The Altars We Didn’t Know We Made (or Needed)

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Remember me
Though I have to say goodbye
Remember me
Don’t let it make you cry
For even if I’m far away I hold you in my heart
I sing a secret song to you each night we are apart

Remember me
Though I have to travel far
Remember me
Each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be
Until you’re in my arms again
Remember me

REMEMBER ME (LULLABY)

Let’s be honest—thanks to popular culture, there is curiosity around El Día de Los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. This Mexican holiday is celebrated on November 1 and 2 to honor and remember deceased loved ones. It is a joy-filled remembrance of life that involves building altars (ofrendas) with offerings, visiting and/or decorating graves, and sharing memories with family. The holiday blends ancient Mesoamerican and Spanish traditions into a celebration that welcomes the spirits of the dead for a brief reunion.

In recent years, this observance has taken on new meaning for me as more loved ones have passed from this life. It may sound selfish, but the idea of dedicating time to remember the most important people in our lives feels far more significant than some of the material-centered holidays we often celebrate. And while Día de los Muertos can be a grand, communal celebration, it can also be quietly observed in solitude.

Lately on social media, many creators have shared their stories, videos, and photos of their ofrendas. Some are elaborate and ornate, while others are simple and serene. Both are equally meaningful. At the same time, I’ve noticed conversations about who is “allowed” to participate, with some insisting on cultural credentials to take part in this day of remembrance. Yet, the overwhelming sentiment remains: we’ve all experienced loss, and the desire to honor those who shaped us is something universal.

A few days ago, I began putting out my Halloween decorations. As a 50-year-old empty nester, I don’t need to do this—and some might argue I shouldn’t—but Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. I have such fond memories of it from childhood and of celebrating it with my own kids. What started as a plan to display a few old photos of my kids in their costumes quickly turned into a full-blown decorating session. On the built-in shelves, I decorated every corner, including two spaces where I already have photos of my mom and mother-in-law, and my sweet dog, Madeline.

These memorials stay out year-round. In realizing that, I saw that I had already created my own version of an ofrenda—a quieter one, perhaps, but deeply meaningful. It’s something I see every day. A space that holds memories 24/7. A space I could never imagine packing away. Every time I look at it, I thank God for blessing me with such beautiful souls in my life, even if only for a season.

In the Bible, altars were sacred spaces for worship, sacrifice, and offering—first built by Noah, Abraham, and others. They were places of remembrance, of unity, of meeting with God. Thinking about that reminds me of one of my favorite passages, Joshua 4:6–7, where God tells His people to stack stones by the Jordan River as a lasting reminder of what He did for them:

“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them…”

Both the altar and the memorial stones tell the same story: that remembering matters. That marking what—and who—has shaped us is a sacred act.

I’m not going to tell you to build an altar in your home or decorate an ofrenda. But I will encourage you to make space for remembrance—a moment, a corner, a conversation, or even a prayer—to honor those who came before you and hold space in your heart. Whether through tradition, faith, or personal reflection, remembrance roots us in gratitude.

After all, memory itself is sacred.

Now, tell their stories.

Still Me at 50, Part 4: From Cute and Clueless to Stylishly Comfy and Confident

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“Fashion is what you’re offered four times a year by designers. And style is what you choose.” —Lauren Hutton

Confession time: My family has always not-so-secretly wanted to nominate me for What Not to Wear—but they’re too afraid of retribution. And they should be. That doesn’t stop my daughter from giving me the occasional side-eye when I declare I’m dressed and ready to go. The thing is, I’ve spent the better part of five decades fine-tuning what works for me, and I’m not about to let someone with TikTok fashion tips tell me otherwise. I’m not chasing trends anymore. I’m chasing comfort, confidence, and the perfect pair of black pants that go with everything. Let’s talk fashion over 50—Garanimals for grown-ups, the beauty of a capsule wardrobe, and why my closet is one shade away from a funeral procession… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Capsule Wardrobes / Garanimals for Grown-Ups:

I know you remember Garanimals. Born in the ’70s, this children’s clothing brand made dressing simple with mix-and-match options that took all the guesswork out of getting ready. Now hear me out—what if we brought this concept back… for adults? That’s essentially what a capsule wardrobe is, and believe me, I’ve been chasing one for over a decade. Imagine opening your closet, knowing everything goes together, and still looking pulled together even when you’re 20 minutes late. Honestly, fewer decisions and less laundry? Count me in.

Floating the Grown-Up Uniform Idea:

While we’re at it, can we normalize the grown-up uniform? I’m not saying we all need to dress like twins, but why do we act like wearing the same thing more than once is a fashion sin? I say embrace it. Pick a signature style and wear it proudly. If it worked for Steve Jobs, it can work for us. I want to make “repeat outfit offender” a badge of honor.

Online Shopping Is the Only Shopping:

Let’s be real—online shopping is where it’s at. While some people live for the thrill of the mall, I prefer clicking through curated options from my couch. Add to cart, try it on in my living room, no harsh lighting, no judgmental dressing rooms. And if I like something? I’ll take one in every color… or three in black. I’ve lived enough life to know my size, my vibe, and what brands understand both.

The Gospel of Black Clothing:

I once met a woman in California who wore black—only black. She worked in fashion, looked effortlessly chic, and made a lasting impression on 23-year-old me. To this day, I consider her an icon. There’s just something about black: it’s timeless, elegant, forgiving, and makes getting dressed foolproof. As my hair goes gray, my wardrobe gets darker—and honestly, I think I’m aging into my final form. All black everything with the confidence to match.

So who’s with me? Aging isn’t about fading into the background—it’s about stepping boldly into your own signature style. It’s about knowing what works, wearing what feels good, and confidently owning every inch of it. Whether it’s head-to-toe black or your own personal uniform, fashion over 50 isn’t about trends—it’s about truth. And mine happens to come in a very chic shade of black.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

Still Me at 50, Part 3: Boring by Choice, Fabulous by Design

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“For the unlearned, old age is winter; for the learned, it is the season of the harvest.” Hasidic saying

Don’t ask me what I want for dinner — I have no idea.
Ask me instead what I don’t want for dinner, and I probably won’t shut up.

One of the most beautiful parts of aging is wisdom. In fact, I think it’s the best part. Living five decades means I have very clear ideas about what works for me and what doesn’t. As a kid, I foolishly thought old people were boring — doing the same things day after day, with no excitement or mystery. Boy, was I wrong. Older folks curate the days they want. They sprinkle in excitement and mystery as it suits them. Old people are so cool.

I’ve tried — okay, half-heartedly — to become a morning person. I am now one with the fact that this will never happen. I’m a night owl. I’m all sunsets and stargazing and very little sunrise. Sure, I can wake with the sun if I absolutely have to. But it will never be my preference. I crave the quiet of night, when most of my time zone is tucked into bed, where they can’t call me, email me, or ask me what’s for dinner.

This is my peace.

Always a picky eater, I now fully embrace eating at home. Here is where all my favorite foods live — in my kitchen, made exactly how I like them. No more standing at restaurant counters wondering which entree I’m going to waste money on today. I don’t mind trying new places, but please don’t judge me when I immediately look for my standbys: sandwiches, soups, and salads.

This is my peace.

And while we’re fixing things: I have about a million brilliant ideas for making the world run more smoothly. (Just ask my friends and family, who lovingly decline every time I suggest they nominate me for President. Cowards.) Still, I stand by my platform: Let’s just make wearing black the standard life uniform and call it a day. As I’ve gotten older, my closet has morphed almost entirely into black — with a pop of color here and there for flair. I keep it real.

This is my peace.

Getting older doesn’t mean giving up excitement — it means getting better at choosing it. It means understanding what brings you comfort, what fuels your joy, and what you’re just fine living without. It’s not boring. It’s a beautiful kind of freedom. And for me, that freedom looks like tacos in my kitchen, black in my closet, sunsets on the hammock — and a little laughter tucked into every corner of the day…because I’m addicted to sitcom reruns.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

Still Me at 50, Part 2: My Unshakable Truths from 20 to 50

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“Age is simply the number of years the world has been enjoying you!” – Unknown

As you age, you’re supposed to get set in your ways. I have to confess—I was probably just born that way. Call it an Aries trait, a firstborn quirk, or just plain bossy, but I like things the way I like them. Period.

As a college student, I remember creating a list with friends about what types of men were acceptable for dating. I’m pretty sure the list exists somewhere, but I clearly remember two of my contributions. One, never date a guy who wears cut-off jeans as shorts, and two, the most important dating rule ever, never date a guy with hair better than your own!

So it tracks that I’ve not only followed rules my whole life—but made a few of my own along the way. And while we definitely won’t talk about the times I broke them (that’s a whole other post), allow me to present: Anna’s 10 Rules for Living Well.

  1. Pizza is breakfast. Carrying a piece of pizza in your purse while you go early morning Black Friday shopping is not only acceptable—it’s genius. Bonus points if it’s sausage pizza.
  2. Wear black year-round. The color is a standard. It elevates every look, every time. If I had a uniform, it would be all black. I am probably wearing black right now. (My favorite color is red, by the way.)
  3. No response is a response. Read that again.
  4. I either win or I learn. There is no defeat, only new opportunities to know better or do better.
  5. Flowers die, buy plants instead. As a self-proclaimed black thumb, I have been on a lifelong journey to grow things. It is not easy, and I am not a natural by any means. Nothing brings me more joy than watching something bloom…even if I had to lose a few succulents and fiddle leaf figs to get there.
  6. You can drink coffee all day. Don’t listen to haters.
  7. Road trips are personal concerts. You won’t catch me on the phone chatting it up when I’m on a long drive. No, sir, I am running through my personal, carefully curated playlists and singing at the top of my lungs. You should, too.
  8. Add to cart. Online shopping trumps in-person shopping every day of the week and for every product under the sun. Free shipping is a must.
  9. Don’t yell, smile, and laugh instead. My children find this terrifying. I find it 100% effective.
  10. Tell people you love them—always. Make it awkward, keep it weird, say it often. Life’s too unpredictable to leave it unsaid.

I could go on and on, but I can’t reveal all my secrets. After all, my life motto is “you’ve got to have an ace in the hole.” Shout out to King George.

So there you have it—just a few of the personal commandments that make my little world spin smoothly. Some are silly, some are serious, and some (like purse pizza) are downright legendary. Turning 50 hasn’t made me softer on my rules—but it has made me prouder of the life they’re helping me shape. So go ahead, make your own list. Just promise me one thing: don’t ever date a guy with better hair than yours. That’s sacred.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

Still Me at 50: Just With Stronger Coffee and a Deep Commitment to Quality Breakfast Burritos

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“You don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.”

— George Bernard Shaw

If you know anything about me, you know that I live to laugh. I credit this quality with helping me lead a happy, mostly peaceful, and unbothered life. I’m the kind of girl who would rather watch silly sitcoms than movies, prefers clever podcasts to dramatic series, and there’s nothing I love more than chatting with a quick-witted friend. So as I celebrate 50 years of life, I’m quietly chuckling at how little my personality has changed over the years.

I was a smiley kid, and I had a wonderful childhood. Comedy was built into our family—though I’m not sure every member of the household remembers it that way. I mean, I found a lot of things absolutely hilarious. I have too many funny memories to count, and thanks to my brothers, I was often the target of their practical jokes. One of the funniest parts now is looking back and laughing at the times I took myself way too seriously. My siblings will gladly tell you how ridiculously clumsy I was, making you belly laugh over the countless times I injured myself trying to do something sporty or just walk in a grocery store. Even today, the best part of going home is all the laughter. It’s in our DNA.

And speaking of DNA—one of the silly routines I’ve carried with me from childhood to adulthood is the importance of breakfast. I think it would warm my mom’s heart (and maybe even get a proud little smile) to know how her breakfast mandate stuck with me over the years. I even harp on my own kids about it. I can’t make travel plans without calculating when and where we’ll get breakfast AND coffee. I go to sleep thinking about breakfast AND coffee. I’ve even said out loud, more than once, “You know what I’m excited about?” That’s right: breakfast AND coffee. You’re laughing at me, but it’s true.

I hope I never stop laughing—especially at myself. Which brings us to the inspiration behind this blog post. Here’s a quick giggle for you. I remember being a 20-year-old college student, rushing into a campus building (coins in hand) to buy a crummy cup of coffee from a vending machine. All the while, I had scrambled eggs wrapped in a tortilla (protected by aluminum foil) tucked into the small pocket of my bag. That was my daily college breakfast. No amount of money could persuade me to drink vending machine coffee today. I still like my coffee strong, but it’s name brand and a whole lot more refined—and yes, I’ve definitely upgraded my breakfast burrito game, too.

At 50, I have leveled up, but make no mistake—I’m still that same girl laughing at her own clumsiness, with a heart full of gratitude, coffee in hand… and probably some salsa on her shirt.

ABOUT THIS SERIES: Still Me at 50 is a lighthearted look at life through the eyes of someone who’s not trying to reinvent herself—but maybe just tweak the coffee order. As I celebrate this milestone year, I’m reflecting on all the ways I’ve stayed the same (for better or worse), and laughing at how my younger self would probably high-five me for keeping it “real talk real.” These posts are part celebration, part confession, and all in good fun.

None of Us are Good at Tragedy

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All of the wrong things will be said.

And we will never hear enough of the right things.

The sadness, shock, and the fact that most of us are ill-equipped to deal with the bad stuff, the sad stuff, the unexpected, and especially grief means that we will likely screw things up. And we will screw it up more than once. I’ll say it again, none of us are good at tragedy.

As news of the D.C. crash broke, our sadness and disbelief quickly moved into blame, conspiracy theories, and political division.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a situation where you needed to offer grace, empathy, sympathy, aid, or any kind of support, you know that these things are not easy to do. Most of us spend our lifetime trying to avoid the bad stuff. It makes sense. None of this comes naturally. We are all flawed humans. No one wants to be in a situation like this. And yet, the reality is that we will experience tragedy and experience it more than once.

In these vulnerable times, we feel the need to clap back, answer back, and make sure that we’re heard…and maybe we shouldn’t. As we try to “do something,” soothe our own anxiety and find reason and explanation for the unexplainable, our sadness manifests itself as anger. Rather than crying, we lash out or worse—we post a zillion things on social media. According to therapists, everyone wants to be helped, heard, or hugged in times of stress or crisis. So often, in our attempts to satisfy these needs ourselves, we take the easiest route and cast blame while screaming at the top of our lungs, “This isn’t fair! It’s not right!” And it isn’t. The hardest part of tragedy and grief exists in the silence. Seeking to be helped, heard, or hugged may meet a need in the moment, but true healing is a long and slow process.

We can’t win here. People want answers, demand answers, and in the haste to give the people answers, we can say some pretty nasty things. We say unhinged things. We say dismissive things. We even make up things. We’ve been conditioned or maybe entitled to feel like we need to know and we need to know right now. Oftentimes we turn to authority figures, experts, and the news media for answers forgetting that they, too, are flawed humans who are also not good at tragedy. We love to make our politicians, law enforcement, religious leaders, and anyone who we don’t like or agree with into the enemy when we should be coming together in love, empathy, and understanding. While we can’t do much in these times of tragedy, we can honor others by offering prayers and extending peace.

You already know this, but these things are cyclical. We have quickly moved from disbelief and sadness to blame and now we’re learning the stories of the lives of the precious souls on Flight 5342 and in the helicopter that night. We mourn the loss while seeking answers and then we will wait. The news cycle, the political discourse, and life move on.

I am not good at tragedy. My heart has been broken enough times to know that this is part of life and no one escapes it. I take seriously the call to do no harm and offer my deepest condolences to the families and friends of those lost.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

A (Figurative) Kneeler in Every Home (A Call to Act Rather than Complain)

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As a kid, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. I credit her with teaching me so many things (some of the biggest parts of my personality I can directly attribute to her), but the most important thing she taught me was how to pray. Through her, I learned that I was created on purpose and for a purpose. She took me to church and reminded me that God loved me unconditionally. She showed me that nothing was beyond forgiveness. In my opinion, she was the greatest example of a Christian woman I have ever known.

In her home, she had a kneeler. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a home with its own kneeler (before or since). It was a beautiful piece, made of wood with a lovely stain and it had a velvety cushion for your knees. (There’s a chance that my Papa made it, but I’m not 100% sure.) If you’ve never seen a kneeler I asked AI to generate what I can remember and the above rendition is pretty close. I was absolutely enamored with it! It was like having a church in your own house! The kneeler was designed to fit an adult, so as a small child, I couldn’t kneel and rest my hands on the top to pray. I knew you weren’t supposed to stand on the cushion, so what was a kid to do?

My grandma told me that you didn’t need a kneeler to pray. You could pray anywhere and at any time. While I knew that someday I would be able to reach the top of the kneeler, that little piece of assurance stuck with me. As a kid, I was plagued with nightmares. Praying helped. I’ve been a news junkie since I was in grade school and knowing about a big scary world caused me to worry and fear. Praying helped. Moving away from home and my support network was hard. Praying helped. Notice that I said that praying helped. It didn’t magically solve everything, but what it did do was deepen my faith and relationship with God. A God who pursues each of us, who hears and understands our worries and concerns, and reminds us that we are not alone even on the most friightening days.

It’s disheartening to know that so many disregard the power of prayer. It’s become a mode of attack in our modern culture to mock those who extend thoughts and prayers in times of crisis or as a way of offering comfort. Understand that praying people know that they are not lifting up their worries to a genie in the sky who will magically fix the ills of the world. Those of us who pray know that God is so much larger than that interpretation. The power of prayer is in the communication with our Creator. This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action. It is often through prayer that we are called to act AND do more as we respond to the needs of others.

In the uncertainty of this new year, I have seen so many seek to complain and rile up their circles and communities. Many are calling out others, dividing families and friend groups, asking each other to take sides, and demonizing those who have differing thoughts and opinions. Several are canceling those who they once considered close and blocking people who they once called family or friends. This does so much more harm than good and it’s not taking place among those who don’t believe, this is happening within our own churches and communities of faith.

This is now a time for real in-depth conversations, in-person relationships, and profound listening. These things don’t take place in news stories, political chatrooms, or on social media. They take place around the table, in homes, and with open minds and hearts.

Please do not contribute to the hate, division, and fear that currently surrounds us. Pray and ask for discernment. Ask God to use you. Think before you speak (or post) so that you can be a source of hope and peace. Prayer is action. In this distressed world, many only contribute to the anxiety by spreading information that has not been fully researched or confirmed. News and information move at lightning speed and it is easy to get caught up in this vicious whirlwind.

At this point, I am again reminded of my grandma and her assurance that we can pray anywhere and at any time. I am more certain than ever that we need a (figurative) kneeler in every home to pray and hear God’s call and we need real-life, in-person conversations to listen and respond with compassion in order to truly make a difference, even if it’s only in our own tiny corner of the world.

This is not lip service. Fervent prayer is action.

In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette Three)

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My favorite hiding place is music. Unknown.

I started taking piano lessons sometime during elementary school, though the exact year escapes me. I recall learning finger placements, scales, and, of course, how to read music. I had truly wonderful piano teachers who were both encouraging and straightforward. Practice was not just necessary but absolutely required. Whoa, the child who showed up unprepared! I took seriously the idea of practicing every day and it wasn’t until adulthood that I realized what an undertaking that was…not for me, but for my family!

I have a feeling that my personal practice policy was not a directive from either of my teachers but more a process of self-flagellation that I created all on my own. It went something like this, miss a note…start over…from the beginning. Repeat. This may not sound like a horrible methodology, but when you’re a child and prone to mistakes, practice sessions could go on…and on…and on.

My mom had this one joke that she liked to tell over and over. It was probably extra funny because it went right over my head. She would say, “Can you play far, far away?” I naively thought that was the name of a song rather than a location. I’m certain she made this joke for years before I finally got it. Did I mention that our piano was in the living room?

And all that long lead-up to get to another one of my favorite Christmas gifts—my Casio keyboard. Oh, how I wanted a keyboard! Oh, how I loved that keyboard! Oh, how wild it is that 37 years later I still have that keyboard AND IT STILL WORKS!

The keyboard was a gift when I was 12 years old. I wanted a keyboard so bad…think Ralphie and the Red Ryder BB Gun. I would hint about it, talk about it, scheme about it, write about it, and I would lay out my case about why this would be such a good Christmas present. And then on Christmas…I got it!

I certainly didn’t deserve a Casio keyboard. I can play piano but I am no virtuoso. Our family budget didn’t warrant it, not by a long shot. Undoubtedly, I probably wasn’t extra good or anything like that. That’s one of the most remarkable lessons about love, sometimes we get what we don’t deserve (good or bad).

I found out later that my mom and dad bought the last keyboard in the store. It was the demo keyboard on the shelf. Mom said they almost didn’t sell it to her. Yet, she persisted. There was no stand, no box, just the keyboard, and the plug-in adapter. Since it was opened she was cautioned that the purchase was “as is,” no refunds. I should tell Casio just what a quality product they made back in the 1980s.

I don’t have to tell you I was the happiest kid in the whole world that Christmas. Oh, I had big plans. I was going to practice more than ever, I was going to be able to play everything from classical to pop music, I was going to write songs like Debbie Gibson…. Then my mom told me, “You know there’s a little plug-in on the back so you can play with headphones…in your room.”

I guess that counts as far, far away.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette Two)

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“A typewriter is a portal to worlds waiting to be discovered.” – Neil Gaiman

When I was eight I marched right into the kitchen and told my mom that I was going to college. She asked if I even knew what college was and I said, of course I do. It’s where you go after high school. And that was about as much as I knew about that. It wasn’t long after when I declared that I wanted to be a writer. I’m sure she wasn’t too surprised. I had been writing and illustrating my own books and telling bedtime stories to my siblings for years. Around 4th or 5th grade, I decided that I wasn’t going to be just any kind of writer, I would be a reporter and a reporter needs a typewriter.

At Christmas time I received a Petite 600, a portable little typewriter complete with a learner’s manual. I’m not sure how much of an odd ask it is to request a typewriter at Christmas time, but I’ll admit now that I was an odd kid. Opening that present was the beginning of a new era for me. And while I was not a good typist, typing was a heck of a lot faster than writing things out and that was good enough for me.

I remember writing stories and even creating my own family newspaper. I would play “newsroom” and “reporter” all the time. I would use carbon paper when I typed so I could create multiple copies of my newspaper to distribute. My sister and I even secured a Barbie 6 O’Clock News Play Set. The determination level was high.

I did go to college and became a reporter and as a blogger today, I’m still writing. Receiving a typewriter was one of my absolute favorite gifts. It was more than just getting what you want under the tree. The magic was in getting the typewriter you wanted because someone believed in your dreams just as much as you did. You can’t buy that kind of gift.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.

GIFTED: A Childhood Christmas Memoir (Vignette One)

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“Christmas is a piece of one’s home that one carries in one’s heart.” – Freya Stark

The nostalgia of Black Friday shopping rears its head this time every year. Most people glorify the event, and as someone who tiptoed into these waters in the early 2000s, I never really experienced its full heyday. I’ve waited in pre-dawn lines and weaved through the crowds, but no punches were thrown, no shoving of any kind, and definitely no arrests. Still, whenever I think about Black Friday my mind immediately goes back to the 1980s when I was a kid and my Mom somehow managed to secure Cabbage Patch Kid dolls for me and my little sister.

I regret never asking mom for the full story, but I remember minor details. It went something like this: We desperately wanted Cabbage Patch Kids. We likely kept mentioning it and basically annoying my mom to no end. Miraculously the dolls showed up under the tree that Christmas! However, we both received boy dolls. First, I didn’t know Cabbage Patch Kids could be boys as all of my other dolls were girls. Second, my mom was prepared for our shock and confusion as she immediately told us we could adopt them as girls…if we wanted to. Her exact words were, “Peyton and Ramsey can be boy or girl names. So you get to choose.” Who knew?

Amanda had Ramsey and designated her doll a girl on the spot. This was easy to do because Ramsey had a gender-neutral outfit on. One hair bow later and she was all set! Peyton was another story. My doll was wearing a full-on football uniform. He had a helmet, a green jersey and white pants with a green stripe. Then my dad said something along the lines of maybe he’s named after Walter Payton. I knew who Walter Payton was and although my doll’s name was spelled differently, it all made sense to me. My doll stayed a boy. It was love at first sight!

We took those silly dolls everywhere. Back and forth to our grandparents, on car rides, and to bed with us every night. We snuggled them and dressed them in baby clothes. We took them to the grocery store. One of my favorite memories is that Amanda and I put both our dolls in the front of the cart and strapped them in like real babies and then we wandered off leaving my mom pushing around a cart of dolls while shopping. I remember that she wasn’t happy with us after all the strange looks she got that day in the store.

The following Christmas we received another Cabbage Patch Kid doll. Girls this time. Wanda was a cheerleader, the perfect match for my Peyton! I have a zillion stories about these dolls. We had so many adventures and eventually, I passed them on to my own daughter. While I’ll never know the full story of how my mom managed to snag our Cabbage Patch Kids, I do know that the magic of Christmas extends well beyond the day. It lives in these precious memories.

GIFTED is a three-part series about the best Christmas gifts I received in childhood. Take a walk with me down memory lane as I unwrap the magic of Christmases past.