They say your children teach you more than you teach them. I’m starting to believe that.

Recently my daughter was belting out the “Alphabet Song,” which she charmingly calls “ABCDEFG.” She barely took a breath before starting “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” I think she learned a Russian or Slovak version as she says “Tvinkle, Tvinkle.” So worldly.

My husband pauses. With realization dawning on his face he says, “Whoa! Do ‘ABC’s’ and ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ have the same melody?!” I looked at him funny and replied, “Um, yeah, you didn’t know that?”

I’m no composer, but I have two ears.

Last week I was changing the baby’s diaper. He’s finally getting over a nasty cough. I was making the switch from dirty diaper to clean when he coughed.

Ya’ll. They moved.

I gasped and nearly jumped back from the changing table. Realization dawned on me. I said to my husband, “Oh, my God! That’s why they have  you guys turn your head and cough!” He looked at me funny and said, “Um, yeah, you didn’t know that?”

He’s no urologist, but he has two balls.

It’s true that when you get married you marry your spouse’s whole family. Upon saying “I do,” you adopt the traditions and eccentricities of another family. In turn, your spouse adopts your family too. You know, the large vacations, messy divorces, awkward portrait sessions and holiday meals divided by generation. Ask my husband about sitting at the “kids table” when he was 30-years-old.

There are things to get used to when joining another family. I for one marveled at Greyson’s family and their ability to debate. Debate anything. Seriously. Led, by a father who is an attorney, they had to rank everything. I would compliment dinner. They would ask me, “What was your favorite part of the meal?”  I would say, “Oh! I liked all of it. It was so delicious!” They would reply, “But, what was your favorite thing?” This would then result in everyone ranking their top three favorite side dishes and someone then vehemently defending why the green bean casserole beat the potatoes hands-down.

Greyson says my family on the other hand takes small-talk to a whole new level with politeness. These conversations are between sips of sweet tea because there is no wine with dinner. What would Jesus think? Or, more accurately, what would my Southern Baptist grandparents think? But, he calls us out on the underlying passive-aggressive tones passing between loved ones. I told him he just doesn’t know how to speak southern. Bless his heart.

I consider myself extremely lucky when it comes to in-laws. For some reason they can look past my faults like excessive chattiness, extreme vanity and Internet obsession and accept me into their family. I’d like you to meet two of Greyson’s family members I’ve never met. These are his grandparents, Herb and Llenie.

Greyson’s grandfather and father are Herbert Haywood. It’s where we got Henry’s name, Henry Haywood. I could recite each family story told to me about these two. Sadly, they each died a few months before Greyson and I met. He jokes that they got together in heaven and decided he needed to find the right girl and they brought us together. Every person in their family speaks of them with such infectious affection that I really feel like I knew them too.  It is a very strange thing to feel so connected to people I never met. They are part of my husband and helped make him the man that he is. When I get to heaven I know they will greet me as if I were one of their own. Add to that, they graciously handed down heirlooms to Greyson. One of which was the beautiful strand of pearls I got to wear when we got married.

We got this in the mail from Greyson’s Aunt Debbie this week.

Herbert Haywood’s ring, passed to Henry Haywood. Greyson said he could remember his grandfather wearing it. I tucked it away in my jewelry chest, thinking about when we would give it to him. At 18? His college graduation? I don’t know. I’m just proud my son will have this heirloom from heaven to be connected to loved ones he’s never met.

Friday when I was leaving work I was ready to go home and make spaghetti. It was just a night for a big pot of spaghetti. We were going to eat and relax, finally. It was a cool and dreary day that ended a chaotic work week.

I picked up Charlotte from school and we went to Target so she could pick out a birthday present for her friend. I got some hamburger for the sauce. We had noodles at home. Charlotte picked out a Disney Cars book that spouted off sayings of the characters. We loaded up our bags and headed home, hungry for spaghetti. I didn’t let her take the cellophane off of her friend’s book so she just pushed the buttons.

I was listening to her activate the voices of Owen Wilson and Larry The Cable Guy over and over when we got near the local high school. There was a huge line of traffic in the other lane waiting to get to the high school football game. I thought, “Ugh! Remind me not to drive this way on Friday nights.”

When people say it happens fast, that’s an understatement. All I saw was a dark-colored sedan pull out from a side street when they got a break in the traffic. A black bullet of glass and metal that somehow, didn’t hit us. I dodged the bullet by swerving into the grass  on the right hand side of the road. The car ran parallel beside me for a second or two, just long enough to see that he forced me into the side of a fence. My side mirror and fender helped rip the rails of the fence off its posts. It was the side of the car where my sweet baby was reading her book about cars a lot nicer than this one.

He didn’t stop. He saw what he did and drove away. He gunned it after I dodged his first bullet. He left me eight months pregnant on the side of the road with my toddler and broken car. Class act.

I pulled the car to a stop, turned on the hazards and turned to check on her. I said, “Are you okay?” She nodded, looking confused. I asked again, “Are you okay?” My brave girl didn’t cry. She nodded and said, “Yes Mama.”  I told her to keep looking at her book and locked the doors.

I called 911 while walking around my Jeep. A nice eyewitness came running across the street. 911 routed me to State Highway Patrol because for some reason they couldn’t decide whether I was in the city or the county even though I was a block from the city’s largest high school. I told her no one was hurt and I didn’t need an ambulance. I called Greyson. The representative from the homeowners association stopped to survey his fence and give me his information.

The part that pissed me off the most is that it took almost 1/2 an hour for either SHP or the police to get there. Greyson had to call 911 twice more after he pulled up. He and I talked and unwrapped the cellophane on the book. We didn’t think Harrison or Beth Anne would care at that point if the book was slightly used. She was being so good. When Greyson was on the phone with the operator he asked me for her, “Do you need an ambulance?” I said,”Well, if that’s what it takes to get someone out here!” Just then both SHP and the police pulled up only to have a ridiculous conversation as to whom would take over my case. Seriously. I just asked for one of them to please take care of it. It was light when it happened and it was dark by the time law enforcement got to me. Enough said.

I’m blessed enough to work with awesome people, one who lives nearby. I heard my name being yelled across the street and Michelle ran towards me. She grabbed me and hugged me while explained all that happened.

The trooper told me about how he had seen someone run off the road, into a fence, and the fence had impaled them. I thanked him for the reminder that neither me, nor my child was impaled. He then told me it that without a license plate number that it was unlikely that anything would happen to this guy. I started to wonder if the cop would have been as honest. Geez, dude.

After filing the report, Greyson and I collected the remains of my fender and mirror. We held each other on the side of the road for just a second, the hazard lights illuminated his face a moment at a time.  I was so glad he was there. I told him I loved him.

The Jeep was drivable so we took our tired and hungry tot home. She still hadn’t made a peep. She was wonderful and brave. I was so proud. I made spaghetti. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to eat some damn spaghetti. As I wiped sauce off her face I prayed, thanking God it wasn’t blood. Morbid, I know. I don’t care. It was the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten.

On Father’s Day we had a great time celebrating our favorite guy. We were on the road heading to the Farmer’s Market so Greyson could pick out his favorite veggies and meat to grill. Charlotte loves her Daddy and does what he does. A car pulled out in front of us. He yelled, “What are you doing, douche!?!?”

Sure enough, out of this precious little face we heard the words, “What are you doing, douche!?!?”

Aw! Just like her Daddy.

I’m sitting with my feet up in my new living room with boxes scattered around and my darling husband talking to the TV about NFL draft picks. I’m deliriously tired and deliriously happy.  We almost didn’t get to move in because of idiot underwriters’ contract mistakes and slow bank workers, but we’re here.  This week I’ve felt stretched very thin between demands at work and the demands of moving, but we made it.  I keep looking around in disbelief that we are finally here.

We cried when we left the old house for the last time thinking of all the memories in that house.  It’s funny, just a few days later it feels right to be here. Let the new memories begin…