Timeline

Several months ago I bought a book from Amazon.com (Ha! Amazon tells me I bought that book on February 9th). When it arrived (along with the many other things I had purchased during that online shopping spree) I took it to my scrap room and put it aside to read.... one day.

Today is that one day! Sure, better things await accomplishment, but instead I've read 51 pages of Maggie Mason's No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog (way to shorten the title, Maggie.) I bought it because it's true: not one of you can say you care what I eat for lunch, so I shouldn't blog about it (which, admittedly, I did, about a month ago. Sorry. But did you like the Goop?)

Page 51/idea 42 is called "Make your Timeline". Sounded fun. I'll give it a shot.

Age 3: My sister was born, March 4, 1976. I remember throwing an afghan knitted in shades of brown, yellow and orange over an end table in the den and hiding underneath it every time she cried. My parents would both rush to her like she was a raging fire to be doused and I'd try to make it impossible to find me. I could've tried harder, because after two or three times of hiding in the same spot, I wasn't too hard to find. I was convinced my parents loved my sister more.

Age 6: First grade. I took my brand new hardcover Berenstain Bears book to school with me, and Edward Ragland wrote his name in red crayon all over the inside cover. I still have the book; Edward disappeared from school around the 9th grade.

Age 8: Fell off my bike head-first after my foot got tangled with the pedal while I was going downhill too fast. Lori Clinton was driving by at the time; she went and got my mom, who found me on the pavement with a mouth full of gravel and rushed me to the emergency room. I got several stitches in my upper lip on the right side. I was out of school for 2 weeks; Kelly Trucks brought my schoolwork home every day and saw my arm wrapped in gauze. She went back to school and told everyone I had a broken arm (it was just a bad scrape). My dad begged me to let him take pictures of my lip. Looking back I wish I'd let him do it for posterity's sake. (It took me about 6 months to get back on the bike.)

Age 10: December 7, 1983. I got my period for the first time. I remember it because it was a significant historical date as well.

Age 12: I wore a white outfit the day the 6th grade classes toured the middle school. My maxi-pad leaked all over the back of the outfit, and I had left my spares back at the elementary school. Thank goodness for jackets that can be tied around the waist. I was mortified to say the least.

Age 13: I met my favorite teacher ever, Mary Jo Burch. She taught the gifted program at my middle school. I loved her so much, because she taught me self respect. She taught me to hold my head high and not worry about my weight or teenage awkwardness. I learned to never let teasing bother me because of her. I was better than that, and Mrs. Burch helped me see that without knowing that was what she was teaching me. She just praised me without being fake about it, and I knew that she spoke the truth. Her opinions broke through all the nastiness that kids hear from "peers" and helped me get through those weird teen angst years.

Age 14: I was chosen to be on the high school yearbook staff. I was the only freshman chosen that year. I was proud.

Age 15: I had a dark winter. That's how I remember it all these years later. When I think about the winter before I turned 16, I remember grey, cold days and lots of black clothing. I missed 2 weeks of school. It started with a yucky cold, then spiraled into a depression that I didn't recognize as such until I was much, much older. I don't know how I climbed out of that hole, but I did. I almost failed geometry that semester. Prior to that I was an A-B student.

Age 16: I drove my 1984 white Ford Thunderbird by myself the first time on the Saturday following my birthday. The yearbook staff sponsored the high school pageant ("Miss Rendezvous") and I had to be there to help decorate. I remember my mom being strangely scared and nervous. Now that I'm a parent, I *get* that. I didn't 18 years ago. I was just ready to go.

Age 18: Remind me one day to tell you the pimiento cheese story (I might have already.) I started college at the University of Alabama, and through the wonders of pimiento cheese and maternal gut feelings, I ended up at Samford University, my eventual alma mater.

Age 19: March 20, 1992 was my first date with the person that would turn out to be my first serious boyfriend. We'd been really good friends since the previous summer, but the friendship evolved and we started dating. Good times. Bad times. Learning times.

Age 20: September 27, 1993. The first serious boyfriend called to break up with me while I was on the other line with my mom, who was telling me that Mrs. Mary Jo Burch finally lost her battle with cancer. At the time I didn't know which occurrence broke my heart more. Sitting here today, I can say I'd rather be able to talk to Mrs. Burch than the old boyfriend. Sometimes, in my head, I imagine conversations I might have with her. Unfortunately, I always do all the talking.

Age 21: July 7, 1994: I met someone online. August 19, 1994: The someone became my boyfriend after I met him for the first time in person. December 30, 1994: My boyfriend became my fiance'.

Age 22: I became a wife. January 20, 1996.

Age 23: I became a homeowner.

Age 25: I became a mom.

Age 27: I became the mother of 2 kids and suffered my first taste of post-partum depression. I hid it well. I also met another mom of 2 who would become a very good friend in the next few years.

Age 29: I became a mom for the 3rd time. That's about all I remember from that time period. Oh, I did start scrapbooking somewhere in there. It would become a lifeline for me.

Age 31: I had my 4th and final child and PPD slammed into me full force. It took me about 18 months to finally get help. SO GLAD I did. What took me so long? What wasted days those were.
Age 34: Living life and still learning. Loving my husband and my kids more each day. Pruning the dead branches of my tree to encourage more growth. Life is good. God is greater.