Unexpected Encounter

**I'd like to introduce you all to Belle of the Blog - she is an awesome blogger who has great taste in music and a heart as big as Texas. She's one of my daily favorites and I know you will enjoy her too!**

When Kel invited me to write a guest post on Café Kel, my first reaction was, "Me? Really?" I was extremely flattered. Kel is one of my favorite bloggers. Her upbeat and optimistic attitude never fail to put a smile on my face, so of course, I was eager to participate in her Thanksgiving week blogfest! Then I read all the great posts that have preceded mine and started to freak out a little, wondering what to write. Queen of Mayhem was just hilarious and Jen wrote with such heart and humor about her experience as one of eight children. I am notoriously unfunny, so the thought of trying to write anything as remotely amusing as what either of them wrote completely humbled me.

As we drove to my mother-in-law's on Wednesday evening, I was racking my brain to try and figure out what to write . Naturally, given the time frame, I was thinking about a post on being thankful and going through all the things I'm grateful for in my life.

"www.scottdownes.com" My beautiful and amazing husband.
My kids who challenge me, thrill me, and bless me every day.
My friends who bring the gifts of humor and joy and comfort and support day in and day out. My dog Cooper, who is – paws down – the best dog on the planet, having saved my life at least once and maybe twice.

Then, in the midst of my reverie, I was interrupted by my almost two-year-old's incessant screaming. After about a half hour of trying to placate him with my cell phone, a Transformer, and some cool French-African music, we decided he was hungry and stopped at an Arby's somewhere between Atlanta and Ft. Benning. Scott, my husband, rushed inside with our older son, Brendan, so Brendan could use the restroom. I got the baby , Beckett, out of the car and headed inside. As I walked into the restaurant, I saw a man through the window who looked exactly like Santa Claus, minus the furry red suit, pipe, and bag of toys. The instant I saw him, I knew I would have an encounter with him, that somehow, for some reason, he would have something meaningful to say. I can't explain it, exactly; I just knew.

My second thought upon seeing this man – still before walking inside – was how annoying it must be to look like Santa Claus if you didn't like kids. I made a mental note not to mention to my kids that he looked like Santa just in case he was the type to get annoyed by it.

So, we all get inside, order some food, and I take the boys to stake out a table. As I was trying to wrangle my two rowdy children in the same direction, I suddenly realized a young man on crutches was trying to maneuver his way, soda cup in hand, back to the front of the restaurant for another drink. I tried to get the boys to one side so he could pass, but he kindly offered for us to go around him.

Brendan then chose a table on a raised section in the center of the restaurant with stairs leading up to it from two sides. Naturally. Beckett was screaming like a banshee and refusing to sit down, wanting, instead, to run in circles and climb up and down the stairs. When Scott finally got to the table with our food and drinks, I got everyone in seats and eating and sat down myself to eat. Within a few moments both boys were done and playing on the stairs while I gritted my teeth, thinking how annoying it must be to all the other patrons in the restaurant. I am very much a children are meant to be seen and not heard kind of person so any time my kids are unruly, i.e. all the freakin' time, I imagine that others are judging me.

In the midst of all this, the gentleman who looked like Santa came over and began talking to Beckett. He then told us that Beckett's Osh Kosh overalls reminded him of his sons and what they were like …thirty years ago. He was so sweet and kind and I could just feel this peace radiating from him. He asked us where we were headed and where we were from. Then, I found out that he and his family were heading home to Seneca, South Carolina. They had come from Ft. Benning, Georgia, where they had just picked up their son. Their son was home from a tour of duty in Afghanistan where he had been hit with a hand grenade.

As he told me about his son, I saw such intense love and pride and pain in his eyes that my own heart swelled with emotion. I asked if his son would be okay and the man responded, "He's here."

Because of our age and where we live, I haven't known anyone who has served in this war. I did have a couple of friends in Gulf War I, but I haven't known anyone personally who has been in this war, which by all accounts, is far worse and more intense in terms of actual war fare.

Hearing of an experience like that first hand made it all seem so real and so personal. Suddenly, I could imagine – almost feel – what it would be like to have a son or daughter fighting in a war. And then, of course, I knew that any of the piddly little things I was thinking of writing about paled in comparison to this…the deep and genuinely heartfelt gratitude I felt for the men and women who are serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, in Japan and Germany and wherever else in the world we have troops stationed. It is almost impossible for me to comprehend putting my life on the line to defend a body of strangers collectively known as "my country."

These soldiers and Marines and airmen and sailors who go out into the world ready and willing to defend us have no choice over where they go or what mission they serve. Some joined up to make a better life for themselves while others joined out of a sense of patriotism and/or idyllic love of country. No matter how or why they chose to serve, for those fighting this war in Afghanistan and Iraq, they will be lucky to come home in once piece if at all. Yet, it is not just they who make a sacrifice. Their families – mothers and fathers and husbands and wives and children – make what might be an even greater sacrifice considering they have no say in the matter at all.

I think it's very easy for those of us who haven't been personally touched by this or any other war to take for granted the job our military personnel do day in and day out. Having it brought home to me in a chance encounter with a kind man who showed no bitterness at all over his son's fate, but rather expressed the simple joy of having his son home, really made me realize how much all of us have to be thankful for in knowing that there are men and women willing to sacrifice their lives to defend each and every one of us and the land in which we live.

This holiday season, take the time to contact someone serving overseas and let them know you appreciate them. My son's school along with many other elementary schools will be arranging for our servicemen and women to receive cards and letters. I'm sure that if you contact your local elementary school they'd be happy to have you participate. There is also Operation Dear Abby which has provided a means of sending care packages and letters to military personnel for many years.

Thank you all for your time. I wish you all a wonderful holiday season filled with love and light , joy and peace.

Open Letter to the DMV

**I'd like to introduce you all to the Queen - the Queen of Mayhem, that is. I can honestly say that this woman must be my long lost twin - except she has better hair, she has a way with words that bring tears to my eyes from laughing so hard and well, she is a queen - so come to think of it...we are probably no where near twins, but I think she's great.**

Hello All! Queen of the Mayhem here. Kel has asked me to guest post and since I think she is a rock star, I simply could not tell her no! I thought I'd share a little dose of the normal nonsense I serve up at my site on a regular basis!

To Whom it May Concern:
I had the privilege of visiting your lovely office today. The musty aroma of old building and stale air hit my nose right away. I suppose this is one way to keep your patrons awake as they wait for an eternity to be called to the back. How exciting it was to pull a number, like I was waiting at the deli of my local supermarket. I am even more enthused to sit in the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area. The best part was that all the chairs were connected.....so I got to stay in touch with my fellow man. Considering the serial killer wannabes and trailer-loving rednecks everywhere, that aspect was even more appealing.

As if the chairs, stench, and close proximity were not pleasant enough, the excruciatingly painful, million year wait was an unexpected bonus. Nothing makes me happier than sitting and staring into space, willing myself not to make eye contact with the toothless freak next to me for what seems like forever! I was thrilled to see that there was no reading material provided in the office. Nothing squashes interpersonal relations quicker that giving the patrons something to read!

You can imagine my elation when, at long last, my number was called. It was so refreshing to move to another plastic chair and face a worker who spent the first couple of minutes rubbing lotion onto her hands, and the next few putting the 5000 rings she had removed back on her pudgy fingers. I would love to know who teaches the office etiquette classes at your establishment, as I long to have them come and speak to my coworkers. I was hoping that lecture titles could include:
*How NOT to Make Eye Contact when Someone is Speaking to You
*The Ins and Outs of Looking Really Bored at All Times
*How to Find out Information Uttering the Least Amount of Words Humanly Possible
*****And my personal favorite********
*How to Look Annoyed that Someone has the Audacity to Make you do your Job

But.....wait....I haven't even gotten to the best part. The area where you stand to take your picture is just top notch. I love the way the camera lens is down so low. It is just the perfect height for someone 5 '10 like myself. It felt very natural to lower my eyes, all the while still keeping my head raised for the shot. The best part was the final result of my license picture. The upward shot is so incredibly flatting of my neck.......and does not at all make it appear as though I have 3 chins! Add to that the squinting of my eyes as I peered down at your lens and you have ONE BEAUTIFUL PICTURE. Thanks to your fabulous equipment, my photo makes me look like a 500 pound Chinese woman. It was just breathtaking. At least I don't have to worry......I mean it's not like I will have to show anyone the picture....ON MY DRIVER'S LICENSE!

So.....thank you for all your wonderful services. I will be certain to recommend you to all of of my friends. You know.....the ones who long to appear as overweight ASIANS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sincerely,
Queen of the Mayhem


Don't forget the Pajama Gram GiveAway!

2 Parents + 8 Kids = Holidays

***I want to introduce you to Jen at CubiclesBackPorch. I stumbled upon Jen some time back and since then she has made me laugh with her stories about crazy family antics, college dayz and farm living. She has graciously agreed to do a guest post here at CafeKel while I'm away and I know this one will bring a little cheer to your holiday spirit too. Thanks Jen! ***

Kel asked me to do a guest post (My first one! Ever!) and in the spirit of Thanksgiving and family, I decided to write about what it's like growing up as the oldest of 8 kids. Yes. 8.

First, a small introduction. I am the oldest at 25 years old. The current ages then follow as: 23, 20, 19, 18, 16, 15, 12. So my parents had 8 kids within 13 years.

Growing up in a large family is as normal to me as someone who grew up an only child I suppose. Except that people in a small town tend to stare more when there's a mom with 8 kids following behind her in the grocery store. (Not to mention the TWO over-filling grocery carts) I remember being 13 or so and feeling like EVERYONE stared at us. It was rare when my mom didn't get stopped in a grocery store by a stranger who would ask "Are they ALL yours?" She would often say that she wanted to get a shirt made that said "Yes, they're all mine. Yes, we're Catholic. And YES, I'm still married to their father." Or some variation of that.

All 10 of us (plus a dog and a cat or two) lived in a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom house on a couple of acres in Indiana. Needless to say, us girls developed strong bladders and the boys learned at a young age that peeing off the backporch saved them a world of hurtin.

Being the oldest had lots of responsibility. I learned to do laundry at a young age. I learned that folding my sisters clothes inside out would get me in trouble. I learned how to hand wash dishes like I was Cinderalla. (And sometimes, to pass the time, I was) I was also responsible for feeding the hogs and cleaning the barn. It was the latter chore that I loved. It also meant that I got time to myself out in the barn, time that I used to explore the old buildings that were used to house livestock before my parents lived there. I knew what parts of the roof were okay to walk on and what parts to avoid. I envisioned writing my novels out under the metal roofs in the rain.

Growing up in a large family in the country, there was always someone to play with and always something to do. #2 and I would make bicycle roads around the house with rules that had to be followed. "School" was a regular thing we did where I was the teacher, #2 was the gym teacher (b/c I needed time to grade papers), and the other siblings were the students who were usually eager learners. We used to swing on the pasture gates, 'explore' in the tall weeds, and watch for deer in the evenings.

Of course money was tight. My friends would talk about going shopping on the weekends and I couldn't imagine going shopping for no reason... we got clothes before school started and for Christmas and that was all the shopping we normally did. We were on food stamps for a while. Vacations were rare. But, we had everything we needed.

One thing that I think about now that I'm older is how my parents raised us without jealousy. I don't remember ever being jealous of my siblings or feeling like my parents never paid attention to me. Toys were shared. We each took turns riding with Dad to town. Whenever a new one came along, we were all excited and eager to meet the new sibling. How did they do that? How did they treat us each the same? Sometimes I don't think they even know how they did it.

Eventually, my dad started working for an automaker and making decent money. We moved to Kentucky to a 5 bedroom, 2.5 bathroom house. Most of my siblings don't remember the little house in Indiana, or how summer days were spent outside.

Every year, when we're all seated around the Thanksgiving table, (There will be around 17 this year- (our parents, 8 kids, 3 boyfriends, and 4 grandkids) my mind drifts back to the little house and the life we all started there. Then I thank God that my parents have more than one bathroom now. And a dishwasher.

So this Thanksgiving when you're waiting at the bathroom door for Uncle Stan to get done, just remember that it could be worse... there could be 7 other people in front of you.

Don't Forget the Pajama Gram GiveAway!!