Giddy for Gobs

Some folks eat to live, other live to eat.  I was raised in the "live to eat" family.
My mom still equates every big event in our lives by the food.  "Remember how soft the rolls were?"   "Best cookie table EVER at a wedding."  "He made the best anti-pasta that evening" and on and on.

There were a few things in my life that my palate has never experienced, boxed or frozen mashed potatoes and frozen pie.  The dominate females cooked and baked everything.  The only store bought cookie my mom ever bought was a fig newton.  I used to look lovingly at my friend, Cheryl and her fudge striped cookie at lunch.  We were in elementary school and she would have three Keebler fudge striped cookies in her baggie. Every day I admired those Keebler cookies.  Later she confessed she was admiring my homemade cookies.   

If you are a family that lives to eat, you best be spending time in the kitchen.


As luck would have it, my Great-Grandmother, Emma, my mamaw, my Aunt Judy and my mom were great cooks and even better bakers.  We all loved sweets. 


They all baked with pride.  My great grandmother did not have recipes, she baked from memory and my mamaw never measured anything, she just threw it in there and my mom never left an event without getting a new recipe.  My Aunt Judy was a combination of the three.

One of the greatest childhood memories my brother and my three cousins would ever have came from my mamaw's oven,  GOBS.  In western Pennsylvania, GOBS are a common treat.  Usually, they were in the baked good isle of the store, individually wrapped like a Little Debbie Oatmeal snack.  GOBS are a chocolate sandwich with butter cream icing.  They are delicious.

Somewhere in my childhood, my mamaw attended an event and someone brought homemade GOBS.   I think it was my uncle's sister-in-law.  Doesn't matter.   Our lives changed forever.

My mamaw mastered this recipe better than anyone on the planet.  She would bake these, wrap them indviaully with saran wrap and keep them in her freezer.  She had a freezer that pulled out from the bottom of the refridgerator.  The GOBS were always placed in a bag, on the left hand side of the freezer.  Opening the freezer and seeing this bag of GOBS was like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the golden ticket in the candy bar and a snow day all in one.  GOBS, when eaten properly, make your teeth black and most definetly taste better with a cold glass of milk.  

I can see my cousin Stephen sliding an extra GOB in his pocket for the ride home like it was yesterday.  There were five grandkids and I cannot tell you if there was of the five who loved GOBS more, we all did. 

As my mamaw aged, we all tried to make the GOBS just like she did.  Nobody has ever come close.  But we have tried.  Because she didn't measure and "just threw stuff in there", I think our throwing technique is off.

Our annual family vacation is approaching.  Thirteen hours in the car.  `Cookies make the ride go faster.  They do.  A chocolate chip cookie after you enter a new state makes the trip go faster.  Period. 

This year, in addition to cookies, I decided to make some GOBS. 
First, I can still hear my mamaw saying, "These are a bitch to bake you know."  Her GOB recipe makes a significant amount of little GOBS that need to be iced and then wrapped.  It is time consuming.


And after all is baked, iced and wrapped, you need to find the perfect hiding spot.

When I was wrapping GOBS, I started to cry.  I missed my mamaw.  I missed my cousins or my brother saying, "She brought GOBS".  I missed those family outings.  I can still see my uncle at the grill, with a green glass with a G on it, cooking hotdogs, sliced down the middle with American cheese in them, as an appetizer.  I missed hours of kickball and then sitting on a bench eating a GOB.  I missed moms yelling at us to throw the saran wrap in the trash and not just "letting it sit there for someone else to pick up." 

I am guessing that every family has a "food memory" like this...Christmas eve lasagna, chicken parm, coconut cake, whatever the choice, there is a warm memory that accompanies.

As we got older and could drive, I swear my mamaw would tell us she made GOBS just so we would come over and visit.  I am certain that was her tactic. 
``
Franklin was leaving and he saw there was one GOB sitting on the shelf in the fridge.  He asked about it.  I said, "it is for you."  Test run.


Later, I asked, "did you eat the GOB?" 


"Oh yes, it was delicious."


So, they are packed and ready for the big family vacation.  I bag of old family sweetness and new family memories all in one. GOBS.  Giddy for GOBS.

Best Valentine's Day Ever!

I started this blog years ago because my oldest son was in heavy addiction and while I thought we could offer him help, we could not.  As a result, we were a family in crisis.


Through the pain, the visiting days at rehab and the county jail, the arrests and the horrible words that were spoken, I found peace in this blog.


It is never easy airing your dirty laundry to the world.  But, if you can help one person it is worth the pain. 


During this time, my preacher at church did a sermon about "You have to be broken before you can blossom", the story of the sunflower. 


The sunflower seed has a hard case, it is planted in the dark soil, and after a few days, rises to the surface.  Over weeks, the stalk gets bigger and stronger and finally a blossom appears.  And finally, the blossom opens and faces the sun.  "You have to be broken before you can blossom."


After that sermon on that Sunday, Addie and I bought every packet of sunflower seeds we could find and we started planting, everywhere and anywhere.


During those years of addictive addition, it was hell.  Then, he was shot and became a paraplegic.  Again, hell.  Followed by more hell. 


And finally, last March, some peace.  Forward motion.  Renewed Hope and love.


Yesterday, I was coming through the neighborhood and saw the Flower Delivery truck leaving our neighborhood.  Never thought a thing about this.


When I got home, there they were....flowers.  Sunflowers!  And a card, but without a name.  I had no idea who they were from.


I had a few guesses but they just didn't make sense.

I asked my husband if they were from him and he said, no.  I could tell they were not from him.

I was stumped.  Stumped.

I had to leave the house for an event...and on my way there, I was melancholy.  My last wrestling event.  I was sad so I called my "button".  Seemed fitting that on the way to my last wrestling event, I would call the one that started wrestling.

And then he asked, "have you been home yet?"

It was the tonality.  "yes, did you send me flowers?"

"Of course."

Of course?  Years of hell.  Years.  With no hope and I seriously did not know that I would ever see my son again.

I was stunned and happy.  And loved.  After all the love, care, patience and hope that was extended over some very dark years, finally the kick in the heart that made me know, it was not in vain but with purpose and love.

I can remember when I was a new, young mother, waking up during the middle of the night and early in the mornings, I was just waiting for the first smile, the first sign of "I know you are my mom".  I will never forget that first smile...I was putting on a onsie talking to Walker, describing his outfit when he looked at me and smiled, big and bright.  It was the fuel that kept me going.

It wasn't about the flowers, it was absolutely the thought.  Absolutely.  And it was the message, "you have to be broken before you blossom."  Always stay addicted to HOPE.

Cheers for Cheer!

Before my daughter was born, I wanted three boys.  After she was born, I still wanted three boys.  I looked at her for three consecutive days and said out loud, "what am I going to do with a daughter?"


I have owned one accessory my entire life, pompoms on my roller skates and the only thing I ever owned with glitter was my original Christmas stocking (and my mom put the glitter on).


I don't own a hair brush and I don't even have pierced ears.  I wear a wedding band because Franklin insisted. 


I would rather have a pressure washer than a piece of David Yurman and I could care less about hair bows.


My favorite things to wear are WVU sweatshirts, Steeler T-shirts and nightgowns.  I'm a vision.


And so I have a girl.  I didn't just have a girl, I had a girl with crazy curly hair, a dislike for elastic, tags, seams in socks, underwear and anything I bought for her.  Dressing her was hell.


And then, somewhere in the midst of her life, she put on underwear, started brushing her hair and wanted to dance. 


I was cool with all of this, especially the underwear part.  And I supported her.   Until she said these words, "I want to try out for cheerleading."


I convulsed.  Silently.  But I still convulsed.


Cheerleading?  You have got to be kidding me.  Hair bows, hair spray and pom-poms and rector scale drama?  No.


Of course she made it.  Of course she did.


The day the middle school team was announced, I had a television shoot and I had Walker and his friend E with me.  When I heard them screaming in the distance and laughing, I knew she made it.  When I looked down from the balcony and them, they were rolling and laughing and calling me a "cheer mom."  I wanted to gag.


And so my journey as a cheer mom began.  I was horrible cheer mom.  I had a boy who wrestled, played football and baseball and I would watch her cheer, only because he played.


I could not embrace the $50 hair bows and just didn't get it.  I never understood why cheer was considered a sport.  What sport do you apply hair spray for?  Seriously?


Last summer, I noticed Addie had arms like a swimmer, muscular as hell.  I guess I thought it was from running, I wasn't sure.


Fast forward to this year, her cheerleading team won states.  I wasn't there, I picked the wrestling tournament and sent Franklin to Raleigh instead.


It was after the state title that we discovered we qualified to nationals. 
I went to a meeting and came away with one thing, I was in over my head.  We had six weeks to raise about $20k.


I have often said, instead of sending our military to search for Osama Bin Laden, they should have offered a five thousand dollar gift card to Target for any female who could find him.  No disrespect to our military, but a woman would have sniffed him out in days. 


This group of women dug in like I have never seen before, silent auctions, clinics, donations and they pulled a community together.  Checks arrived in the mail and in no time at all, our goal was met.  The cohesiveness was incredible and genorisity amazing.


Off we were to Nationals.  I choose to ride the bus with the girls.  It was painless.  No drama.  None at all.  There was no drama all weekend.  Everyone was kind and helpful to one another.  Supportive.  No drama.  I was so nervous about drama.  Not used to it with boys and didn't want it.  There was none.


Our first stop was registration.  There is where my world changed.  As we approached the ALL STAR resort, there were cheerleaders everywhere, everywhere.  19,000 of them in every color combination, every mascot, from all over.  Everywhere.    They were practicing everywhere.  There were seven thousand Emmas, Emilys and Taylors.  But they were committed.  All those girls had "game on faces".


Saturday game.  Competition day.  Nerves, hair, make up and hair bows. 


Across the state of North Carolina, my boys (aka the wrestlers) were wrestling for the state title.  Not going to lie, my heart was with "my boys."  Every wrestling mom uses that term, "my boys, our boys".  Never "the boys."  We take ownership of these fellows.


I have felt guilty the last couple of years that Addie has been "tossed aside" because she only cheers and the boys always played so many sports and I was eager to attend those.  Even though I was surrounded by 19,000 cheerleaders and their families, I was still thinking about "my boys".




But, as my daughter ran out on that stage with that dazzling smile, my heart melted.




Turns out, the bows catch the light and help you follow the girls. 
They were fabulous.

As we walked out of the stadium, our girls were still psyched.  They made it there.  They learned.  They were still excited.


I thought about being a cheer mom as I laid in bed Sunday morning.  My Addie was across from me sleeping soundly. 


She can hoist a girl over her head and hold her and then catch her.  She has stamina for a very focused three minutes.  She packs her bags, organizes her schedules around practice and games, she studies her sport, she forgives others for mistakes, cheers them on and hopes they do the same to her in return.  She keeps her grades up and is committed.  There are injuries, concussions and physicals, strong arms, all the makings of the athlete.


I am proud of her.  Cheerleading is way more than hair spray and hair bows.  It is a sport and the talent on those mats is incredible. 


I am a cheer mom.  And I have never been more proud.