The One That Broke The Mold

My Dad is one of two children, he has an older sister. My mother was the oldest of seven, with five brothers and one sister.

Mom's sister has one child. Girl. Mom's oldest brother no children. Next brother FOUR Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. Next brother THREE Girls. And baby brother THREE Girls.

So my Dad's sister had one child. Girl. Then my Dad had his first child. Girl. Then I came along *takes bow*. Girl. Then the third child was born. Girl. Later when my Dad remarried and adopted my step-sibling. Girl.

Years later we started the next generation. My sister Val had her first baby. Girl. My cousin Marsha had her first child too. Girl. Val had another baby. Girl. Marsha had another baby. Girl. I get in the mix and I have my first child. Girl. I have child number two. Girl. Val has child number three. Girl.

So just in case you lost count, let me recap that for you:

Mom's side of the family, my generation - 16 Girls. Next generation - FIVE Girls (so far).

Dad's side of the family, my generations - 5 Girls. Next generation - SEVEN Girls (so far).

That's a whole-lotta pink!!!!!!

And then . . . one quiet Sunday afternoon in 1991, on the 8th day of the month after hours of labor and pain and pushing ---- a nurse exclaimed to me, "IT'S A BOY! MOM, YOU HAVE A BOY!" And thus, Zachary Earl Newsome was born into our family and breaking the mold, the Dodges finally have a boy of their very own. A BOY!

So you're thinking I was ever so happy to have a boy, huh? Not really. You see, I didn't believe them. They rushed my baby over to the table to clean him up and do whatever it is they do and all I keep thinking is, "Dodge girls don't know how to have boys. It has to be a girl. They must have made a mistake."

It wasn't long before they brought my tiny new born babe to me --er, I mean the new born babe was 9 pounds 1 ounce so what I mean is --it wasn't long before they brought my sort-of tiny new born babe over to me, wrapped ever so snugly in a new born baby blankie and they laid that babe on my chest and said, "Mom, would you like to nurse him?" HIM? Why do they keep calling my baby a boy? Don't they mean HER? You see, probably mostly delirious from you know --that whole giving birth thing and the fact that I had already convinced myself Dodge girls couldn't have boys, I was absolutely convinced they, you know -- trained medical professionals, made a mistake and I actually had a girl. So instead of gazing at my new born baby and trying to nurse the hungry little thing, I tore the blanket off of him and low and behold -- boy parts! Boy parts?

Now what do I do?

That was my first thought, as if every moment of parenting I had ever done was now all null and void because I had a boy.

I snuggled my baby boy close to me and I assured him I'd figure it out.

My first lesson --diaper changing and no, I never did get any misguided squirts but I did quickly learn there was a lot more to cleaning up a boy baby than a girl baby. And I soon learned too that boy babies were much louder than girl babies and boys liked to climb and jump and "fly". And I learned how to buy a cup for football and I learned that playing in mud wasn't such a bad thing and riding your bike in the rain was okay too. I learned that old towels make great super hero capes and green plastic army men hurt when you step on them barefooted. I learned that the highlight of the week can be when the trash truck comes-- so when we'd hear it we had to run outside to watch it. I learned that Legos were endless hours of entertainment and not so much what you could build but what you could destroy. I learned that Batman was cooler than Superman and what a baseball T was. When my boy "discovered himself" and thought he had swallowed some marbles, I learned how to explain "boy parts" to him. I learned that snuggling a baby boy was just as warm and wonderful as snuggling a baby girl. I learned that buckets made great Army Man helmets. I learned how to use Cheerios as "targets" for you know, aiming practice in the toilet, not around the toilet. I learned how to shop for men clothes and explain to my boy how to ask a girl on a date. I learned how to feed a ferocious growing-boy appetite. I learned not to have a heart attack each time I'd come home and found my boy roaming around on our roof top. I learned to breath amidst the clouds of Axe body spray emanating from the bathroom . . . . but what I mostly learned is that a boy has his way of wrapping himself around a mother's heart. I love and adore my girly-girls and nothing compares to our "Beauty Shop Nights" but this boy, my one and only son --is my Prince.

Eighteen years later I'm still learning how to mother a boy, a boy that has turned into a man, ever so charming he is.

Happy 18th Birthday, Son!

Our Hero

One very early morning Jerry went for a 5 mile walk, as he so often does. Not long after he left I remembered a few things I needed from the store and decided to hit Kroger before the morning crowd shuffled in. As I drove down the street I saw Jerry walking and at first I didn't think it was him. You see, he was walking much slower than I would have expected him to be. His shoulders were rounded over and forward as opposed to the tall erect stance I was so accustom to seeing. Is that my Jerry? My Jerry? You see, when I first met Jerry I would often watch him do PT (Physical Training). He was fast as lightening, tall and strong. This man I saw walking could be Jerry but what happened to that man I married? Where did he go?

As I sat there watching him walk it occurred to me where he had been. Yes, that was my Jerry walking down the street and this is where he has "gone".

Those shoulders have seated our children at a parade or crowded event or just to answer the child's question, "Daddy, let me see if I can touch the sky." The little heads of our children rested upon those shoulders while the child slept or cried or had a moment of sadness. Upon those shoulders rested the straps to a rucksack, a backpack soldier style, with 50 pounds or more of gear packed into it. And those shoulders carried that weight for miles and miles of training and marching during 23 years of service to this United States of America. Those shoulders have carried the weight of our family upon it during financial crisis, marital woes and those bumps in the roads that come with raising children. All the care and concern of this family rest upon those shoulders and many nights I have gone to bed able to rest and sleep in peace because I knew those shoulders were broad and strong enough to bear the weight. Many of my tears ended up on those shoulders as I laid my head upon them and poured out my heart.

Upon that back our children took horsey rides or climbed the "tower". Upon that back slung and M16 rifle on its way to a firing range or road march for a faithful 23 years.. One time, upon that back was our Grandfather Clock when we moved it into our German apartment and in Hercules fashion, that man took that clock upon his back and walked it down a flight of stairs into our garden apartment. Laying upon that back, that man spent hours beneath our cars to change the oil, breaks, filters --whatever it took to make those cars go and be safe. Upon that back was the brunt of the weight of our furniture when we were moving to a new location or just at the whim of this wife, who wanted to change a room around. Most recently, upon that back the weight of furniture belonging to our college senior daughter and her roommate moving into their first apartment.

Those muscular arms caught my attention many years ago and even yet today I find myself gazing in wonderment at them. Those muscular arms wrapped around me millions of times in sweet tenderness and affection. Those muscular arms were "monkey bars" to our little ones has they'd hang off of them and squeal like a monkey. Those muscular arms seems to hold the power of a giant and yet, in sweet tenderness, held our new born babes. Those muscular arms at one time could carry all three children at the same time --just scoop them up ever so effortless. Those muscular arms dug holes and trenches to put up a new fence or build a deck or drywall our basement into a useful family room. Those muscular arms picked up our sickly teenage daughter and swiftly and gently laid her into the back of our van as we transported her to the ER. Those muscular arms held out into the air as our children fearless jumped from the side of a pool into the safety of those muscular arms. Those muscular arms wrestled our boy for many many hours on our floors and yet knew how and when to hold back and how and when to exert more force. Those muscular arms stood at a free throw line over and over and over again showing our son how to shoot a basketball. Those muscular arms once held up layers and layers of tulle on a prom dress while I stood underneath them to steam out each layer. Those muscular arms threw our babies into the air while they screamed with delight and drooled upon that man's face. Those muscular arms lifted and carried Army equipment in order to accomplish a mission.

Those strong hands took young soldiers by the hand, literally and figuratively and trained them to be fit for active duty. Those strong hands swatted the behind of our sometimes disobedient children. Those strong hands would rescue a crying baby from their crib and tenderly ask, "What's all that fuss about?" Those strong hands played peek-a-boo over and over to giggling babies. Those strong hands signed many and many and many checks to pay the bills and give to our family the things we needed and wanted. Those strong hands handed over hundreds of dollars to our growing teens so they can go out with friends, shop or put some gas in their cars. Those strong hands took little tiny baby spoons and scooped up baby food into our little ones' mouths. Those strong hands took care of car repairs, plumping repairs, house repairs and yard work. Those strong hands tied ties around our boy's neck and those strong hands taught our children how to loop their shoe laces into perfectly tight bows. Those strong hands wrapped themselves around an M16 rifle hand grip, M60 machine gun and other military weaponry aiming and firing with the utmost precision and expertise. Those strong hands held patriotic salute to our nation's flag, our symbol of the freedom he served and fought to protect. Those strong hands once held my small hand within them and slipped onto my finger a golden wedding band. Those strong hands gripped themselves around ropes repelling down from a hovering helicopter. Those strong hands once refused to sign divorce papers I had served him and pushing them away said, "This marriage isn't over."

Those Infantry feet marched and marched and marched until they were bruised, bleeding and blistered. Those Infantry feet jumped out of air planes and landed squarely on the ground. Those Infantry feet support this family and walked us through Germany, Georgia, Hawaii, Kansas and Ohio. Those Infantry feet paced up and down the floor trying to sooth fussy little babies. Those Infantry feet ran up and down basketball courts with our son, stood on the sidelines of band competitions and basketball games and soccer games and stood in proud ovation to a musical performance. Those Infantry feet donned combat boots for 23 years, never ceasing to walk the walk of a soldier.

And those shoulders could stand tall and erect as that man often declared, "I'm a child of The King!" And that strong back wore the full armor of God declaring to Satan, "Not me and not my family --your time is wasted here." Those arms and hands held high in glorious submission and praise to a Savior that showered grace and mercy on this Newsome family time and time and time again. And those Infantry feet -- every single night without fail those Infantry feet make those strong knees bow at our bedside as that man pours out the petitions of his heart, praises to our Lord and brings each and every one of our names before his God; Melissa, Amanda, Monica and Zachary.

And to that this Army wife says --

Thank you! You are still our tall strong hero.