3/52 :: children.

I wrote this essay while thinking about my upcoming 29th birthday. Jordan and I are surrounded by peers who we love, most of whom have children, and one day, we hope to join their ranks, either by having biological children or by adopting someday. The thing is: We're not there yet. But we're talking and dreaming and open to what God has in store. So I wanted to write an essay about where I am right now on the subject of children and fertility and pregnancy. I know these are personal subjects, and your views and my views might not be the same. That's okay. This is just the view from where I sit right now, and maybe by writing and talking about these things, you'll know your views are okay too. 

--

I might be the only woman on the planet who questioned her fertility after watching an episode of New Girl. 

The Fox television show isn't even one I typically watch -- Jess' immaturity grates and what on earth do they ever do with Winston? -- but once in a while, the convenience of Netflix wins, and I watch a few episodes while cleaning the house or folding our clothes. Then, about a year ago, I watched as Jess panicked about the dearth of her eggs after 30, and I promptly scheduled my annual physical. (So much for mindless television.) 

On February 2, I'll turn 29 years old. I own a home and a business and a dog. I'm happily married and take long walks and occasionally try a yoga pose or two. I read a lot of books and decorate our house and sit on my front porch. I ask big questions and journal and play the piano and sometimes cook dinner. I am incredibly fulfilled, and yet the assumption seems to be that I should be constantly preoccupied with my baby-making abilities (which, by the way, may not even be up to me, but no one seems to be concerned about that little detail).

It is hard to be a childless woman in the South, to be asked incredibly personal, intimate questions about babies and fertility and timing.

And I would like to clarify that I want children. We want children. It's really no one's business when we have them, but the desire is certainly there. We talk a lot about raising children, about our hopes and dreams for parenting and what it will be like if and when this tiny house has another little person in it. Those are the things we are excited about, the things we love talking about on date night. 

But there are other things to consider, of course. This business of ours, with its infantile temperament and the resulting sleepless nights. My bordering-on-absurd fear of pregnancy and childbirth, only exacerbated by the horror stories the Internet leaves at my fingertips. Our mental and physical heath, which we'd like to have under control before caring for another human being. So many details and discussions, none of which we should have to share publicly or with well-meaning family or friends. It is hard for me to understand when conversations about baby-making -- conversations that really boil down to sex and biology -- became the norm.

Here is the reality: Last January, I went to my gynecologist, a kind, gentle, rational, faithful woman I adore. She didn't bat an eye when I told her I'd heard on a television show that 90 percent of a woman's eggs cease to exist after age 30. Instead, she smiled. She told me I had nothing to worry about, that she would help me prepare for baby-making and childbirth when the time came. She appeared completely calm and unconcerned, and I thought: thank you. And I wish I could send all of my friends to my doctor. Because I might have reached near-hysteria thanks to Zooey Deschanel, but other women I know whisper and share the same fears -- sometimes more concrete and realistic than my own -- and here is what I wish for all of us: women who will not rise up in fear with us, but who will instead talk us down off the ledge, who will assure us we are fine. We are going to be fine.

Last Friday, I bought a set of Childcraft encyclopedias for my unborn, unconceived children. I've got a couple of Christmas stockings I've bought, too, set aside for future use. 

I am hopeful for the growth of my family. I trust it will happen exactly when and how it should. I am excited for back-to-school dinners and colorful nurseries and an excellent husband who will undoubtedly make an excellent father. 

But I will not live in fear, and I will not answer all of the pointed questions -- are you still on birth control? are you trying? don't you guys want kids? -- because they don't deserve to be answered. I will not wish my beautiful life away, because one day I want to tell my children what a very good life we welcomed them into, what we worked hard to create both for them and for us. 

This life is too good to worry or wish it away, and so I will continue to read and to play the piano and to enjoy dates with my husband. And one day, when we are ready and it is meant to be, our family will grow, and we will, I think, become parents to the loveliest, smartest, silliest children in the world.

on life in a small town.

We are lucky. 

It's hard to remember that when the humidity is as thick as sweet tea and our breaths become deep and measured on walks around the neighborhood. We are in the last long, dwindling days of summer, and in the South, the dog days can be excruciating. You, with your west coast breezes and your falling leaves and your sweater-buying? I envy you. 

But last weekend, we walked around our quaint downtown and celebrated the arts. We explored new shops and admired larger-than-life murals. We said hello to friends and frequent customers, to acquaintances and fellow shop owners. 

It was fun, and I'm not sure it would have been possible in a bigger city. 

I tweeted last week that I didn't understand the term "love-hate relationship" until I moved to a small town. 

And I am almost terrified of blogging about these feelings, because the Internet is weird, and I don't know who reads this space anymore. I am afraid that maybe my fellow small town dwellers will read my words and misunderstand my confusion for dislike, so let me quickly clarify: We are enjoying small town living. It is fun and goofy and different and weird. Kind of like us, honestly.

The characters we meet are worthy of classic literature. Our house is within the downtown limits, and we can hear the football games and the high school marching band from our front porch. That is good, good stuff. 

We're fortunate, too, because our Southern small town is growing and thriving, not dying. That arts festival? It couldn't happen just anywhere. Next month, there will be a book festival and a film festival. The following month, a celebration of plantation wildlife. Our town is unique and gifted, and we like it here. 

But there is something about small town culture, isn't there? I'm grateful for Gilmore Girls and the Mitford books and Anne of Green Gables, because thanks to them, I knew small town life would be different. But Southern small town life is its own beast. And I told my mother the other day I was so confused. Because there are Friday Night Lights and arts festivals, and Jordan and I happen to really like both (we have always been football and museum kind of people). But we're discovering those cultures don't really cross one another's paths here. And it is so odd to straddle both -- to enjoy the high school marching band but to also relish painted murals on a wall. My mother -- because she is my mother -- insisted our tastes just mean we are well-rounded, but it doesn't really feel like that here. It feels like I have to choose, and I'd rather not. (Let's face it: I probably won't.)

Add to that dilemma the fact that I am known here now -- book lady and all that jazz -- but of course I am not really known, and it's all rather difficult.

I think this is really just what moving is like; in other words, maybe none of these scenarios is even specific to small town living. Maybe this is just what it's like to grow up and move and have to find your place in the world over and over and over again. 

We are carving out a space. We are attending high school football games (for which we had to Google what colors the teams wore) and finding local hang outs. I have discovered the city's best milkshake, which feels like a big accomplishment. We are attending local theater dinners and taking late night walks and learning to live with streets that shut down at 7:00 p.m. I am contemplating joining a gym, which we all know will end in futility, but it's fun to consider nonetheless. 

I read a lot of blogs by people who live in New York and San Francisco and Salt Lake City and Austin and Chicago, and they're lovely. I relish their words, and I don't read them because of their geography, but I wonder: Where are the small town dwellers, and what can they teach me? I am desperate to learn how I am supposed to do this, how I am supposed to find my place. I need to know what other small town dwellers know.

Jordan and I used to discuss, hypothetically, what it would be like to live in a small town. There's one conversation I remember with absolute clarity. We talked about how we would break in to people's lives, how we'd try to be approachable and kind. We talked about the fun (to Jordan) and horror (to me) of everyone knowing your name and your business.

I don't know what to think of all of this. I'm not quite sure if I'm the big city person I think I am, but there are days I wonder if a small town life is for me.

Of course, for today, it is. Because we have chosen this, and thus far, I don't think it's been a bad decision. Different from decisions our friends have made? Gosh, absolutely. Different from what we imagined? Probably, yes. But better? In many ways, you bet. 

So here we are, living in the small town South, figuring it out -- as so many of us are -- as we go. It's not so bad, really. We are trailblazers, in a way. I think one day, we will tell our children the stories of how mommy and daddy moved to a small town and bought a bookstore and tried to make things happen, and maybe they will laugh and roll their eyes, but maybe they'll be inspired to do something different, too.

the courthouse project.

When I was a little girl, my family used to take the most wonderful vacations. Not expensive, not lengthy, but wonderful nonetheless, due in large part to the adventuresome (but always practical) nature of my parents. Our vacations were full of educational detours, quirky pitstops, and historical landmarks. My love of national parks? That comes from my parents. My insistence on eating at local hole-in-the-wall establishments? That's my parents. 

It's funny, then, all these years later, to see myself following in my parents' footsteps. To realize that in spite of our differences from my parents as a couple, Jordan and I are eerily similar in the way we choose and plan our vacations. 

If you follow me on Instagram, you know our summer has already been filled with adventures. We've traveled up, down, and across the great state of Florida, witnessed fireworks along the Savannah riverwalk, and chased rabbit trails around south Georgia. What you may not know is just how many of our travels this summer -- and really, for the past three years -- have revolved around something I lovingly call The Courthouse Project. 

Since passing the bar exam back in 2010, Jordan has been healthily obsessed with visiting every county courthouse in Florida. It's an interest that comes, I think, partly from Jordan's career as an attorney, but also from his (and our) love of old things. Photographing each courthouse became something we did on weekends and on road trips, and soon, Jordan envisioned tackling all 67, compiling them into some sort of photo collage or another. Neither one of us is a photographer; a shame, since so many of Florida's courthouses are really, truly beautiful. But the photography, I don't think, was nearly as important as the adventure. 

The state we used to call home -- the state I have called home my whole life -- is diverse and vast; I don't know what other place in our country (perhaps other than California) can boast such a plethora of flora and fauna,  such a wide range of terrain. Because of The Courthouse Project, we've seen it all. We've driven across my beloved Panhandle, through tourist traps and into quiet, sleepy, dying towns; we've glimpsed the white sands of the Gulf and the crystal clear water of the Atlantic. We've rolled our windows down next to alligator-filled creeks and seen the shadows of orange groves at midnight. We've raised our eyebrows at the excess of Palm Beach and walked across the cobblestone streets of St. Augustine.

I doubt very many people have traveled the state -- any state! -- like we have; visiting each county seat takes a certain amount of stamina and patience. Not every city is beautiful; not every stop offers some hidden gem. We have, in so many ways, seen it all, and every time we'd arrive at some new location -- undoubtedly off the beaten path -- I'd think of my parents and the vacations I used to take with them as a child. 

Jordan and I have been married nearly six years; we've known each other for almost 10. In our time together, we've been to San Antonio and Venice, to Atlanta and San Francisco. We spent our honeymoon in Newport and our first anniversary in a windy, cold Chicago. We've hidden away in Tybee Island and taken day trips to Seaside and St. George. Our phones and our walls are full of pictures of Savannah and Florence and Boston and Nashville and New Orleans and Naples and Rome. Our trips, most often, are taken on the cheap; we are not expensive travelers; we can't afford to be. But our adventures together are incredibly special, and this weekend, as we traveled back down to Florida from a weekend with friends, we stopped for our very last courthouse. 

I can be a bit of a sentimental fool. I hide it well, I think, but there are boxes of love letters and a newspaper editorial I dedicated to Jordan's old car that all insist deep down, I am soft. I hold special places in my heart for the things and the people I love. It's bittersweet, then, to put the last courthouse pin on the map, sad to put away the coloring sheet Jordan's been keeping to highlight the counties we've been to and the ones we still need to visit. They're all filled in now, and the historic Nassau County Courthouse in downtown Fernandina Beach officially marked the end of an era for us.

We'll spend the next few weeks, maybe months, debating what to do with Jordan's courthouse pictures, how best to compile them all into albums or prints. He'll be the first to admit not all of the photographs he's taken are frame-worthy, but there's something about seeing them all together that's pretty spectacular. Sixty-seven counties, each one with a treasured history, an architecture and agriculture all its own. 

This courthouse project has been a part of our vacations and road trips for three years, guiding us, little by little, on where to go next. Now we've reached the end, and I wonder just what we'll tackle next. It's funny; this project is a little reminiscent of where we are in life right now; the end of one chapter, the beginning of another. Life can be silly and special like that, if we notice. 

Everyone's adventures are different. The routes we all take are unique and varied; no two of us really choose the same ways. But I'm glad I've found someone who will get off at the next interstate exit and explore a little bit of the unknown, someone who will travel to the places we often, as a hurried people, forget. I'm grateful my parents taught me to travel away from the usual path, and I'm happy Jordan and I know, even as one journey ends: the adventure's really just beginning. 

All 67 pictures of The Courthouse Project can be found on Facebook; Jordan would love if you took a minute to scroll through and vote for your favorite courthouse. (Mine is pictured above.)

ah, well.

{lettering by Torrie T. Asai}

Jordan's on the couch sleeping, exhausted, I'm sure, from pulling our family's weight this past week. 

As it turns out, there are a few occasions when being married to an attorney is extremely helpful. One? When putting down an offer on a home. Also? When buying a business. We happen to be doing both of those things. At the same time. 

Two weekends ago, after mutually agreeing to wait until January to buy a home in Thomasville, I found a home there I loved. It was small, but it had a front porch and a backyard meant for a hammock. The appliances were new, but the character was old (1898!) and the walls were almost the exact same color I've painted the walls of every rental home we've ever lived in. It was surrounded with other well-cared-for homes, just a short walk away from a school and a park. It was well within our budget, and it just felt meant to be. 

Often in my life, I plan for something, and inevitably, the rug gets pulled out from under me. The plan changes, and I'm left with my head spinning. We had decided to wait until January, so it made perfect sense that we'd find a home we loved now, with October barely out the door. 

So we put in an offer on Monday. We put in an offer, and this town -- this tiny town where most of the homes we've looked at are still on the market, months later -- surprised us. The house we loved, a house that had only been on the market for a few days, had caught the eyes of a potential renter. We assumed there wouldn't be much competition there. Buyer > renter, right? (And I say that, obviously, as a renter.) What we didn't really count on was the potential renter hearing about our offer, and putting up an offer of their own. 

This week, then, we entered into a bidding war on our first home. Everything happened so fast, and I admit: Monday night, when we prayed together over our first offer (ever!), I prayed for easy. Gosh, I just wanted easy. So much in our lives right now is hard, and I just thought, you know? I'm going to pray for easy. I'm going to pray for smooth sailing, for peace and calm and a process we could both smile our way through. I've heard the horror stories, the home-buying nightmares, and I specifically prayed for none of that, thank you. 

But then the bidding war happened, and today, while training a new employee at work, I got the call that our second offer had been rejected. The owner of the home chose the renter-turned-buyer's offer. 

We lost. 

(And I guess, in a way, it was easy.)

It's okay. I really did love that house. I really had imagined a hammock in the backyard and my dishes in the cabinets and our couch in the living room and a bright blue front door. I had pictured parties and house guests and finally, finally getting to sit on my own front porch swing. 

But it wasn't meant to be. And I told myself, as we waited by our phones and tweaked offer after offer, that it would be okay. If we didn't get this house, another, better-for-us house would come along. And I want you to know: I know that's true. I firmly believe it. 

That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. Not yet. 

I think it's okay, realistic even, for me to be a little heartbroken. And yes, even a little bitter. The whole process seems horribly unfair; two comparable offers, and the first offer presented ought to win, don't you think? Plus, we've watched friends and family members buy houses without breaking a sweat; why, oh why, couldn't that have been us? 

So tonight I'm a little sad. But curled up in my little gray chair, in my rental cottage I have poured a lot of time and effort into, I'm okay. We'll get one last Christmas here now, I think. We'll host my family's annual Christmas Eve brunch. I might get brave and host a Friends-giving for some people I love. I'll hang up some bunting, light candles, read a few more books. I will enjoy where I am, because where I am is lovely and above all... it's where I am. To not love it, to not enjoy it, would be a tragic waste. 

We're okay. It's been a long week, and we're tired. Jordan still has our business contract to look over, and I've got a difficult decision looming, and I know it's been a lot for us. We've tried pretty hard to be grown-ups this week, and I think we've done a darn fine job. 

I was thinking on my commute home today how nice it would be to win one. What I forgot, I think, is that we learn so much more from the losses. And yes, 2013 has been, in my estimation, hard. But gosh. I can't think of another time in my life when I've done this much growing, this much stretching. And I'd wager that's a good thing, even if it's a little bit painful. 

So here's to the losses. We've had a few lately, but I think it's making us better. 

a brief word on manhood.

I am not really much of a crier. Sure, sometimes there's a Publix commercial or yes, every single episode of Parenthood and The Wonder Years, but overall, I don't cry that much. I cry mostly when things move me, when I see something sad or beautiful or heartachingly happy. But it's not often, not really, and it's certainly not something I do in public. 

But Saturday, I got tearful while ringing up a couple of people at the register. 

It was this dad and his two kids, a boy and a girl. The girl was maybe 12, 13, with braces, kind of tall, thin. You could tell she wasn't quite a teenager yet, still definitely in the "kid" stage. Not consumed yet with coolness or thoughts of what other people think. The boy was younger, maybe 9, 10. And the way they treated each other -- kind of teasing, joking with each other -- was just the most precious thing. Maybe it's because I see a lot of kids in the store, lots of kids who clearly don't really like their siblings, or, who at the most, are ambivalent toward them. But I loved watching these kids. It was clear they loved each other, even liked each other. 

They picked out their cupcakes, and their dad came over to the register to pay. I've started to keep "impulse buys" up at the register: reading glasses, Le Pens, and these really great "book lover" buttons. They're fun, and at $1 a piece, they're hard to resist. The girl started digging through the pins; she loved them. (I'd figured her for a big reader, and I was right.) While she was looking, her dad was paying. The credit card had been swiped, and by the time the girl picked out which button she wanted, it was too late. The dad looked sorry, but the girl didn't whine or anything, just shrugged her shoulders and started to leave.

But her brother stopped her. "I'll get it for you!" he said. "Pick out a couple of pens you want too; I'm going to get some." 

And just like that, I started to get tearful. 

This kind of stuff never happens at the register. Siblings are never that kind to each other, and -- more often than not -- they're whiney and petulant about what they can and can't have. These kids were so good-natured; I was in awe. The brother wanted his sister to get the pin she wanted, and she looked at him and smiled so happily. "Really?" she said. "Sure," the brother shrugged. Not a big deal.

And I guess it wasn't a big deal. But it reminded me so much of my brother, of my relationship with him, that it just brought tears to my eyes. Chet and I don't have the perfect relationship, and we weren't always close when we were younger. (I'm pretty sure he may still have some scars that one time I dug my nails into his arm and started to scratch...) But I think generally, we liked each other. One Valentine's Day, he left a bouquet of sharpened pencils on my desk at home. I played outside with him. He played school with me. We were friends. 

These kids had that kind of relationship, I think, and it made me so happy. I figured that was the reason I started to tear up; these kids reminded me of my childhood, my relationship with my sibling. 

When I got home Saturday night, I told the story to Jordan, and he smiled. "What?" I asked, figuring he was probably just getting a kick out of my sentimental ways. 

"That's manhood," he said. "What you saw today is how men should act. That kid was acting like a man should." 

Maybe it's because I've been talking to a friend lately about what manhood looks like. Maybe it's because there's so much discussion in the Christian evangelical world about "becoming a man" and what it means to be tough and masculine. Maybe it's because there are all kinds of books devoted to the differences between boys and girls and what men need and what women need. 

We forget we all need kindness. Gentleness. Grace. Generosity. 

That little boy reminded me of my brother, no doubt about it. Chet hasn't been home since May, and in our close-knit family, that's odd and unusual, and I miss him. That little boy's actions reminded me of Chet, but I think Jordan's right: They also reminded me of how men should behave. 

In a world where little boys grow up and make big, horrific mistakes -- mistakes that involve other human beings and hurt and pain and an overall misunderstanding on how to treat people, how to treat women -- it's touching to see someone who is being taught what to do rather than what not to do. 

It's a small thing, I know. I've no doubt that brother and sister fight and quarrel and hurt each other with their words and actions. One moment doesn't define a relationship. 

But I'd like to think somewhere, that boy is learning how to treat girls. I'd like to think his mother and father are trying hard to show him the way, teaching him that his words and actions affect other people. Yes, it was just a few dollars, just an on-a-whim purchase for a sister who wanted something nice. But really, it was more. 

Jordan and I want children one day, maybe even one day not so far down the road. We talk all the time about our dreams for them, about what we envision for our future as a family, about the legacies we'll leave them, the things we'll pass on that were passed down to us. 

We're nervous a little, too. The world our children will enter is a lot different from the one we were born into. A few weeks ago on Twitter, this Vanity Fair article was making the rounds, and I finally had to stop reading because it was so terrifying. I read bits and pieces aloud to Jordan, and we looked at each other in horror. This is what waits for our kids? 

It's terrifying, but it's also a call to bring children up in a way that leads them to treat all people -- of all genders, races, and orientations -- with love and respect. If we truly believe the tenets of Jesus, if we truly claim to call Christianity ours, our children will have to look different. They'll have to act differently. I don't know what exactly that will mean. I know they will make mistakes and they will pitch fits and they will have to say they're sorry. 

But I hope so desperately our children will be the ones who perform small acts of kindness for each other. I hope they will be selfless and generous. I hope they will treat others even better than they want to be treated themselves. 

Jordan was right. That little boy this weekend was a reminder of what real manhood looks like. It's not about physical strength or macho behavior. It's not about fantasy football or who's in charge of the remote or the six-pack waiting in the refrigerator. 

It's about the jokes they choose not to tell. It's about the words they choose not to speak. It's about looking out for others. It's about showing kindness. It's about grace. 

And isn't that true for just about everything? 

a letter to my cousin, re: soulmates.

Below is a letter to my cousin, who sent me a text after reading yesterday's post, wondering what I thought about soulmates. She probably wasn't asking for an in-depth response, but she knows that's really all I have to offer. In-depth is just how I roll. So, Ashley, this one's for you. (And the rest of you? I suppose you'll just have to suffer through.)

---

Dear fuzzy*, 

You asked me to tell you what I thought about soulmates, but you asked me via text, and I think we both knew that no good, thoughtful response was going to come via text. (I don't really do pithy.) We also both know I do my best thinking by writing, and so no answer felt more honest or genuine than the one I started to type. 

I had a professor in college who taught that when discussing anything of any importance, we really need to define our terms. Unnecessary and unfounded arguments arise when we don't clearly define for people what we're talking about, so let's start there. 

When people talk about soulmates or finding "the one," I cringe. And part of my discomfort, you should know, comes from my personality type. Lovey-dovey stuff, especially when professed or demonstrated publicly, makes me uncomfortable. It feels fake, somehow, to me, but I fully understand that for many people, finding "the one" isn't fake or for show. It's real, and I respect that. It's just not for me. 

Before Jordan and I were even engaged, an uncle (not your dad, no worries) asked me if I believed there was one person for everyone. I'm not sure anymore what prompted that question, but I remember exactly what I answered. 

No. 

I don't believe that. I don't believe it because it doesn't strike me as fair. If there's only one person for each of us, we could live our wholes lives never meeting "the one." Our soulmate might be in China while we're in Chicago, and that doesn't sit right with me. I told my uncle the same thing I'm going to tell you. 

Love is a choice, a decision. I choose to love Jordan. (Some days, it's harder than others.) As we get older, I'm hopeful that treating love as a choice will mean Jordan and I will not fall out of love. Instead, we understand each day requires effort. Love isn't always easy, but it's good, and I believe it's a decision I make. 

I believe I could have chosen someone else, and I don't think that diminishes my love for Jordan in the least. I believe I could have chosen someone else, but I'm so glad I didn't, and I'm fairly confident I would have had a hard time finding anyone to suit me better. (I've said many times, publicly and privately, that I fully believe I would have been a content spinster had I not met Jordan. A crazy cat lady without the cats.) 

Jordan fits me in so many different ways. Do I believe in soulmates, in one, single person for everyone?  No. But do I believe in kindred spirits, in connections? Absolutely. I believe in friends that feel like family. I believe in love that grows stronger each year. I believe in attraction and in contentment and in best friends forever. 

You know me well. You know I am stubborn and at times, unpleasant. You know I get grouchy when I'm hungry, and I need alone time to survive. You know water makes me unbelievably happy, and drama drives me crazy. 

At my bridesmaids luncheon, when we played the "who knows Annie best" game (best game ever, by the way), do you remember who won? Do you remember, out of all my friends, who knew me best? 

You. And you were 15.

We are kindred spirits, and you know why? Blood and time. You know all of those things because we have spent nearly 20 years getting to know each other. We finish each other's sentences and can say a lot without saying a word. We like the same TV shows and know -- for the most part -- when we each need space. We just get each other, even when we drive each other crazy.

That's what I think about love. Jordan knows me incredibly well, better than almost anyone. That's because nine years ago, we started hanging out. And we talked about everything, even hard things. We argued and disagreed and shared our hopes and fears. We got to know each other, and we took our time. 

When I met Jordan, sparks didn't fly. I didn't think, "This is it." (Again, I'm not really prone to those feelings any way. I'm a "T," remember?) But I do remember thinking we had a lot in common. And I remember really enjoying spending time with him. It wasn't long -- weeks, maybe -- before I began introducing him as my best friend. 

Fifty years from now, will I think of Jordan as my soulmate? 

Yes. I think so. 

Because by then, we'll have known each other most of our lives. I believe our souls will be connected because of time and work and choosing to love. 

Do I believe in soulmates like so many other people do? No. But I do believe in loving for a lifetime. I believe our grandparents gave us that legacy. I look at pictures of Mama and Papa, and I'm always struck by how happy they seemed with each other. They look like best friends. 

I guess what I'm trying to say is, love takes work and effort and time, but true love is fun. The work is worth it. The effort is easy. The time passed is fast. 

Jordan is my best friend, my husband, my partner for life. If that's how you're defining soulmate, well, then, I suppose he's mine. 

Did that clear things up? 

I love you, and I disagree with Jordan. I think we probably could have been married and done just fine. 

Love, 

Your Lorelai

* Friend + Cousin = Fuzzin, or Fuzzy

on dating the same person for nine years.

I was freshman in college. In other words, I was a baby. That's how I feel when I look back on it, now that I'm 27. I look back and think, my gosh. I was a kid. I was a kid, and I sat down two seats from a guy. A guy who was funny and smart and friendly, and I thought, yeah, we could be friends. And that's all I really thought, because that's all I was looking for. I was 18 and in college and lonely and scared and excited and overwhelmed, and I sat two seats down from someone I just thought I could be friends with. And that's what we were. Friends. And I know there's all this stuff out there about the friend-zone, and about how guys and girls can't just be friends, and so there's just a lot of pressure and confusion about labels and what people should be and what the definitions are. And I get that. I think some of it's true. But I was 18 and didn't really care too much about labels or friend-zones, and so we stayed friends. Then good friends. Then best friends. Then best friends who seemed to be fairly mutually exclusive. And you know what? It worked for us. Because we were 18 and probably stupid and naive and rather ambivalent toward what other people thought or said or did. Now we're 27, and the date on the calendar says we've been dating -- we've been friends -- for nine years. Nine years. My gosh. I can't even find a picture of us from nine years ago. It took us so long to label what we were that we didn't even take pictures together. No Facebook or Instagram, so no need to, I guess. And I look back and think, how did that even happen? How did I just happen to sit two seats down from the person I would marry? How did I know that this goofy, smart, head-in-the-clouds kid would grow up to be wise and kind and funny and exactly what I was unknowingly looking for? I'd like to think I was just a really great judge of character. That at 18 I knew what I was looking for in a friend, in a boyfriend, in a husband. But I'm not sure I really did. I don't believe in soulmates, but I do believe in kindred spirits and best friends. I believe in connection, in clicking, in just being with someone else. And from the very first day I met him, that was there. We connected. We laughed together and read together. We sat next to each other at lunch and met up after class. And slowly, I guess we fell in love. I didn't really think about it too much, and I'm glad. Now here we are, nine years later. We dated a long time before getting married, not really intentionally, but also not unintentionally. I think we really wanted to be sure that who we met at 18 would be who we wanted to be with at 80. So far, so good, and I wouldn't change a thing. Not how we met or how we dated or how we came to be. It's exactly as I would have written it for myself. It's a story that isn't too sappy, isn't too romantic. But it's funny, and it's got a few twists and turns, and some of it's downright sitcom-worthy. But most of it is just ours, and that's enough for me. 

Nine years of dating is a little bit remarkable to me, which is absurd, since countless people date and are married for so much longer than that. But we're 27, and 18 feels so long ago, and I like that we're different, but really, the same. That kind of consistency is nice. 

So here's to finding your best friend and getting to date them. I'd say it's a pretty great way to go. 

in which i am inspired (again) by leslie knope.

It's August 26, and the light I was looking for at the end of this summer's long tunnel seems just out of reach. We are so close to signing the paperwork on the business -- the finish line I've waited all summer to reach.

And two weeks ago, after finally resolving some of the store's issues (issues that had prevented us from committing to the purchase in writing), Jordan came to me with a brand new dilemma: a job opportunity of his own. 

This entire summer has been about the business: staffing issues, legal ramifications, financial concerns. In truth, of course, that's the way it had to be. We simply couldn't enter into this commitment lightly. Owning a small business is a huge change for us, and we spent June, July, and August analyzing this dream of mine, wondering if it was worth the sacrifice and why. 

It's been a summer largely about me.

The Bookshelf is my dream, but -- as any small business owner knows -- it had to be Jordan's too. His support was paramount to making the leap from manager to owner. I knew without a doubt: I could never do this without his financial, emotional, and physical support. The Bookshelf has to be our business. Together. The two of us.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I realized Jordan's dreams had to be supported too. If I ask my husband for true partnership, I have to give him true partnership. 

Two weeks ago, he came home talking about a job opening, and I just wasn't mentally prepared. We were so close to signing, so close to the light -- a return to our calm, simple, lovely life. In my eyes, a job opportunity couldn't have come at a worse time.

But I took a deep breath and helped him prepare his resume. I said prayers and offered counsel, listened as he described his interview, offered comfort as he played the waiting game. 

I tried to be supportive, because he has so constantly supported me. 

Yet I had hesitations. How on earth could he possibly accept a new position right now? We are in the throes of business-running; I need his help and flexibility more than perhaps ever before. I shared my concerns, shed a few tears, and then today, I watched Leslie Knope win her 2012 campaign. 

Mondays are treasured days off, and I was in desperate need of something funny to watch. Enter Parks and Recreation. And right as I watched Leslie's dreams coming true, right as her campaign is coming to an end and her time as city councilwoman is about to begin, I remembered her boyfriend Ben was offered a job in D.C. 

Leslie is devastated. The timing is all wrong, and she's ready for normal. She wants the campaign to end and real life to begin. She tells Ben to turn down the job, and -- to his credit -- he agrees. 

And I guess that's how it would have played out -- Leslie with her dream, Ben settling for some job in Pawnee government -- if it weren't for the wisdom of Ron Swanson, king of reality checks. In just a few sentences, he reminds Leslie what being a friend is all about.

"We didn't volunteer to help you because we wanted to wrap ourselves in personal glory. We did it because we... care. About you. You had a dream, and we wanted to support your dream. That's what you do when you care about someone. You support them, win, lose, or draw."

Jordan got the job. (A shock to absolutely no one who knows him.) He got the job, and after a few lengthy conversations, we agreed he should take it. So he did. 

In two weeks, Jordan will start a new job as an assistant general counsel. I'll be owning a business. We'll officially have lost our minds.

But we'll also be doing what I think we've come to do best. We'll be supporting each other, encouraging each other, pushing each other toward new goals and aspirations, making things happen. 

A year ago, Jordan was the driving force behind my decision to leave my corporate job to manage The Bookshelf. Two months ago, he was encouraging me to take the steps needed to own the business together. 

This week, I'm happily returning the favor. I'm letting go of the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm learning what it means to be a partner, a true support. 

I think Leslie would be proud.

grief.

{photo by Jared Pemberton}

Two weeks ago, in the middle of Jordan's regularly scheduled winter cold, Galentine's Day plans, and out-of-town company prep, we found out Jordan's grandfather had been rushed to the ER in north Alabama. He wasn't doing well. 

I cried in the middle of Target, because all of this feels too familiar. My grandmother -- the woman I am named after, the matriarch of our family -- died last January, and much of 2012 was spent understanding her death, coping with it and living with it. It felt unusually cruel to have to face another emotional blow just one year later.

But we often have to face things we feel we aren't prepared for, and last week, with work looming, we decided we needed to be with Jordan's family. My grandmother's death reminded me of the importance of family, of grieving and being together, and Monday, we called our respective bosses and drove the long six hours to the hospital. 

I know it is incredibly selfish, but the next three days reminded me so much of my grandmother's final month of life that I had a hard time sitting in the hospital, watching Jordan's family say goodbye to their father and grandfather. 

Death hurts, and it doesn't matter if it's expected, doesn't matter if it's your first loved one to lose or your fourth or your fifteenth. It is sad, and it leaves you feeling hungover for days in this cloud of disbelief and exhaustion and tears.

Pop passed away last Wednesday, and I can hardly believe it's already been a week. This is what happens, by the way. When you grieve, time means nothing. It is warped, and days last weeks and weeks last days. This Tuesday would have been his 90th birthday, and I get so sad when I think about that, when I look at these 90th birthday t-shirts plastered with his face, and it hits me that he didn't make it to that milestone. But then I think maybe he's playing checkers with my grandpa. Maybe his mom made his favorite dinner. 

And maybe heaven looks nothing like that, but I really don't care. It helps me to think he's eating and joking and making kids laugh, healthy now instead of broken. 

I have experienced death less than most. I still have both of my parents, my sibling, a slew of aunts and uncles, my husband. I've only lost grandparents, and I know that's lucky, understand that's special. But that doesn't diminish my sadness. I think about my grandparents all the time. I think about them when an elderly woman comes into the store or when I look back on my wedding day or when I dream about our future kids and how they won't ever know these people I knew with my whole heart.

With each passing soul, though, I am reminded of how important it is to be present. Jordan will never forget this last week, will never forget what it means to be surrounded by family, to be there in the moments it matters the most. My own parents drove up to the funeral on Saturday, and when they walked into the doors, I gave them the biggest hug I could muster. I needed my people. Jordan needed his. We needed each other. 

Death is hard, and perhaps one of the only things that makes it better is mixing the tears with laughter. Sitting with family and remembering those we love. Being there to run errands, to write obituaries, to design programs. Being together. 

We came home, pulled into our driveway at 1:00 in the morning on Sunday. We got up for church for Jordan to teach his final Myers-Briggs class. We tried to take a long nap. We picked up our dog from my aunt and uncle. We walked around in a little bit of a fog. 

And just when things started to seem unbearable and overwhelming, our friends bought our groceries for the entire week, unasked. My aunt slipped me cash, knowing I'd had to go an entire week without pay. (Something, by the way, I don't regret. Not even the littlest bit.) Three different friends have brought meals for us this week.

My point is: Life is hard sometimes. We've had an unbelievably rough couple of weeks, and our thoughts are never too far from Jordan's dad. From his aunts. From his strong, sweet grandmother. These are the people who will muddle through 2013, always associating it with the year they lost the man they loved the most.

But just when it seems we can't go on, something reminds us we can. We can, and we will, and we do. 

salvation, part ii.

I don't think I say it often enough, so I thought I would say it today, in the middle of this month of joy and gratitude and celebration and love.

One of God's greatest gifts to me in this life is my husband and his daily decision to work out our salvation together. 

Jordan reads a lot of my posts before I publish them -- particularly ones about faith -- and he and I have had, already in our marriage, innumerable conversations about our spiritual walks. I cannot tell you what a comfort it is to have someone -- to borrow an evangelical catchphrase -- do life with me, someone who sits and listens to me as I vent at the dinner table, someone who handles my day-to-day frustrations and confusions with grace. 

I love that my home is a "safe zone," a place where we can ponder Scripture, pray for wisdom, and ask questions about the faith we love so much. I don't think I realized how important that would be before marriage, so if you're single, consider this one of the only pieces of marriage advice I will ever give (at least now, while I'm still in my 20s and learning about it). 

Marry someone who will listen, not react. Marry someone who will look you in the eye, take your hand, and pray for you. Marry someone who will discuss and challenge your beliefs. Marry someone who is constantly growing and moving, not content to remain the same in their faith, year after year. 

As I work out my salvation with fear and trembling, I am eternally grateful I am not doing it alone. We are doing it together, and it is making us better. 

on becoming grown.

{photo by Kristofer Johnsson}

Way back in October, as trick-or-treaters came to our front door for the very first time, I looked at Jordan and said, "This is what grown-ups do."

For some reason, in my mind, hosting kids in costume and rewarding them with candy (the good kind, you guys... not the cheap stuff) was something only grown-ups did. 

I've found myself saying this phrase often these last few months, and I'm not sure if it's because I'm actually becoming more adult, or if at 26 I'm just finally identifying these small characteristics I've always associated with growing up.

Things like... 

... packing my lunch the night before. 

... turning off Netflix in time to go to bed. 

... getting up early to walk around the neighborhood. 

... having a fully-stocked medicine cabinet. 

... buying Drain-o. 

... grocery shopping at 10 in the morning. 

... scheduling our meals.

... listening to NPR. 

... doing laundry the minute it needs to be done instead of letting it amass into out-of-control piles.

... eating fruits and vegetables.

... carrying a water bottle around.

... accepting confrontation as an occasionally necessary part of life.

... buying underwear.

... working toward reconciliation.

... picking up the phone instead of texting.

... choosing home.

These are the things that constantly feel elusive to me, and the moment one of them becomes attainable, I instantly feel like I've conquered the world.

In her book A Circle of Quiet, Madeleine L'Engle writes it's not chronological aging that's difficult (that, she says, is a "nuisance" and "frequently a bore"). Instead, it's maturity she has to constantly grow into.

"...The experience which can be acquired only through chronology will teach me how to be more aware, open, unafraid to be vulnerable, involved, committed, to accept disagreement without feeling threatened..., to understand that I cannot take myself seriously until I stop taking myself seriously." Those things, she says, lead to true adulthood.

I think sometimes I get wrapped up in grocery shopping and folded laundry -- and let's face it, those tasks need to be completed -- but forget there are other marks of adulthood, marks I may not even know I've reached until I'm faced with a situation needing maturity and grace.

Over Christmas break, I washed a load of our nice clothes with a couple of butter soaked rags. (My homemade cinnamon rolls were delicious, but created a flowing river of butter off our counter tops.) The result? Several of our sweaters and jeans came out of the dryer with odd-shaped grease stains. I felt like such an idiot. Who messes up their laundry at 26 (almost 27) years of age? I mean, I've practically been doing laundry for 10 years!

Fast forward a few weeks, when I became aware of a rather uncomfortable situation that required my apologies and a whole lot of grace and patience. Although I didn't handle the situation perfectly, I did so much better than I would have even just a year ago. I took a breath, sought counsel from Jordan, said a prayer, and made a phone call. I didn't gossip (even though I wanted to), and I didn't over-analyze. Instead, I apologized and did my best to march forward in that relationship.

I guess what I'm saying is: I'd rather have grease-stained clothes than the emotional maturity of a 16-year-old. Lord knows I've got a ridiculously long way to go, but that phone call? It felt like a milestone. It showed me I'm different now than I was. I'm a work in progress, but I'm growing.

Maybe that's what being an adult is most of all. 

thank you, 2012.

{photo by Alexander Shahmiri}

I am a girl who loves new beginnings and fresh starts, so I've been thinking about 2013 since Thanksgiving, planning and plotting our steps for the new year and my goals for another season. Still, it doesn't seem right to ring in the new year without properly saying goodbye to the old one. 

This time last year, my grandmother was in the hospital and ultimately transferred to hospice care. My family spent our final days of 2011 mourning and grieving and holding each other close. In January, Mama let go of this life and greeted the next, whatever that means and wherever that is. Not many days exist in which I don't think of her; I'll be standing behind the register, and a woman will walk in arm and arm with her elderly mother, and I'll be moved to tears, thinking about my mother and her sisters, about my grandmother and the name I share. 2012 started so differently from any other of my years previous, and yet the grief and the heartbreak led to change and forgiveness and letting go and moving on. My grandmother's death reminded me of my purpose and turned my attention back to things and people I had forgotten. I drew close to family, and I let go of myself, of hurts and frustrations that had held me stagnant for too long. 

As winter gave way to spring, we roadtripped to Atlanta, and I ran a 5K. We loved Jazz Fest like we've come to do every year, and we visited Disney World with friends. 

We had so much fun in those springtime months, but I can't document March, April, and May without acknowledging they were hard months, too. I didn't write about it much, but in April, I struggled through a severe bout of adult acne. I hate those words -- hate even giving them recognition in a year that gave me so much more -- but I want to look back and remember that though those months felt long and painful, I survived. I cried myself to sleep more than once and refused to have my picture taken. I hated looking in the mirror, then felt plagued by guilt over my silly pride and vanity. And you know, I didn't learn a lot about inner beauty. Those words didn't comfort me then, and they don't really now. But I did learn that not everything is a gift. And I know famous theologians and creative Christian writers might beg to differ, but what gave me so much comfort during those months was knowing: God didn't give me that acne. Not out of punishment, not out of love, not out of some divine plan to beautify me on the inside. And after doctor visits and medication and more concealer than I hope to ever wear again, it slowly began to go away, and I -- my body and soul -- began to heal. I want to write about it now, because I don't want to forget how hurtful those weeks were and how absolutely little and human I felt. I hope it never, ever happens again, but in case it does -- in case one day I again feel small and insignificant and yes, ugly -- I want to remember three things: 

I survived. 

My husband told me I was beautiful every day. 

I am so much more than my face. 

This summer, after a springtime of busyness and stress, I took a break from saying yes. Jordan took a trip to Venezuela, and we rented a house. God answered the cry of my heart and gave me a new job which has stretched and pulled me in ways I never quite anticipated. He looked down on me with favor and gave me something I didn't even know I wanted, didn't even know I could have. Jordan and I traveled to San Francisco and relished our time together. We created purposeful Sundays and established Monday night yard drinks. I spent time with girlfriends, and we made new friends we think will last for a lifetime. 

I look back on this year, and it held so very much: Bible Study Fellowship. Chicago and Seaside. Nashville and Atlanta. Disney and Jazz Fest. Weddings and funerals. "Just say no" June and an August filled with life-changing yeses. I learned to take food to those who need it and to weep and rejoice with those who are weeping and rejoicing. I remembered money can't buy happiness, which is good since we have way less than we used to. I became even more grateful for my husband, for my friends, and for my family. I opened our home and closed chapters to our life. 

2012 was a roller coaster ride, but I wouldn't trade it. I honestly believe this year -- one filled with the awakening of my mind and soul, just like I wanted it to be -- made me so much stronger. 

As Jordan was evaluating his 2012 goals and resolutions, he lamented that he hadn't done as well as he'd expected. He'd left more goals unmet than accomplished, and you know what I think? You know what I said? 

Each year brings us more than we could ever anticipate. It's filled to the brim with nothing like what we expected. It's miraculous to come out on the other side with any of our original goals accomplished at all. We're made to bend and move, to roll with the punches and adapt to the curve balls. Our goals aren't always as flexible, and that's okay. 

It's December 31, and I can safely look back and say, this was a year like no other. I don't want to relive it, but I don't want to forget it either. I want to remember the good and the bad, and I want those memories to guide me in 2013. 

Thanks, 2012. I mean it with all of my heart. 

saving my life: four years.

A lot has happened this month; in our family, November is always a little bit crazy. It marks the beginning of what Jordan has termed our "Amen Corner" (whatever that means): our anniversary, Thanksgiving, his birthday, Christmas, my birthday, and Valentine's Day, all in a span of about four months. 

Last week, because of how the holidays fell, our anniversary landed on Thanksgiving Day, and while I'd normally balk at that -- who wants to share their special day with a major holiday? -- this year, it felt appropriate.

After four years, it feels like we have hit our stride in marriage. Sure, there are arguments and frustrations and hurt feelings and pointed questions about who left the dirty dishes to "soak" in the sink overnight, but overall, we are happy. We both are in jobs we love, so coming home at the end of the day is enjoyable. We're not making as much money as we used to, but we're okay with that. We have a new home that's cozy and comfortable and a dog that makes us laugh. We've limited our commitments, a lesson I learned the hard way after saying "yes" a little too frequently the year after Jordan graduated law school. We watch movies and travel and laugh and cook dinner together. We love Jesus and talk about church and faith and there is no judgment here, which is a relief, because we both still have so much to learn. 

There are always questions about the future -- finishing my thus-far-unfinished master's? having little ones join the family? buying a house? -- but for now, we are content. 

A while ago, I was talking with a friend about marrying young. It's something I've always been a little surprised about, the idea that at 22 I walked down an aisle in my blue Converse tennis shoes and said yes to something so permanent so early. I thought I'd marry a little bit later in life, after I had a few years of a career under my belt, a few years to learn and grow on my own. 

For whatever reason -- providence, I'd like to think -- I got married at 22 instead. I met someone who loved Jesus a whole lot more than he loved me, who I knew would make and keep his promises, who I trusted would trust and love and respect me. I married Jordan because he was smart and funny and confident, and he loved those things in me too. 

Because we got married younger than most, we've made almost every single major life decision together. We have sacrificed and we have fought and we have struggled financially and we have done a lot of growing up. 

I'm glad about that, because I know me. I am stubborn, and I am independent, and given time, I think I might not have married at all. And that would have been a shame, because marrying Jordan has been a lovely adventure. I would hate to have missed it.

I guess what I'm saying is, year four? It's been a good one. I feel like I don't sit back and recognize it enough. Some years are harder than others, I'm sure, and this one has had its own challenges. But I think it's worth acknowledging when something is going well, when days are more happy than sad. This, I think, has been one of those years. 

So happy four to us! I am so incredibly grateful I met and married my best friend. Here's hoping five is filled with happiness too. 

a final thought on quitting.

{photo by Michael Penn Street Photography}

Today is my last day of work at my current job before starting at The Bookshelf full-time tomorrow, and you should know: No matter how exciting or fun the opportunity and the possibility, quitting is never easy.

Yesterday, I cleaned out my desk, and unlike my first job post-college, I actually filled an entire box with my belongings. I've worked in my current position for just shy of three years, so there were mounds of paper to recycle, old business contacts to go through, and pictures to remove from the wall.

My office is perhaps the most depressing thing in my life right now, which I suppose, in the grand scheme, is a good thing. I only have to endure it for a few more hours, after all.

With the tear-down, though, came the nostalgia. I've learned so much at this job, grown so much professionally. It's hard to turn in my digital recorder, hard to conduct that last interview, hard to admit I won't be working in journalism anymore, a field I really, truly love.

It's hard to shake the doubts, to comprehend the loss of income, the loss of benefits. It's hard to ignore the "what-on-earth-are-you-thinking?" looks, the "why-are-you-jeopardizing-your-career?" positions, but for every fleeting doubt there is a more permanent happiness.

Yes, quitting is hard, particularly for an over-achiever like me who has always thought quitting was a bit of a dirty word, to be avoided at all cost on principle's sake.

But if there is one thing adulthood has consistently taught me, it's this: Quitting is not synonymous with giving up.

I'm saying goodbye to this job, to my coworkers, to my very first real office. But I'm saying yes to books, to storytimes, to author signings, to practical lessons that will come with helping to run a local business.

I'm quitting one thing so I can start another, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.

I'm proud of the work I've done here, of what I've accomplished professionally, of what I've contributed to my home financially.

But I am not hesitant to leave. I have thought and prayed over this decision, and I am confident in it.

Jordan and I talked a lot before we made this leap, and I remember sitting in Whataburger asking, "What if this fails? What if, in a year or in a few months, the store closes? Then what?"

He didn't skip a beat.

"Then you'll find a new job armed with more experience than you  had before. You'll get to see if running a bookstore is something you'd really like to do. Worst comes to worst, you'll have to find a new job. But think of all you'll have learned and experienced in just one year of doing this."

A couple of years ago, I quit graduate school, withdrew from my program after one semester of solid B work. I just couldn't hack working full-time and going to school. I couldn't do it.

It's hard for me to admit the things I cannot do. But when I finally did? There was such freedom.

I'd like to think that very tough decision two years ago prepared me for this one. It made it a little easier to turn in my resignation, easier to overcome the blow to my ego when my boss wouldn't let me work part-time, easier to take this leap into the world of retail.

Quitting, I think, isn't as bad as we make it out to be.

In fact, if we're quitting for the right reasons, I'd say it's downright good for us.

I quit my job, and I'm a little bit sad about it.

I think the key to quitting successfully, though, is to face straight ahead, to remain confident in the decision you've made, and to march forward into a newer, grander adventure.

That's what I intend to do.

being a grown-up.

{photo by Hannah Hayes}

Being a grown-up means getting the New York Times delivered every Saturday and Sunday. It means sitting up in bed, doing the crossword puzzle while the cinnamon rolls finish baking in the oven.

Being a grown-up means having a signature scent and style. It means having a livable, wearable, color-coordinated closet and clothes you iron the moment they come out of the dryer. It means having a tailor and a dry cleaner, even if you use both sparingly. It means spending wisely and taking care of what you own.

Being a grown-up means traveling the world and responding to adventure's call. It means making time and money for fun, because some grown-ups forget what fun is, and who wants to be one of those? 

Being a grown-up means having fresh flowers and remembering to throw them out before they begin to rot. It means having a well-curated, well-loved home, full of books and paintings and comfortable furniture. It means having a place other people love, too, a place where they feel warm and welcome and loved and appreciated. It's knowing what you love and why.

Being a grown-up means having a yard and a lawn chair and a fire pit and a sprinkler to run through on hot summer days. It means cooking and cleaning on a regular basis, mostly because you have to, but also because you know it makes you feel better when you do.

Being a grown-up means early to bed, early to rise. It means breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It means no more running out of the house with breakfast wrapped in a paper towel or scanning the refrigerator for expiration dates and signs of mold.

Being a grown-up means front porch living and rocking chair sitting. It means loving your neighbor and caring for those around you. It means having time to do the things no one else seems to have time to do anymore. It means life is a lot more simple than people want to make it.

Being a grown-up means no more overgrown laundry piles or rewashing clothes that soured in the washer overnight. Being a grown-up means sometimes drying your clothes outside on a line so they can blow in the breeze and smell like the air we breathe instead of some soapy chemical. It means doing the things you'd rather not have to do.

Being a grown-up means a little less television and a lot more books. Lots and lots and lots of books, and only the kind you can hold in your hand and mark with a pencil. Real grown-ups read books you can hold and feel and touch and smell, because deep down you know that's what your grandparents did, and it's what you want your children to do too.

Being a grown-up means getting your hair cut before it reaches the point where you begin to look homeless and ill-kempt. Being a grown-up means timely doctor's appointments and healthy eating habits and washing your face and flossing your teeth. It means taking care of yourself, because then you're better capable of helping others. It's putting on your own oxygen mask first.

Being a grown-up means getting vegetables from a garden -- maybe even one you helped God grow yourself -- and having at least one go-to recipe, the kind of recipe that made your grandmother famous. It's knowing some things are better made from scratch, and some things aren't worth the time and effort, no matter how many accolades you might receive. It's knowing some things are better made by your own hands, and some things can be better entrusted to the experts at Publix.

Being a grown-up means being a good friend. It means calling when you say you'll call. It means showing up even when someone forgets to ask you to. It means crying over hurts and smiling over successes. It means grace under pressure and enthusiasm over good things. It means a kind no and a reliable yes.

Being a grown-up means date nights with your husband and girls' nights with your friends. It means hanging out as a family and spending hours at the dinner table. It's knowing how to play a handful of card and board games so you never run out of things to do with the people you love. It's making time to do nothing with the people you love best and need most.

Being a grown-up means confidence in your own decision-making. It means gratitude for who you have become. It means trying to be better, but being content with what you have and who you are.

I'm trying, these days, to be a grown-up, the kind of grown-up I dreamed of being when I was a little girl.

What kind of grown-up do you want to be?