Four years ago to this very day, you went to heaven. 1,461 days…

In one minute it feels like an eternity, then with the next bottomless breath, it fees like it’s only been 5 minutes. Its the damnedest thing I’ve ever experienced. I swear to you it is.

So… as we’re all doing today… we’re looking back, reaching down deep, and remembering you… The good times, the old memories, and the last times we saw you, touched you, and smelled you. And I know this is normal. It’s just how we warm blooded humans operate. Its how we cope, how we breathe, and how we face tomorrow. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. And I’m okay with that.

As I woke up a few weeks ago, I realized it was June 1st. Yes, June. I know it’s really just like any other month, and it shouldn’t hit me so hard but it does… It just does. And probably always will. It’s the last month I had with you, the last month of completeness, but it’s the first month I’ve ever grown to hate. I loathe it. At least for now I do.

So as were remembering, feeling, touching, and crying today… I could give you a tear drenched list ten miles long of what I DON’T get to have anymore since you’ve gone on to glory. But I won’t… I’ll tuck that list tightly in the splintered lining of my heart until we meet again, sweet lady… and we’ll relish in every one of them when those pearly gates let me in. I promise.

What I will give you, is a list of things I do get… things I didn’t even realize at the time, things I’m still discovering to this day, and little things God has yet to surprise me with just when I need them.

Here’s what I do get…

I get your eyes. Big, brown, and a stack of compliments of how much I look like you.

I get your skin. Dark, with plenty of moles.

I get your hair. Straight, fine, oily, and lightens with the sun of every summer.

Lord knows, I get your feet. Ingrown toenails, surgeries, and just plain ugly. Ain’t nothin pretty about em.

I get your smile. Not really showing any bottom teeth, and cavities at every dental appointment.

I get your handwriting. Big, mostly neat, and leaning to the right.

I get your face staring back at me when my babies look to me for advice, hugs, and band-aids.

I get to hear your laugh behind tickles, monkey-bars, and summers at the pool.

I get you in the form of butterflies that float down and tickle the noses of four little children who adore you, and talk about you daily.

I get your husband. The love of your life. My Daddy… We’ve grieved you, remembered you, and missed you more than the human heart could possibly sustain. He wears his heart on his sleeves like me, and I’m grateful for every ounce of him.

I get your eldest son. My brother. The one who shares your blood with me. I love him.

I get your sister. Compassionate, real, and steady. The one who grieves with me, cries with me, prays with me, and endures this hell with me… Whether she knows it or not… she’s made me better, she’s enriched my spirit, and given me hope and strength for the next temper tantrum or dirty diaper. I thank you for her. You gave her to me just in time.

I get God. I mean… obviously he’s always been with me, but now so more than ever… Every morning I get his undeserving grace, his just-in-time mercies, and his one and only son. The one who continues to pull me through, the one who manages to constantly mend my perpetually breaking heart, and the ONE who promises me that I will see you again.

I simply get you. Even if it’s not physically you, even if I don’t realize it, and even when I’m so overwhelmed with the thought that their Gammie won’t be here for 5th grade Christmas plays, field trips, and senior proms, I still you get you, Momma… in every day, every picture, every smile, every baby wipe, every sleepless night, every road trip, every holiday, every favorite meal, every song, every ugly cry, every deep breath, and every single labored beat of my heart.

I miss you just as much now, as I did the day we lowered your casket on your sister’s birthday.

So today, I tell myself… I never lost you. I’ve only misplaced you Momma. You’re just right around the corner. You’re in the next room with your cup of sweet tea & extra ice, and in the memories of my children.

I rekindle your memory with every sunrise and relish in everything you’ve given me.

 

What I get, is everything I’ve always had…

YOU in me…

So last night in the Robinson household, amongst the battles of bedtime, I noticed that High School Musical 3 was on in the background. Having never seen this movie before, I noticed that our oldest child was glued to the TV. Probably because our TV is always, always, always on Disney Junior. Always. So the sight of another show on television was probably pretty exciting. Now, there was only about 10 minutes left in the movie, but it got me thinking. Thinking about our four babies in the drama filled and peer pressure packed atmosphere of high school. Don’t get me wrong, Erica and I loved high school and I realize we’re only twenty nine years old, but things have changed so much within the past 10 years. I can’t imagine how different they’re going to be in ten more.

When we were in high school there was no such thing as Facebook (only for registered college students), no smart phones, and even the cool kids only had flip phones. Gosh, I used to drool over those Razor phones, while I just sat in the corner with my ten pound Nokia 918p and played “Snake”. Not to mention the 17 foot antenna. But hey, I had a phone, right? When Erica and I wanted to talk to each other, I had to call her house phone because my ten pounder didn’t have service unless I was rappelling from the actual cell tower in the middle of the corn field.  I would even have to ask her parents to speak to her, a concept lost on many teens nowadays.

So, after we got all the kids to bed, Erica and I reminisced about those glory days and how we hope our kids can have the same experience with life, love, and hardships within the confines of senior high. Those Monday through Friday times where we failed tests, borrowed lunch money, and dissected frogs in Mrs. McWhorter’class.

As parents we can only hope that high school brings as much joy to our kids, as it did to us. So many people can’t say that because for some, high school was horrific, and I truly hate that, because that’s not fair. In looking forward, I won’t always be with them every second, so I can’t expect any of these, but I do reserve the right as their Daddy to hope for them…

I hope they feel comfortable in their new outfits on that critical first day of school.

I hope they make it safely to their first period class, and sit next to their future best life-long friend.

I hope they have a place to sit at lunchtime or share their seat with the ones who don’t.

I hope they have enough snack money.

I hope they don’t make fun of anyone, or anyone makes fun of them.

I hope they remember their manners, and others notice.

I hope they’ll always have the same group of friends and have each other’s back.

I hope they’re happy in their skin. Or just happy, period.

I hope they learn to love their body, even through the awkward stages of seventh and eighth grade where pimples and Clearasil rule the land.

I hope they pass their driver license test.

I hope they make it home safe every night.

I hope they remember their curfew, and respect it.

I hope they respect us.

I hope they’re responsible with their money.

I hope someone thinks enough of them to ask them to prom.

I hope they meet someone. – I hope we like them

I hope they fall in love.

I hope they always invite new friends to church.

I hope they pray, and mean it.

I hope they stand up for God.

I hope they always ask themselves, what would Jesus do? Then I hope they do it.

I hope for straight A’s, honor rolls, award banquets, and turning of tassels.

I hope for compassion, patience, and guidance towards others.

I hope for headlights in our driveway before curfew, and long conversations when they get home.

I hope for first kisses, prom dresses, and finding my boy the perfect tux.

I hope for “Thanks Mom & Dad”, “Can you help me with my tie” and “I love yous”

I hope for honesty in difficult conversations, and integrity through trials of their character.

I hope for seatbelts, looking both ways, and no texting while driving.

I hope they remember their way home, and who they were named for.

I hope for grounding and stability when the world pushes back.

I hope they remember us.

I guess I just hope everything goes perfect, you know? That they never get hurt, or never have their heart broken , or never fail a test they studied so hard for.

It’s consuming because it’s supposed to be. These are the threads that make strong parents. The fibers that prepare us for the overjoys and the unimaginables of raising these little lives.

High School is the place that’s shaped us all, either for the better or the worse. We hold the memories of favorite teachers, term papers, and lunchroom boycotts. We learn to love, kiss, and dance. We even embrace the changes of losing a best friend to another school or even death.

I hope our babies survive it. I hope they’re liked, loved and appreciated.

I just hope I’m doing it right.

“You know those moments when everything is exactly the way it was meant to be? When you find yourself and your entire universe aligning in perfect synchronization, and you know you couldn’t possibly be more content? I was inside that very moment, and fully conscious of it.”

Eight… Eight years ago today the sun started to shine brighter, laughter became deeper, and time spiraled into over drive. Eight years ago today I became a Daddy.

Life started for your mom and I on this day eight years ago. I remember everything about your long awaited arrival. You captivated us with your first cry, and cheesy head. Your mommy labored for nineteen hours with you before I walked your six pounds ten ounces out into a hallway filled with more love than any heart could ever fathom. Emotions were high, and eyes were filled. It was truly the handiwork of God.

My dear Emma Gracelee, I simply love you, and today we celebrate all that you are, and every solitary speck of joy you’ve brought into our lives. My darling, I’ve learned more from you in the past eight years, than I ever would have within the walls of a classroom. Not only have you taught me about patience, unconditional love, and how to change a diaper in  six seconds flat… You’ve given me purpose. You’ve given me hope. And gray hair

As the first born you’ve provided our family with several “firsts”.  First time Mom and Dad. First time Gammie, Dabby, Papa D., and Queenie. You brought life to the word “great- grandparent” and you gave meaning to the word “family”. Every single one of us has learned so much from you and your gentle soul. I am in awe of you, sweet girl.

You’ve taught my heart how to beat outside of my chest.

You’ve taught me that VCR’s don’t eject sandwiches.

You’ve taught me how to function on as little sleep as humanly possible.

You’ve taught me how to braid hair, paint fingernails, and accessorize even my own clothes.

You’ve taught me how to chase monsters from under beds and out the front door.

You’ve taught me how to change diapers, clean ears, and dig out boogers.

You’ve taught me how to handle even the worst diaper rashes with smiles and Adam’s Drug Butt Paste.

You’ve taught me how to soothe a fussy baby to sleep after a day of shots at the doctor.

You’ve taught me how to “kiss it and make it better, daddy”

You’ve taught me how to proudly wear a Barbie band-aid to work.

You’ve taught me that gas drops are liquid gold, just like breast milk.

You’ve taught me how to explain what heaven is, and who’s there.

You’ve even taught me how to love your Mommy and what being “rich” really means.

You’ve taught me that “pink is totes the best color, like ever, Dad.”

You’ve taught me how to change earrings, color in the lines, and make macaroni wreaths for Mother’s Day.

You’ve taught me how to go with my gut and always trust my first answer.

You’ve taught me how to tie shoes, find lost pacifiers, and to always make extra pancakes on Saturdaymornings.

You were our first real responsibility. Our first real set of eyes and ears. And the source of strength only God himself could send.

If it weren’t for you, your mother and I would have no clue how to eat candy in the closet with the lights off and we wouldn’t have extra of every size battery on hand, at all times.

We’d think the word Colic was some sort of spa treatment.

We wouldn’t know how to sleep with our eyes open or how to change a diaper while breathing through our mouths.

We never would’ve learned how to prioritize what matters most or why rainy Sunday’s are good for the soul.

We’d have no instincts, no children’s’ Tylenol of every flavor, and no sponge-bob shaped mac n cheese.

We’d have a house with no dust, no wadded up socks, and not one Cinderella dress with matching plastic shoes.

We’d be a quarter of the people we were meant to be. Empty, bored, and probably in much better shape. Plus, I’m starting to get used to my love handles.

You broke the mold and paved the way for each of your siblings. You’re a natural big sister and you make it look easy. You revel in simple pleasures and always follow the rules. Your spirit is contagious and your intentions are always pure. You have your mother’s curls and your daddy’s eyes.

Because of you, mommy and I are now pharmacists, psychologists, therapists, chefs, doctors, and even lawyers.

But what we’ve been most are students. Absorbing you, watching your innocence overshadow all the evil in the world and choosing to see the good when the bad is all that’s left.

Take your time growing up sweetheart, I’m still taking notes.

Happy Birthday, my sweet.

As of about 2 months ago, my astounding wife, Erica, is officially done with breastfeeding. Not because she wanted to be, but because our youngest child woke up on a Tuesday morning, smiled at Mommy, and turn her chubby cheek. Done. Finished. Not one cry, one pout, or a single whine for the boob. Not to mention later that day Mommy developed a horrible 2 week curse of Mastitis. “Joy toooo the world, her boob nearly exploded.”

Within the past 10 years of our marriage she’s been pregnant for three years, nursed our babies for four years, and nursed our second child for four months WHILE pregnant with our third.  Yeah, I know that’s a lot to take in. But like any pro, she’s endured it effortlessly. So as most people would tell you (especially any woman) seven years of that would leave an evident mark on a person’s body. Well, you’d be right. But I definitely don’t see my wife’s body the way she sees it. Here’s what I see from my side.

She sees wrinkles on her face, crow’s feet, and puffy eyes. – I see the perfect smile that put those wrinkles there. I see those baby blue eyes that light up when she picks the kids up from school. And puffy eyes? Psssh, all I see is the priceless investment of time she gives this family every day, taking its toll on a tired mommy.

She sees makeup left over from the day before, or the day before that. – I see her looking just as perfect with it, as she does without it. Even if it is from last Tuesday.

She sees her feet as needing to be airlifted to the nearest nail salon. While I do see that a little bit, I also see a mom who puts her family first, putting miles per day on those tiny feet. Taking care of business. She’s not worried about or interested in the latest nail trend or getting fancy pedicures. Plus, I can do one heck of a pedicure. Cancel that airlift.

She sees stretch marks that expand for miles, while I see the proof that she brought four tiny lives into this world. Earning every one. Marks of life, love, and achievement. I love them. They remind me every day of the absolute warrior I married. She went to battle, and she conquered.

She sees her unruly hair. I see her unruly hair. But that sleepy smile dissolves those rowdy strands.

She sees her whiskery legs. I will see them again in summer. Until then, we’ll keep each other warm in the winter.

She sees the size of her pants and shirts. I see the size of her heart, and her faith.

She sees the weight we’ve both gained over the course of our life together. I see contentment, satisfaction, and happiness. Even though we do eat whatever the kids don’t eat so nothing goes to waste. We owe it to the food to be eaten, right?

She sees boobs that need a lift. I see the very source that sustained life for all those years. I see the breasts that soothed tired babies, filled empty stomachs, and leaked in the middle of Costco. I also see boobs.

She sees me, accepts me, and knows every part of me. She even sees things that can’t be seen; only felt, yet somehow can do both.

She sees the light at the end of every tunnel, the repeat after every wash and rinse, and the tantrums before they even start.

She’s as real as it gets.

She is my anchor, my life savings, and my ultimate retirement plan.

She’s my good side. The one I’d rather everyone see.

My side of the story is her.

For you parents out there with multiple children, this one’s for you.

Just last weekend my wife and I were at Costco, and like we always do upon arrival in our parking space, we whip out the checklist. Shoes, check. Clothes still on, check. “Daddy I have to pee really bad”, check. Now… our Chevy Suburban stays in a constant state of ruin. It’s unacceptable. Between the socks they wore last week, the smashed Capri- Suns thrown about, and the dirty diaper that was thrown in the very back last year sometime, it is quite the undertaking trying to get us all out of the car and into the store in one jumbled up screaming piece. So the more I thought about it, I realized that having multiple kids is a lot like herding cattle. Here’s what I mean…

They must be steered. Like I said, getting each one of them out of the car and corralling them in a huddle is one thing, but shuffling them into the store piece by piece is another. One of them wants to run, one wants to walk, one wants to stand still and finish making a shockingly dirty diaper, and the youngest one is desperate to get out of her car seat. Let’s not forget about the halfway point into the store where one of them realizes she doesn’t have the right colored bow, or when one throws his shoes on the hood of a nearby car (and can’t seem to remember which one) So there we are… stranded in the middle of a parking lot looking for shoes and a suitably colored hair bow. After we find one shoe and the designer hair bow, I think we may be ready for attempt number two. (or nine) This time we get them all lined up and holding hands, like Red Rover in elementary P.E. I even thought about running up to the entrance of the store and shouting to Erica “Red Rover- Red Rover, send the dirty one right over!” We do eventually accomplish the debacle of wrangling them all inside. Now they’re ready to eat some free samples, and Erica and I are ready to surrender.

 

They graze all day. They may be small, but they can put away some grub. I’m convinced the pantry is their favorite room to play in. Like every single kid in the world, they’ll snack around all day, but when it comes time for an actual meal, they have all of a sudden lost interest. Can’t imagine why. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that they’ve probably eaten their weight in gummy snacks, bananas, and have consumed 2 gallons of milk, each. Yes, you will eat those green beans.

 

They will poop standing up. I really don’t even need to explain this one. This primarily comes during the throws of potty training. For most, this will usually start when your child has mastered “tee teeing on the potty” but still struggles with “pooping on the potty.” Once ours would get to this stage, we would try a Pull Up and make sure they knew to run to the potty when they had to poop. No success. (still going in the pull up) We try putting them in regular big boy/ girl underwear thinking surely they will not poop in their underwear. Pshhhh. Before you know it, they come running back in the living room in search of gummy snacks while half of that repulsive load rolls out of their Spider Man/Minnie Mouse briefs… onto your feet. After the Pull Up stage, it’s time to get down to business, so we take the underwear off completely, leaving naked fannies running about with no shame whatsoever. None. SURELY, we think, this is going to fix the issue. We just know they’ll poop on the potty now since there is nothing there to “catch” anything….. Nope….. They will drop it like it’s hot in front of your face (Whilst eating gummies)

So there you have it. Kids really are like cattle. Uncanny isn’t it?

I could sit here and say that we have enjoyed these things, but that would be lying. No parent wants to pinch fresh poop off of a shag rug with a store brand paper towel. We’re real parents, with real kids, in the real world. All we can do is endure the times and do our damnedest to find the laughter and delight in these hectic and unorganized days. They’re our cattle. Our flock. Our responsibility.

They won’t last forever, I’m told, and I believe it more and more every day.

 He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs close in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young. Isaiah 40:11

Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could transport into the future for just a second to try to prevent something bad from happening or see something wonderful happen? Sometimes I think it would be great, but other times thinking about having that super power totally gives me diarrhea. Yes, it would be amazing to go ahead in time and keep our children from getting hurt, or to help them make the right decision when their back’s against the wall. But we just can’t. That’s not how this thing works.

We have four wonderful, beautiful, kind-hearted, high spirited children. Out of the four kids, we have one son. An extra male in the pool of estrogen we currently live in. (*correction- currently sinking in) Right now all of our kids are age seven and under so we’re not dealing with the joys of puberty and adolescence. Yet. But thinking into the future, I’m sure as any parent would, we’d give anything to go before them and make sure they’re going be okay. Make sure they’re going be responsible (and call their mother when they get there.)

It just got me thinking about my little boy, and the day he arrives at the doorstep of puberty, where girls and gasoline will be the new normal. Cell phones, parties and prom will soon replace Disney Jr, sippy cups, and Happy Meals. I want him to be a good man of sound character, a man of integrity, a man truly in love with his wife, and a man after God’s own heart.

My Dearest Son,

I want you to know someone’s probably going to break your heart one day, so run to your Mom first. Yes I’ll be there too, but she’ll be waiting for you. Mom’s just have a way with mending broken things. You’ll cry, you’ll survive it, and you’ll be better because of it.

Calling your mother when you arrive at any destination is mandatory. Do I make myself clear?

Mean Girls isn’t just a movie, they really do exist. Protect yourself and guard your heart.

Remember your way home. We DO still want to see you.

Remember who you were named for. Yes, son, it was Nick Carter. He’s not all bad and he can sing. (Plus your mother loves him)

You’re the inside layer of your mother’s heart and the source of pride for your father.

God will bring the right woman to you. You’ll know, just trust me on this one.

Ask her Daddy for his blessing. She was his girl first, and still is. She’s got his blood… and his whole heart. Respect it.

On your wedding day, as she walks down to you, never lose eye contact. Sounds hard I know, but you’ll be amazed how simple it really is.

Wait until marriage. You know what I mean. It’s something you both will share together and have forever. Hold onto your innocence, and if she is THE one, hold on together. The bliss that follows is nothing short of paradise.

Be the head of your household, stand up for your family and never compromise when it comes to their happiness.

Choose your battles. Choose wisely. Your decision making will get better as you age and have children.

Hold your wife’s hand. I know, I know, sounds cliché, but when you have kids and your life is running ninety to nothing, you’ll be amazed at what a simple interlocking of fingers will spark.

Marriage is 100/100 not 50/50. Each of you must give 100%. Your marriage will demand it.

The good will always outweigh the bad… eventually. It’s all about perspective.

Patience truly is a virtue. Not all of us have it. So try to find some.