A Very Lucky Girl

"... she rejoiced as only mothers can in the good fortunes of their children ." -Louisa May Alcott I should probably begin this tribute to these certain 21 influential people in my life with a post dedicated to the woman who experienced labor in order for the world to experience me. If you're about those Thank-You notes I can provide an address for her upon request. Shari Nelson Arceneaux and I have a running joke about what a "good mother" would do (which is typically the opposite of what actually happens). It came from a novel that we both read that I can't remember the name of now. But my good mother instilled a love of reading in me from a very young age. I can remember being put to bed with visions of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Anne of Green Gables swirling through my imagination. She taught me how to make the essentials in the kitchen: spaghetti, spicy pretzels, and ultimate chocolate chip cookies.  She's one of my biggest cheerleaders and the b...

Late Saturday night or early Sunday morning, depending on your individual bed time, I came home to an envelope on my desk. Sharbear had sent me a letter. I opened it to find an adorable card that I really couldn't see very well through my tears, but that I later verified the cuteness factor of.  I'm still not sure if the water in my eyes should have been blamed on a few cocktails or the fact that I'm a big baby. Life is hard sometimes-- crazy, mixed-up, messed up. And there you are, in the middle of it all, just doing your thing... being strong and brave and beautiful like it's no big deal. But let me tell you, girl, it is. Not everyone can do what you can do. Not everyone can handle things the way you can. While you wonder sometimes if you're doing ok... the rest of us are just watching in wonder. Welp, the mystery of cocktail or baby has been solved. Due to the current blurryness of my vision, I am a giant infa...

Forever, regardless of age. Sharbear and I typically shop for Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes this time of year, but life is changing. So when Tyler suggested we grab Christmas Wishes from Life Church a few Sundays ago I was definitely on board. I scanned through the names and requests and landed on one-year-old Isaiah, figuring he'd be easy to shop for.  Except then I got in the car and couldn't brainstorm a single age-appropriate toy. So I texted Sharbear, since she had a one-year-old ginger at one point in life and I figured they are pretty similar to real babies, and asked her opinion on what to get Isaiah for Christmas. Our conversation went somewhat like this: Me: What do one year old boys like? Sharbear: Their mommies Me: Okay, well...he's a foster kid so...next best thing? Sharbear: Things that light up and make noise. Buttons to push. Trucks. Soft things to hug. Me: Older boys like those too.... The observation is completely true. Boys of a...

As if I already wasn't 1000% positive that I never want to work in the medical field...Health and Exercise Science is only confirming my negative position towards the intricate workings of the human body. It is going to be my cross to bear this semester.  Test One is coming up on Monday and I'm in over my head with the cardiovascular system, pulmonary system, asthma, cancer, sleep apnea, ischemia, myocardial infarctions (fancy word for heart attacks), and hypertension.  When my Venezuelan professor (reason number zillion why it's hard to understand this class...it's taught in an interesting variation of my first language) tells us to remember the difference between the right and left sides of the heart, this is what I think: left side right side Unfortunately, I don't think that's the diagram she will be checking for on the exam.  Based on the amount of time she has spent espousing the dangers of smoking, you'd think cigarettes are the pitfall of...

I spent Labor Day weekend relaxing at home in Oklahoma City. I didn't feel well prior to Shari's arriving to scoop me up from school. But after an uber nutritious meal from Slim Chicken's and conversation with mom, my throat was mysteriously un-sore. I clearly needed more time to convalesce so I lounged around with Beignet for the rest of the weekend.  Tyler drove up on Sunday to attend church with me (I love when he does that) and then hung out with me and my family for the rest of the day (I like when he does that, too). As we were preparing to leave on Sunday night I asked Shari to French braid my hair because my fingers are too clumsy for something so intricate. She obliged, even finishing up with a back massage! (my mom is better than yours), and I started giggling helplessly when she told me to correct my posture. Except she used a different phrase. I'm not allowed to repeat it or else I would share it with you. As I reached for my phone to share Sharbear'...

You think I was gonna take that bullet and plaster her age across the Internets for all to see? You've got jokes! Shari Nelson Arceneaux, my beautiful mother, is XX today. And yes, I do mean 20 in roman numerals. Born August 7 to William and Sharon Nelson, Shari flourished as she grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana, attending high school with her future husband, Paul Arceneaux (one of these days I'll blog about that volatile high school relationship. You'll read in rapt attention). She graduated and moved to the land of the horned frogs, Fort Worth, Texas, to study nursing at Texas Christian University and join the Delta Delta Delta sorority chapter. Unlike myself, she spent all four years of college in Texas heat and went on to have a successful career in nursing in several states nationwide. She's faithfully followed my father in every move our family had to make, keeping her complaints to herself or behind closed doors. She's reared two decent kids (we're works...

These kids are so out of my league. I had enough material for an entire post just after Monday of this week. But I saved everything up for a mega post. And I plan to make it a weekly thing. This was the week of the soccer mom. I literally took Brother to soccer practice every morning and watched him from the bleachers with Sister. It is unreal how much more cautious you become with other children in the car. I asked my mom if she still feels like that when me and Oakes are in the car. She said no. I guess Oakes and I's value decreased as we got older... I kept both hands at ten and two. The radio at an acceptable decibel. And constantly checked all the mirrors. Monday. The kids greeted me with a "we missed you over the weekend!" when I arrived on Monday morning. It was adorable. But their constant chatter was not. I brought Advil for the rest of the week. We had our first casualty. It was my own. It's all fun and games until an 8 year old crash lands on your foo...

I felt like a mom on my first full day of summer a few weeks ago. It further urged my obstinacy against ever having kids. I was drop dead exhausted by the end of the day. 6:15 -Wake up. Scream obscenities at my alarm in my head. Go to the gym and work off the anger at the alarm. 7:15 -Take the fastest shower known to man. Skip shaving, what's one more day with fuzzy legs? 7:35 -Drop Shari off at work. 7:35-8:15 -Drive to Chick Fil A. Pick up a chicken biscuit for Megan to surprise her at work. Get lost. Depend on Google Maps. Get lost again. 8:20 -Drop off said chicken biscuit. 8:40 -Scour all of Walmart for everything on the list. Exchange Pringles for carrots (so devastating). Self-checkout (avoid human contact at all costs). 9:15 -Unload groceries. Talk to the dog because no one else is home. She wanders out of the room when I'm mid-sentence. I don't notice. 9:20 -Desperately try to remember how to make an omelet. Crack an egg. Shiver at the slimyness (so...

Paul and Shari need their own show. With special guest appearance by yours truly, because I definitely add a little bit of technicolor to their exchanges. We never see Oakes so he’s not really necessary to production. Shari has said to me before that she lives in constant dire fear of what I will tweet, Facebook, or blog about next. She will say something funny or blonde and I will just happen to be typing on my phone, and the next instant she’ll shriek and exclaim, “DON’T tweet that!” Sorry Mom, it comes with the territory. For instance: I went to eat with them at Slim Chickens this past weekend. I think it was karmic retribution for making Megan be a third wheel a few weekends ago because I was president of third wheeldom on Friday night. Dinner conversation somehow meandered to my age. Dad: I wish you were 21. Taylor: Me and you both. But why do you wish this? Dad: you could come to the bar with me tomorrow night and watch this show blahblahblahblahmojomen?bl...

As a college student, home has taken on a new meaning. I can refer to home and mean two entirely different geological points on a map: Norman and Oklahoma City. I feel like a potted plant in a Uhaul. It can be placed anywhere, but it doesn't have a permanent home. It can migrate from the living room to the kitchen, from Raleigh to Beaumont, but is constantly packing up its leaves and dirt for the next transfer. I can't wait for the time that I can be thoroughly planted somewhere (preferably not Oklahoma, like we already discussed) and put down worry-free roots. The college home is an independent place. But with my home at OU comes different struggles; constant interaction, constant academic mindset, and less rest. My family's home in Quail Creek has the drawback of consistent (though minimal) supervision, but the plus sides of free laundry, free food, a room of my own, and access to a car.  My family makes that home something wonderful to travel to. I can't wait t...

Paul and Shari (my parents) are currently spending the week in Seattle, coffee capital of America. Which is especially fitting because Paul has managed to make Starbucks a food group. I place all blame on him for my addiction to Java Chip Frappuccinos.  While they are making good choices culinary-wise, Paul needs a personal shopping companion (Shari isn't cutting it) so that he never pays money for a look like this again.  I tried to stop him. Really, I did. But there is only so much I can do from Norman while they are out gallivanting across the country. Shari informed me of his impending travesty and my fingers immediately typed out, "stop him." Isn't that the reflex you had whilst looking upon this photo and trying to pause the gag reflex? It's universal. Fearing that Shari wouldn't pass on my message, I took matters into my own hands and texted him, advising him to think very carefully about his wardrobe choices. His response? Take a look. (For t...