Mr. T acted like he didn’t know why he had an appointment with me. And at first, I wasn’t sure why I did either! Originally I had taken the term “Fitness Assessment” at face value. It didn’t take long to figure out that it is actually a not-so-secret code phrase for “sell everyone personal trainer services!”

I sat down at his desk. I smiled beatifically at him. He yawned widely, making no attempt to hide his disinterest. Big mistake Mr. T. Kristin is now going to win you over even if it kills her in the process!

I filled out a form (I am especially good at that – probably even better than Mr. T). He asked me to stand up and hold at arms-length this little Sci-Fi device that would tell me – in no uncertain terms – my body fat index. Like that is something I really, really wanted to know! I am surprised that screeching alarms did not go off for all to hear. Public Mortification Therapy. He read the number aloud, stating the obvious, “48.8% BMI is not ideal.” I looked him straight in the eye, smiled coyly, and asked, “Ya think?”

Mr. T asked me what my ultimate goal was in joining LAF. I told him that I want to feel better, have less pain (from my Fibromyalgia), sleep better, and have an outlet for stress relief. He looked at me for longer than he had at any point since we began our meeting. In silence, our eyes held for a moment longer than would be comfortable for some people. Something must have clicked inside him because the next thing he did was stand up and invite me to test out some of the exercise equipment.

He proceeded to walk me in a complete circle around a group of intimidating torture devices. I suggested that if we picked up the pace a bit, this walking in circles might qualify as part of my exercise quota for the day. I managed to get a smile out of him.

Mr T seemed to warm to my willingness to try anything, and my sense of humor in doing so. He told me about his father who had died unnecessarily young because he refused to incorporate healthy eating and exercise habits into his life. He had suffered from diabetes, heart disease, etc. Mr. T’s mother had died too young as well and for similar reasons. There was a great deal of anger in this guy – directed at people who do not take their own health seriously. Bad choices had robbed him of both his parents before he even turned 40.

Mr. T admitted that he had been working 8 days straight and did not have a day off scheduled for yet another week. He was also long overdue his lunch. While banter was clearly not his thing, he became more receptive to mine.

When my equipment introduction was complete, I actually thought to myself that a personal trainer might be very useful for me someday when I can afford one. I told Mr. T this, and he did not press me at all but suggested that when I am ready we can probably work out something that is affordable.

I told Mr. T that I would be blogging about this experience and asked him to take a picture with me, which he did without hesitation. His co-worker took a shot of us with my iPhone.

I announced to both guys that this just might become my official “before” picture. My true goal is to become the “Jared” of Skinny Cow. The blank expressions on both guy’s faces indicated that neither one had ever been introduced to the sheer joy of a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich.

After a long, stressful day, that small 140 calorie treat of chocolatey goodness maintains my will to live. If I am capable of losing 70 pounds (emphasis on “if”), while still indulging in my nightly Skinny Cow extravagance, I believe I would make the perfect Skinny Cow spokesmodel.

I walked away with a smile in my heart and a grin contorting my drab, pale, chubby face into something more palatable. Mr. T stood beside his colleague watching me as I went, a big grin on his face as well. The co-worker still had the look of a deer caught in headlights, but I figured that Mr. T would bring him up to speed once I left.

If by chance, at some point in the future I have the funds, perhaps I will choose Mr. T as my personal trainer. He just might need me as much as I need him.

• On the way to work  I reminded myself that “this too shall pass” and decided to consciously relish the beauty of the world around me and praise God for it. I soaked in the truth that God is in control. Because? Well, because HE is! And I am good with that.

• I left work at only 5:30pm!

• I stopped by the brand-new LA Fitness Center just off 30 Bypass in Downingtown. Surrounded by gorgeous, ridiculously young, nubile creatures, I gently embraced my personal reality and recognized that I can at least improve my health. I have the power! I have the freedom! On the tour of the facility, Dana excitedly pointed out the sauna room. I told her, “I have my own personal sauna room. It’s called menopause.” But I love the pool and the hot tub and might even enjoy a “Latin Heat” class or a Pilates group. I negotiated my fees and signed up before leaving the premises two hours later. I even scheduled my free one-hour assessment with a personal trainer for this coming Saturday.

• When I arrived home my hubby padded upstairs behind me, knowing that I wanted to spend time with him but HAD to remove constrictive clothing and get horizontal first. We chatted for an hour. As he lay his head on my legs (forming a “T” on our bed) I felt safe, heard, understood and loved beyond measure. This man knows the very depths of my soul. And I decided to simply appreciate it.

• I put NOTHING in my mouth that didn’t belong there!

• I liked Kristin just a little bit more than I did the day before.

And God’s people said, “Amen!”

Even though it would have given me great joy to spend quality time with my friend, my body is so immobilized by grief, pain, exhaustion, guilt, frustration, resentment, depression, anger, etc. that I do not even have the strength to transport it to a place where I know my spirit would be renewed. I am so sorry Steph!

Today is Independence Day and I don’t feel free at all. For the fourth day in a row I am battling a pretty unpleasant headache. The only thing I want to do is write, because deep in my soul I believe that will free me. It has freed me in the past.

But some of you will read this and be shocked and disappointed that I have so willingly word-vomited my darkest failures upon this page. SO…. if there is a single judgmental bone in your body STOP READING, or, read on and smile to yourself and say “I’m so glad I’m not like her!” Your call. But I must write this for myself and it really won’t matter if you read it or not. It is not the result, but “the process” that frees…

Here it is in a nutshell. Once upon a time I liked Kristin. I liked her a lot actually. She was flawed of course, but she was authentic and meant well. She found beauty in the ashes and tried to encourage others in everything she did. She wasn’t beautiful, but her radiant spirit could almost convince you that she just might be if  you were lucky enough to catch the light on her face in a moment of unabashed joy. She was smart and funny and compassionate to a fault. She was a people-person, a loving mama-bear, a good wife, physically healthy, non-judgmental, enthusiastic and optimistic. And she could find the humor in anything. Anything at all.

But I am not that Kristin anymore. I am broken in all my best places and only God can heal those places now.

The older I get the more I forget. But I do remember, with striking clarity, a time when I thought I was “all that.” I am embarrassed to admit this, but I was pretty impressed with myself! I was healthy, thin (although I didn’t believe it at the time), curvaceous, vivacious, finishing my Master’s Degree at 22, happily planning my wedding, and had TWO married men each confess (to my astonishment) that they were “in love” with me. I was oh-so-naive at that time, honestly believing that I was engaged in mere friendships. I was not aware of having done anything to imply any other kind of relationship. I withdrew immediately, but all of this made me feel, for a brief moment in time, that I must be something special.

I don’t feel so special anymore. For one thing, I am fat. Not just ten pounds overweight, but more like just-this-side-of-gastric-bypass fat! The double chin on a grandchild is adorable, the double chin on MumMum? Not so much. Maybe they should start referring to me as YumYum rather than MumMum. In my defense, I don’t drink alcohol or smoke (cigarettes or weed), or gamble or shop or watch porn. Everyone gets to have at least one vice, right? No…. not when it affects your health in a negative way.

I need to exercise. As a child I was an athlete. I co-captained our high school gymnastics team and was extremely active with biking, swimming, diving, etc. I became ill with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome in my early thirties and have never been fully well since. It has morphed into Fibromyalgia over the years (Fiberglass Algae, as my son Jesse likes to call it). Just to fill the crock-pot, I have added atrial-fibrillation, four umbilical hernia repairs (plus a new one the size of a golf ball), and an almost-killed-me staph infection on my spinal cord. Every morning when I wake up I truly wish that I was waking up in Heaven. I firmly believe in Heaven, so why on earth would I want to stay here in this aching body? I guess it is because God isn’t finished with me yet.

I have Multiple Chemical Sensitivity and am pretty much allergic to everything, which makes me feel unbelievably sad if I allow it to.  Spring and summer literally hurt because I am allergic to grass, weeds, pollen, trees, and flowers (all of them). I love cats (and was raised with seven of them) but have become allergic to everything with fur. I can’t use any product with fragrance and suffer more than anyone knows when I am exposed to people wearing perfume or fragrant personal hygiene products. I am allergic to dust, mold, household chemicals, fresh paint, etc.

But the cruelest cut of all? I am allergic to most fruits. Apples, watermelon and cantaloupe have been spared, but my beloved strawberries, blueberries, oranges, pineapple and bananas all cause my tongue to tingle and my head to hurt.

What I really hate is when people tell me I can’t possibly be allergic to something – like my grand-doggy Buttercup. My kids have insisted that I can’t be allergic to her because she is a hypoallergenic Teacup Yorkie.  Fine. I guess the bones in my face are hurting because I thought a negative thought and NOT because there is a freaking dog in my house!

My job is a huge source of frustration, exhaustion and resentment, although I do love the actual work (and many of the people). I work my tail off and give 110% as Controller and HR Manager for the North American division of a global, recently merged company. We have 11 US locations and 2 Canadian locations. But my twenty-four-year-old son earns nearly as much as I do, and this is after fighting for a raise for two years!

Is this because I am female? Or do I just suck? And if I suck, why to they let me manage and move hundreds of thousands of dollars on any given day (with no one’s authorization but my own), help write policy, train and manage my staff, do all the underlying tax work papers for three separate and distinct companies, etc.? Was I asleep during the face-painting session at the carnival when they drew a huge “L” on my forehead?

Any Pollyanna naiveté I had left has been erased by working at my current job.  It has been my experience in this company that bad behavior is rewarded and good behavior is at best ignored, and at worst, punished. I do not know how much longer I can survive this inequity. I do not believe that women are taken seriously and yes, I am looking for another job. God has not shown me an alternative yet, so I put one foot in front of the other and keep marching forward, still giving 110%. Because it is the right thing to do.

This former “good wife” is avoiding her beloved husband because I know that all too soon I will be without my best friend, and I can’t bear to think about that. Attila, my sweetest, most fragile baklava bear suffers from chronic renal failure. We all know this and we all like to pretend it isn’t true. He sleeps about eighteen hours per day. It is difficult for him to walk, as his ankle has never fully recovered from the fall two years ago that broke 17 bones and changed his life forever. His hearing continues to deteriorate. He can only hear when someone is speaking loudly and is one-on-one with him. Large gatherings are an exercise in frustration because he can’t pull apart and process the words when there are multiple conversations going on in the same room.

On Friday, when I was supposed to be heading to the beach, I broke down and confessed all. I told Attila that I feel that I am avoiding him to some degree, out of my own fear and selfishness. I admitted that it was ridiculous and would stop immediately. He told me that he didn’t feel neglected since I am off to work from 8am until 7pm most weekdays anyway (including the commute and extra hours) and we are both very independent people. But it doesn’t change the truth. And unlike “A Few Good Men” I CAN handle the truth. I have no choice.

To the outside world, this former “loving mama-bear” is probably looking more like an evil stepmother these days. Our almost nineteen-year-old daughter Ashley has Borderline Personality disorder. Her skewed thinking can only manage black and white. All the “grays” of life elude her. Sadly, her frustrations are manifested in violent rage, which in the past has been mostly focused on me. She spent a year at Devereux and about 8 months in a therapeutic foster home, before coming home to our house for her senior year of high school, and graduating last month.

Unfortunately, on May 12th Ashley decided to steal Attila’s disability check and open her own bank account. We changed the locks and she hasn’t lived with us since then. She was accepted into Job Corps where she would have 100% paid room and board and complete training to be a nurse’s aide. She has expressed a desire to work with the elderly so we all felt this was an incredibly perfect opportunity for Ashley to gain the skills to be independent.

But Ashley has decided that she does not want to go to Job Corps. Instead, she is living with a friend and the friend’s mother (who is being treated for cancer). Ashley’s friendships tend to have a short life-span so when the friend’s mom is tired of paying Ashley’s expenses and kicks her out, Ashley will call us and want to come home and we will have to say no. Why? Because when Ashley lived with us Attila was telling everyone in the family that he was ready to die and asking why God didn’t just let him go home. Now that Ashley is not living under our roof, Attila no longer feels that way. Sad. So horribly, achingly, I-can’t-fix-this sad.

And then there is our never-became-legal fifteen-year-old daughter Leigha. At the urging of our family, last March (2010) we made the excruciating decision to not adopt Leigha. We found ourselves unable to keep her safe. She would leave our home at 11pm at night when I was asleep on the third floor and Attila was watching TV in his man-cave on the second floor (or snoozing). Attila would get in the car and go looking for her, mad as a hen. Leigha would visit her birth mom and two birth brothers, who had moved only blocks away from us. She was not supposed to have contact of any kind with them.

Leigha has been in a residential treatment facility since then. We talk on the phone and I write to her weekly. We visit about once every six weeks. She still calls us Mommy and Daddy and we are the only people who have permission to have contact with her. While part of me knows that we did the right thing for Leigha, it still feels wrong that she is not with us. She is our daughter after all – if only in our hearts. We are the people who take in kids – not the people who shut them out!

This former “non-judgmental” person has become judgmental of late. I won’t tolerate it! I will do whatever it takes to eradicate it. I know that it is born of pain and feelings of being misunderstood. I judge lest I be judged? But of course, I am judged. I simply used to have the internal strength to handle it without caring what people thought and without being judgmental in return. Now I am a bunch of open nerve-endings anticipating imminent pain. It makes me ugly and mean – and judgmental.

My inherent quirkiness and natural joy in the small things, is now muffled and constrained by the weight of work stress and life stress. My natural optimism is at war with my natural depression, and the depression is winning at the moment. There has been too much loss. And I haven’t even mentioned my son-in-love’s affair (and joyful redemption of that marriage – please read about it on Lyryn’s blog at http://lyryn.com), or my daughter Johnna’s gifting of her son for adoption, or my Mom’s near-death experience last summer.

As a child I was considered the drama queen. At the ripe old age of 53, life has essentially beaten that out of me. I have now accumulated so many this-is-the-end-of-the-world experiences that nothing has the power to actually induce the end of my world, only create the beginning of a “new normal.”

Tomorrow I will stop by LA Fitness on the way home from work and check out the pool schedule so I can start exercising again. I will come home and sit with Attila and swap stories about our day. I will not put anything in my mouth that does not belong there (including my thumb). I will remember that God is in control and I do trust Him above all else. I will whisper “this too shall pass” and I will choose to believe it. And perhaps, I will begin to like Kristin again.

When I was 14,  there was one mania-induced-mother-of-all-vacations that took Dad, Mom, Bryn, Kathi, Rhys and I on a whirlwind trip to Panama, Ecuador, Venezuela, Columbia, Antigua and Puerto Rico. We departed the USA on one week’s notice. We still have the repulsive oily-hair-mug-shot passport photos to prove it! I am now getting to an age where I forget a great deal of my childhood, but the details of that ten-day odyssey remain etched permanently in my mind. Good times – good times.

Since neither Attila or I grew up with a “vacation tradition” we did not feel compelled to provide one for our children. There were years when we did nothing at all and I used my vacation time to move to a new home (and yes, I had to take the rest of the family with me) or have surgery. Once we went to Knoebel’s Grove. And one time we drove to Charleston, SC because my brother offered us a free beach house. Brent went to the ER twice on that trip due to a herniated intestine.

Six years ago we decided to take a family vacation in Folly Beach, SC (for an entire week!) and visit my brother Rhys and his family while we were there. We rented a house close to the beach. After living with us for two years, our daughter Leigha had only just returned home to her birthmother. I was grieving the loss of my child and was mired in deep depression. The rest of the kids (in their late teens and early twenties) had a grand old time, but I never set foot on the beach.

Four years ago we decided to find a beach house slightly closer to home and ended up in Kure, NC. This time it was Johnna who was missing. She had made the decision to live with her birth cousins and had moved out of our home about a month earlier. Being the momma bear that I am, this turn of events saddened me deeply. I  made it to the beach only once that week. Over and over again I threw myself against the waves, sobbing and railing at God. It was exhausting.

When I was working on my Certificate of Financial Management one professor used the saying, “Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a trend.” Two years ago we decided to turn our biennial beach excursion trend into a full-blown Balla Family tradition. That year we headed to Kill Devil Hills, NC (our first foray to the Outer Banks).

Attila had broken 17 bones in his right foot less than two months before our scheduled trip. He was only recently out of rehab. I was almost exactly two months into my new (current) job and was overwhelmed and exhausted. I wouldn’t say I was depressed, but I was definitely unmotivated. Once again, I never set foot on the actual beach. I did however swim in the our pool and attempt to get a tatoo.

In late 2010 we put a deposit on our Avon, NC (also Outer Banks) house. Fast forward to May 2011. My children informed me that I better not be depressed while on vacation this time! This is not something you can promise someone, but I certainly planned to give it my best shot.

I worked until 11pm on Friday, May 13th. I was going to work on Saturday as well, but loving friends and family threatened to harm me if I even considered such a thing. I left much work unfinished. The April books (for three companies) were not closed. I felt like I was walking out of a public restroom with toilet paper on my shoe. But I obeyed my family and friends!

Attila and I got a late start, beginning our drive to Avon at 4:30pm on Saturday. I did not go to work but since I had put in a 56-hour work week, I had not yet done our laundry, packed, etc. I also received a call regarding a job interview and spent time on that as well.

For at least the first hour of the drive Attila and I talked non-stop. He began to feel his blood sugar dropping into the danger zone and calmly informed me that he needed to get food into his system – STAT! You don’t have to tell me that one twice. We stopped and refueled – both ourselves and the car.

A while later I got pulled over by a cop. Yes, I was speeding. I thought the speed limit was 65 (which it is for much of the drive down here) but the officer informed me that it had been 55 for quite some time and I was going 71. I was calm and friendly and was not trying to get out of the ticket at all. Really. He asked where we were heading in such a hurry. I told him that our children and grandchildren were awaiting our arrival in the Outer Banks. He told me to drive safely and let us go without a ticket. I was blessed.  A speeding ticket was just not part of our vacation budget.

Somewhere along the line I took a wrong turn and we ended up in Newport News, VA. We stopped and asked a group of people for directions. They were sweet and helpful. Their final words were, “Better lock your doors!” Ummmm….okay. I guess we weren’t in the safest neighborhood.

We finished an audio book that I have been listening to for the last few weeks. After that I found a radio station that played songs from the sixties and seventies. Attila and I knew all the words! Funny how we can remember song lyrics from decades ago, but struggle to recall the names of our own children. I grew up with seven cats and three siblings so my mom really had it rough with the name recall issue.

Driving south on Route 12 in the Outer Banks can feel like an eternity, especially at night. But if the moon is high, the sky roof is open, and you are blasting music and singing along? Not so much. Giggling also helps. We had it all!

We arrived in Avon around 2am and unpacked the car. There was a two-inch roach on the headboard of our bed. I squealed (a little) and made Attila grab it with tissues and toss it out the front door. We managed to get ourselves settled and in bed by 3am.

Sunday morning I got up by 10am. No depression in site! In fact, the kids accused me of being manic. I was chattering away about our adventures on the drive down. I told them about finding the roach and Johnna confessed that it was plastic and she had put it there on purpose. She went outside and found it in the grass and after Attila woke up she put it on his pillow so he would find it again when he took his nap. Later on Attila did find it and simply grabbed it up with a tissue and tossed it out the front door again! In this family we are easily amused.

Our original house did not have the cable or internet turned on. We learned that the house is in foreclosure, which explained a lot. Many of the houses down here are bank-owned and vacant. We had ants and several of the beds did not have clean sheets (Johnna found a used tissue in hers).

Monday morning Brent, Jesse and I headed over to the realty company. Internet was a pretty big deal since both Brent and I need to be able to do some work while down here. The realty company was awesome and agreed to get everything fixed pronto and heat our pool for free.

We headed back to the house, happy to be getting the pool heated. It was way too cold for the babies! The manager called us back and with great embarrassment informed us that the pool did not have a heater (although it was advertised as having one). They offered to move us to another house and we figured that we may as well look at it.

Oh my word! The second house is fabulous!  It has a much better home theater room (with actual raised movie theater seats), better (heated) pool, cable, internet, a den, a poker table, incredible decks, etc. We made the entire move in just under three hours (ten adults, two babies, one toddler and all of our stuff including food). We like this house so much that we are talking about renting it next year for this same week (which is so much cheaper than during the season).

It has been a really wonderful vacation so far. Attila and I walked up 12 stories so that we could stand at the top of the lighthouse and breathe in the beauty of this island.  Last night we drove on the beach with Brent, Tara, Johnna and Henry and managed to get ourselves stuck and then unstuck  just as the tide was coming in. We have spent time in the pool, hot tub and movie room. Attila even played a little poker with the boys last night.

Here are some pictures of all the fun!

If you want to follow along, click the link below.

I had exactly two tasks to complete between 8am and the gathering at 11am. One task was to make my impossibly easy Cheese Danish (thank you Nancy Goss!), so that it would be warm from the oven at just the right time. The other task was to make a pot of coffee.

I am providing the Cheese Danish recipe because it is the easiest, most delicious brunch item I have ever come across.

I enjoyed the wonderful sound of thwop thwop as I banged the crescent roll package against the edge of the counter – and smiled at the extremely satisfying pop! as the dough was freed from its straight jacket.

I pulled the rolls apart and pressed them into the base of the greased dish. About that time I noticed the faint smell of garlic or onion. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it must have been because Lyryn had heated her calzones for Family Dinner in our oven on Wednesday night.

I continued on with the beating of the cream cheese, sugar, egg yolk and vanilla into a beautiful white swirl of deliciousness. I managed to refrain from licking the beaters. Okay - okay! So maybe I did happen to lick the spatula. But not the beaters! I am making progress…

I put the completed dish into the oven and proceeded to prepare the coffee, using twelve servings of water and coffee grounds. Then I went upstairs to change clothes.

When I returned to the kitchen it looked to me like the coffee maker had exploded. Sizzling water and coffee grounds covered the counter. I had no clue what had happened and assumed the coffee maker was broken.

I pulled the Danish from the oven and again caught a strong whiff of garlic, but pushed the thought aside as my friends began to arrive. Janice came first. She doesn’t drink coffee so the lack of it was no concern to her.

Margie arrived next. When I informed her that there had been a coffee calamity, her expression resembled a deer caught in the headlights. What should we do, what should we do??? MUST HAVE COFFEE!!!!

Margie decided to investigate, approaching my coffee maker with caution. She opened it, only to discover that there was no filter in sight. “Kris, did you put a filter in here?” Well… umm… obviously not.

In my defense, the coffee maker had come with a built-in filter. Unfortunately, one time the coffee grounds had been forgotten and sat so long that the filter became moldy beyond repair. So whenever I need to use the coffee maker I use a paper filter. But not this time!

We laughed and laughed about my senior moment and the ensuing mess it created. Margie took charge of the coffee maker, rinsing it out, doing a trial run through the filter (sans coffee grounds). She is serious about her morning coffee and was going to get it one way or another.

The cheese Danish was cooling on the stove by now, and Margie popped her cream-cheese-filled French toast into the already-warm oven. Kim arrived and we all sat down at the dining room table with our full plates of delicious looking food. But there was still a weird scent of garlic in the air. The others began to notice it as well.

Our first bites of cheese Danish produced a collective look of perplexity. It tasted like garlic! Margie asked if there was salt in the recipe. She suggested that I might have used garlic salt by accident. I insisted that there is no salt in the recipe! She looked doubtful.

Attila had gone out to do errands and when he arrived back he caught us mid-mystery-garlic-discussion. “Uh…. it is probably in the crescent rolls.” I ran to the trash and pulled out the cover of the package – Garlic Butter Crescent rolls! Who knew they even existed?

As most of you know, I do not cook. And I do food shopping under duress, using a very specific list that I NEVER stray from. I had come home the night before (from a twelve-hour day at work) at 9:30pm, and was too exhausted to function. I still needed the cream cheese and crescent rolls, so Attila volunteered to do a Wal-mart run. He is the night owl. He purchased the rolls without even reading the label since he was not aware they made garlic butter-flavored rolls either!

The moral to the story is this: Only let your husband do the food shopping if 1) he reads labels or 2) you want to live a life that always contains the element of surprise.

I will take the element of surprise over accuracy any day. It is so much more amusing.

I also remember thinking that in spite of his paint-and-spackle-covered work clothes, his blond hair, striking blue eyes, and confident stride made one forget his humble attire.

When Brent was a little boy he worked summers helping Attila with his handyman jobs. That first summer (when Brent was eleven) his “wages” consisted of lunch from Wawa – a big thrill indeed. He was perfectly happy with the arrangement!

Summer after summer, Brent continued to apprentice with Attila. Eventually he did get paid in actual US dollars. He also developed his father’s knack for fixing things and creating something out of nothing.

We used to video each child about once a year, repeating the same questions every time. This resulted in a wide array of answers depending on the age and mood of the child. One year, when Brent was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he soberly told the camera that he wanted to be “a carpenter, a comedian, or a bus boy.”  Now he makes his living as the owner of Balla Custom Services, so he clearly “nailed” the carpenter part.

While Brent’s comedic silliness has been somewhat subdued by the realities of adulthood, he assures us that he still lets loose with extreme wackiness when at home with his beautiful wife. Lucky Tara! And his dream of becoming a bus boy? Well, we will just have to ask Tara how often he clears the dinner table.

Brent was never a big reader. He was more of a do-er. He attacks all activities with explosive enthusiasm. Some of his pursuits have included high school drama, singing, work camps, making music videos and short films, building a waterfall and pond in our back yard, organizing huge yard sales that brought in a surprising amount of cash, house renovations, college (he is three credits short of an Associate Degree) and building his own business. His passions are eclectic and tend to be very creative.

Brent is one of those people who is not afraid to make a fool of himself.

And sometimes, he can be a real superhero.

He knows how to get in and out of tight spaces!

As Brent became a young adult he was convicted that in order to press  into the heart of God, he had to commit daily to delving into His word. At 5am you will find Brent reading his Bible and doing devotions.

Brent will turn 27 this April. I am so proud of the man he has become. In our last Christmas letter (2008!) he joked that he was homeless at the time. In a fairly short period of time he had gone from living in a rented house, to living in his grandmother’s basement, to living in his sister’s attic - all before getting married in December of that year. Sounds  more like home-more than home-less to me!

In the winter of 2009-2010, Brent’s company managed to remain quite busy despite the stunted economy. He was able to offer employment to more than ten people (including four family members) who had no other job at the time. His company is currently booked through June 2011.

Brent’s faith, persistence, committment, and willingness to grow in the Lord, are an encouragement to others. Tara walks by his side – loving wife, best friend, and partner in silliness. Oh how we love them both!

But I do change the decorations in my living room and dining room each season. Fall/Christmas/Winter/Spring & Summer each involve a make-over that only I can accomplish. This transition provides the rare opportunity to see my house at the micro level – to be amazed and sometimes appalled!

Last Fall I carefully wrapped the basket of seashells, bagged the floral arrangements, boxed the birdhouses, and moved the beach pictures to their off-season condo in the basement. I replaced these items with festive fall leaves, a cornucopia with small Pilgrims and Native Americans at either end, and put up the beautiful autumnal arrangements I manage to purchase nearly every year at our annual church craft fair. In the process of this makeover, I discovered that someone had lost her head.

My raucous big-girl laugh filled the room when I discovered most of my marble collection rattling around inside a bird house with holes the exact size required to allow them entrance. My darling three-year-old grandson Jayden had been methodically squirreling them away. The holes are just large enough to get the marbles in, but small enough to make them difficult to retrieve.

I had a difficult time as I attempted to remove the marbles. I resembled a spastic rumba dancer hopping around while I shook the house to dislodge the elusive little devils.

These marbles are part of a small collection that sit in an antique bowl on the coffee table. They are my visible proof that I have NOT yet lost all of my marbles. But apparently, I had indeed lost quite a few!

The bird house has been packed away, but the marble bowl remains. I checked my Fall decorations for marble-size apertures that might beckon to a mischievous toddler. This way, I would know where to look when my marble bowl begins to look sparse.

The most likely option was a twig pumpkin that sits on the dining room buffet. I thought that the marbles might just add that much more sparkle and fun.

At Wednesday night Family Dinner Jayden tried to open the door of the church next to the pumpkin. He was visibly disappointed when he found they were merely a facade and could not actually open. See? He was scouting for a new marble deposit location.

I have learned that losing my marbles doesn’t bother me at all, as long as it is at the hands of my precious grandchildren.

(Pictures were taken by my daughter Lyryn - the professional photographer – and Jayden’s mommy)

Back in April when Attila was battling viral pneumonia (for his life!) a PICC (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter) line was inserted into his upper right arm. The purpose of this was to deliver antibiotics to his system in the least invasive/most effective way.  The procedure inadvertently created a blood clot. It happens. What are you gonna do?

Standard treatment for this condition is the blood-thinner Coumadin, which Attila has been taking ever since. But Coumadin is like a touchy teenager. It reacts to everything – a change in food or medication can produce unpredictable and potentially dangerous results.

The Coumadin levels must be monitored on a regular basis using a blood test called a PT/INR (Prothrombin time/International Normalized Ratio).  This test evaluates the ability of the blood to clot properly. A person who is not on Coumadin should have a level of 1. A person on Coumadin should maintain a level between 2.0 and 3.0.

Attila had his weekly blood test on Tuesday morning. Several hours later our doctor’s office left an urgent message on our home phone – which I did not listen to until 9:00pm that night.

I called them Wednesday morning and could not reach a human being so I left a message for them to call me at work. But then I left work to take Attila to his appointment with the Physiatrist (to address his continuing ankle pain – but that is a totally different story!).

By the time I heard the message, it was 5:15 pm. Attila was in the kitchen frying up some hamburger for tacos, and the salad fixins were sitting on the counter ready to be sliced and diced. Which apparently could have been very, very bad - if Attila sliced and diced more than the veggies!

I called the doctor’s office. Everyone there seems to know who Attila is – probably because he has the thickest file of any patient. At a recent appointment one of the nurses suggested that it might be time to add wheels.  

Bev was unnervingly thrilled that I had finally made contact. She told me that Attila’s Coumadin level was 7.5 and he needed to get to the ER – STAT! I don’t react to these things like a normal person. I responded with ”what is the worst that could happen?” Okay, I am really serious about my Family Dinner.

I could see Bev’s appalled expression, and I don’t even have a web cam. She replied, “If he cuts himself he… he… (voice dropping to a whisper) could bleed to death!” The intensely serious tone amused me. Oh, the drama! But I have to admit that she was genuinely concerned. Maybe I would be too, IF I wasn’t married to a Superhero with a Houdiniesque ability to escape death on a freakishly regular basis.

Erring on the side of caution, I said “Okay, fine. We’ll go right now.”  The hamburger was only half-cooked but we did remember to turn off the stove before heading to Paoli for the third time that day.

I mentioned to Attila that it was possible the hospital would want to admit him overnight. Lackadaisically he responded, ”Ahhhh, how exciting.”

I was tired. I was silly. My mind wanders down strange paths in crisis mode. To be honest, it wanders down strange paths in ANY mode. 

“You know, we have made this trip to the ER so many times that I think it is time for an ER Trip theme song.” And without missing a beat Attila suggested “99 trips to the ER” to the tune of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

I tried to reach several of the kids and connected only with voice mail.  Brent was the first to return my call. I said, “You are headed to Family Dinner, right? I don’t want you to get to the house and think Dad and I were Raptured before you. We are on our way to the ER. No biggie, but Dad’s Coumadin levels are too high. Please finish making the tacos and enjoy Family Dinner. We’ll get back as soon as we can.”

He took it in stride. The definition of “crisis” in our family does not remotely resemble most others. Attila and I don’t waste energy on sweating the small stuff and our kids tend to take their cues from us.

Attila was the lone patient in the ER waiting room. That was a first for us. Even still, it  took an eternity to get back to a room. We held hands and giggled over nothing. Declan made phone contact. Family Dinner was in process. Life goes on!

A nurse drew blood for another PT/INR. I crawled into the narrow bed beside Attila. We had to wait an hour for the results. Certain body parts were precariously perched at best, but my adrenaline was waning and I was overcome with exhaustion. I just needed to ”rest my eyes” while Attila watched the Evening news. 

The results came back at 9.1. How did his level go up when he had not even taken his Coumadin that day? Attila was given a Vitamin K pill and discharged. Really? Is that it? We could have done that with a quick run to Wal-Mart! 

Driving home, the a/c was too cold, even set at the lowest level. So I did something I rarely do. I opened the windows and rolled back the sky roof and let the wind have its way with us. Attila was amused by the loose strands of my hair standing on end as they whipped into the vortex of the open roof.

This was liberating! This was nostalgia-producing! Momentarily I wondered why I don’t do this more often, but then I remembered that, oh yeah, I am allergic to trees, grass, flowers, weeds, pollen, you-name-it, and there are unpleasant consequences to breathing real air.

But maybe I should do it once in a while - just to remember the way it feels to fly free on a summer night with the wind on my face. Every so often I really need to re-visit that time in my life when I felt the joy of limitless hope and possibility bursting in my heart – way back before I knew that my heart would break a thousand times before I went home to my Father.

We arrived home at 8:30 pm. The smell of tacos lingered and the dishwasher was turned on, swishing in a way that I find oddly comforting. The kitchen was clean and the food had been put away.

We have remarkable kids. I missed not seeing them in person. But “date night” with Attila could have been worse. Way, way worse. And, after all, we got to feel the wind in our hair on a perfect summer night.

Emeline Kay Balla was born at 2:40am on Monday, May 10th. Yes, Katie spent most of her first Mother’s Day in labor! Emeline weighed 6lbs 10oz and was 19.25 inches long - such a precious miracle.

A few days later Attila finally got to hold his new granddaughter.

Attila is fully recovered from his near-death experience. Reading his discharge papers is an exercise in Flabergasteditis! It states:

“The main reason you were in the hospital was: viral pneumonia/ hypoxemic respiratory failure. Other health issues that you have include: aseptic meningitis; tacrolimus toxicity; hypertension; acute kidney injury on chronic kidney disease, baseline Creatinine 2; history of renal transplant x2; chronic rejection; right upper extremity DVT; chronic anemia; diabetes; coronary artery disease/history of CABG; thrombocytopenia.” And if that wasn’t enough, there were five additional pages listing all of his medications!

But that is all behind us for now. The next event on our exciting summer schedule was the birth of our grandson Ian Bray Yacoe at 8:41am on Monday, June 14th. Here is our gorgeous daughter Lyryn only moments after her son was born via C-section!

 Ian weighed 8lbs 5oz and was 20.5 inches long - another precious miracle who inherited the Balla lips!

Wow. I just realized that you don’t have to type very many words when you use lots of pictures! 

Here are the happy 4th-time grandparents:

The brothers are doing well:

The dogs and dads are adjusting to the newborns too:

Declan and Katie have already been on vacation at the beach with their new daughter:

As I have mentioned before, we have Family dinner every Wednesday night. I think we are going to need a bigger dining room table!