​I always enjoy Jimmy Fallon’s "pros and cons" segment on The Tonight Show. So today I thought I’d share my own list. Yep folks, I’m weighing the good with the bad, sharing the pros and cons of summer vacation.

​Pro:  Going out for dinner almost every night.
Con: Dinner choices consist of hot dogs, nachos, Gatorade and skittles.

Pro:  ​Hearing squeals of laughter as your kids play in the pool.
Con: Realizing the squeals are coming from a girl getting her head dunked underwater, and the laughter is from the other two. 

So there you have it. Those are the pros and cons of summer vacation. From my perspective anyway. This summer I wish you all lots of fun family memories. May your pros always outweigh your cons.

It was a great opportunity. I’d won a spot in Guideposts Magazine’s Refresher Workshop and I was super excited. But I’ll be honest. I was also nervous.    
 
First of all, I’m not fond of flying – especially by myself. Second, the thought of a room full of editors and fellow writers critiquing my work made me a little uneasy. But my biggest fear was concerning my health. If you’ve been following my blog, you know I was diagnosed with MS last February. Multiple sclerosis is an unpredictable disease.  
 
I found my seat on American Airlines flight #1101. To my right, an older guy sat down and started reading a book. To my left, a college-aged kid plopped into his seat, stuck an earbud in each ear and immediately closed his eyes. The whole flight was relatively uneventful. That is, until we began our descent.
 
As the plane swayed from side to side, my stomach churned. My mouth began to water. Ugh. I was elbow to elbow with two total strangers and nowhere to go if my stomach erupted. I rummaged through the seat pocket in front of me, searching for a bag.
 
Nothing.
 
Wiping sweat from my face, I looked to the guy on my right. “Do you have a bag?” Surely he could see the urgency of the situation. He pulled open his seat pocket, but found only a wrinkled sky miles magazine.
 
To my left, Mr. Earbuds noticed my desperation. He fumbled through his seat pocket and handed me a bag. “Do you need this?”
 
I gave him a nod and took the bag. And that’s when my hands started tingling.
 
Actually no, I wouldn’t say they tingled. Have you ever hit your funny bone at that precise spot that feels like electrical shockwaves are blasting down through your fingertips and it’s virtually impossible to bend your arm?
 
That’s how my hands felt.   
 
I tried opening the bag, but my fingers were stiff and paralyzed. My feet trembled as well. What in the world?  

Breathe Sheri. Breathe in ... Breathe out ...
 
It wasn’t helping.
 
I took a DEEP breath in. I exhaled a DEEP breath out.
 
Please Lord. Please don't let me throw up while crammed between two strange men. 

This continued for what seemed like an hour. Honestly, it was probably ten minutes. Finally I heard the landing gear release. Once on the ground, my stomach settled down. The tingling in my hands slowly subsided.
 
Thank you, God. Exhale.
 
Book Guy looked over at me. “It’s always windy like that, landing in Albuquerque.”
 
Lovely. I made a mental note. Never go back to Albuquerque – at least not without knocking down a hefty dose of Dramamine first.
 
The guy on my left yanked out an earbud. “Feeling better?”
 
“I think so,” I said, exhaling. “Thanks for the bag.” I looked down at my hands. My fingers still tingled, but at least I could bend them again. I noticed instructions printed across the bag.   
 
“Seriously?” I said, reading it out loud. “Please place in waste receptacle after use. Do not place in seat back pocket after use.”
 
Earbuds chuckled and shook his head.
 
“Oh my gosh.” I said, “If you would've handed me a bag full of barf I would've lost it for sure.”
 
He laughed. “I think we all would’ve.”
 
As I maneuvered my carry-on bag up the aisle, I had one thought. Surely the worst was over now.
 
Thankfully it was.
 
Other than a bit of a headache, the rest of the weekend was fabulous.   

There's something about getting together with other writers that makes me feel at home. We all shared the same goal: to help one another make our stories the best they can be. I appreciated and welcomed their feedback. It was great to see friends I'd met during my first workshop in 2012. It was also fun meeting other Guideposts writers from across the country.

Before heading home, I bought myself a souvenir from the hotel gift shop. 

I know; it’s just a rock. But it holds special meaning for me. It also reminds me of a great quote by Eleanor Roosevelt.
 
“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’”
 
As it turned out, I brought home one other memento from my trip. It reminds me of an insightful little quote from another great woman: my mom.
 
“Better safe than sorry.”
​

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Hey everyone - Life can get messy - especially when three teenaged girls share a bathroom!

And speaking of messes, today I'm sharing a blog post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. I invite you to check out ​Just Look at This Mess. 

​I'm writing about the messy stuff in life. Like swallowing my pride and asking for help during a difficult time. And sharing ideas for helping a friend in the midst of their mess.

Now I'm off to tell three girls to clean up this mess! 

I hope you have a good week,

Sheri

I held my phone out and pointed to a picture. “Tell me about this bike.”   
 
“What?” My dad looked up from reading the paper.
 
“I posted this picture of you and Mom on Facebook and a bunch of people liked it. I need something to blog about, so if there’s a story here, I want the scoop. Tell me about this bike.”
 
My dad, never one to pass up an opportunity to tell a story, set down the newspaper and cleared his throat.
 
“Well, it was a 1944 Harley – a 74 cubic inch flathead.” Details meant nothing to me, but they seemed important to Dad. He quickly added, “And if you’re gonna put that on your computer, you can say that your dad wants to buy another one.”
 
“Oh my goodness,” Mom gasped. She shook her head and continued washing dishes.
 
I steered the conversation back to 1957. “So after graduating high school, you worked at a little grocery store, right?”
 
“Yep," he said. "Bob’s Market.” 
 
Over the next few minutes Dad described his many responsibilities at that hole-in-the-wall grocery store. He ran the cash register and stocked shelves, cut meat and trimmed produce, bagged potatoes and swept the floor. Eventually he saved up enough money to buy a used, 1944 Harley Davidson. 

​“How much did you pay for it?” I asked.
 
“Fifty dollars.” He didn’t even take time to think about it.   
 
I was sure he was joking. Turns out he wasn’t.
 
Around that time, Dad also helped his sister and her husband on their farm. He still remembers one particular day, while helping his brother-in-law. 
                                                                               
“Run over to the neighbor’s and ask to borrow a spark plug wrench.” His brother-in-law instructed.
 
Coincidentally, the neighbors were my mom’s parents. And as fate would have it, Mom was the only one home at the time. (Well, I call it fate. Mom calls it a set-up.)
 
So Dad knocked on the door and Mom answered it. Dad asked for the tool. Mom was clueless.
 
“I had no idea what a spark plug wrench was,” Mom said, laughing.
 
(Honestly, I can’t picture this. My mom is the ultimate farmer’s wife. Let’s just say, she knows her way around a tool box.)
 
“I’ve learned a lot since then,” Mom added.
 
Anyway, Mom took Dad out to the shed so they could look for the tool. (Nicely played, Mom!)
 
In time, Dad started helping other members of Mom’s family. He baled hay with her uncle. He helped her dad haul cattle to the stock yards in Chicago. Mom and Dad started dating, but my mom wasn’t the only one that liked my dad.  
 
Mom chuckled. “I remember my grandma saying, ‘If you want to make your old grandma happy, you’ll hang on to him.’” 

Dad took another look at the picture on my phone. “I probably won’t ever find another bike like that.”
 
“Nope.” Mom said, drying her hands on a dish towel. “And you won’t find another girl like that either!”
 
Dad laughed and handed me the phone.
 
“So whatever happened to that bike?” I asked. “Why did you get rid of it?”
 
Dad gazed across the table at Mom. “I sold it to buy a ring.”
 
Just as I was thinking this was the sweetest story I’d ever heard about my parents, Mom ruined the moment.
 
“I know,” she said with a spark of mischief. “You probably wish you would’ve kept the bike and got rid of the girl.”  
 
“No!” Dad hollered through his laughter. “I should’ve kept them both!” 

​Next month my mom and dad will celebrate 57 years of marriage. I’m not sure about the bike, but I am truly glad that Dad kept the girl.