My ninety-year-old grandmother sat on her bed and watched my mom pull a pink sweater out of a dresser drawer. Grandma wobbled over to Mom, inspecting her every move.
 
“What are you doing?”
 
“I’m writing your name on the tag.” Mom picked up a black permanent marker. “See here, G-L-A-D-Y-S,” Mom said, spelling it out. “We don’t want your clothes to get lost at the nursing home.”
 
Grandma’s blank expression confirmed Mom’s suspicion. She didn’t understand. If she had, she would have argued.
 
For many years, our family had worked hard to keep Grandma and Grandpa in their home. But with Grandpa’s physical limitations and Grandma’s dementia, it was no longer possible. Finally, my mom and her siblings sat down with my grandparents for a difficult conversation.
 
Grandpa wasn’t pleased with the decision, but he knew what must be done. He also knew that convincing Grandma would be no small task. She hadn’t even liked it when they hired a caretaker a few months back. She especially didn’t like “that woman” fussing over Grandpa. After all, Grandma had taken care of him for the last seventy-one years. She wasn’t about to quit now.
 
“I have a home,” Grandma said, folding her arms like a strong-willed two-year-old. She didn’t want to hear any more about nursing homes.
 
But moving day had come all too soon.  
 
Mom grabbed a stack of clothes off the bed and checked her watch. “We’d better go.”
 
My grandpa and aunt were already making their way toward the door. Grandpa hunched over his walker and shuffled tiny, slow steps. Janet walked behind, making sure he didn’t lose his balance. Meanwhile, Mom tried to gently usher Grandma along.
 
“I have a home,” Grandma repeated, shaking her head. As soon as they reached the door, Grandma stopped.
 
“I am not doing this.” Grandma’s eyebrows furrowed with determination.  
 
My aunt and mom exchanged looks. They didn’t want to upset her. Of course, they didn’t want to force her. But what could they do? Grandpa looked back from his walker.
 
“I need you with me, Gladdy.”
 
Grandma hesitated for a moment, then followed Grandpa out the door and into the car.
 
Grandma stared out the window from the backseat. They passed the small country church my grandparents had attended for seventy years.
 
“Where are we?” Grandma asked. Janet tried to distract her. She dug through her purse, found a mint and gave it to Grandma.
 
Meanwhile, my mom worried. It had already been such a difficult day, but what if the worst was yet to come? How would Grandma react when they got to the nursing home? What if she got upset and refused to stay?  
 
Grandma interrupted Mom’s thoughts. “I don’t like this.”
 
Janet touched Grandma’s arm. “I know you don’t, Mom. We don’t like it either, but you know it’s for the …”  
 
Just then Mom noticed the sour expression on Grandma’s face. Grandma spit the mint into her shaky hand, rolled down the window and tossed it outside.
 
Suddenly, Mom and Janet looked at one another and broke into spontaneous laughter. Grandma wasn’t referring to the nursing home; she was talking about the mint. They shook their heads and laughed some more.
 
They probably looked strange, sharing that unexpected laugh in the midst of such a difficult day. But at that moment, laughter was exactly what they needed. It broke the tension. It added a little joy.

I love this story because it’s a great reminder for all of us. Even in the midst of the most difficult days, there’s always room for a little joy.
 
My challenge this week? No matter how bad the day (or how difficult the decision) I will be looking for those small moments of joy.  

Certain words always come to mind when I think of my mom. Honest and kind. A hardworking farmer’s wife. She is definitely a lady who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. However, there is one word I’m sure I never used to describe my mom: cool. Lord knows I wished for it—especially during my teen years.

My best friend had a cool mom. Patty’s mom wore stonewashed jeans and sang along to Madonna. I wasn’t sure my mom had even heard of Madonna.

Truth be told, Mom and I didn’t have much in common. I loved checking out the latest styles at the mall. Shopping gave her a headache. I enjoyed traveling and exploring new places. She was a homebody. In high school, I was captain of the pom-pom squad. She played the accordion.

However, there was one thing I always appreciated about my mom: she was a fabulous listener. Every day I came home from school and told her about my day. I could tell her anything—the good, the bad and the boring. She always listened, even when I told her things she didn’t want to hear. Like the night I went on my first date.

It was a double date, actually. Two popular boys had promised to take my friend and me to dinner and a movie. They pulled into the driveway and honked the horn. Of course my mom wasn’t okay with that. She crossed her arms and gave me a look. “If he wants to date you, he can come in and get you.”

As it turned out, I should’ve left him in the driveway. The boy was a loser. The date didn’t go well. Later that night I returned home and marched up the steps to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

“How was your night?” Mom stifled a yawn. Dad snored.

“Terrible,” I said. “They didn’t take us to dinner. We didn’t see a movie. Someone got alcohol and they spent the entire night driving around back roads, drinking beer.”

“What?” Dad mumbled, half asleep. Mom elbowed him.

“I swear I didn’t drink,” I said, plopping onto the bed. “I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to come home.”

Thinking back, I’m surprised I even told her. After all, she had every right to be upset. Instead, she just listened. She didn’t overreact. Dad never learned to master this skill. Mom did it well, time and time again. So I kept telling her stuff.

After high school I moved out on my own. I called my mom often, mostly for cooking advice. Dad liked to tease me when he answered the phone.

“Is Mom there? Is Mom there?” he huffed, acting offended. “Doesn’t anyone ever want to talk to me?”

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to you. How long does it take to hard-boil an egg?”

After a few seconds of silence, Dad cleared his throat. “Here’s Mom.”

Life went on. I went to college, got a job and met my future husband. Curt and I got married one beautiful day in May. At the end of the ceremony, we faced the congregation and grinned as our pastor belted out an official introduction with his best preacher voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Zeck.”

There was something very symbolic about that moment. We had walked into that place on our own, but we would leave together. I squeezed Curt’s arm as we took our first step back up the aisle.

As we approached the first row, I glanced at my mom. She looked lovely—even with damp eyes and a red splotchy face. As mother-of-the-bride she wanted to look pretty. I thought about how she had struggled to find the right dress. She didn’t like to shop. She didn’t like many of the current styles, yet she wanted to make sure I liked what she wore.

Within a few years, Curt and I were expecting our first baby. My husband was wonderful, but sometimes a girl just needs her mom—even if she is about to become one herself. Between contractions I picked up the phone.

“Mom, I’m scared,” I said, whispering into the phone. “I don’t think I can do this. I’m totally exhausted. This is just too hard.”

Mom’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “I know it’s hard, but you can do this. Labor lasts only so long and then it’s over. Think about holding your sweet baby.”

Six hours later I called Mom again. “She’s here,” I said, looking down at my beautiful baby girl. Mom was right. Joy had replaced pain.

It didn’t take long to realize I had no idea how to care for a newborn. Thank goodness Mom was only a phone call away.

“The baby has a bumpy rash all over her tummy. Should I call the doctor?”

“Should I give her some cereal before putting her to bed?”

“How many diapers does a normal kid go through?”

Mom always warned me that babies grow quickly. The years flew by. Two more baby girls joined our family. Today, I can hardly believe I have three teenagers. If ever I needed Mom’s advice, it’s now.

It amazes me how Mom managed to keep her meltdowns to a minimum during my teen years. I needed to know her secret.

“So how’d you do it, Mom?” I asked. “I told you stuff, but you never freaked out. How did you keep your cool?”

Suddenly, I caught myself smiling. After all these years, I had described my mom, and I used the word “cool.” So cool, in fact, I wanted to be like her.

“Oh, I definitely freaked out!” she said, laughing. “I just waited until later. I tried to stay calm when I was with you.”

Now there’s a skill I hope to master someday.

My mom never dressed in cute, trendy clothes or listened to popular music, but she always gave the best advice. She encouraged me through good times and bad. She’s my lifelong friend.

Today I realize what a special gift that actually is. Not everyone can say their mom is their very best friend.
I can. And I think that’s pretty cool.

Welcome! You've picked a good day to stop by. Look what the UPS guy delivered to my front door ... books! I'm celebrating and I'd like YOU to join me. 

Do you remember my recent blog post, The Little Writer Who Could? In it, I confessed that writing isn't always easy for me. Like they say, the struggle is real.

However, my latest story in Chicken Soup was such a fun one to write. I'm not sure why, but it practically wrote itself. (I love it when that happens!) I can't wait to share it with you.

Today I'm giving away TWO copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Best Mom Ever! Because really, who doesn't like a free book? You can keep it for yourself or give it (hint, hint, Mother's Day is coming) to your favorite mom.

I'm giving you FIVE ways to enter before TUESDAY, MARCH 28. Feel free to be an overachiever and do all five if you'd like. Then I'll enter your name in the drawing and choose two random winners which I'll announce NEXT WEEK. Good luck!

FIVE WAYS TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY ...

1. Like my writer Facebook page ...

2. Sign up to receive my blog by email ...
Don't worry, I won't share your email address or send you SPAM.
Remember to check your junk mailbox and confirm
your subscription after signing up.

3. Invite a friend to like my Facebook page. 

 4. Share my giveaway info on Facebook ...

 5. Last but not least, leave me a comment ...
Because if you've already liked my Facebook page
AND
signed up for my emails
AND
invited a friend to check out my page
THEN
THANK YOU! (YOU ARE AWESOME)
NOW YOU CAN
leave me a comment and I'll enter your name in the contest! 

On the outside, I looked like any other mom. I picked my kids up after school and drove them wherever they needed to be. I never missed a sporting event or a band concert. I laughed and chatted with other moms along the way. And as I strolled through the motions of life, I made sure everything looked perfectly fine.

But on the inside, I wasn’t fine.

March is MS awareness month. I invite you to check out my recent blog post over at the Quad City Moms Blog: Don't Judge a Mother by Her Cover.

Have a great week,

Sheri

Today my mind is swirling in fifty different directions. It’s a feeling I’ve experienced many times before. It happens every time I write a story. It’s my least favorite part of writing: starting.  

Writing doesn’t often come easily for me. I hate staring at a blank computer screen and thinking, I’ve got nothing.

It reminds me of that classic children’s book about the little train that couldn’t make it up a hill. A blank computer screen is my steep hill. Typically, I go through a three-step process whenever I write a new story.

Step 1:
I get a spark of an idea, but I have no idea where to go with it. It’s a confusing mess inside my brain. I wonder if it’s even a story worth telling. Where would I begin? How should it end? The task feels monumental. It’s all uphill from here.

Step 2:
I begin to sort through the mess and create some order. I throw out stuff I don’t need. I hang on to the ideas that have potential. This is also the point at which the annoying voice inside my head starts heckling me. You seriously think this is a good idea? Who’d want to read this?   

Step 3:
Around step three is when I notice all the tasks I need to do around my house. Instead of wasting time on a story that may never get published, I should fold laundry. Or make dinner. Or organize my sock drawer. Step three often requires an abundance of chocolate-covered almonds. Eventually I realize it’s time to share my personal feelings with that inner voice of mine. I speak honestly, with all the warmth and affection I can muster.  

“SHUT UP.”

Then I ask myself, “Do you really want to be a writer?”

Most days I answer, “Yes.”

“Are you willing to put in the time and effort to become that writer?”

Again, I respond “Yes.”

(Warning: this part can be physically challenging and slightly dangerous. Basically, this "little train" kicks herself in the caboose.)

“So, Sheri," I say to myself, "can you ignore that inner critic, face this challenge and start marching up that hill?"
   
I take a deep breath and say a quick prayer. “Why yes. I surely think I can.”

We all have things we’d rather avoid in life. My list includes such things as snakes, public speaking, scary movies, and black olives. Also on my list … airplane bathrooms. I hate airplane bathrooms and I’ll tell you why.

First, I’ve heard the research about all those nasty recycled germs floating around airplanes. If the cabin air is contaminated, I can only imagine what’s lurking inside those lavatories.

Second, we’re talking teeny-tiny elbowroom. I’m not normally claustrophobic, but airplane restrooms make port-a-potties feel roomy.  

The third reason has less to do with the actual restroom, and more to do with the awkward task of shuffling down that narrow aisle on the way to the restroom. Maybe it’s just me, but I find this particularly challenging. MS often makes me feel dizzy or off-balance. Add a bumpy plane ride into the equation and it becomes nearly impossible to make it down the aisle without touching or bothering someone.  

So, there I sat in the first row of a small, commuter puddle-jumper airplane, headed to Chicago. And let’s just say, “nature” called. Which, by the way, is often an URGENT call for people with MS.

I glanced around the front of the plane. No bathroom. Just me and the pilots. I looked toward the back. Ugh. Better go before I get trapped behind a beverage cart.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, stood up, and – WHAM! – smacked my head against the ceiling. Dang! I always forget about low ceilings on small airplanes. I rubbed my head and smiled awkwardly at the lady who stared at me from row two.

I took a deep breath and surveyed the obstacles before me.

A teenaged boy stretched out his long leg and blocked my path with his (I’m guessing) size 14 shoe. An old man leaned into the aisle, reading a Wall Street Journal. A young mom passed her screaming baby across the aisle to her husband.

All the while, I kept moving forward. Baby steps to the bathroom. The plane bounced and swayed. Baby steps to the bathroom. I tried not to touch anyone. Baby steps to the bathroom. Please God, don’t let me end up on somebody’s lap.  

Finally, I made it to the restroom and got the job done. I washed my hands and flushed the toilet (which is another thing I hate about airplane bathrooms).

As I trekked back to my seat, an amusing thought struck me. Maybe I should blog about this. I could already picture the title. “Five easy steps for turning something you hate (like nasty airplane restrooms) into something you love (like writing). The wheels in my head started turning. Let’s see. How would I begin?

We all face things in life we’d rather avoid. Baby steps past the Wall Street Journal  …  

We might be afraid we’re going to stumble. Or look like a fool. Baby steps past the fussy baby …

But we need to take life one step at a time. If we stumble, it’s okay. Baby steps past Big Foot Boy …

We need to step out of our comfort zones – no matter how turbulent the ride! At least we’re moving forward!  

As I reached my seat, I gave the lady in row two a confident smile. That’s it, I thought. We need to celebrate our small victories along the way. I leaned over to take my seat. – WHAM! Ouch. Stupid low ceilings. And most importantly, we need to remember to stay humble.

Hi Everyone,

See that girl in the pictures below? It's hard to believe she'll be heading off to college soon. Seems like yesterday she was heading off to kindergarten. Recently, I wrote all about it for the Quad City Moms Blog. Check it out!
Full Circle: When My Mama Heart Compares Kindergarten to College.

Have a great week,

Sheri

I think we’ve all had “those” parenting moments. You know the kind. They’re the moments we reflect back on and say to ourselves, “Gee, we probably should’ve handled that differently.” I suppose it’s bound to happen. After all, parenting is a stressful endeavor.

And so is traveling.

So, if you put both of those together, you know it’s inevitable. Sooner or later, somebody’s gonna lose it.
I’m not sure why traveling turns my husband into such a madman on a mission. He’s never been one to kick back and enjoy the journey. His only goal is to reach his destination in the quickest and most efficient many possible.

For example, during long car trips, potty breaks are only allowed when the gas tank is empty and a pit-stop is unavoidable. Once we’re back on the road, the grumbling begins. “We passed that U-Haul twenty miles ago. Now look, they’re ahead of us!”

Traveling through airports isn’t much better. We had the pleasure of that experience over Christmas break. Curt took one step through the airport’s sliding doors and I could see it in his eyes. The Madman was back.

Before heading through security, Curt called us into a huddle. He handed each of us a slip of paper. “Here. These are your boarding passes. Hang on to them. DON’T lose them.”

We jumped in line and the chaos began. Take off your shoes. Slip off your belt. You can’t take that water bottle. Check your pockets. Put your phone in the tray. Who packed that bottle of hairspray? Take the IPad out of the backpack ...

Finally, after we’d all been scanned, X-rayed and given the official thumbs up, Curt gathered us again for further instructions. “Okay, give me back your boarding passes. I’ll hang on to them until we get to the gate.” We did as we were told.

Well, everyone except Madison. A look of panic crossed her face as she dug through her coat pockets. Curt exhaled. “Where’s your boarding pass?”

“I don’t know.” She shoved both hands into the pockets of her sweatpants.  

“Did you stick it in your backpack?” Curt asked.

“I don’t think …”

“Did you set it down when we went through security?”

“Maybe … “

Madison and I rushed back to security. We checked the conveyor belt. We looked through a stack of plastic trays. We asked an airport worker.

No luck. We sulked back to the rest of our family. Curt looked up from rummaging through Madison’s backpack and shook his head. “I can’t believe you lost it! It’s only been like FIVE MINUTES!”

Speaking of losing it, the ever-growing crease across Curt’s forehead served as our warning … the Madman was also about to lose it.

Nearby, a white-haired woman saw our predicament and leaned over toward me. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “My granddaughter lost her boarding pass and they just printed her a new one at the gate.”

I smiled and gave her a nod. But this lady didn’t know the half of it. We’d been through this many times with this kid. She'd lost homework. P.E. clothes. Lunch money. Ball gloves.

Once more, Curt flipped through the stack of boarding passes. “Like I said, I’ve got our four right here. I've got Emily’s … Taylor’s … Sheri’s … He paused for a moment. “Madison’s ...”

“What?” Madison’s eyes widened. “All this time, you’ve had my boarding pass?”

Curt stared blankly at the papers in his hand.

Madison tried not to smile. “Well I guess that leaves us with only one question. Where is your boarding pass, Dad?

The forehead crease softened. “That’s a good question.”

I recently wrote this letter ... one year after my MS diagnosis.  

Dear MS,

It’s been one year since I learned that you’re to blame for my puzzling health problems. And I think it’s time we have a chat.  

First of all, I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to steal the joy from my life. You made me tired – sometimes so weak and tired that I feared I had cancer. You messed with my sense of balance and embarrassed me when I tripped in public. You gave me awful, room-spinning vertigo that made my stomach churn and heart race. You triggered my headaches. You inflicted mysterious, unpredictable pain throughout my body. You gave me anxiety, depression and a slew of other symptoms too personal to mention.   

But I want you to know that your plan backfired. You were hoping to discourage me, but God took everything you dished out and used it to encourage me.

You tried to drive a wedge between my husband and me. Nope. Sorry. This past year I’ve seen so many practical examples of what committed, genuine, real-life love looks like. Yes, at times you put us to the test, but you also confirmed that Curt really meant it when he promised, “In sickness and in health.”

I’m sure you tried to cause tension between my kids and me. Well, it didn’t work. I have noticed; however, that my girls seem more compassionate. For example, while walking through the airport, one of them reached over and took a heavy bag off my shoulder. While waiting for a table at a restaurant, another girl stood up and offered me her chair. I love that they’re thinking of others. It’s kind of a rare quality for teenagers.

You probably figured MS would isolate me from my friends. After all, it can be tough to make plans. But I’ve learned that true friends understand if I need to cancel. They also send me notes of encouragement, listen when I need to vent, pray for my health and bless my socks off in many other ways!  

I’m sure you wanted to discourage me personally – and yes, I’ve had my moments. But overall, I am a more thankful person than I was before you so rudely barged into my life. I am truly thankful when I have a good day with plenty of energy. I used to take those days for granted. When I see someone in a wheelchair or using a cane, I am grateful for the mobility I enjoy. Even if I do trip sometimes.

I’ll bet you thought an MS diagnosis would make me question my faith. Well, here’s the biggest lesson I’ve learned through my experience. Control is an illusion. We may think we’ve got life under control, but we don’t. We can’t even control our next breath. Honestly, I find this comforting. It takes the pressure off me, and puts it on God – a God who created the entire universe and also made me in my mother’s womb. I’m pretty sure He can keep my little life under control.    

Yes, you blind-sided me with the diagnosis, but now I can share my story and hopefully encourage others and raise awareness for a disease I knew very little about only one year ago.

Don’t get me wrong, MS. In case you’re tempted to take credit for these lessons, let me be perfectly clear. You are not welcome here. If given the choice, I would always choose to live life without you. You’re free to go – any old time you’d like. But even if you don’t, I’ll still be okay.

Cordially,

Sheri