Source: The Angry Feminist
When my husband and I were talking about becoming parents, man, were we clueless. Especially me, I was the clueless one. Bryan has always been more of a practical realist; me–I’m more of a dreamer. I tend to get lost in thought, stare out windows, go way deeper into conversations than people really wanted to.
I’ve learned so much since the quest of motherhood began–mostly that things are never going to go the way that I expect them to go. That motherhood is full of profound, disgusting, heart-melting, terrifying, glorious, silly, unpredictable surprises. Beginning with two miscarriages, then two healthy births of two beautiful girls on opposite sides of the country, to an overseas move, to expat life and pregnancy and yet another miscarriage in Europe, to the birth of my baby boy, to a visit to the American Embassy to get his citizenship requirements in the middle of a winter storm when he was ten days old, to another overseas move from hell with a four year old, three year old and ten month old, to staying in two AirBnBs before moving into a house, to beginning kindergarten and first grade….whew, it’s been a hectic eight years. Eight years since our first attempts at becoming parents!
Somewhere during that pregnancy with Vivienne, our oldest, I decided that I was against pregnancy books–except for the baby development week to week. The reason was because I was already recovering from fear and anxiety left over from losing two babies in a row before her, and all I found when I read these pregnancy books was more fear, more “what ifs,” and illogical, crippling reasons to suspect that something was wrong with my perfectly formed and developing baby girl. I decided to trust God because that was the take-away lesson that He’d taught me through my miscarriages anyway. There was nothing I could do to prevent them, nothing I could do to change what was happening to me, and worry and fear would do nothing but steal the joy I was experiencing during my pregnancy as I felt my baby grow and move inside me.
This aversion to asking for and giving advice as a mom has carried over into my years of mothering infants, toddlers, preschoolers and now elementary-aged children. There are not many people that I will ask for advice. Sometimes I ask my own mother because she knows me, she’s completed her journey of motherhood successfully and I know she doesn’t judge me. Sometimes I ask my sister, and of course, I ask my husband what he thinks.
But mostly I pray, I ask God for help and watch for His answers, His way of leading. I’m not saying that I’m always a great listener, but I try. I try this tactic or that one and see which yields success. You see, each of my children is different and the same approach does not always work for each one in every scenario. Their moods, likes, dislikes, feelings and fears change around the clock, and if my OWN children are so diverse in their personalities, how in the world can I offer advice to other moms on what they should do when their child won’t eat this, has an allergy to that, doesn’t sleep through the night or has extreme separation anxiety? Occasionally other women will ask me for advice, but I really do my best to frame my answer as, “this is what we tried” not as “you should do this.” The word “should” is one I don’t think is good for most moms to hear–it usually brings a lot of guilt.
Another reason that I don’t give a lot of mothering advice is because there is so much I don’t know, and so much that just doesn’t interest me. I do not care about eating organic food. I do not craft. I don’t know how to sew, although I “should.” I don’t garden. I am not a huge fan of Disney-related stuff. I don’t send my kids to preschool. So basically, if you want to know about kale recipes, DIY Halloween costumes, how to grow fist-sized tomatoes, where to get the best Disney passes (I don’t even know if that’s the right way to say that), which preschools in the area are the highest rated, I am not your girl. I’m aware of the areas where I lack knowledge or skill.
What I do know as a mom is that these years go by so quickly. I do know that it’s okay to tell your children that you don’t have all the answers to their questions. I do know that it’s okay to cry and be real in front of them. It’s okay if you yell and lose your patience, as long as you’re willing and ready to say that you were wrong, ask for their forgiveness and follow it up with a big hug and a heart-felt “I love you,” and try, really try, to do better next time. I do know that your kids think you are so much more wonderful than you believe or imagine. I do know that they think you are wicked smart. I do know that it’s okay to lock your self in your room and cry out to God. I do know that it’s okay to tell them “no” or “not right now.” I do know that going for a walk with them, playing “doggies” with them as my kids love to do, or eating popsicles with them on the front porch will make just as big of an impression on their little hearts as a day at Disney World. I do know that they love the sound of your voice and the feel of your arms. I know they think that you are an incredible artist. I know they think you’re pretty. I know they love to dance with you. I do know that you’re tired and your brain feels short-circuited, but if you take the time to answer their questions honestly, you have a chance to impact their lives forever.
I know motherhood is probably not exactly what you had in mind. I know that there are moments that you wish that you could stay in bed, or go on vacation, or be able to finish a mediocre blog-post without a pint-sized person crawling into your lap. (I know that if you are afforded the opportunity to do any of these things, you actually really miss your kids after a while and just want to go home.) And when you start to feel guilty about having these escape fantasies, don’t buy into the lie that a “better” mom wouldn’t want to get away. Instead, recognize that you love your kids enough to care! That hesitation/elation that you have over an opportunity to go somewhere without your kids (the supermarket, a hotel, the dentist!) is a sign of a devoted and caring mother who is working hard and doing her best. Accept the things that you DO know about being a mother, the things that have served you and your family well. Capitalize on your strengths and the knowledge that you have that works. (Preaching to a one-woman choir here ladies. Sometimes we ALL need a talk.)
And never forget that there’s One who knows YOU. When other advice fails, when you’re on your fourth round of trial-and-error, remember that He has limitless patience and all the right answers. Sometimes we just have to ask the right person. And put on some make-up–that always makes me feel better. 😉
I’m a big believer in GRACE. In the spirit of that, and acknowledging that I could always improve upon some things, I’ve created this 2017 Mommy-Festo. Perhaps you ladies out there could tweak it to create your own!
This Year I Will:
-Practice patience with my children, but allow myself to step away when I feel overwhelmed.
-Not try to hide my feelings from my children, but recognize that my feelings are not always an accurate indicator of my circumstances.
-Put on make-up, high-heels, and a pretty dress just for me, just because. But I will not feel guilty on the occasional days when I don’t get out of my PJs.
-Spend more time kissing and complimenting my husband in the presence of our children instead of fighting with him.
-Not dwell on my thoughts when tempted to sin, but take them captive and be transformed by the renewing of my mind.
-Do a better job of meal-planning, while also realizing that my kids will be okay if they eat macaroni and cheese or hot dogs when I’m just not up to it.
-Forgive myself when I have a melt-down, but not wallow in self-pity to the point of missing out on the awesomeness around me.
-Work-out regularly so that I feel well and strong enough to engage in the activities I enjoy, not just because I want to look good, and not because I want to compete with other women.
-Accept the fact that I am getting older, while embracing the season I’m currently enjoying. Period. To borrow a line from Kids, one of my favorite new songs by One Republic, “I refuse to look back thinking days were better just because they’re younger days.” Amen.
-Do things that will help me grow even if they make me uncomfortable, but also recognize when it’s time to say no.
-Be gracious, kind, and tolerant to those who are different from me, yet hold firm to my personal convictions.
-Travel to some place I have never been, yet be able to enjoy the bliss of a lazy day at home.
-Give grace to the difficult people in my life, understanding that God and others have extended unmerited grace to me.
-Give sacrificially, and accept gifts gratefully without the feeling that I need to do something to deserve them.
-Not freak out if my house gets dirty, but not allow it to get to the point that I’m embarrassed if people stop by unexpectedly.
-Enjoy having some drinks with my husband, family and friends, but not rely on alcohol as an escape or coping mechanism.
-Learn something new, but appreciate the things that I already know.
-Give myself grace because I don’t have it all together, but be grateful for what God has already done in my life.
-Put my phone down and be more present in the moments while finding a way to realistically and healthfully manage an increasingly automated lifestyle.
-Not retaliate and enable bitterness to take root in my heart when encountering toxic people. Instead, I will ask God to help me know when to try or walk away.
-Take risks in business, yet recognize when those risks are poorly timed or unwise.
-Leave some margin for the unexpected moments that take my breath away, whether those moments are good or bad.
-Not gossip about my husband, friends or family, and be honest about my own short-comings.
-Forgive others quickly and apologize even more quickly.
-Set aside more time for focused prayer and Bible reading while accepting that my Father is present and loves me even when I’m distracted.
-Accept help graciously and offer assistance when I have the available resources, without talking myself out of it.
-Honor my commitments but not over-book my calendar.
Which of these resonated with you? I’d love to hear about it. Happy New Year everyone–may this year be one of blessing, renewal, forgiveness and joy! Cheers!
Before I had kids I had many great ideas about how I would rear them, what I would teach them and how they were going to obey me ALL of the time. (Cue the smirks and snorts from my parent readers.) Then my oldest daughter was born, and the first time that my newborn cried for longer than ten minutes for no reason that was obvious to me, I realized that I would never be able to control her or any other children that would come along. I realized that I had become officially enrolled in the Motherhood School of Sanctification. (And it turned out that my oldest was the easy child. The next one…well let’s just say that we call her Hurricane Georgia and let that give you an idea about her tendencies. And the third is turning two this week, so the jury is still out on him!)
As a Christian mother, the most important idea that I want to communicate to my children is this: that God loves them with an everlasting love that cannot be shaken. It’s a love so strong that He sent His only perfect Son to Earth to live a humble life, to be ignored, persecuted and then killed so that they, my children, could know freedom from sin, peace in the face of persecution, joy in God’s presence, hope for their promised reward in Heaven, and the love of Christ for the world. It’s a love that casts out all fear and hopes for what God has promised. It’s something that, for me, supersedes any other pursuit in their lives: education, financial success, romantic relationships, etc. Sure those things are important, but I don’t believe that they amount to much or provide sustaining happiness apart from Christ.
So early on, I began to try to teach these things to them. Most modern Christian moms will visit Pinterest or simply Google to find inspiration for ways to share the Gospel in creative ways with their children. And I certainly did that a couple of times, but anyone who knows me well knows that I am not likely to laminate or craft a thing, so Pinterest quickly frustrated me and I started thinking about one of the first instructions in the Bible regarding teaching your children about God.
“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up,” Deuteronomy 6:5-9 (emphasis mine).
This really encourages me because it recommends using the most powerful tool we have in order to teach: our own testimonies of God’s work in our lives. And I have lots of stories about that! (And I like to talk). I decided that I would: a) commit to doing regular devotionals/scripture reading with my children, b) commit to regularly praying with them and for them, c) be very honest about my testimony (age appropriately), my walk with the Lord, and welcome any questions they may have about Jesus. That’s it–no fancy plan or methodology, just a diligent commitment to sharing my love for my Savior with my kids.
The first few years of doing this with Vivienne were a little disappointing, mostly because of my own unrealistic expectations. (Many of you moms know that we think that our first children are incredibly mature, and it isn’t until the last child is born that we see them for the babies they truly are). Sometimes the principles that I was teaching her were repetitive and simple, and I kept wondering when she was going to grasp these faith foundations. I persevered though, even when I was frustrated and tired of reading about Jonah and the whale or Jesus in the boat with His disciples for the 13th time, because I trusted that God would take these seeds and produce ripe fruit.
Vivienne recognized Jesus as her Savior and acknowledged His leadership in her life at four years old, but still I was skeptical. Why? Because of my own testimony in which I prayed to “accept Jesus as my Savior” at six years of age without any heart commitment or full awareness of my decision, and then proceeded to live a self-centered, lustful, idolatrous life until I was 25. My husband and I prayed with Vivi, but told her that we were going to be watching and listening to see if her heart had truly yielded to God. And in the last year I have been stunned, moved, humbled by the deep truths that God has spoken through my six-year-old daughter to me. I have worshiped the Lord in tears, and with a grateful heart, for the love she now has for Jesus and her desire to share Him with other people. Here are some of the things that I have heard her say:
-“Today my friend didn’t feel well at school, so I went to a quiet place in my classroom (because I know that it’s best to talk to God in a quiet place) and prayed for her three times, and then God healed her!”
-“I know that sometimes bad things happen because there is sin in the world, and that’s why people need to know Jesus.”
-“At my birthday party today, how will I know when it’s a good time to tell my friends about Jesus?”
-(After a family hike in the woods, she stopped to sit on a bench and pray and thank God for the hike. I asked her about her prayer time.) “I had a GREAT prayer time! I told God thank you and He said ‘You’re welcome, and I love you and I’m glad that I made you.'”
What touches me deeply about these statements from my precious daughter is that they demonstrate the Lord’s faithfulness to me and to her. I have prayed many times that He would speak to her heart, despite my failings and missteps. I am not a perfect person or mother–far from it. Often I lose patience with my children, sometimes I yell at them, sometimes I’m too tired or wrapped up in housework to do a devotional with them. There are even times that I am sick of being mommy and don’t want my kids around–GASP! I regularly sin in front of them, whether they realize it or not. But my Father has been faithful–something, some small thing or things that my husband and I said, or did, or read, resonated with Vivienne and impacted her deeply, even at her young age. And God took that small thing and spoke to her little heart about the grace and love He has for her through Jesus Christ. And now, she KNOWS Jesus. She LOVES him, not perfectly, but genuinely. It is beautiful to witness the relationship that she has with the God of the universe, growing everyday into something authentic and unique to her and Him. And I have to believe that He will bless it. Their relationship is something bigger than me, and although God may have used me as an instrument in her learning about Him, He deserves most of the credit for cultivating what was planted. I know that she will have tough times. I know that the temptation to sin will one day become a constant struggle for her. I know that she will make large and small mistakes–that she will hurt people and that people will hurt her. But I have peace because His Spirit rests on her. I have hope because of what Paul says in Philippians 1:6:
“…being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”
And knowing this also gives me hope for my other two children. Georgia is very different from her older sister–she doesn’t care about perfection, she acts on her whims, she has a dominant spirit that is self-confident and doesn’t readily admit failure or mistakes. For her, fear is a recurring stronghold. She is fearful of losing my love and my approval and does not like to come clean when she has messed up. The other day she did something that she knew was wrong, and when I first asked her about it she tried to change the subject. I held her gently but firmly and looked into her eyes, asking her again to tell me what happened. Her facade crumbled and she started crying in my lap telling me that she was afraid. She didn’t want me to be angry with her, and immediately I thought of the scripture about perfect love casting out ALL fear, and how so many of us look just like little Georgia when approaching a righteous God.
We are inherently fearful of being vulnerable before Him, of exposing our weaknesses and failures, so we avoid issues, we blame-shift, we change the subject. But God perfectly loves us and His reactions are always right, justified and tempered with grace. We can trust Him, so I tried to communicate that to Georgia, to show her a smidgen of His patience and grace, and after a few minutes she confessed and she seemed to feel relieved to know that my love hadn’t wavered, that I was still there and willing to love her. Sometimes it is discouraging when she does things like this–when she wants to brush her sin aside, when it seems that she doesn’t really see the need for a Savior, but knowing that God made her too, that He crafted her little persona, and that He will fulfill His plan for her, gives me hope and peace. I can rest in that and have patience, and continue to tell her about Him until the right seed is planted. And I see a picture of me in her as well, who I used to be before I met Jesus, and the person I can become when I am tempted and struggle with one problem after another. I am grateful for Georgia, for her beginner’s walk with the Lord, and how she reminds me to be hopeful.
A recurring thought I’m having this Christmas season is how genius God is, that He would send a baby to kick-start His great rescue plan, to deliver people from fear, to give them hope and to demonstrate His love for mankind and then, in my own life, bring these things full circle in the lessons that I learn daily from Him through my own babies. Praise the Lord, for He is good.
There are some things that you take for granted to the point that they almost stop meaning something to you, until you suddenly realize that they are nearly gone. And there are people we take for granted as well, constantly. Usually these are the people who have a permanent place in our lives. They won’t come and go like fair-weather friends. They won’t stop caring about you because you ignore them one time too many, or don’t call them enough. No, these are the people that WE ignore because they’ll always be there, so we think that the relationship does not require as much effort to cultivate or maintain. But they continue to love us, because it’s impossible for them not to. Sometimes they’re our brothers, sisters, parents, or grandparents.
Because I was brought up in an Air Force home which up-rooted and moved like clock-work every three years, I rarely lived near relatives. I didn’t get together with them with any sort of regularity, so for me, the mood at family gatherings was polite but uncomfortable. Before the days of FaceTime and Skype, my grandparents received updates on me and my siblings via VHS tapes that my parents recorded and mailed to them every once in a while, so by the time they watched one, we kids had likely moved onto some other activity, school event, or favorite toy or past time. I grew up believing that it was normal to not live near any other family, to not have old traditions or a regular gathering place for Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve, and indeed, those things weren’t commonplace for me. But I even scoffed at the idea that I was missing out on anything by not living near my relatives. I rolled my eyes in annoyance when my grandparents would ask me too many questions about school, give me advice on friends and relentlessly push Heavenly Hash ice cream. How dare they assume that they knew me when they hardly ever saw me?
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I didn’t love my grandparents or want to be around them. I liked being in their house–the smell of it always resurrected scattered memories from years before. I liked the sound of the train whistle as I fell asleep. I always looked forward to my grandmother’s blueberry pie with whipped cream–she made it especially for me. My grandfather filled Dixie cups with pennies, pinched the tops and passed them out to us and our cousins, and I always felt so rich prying the cup open and seeing those shiny copper coins. He introduced me to my favorite cereal, Crunchy Corn Bran, and my not-so-favorite mint, Certs, which he passed down the aisle during church services on Sunday. My Nana gave soft, squishy hugs that enveloped you completely. Having them in my life provided a sense of security, a grounding, but I wasn’t comfortable with the assumptions they made about me, about what kind of person I was or wanted to be, and I certainly didn’t take a serious interest in their lives and what they enjoyed because it just didn’t seem important. Since they weren’t a consistent part of my daily life, my adolescent bravado assumed that there was nothing I could learn from them and nothing personal about myself worth revealing to them.
It wasn’t until I started dating my husband that I began to see the value in spending time with my grandparents, that I could make an actual effort where they were concerned instead of only showing up at sanctioned family events and grudgingly answering the same questions. And the change began over ice-cream of all things! I remember complaining to Bryan once back then about how my Paw-Paw ALWAYS tried to get me to eat Heavenly Hash ice-cream and I ALWAYS told him no, but he just wouldn’t take the hint. Bryan said something like, “It’s one bowl of ice-cream, Adrienne. Just eat it! He’s your grandpa and it would make him so happy if you ate ice-cream with him, and then he’d stop bothering you about it!” It seemed obvious to him, but it was actually a ground-breaking moment for me. I realized that all these years that I had been telling my Paw-Paw “no, No, NO!” about the ice-cream, I had been building up resentment toward him that carried over into other ways that I perceived him, other areas of our relationship, and the issue was no longer Heavenly Hash. It was my pride getting bigger and bigger and blocking me from seeing that my Paw-Paw just wanted to share something that he enjoyed with a grand-daughter he didn’t know very well, and ice-cream was his simplest method of forging a bond with me.
After that I began looking at my grandparents, and my extended family in general, with fresh eyes. I realized that the responsibility of forming a relationship didn’t rest squarely on their shoulders just because they were my grandparents; I had to care enough about them to get to know them too. I had to open up to them, to share myself with them, to ask them questions and be willing to learn and listen. I had to discard the snobbery of youth that says that elderly people are outdated and irrelevant, and instead choose to recognize the wisdom and stability they offer.
Almost six years ago I became a mommy, and in subsequent years I’ve had the great blessing of living near both my mother-in-law (before she died) and then my own parents. I now know what a gift it is to live near your parents when you have your own family, to see your children laugh and discover and learn from their grandparents, and although I loved my military upbringing, I am aware of some things that I missed in not being near my Nana, and my Mamadene and Paw-Paw. I look back and regret many of those spiteful childhood moments when I rolled my eyes at my grandparents and shrank away from their embraces. I wish I had spent more time sitting at their kitchen tables talking with them, even if some of their ideas were a little antiquated. I lost my Nana the year before my oldest daughter was born, and although I have still lived a transient lifestyle as an adult (to this point), I truly try to take advantage of the moments I have with my surviving grandparents. No matter how many times the conversation laps itself in circles, I listen for the deeper messages that are pouring from their hearts.
My grandparents are very old. My grandfather will celebrate his 90th birthday this weekend, and I am traveling to Alabama to celebrate his life. I will walk into the home that he and my grandmother have kept for over 50 years–the only home that has remained a constant one throughout my entire life, and breathe in its scent for what could always be the last time. So much has changed in that house and in my grandparents. My grandmother’s proud posture is a little stooped. My grandfather doesn’t remember my name most of the time, but when I look through photos of him over the years, I see the same smile that lights up his face every time he sees me. And I thank God that they have always been there, even when I took them for granted. I thank Him that their love was impossibly strong for someone who was often impossible.
I love you Mamadene and Paw-Paw. Thank you for your legacy, thank you for your generosity and love.
PDA alert! Who are those people? Is that a drunk pilot smooching a cute young photographer? No….shame on you guys for thinking that! Those are my parents! (I’ll let it slide this once.)
This photo was taken after my dad’s “fini-flight.” When a pilot climbs down from his aircraft after his last flight, he is traditionally doused with water (and sometimes champagne) and congratulated by family and friends and comrades from his (or her) squadron. One of the biggest regrets that I have is that I wasn’t there to see this. I was about 12 years old when Dad flew the F-15 Eagle, the crowning glory of his career as a pilot, for the last time. I remember Mom asking me if I wanted to go and I said no, not fully grasping how meaningful this was to both her and my dad, and also completely unaware that this would be the last time that my dad ever flew for the Air Force.
As a kid, I never appreciated that my dad had a very cool job. To me, it was just his job, another day at the office. Except that his “office” was the cockpit of a jet that he flew at ridiculously high speeds through miles and miles of endless blue sky.
Some people may join the Armed Forces because they want a secure job, a dependable paycheck, to travel, to get help paying for college, or even because they don’t know what else to do, and there is nothing wrong with any of those reasons. (Actually I even considered, very briefly, joining the Air Force in my early twenties when I was a hot mess, freelance writing wasn’t paying the bills, and I didn’t have many other promising options). But, Mickey Folsom was not one of those people. He joined the Air Force because he had known since he was a boy that he wanted to become a pilot, and he was ready and willing to fight for his country if he was asked to do so. He even hoped to get that opportunity. I remember hearing him complain that he didn’t get to fight in Desert Storm because my mom and my two grandmothers prayed him out of it.
He was a little cocky back then, but the nature of the job really calls for a little cockiness. In the jets that my dad flew, his quick decision-making kept his aircraft operating as it should instead of hurtling to the ground. He had to be 100% confident in the cockpit. He had to be sure of what he was doing, and this quality of his reassured me even as we moved from country to country , settling in new homes and making new friends in the middle of the school year, that our nomadic life was normal and that each move was an adventure. At times this lifestyle was incredibly stressful and difficult, but we accepted it out of respect for my dad.
Dad’s job took up most of his time. Until I was about 13, Dad was gone for weeks, months, and once even spent an entire year in South Korea in training to fly the F-15 Eagle. Often the amount of time that he was gone made it difficult for me to reconnect with him when he came home, but it wasn’t because he didn’t try. Dad intentionally abstained from hobbies and projects so that he could spend time with us. He didn’t play golf all day on Saturdays, he didn’t go hunting or sit in front of the TV watching football. He played with us, he came to our games, recitals and church plays. He snuggled us, talked to us and played in the back-yard (or garden for all my Euro friends).
He showed us the world. Thanks to Dad and the Air Force, I have seen things that many will only experience through photographs. I have walked through Sherwood forest, been to Stonehenge, seen endless rows of tulips in Keukenhof, watched a play at Shakespeare’s Globe, danced at Oktoberfest, visited East and West Berlin before the wall came down, learned to snow-ski in the Alps, toured the Roman catacombs and the Jesuit caves of Belgium, gazed at the Sistine Chapel, stood inside the Coliseum, gone on safari in the Serengeti, taken a boat ride on the Nile River, descended into one of the Pyramids at Giza, seen the Sphinx, picnicked in the Champagne valleys of France, toured Versailles, been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, had beach vacations in Greece and Croatia, taken a road trip along the Amalfi Coast, felt the cold winds in Ireland and gone clubbing in Sweden, learned to water-ski in the Emerald Coast of Florida, and have tasted oh-so-much good food and wine.
Those days are long gone, but they instilled in me an itch to travel and a terminal condition of cabin fever when I’ve been in one place for too long. As an Air Force “brat” I learned that making friends is a survival skill, and that you can in fact have a decent conversation with someone who speaks a different language with the help of hand gestures and a bottle of wine. I’ve seen that our military is a well-oiled machine that works around the clock in ways that most of us cannot comprehend, and that our service members deserve way more credit than we give them. I know that the men and women of the Armed Forces observe a code of honor and integrity that many have foregone, and are willing to wake up in the middle of the night to put on a uniform and leave the safety of their homes to defend our country’s freedom and fight for the lives of terrorized people across the globe.
So I want to say thanks to my dad, retired Major Mickey “Mikhail” Folsom, for his service to our family and our country. I love you Dad, and am grateful for all you have done for us. Happy Memorial Day! You were and still are my hero!