Difficulties and a (step)Mama’s Love

My heart broke last night. It seems like it’s been breaking a lot as of late. This parenting thing is tough. And stepping in as a step-parent? It’s certainly not a role for the faint of heart.

IMG_0378I’ve avoided writing here because I wanted this space to be fun and filled with laughter and joy. My words over at my other site, A Big Umbrella, tend to be more serious, touching those tender places of heartbreak and loss. I wanted this to be my space to try writing with humor and lightheartedness, because there’s a lot of that in my family. And I’m grateful. And honestly? I wanted you to picture my life like a Brady Bunch episode. Sure, there are trials, but they’re fixed and resolved in less than 30 minutes. And there’s a housekeeper who cooks and cleans. Who doesn’t want that?

But that’s not my reality. This first year of marriage has been tough. Not because my husband and I don’t get along — we do. In fact, we get along so well that it freaks. me. out. As in there are days I withdraw a bit not because he’s hurting me in anyway, but rather, quite the opposite. He’s so nice. And sweet. And I struggle to reconcile the reality that marriage can be like this, this good, this easy, this encouraging with what I experienced for fourteen years through my first marriage. That hard. That filled with hurt and sorrow. I withdraw to try and protect my heart from being hurt again as I wait for the proverbial other shoe to come crashing down.

But there is no shoe dropping on this family of mine, on my heart. So why has it been a difficult year?

The kids. And not just any kids —stepkids. Kids carried in someone else’s womb, born and held in someone else’s arms. Someone who chose to walk away.

I’m not here to bash anyone, certainly not my stepkids’ mom. Everyone has a story, and while I know a piece of hers, I will not stand in judgment of it. I don’t know the entire story, and it’s simply not my place to judge.

But I am standing with the repercussions and let me tell you — it sucks. It hurts. And it breaks my heart to see how our actions as parents, as adults, directly impact the kids and the damage divorce leaves in its wake. It doesn’t matter if they’re twelve or twenty-two, divorce hurts everyone, including the kids.

This is the point where well-meaning people step in and ask, so why do it? If remarriage is so difficult, why do it? To which I respond, I fell in love.

img_9493I did. I fell in love with this man that just seemed to fit me. He gets me. He knows how to care for me, how to love me. He respects me and he respects my relationship with my oldest daughter, and has come to love her as well.

But I also fell in love with his kids with their crazy, puppy-like-rolling-all-over-eah-other-energy and constant need to touch me all. the. stinkin’. time. With their sassy attitudes and broken hearts. With their giggles and can’t quite-get-out-of-the-door-on-time-in-the-morning struggles.

Yes, I fell in love with them, too, but it is tough stepping in during these middle years. When hormones speak louder than rationality. When they already struggle to be accepted and included and then I go and change some expectations on them as me and their dad rewrite a new normal.

There are days when the pressure builds and I know if I don’t get some space, some time alone, I may just explode. When the frustration builds as I tell them, for the thousandth time, to clean their rooms, do their homework, and stop farting on their brother . . . Yes. That’s a thing in our house.

IMG_0359But then moments like last night come along. When the one in the middle, my tender guy, sat on the bed doing everything possible to hold back the tears that threaten to spill. Pinching his throat, pushing on his eyes, staring ahead looking his dad straight in the eye without blinking. This one who struggles with anxiety and belonging, whose mind races faster than his ability to speak, who just can’t focus to figure out how to do school, who can’t seem to get the thoughts and things he knows written down on paper.

I watched him and determined – this. This is why I choose the hard road. My mama-bear-love rose up, that deep primal protective love, love that I thought was only reserved for the children born of my body, stood ready to roar against the world who dare hurt this precious boy. Who dare to tell him that he isn’t smart or funny or capable. Because he is.

IMG_0546And this love is not just for him, it’s for all three of these kids that have captured my heart and burrowed their way into my love. The girl who longs for a mother’s love and the oldest boy who just wants to do what he thinks is right.

IMG_0517No, this hasn’t been an easy year. It’s been filled with tears and struggles and frustration. And while it may never be an episode on the Brady Brunch, it’s unfolding as it’s own kind of story. One filled with hope and healing and lots and lots of love. One I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

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He Calls Me Mine

kids

Names mean a lot to me. A name helps me be known by others, to connect. When I named my two girls, I chose names that spoke value, considered their meanings. I felt their names provided a glimpse into who they might become.

My parents set the stage for choosing names. They chose mine because of a movie: True Grit. While my mom liked the tenacity of the main female character, Mattie, she wasn’t fond of her name. She did, however, like the name of the actress who played Mattie in the 1969 version: Kim Darby.

And so I was named.

Through the years I’ve been called Kim, Kimmy, Princess, Kimberly, Auntie Kimmy, and of course, the full blown Kimberly Dawn any time I was in trouble. Which wasn’t very often. Honest.

But I’ve also been called by another name. A name I don’t hear quite as often these days, but one I dearly love.

kelsey-emma2001

Mom.

There’s so much wrapped up in that name. Love and care. Relationship and belonging. History, present, and a future. A connection and a bond that is like nothing else in the world. When m
y girls called me Mom, I knew we belonged together and nothing, not even death, could take that away.

So naturally, as my relationship with Russ’s kids grew and they burrowed their way into my heart, I longed for a similar type of connection. began to wonder what they would call me. Would it be Kim, or would it possibly shift to Mom?

A couple of years in, the boy twin came up to me and hugged me. Now being hugged wasn’t new; they hugged me all the time. Still do. At first it was overwhelming and even scary, those touchy-buggy-pokey antics.

But that day, he said something as he squeezed me tight. Arms wrapped tight, he said Mine.

At first I chuckled. Um, that’s my arm, or leg, or whatever he was hugging. I thought do you think you own me? now Funny how I get all self-protective when someone trips over my old baggage. But he did this. A lot.

He hugged my arm. Mine.

He hugged my leg. Mine. (Yeah, I think this is a little weird, too. But he likes to lay on the floor by my feet. Like a puppy. And yes, there are days he pretends he’s a puppy. For real. insert shoulder shrug here. Welcome to our home.)

He hugged my neck. Mine.

He snuggled in close to me. Mine.

Hmmm. There was something special about what he said, something that stirred my wounded heart. Isn’t this what I longed for? To connect? Yeah, I know. But it didn’t feel the same, not at first. I wanted what other moms had: the name. That coveted title.

I watch how Russ interacts with them —such love. A genuine, pure, enjoying-each-other-even-when-they-drive-you-nuts kind of love. And while I’m not fully there yet, I’m definitely heading for that crazy-love train because I want to be a part of that, with them.

But as someone stepping into their lives mid-stream, it often feels lonely, disconnected, in a world of missing out. Missing out on the joy of their pregnancies. Missing out on their firsts – first smiles, first steps, first words. I missed out on the joy of expectation and jumped right into the challenges of the middle years. I missed out on their first falls where I scoop them up and kiss their pain away. I belong and yet, I don’t.

I’ve stepped into bigger wounds, bigger fears, and deeper pain. I’ve stepped into relationships that need to be formed from scratch yet need to be fast-tracked to fullness. Relationships that take much more time and space to create but happen in the daily grind of everyday life.

People ask me what these three kiddos call me now that we all have the same last name. Just Kim, I reply, almost as if my name is some sort a consolation prize, a “thanks-for-playing” award that is somehow less than another name they might call me.

I realized this sense of being left out actually stemmed from a deeper longing —to belong to One who would never leave or betray me. Russ wasn’t that person. I couldn’t expect him to be just as I can’t be that person for him. My faith tells me God is the only One who can fully satisfy my need to belong. In fact, He’s the one who created that desire in my in the first place.

“Acknowledge that the Lord is God! He mad us, and we are his. We are his people, the sheep of his pasture.” Psalm 100:3, NLT

How often I forget that and try to fill God’s space with a whole lot of other stuff. Like house stuff, clothes stuff, even people stuff. But those temporary fillings don’t last very long. Only God fills that desire to belong and draws me near.

“For he satisfies the longing soul, and the hungry soul he fills with good things.” Psalm 107:9, NIV

At dinner one night, we sat around a big table, and this topic came up. It started with the twin girl. What are we going to call you? The wedding was over, we were back from the honeymoon, and had just moved everyone in to the new house. Well, not everyone. My oldest lives in another state with her husband and had decided she would call Russ, well, Russ. But the younger ones wanted to know what they could call me.

Do we call you Kim?

Do we call you Mom?

Four sets of eyes stared at me. Hesitant. Longing. Uncertain.

I knew what I wanted to say. Call me Mom, of course! That’s the name I want. It’s the job I’ll do. But as I sat and prayed, asking for wisdom and direction, something different tumbled out.

You can call me whatever you want. If you want to call me Mom, that’s okay. If you still want to call me Kim, I’m okay with that, too. You already have a mom, so it’s really up to you.

They looked at each other satisfied with my answer, and decided to keep calling me Kim.

I’m not going to lie, I was slightly disappointed, crushed for a minute, even. Probably more than I expected. I wanted the happy ending complete with the tender declaration of love and admiration. I wanted the Hollywood “happily ever after” where they all cheered and cried, Mom!

But that’s Hollywood and this is real life. A life often filled with disappointments and longings, of broken families and mending ones. But every so often God leans in and whispers to a child. Because at that moment, when the feeling of left-outed-ness crowded in, the twin boy scooted closer to me, hugged my arm, and said, Mine.

I’ve decided that’s much better name.

A precious reminder of another One who calls me by the same name.

I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1 NLT

My Marriage Did Not Save Me

img_3715Here I sit, about to write a piece on marriage. Who’d have thought that would happen?

Certainly not me.

My first marriage lasted 14 years before it unraveled beyond repair. There was a lot of hurt and pain, sorrow and loss, not something I wanted others to know. But that story isn’t for here, nor is it fully mine to share.

Here I write about my new marriage, this second one. It’s only been four months and twenty-nine days since it began, but I have to be honest . . .
It’s been good.

Wait, what?

Yep, it’s good but don’t get me wrong, it’s not perfect. Come hang out for a while and you’ll see. We each came to this marriage with a U-Haul full of baggage where we were more likely to trip and topple over each other’s bags than describe these early days as good.

But they are, and I’m grateful. Apparently, the joy seems to live on my face because others are noticing. I keep hearing things like: you look so happy. Or you don’t look so sad anymore.

Life was really tough until a few years ago. I endured such sorrow and heartbreak there were days, months, okay—years when I wasn’t sure the breaking would end. And not only did I not know if it would end, I had no idea how it would end. And if it did, I wondered who would ever want to deal with these leftovers, these tiny bits I had left to give.

Leftovers and broken pieces. Hi! Want a date this life-in-the-middle gal? Yep, that’s a U-haul back there. We’re a package deal but you might get used to it, or try and ignore it like I did. I didn’t know what to do with my mess, how in the world would I invite someone to draw near where they might cut themselves on every piece?

And then there was the loneliness. It was there all along, lingering near the fringes. Crying myself to sleep, wondering if life would ever be good, the kind of life described in the Bible. Will I see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living? An abundant life? I wanted that. And I wanted what my friends had—to be married to their best friend.

I used to laugh about that. Well, more of a cynical chuckle, really.  Surely, they’re lying. There’s no way they’re really best friends. That’s just what Christian couples say. I lived so long with life outside my door looking vastly different than life behind my door, I wondered if life behind their doors was actually anything like mine.

Perhaps you can relate.

Life crushed my tender heart, and in the squeezing temptation poked and prodded at my heart to seek out someone to make me feel better, to fix my woes, and tend my wounds. It whispered that I could only be whole as part of a couple. And I started to believe the whisper.

So when that magical day arrived and I met someone online. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. We exchanged pleasantries and quickly learned we had much in common, more than seemed possible. The fairy tale romance began and my prince finally came and saved me from this life of loneliness.

Hold. the. phone. That’s not exactly what happened.

Yes, I met a wonderful man who is kind and gentle and funny. But he didn’t save me. My relationship with Russ is restoration, but not salvation. Only Jesus saves. Russ is more like the icing on a yummy cupcake than the ingredients that created the cupcake in the first place.

Okay, he’s more than frosting, but you get my point.

Before I married my sweet husband (see what I did there?), I did a whole lot of work on my own to prepare to become his wife. I didn’t want to believe that whispered lie that I would never be whole on my own. I longed for wholeness and healing, to be free of the weights of my baggage that wore me down because I wanted a healthy relationship this time around. Marriage is hard enough without that U-Haul truck of stuff dragging us down.

I’m learning that marriage takes intentional work to create a safe place for each to succeed and fail, a place where unconditional love reigns and hope resides.

But when we drag in our past without seeking healing—all those feelings of abandonment and betrayal, bitterness and anger—we are headed right for disaster.

In our early days, I told Russ that I didn’t want to be anyone’s girlfriend.

Poor guy, he had no idea what he was getting himself in to.

I used to freak out. A lot. I was scared. What if he hurts me?  I was uncomfortable. If he really knew me. I was insecure. He’d be better off without me. I was filled with doubt. This isn’t going to work.

I started to tell him that it was just too hard, that I wasn’t sure I could get past my own hurt and brokenness to give him anything. I figured maybe I should just walk away.

He told me I could do that, but he would simply follow me.

Sigh.

I know, right?

When he said that, I realized this relationship might be worth the risk. But there was work for me to do. First, I turned away from the whispered lie that I was not enough on my own, and turned toward the One who makes me whole.

No, it’s not Russ’s job to fix me. If I relied on him, disappointed would reign because he is, after, all, human. Prone to mistakes and blunders, just like me. Not because he’s mean or hurtful, but because he’s broken, too, and needs his own healing. No, I had to do the work and purge my junk so I could make room for what was to come. The good stuff.

I didn’t want to stay broken.

I didn’t want to be bitter.

I didn’t want to live leery of other’s intentions, especially his. Especially if there was any hope of a future together.

So I did the only thing I knew to do: I leaned into those broken places and embraced my heartache, trusting God to be faithful to His Word and His character. This wasn’t entirely new to me; it’s been my way of life since my daughter died. While it hasn’t been a perfect process, there’s been healing, deep and abundant healing. I’m stronger now so when those whispered lies return to tell me I’m not whole on my own, I simply tell the voice to shut up and then I go kiss my husband, who is my best friend.

No, my husband hasn’t saved me. But he has provided a safe place for me where healing still occurs, for me and for him. Oh, and the kids. But that’s a different story for another day.

russ-smile

Kids, U-Hauls, and Matching Luggage

first-picOnce upon a time a young woman dreamed about being married to a guy who loved her unconditionally. The type of love that Keith showed Watts once he finally realized Amanda wasn’t really the girl he loved in Some Kind of Wonderful. Remember that? (if not, check. it. out. Classic 80’s.) Keith and Watts were best buds, hanging out, encouraging each other to pursue their dreams, until the day came when Keith decided to pursue the girl of his dreams, but it wasn’t Watts.

It was Amanda Jones.

I never felt like Amanda Jones, I felt more like Watts. She dressed up as a chauffeur, willing to drive her best friend around on a date, longing to help but never measuring up to Amanda Jones. I never felt like I measured up, either,  but I also never really wanted what Amanda had.

I wanted what Watts and Keith had: the fun and laughter, thinking the best no matter how ornery or broken. While I never really wanted to play the drums like Watts (okay, okay . . . I secretly did), I wanted that kind of relationship.

What I got instead was a broken heart and a broken marriage. Through my first marriage, I quickly learned that it was tough, way more difficult than receiving a pair of diamonds from a guy I secretly loved who finally realized he really did love me back. I learned it was more than saying I do and promising to stay together forever. It was more than love and respect, more than giving 100%. It was hard and full of potholes and pain. My marriage became about sickness, death, and loss while shattered pieces sliced away at our tender hearts.

Nothing like Keith and Watts and their joy-filled smiles by the time the credits began to roll.

It was during my first marriage that my baggage collection grew. By the time of our wedding, I had a carry-on of insecurity and a backpack of low self-esteem. Who doesn’t get hurt living in this world? As the years past, I accumulated the whole shebang: the garment bag and make-up case, small, medium, large, and extra-large suitcases with every ancillary add-on possible.

Loss. Distrust. Death. Grief. Loneliness. Shame. Brokenness.

I needed a U-Haul to carry it around. Maybe not the 26-footer, but definitely the one made to carry enough stuff to fill a one-bedroom apartment.
Now add my life-in-the-middle status and I felt like the winningest loser possible. The one who received an award simply for showing up. A cliche. Forty and divorced. The thought plagued me: who would ever want me and this packed-to-the-brim U-Haul full of brokenness?

Since I’m pouring it all out in complete honesty here, this life-in-the-middler would only attract another life-in-the-middler, if anyone at all. What kind of baggage would he have that I’d be willing to add? Certainly anyone I met at this stage in the game would have his own set lugging around.

No wonder marriages fail, especially second ones. No wonder there is so much heartache and sorrow, disillusionment and grief. We long for love, for companionship, and acceptance. But we know our baggage, we pack it every day. We think if someone else sees it, we’ll be rejected. Again. So we hide it, repurpose it, or pretend it doesn’t exist.

So, if you’re a life-in-the-middle gal like me, you have baggage. There’s no denying it, no pretending it doesn’t exist. Well, I suppose you could pretend that, but you’ll find yourself even more frustrated and broken.

I knew this. I knew I not only had a complete set luggage, it filled an entire U-Haul truck. But I also wanted wholeness and a healthy relationship, so what’s a life-in-the-middle gal to do?

Sign up for a dating website, of course. Put myself out there, baggage and all.

I mustered enough courage and began to fill out my profile. I tried so hard to figure out how much baggage to reveal and how much to keep safely tucked away. At this point I figured less was more but, honestly, I didn’t think anyone would notice me, anyway.

Imagine my surprise when soon after I uploaded my picture, I started to receive smiles. Yes, a smile. I guess because certain websites think winking is too forward, or too flirty. I started my search to see if we had anything in common, trying to catch a glimpse of their baggage. Would it resemble mine? Was there more? Less? Did the colors at least match?

Those were the exact thoughts stirring about when I looked at a picture from one man in particular. I leaned in and peered close, not because my life-in-the-middle eyes were failing me. No, I wanted a glimpse of the story behind the smile. Blonde hair. Dark eyes. Hmm . . . I wasn’t a fan of blonde hair but as I gazed closer, something else caught my eye.

A child’s hand settled on his shoulder. My mind spun. This man who sent me a smile felt the best about himself when he was holding a child. Huh, I kind of liked that.

And yes, I’m that analytical.

Taking a risk, I shot a quick email back. Thanks for the smile. Within minutes, I received a response. How’s your experience been so far?

Well, that was unexpected. And kind of nice. But the blonde hair . . .

I know. I know. Don’t judge a book by its cover, just by the amount of luggage he’s carrying.

A couple of pleasant exchanges later we learned we shared a love for Mustangs and graduated from rival high schools in the same year. I found out his hair wasn’t really blonde, but gray. Rather, salt and pepper. (Phew) And then came the dreaded question.

How many children do you have?

How was I going to answer that one? He just pointed out the biggest piece of luggage in my U-Haul truck.

For most people it’s a simple answer. 1. 4. None.

For me? Well, I don’t do simple.

I could say 4 – but 2 are my step kids whom I didn’t talk to anymore. I could say 2 but in all reality, I did raise 4. Then I could say one. Because one is all I have left since my youngest daughter died in a fire that destroyed everything.

Oh, there’s that massive piece of baggage, too.

I sat there, staring at the screen and realized I had a choice. A choice to walk into any type of relationship with every piece of luggage in tow, and throw it in this nice man’s virtual face in absolute self-protection. Or I could hide it, give a numbered answer and hope he didn’t care for details.

But then, another thought tickled my mind. What if this became something more? Sure, we’d only exchanged a few emails. Sure, we were still absolute strangers. But what if? Just, what if? What if that relationship I longed for, the one like Keith and Watts, what if that were actually possible? Is this something I would want to hide?

Breathing deep, I typed my response.

Four. I’ve raised four children. Two by birth and two by choice. But my youngest? Well, she died in a house fire when she was five.

I hit send and went about my day. Heart pounding, palms sweating. I had dared to show some of my baggage pretty early in the game. What in the world was I thinking?

Later that evening I received his reply. Well, more like one o’clock in the morning.

Well, it looks like we have something else in common. I have four kids, too, but my oldest died when he was four. He drowned in our swimming pool.

I was stunned. As I read about the details of his son’s death, I kept searching for the joke. Was this real? Was this possible? Could God have led me to someone who shared the worst thing I’ve ever experienced?

I don’t believe in coincidence, but I do believe in redemption.

Oh, and finding someone with matching luggage.

And while I wasn’t so sure about being anyone’s girlfriend at this point, I couldn’t help but wonder if this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Just like Keith and Watts.

Woman Seeks Man, Just Not a Boyfriend

meruss

just us

Once upon a time, there lived a man and woman. They met quite young, fell in love, and never endured many challenges. Their marriage lasted a lifetime as it was full of laughter and fun all while embracing love to its fullest.

And then there’s our story:

Once upon a time there was a life-in-the-middle woman whose fourteen-year marriage ended as she toted away a complete set of baggage: a broken heart, fear, distrust, and completely insecure. Living with her almost-out-of-the-nest-aged daughter, she knew she needed to grow or she might stay stuck in the middle forever. A few months after signing the “it’s over” papers, she decided it was time to meet new people. Well, um, new men, not to sound trashy. Just, you know, friends. Completely petrified at the idea of dating, she created an online dating profile, a perfect place to meet new people in a detached, self-protective kind of way.

Little did she know there was a life-in-the-middle man in a similar situation with his own set of baggage and three kids in hand. He, too, carried a broken heart after experiencing gut-wrenching loss but determined it was time to take a risk and meet someone new. After encouraging words from his dad, he created an online dating profile on the same site as the woman and began to search.

One day as he perused the sea of unknown faces, a lady caught his eye. Shrugging, he sent her a quick smile and went about his day working and caring for the three littles that held his heart.

The life-in-the-middle lady noticed his smile, thought he looked nice, and decided to take a risk. Shrugging with uncertainty, she realized this was the only way to meet someone new. She sent a quick response before her rational brain took over and went about her day.

Much to her surprise, he replied with a quick email asking how her experience on the site had been so far, cautioning her to be careful and to watch out for anyone who might do her harm. Short emails were soon piled up next to that original smile as they reached out to each other, fully protected by the first-name-only expectation online communication provided. Tentatively they shared bits of their lives, their hurts, and their experiences. These life-in-the-middles began to realize that some of their baggage not only appeared to coordinate, they might actually match. Broken marriages, child loss, a longing to be fully known and fully accepted, and even their tastes in cars (except for the hot Dodge Caravan he mentioned he typically drove).

Still protective of her tender heart, the life-in-the-middle lady made it clear that she wasn’t looking to become anyone’s girlfriend. She was there simply to meet new people and perhaps make a friend. He replied in kind, content in the life he had but looking forward to maybe adding a friend as well.

The emails grew in length and frequency as more life stories were shared. They each looked forward to receiving those written words and wondered what may have been started. A few weeks passed when the lady realized she actually wanted to hear his voice. Yes, quite cheesy and sappy but to her credit, she knew if he sounded squeaky or annoying, there was no way she’d remain friends, let alone consider anything more.

One day in a moment of sheer bravery, bolstered, perhaps, by the strength of her Mustang, she dialed his number and waited for him to answer. Relief filled her as she heard him speak for the first time. He sounded normal yet manly, and she realized she had hoped this to be true. Her relief was so powerful that she forgot to check the fullness of her gas tank as she pulled onto the highway. Many minutes of conversation passed when she finally looked at the gas gauge to check. Horrified at the sight of that bright yellow light, she wrestled with her reality. Did she share her predicament and appear a damsel in distress? Or did she quickly hang up in order to focus on her need for speed, er, gas.

In a moment quicker than it takes to place a Starbuck’s order, she decided to share her predicament. Not to appear weak or ditzy. No, she decided if this friendship held any potential for life-in-person kinds of stuff, she needed to not only embrace her full self – silly mistakes and all – she needed to allow him the opportunity to experience her real-self, too.

So she told him, and braced for his response, realizing she expected a barrage of demeaning remarks, just like the kind she played over and over in her head. Instead, she received a slight chuckle and then something that completely floored her.

Concern.

This life-in-the-middle man expressed concern for her predicament. He didn’t demean her flightiness or put her down for lack of planning. Sure, he chuckled because it was, after all, funny. She told him she forgot to check because she was so nervous to call him. He stayed on the phone until she arrived safely at the closest gas station where they reluctantly hung up, but not before plans were made to talk again.

Three years have passed. Three years of laughter, a few disagreements, and loads of tender grace. Three years of learning to trust, to embrace, and how to feel again. To love and be loved. Fully. Completely. Flaws and baggage and broken pieces and all.

It’s gone so well, in fact, that one day this life-in-the-middle man asked the life-in-the-middle gal if she would become his always and forever. And she said yes.

That’s where the tales actually begin – these tales from a blender as they — well, as we learn how to blend our lives and our families together as one.

It’s bound to be an adventure as these past years have already proven. An adventure full of laughter and mistakes, stories of silliness and slight seriousness. It’s our hope that you’ll join us and witness redemption and restoration as our hearts and lives continue to heal together.

So get your glasses ready and plates set out. I might not always cook, but there are bound to be some tasty treats as you read along with our Tales From a Blender!

– Kim & Russ (yep, you might actually get to read some from him as well!)