High Waisted Jeans and Other Evil Things

I am weird about clothes. Shocking, right? I seem so normal. 

If I had to describe my personal style I would use words like "flowy" and "floral." Maybe a little "bohemian" (but the Target version rather than the Anthropologie/Free People version because I am both too old and too cheap for those). 

But these are lies. My style is actually shorts, t-shirts, and flip flops. All the time. Maybe a very soft sweatshirt if it's cold.

(Sidebar: Who talks about their "style"? I suddenly feel very awkward like I take myself too seriously. I assure you, I do not.)

Anyway.

After 24 plus years of marriage, I've realized I have rules for my clothing because my husband so kindly points them out, sometimes while laughing at me. It's okay, I forgive him.

Rule #1, The Cardinal Rule, The Rule Above All Rules: I do not like clothes that touch me. 

This includes things like elastic around the sleeves (unless it's very loose), shirts with collars and buttons that lay heavily upon my chest as if to suffocate me, shirts or pants that attempt to cut me in half when I sit down, socks that leave marks, etc. 

I also cannot wear clothes that itch, scratch, are unsoft, or bunch up around my joints when I move. I really want to be a person who wears blazers, but if I wear one I can't concentrate because every time I bend my arm there is a mound of bunched fabric inside my elbow that makes me want to scream. 

The very first thing I do when I get clothes is to remove every single tag. I used to get in trouble because I would cut holes in my clothes when removing the tags, but as an adult I have become skilled at using a seam ripper, so no more holes. 

My mom must have loved me being her first daughter. I think I can directly identify the moment she gave up making me a cute little girly girl. It was first grade. She forced me to wear a stiff, itchy Holly Hobbie dress for school picture day, and I almost died. I'm still traumatized. It took me six years of fit-throwing, but I never again remember her making me wear something like that. 

I mean, look at this little girl. Doesn't that dress just make you want to scratch all over? I'm pretty sure that crooked smile means "save me!" I think the fabric was something like 70s couch cushion material. It's a wonder I'm so well adjusted today. 

As a job-having adult, the only reason I have clothes that are even close to nice is because of Stitch Fix. Every three months some clothes arrive in the mail, I try them on, and I almost always keep them. The folks over there have gotten good at sending me "flowy" clothes, and I have a profile completed that basically details my clothing phobias in as normal a way as possible. I mostly hate shopping (do you know how many tags are on clothes while they are in the store?!?!?), so this works for me. 

On Friday I got a Stitch Fix and it included...wait for it...high waisted jeans. 

I have long been an outspoken critic of high waisted jeans. I'm sure they look fine on other people, but they do not work on my body. However, I'm an open-minded person, and these jeans were so, so, so cute!  I want to be cute! I also know that at my ripe old age of 47.95 years old I'm supposed to love high waisted jeans because they tuck in and smooth out the part of my belly that refuses to forget the 18 months when I grew children there. 

So I thought positive thoughts and tried them on. 

Y'all. It was not good. 

My sweet husband, ever supportive, said "Those are nice." The look I gave him caused him to follow up with, "Are they touching you too much?" He knows me well. I tried to explain all of the problems with these incredibly cute high-waisted jeans, and I just do not think he understood me at all. I'm sure he was listening intently to the details of my assessment, but he looked almost disinterested!  Can you believe it?

I really needed to make my point, so I sat down on the couch and pulled those jeans up as high as they would go, proving that high waisted jeans are basically a combo of peri-menopausal maternity pants and an unsupportive boob shelf when I sit down in them. Let's just say that was not attractive. It sure got his attention, though, because he finally agreed that those cute jeans were from the devil and I should never, never put them on again. 

Luckily, my Stitch Fix also came with two flowy, floral tops. The high waisted jeans and adorable pink blazer, however, are headed straight for the return mail. It's like this person I've never met who is picking out all my clothes barely knows me at all. 

If you need me, I'll be over here with my seam ripper making sure no tags remain in my two new flowy blouses.

Which is perfectly normal. 

I have something to say about vouchers...

Dr. Stormy Gale Greeson Hickman III has something to say about vouchers.

First, I know and love people who have chosen private or homeschool for their children. Having an opinion about vouchers is not the same as being anti-homeschool or anti-private school.

Second, our state government has correctly used the term “school choice” to push vouchers. Unfortunately, I think many people have interpreted this to mean “parent choice.” It’s not. A non-public school can say “no” to enrolling your kid even if you choose the school. It’s likely one reason that some people choose private schools – they want to know more about/control the students surrounding their own. (AKA - public schools even take the "bad" kids. I know because they are some of my favorites.) School choice is not parent choice. Please be clear about this.

In my schools – ALL of the schools I’ve worked in for almost 22 years – we’ll take your kid and love and educate them. If they are medically fragile, gifted, dyslexic, hate school, love school, whatever. Bring them to my schools and we will take care of them. That’s why we’re funded by taxes – to educate everyone.

This gets me to school taxes. You do not pay school taxes just to send your kids to school. If this were true, only those people with school-aged children would pay school taxes. The purpose of this expenditure is to have an educated populace. An educated populace has less poverty, lower crime, and a million other benefits. That’s what your school taxes are for.

Now, vouchers or school choice or parent choice or what-have-you are about to be a reality in Texas. It’s a forgone conclusion at this point, and no amount of fist-shaking is going to stop it. What we can advocate for is that ALL schools that receive taxpayer money be held to the same standard. The same testing. The same admittance policies. To provide the same services. If a private school then decides to participate in this voucher program, we can be sure they are also participating in the greater good of creating an educated populace rather than picking and choosing who is the best fit for their educational model.

Public schools aren’t perfect. I’ll never claim they are. But neither are private schools, churches, governments, banks, day cares, grocery stores, or anything else. Burning down the entire system because of a few bad characters is just poor judgement. Schools should be well-funded and well-supported so that we can ensure ALL students have an opportunity for a bright future, regardless of the situations they are born into.

The end.

These Children are Testing Me, Part Two

 This one is "Oldest Child Edition."

I was talking to Tucker as I drove home from work on Tuesday (I think), and he mentioned that if the Vikings playoff game gets moved to Phoenix he will probably have to go because everything will be cheaper due to the change. "Why would it get moved?" I asked. Then I learned that they are scheduled to play in LA and may have to be moved due to the wildfires. 

"Well. Use your judgement, I guess," was my response, and we moved on.

Wrong answer. 

Note here that Tucker has been a Vikings fan since the beginning of time. I know he loved Adam Thielen, and it seems like there was a Vikings player before that who was also a favorite. The College Station, Texas, kid has been a Vikings fan for life. 

Fast forward to Wednesday night when we start getting text alerts that our credit card has been used. A flight. A hotel room. Then we get a phone call.

"Hey. I booked the trip to Phoenix on your credit card. Just tell Dad to take the money out of my savings."

Ummmm...what?

So many questions. Do you have a ticket to the game? (no - they go sale tomorrow) When will you leave? (Monday) When will you get back? (Tuesday) Is anyone going with you? (no) When do classes start? (Tuesday)

Yall. This takes sports-obsessed to a new level. An even higher level than when he got in the car and drove to Omaha and back TWICE last year to see the Aggies in the College World Series. This isn't even the Aggies, for goodness sake!

On Thursday he scored his first ever NFL Playoff game ticket for about $140, and it's on the first deck. 

Then yesterday on my drive home he calls me. "Mom, I need to tell you something that is going to stress you out but I've already worked it out."

This immediately stresses me out.

Turns out the cheapest way to pull off this little 24 hour football trip was to leave from one airport in Houston and return to the OTHER airport in Houston. No worries, though, because he's already got a plan for a cousin to handle the airport transport situations. 

Here's his plan:

Leave Houston around 10:00 a.m. Monday, fly Frontier Airlines to Denver where he'll have a layover and then arrive in Phoenix at 3:45. Uber to the stadium with a stop at the hotel so he can drop off his carry-on bag. Game starts at six. 

After the game, find a bar nearby to hangout until the traffic clears out. Uber back to the hotel. Leave the hotel at 4:00 a.m. for a flight home (to the other airport in Houston) with another layover in Denver - this one only 45 minutes. 

Not to worry, though!  He's already called the hotel to make sure he has a super late check-in and verified that the Cardinals stadium has the seventh cheapest beer of any NFL stadium.

Goodness. 

This is him. My child. Traveling alone to a foreign land.

I take deep breaths. Remind myself he's a resourceful kid. Start word-vomiting to Trey all the things that could go wrong. Trey then reminds me, "We wanted them to believe they can do anything. And if we taught them anything it's how to travel." And he's right again. 

I have given specific instructions: Keep your phone charged so I can track you at all times. Avoid white vans. Don't drink too much because you will be robbed and kidnapped and left in the gutter. 

Today he mentioned he needed to email his professors to let them know he would be missing the first day of class. "What are you going to tell them?" I asked.

"That I had the chance of a lifetime at the last minute to see a Vikings playoff game and will be missing the first day of class. I'm not going to lie." 

So there's that, I guess. 

I'm telling you, these children are testing me.

Now I suppose I'll just pray that the flights are on time, that the people he makes friends with along the way appreciate his Vikings-obsession and are kind to him, and dear Lord please let the Vikings win because if they lose we will be talking about the money he spent for years to come. 

If you know anyone in Phoenix or anyone who loves the Vikings enough to be at this game, tell them to keep an eye out for Tuck. 

 

These Children are Testing Me, Part One

Back when this blog started 16 years ago, I often referred to myself as the Mediocre Mommy. Mostly because I was doing my best but also raising children, which is hard. It was to remind myself that mediocre days are just fine if the kids are still alive. 

When the boys were teenagers, I mostly stopped sharing stories because it seemed like being a teenager is hard enough without your mom putting your business out in the world. Now that they are mostly grown, I feel the need to document a story or two now and then. You know, for my future grandkids.

Trey and I talked often about how we wanted to raise our kids. We knew we wouldn't be perfect, so we made sure to work hardest on the things that mattered most. We want them to be adults with faith, to take care of each other, to be good to people - especially those who need it most, and to understand they are capable of anything they set their minds to. 

These days we know we have good boys. Not perfect, but they mostly do most of the things we talked about. I'm not sure you can ask for more from young men at 19 and 21, so I'll not only take it but be incredibly proud. 

But friends, in the last week I have been challenged! 

Let's start with my itty bitty baby boy I grew in my belly and experienced all of my motherhood "lasts" with. Since he was about 15 he's talked about the tattoos he would get. My rule (maybe prayer, hope, desperate beg) is that there are no tattoos on his hands, face, or neck. What kind of mother tells her 15 year old where he can and can't get tattoos? Mediocre ones, I suppose!  I knew it would happen, so I just tried to put my influence in a place that had some hope of working.

On his 18th birthday we took him and his friends out to dinner, and after we left he texted to tell us he was on his way to get his first tattoo and he didn't want to keep it from us so he just figured he'd tell us. It's on his chest and a scripture, so I was supposed to like it. 

And I was so cool about it. I mean, SO COOL. He followed the rules. 

Then about a year ago he came home with a rose on his thigh. I found out later that his cousin got a matching one, and the rose is the flower for the month of June - birth month for him, his cousin, and my dad. That's kind of sweet, I guess. Again, I was cool. 

Along the way he has mentioned a sleeve tattoo. I tried not to comment on this too much because I knew my objections would just make it more likely and, also, he's grown. I reminded him of the rules. I figured a sleeve tattoo seemed painful and expensive and took a lot of time, so I hedged my bets and kept my mouth shut.

As a sidenote, sleeve tattoos or tattoos in general don't bother me at all. Seriously, you do you. I care not. I feel like it's not even a thing anymore, and if you want to express yourself in that way it can even be kind of awesome. 

But this is my sweet baby boy!

(read that sentence again in a despairing mom voice)

This kid started off 2025 by taking a day off of work to start his sleeve tattoo. A kid who wouldn't take a day off work unless he was legit unable to get out of bed, who doesn't like to take vacation, who works kind of compulsively. 

And that night he came over to show us. And sure enough, the kid is tatted up. On his arm. All of it. 

Yall. This sweet baby child has a sleeve tattoo. 

And I'm trying to be cool. I really don't mind it, but it's my sweet baby child!  Did I say that already? Goodness.

I'm sure I'll get used to it. The tiny sobs I feel inside are probably about something else.

Three notes about this. 

1) Tucker and Keaton are currently roommates. Keaton pays the electric bill. It's been freezing all week and we just learned that Keaton won't let Tucker turn on the heater. He may have a fancy new tattoo, but the kid is a cheap grandpa way down on the inside. 

2) As Trey and I talked about this, he reminded me of the things that we always said were important to us when raising the boys. Being tattoo-free isn't relevant to even one of them, and he followed the rules. He is so right. 

3) While I didn't exactly hope for this, people better not even think about saying anything bad about my awesome tatted up electrician kiddo. I will cut you. 

My sweet baby child is still just as sweet. Just a little more decorated. :)

An Experiment Because I am Elderly

Turns out I am elderly. Ancient. Old as the hills. I'm 47. And a half. Or maybe two-thirds. Either way.

Granny-ish.

I've reached the point in my long life where the bravest thing I can do is wear a cozy sweater to work. It's all lovely and pleasant because it's winter, but then BAM! the heat comes on and I'm legitimately afraid I might die. Picture me with my esteemed colleagues around a conference table suddenly red-faced and breathing hard, wondering if this is really the end. Wondering who else notices my distress. Pretending everything is fine when, in fact, my very insides are melting. 

I wore a sweater to Christmas Eve church, and the air conditioning was not sufficient for the crowd. I was thankful to sweet baby Jesus that I wasn't wearing socks so I could take off my shoes to place my bare feet on the cold floor to keep from passing out. Did other people notice? My brain was too molten to care. 

Screw bravery. I'll keep wearing layers.

Another thing that apparently happens when you become elderly is that you need to eat protein. PROTEIN! Every middle-aged woman's TikTok is screaming at them to eat more of it. Then more. Then MORE! It's never enough. Start your day with 30 grams of protein. Your bones or your brain or something else I can't remember really need it!

I don't know if you've ever tracked protein, but the idea of starting my day with 37 eggs and a side of pork is just not something I can get into. 

In addition, I am not a big meat eater. At any meal, the sides are my favorite. A meal of sides is like the best. At Thanksgiving I could eat only dressing and sweet potatoes and be happy until next year. I could totally do without meat. 

As a sidebar, my sister and her family are the opposite. They are meat people. Their "dinner is ready" means that they've grilled/smoked/roasted some steaks, sausage, brisket, ribs, and maybe some pork butt for dessert. We recently meal planned several times with my brother-in-law and sister, and I what I wouldn't give for a baked potato or some cornbread when I'm with those people. Her bones or brain or whatever are probably top-notch. 

(Sidebar #2: The last two paragraphs have "that's what she said" playing in my head. I'm not proud of it, but you were probably thinking it, too, so let's just call it out. Moving on.)

Anyway.

I've been on the lookout for ways to add protein to my diet. I found this recipe on TikTok for a pizza bowl that is super high in protein and looks delicious!  I decided to give it a try while I'm home to see if it's something I can take for lunch at work. There was only one problem.

Cottage cheese. It's basically the reason that the recipe is so high in protein. It also looks like toddler vomit. 

To further complicate matters, I have a self-diagnosed lactose intolerance...kind of....sometimes. Looking at yogurt makes me physically ill. Ice cream and milk have less dire consequences, but dire enough that I avoid them. Cheese, however, doesn't bother me at all. Now, scientifically this may not actually be possible, but seeing as I'm technically a doctor I'm probably right.

So, on a scale of yogurt to cheddar, where does cottage cheese fall? I mean, it has "cheese" in the name but looks disturbingly like chunky yogurt. 

However, since I started this post I have changed my mind and decided to be brave again, so I'm giving it go.

I first decided to whip the cottage cheese to make the consistency more pleasant. I have seen this on TikTok so it must be true, easy, and a fantastic idea. I tried it in the Magic Bullet, but it just moved around the container in all its chunky glory. Undeterred, I got out the blender and tried every single setting on there. Chunks. So I gave up on the aesthetics of my new dish and pressed on.

I layered cottage cheese, pizza sauce (I didn't have any so I seasoned some canned tomato sauce), pepperoni, shredded mozzarella, and leftover breakfast sausage. Baked for 16ish minutes at 375. 

And let me tell you. I am winning. 

It's delicious! And think of the possibilities!  Olives. Onions. Vegetables. I have found a new go-to lunch.

My next experiment is going to be breakfast quesadillas. I eat breakfast in my car every day when I am exactly 16 miles from where I turn onto Highway 290 (don't ask why - this is perfectly normal), so I need something portable that stays warm and has PROTEIN. 

Because I am elderly.

If you have any other recipes that I need to try, send them my way!

The end. 

Christmas in Two Hours

For the second year in a row we went to Nashville to celebrate Christmas and our anniversary. And for the second year in a row we saw the Amy Grant and Vince Gill Christmas concert at the Ryman. Trey doesn't love concerts, but he was excited to see this particular one again. It's an 80s and 90s church kid's dream, I suppose. 

During the show, I was trying to put words into what made it so special. What makes these songs from these people in this moment epitomize Christmas so well? And how can I share with everyone?

These are my thoughts:

1) Vince Gill is silly. He talked about how terrible chestnuts are and changed the words of "The Christmas Song" to cashews. During the borderline-sacred Christmas song "Grownup Christmas List," instead of singing the correct lyric (right will always win) he sang "the Titans finally win." He joked and laughed and seemed to just have fun. Like a kid at Christmas. It was contagious.

2) Veterans. During the show they turned up all the house lights and asked veterans to stand and be honored. Then they asked anyone who would not be with a family member this Christmas because that person is serving in the military to stand. Many shows and artists honor our veterans, but this hit a little different. It was a great moment.

3) Family. Vince and Amy (we're basically personal friends now so I call them that), act like two people who both love each other and like each other. They spoke about their blended family and their holidays together. One of their daughters was singing backup and another daughter came out and sang "When my Momma Prays." It's a song that Vince wrote for Amy that was originally "When my Amy Prays." As she sang I was overcome with gratitude because I have a Mom like that, and it made me want to be a mom like that. It felt like Christmas because it felt like family. 

4) Reverence. Christmas is about hope and joy and peace. Christmas carols proclaimed the joy of the season. Her song "Count Your Blessings" has never been one of my favorites, but hearing it in that moment was a reminder that we all have peace right at our fingertips if we only choose to see it. 

5) Everyone. The show ended with all the microphones turned off and the entire crowd singing "The First Noel." Everyone. I don't know how many people fit in The Ryman, but we were all worshipping together. I think (I guess I know) that some versions of Christianity these days are exclusive. I'm troubled by it. This Christmas moment was for everyone and it reminded me that Jesus is for everyone, not just those who see the world the same way I do. 

So there you go. It was Christmas in two hours. I hope that this Christmas Eve you can find time to be silly. To remember those who can't be with their families because they volunteered to be our protectors. That you get to spend time with family and share a happy memory or two of those you can't be with. That you remember not everyone sees the world the same way you do which can be beautiful.

And that your soul will be nourished with the reverence of Christmas. 

There is always, always hope and joy and peace. 

Sweet Potatoes and Advent

Today we mostly decorated for Christmas. It's also the first day of Advent. One year I wrote a post for every day of Advent, and I'm not entirely sure that's something I can commit to this year. I spend about 12 hours a week in a car commuting to work (by choice, and audiobooks are awesome!), so it's all about setting good boundaries with my time these days. Maybe I'll write again before Baby Jesus comes.

Anyway, we watched our first day of Advent church online from our bed. There was a little football game last night that you may have heard about, and it had us in bed after midnight. As we watched on TV this morning, we were reminded that the first candle of Advent is lit for hope.

Fast forward to this afternoon. I turned on a Hallmark movie to try to get myself hyped about decking the Hickman Family Halls. If you know me at all, you know I believe Hallmark movies are mostly good for heckling, not so much for entertainment. Nonetheless, I Hallmarked. I think this made Trey happy, but it mostly made me grinchier.

While setting up nativities and Santas, I was struck by how much has changed in 2024. I left the organization I worked for for 21 years. Keaton moved out, leaving us empty nesters. We (kind of) started going to a new church. All of these fundamental things in my life are the opposite of the last time I hauled the Christmas decorations out of storage. 

So I had a moment. A good cry, if you will. And bless the heart of the wonderful Trey Hickman, he sat with me right through it. 

Once I got over myself, I remembered the sermon from Church #2 last week. I should probably mention the scripture here, but honestly I don't remember it. I remember the message being over the great debate about marshmallows or pecans and brown sugar on the sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving. 

People have opinions, man. 

The point? In the end what really matters is the sweet potatoes. We can fuss and fight and argue (and be sad) about the toppings, but without the sweet potatoes we got nothin'.

I read something today that said "You can't live in gratitude and expectation. You have to pick one." I'm not sure I agree with that, but today I choose gratitude. 

And so on this first day of Advent I am thankful for the sweet potatoes. For the good guy God gave me to marry. The fun job I have with encouraging people. All the great folks I got to work with and love on over the years in my other job. That my kids live basically down the street. That Trey and I are 47 and 57 and still have all four of our parents here this holiday season. And a million billion other things. 

As Mike Greeson would say, "The Good Lord takes care of us, don't he?"

Apparently I'm co-opting the advent week of hope for gratitude. Let's call it the final week of Thanksgiving as well. I hope you have a week of gratitude ahead of you. 

(See what I did there?)

Baby Jesus is coming to save the world! And he loves every darn one of us whether we like it or not. He is the sweet potatoes!  

I love Christmas!

P.S. - The right answer is pecans and brown sugar. 

P.S.S. - This is my cardinal tree. If you ever gave me a cardinal ornament, it comes out every Christmas and I remember you with joy in my heart. 

The end.