on babies.

I started babysitting at 9.

I fully realize that 9 is a young age for babysitting. I couldn't drive, so it involved walking next door to play with the kids... while their mother was home. It was a pretty big deal. Not because I was such a good baby sitter (side note: can it be called that when you're only 4/5 years older?), but because I made dolla dolla bills, y'all. It was the first time I was able to earn money outside of my allowance. It was way more fun to play with kids and watch movies than clean and do my chores. I would nearly shake with joy when the Outlaws (swear that was their name) would shell out the $15 dollars or whatever it was. I think I started making $.25 an hour at first. No exaggeration. As I got older, I was able to babysit on Friday and Saturday nights for the big bucks. I would probably have done it for free, but being a wage earner was exhilarating.

At some point, I realized babysitting made a lot of sense. I could make the same amount hanging out with kids as I could slinging reubens at a "The Turtle Deli." It became the obvious choice. Where else could I eat chips and play until the kids went to sleep and then watch Saturday Night Live? (confession: I used to fall asleep watching SNL and they would come home to me asleep on the couch with Baywatch blaring.)

Most people stop babysitting in college. I didn't. I haven't.

Its not even that I love kids so much. I just have a general tolerance of most kids and happen to ADORE a few of them. For example, I will jump at an opportunity to hang out with Emma and Martha- Nashville's coolest girls under 4 feet. We go on dates. We are not scared to hit up a movie. Somehow, I get paid to do so. There are no words for how cute they are, so a picture will have to do. This is last Halloween. (Emma was a bee, Martha was an old lady and I was Kelly Kapowski).

 

Tell me how anyone could resist these two? I love them so.

Now, life has transitioned from being offered the opportunity to watch someone's child(ren) to being surrounded by babies who actually belong to my nears and dears. It still gets me that I'm at the age where my peers are more frequently birthing offspring than getting married. It never stops being exciting.

I won't list the babies that melt my heart because I am sure to leave one off the list, by mistake. So, rest assured, if you are reading this- its your child (or children, Amanda). I am not sure what is sweeter than a baby smiling up at me for no other reason than I have made just enough of a fool of myself. I particularly love the babies that don't give away their affections. You know- the ones that make you work for it.

I got to spend last weekend with my college best girlfriends. There's just no way to describe how sweet that time is every year. I have mentioned it before, but it bears retelling. Each Fall, we gather in a city (either one we live in or we throw a dart at a map... like that time we ended up in San Antonio.) and spend time together. We cover three questions that allow us to assess our past year and dream for the coming one. Its amazing what a fixture in my year it is. This year, er'rybody's baby came along. That's because there were 2 under one year old. It was lovely to get to know Ryland and Olivia and snug up with Kate and Pete. We snuck in some full conversations and stole moments for the rest of them. I got (arguably too much) joy from trying to teach Ryland to clap. If I'm honest, I do love the quiet bliss of lying around like last year in Palm Desert but what I love more is walking through life with these women. Real life. Life with kids, losses, victories, joy and pain. We are sisters.

babies, represent!

I would like to end by saying that the sooner I am an aunt, the better. But don't tell Kristin and Chad.

xo,

k

On clowns.

You guys.

I hate them. I always have, so at least I'm consistent.

As a tot, I called them "funny faces" and would usually take to climbing whatever parent was holding me if things went terribly wrong and we came close to one. They thought it was funny, I'm sure. I mean, who doesn't love a clown? ME. That's who.

Over the weekend, Anna and Nathan got hitched. It was, honestly, perfect. The service was wonderful and so very them. The same goes for the rehearsal dinner and reception. It was meaningful and special- every detail considered. We got to shower some blessings on them. Its hard not to. They're exceptional. Some of the most beautiful music ever. We have really talented friends who just knocked it out of the park (I am looking at you, Annie Heyward, Neal Carpenter and Brett Taylor!). Suffice it to say, it was lovely and I was honored to play a part. I got to read Romans 12:9-18 and it was awesome. I didn't even do the voice waver-y thing when you are so nervous it sounds like you're about to cry. My voice behaved swimmingly and I even remembered to speak a bit higher. (I read an article that maintained people are more comfortable when women speak with higher voices. Who knows if its true? Anyhow, it rocked.) MORE importantly, that scripture covers the bases on Christian living. I was inspired and reminded of some sweet goodness. "Let love be genuine," indeed.

There was dancing. There was an awesome band (side note: I totally sang back up vocals... a lifelong dream... to "Midnight Train to Georgia" with them and it ruled). There was cake. WAS there ever cake. Oh man. Erin (the world's most incredible friend/ Bible study leader/ truth speaker/ nurse educator/fun maker/ CAKE magician) whipped up a little three layer fudgey cake with chocolate mousse in between and topped with a white chocolate butter cream frosting. But who can remember the details? It was nothing shy of deelish.

So, I haven't even gotten to the clown.

If you know Chattanooga, you know there are so many amazing day time options of escapades. An outdoorsmen's dream. If you are dressed up with ten friends and wanting to have a little wedding after-party, you may have some trouble finding a spot. You may also land at Applebees (albeit against your better judgment). You may also order the chicken won ton tacos and a Shirley Temple but that is beside the point.

A dude wanders into said Applebees. He is a bit prematurely dressed up for Halloween. He is a creepy clown. I wouldn't know. That is because I couldn't muster the nerve to turn around and glance his way after hearing friends say, "eeeeesh, that is one creepy clown mask." The rest is a blur. I heard a combination of squeals and FELT HIS BREATH on my neck. Some sort of survivor mechanism kicked WAY in to gear and yours truly started propelling through the air. The only two things that did not cooperate with my escape route were my two trapped cowboy boots. In about .4 seconds, I found myself face first on the crusty Applebee's floor. Dress around my waist. Lingering horror on my face. As soon as it went down, the guy tore off the mask and began profusely apologizing. Poor lug. He just wanted to pass out fliers for a Fright Fest of sorts. I had to go and look like I was rocking a seizure.

In closing, I would like to say that I have now proven I will do whatever it takes to get away from a clown. OK?

Don't. Mess. With. Me.

But *do* surround me with friends, love and goodness. That I'll take again and again.

xo

Concerts.

My first concert was to see Carmen live at the King Street Palace in Charleston, SC. I am tempted to say neither exists any more but I must report that I think Carmen still may. If I'm honest, I am jealous of the kids whose first concert was New Kids on the Block or something incredible like Hall and Oates.

Over the years, seeing live shows would become a priority to me. Maybe seeing Skynyrd that time in the parking lot of a Ladson, SC carnival did it. Who knows? Sure am glad Dad decided it was worth packing Kristin and me up to go soak in the glory.

Growing up in Charleston gave me great exposure to international musicians. One of my favorite memories is the time our group of friends all packed in to the old jazz club (Chef and Clef) on Market Street during Piccolo Spoleto event. We must have stood out like a sore thumb with our tank tops and jean shorts. The next younger patron must have been 15 years older than us. Still, we had a BLAST and dreamt of when we'd go there on very perfect dates and drink in the lovely jazz music all night long.

College would bring an onslaught of singer songwriter (read: maybe-shouldn't-sing... maybe-shouldn't write....ers) shows. You know, the coffee shop vibe. We'd make our way to Jammin Java or some place and endure the cute boys on stage. Occasionally, someone incredible would swing through town and we'd clamor for seats to hear Angie Aparo sing his lovely tunes. Those sorts of folks were a rarity.

And then I moved to Nashville.

Really, that's where this story could end. How could I list all the musical heroes I've enjoyed as they made their way through town? It would be sort of impossible to remember. I do recall being a resident of just under a week and determined to not miss a second of the scene  Kristin and I headed over to 3rd and Lindsley to take in a showcase. Little did I know, those sorts of evenings happen *most* days here in the Music City. In fact, I will go as far to say that you will probably have to work harder to avoid good music than to find it here.

In my adulthood, I have experienced a few shows that just plain woke up my senses and left me alive with wonder. The first must be seeing U2 perform in Atlanta in the Fall of 2001. It was the day George Harrison died and we were not only treated to the goodness of the Elevation tour, but also the beauty of George's tunes. It was a once-in-a-lifetime sort of evening.

Next, I would be remiss if I left out any of the Patty Griffin shows I've taken in. I don't miss her when she comes to town. She makes me connect to her music so much that I start thinking I can write too. So, I suppose that makes her an inspiration, huh? She is.

Jamie Cullum. That little Brit is such a showman! He brought so much charisma to the stage that I was exhausted afterwards. He jumps around and sings his heart out. All so well! I also try not to miss seeing him. He goes way beyond a pretty voice. Its an experience to be lost in for a couple of hours.

Sure, I LOVED seeing John Mayer and Tom Petty this year. And this past Friday, I saw the lovely Sara Bareilles at the Ryman. She has such a presence on stage that I got the feeling we could be best friends.

But, y'all.

BRANDI CARLISLE. When it comes to a voice so strong that you think the building can't contain it, this girl takes the cake. I barely spoke the whole time. I was plain old moved by her vocal stylings.

There will, no doubt, be other shows that I am moved by. I love music for that reason. I feel sure I've done this before, but how can I not quote "Almost Famous" when proclaiming my love for the written word and melody? I just love the quote at the end when William asks Russell what he loves about music and his response is, "well, to start with... everything".

well put, Russell. Here's to music and the wonder it stirs up.

On childhood pastimes.

We weren't your average sport-playing kids.

In fact, the closest I got to a sport was taking "ballet, tap and jazz" at the Summerville Dance Company. (I joined because I wanted to be a ballerina- like every other red blooded American 8 year old girl. I was going to be a famous ballerina who ate pizza all day every day. What could have been better?). Many years later, I would try to prove every skeptic wrong and, thus, I would join the "Lil Rebels" as a superfluous softball player. But really... I would step up to the plate an the other team would yell, "get ready, y'all. easy out... easy out." Bottom line- I was not what you (or anyone) would consider a "natural athlete."

So, that leaves (childhood me) a lot of time to find something to do.

I would like to go on record as saying I am SO grateful to have had Kristin. Its hard to imagine what my youth would have looked like without a twin/ co-conspirator. How would I have survived summertime, swim lessons (where I first tried a boiled peanut and was sure the nice lifeguard had accidentally dropped it in the pool), school in general, piano lessons, and everything else.

We were notorious for playing "store". That's when my dresser became the check-out station. Is it strange that my dream career was a Kroger check out girl? Oh, 2nd grade self, you were aiming for the stars.

I have to say, my mom did a great job of not letting us just sit around and be bored. In fact, if we pretended to say we were bored, it was usually met with, "why not read a book or write a nice letter to a friend". TO this day, I don't know why the letter got to be "nice". How does she know I didn't write letters letting my 8 year old friends how bored I was? Unfortunately, it also had me associating reading with boredom or, worse, punishment. A real Renaissance child.

All joking aside, the way to a Kirker girls' heart (or attention, at least) was to request a play or dance routine of some sort. We were suckers for the spotlight, people. It didn't matter if it was mom holding two flashlights. I couldn't get enough. Sometimes I wish the Kirker family had owned a camcorder before 1992 and then somehow lost it for the years after those that have video proof. They were not kind years.

You want the names of the characters Kristin and I had recurring roles playing in our living room?

You won't believe me.

"Grandmother Archie" (I don't pretend to know) ... Kristin
and her "Pet Rat Billy" (Its not nice to laugh that hard) ... Me.

I willingly played along every time. Like I was going to make a grandmother mad.

In summation, I would like to point out that most of the above information served to teach me humility at a young age.  *and it continues on.

But you should see my shuffle-ball-change.

carol.

I can't just cold turkey walk away from quoting my mother, ok?

This. just. happened.

carol: Hey bunny... (stuff about marching in an Italian parade with Pat over the weekend), I saw a guy doing an impression of a cricket and it reminded me of you.

There are more questions than answers.

There's not enough time to ask why the man was impersonating a cricket, in fact.



Mom... I can't quit you.

This one time...

I played xylophone in the marching band for four years.

Now, mind you, there was no marching involved. So, if you're keeping track, I was a joke even to the band nerds. As far as the totem pole of date-ability goes, I was wiping the dust off the bottom of it, ok? Technically, our section was called "the pit". Oh, I'm sorry... didn't I mention Kristin and I did this together? Twin, brace-faced (well, she was), eager, obnoxious friendly, xylophone playing nerds rocking the side lines of a football field day in and day out.

There was such a system to it. For starters, one had to audition (my first experience in the world of self promotion) for the honor of being part of the marching Greenwave band. Again... I'm sorry. That was our mascot. We were a big deal in coastal South Carolina, people. Made famous by our football coach, John McKissick. (My freshman year he broke the record with 406 wins and this article was written. Rumor has it, he was going to be the cover story but Michael Jordan came out of retirement and snagged the cover. The luck.) So, to say that Friday nights were electric with school spirit is a huge understatement. I think it is the reason I love the show Friday Night Lights so much- its nostalgic.

Back to the band. Our fear-inducing leader was a man named Marty Lyles. In my 13 year old estimation, he could have scared Stalin. The man ran a tight ship... well, he probably had to. There were something like 250 of us. You know the movie "Mr. Holland's Opus" where Richard Dreyfuss plays this amazing dude who shapes the futures of so many young musicians' lives by lovingly pushing them to be all they could be? That's not like Mr. Lyles. He ruled with an iron fist and, to this day, I'm not entirely sure how he got away with it. Technology would never allow it now. You humiliate a trumpet player armed with an iphone and your name is mud. He'll tweet your ass outta town. Then, we were armed only with the large, first generation bag phones our dad kept in the glove box of the '87 Toyota Supra we drove. Hardly a town crier.

So, you can imagine how mercilessly we mocked the man behind his back. No one would have ever had the nerve to actually talk back to him. Still, we showed up on time (early) for everything in order to earn the much-coveted letter. Y'all. This letter (for the jacket I never got) was the hardest to earn at our High School. Seems backwards right? Well, we were a fine program. We marched our way through dozens of games, competitions and state finals. We even marched in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in 1994 (is that right, dad?). What? You watched it that year? You saw Kristin and me carrying the banner at the front (just behind Joey Lawrence on an enormous octopus float)? I Figured.

If I left you thinking it was all ridiculous, I'd be lying. I actually had fun in the band some times. Its where I learned how to stick to something long after I wanted to quit, how to polish brass buttons til they're shiny as gold and how to nearly burst with pride while pouring my heart in to something. I could tell you about the band's annual Cupcake Day wherein a couple hundred high schoolers would eat their weight in homemade cupcakes or how each August was cut short because we spent two weeks (yes, technically "band camp") practicing before school began. We traveled all over and some of my funniest memories are from that time. I even learned to play that sucker with four mallets, but who wants to brag?

I smile with equal parts joy and sympathy when I hear the familiar cadence of a local high school band. One day, I may even get up the nerve to show you the tasty photos taken each year... just me and my mallets. You know? I bet I'd go back for a day if I could. I'd probably spend the whole day laughing at how badly I wanted to fit in and the choice of clothing I selected. I'd probably also understand Mr. Lyles a lot more. And I'd smile.