This is going to be one of those posts that has so many disclaimers you’re either going to:

{a} Get sick and tired of my blathering on and on without ever coming to the point you decide to click away. I won’t blame you.

{b} Roll your eyes and sigh. Deeply.

{c} Ask out-loud, “Is this really necessary, Ruthanne? Really?”

{d} Unsubscribe from everything pertaining to this blog and run from the room screaming. Just don’t scare the children.

Disclaimer #1: My least favorite time of day to capture shots is right smack dab in the middle of the afternoon. Right when the sun is blaring down in all its harsh and spectacular glory. The harsh lines and shadows it creates on my subject’s face irks me.

Disclaimer #2: No one asked me if this was a good time to capture this memory, so I just had to go with it. I guess I can’t schedule all memorable moments. Bummer.

Disclaimer #3: I’m not so good at shooting in manual mode when it comes to sports activities. Everything is happening so fast. Too fast for me to keep adjusting for proper exposure.

Disclaimer #4: Due to Disclaimer #3, I switched my camera over to Aperture priority mode. I still wasn’t crazy about the exposure in the shots, but at this point I was getting annoyed with myself for over-thinking and being overly dramatic. Both are tendencies which I’m known for. One more so than the other. I’ll let you decide which one.

Disclaimer #5: When it came time to post these images, I decided to batch process them in Bridge. The only drawback with that is you can’t batch run an action with a reduced opacity. It runs full throttle. Since I didn’t feel like editing each of these images individually, I’m just going to ignore the fact that many of these are blown-out/washed-out and/or generally sporting an awkward color. I encourage you to ignore it as well.

There. I’m done. I’m finally done.

::collapses onto the ground while gasping for air::

Last Sunday, my oldest went to my man and said, “Dad, the only thing I want for my birthday is a one-on-one basketball game with you.”

The following chronicles the battle between father and son.

Things started out fairly even.

::snort::

That is so not true.

My oldest started out with a bang and left my man scratching his head.

You see, at one time my man towered over my oldest. Basketball games between the two of them consisted of the older holding back for the benefit of the younger.

Times have changed.

My oldest now towers over my man. Ok. Towers may be a stretch.

There is no more holding back.

It is game on.

Complete with the male trash talking and posturing.

Please note my oldest appears to be showing my man his muscles. Would that fall under the trash talking or posturing category? Or both?

It was back and forth.

Back and forth.

With more shots making it through the hoop for the oldest than for the man.

Things were getting intense.

And then

And and then . . .

BAM!

The sweatband came out.

Obviously, with the sweatband out, that meant the game had just been taken to a whole new level.

Kind of a skeery level.

The sweatband skeers me.

In the end, the game ended with the oldest coming out the victor.

It was a sweet, sweet moment for him.

On Memorial Day, my oldest will add another number to his age.

It was way back in 1996, when I woke up {the day before my middle brother’s wedding} not feeling so good. I had three weeks to go before my due date. I had nothing in way of baby products. Nothing. No carseat. No babybed. No diapers. No clothes. No blankets. No anything.

Although, a baby was on the way, the baby wasn’t so much on my mind.

I was separated from my husband, so I suppose you could say it had been a difficult time. I can’t really share more than that because it’s not just my story to tell. I’m sure y’all can appreciate that.

Back to my story.

I woke up feeling like I was about to start my cycle. Crampy, crampy, and more crampy. Having never given birth before, I had no idea what the beginning of labor felt like. I ventured out of the room I was in and went in search of my Mom. I knew she could tell me what was wrong. She was my Mom and we all know that Moms know everything.

She was feverishly gathering stuff together to head to the church. She was going to be cooking all day in preparation for the rehearsal dinner that night. She stopped when she saw the look on my face. I told her how I felt and she said, and I quote, “Just call the doctor and see what she says. I’m sure everything is fine. You’re not having that baby today. You are NOT having that baby today.”

Humph.

My dad drove me to the doctor. I went in and was checked. Dilated to 4 cm. “Get to the hospital,” my doctor said.

I knew when I walked out of the doctor’s office I couldn’t let on that there was any issue. My Dad, bless his heart, doesn’t handle situations like that very well. I told him everything was fine.

“Why don’t you just drive me up to the church and I’ll tell Mom what the doctor said.”

I walked into the church kitchen, my Mom saw me and knew. ‘Cuz she’s a mom. She began barking out orders right and left.

“You do this. You do this. You do this. And you do this!”

It was happening. My baby was coming.

What?! My baby was coming? I’m not ready. I’m not ready for this. Panic, panic, panic.

My dad drove me to the hospital, my best friend held my hand during labor and my mom made it before he was born. She was on my right and my best friend was on my left. We laughed and cried. It was a special moment.

And then everyone left.

There was the wedding rehearsal. I missed it. And the wedding.

Those hours spent in the hospital, alone with my newborn son were some of the most bittersweet moments of my life. My marriage was essentially over before it had even begun. I was heartbroken, angry, confused. In my arms, I held this little person who carried a piece of both of us within him. He was perfect and beautiful. My heart ached from the love that spilled over. I cried tears over him. Tears of thankfulness for him. Tears of sorrow. Tears of happiness. Tears of loneliness. Basically, I cried. A lot.

From that first moment when the doctor placed him in my arms, one thing has never wavered. My love for him.

I’ve fallen in my parenting. I’ve failed. I’ve disappointed. I’ve frustrated. But, I’ve always loved.

Fourteen years. Fourteen revolutions around the sun. I pray he has many, many more.

{I apologize for this somewhat disjointed and babbling post. I get like that sometimes.}

Later this afternoon, I’m hitting the road with my oldest in tow. He’s been packed since Monday. Um . . . I’m still working on it.

We’re headed to meet my newest niece who was born last Thursday. I plan on filling up two memory cards with pictures of her sweetness. I’ve spent a small fortune on Etsy. I had to eventually block that site. Every time I visited, I found something else I just had to buy for her pictures. Etsy is dangerous. You heard it here first.

My oldest shares my love for Starbucks, which means we will be making frequent stops for refreshments. And many potty stops in between. For me.

In other news, I now have my tumblr site set up. There is a link to it up at the top of the page. I’ll try and add to it daily.

And now, I will go pack.

Question for fellow Starbucks lovers:

What do you order most frequently?

I’m wondering if I’m missing out on anything or if I just need to branch out and try something new.

When I sat down to type out this post, I literally stared at the screen with my fingers poised over the keys with nothing happening, watching as the minutes ticked by. Not that I couldn’t find anything to say. Rather, when I think about sharing about my oldest, my heart feels like its in a vice.

If you haven’t read my bio, then you may not know we’re a blended family. It’s not something I mention often. My oldest is from my very, very brief and fragile first marriage.

Two years ago this Christmas, he chose to go live with his biological father. And I chose to let him go. It hurt then and it hurts now. This is why you will rarely find posts focused on him. And that’s the last I’m going to share about that.

Instead, I’m going share some of the things about him I’m thankful for.

~ His zest for a challenge.

~ His love of communicating.

~ His sensitivity to others.

~ His desire to come alongside and help, even if it means the work will be hard.

~ His playfulness.

It ought to be illegal to have children ~

this handsome . . . . .

and this beautiful!

Thirteen years ago to this guy.

He was a lot smaller back then.

Now, he’s almost as tall as me.

But, at least I’ve got more hair than him. *snort*

I love you, partner. So very, very much.