Wordless Wednesday.

The Baby Jesus Cake.

My sister and her family are Yankees.

Ok, not really. They live in the northern part of Alabama. And in all fairness, they're transplants. But compared to the Biloxi, New Orleans, and Baton Rouge areas, it's kind of a stretch.

One of the more significant differences between here and there is the lack of Mardi Gras celebration "up north."

While our conservative Southern Baptist family is Protestant to the T, we still make room in our hearts, religions and tummies for king cake each year, so it was pretty important to us to introduce my nephew to king cake as early as possible.

Caleb is now 7, so I guess it was 4 or so years ago when he had a friend over during the Mardi Gras season after a king cake from home had arrived. It was time for a snack, and Caleb excitedly asked Will, "You wanna piece of baby Jesus cake?"

Caleb's friend reacted the way any Yankee -- ahem, I mean non-coastal person -- would, and firmly said no.

Who wants a piece of cake that sounds like it's made from the baby Jesus? No thank you!

However, Caleb's little-boy-terminology makes me think each time I remember it.

King cakes' inclusion of the plastic baby representing Jesus isn't just random; it's symbolic. While the whole point of Mardi Gras has been wildly exaggerated into a Bourbon Street perspective by the general public, its roots stem from the devout reverence for the many sacrifices that Jesus made for us.

So tasting this delectable pastry is more than just fattening up one particular Tuesday (and maybe every day before then, depending on how many delightful king cakes you're exposed to). Eating king cake and being reminded of the baby Jesus -- sometimes painfully in the tooth area -- are all part of what really is logical about Mardi Gras. We enjoy, we indulge, we celebrate life and all its gifts, and then we take some time to somberly appreciate those gifts, minus the indulgences.

But even still, if I were a Yankee (or something like that), and someone offered me a piece of "baby Jesus cake," especially when I was in pre-school, I probably wouldn't take 'em up on it, either. :-)

Saying hey.

A few months ago, I took a road trip with my sister, her husband & their son. (I was invited. By her husband. Just to clear the air on any potential intrusion claims.)

One of my (very many) convos with my very talkative nephew (could I be prouder?!) included a discussion about cell phones. And how I use mine a lot. And how he doesn't have one. And how I didn't, either, at that age -- partly because my parents never would've stood for it AT AGE SIX, but mainly because they didn't exist...and when they did, they were in bags.

My favorite response from Caleb (with a similar expression to the embedded pic) was, "But....if you and my mom didn't have cell phones, how did y'all say hey?!"

It was SO cute (from my unbiased perspective, of course), and frighteningly, so telling.

I mean, from birth, this child has been totally used to us picking up the phone or texting at any given moment to "say hey." No boundaries, no long distance, no time constraints -- we just do what we need to do to get through that moment, or day, or hour.

Which is super nice. And makes me wonder how we survived before. Although I know we did. And even before email. (Which is enough to make this communications addict shudder.)

But thank the good Lord for modern technology.

I do love my sister. And saying hey.

The Turnaround.

My adorably hilarious nephew is 6, and he's a pretty brave kid. He did inherit his mother's preciously tender heart, which I love with all of my own semi-tender heart, but he also is all boy, so the sweetness comes out when you least expect it. And I love that.

This year, Caleb graduated from kindergarten. My sister teaches language arts at a school near his campus, so getting him to and from class has been an interesting set of logistics to work out. At first, he was expectedly sad to see her go. Then other older students of hers started walking him to class, and things smoothed out a little.

About a month ago, my parents visited them for a weekend and took Caleb to school on the Monday morning before they left to go back home. According to my parents, he was super big and brave, and walked to the door with his backpack (looking much like a little man, I'm sure), then turned around and waved bye and proceeded into his building. My parents lost it. It's hard saying goodbye to kids anyway, but their only grandson, and looking so grown up, and being so brave... You know. Tough stuff.

Later, my parents learned that after Caleb entered his school building, he lost it as well. School starts early (I'm not sure how early, but you remember the outrageous times those first bells would ring), and apparently Caleb's teacher could not get him calmed down until around 8:30. In kindergarten time, I'm pretty sure that's like 4 days.

Later, when my sister talked to my nephew about why he was so upset, he explained very simply, "I don't know, Mom. I'm always ok till the turnaround."

Thankfully, things like his sweet teacher, recess, and even math can help distract him.

This weekend, I am in a place I love deeply and that I resided in for nearly ten years. Ten very crucial post-college, growing up years, I might add. Jackson, Mississippi holds a plethora of beautiful memories and coming-of-age markers for me, but it also holds some bittersweet pivotal life points, as well.

I knew before this visit that it wouldn't be 1,000% rosy. A friend was dying. His wife is aching, while still trying to function and work at her paying job, and work even harder to take care of him and their children. And even aside from that, I've had enough emotional precursors over the past few months to realize that this trip would hold more than just a feta dressing fix from Keifer's and long laughs with my best-good girlfriends.

This trip to Jackson is definitely a turnaround for me. Change was in my air before I even got in my car to make this drive, and I am really, truly happy about it. I've been given a few opportunities for some new beginnings, and much to my own surprise, I'm lapping them up like an overplayed puppy would a fresh pan of cold milk.

Even so, Caleb is right. Athough I'm walking into a wealth of opportunity for learning and life experiences, the turnaround is hard. I know that when I turn around, something beautiful will happen, it will further my life education, and I am prepared to make the absolute most of it that I can. But a look back at the old can still make one cry -- whether one is a 33-year-old career chickadee or 6-year-old kindergarten grad.

After thinking a lot about Caleb's and my own situations, I think it's ok to get emotional at the turnaround -- it honors the good times you had in the past, and lets your peeps know they're loved and valued. In fact, it might be odd to NOT get emotional at the turnaround.

But part of the turnaround is in the actual turning, and the bright, unlimited possibilities that await.

Which will be super cool, much like kickball at recess.

The Bottom Line.

My parents are currently working on a HUGE project: reflooring their house. (I know -- ouch! But what a great reward once it's over.)

Anyway, when we were all home for my Daddy's birthday in September, they asked our opinions on the type of flooring they'd chosen. They had a sample and were showing us how it looked against the fireplace, etc.

Caleb was busy flying Star Wars ships around as we talked about it, and at one point when he landed near us, I asked his thoughts on the new floor.

As soon as my sweet nephew made an expression pretty close to the one in this picture, just like it was yesterday, I could see my Grandma Johnson's dining room table, and watch her rolling out the dough for chicken and dumplings while singing sweet hymns in her gorgeous alto voice.

And the ceiling in Nan's house in Woolmarket -- all the wood and knots and how fascinating it looked from way down where I was playing on her oval rug.

And my Aunt Mildred's dishwasher-less kitchen -- the stove and sink and how she was always ready with fun conversation and fresh pitchers of lemonade, no matter what time of year or day you visited.

And Uncle Gary and Aunt Renee's dining room, and the countless meals and birthday parties and cakes (by Renee!) that we celebrated so many fun years over.

And the light fixtures that hung from the wood ceiling (much like my Nan's) at Woolmarket Baptist Church, and how I always daydreamed about swinging from them off the balcony all the way into the choir loft.

It's a strong possibility that a few of those decorative items I'm recalling weren't top of the line, or the most updated recommendations from interior designers, yet they were and still are vital to my memories. They helped compose the lyrics of my childhood.

So, in that rush of memories, I wasn't too shocked when Caleb asked with a puzzled look, "Why would Grammi and Grandpa get a new floor?"

Pulling him into a hug, my mom said, "Well, this carpet is just too old to keep, but you can always remember Grammi and Grandpa's old floor."

And really, she's right.

No matter what floor we're standing on, our memories are a key part of our foundation.

And that (as infamous former Jackson, MS, mayor Frank Melton used to say), is the bottom line.

Y'all two sisters.

My 5-year-old nephew has taken to calling his mom and me "y'all two sisters."

I think he's grasping the concept of siblings, and of course the number thing, and I just love that he's tying "y'all" in with it.

Some of the ways Mr. Man will use this and similar phrases are:

• Are y'all two sisters about done talkin'? Dad and I are ready to go.



• Yep, that's what I thought y'all two sisters might say.
  (especially after we say something in unison, which we sort of do a good bit)



• Leave it to y'all two sisters to come up with that.



• Your OTHER sister said the same thing!



• Etc.

It's really too cute, and I've definitely added it to my list of things I wish he'll never self-correct, like "Behbeh" (first "Bekah" term, which is long gone), "lello" (kids' infamously adorable "yellow" pronunciation, also quickly self-corrected), and "zee-ert" (Caleb's very own term for dessert, which thank heavens, he still says).

Sweet C

Today after music camp at church, my nephew stopped at Sonic's happy hour with my sister to get one of life's most wonderful delicacies: sweet tea.

Mmmmm.

Reportedly, Mr. Cool took one sip and declared, "This is the good life."


Ain't that the truth, Mr. Man.

Ain't that the truth.