I walked through Windsor Castle, admiring the vastness of the rooms, the ornate furniture, the paintings that hung on the walls and then drank a cup of hot chocolate at Shakespeare's Coffee House just outside the castle walls; I saw Queen Mary's Doll House with details one could only dream of, from the monogram stitching on the tiny pillow cases to the replicas of the paintings that hung on the walls of Buckingham Palace that were now the size of a postage stamp to the tiny china that was laid out on a dining room table the size of a mini-Twix candy! The intricate details that this doll house was made of was truly astonishing. I walked through Trafalgar Square being careful not to let the pigeons bother me too much; I stood at the doors of the original Hard Rock Cafe and imagined all those that had stood there before me; I walked through Shakespeare's birthplace and Ann Hathaway's cottage and found myself in a literary story, every poem and sonnet I had ever read took me to this place; and of all the places we saw I'll never forget our time standing in the middle of Picadilly Circus - the lights, the people, the rich culture that flowed throughout this place was enough to make me miss it even before we left. I didn't think this trip could get any better....but I was wrong.

We took our coach to Wales and rode a ferry across the English chanel into Dublin. If I had to give one word to describe what this city means to me it would be: breathtaking. Dublin is my hometown. It's where the grass is always greener and everyone is Irish. Where daffodils grow in perfect square plots in fields so green I had to sit in the middle of it just to make sure it was real (I have a picture to prove it). A city where I kissed the Blarney Stone upside down with help of an old Irish countryman who called me "love" in his thick, Irish accent as he took my hand to help me lay back and called the boy behind me "lad" to help him do the same. A city that welcomed me to the country of Ireland with open arms and unknowingly opened my heart. I spent the last four days in Ireland soaking up all that I could as fast as I could...making a visit to St. Patrick's Cathedral, hanging out at an Irish pub where I had my first Guinness and got hit on by an old man (I also have a picture to prove this), and a shopping trip where I would buy my mother an Irish linen tablecloth and my niece Leslie an Irish linen baptismal bib. People ask me what it is I bought myself and I tell them, "nothing". I think I bought a tshirt for myself at the Hard Rock in London, but for me, my souvenirs were my pictures...all 16 rolls! Some of mother's advice before I left was to make sure I didn't take pictures of "things", but to make sure I was IN the pictures. It was some of the best advice, because I have some of the best pictures of my trip.

It was outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral that I made a decision. I wasn't going home. Dublin was my home. Ireland is where I wanted to be. Of course, Sr. Jo wouldn’t hear of it; I remember her telling me, “Your mother will kill me if you don’t get off that plane with me in San Antonio!” She was right. Tanya, our lovable tour guide, gave me another option. She invited me to come back and stay with her and her husband, who we got to meet in London, for the summer. She stressed the importance of me going back and graduating and finishing my senior year. While I dreaded getting on the plane, I knew she was also right. I cried twice on my trip, the first time being when we landed in Boston on our way back…I cried because I knew I was no longer in Ireland, but what I brought back with me is more than I ever could have asked for.

Yet, in the midst of all this memory-making and sight-seeing I can't make light of the friends I made. We were grouped with a group of students from Kansas. During our first hotel stay in London, the hotel rooms were a little small and the numbers didn't add up for all of us to room with our own group. Sr. Jo asked me if I would do her the biggest favor and share a room with two girls from Kansas who I had not met yet and the one freshman that was in our group. She knew I wouldn't complain and would agree, but it was probably the best thing that could've happened to me; it was my way in with the other group. I instantly connected with my two roomies - Heidi and Amy - and they made it so easy for me to get to know the rest of their group, including Norb. Yes, Norb is his name. I learned more about him in our last few days than I did about the girls I went to school with for the last three years. We had a lot in common and shared the same frustrations. We talked. We laughed. We became friends. It was on our flight from Boston to Memphis, coming home, that I realized the impact this trip had on the both of us. He handed me a letter and asked me not to read it until I was on my flight to San Antonio. I couldn't wait that long. When we landed in Memphis and went our separate ways, I read the letter at our gate. He described what the last few days meant to him and how he couldn't believe what someone could mean to him in just a short time. It wasn't a romantic letter, it wasn't filled with cliche remarks or sappy lines, it was an honest letter from one friend to another. In the envelope, he had given me a chain he wore and attached to the chain was a medal of St. Jude. He told me to take it and remember him. I was speechless, and so I cried for the second time on my trip, but who wouldn't? I was beside myself. I quickly took out a pen and paper from my journal and wrote as fast as I could. I knew I needed to give him something in return, but per Sr. Jo's instructions, we weren't to bring anything of value with us. I had nothing. At least I thought I didn't. Sr. Jo gave me an oak, pocket knife she always carried with her. She told me she'd had it forever and that it had saved her a time or two, but she knew that right then, I needed it more than she did. She told me I could have it, to give to him. And so I did. A couple of weeks after I got home I received a letter in the mail from Kansas, thanking me for what I had given him and for the memories of a trip we would both never forget. Life being what it is, we lost touch shortly after our first year in college and have yet to speak again. Regardless, I have my memories, my pictures and St. Jude.

Spring Break, for me, is more than just a beer fest at the beach for a weekend. It was a monumental moment in my life. It wasn't an accident that we ended up in England and Ireland; it was the way it was supposed to happen. So, as I listen to my students talk about their upcoming plans, I can't help but smile and think back to my own Spring Break, because it was the only REAL spring break I've ever had. It was a week filled with adventure and excitement, hello's and goodbye's and a bittersweet ending. I embarked on a journey that gave me new memories, new friends and moments I would never forget and at the end of that journey I wasn't just a girl from a small town, I was much more than that...to all those I traveled with, thank you. I owe 10 of the best days of my life to each of you, ..."May the road rise to meet you, May the wind be always at your back, May the sun shine warm upon your face, May the rain fall soft upon your fields, And, until we meet again, May God hold you in the hollow of His hand" - St. Patrick.

Till next time...

Starbucks and a Devil Who Wore Prada

Joe Fox said it best, "...the whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee - short/tall, light/dark, caf/decaf, low-fat/non-fat, etc...so people who don't know what the hell they're doing or who on earth they are can, for only 2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self." While the comparison was meant to be funny and a line in a movie, it does hold some truth for all of us.

We all go through life making decisions and choices that affect everything and everyone around us. Stop and think about it. The decision to stay home from work one day makes a big difference for the person waiting to see you at the office; the choice to take a short cut to work affects someone else's normal route to work; the choice to pay for McDonald's in cash, and while you search for that last penny or nickel may seem life-saving to you, it's actually torture for the minivan behind you and the father in the driver seat who has twin toddlers screaming at the top of their lungs for their happy meal. The choices we make affect everything. Yes, these were very comical and average, but look at those outcomes. Now imagine those choices we make that are truly life altering. Scary, huh?

I wake up some mornings wondering if this is the life that's meant for me. Is this what I'm supposed to be doing? But just when an ounce of regret starts to creep up inside me, something, or someone, reminds me otherwise. The beautiful thing about our lives is that we always have a choice. Sure, as a child, a lot of things are chosen for us and unfortunately for some, those choices aren't always the best. Many have more difficult choices to make and some of their obstacles call for even tougher decisions than any of us can imagine, but they have a choice. I still think back to the choice I made so many years ago to re-enroll in Sr. Agnes' writing class. What if I hadn't? Would I be able to do THIS? Something as minor as choosing between electives made such a difference in my life. On the flipside, I stop and laugh when I think about the choice I made to have 3 male roommates for a summer; what the hell was I thinking??? But I tell you what, that summer and those 3 roommates are moments I would never trade and if I had to do it all over again, I would do it the same way...granted, I didn't pick up the best habits, but it's a decision I'll never regret. It was a summer I would gain a best friend, the ability to get ready in 10mins, the talent to drink just about anyone under the table and the gift of knowing the Jack in the Box menu by memory!

In talking about choices and decisions, 14 years ago I made the choice to go to Our Lady of the Lake University. It was a decision that would truly be life altering and one I would never regret. It was a decision that brought me to new friends and new experiences, new loves and new losses, regrets and triumphs...I had the opportunity to choose to be a part of the Dillo family, to decide to make a few bucks with Campus Activities, a choice to lead with SOL's, a decision to make new friends and memories through UPC and a choice to befriend a man who would eventually be my husband. The Lake became my Starbucks cup of coffee, because while I didn't know what I wanted to do or be, I knew I could make a few choices that would satisfy me for the moment, but these choices and decisions would eventually carry me through a lifetime.

Seven years ago this month, I made another life changing decision, one that would bring me good times and bad...I became a wife. I chose to share my life with a man who wanted to share his with me. I chose a life that I never thought I would choose; for sure I thought I would be Carrie Bradshaw, because Lord knows I have plenty of Samantha's, Miranda's and Charlotte's in my life! I thought I had my future all planned out...I would be independent, successful, single, and living life; I never imagined I could still be those same things and NOT be single; little did I know. I don't regret getting married. I don't regret my choice in a husband. I'm the woman I am because of him. He pushes me to be more; to be better and he challenges me in every way possible. I chose a good man.

Some of my choices haven't always been easy or as fun. They've been mind boggling and down right ugly...missing family birthdays and special occasions, breaking hearts, even breaking my own, being careless and reckless and neglecting all the things that were important in my life...I live with regret and guilt over the pain I caused others and especially the heartache I caused my family. But then my choices and decisions changed...the choice to have my daughter was never really a "decision" I needed to MAKE but a choice I needed to ACCEPT. She'll be 8 this November, and for the last eight years I have learned that NOW, my choices not only affect me, but her as well, and her two sisters. I still learn from my mistakes, and I wouldn't be where I'm at if I didn't. Recently I had to make a decision in my life that required me to accept the fact that it can't always be about me and that I can't do everything. I've had my time to do it my way, to do what I wanted when I wanted, NOW, it's time to do what's best for my family and for my home. So, graduate school will wait. There's no doubt in my mind that I can do it, that I have my husband's support and that of my family; but I will not let my children do without me. I made the choice to have a family, a home and to be a wife and I love my job. For many, these things would seem like excuses, but for me, it's my life and my choice. Do I FEEL like a quitter? A little. Am I a quitter? No, I'm not. I may be a lot of things, but a quitter I am not. Like everything in my life, I have to choose what's important at the moment. Right now, for me, it's important to be with my family, to be there for the special things, even if it's just a Saturday morning to make pancakes together and stay in pajamas all day. When I start graduate school again, and I will, it will be when I'm ready, when I've gotten myself in a better place to know that no one will have to take a backseat to my wants.

Miranda Priestly said it best, "...you want this life, then those choices are necessary." She's right. I know the life I want and I know the choices I have to make to get there, but I don't have to do it all at once and I don't have to make all those choices today. For now, I choose my girls, my family and my happiness. Until I'm ready, I'm just gonna sit back and enjoy my tall, decaf cappuccino!

Till next time...