As we head toward Christmas and the end of 2018, I’m reminded of all that we have to be grateful for in this community. Mostly, I recognize how lucky I am to be a part of your lives each week, even if through just a few snapshots or words. The end of the year, for me, always signifies a reflection on the past, and hope for what the future might bring.

It is my hope that 2019 will be a year of greatness for many of us. Be it new things, or continuing on with whatever already brings us joy, I can’t wait to see what the next year holds. This past year has had it’s own ups and downs, just like any year, but I have focused on finding my own happiness in whatever life throws my way. I hope you have, too.

So, as we sit with family and friends over the next few weeks and reminisce, I personally will keep each of you in my thoughts. Our family is incredibly proud of the work that we do here at the Advocate, and we take our job seriously while not forgetting to have a little fun along the way.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, from our family, to yours. My parents and I hope that the season brings you joy, the cookies will be plentiful, the friends will be laughing and the family will be loving. Thank you for a successful and fun 2018.

When I was young, Christmas Eve always meant heading over to my grandparents’ house where my dad’s side of the family would gather. For many years, we’d head out to eat at a Chinese buffet or cafeteria. Then, we’d head back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, where we’d be in for a long night of gift exchanging.

Somewhere along the way, a “white elephant” of sorts was added to the mix. What began as a small bag of odd gifts quickly grew to an hours-long game of “what on earth IS this?” As our family grew over the years, so did Christmas Eve. It was something the children looked forward to, while the adults put a lot of money, thought and effort into making sure each child had their fair share of presents.

My grandparents are gone now, and sadly, so is this family tradition. Though, I can still hear my grandma telling my grandpa which present to give so-and-so.

“Schatz!” she’d yell, her term of endearment for my grandpa (it’s like saying “honey” or “dear” in German). “Why don’t you give Mary that gift. No, not that one. THAT one.” And, of course, my poor grandpa had no clue which one she was referring to. But, that didn’t matter to me, because I just loved to hear them bicker lovingly.

The two of them were a big part of my Christmas memories growing up. They gave and gave, and I was surely spoiled but grateful. It was my grandparents who got me my first CD player, some gorgeous porcelain dolls for my collection, the coolest clothes and the latest toys. But, it wasn’t the things I received that I remember most. It’s the memories we made of being together, celebrating Christmas and sharing our love for one another.

Though traditions have come and gone for our family, and the holidays just aren’t the same without them, my grandparents taught me what it means to give with love and generosity. Christmas Eve, for me, has been quiet the last few years, but the memories will always be a part of my new traditions.

From the time I was a little girl, probably before I could even speak, I knew I wanted to be a mom. I remember taking care of my baby dolls, feeding them, clothing them, cutting their hair (sorry mom), and imagining what kind of mother I’d be when I had children of my own. Like many little girls, I had their names picked out and loved them long before it was even possible for any children of mine to exist.

I became a mom 13 years ago this Friday. It’s hard to believe that my little five-pound baby boy will be a teenager now. Of course, he’s been looking forward to this day for the last 365, but his mom is a little reluctant to watch him grow up.

Not all that long ago, I remember laying on the couch with him in his baby swing next to me, completely exhausted and overwhelmed, but so full of pride and love as I looked at this perfect little human who refused to go to sleep. For 13 years, I’ve kissed hundreds of boo-boos, cleaned up more vomit than I ever thought could come out of such a small being, changed diapers, been spit on and bitten, felt my heart drop more times than I can count, but despite it all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Kids really make you grow up. Of course, when I was 21 and expecting Michael, I thought I knew everything there was to know about the world and I could handle anything that came my way. Boy was I wrong. 13 years into this whole parenthood thing, and I’m still figuring things out along the way.

I only had one kid, though my little-girl imagination would have loved to have a dozen or so. But, that one boy takes up all of my heart. The older he gets, the more I see the man he’ll be (soon, too, as it certainly goes by so fast like they say it does). He is witty, athletic, compassionate, handsome and smart. He makes me laugh all the time, and I am constantly thankful that I have the opportunity to be his mom.

So, happy 13th birthday to my Michael. I hope his year is full of happiness and love, and that he continues to view the world through his kind eyes and that the world is kind right back to him. He may be my only kid, but the love he receives from his mom is enough for those dozen or so siblings I once imagined.

My great-uncle Kenneth is the type of guy who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. I mean that literally. The last time I saw him at a family reunion down in Arkansas, we were out to eat at a restaurant and I had goosebumps on my arms because I had a seat under an air conditioning vent. Kenneth, being the type of person he is, started unbuttoning his shirt to give to me.

“I’ll be fine, Uncle Ken,” I told him, though I’m not sure I was completely convincing. I guess he’s not one to adhere to the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” rules of dining out. Of all of my extended Davis relatives, I always took a special liking to Kenneth. This could have something to do with the fact that his late wife, my aunt Barbara, and he let me call them Barbie and Ken (which, as a little girl, I thought it most fascinating to be related to a REAL LIFE Barbie and Ken).

After my grandpa, Ken’s oldest brother, passed away, I noticed how similar the two are. Soft spoken and kind men, they also look so very much alike. Family men who love with their whole hearts, these two Davis men were raised to work hard for what they have and to take care of those whom they care about.

In the middle of his junior year of high school, Uncle Ken was called to serve in the Korean War. At some point, he completed his GED. However, this week, at 86-years-old, Bryant High School in Bryant, Arkansas, recognized Kenneth, honoring him for his service and the sacrifices he made so many years ago, with his high school diploma.

I’m proud to be his niece, and I’m grateful for those who feel called to serve this country. Thank you, Uncle Ken, for being the humble, caring, kind man that you are, and thank you to all of the men and women who, on Veterans Day and every day, deserve to be recognized for what they have given us. Happy Veterans Day, and may God bless every one of you.

As parents, we worry about our kids in ways they don’t comprehend, at least until they become parents themselves. We do our best to prepare them and send them out into the world, hoping against all odds they make good decisions along the way, but knowing full well that they are going to hit a few bumps now and again.

This week, I encountered the biggest bump yet as a mom. I’m sure a lot of you have been there...your kid leaves the house, and, nowadays, has a cell phone with him that he is told to answer or respond to if you call them. Of course, the times he doesn’t answer, you picture the worst in your mind. You know deep down that your thoughts are likely irrational. And then, your worst fears are realized.

On Monday evening, Michael didn’t answer his phone when his dad called him. Being a parent, like any of us, his dad feared the worst. He hopped in the car, called a few more times with no answer, when he came across Michael on the ground with his friend standing over him. With no choice but to, he reacted. Michael was unresponsive, but then was talking. When his dad asked if he was okay, he responded with a weak and mumbled, “no.”

I met them at Belton Regional Medical Center, where Michael was thoroughly checked out, his head and neck scanned, and he was monitored closely for some time. A short while later, he and I took our first-ever ambulance ride over to Children’s Mercy, where they would do more tests and examinations.

It was a long night, and without a doubt one of the most terrifying of my life. But, despite a baseball-sized goose egg on the back of his head and an obvious concussion, Michael is okay. As I write this, he’s at home in his bed sleeping as the rain falls on yet another dreary morning. Despite the rain, there’s sunshine in my world today.

I’ve told Michael before that he’s got some of the greatest guardian angels looking after him. I am positive that they were there with him this week. His dad is a superhero. The nurses at BRMC, the medics from Belton, and the doctors at CMH were amazing and took good care of my boy. And, Michael is the strongest, bravest kid I know.

He’s okay. And I thank God for that, and I’ll continue to count my blessings for a long, long time to come.

Are you a runner? I’ve never really been much of one. When I was younger, and more fit, I used to run now and then, but I think I did it more for the social aspect than actual exercise.

While in junior high, I thought being on the track team sounded like fun, plus, all my friends were doing it, too. I remember the very first day of practice, we were told to just simply run until we couldn’t any longer. I’m not sure if the coaches were looking for the kids with the most endurance, or if they were really just trying to kill off the weak links (me). I thought I was going to die.

I’m not the most competitive person. In fact, I’d much rather prefer everyone cheer everybody on and we all be friends and go out for ice cream after the game. That’s just how I am; can’t we all just get along? But, for some reason, and a bit out of character, when I ran that day in seventh grade, I just had to not be the first one out. I ended up somewhere in the middle of the pack, plunking myself down with a water bottle in the grass after what felt like hours of running (it was probably 40 minutes tops).

I quickly realized track, and running, weren’t really my thing. Later on, I’d try my hand at cheerleading. But, again, I’d feel bad for the other team, so I wasn’t very good at that, either. I wanted so badly to be athletic, that I did a volleyball and basketball camp one summer. They were one or two weeks long, and basically taught basic drills. That was enough for me. I’m pretty sure I ended up injured in some fashion by the end of each camp. I did, however, make some new friends!

Shyness was never an issue, and I never really thought much about how ridiculous I must have looked as I tried my hand at various sports during the most awkward years of my life. My son is now at that age where he can consider what he’d like to do in middle and high school.

He’s thinking about doing track, though I’ve personally witnessed him running, and I know he’ll need to build up his stamina if he wants to do that. He’s played baseball since he was three, and that’s been his love ever since, but now that he’s in middle school, he’s noticing his friends playing other sports, and I’m sure he’ll become interested in soccer or football or tennis.

Luckily, Michael’s got a lot more athleticism that his mom does. I’m hopeful that he’ll have the same amount of guts to try new things too, and the smarts to realize where he doesn’t fit.

Sports weren’t ever my thing. Writing was. I’ll stick to what I’m good at and what I enjoy, and cheer for my boy in the stands as he tries to figure it all out himself.

I’m not really sure I can say that I believe completely in superstitions, but there are a few that cross my mind from time to time. A few years ago, I broke a hand-held mirror, dropping it into shattered pieces all over my bathroom floor. I remember convincing myself that the whole bad luck thing wasn’t real. I can’t really say my luck has been too awful since then, but I haven’t thought about it too much.

I’ve known people who throw salt over their shoulders, and others who will never walk under ladders. I remember telling Michael that opening an umbrella inside was bad luck, but, of course, he defiantly tried it out and he’s still pretty lucky, for the most part.

For as long as I can remember, every time I drive under a bridge with a train going over it, I have to “hold the train up” by raising my hands to the roof of the car. I don’t even know when or how this started (my dad can probably answer that question), but I do know it is something I have done and will always do. What if I don’t and the train comes down on top of my car? I know the odds of that happening are slim to none, but...what if?

Of course, this is something I have passed onto Michael. He added a piercing scream as we drive under the train bridges, but nonetheless, he participates. Every single time. Just the other day, we were heading to his grandparent’s house, and I spotted a train on a bridge a ways ahead of us.

Looking over at Michael in the passenger’s seat, I noticed he wasn’t paying attention as he was engrossed in whatever game or app he had loaded on his phone. As we got closer to the bridge, I nudged Michael and just got a grunt of a response in return. Finally, I said, “Michael, we’ve gotta hold the train up!”

Just in time, he put down his phone, lifted both arms, and held up the train with me. As soon as we were in the clear, he went back to his phone. I smiled, thinking that he, too, will probably teach this to his own kids someday.

I guess it just goes to show that we’re never really too old, or too “cool” to take part in silly superstitions. I’ll knock on wood and cross my fingers that he will always do this with his mom. You can bet your lucky penny that I’ll still be holding the trains up for the rest of my life.