Hope4Peyton

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Anissa.

Sure, I’m busy.  I run two blogs of my own and write for a couple more.

I have two small children and a husband who demand ridiculous amounts of my time and energy.

I barely have time to sleep or eat or – well, OK, I always have time to eat.  And sleep, actually.  Naptimes are remarkably easy to fit into a schedule.  It’s the exercising and the cleaning and the laundry that I never seem to have enough time for.  Which obviously means I am busy.  And not lazy.  Busy.

ANYway, my point is that I am a busy, busy girl.

And yet, here I am, guest posting for Anissa while she is busy moving away from me.

Because, as I said, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.

Anissa is lovely and funny.

She’s charming and fun and inspiring.

She’s generous and loving and giving.

She’s kind of a big deal on the Internet.

And she’s blackmailing me.

No, really.  People always joke about being blackmailed or say things like “the check is in the mail!” – but they don’t mean it.  They’re just making little jokes.  Just lighthearted humor about one person holding something over another person’s head in order to exploit and coherce said person.

But I assure you, blackmail is no laughing matter.

Blackmail is the dirty secret of Friendship.  It’s the seedy underbelly of the blogosphere!  (And I know that sentence doesn’t make sense but I think it sounds very ominous.)

My point is, blackmail is bad.

It is what happens when you decide to have margaritas at dinner before going shopping with your girlfriends.  It is what happens when you are shopping with your girlfriends after having had a few margaritas at dinner and you suddenly realize that there is nothing else in the world you want as badly as to pee.  Right now.  It is what happens when you decide that you have to pee in the bathroom at the outlet mall and you are giggling from the margaritas and you holler out from behind your locked bathroom stall “HA!  TAKE A PICTURE OF THIS!”  It is what happens when you are peeing and giggling in a bathroom stall and hollering about pictures, loudly and in public, and suddenly you hear giggling and clicking noises coming from up above you, and you look up to a very fancy camera hanging over the wall of the adjoining stall.

And you realize that Anissa is taking a picture of you sitting on a toilet.

And even though that fancy digital camera was destroyed by a water issue later that same night, somehow that picture of you sitting on a toilet manages to survive.

And from that moment on you are obligated to do whatever is asked of you because Anissa now owns both a picture of you sitting on a toilet AND a blog, and she has made it known that she is not afraid to use both of them.

That, my friends, is blackmail.

And so, here I am.  Guest posting for Anissa.

I am also in the process of taking over her new mortgage, sending her expensive gifts, and legally changing the names of my children to Anissasita and Anissa May.

Which is incredibly tragic because one of those children is a boy.

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Ahhh, power is a heady thing.  With great power comes great responsibility.

With great leverage comes GREAT.FREAKING.POWER!

I love me some Miss Britt….and even more? I love having her under my thumb.

So, just as a reminder…this isn’t the one she’s talking about, but I HAZ it!!!

Love you, Britt…thanks for all the memories..the ones we’ve made and the ones yet to BE.

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And for those wondering?  I am *obviously* still alive and I will again someday soon have the time to actually blog something of my own.  But OHTHEBOXES!! They are eating my brain!  and WHY are there dishes with the movies? AND really? did we need to pack a “Sorry” game missing 3/4 of the pieces?  *SIGH*

This whole blogging thing was supposed to be all ego-centric ME ME ME and you know what?  I found that with each new person I met, each blog I became addicted to, each moment spent filling myself with the talents of others…the better ME I  became.  This is my friend Mishelle, who lives in ATL so I get to see a LOT more of her in the near future *cough* like next weekend or something *cough*. Gifted does not even begin to describe this lady…with her words, her camera, her love.

If this is your first time reading Mishelle, you can thank me later!

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Strangers
by: Mishelle Lane
a/k/a Secret Agent Mama

We are all strangers on this path called life.  We walk around with brown paper bags and we excuse ourselves, and sometimes we don’t.   We bump into each other and a bothered expression grows on.  We accidentally spill a drink and eyes get rolled.   We spend a few minutes talking to the cashier at the grocery store and hear sighs and huffs from those waiting in line behind us.

Oh, how dare we talk to each other?  Oh, how dare we bump into each other?  Oh, how dare we?

Through my camera’s lens I am able to see people in a different way.   I see them pull money out of their pockets to gladly pay for food.  I watch them as they laugh and interact.  I notice conversations and simple, heartfelt hugs.  I observe laughter and love.   I get that strangers are more than a bothersome encounter.  I wish that others would see.  I think we would be a lot better off if we did.

I mix daily with “strangers” and I love them, too.  I grow relationships with them and share my life with them.  Daily. These strangers are my people, people that would love to bump into.  People that I would love to stand in line behind at the grocery store.  People that I would love to help clean up a spilled drink (or maybe just spill some drinks into our mouths, in general.)  People that I would jump at the chance to talk with, over coffee, in my kitchen or back porch.

Online there is this mix of strangers that have given me some of the most fulfilling relationships of my life.  Sure there are some bad apples, but for the most part I have this smorgasbord of delectable fresh fruit in my bowl.    At any time I can reach in, grab one, enjoy, and feel alive.

We are all strangers on this path called life.  Let’s not make excuses.  Let’s be kind.  Let’s not roll our eyes.  Let’s spend time getting to know one another.  Let’s not be impatient. Let’s bump into each.  Let’s take a bite of the fruit of life.

Oh, we should talk to each other.  Oh, we should bump into each other.  Oh, we should only dare to.

I’m giving this post a rating of G!

Meaning 150% family safe…I guess I should post a warning or disclaimer for some of the R-rated or PG-13 rated posts that are going up in the next few weeks.  These people are my friends, though, and have taken the heart and dedicated time out of their busy schedules (of eating bonbons and scoping Hulu for free movies) to write these posts for me.

Even if they’re not your cup of tea, please respect that they love me enough to do it.

And introducing Maria from MommyMelee, a dear friend from St. Pete who has the YUMMIEST baby that she lets me smoosh and love on until he cries.

Love you, Maria! This made my heart ache.

XOXOX

Anissa

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We hurried through the parking lot after the movie, my son’s small hand clutched tight in mine. I hate parking lots. They make me nervous. When I was a little girl, a friend’s little brother was struck and killed by a car. I remember that all the time when we’re out around cars.

(I know. I worry too much.)

But as we rushed to the car (we have to get home to feed baby brother his boobers!) he started yelling and dragging his feet.

“I see something orange, I see something orange!”

“We’re in a PARKING LOT,” I snapped at him, yanking him along. “KEEP WALKING.”

But he kept yelling, getting more hysterical. So as we reached the car I crouched and held his skinny shoulders.

“What?” I snapped. “What do you see. Show me.”

“Something orange,” he said quietly, pointing to the sky. “What is it?”

On the horizon, an airliner’s trail glowed, a bright orange line. It looked like a jagged sliver of fire. Somehow, despite the thunderheads on every horizon (our Floridian mountains) the setting sun managed to find that one little trail.

“Oh,” I whispered. “It’s a plane, baby.”

“It’s very far away,” he said, watching it.

I lifted my face to the sky, breathing in that moment. Taking in the wonder in his voice and his ability to find the smallest little things I’d never notice.

I would like to keep this memory, I thought. I’d like to keep this.

Directly above us, a bright half moon stood out against the darkening sky.

“Oh, look at that,” I said, grinning with anticipation.

“What?” he asked, looking up. He gasped. “The MOON!”

“It is!”

“The moon is very far away. I want to go there,” he told me. “ I want to fly to the moon. I want to fly.”

He pushed up on his toes as if he could fly away right then and there. My fingers tightened in his shirt. For the briefest moment, I felt that he could. That he would.

And then I exhaled and smiled and hugged him tight. “You can, babydoll. You can fly to the moon if you want. When you’re big. You can do anything you want.”

I lifted him up. “But first we need to go feed your brother.”

It’s ON!

The truck is here.

The movers are picking up the boxes.

We are going to be piling into our vehicles shortly and rolling out of here.

Goodbye to our house…our friends…our family…all that has been our lives for the past nine years.

HOLY CRAP!

As I am expecting to have all hell break loose with the unpacking and organizing and put-it-there-NO-move-it-over-there-NOOOO-I-liked-it-better-over-there of it all that I have carefully planned ahead and have a fair plethura of guestposters gracing this space for you in the next days.

YES! I bring you GENIUS! and BRILLIANCE! and teh FUNNEH! and then?

You have to come back down to just plain ‘ole me.

So, enjoy it while it lasts.

Once upon a time there was a house.

It wasn’t a big house, or a fancy house.

The family that loved it wasn’t big or fancy either.

The house watched as the family of three moved in and began to carefully make it their own.

Some paint here, a curtain there.

The family of three became a family of four.

It’s floors were stained, the walls written on, the windows smeared with miniature handprints and the house loved the family more.

The family of four became a family of five.

The hallways rang with voices, the bedrooms were steeped in giggles, the memories of a billion words echo through the air, the house sheltered its family.

The house weathered storms, yet it kept its family safe as they weathered storms of their own.

The darkest corners bore witness to secret tears, the doors shook with fiery anger, the roof covered hearts filled with fear and hope.

The house watched as the children grew, the years changing them all.

The house felt empty as the boxes filled.

A mother’s hand touched a spot where the wall had done it’s job and held a precious photo all those years.

Tiny feet made the soft “slap slap” on the tile that had led her many nights between a child’s bed and a parent’s.

Prints from youthful hands caught a father’s eye, the painted palms testifying to the lives that thrived in these rooms.

Spaces that stood bursting with toys and clothes and books and games looked strangely unfamiliar to the eyes of the children that had never seen them bare.

The family stood outside and looked at the house one last time. Babies were brought home here, first steps were taken here, celebrations and devestation happened here, wars were fought and won on this battleground, this house was a breeding ground for hopes and dreams, it was a castle and a boat and an island in the imaginations of the minds that grew there.

The family left.

The house was empty, but for the ghosts of the family it had loved so well.