The Art of Temper Tantrums

The Art of Temper Tantrums

My parents claim “The Threes” were worse than “The Terrible Twos.”

I think anything with “The” as part of the title makes whatever follows it seem more important, more significant.

By age three, Mom says, kiddos know more clearly what they want. They can’t be so easily distracted. They can’t be persuaded as quickly with a different shiny toy or promise of something better to come. No longer are they simply trying out the word “NO” to feel its impact on the world around them… No, by age three, Mom believes kids know exactly what they want and because of that clarity, the “NO” has more power.

Stronger will. Clearer wants. More intense frustration when it doesn’t go your way.
When you can’t fix it. Or control it all. Or get what you really want, right then.

This afternoon, I envisioned (with great detail) how it might feel to throw an epic-heave-yourself-down-on-the-sticky-floors-of-the-produce-aisle-temper-tantrum. A-make-others-gasp-as-you-beat-your-arms-on-the-tile-floor-till-you-are-done–kind-of-melt-down. A real pout. A fierce temper. Arms dramatically crossed, folded across your chest. Audible whining (the really high pitched horrible kind). Followed by the wild-rumpus-roar of crazies being set free. A-stamp-your-feet-NO-NO-NO-NO-kind-of-moment. Just because. Just because it might feel good.

The problem is, 24 year olds don’t really get to throw temper-tantrums.

We are meant to grow out of that by age something-something, certainly by grade-school. We are taught more “constructive coping mechanisms” to “handle” our “frustrations” or “bad mood.”

Instead of really melting down in the middle of the grocery store while others run for cover…
I talk myself out of making such a scene. I journal. I consider running. I put on a new temporary tattoo. I call the parents that live in the red farmhouse in North Carolina. I call friends. I write to my patient husband overseas (who totally supports the temper tantrum idea, by the way). And we laugh about mood swings, not-so-easy-transitions-after-break and deployment-count-downs and feeling tired and being patient with myself. Instead of being super dramatic, I snuggle in bed on a Sunday afternoon to re-read old favorite underlined books and drink calming tea. I meditate and make plans to climb on rocks. I drink more water. I eat a snack. I examine and measure just how much of my favorite bath salt still remains and contemplate taking a bath in the middle of the afternoon. (A bath at 3pm seems just as silly as a temper tantrum in the produce aisle). I turn on favorite folk and bluegrass tunes and look through silly pictures of my siblings. And Henry-dog. And after missing Henry-dog, I flip (again) through the photos on the humane-society website before returning to the argument that “I don’t have time for a puppy right now.” But (just for the record) there are a few great ones in need of a “forever home”…

As I write, the dream of throwing a wildly epic temper tantrum starts to fade away. It starts to lose its brilliance and detail. Starts to feel less necessary and more “silly of me”…

Think of the way I’d block the traffic in the store. And I’d have to be sure to not knock anything over, because I’d hate to make anyone else’s job more difficult. I don’t reeaally want to make a biiiggg mess. And I don’t like bringing lots of attention to myself, anyway. What would actually happen after the temper-tantrum… Wouldn’t I still have to go check out and stand in line with my cart? Do you think anyone over the age of 10 has thrown a temper tantrum (to the scale that I’m imagining) without being in serious trouble?

I try to sort through the thoughts behind the temper-tantrum-fantasy.

I conclude, that at the end of it all, I think I would just like to control more.

For starters, I’d like another Spring Break. Less work. To speed up deployment. To flash forward to Galen opening that door downstairs. To bust up this gray-cloudy-weather and get back to blue skies. To have laundry that folds itself. And groceries that magically arrive and cook themselves and taste great and cost no money. I’d love to not start again tomorrow. To prevent the dive back into the fast-paced-grind in the morning. I wish I’d not pick fights with younger sisters just to prove I’m the oldest, again. I’d love to be more cohesive. With longer hair. Hair that I promise not to cut if it would just grow back out.

And I realize that all this whining or temper-tantrum-stunt-pulling doesn’t really even sound like me.

Not the me I really like, anyway. (And most of the time, I like lots of me).

So I pack my bags and get ready to head down to Nashville. I’ll lock the doors to this Clarksville quiet home the with silly plants who like it better with more light and less water. And the dust that settles no matter what I do. I’ll grab an extra favorite book from our shelf on the way out and return to grab my favorite bracelet and turn down the heat.

I’ll finalize my grocery list before venturing to the store this afternoon.

And while I’m there, I might, just might– while I’m looking for freshest kale and apples and bananas, I might just look around that produce section and stake out the best locations for throwing a really really great temper tantrum…. for next time… for someone else, maybe.

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And on Sundays, I miss you the most.

And on Sundays, I miss you the most.

Sundays here used to start with comforting-familiar-early-morning-kitchen-noises.
Sounds of clinking earth-toned-handmade-mugs that hold the smells of coffee. Those mugs have our names on the bottom and the fingerprints of a friend from the mountains of North Carolina.

On Sundays, you and your favorite slippers used to quietly nudge the creaky door to our room. Balancing the mugs and a cup of milk on the hand-painted-breakfast-tray. You’d bring the milk in a separate little cup because you know that one of the most overlooked, most beautiful little things in the world, is the way milk swirls in coffee. (Number 175 in my book of favorite things).

Sundays used to involve me taking a tiny bit too long to get dressed and you collecting the car keys from the funky hooks downstairs as I skipped out the door. We’d listen to NPR on the way to church or one of our favorite CDs. Or just talk. And hold hands. Mostly, all the time.

We’d sit in our “normal seats” just a few rows up on the right. There is something comforting in being a regular. And something comforting in the routine of worshiping and praying and remembering to keep things in perspective. On a daily basis, but especially on Sundays. Hitting re-set.

Sunday afternoons involved outside adventures with bikes or boots or climbing gear. Inside adventures with movies and forts and new recipes and lots of music. Sundays often involved laundry and fresh towels and list-making for the next few days. And sometimes (more than I’d like to admit) Sunday also involved hours studying by the window while you read or cooked or reminded me that everything was going to be okay. Again.

Sometimes, Sundays held the voices of family members, voices farther from Tennessee than I’d like. After watching-the-evening-light-fade by the river, Sundays ended early because Mondays started early. Your boots by the door and my books tucked under my desk. Ready for another day.

You’ve been away for just over two months now. I read your thoughts and see your face through a screen with about 10 hours of time between my now and your now.

I still catch myself thinking you’re just in the kitchen. I still wait for the clinking-mug-sound or for the shower to turn on. Now I open the curtains and dust off the picture frames and sticky notes and water the plants (although, I’ve learned they are happier with less water). I still drink coffee- reusing one favorite handmade mug over and over each week. I get up early on my own on Sundays because I have a hard time sleeping in this bed without your heartbeat to my right.

I come home to this house just on the weekends now. Sleeping in Nashville during the week so I can walk to the hospital and walk to class. So I can have the wonderful company and the happy-friend-noises that fill the room when my roommate comes home or when I return from a 12 hour shift.

I still go to our church and sit in our seats, just a few rows up on the right. I’m still always just a little bit late. And everyone there seems to know that you will be back. They smile and nod when they see me with my sticky-note-picture-filled-journal. They pray for you too.

And you will be back. And we will go on walks. And there will be new recipes and music and adventures and less studying by the window and even more hand holding than before.
And most days here are still full of beautiful things and lots of thanks. Sundays are still great too.

The milk still swirls in my coffee. And a pair of your boots still sit by the door.

I think on Sundays, though, I just miss you the most.

With all my love,
Sara Bates King

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Creating Home

Till now, Home for me has been quite simple. The same home. The same house. The same old farmhouse with a big front yard and soccer balls. The same wonderful parents. The same hilarious younger siblings. The same small town and same set of closest-family-friends who share that unspoken agreement of serving as extra parents, should I ever need prayers or a hug.

Home has been a collection of summer fireflies in jars, hiking boots and dirty shoes on the front steps, too many coats on the coat rack and dishes drying by the sink. Home, for me, is a big backyard where I learned to ride my bike. The same backyard where I bruised a rib while keeping up with the neighbor-boys on their bikes. Home is a series of pets and names and dogs that are too big to call dogs, really. Dogs that feel more like siblings. Like Henry-dog. Home is a series of height-marks on the wall between the living room and the kitchen. Walls that remind us of how small we started.

Home has been those blue mountains in that same small valley and Merrie Woode family camp songs. Home has been old mountain ridge lines that I swear I could trace with my eyes closed. Home has been slippery dock-jumping, ring-neck-snake-holdin’ and porch-swing-swaying with ferns in the front yard. Home has been Lonesome Valley and spin-till-you-fall-down-happy-valley-dancing. Home consists of waterfalls and big rock faces that, for me, remove all doubt of there being an incredible Creator. A Creator and an Artist, for sure. Home has been the same family prayer spoken together, passed down through the generations. “Father, be our Holy Guest…”

Home has been 5 people holding hands around the same old dinner table, with at least one hopeful-hungry-dog somewhere close by.

Home has been defined in one word. Bates.

And right now… I am in sitting in a new home. One that is also mine. But entirely new. With fresh paint and new curtains and new little plants attempting to adjust to their new containers. Home here looks like new artwork and new gifts and lots of thank-you-notes that won’t begin to sum up my thankfulness. Home looks like Galen’s shoes by the front door and lists for what to make for dinner together. Home looks like sticky-notes left well before I woke up.

And while I will always be a Bates at heart, I get to be a King now too.

And I get to shake that deep-bone-feeling of homesickness I felt while Galen King was away. My heart has never felt homesick for a person before, till Galen. Not like that. And with that beautiful release of homesickness, I’ve recognized a new emotion. It is a gentle, subtle, quiet-tugging-homesick-feeling for all those I love at home. For those ferns and that silly dog and those hands around the table.

I’m creating a new home. Which I’ve decided doesn’t mean I ever have to give up those porch swing moments or starry nights. It just means I get to put new roots down, too.

Roots with Galen. Wherever those adventures may lead.

So, right now. I’m focusing on loving the photos on our walls and the furniture in our living room. Loving the running trails and new climbing routes and river-side-yoga escapes. Loving the way the light looks in the morning and the way that big tree sways in the window. I’m lovin’ this husband of mine and runnin on trails when the sun cools down in the evening. And while I am overflowing with happiness, I am still missing the family that brought me to this point. While I’m getting to know Tennessee, I’m still so so thankful for the Cashiers Valley in North Carolina.

With more love and more new emotions than I sometimes know what to do with,

Sara Bates King

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This is why I am home.

It is one of those Shoot-I-am-just-so-thankful-moments.

It. Is. A. Wow. Moment.

A Creation Moment. A Bigness Moment. A Life Is So Damn GOOD Moment.

All the little logistics don’t matter. In this moment, life is as good as it gets.

Mountain trails and rivers will do that to me, from time to time.
‘Bout knock me over with their awesomeness.

Light on the trail, filtering through layers of branches that hold bright green leaves above.
A protective canopy hiding our path. Our Sunday-Afternoon-Adventure.

Just Me, Dad and Henry (the fluffy dog that might as well be another sibling).

Sticks crack and the path soaks up our weight as we skip down toward the Falls.

My Dad and I have always walked fast. Long legs, big stride, I guess. It is a Bates thing.
I’ve made that excuse before when asked to slow down… “Sorry, it is just a Bates thing.”
And I love being a Bates.

Even with our brisk pace, I am taking lots of details in. Locking them to memory. Sealing them for future reflection. There are lots of mountain trail moments. Memories of adventures.

I feel my breath, the crisp air. I smell those unique mountain smells and I hear the predictable, almost rhythmic sounds of Dad and Henry marching along behind me.

Henry, the border-collie-mixed–with-something-much-much-bigger, wishes we would slow down.

But we don’t pause, we continue to hike and chat away.
In reality, this means that I ramble while Dad listens.
He has always been a great listener. A wisdom-giver, whenever I stop talking.

I bounce ahead reflecting out loud on the past, gushing about the present and dreaming about the future. In this moment, the world feels like it consists of just the three of us and this mountain trail by the water.

We’re goin’ toward Rainbow Falls. Toward Turtle Back. Toward Drift Falls- locally known as “Bust Your Butt” (for real good reason, too). To get feet wet and sit by the water and enjoy a Sunday afternoon.

And after soaking up the sun on rocks, bein’ lizards… I slide down the freezing and fast water way and feel alive when I feel my breath momentarily taken away. The drop and splash into the water below gets your attention.

We hike our way back up the trail and head toward home. Dad smiles and says casually over his shoulder, “This is why it is good to have you home.” And I know exactly what he means.
All of this.

“This” sums up the afternoon. All of this laughter and adventure and honest-conversation-time and these wisdom moments. The building memory moments. The hiking and water splashing and laughing-Henry-coomme-onnn-buddddy-moments…

This is what we love to do on a Sunday. And sharing in THIS is why I am home right now.
And I have never felt more thankful for This.

With love from the mountains,

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Maybe, you just need to pick peaches.

Maybe, you just need to pick peaches.
To walk in a peach orchard for a while.
Blue grass pickin’ still humming in your head. From fingers on a mandolin. Lady singing.
Probably about love.

And to get to pickin’ peaches, you’ll need to hang your head out the back car window.
Because it is hard to not smile when this happens. When your face is hit by wind and warm.
Swinging through windy mountain roads.

Keep an eye out. They’ll be horses happy, roaming behind black fences.
(I’d like to be a horse in my next life, if I have any say)

And once you are deep in that orchard, surrounded by lines of fruit, and laughter, looking around-
You’ll slowly start to remember how Life is everywhere. Start to slow down enough to let it sink in.
That everything is growing. Reaching higher. Changing. Turning kinda pink, in its own way.

Come to think of it, you should probably go ahead and take your shoes off.
(I wish I had thought of it at the time)
‘Cause, in the same way that it is hard to not smile when you’re head is hangin’ out of the car,
In that same way-
It seems hard to not smile when toes are covered in wet dirt deep in a peach orchard in Crozet, Virginia.
Barefoot, dirty toes are kinda like hitting reset. Back to the way things really should be.

And remember that the best peaches cave a bit when you squeeze em’. They’ll give a bit. And smell perfect.
And yea- You’ll probably have to just reach, and go for ‘em, I guess.
Because, you’re right. How else could ya possibly know if it is ready? If it will be right. Perfect on the inside.
Firm, steady, fuzzy outside. Secret gold inside.
Just promise you won’t rush, okay? Cause, really, you’ve got all day… and nowhere else you’d rather be anyhow.

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A-too-bright-for-me-pink-sundress and a new-nose-ring

I am sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Charlotte, wearing a too-bright-for-me-pink-sundress.

And a new nose ring. A hoop in my nose. No more little diamond stud, now I have a hoop in my nose.

Dad, nose-rings are “not a moral issue”… remember?

Remember when you sighed, and said, “It is not a moral issue” after I got my nose pierced in India? (I got it pierced twice, actually. The first time I got it pierced, it got horribly infected. (As you predicted). So, I waited a few weeks and got it pierced again. While still in India.

And it was still not a moral issue. Because nose-rings are not a moral issue.

I almost got my hair cut today. (Again). But that would prevent it from actually growing out, right?

And I sometimes think that a pixie cut might actually turn into a moral issue, depending on how badly it is cut.  (For example, don’t get your hair cut short in Ethiopia if you can help it. Learned that lesson last year. That haircut felt like a moral issue).

And besides, my hair almost touches my chin as it sits now, so… that is progress and growth.

And change, in its own way.

And I am wearing this sundress, which is certainly growing on me, but it is still nothing I would buy.

It is something Hayden would buy for me. And then she’d steal it back. Because that is what sisters do.

But I decided to wear it, because today is the first day of summer.


Today is the first day I have rolled over and stayed in bed till almost 9:00 in months. And months.

Today is the first day I haven’t made a to-do-list, but silly enough, it is also the first time I have washed laundry in a bit. And folded it too. Double points for me, please.

Today there are fresh flowers on the kitchen table. And gorgeous ones in my room too.

Today is the first day that I haven’t had all-day-summer-classes and closed-toed shoes and a white coat.

Today is the first day I haven’t played with a microscope and seen the tiny world that lives there.

Today, I will go on a run without thinking of when I will need to get back.

I will walk dogs with a girlfriend that I should’ve gotten coffee with long ago.

It is one of the first days that I’ve let thoughts settle out. Be still. Sink in.

I read, “Where the Wild Things Are” in the bath last night and felt myself shift back toward me.

Because with Chemistry and Anatomy and Physiology and working doubles at a restaurant and schedules and debates about the future and discussions about possibilities and choices…

There has been a lot spinning. And not much settling. Or listening to me.

And now, that I have listened. Everything I kinda thought I was doing has changed.

And everywhere I thought I was moving soon, has shifted.

And the one I thought I was going with- has been told to go on without me.

And the last 3 people that have walked in the door of this café have been talking about Chicago.

The place I was meant to be moving to.

They have friends there, family there, worked there, will work there, froze there, loved it there, hated it there, would never live there or can’t wait to move back.

And, the word Chicago, sticks out- because I won’t be moving to Chicago.

And instead of moving to Chicago. I am wearing a-probably-kinda-too-bright-pink-for-me-sundress.

Because Lord knows that pink is not an earth-tone. And I mostly wear earth-tones.

And I’m wearing a new nose ring. Stuck in my nose. And it will drive my Dad nuts.

And, instead of Chicago…

I’ll probably be moving home after the annual Outer Banks family trip. To the mountains. To my basecamp. To the trails and the frogs and the dog that I swear I’d marry if I could. To two stop-lights and home cooked meals. To regroup. To prepare an application for Vanderbilt, instead of Chicago. To the program I really want. To the place I really want. Toward what I really want. Which, involves lots of big changes. And right now, calls for a really pink sundress and a new nose-ring.


With thanks for love and support and grace,












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And, yet… somehow… today is perfect.

And, yet… somehow… today is perfect.

In the midst of laundry. Piles of it. That (once cleaned and dried) will need to be folded.

Don’t mention ironing. I. Simply. Don’t. Do. That.

(And never do it well. Even when I actually try).

With a surprising lack of groceries. And-shopping-lists-still-yet-to-be-written.

A getaway car without wheels. Stuck. And still waiting to be re-aligned.

(Don’t we all need to be re-aligned?)

(It sounds painful, but necessary. Like when your back finally pops. Releases. Flexible).

I try to realign each morning, but sometimes… I. Just. Don’t.

I. Can’t. Fail. Won’t. Forget. Rush. Go. Spin.

Piles of things to study. Yes, piles. Books. Notes. Diagrams of the bones in our bodies.

(So brilliantly gorgeous to soak in and learn if I pause to actually see it all for what it is).

Life. Creation. Miracle. Perfect. Intricately designed. The work of an Artist.

And Anatomy and Physiology and Microbiology and Nutrition books were in cahoots.

They ganged up with the laundry and the growing-grocery-list and the busted-car.

They plotted and schemed. Go. You. Can’t. Realign. Not. Today. Not. Enough. Time.

They made an attempt to make me forget that… somehow… today is perfect.

But, today is perfect. Good as it gets, perfect.

And not in a “oh, pittiful me… somehow… today must be perfect” kind of way.

And not in a “somehow… it must be perfect in spite of the lists and all the spinning”

But, somehow… today is perfect…

In the midst of it all.

Because of it all.

Because of the spinning.

Because of the learning and growing and back-popping reminders to Realign.

Realign. Realign. Realign.

And to say thanks.

Because… today is perfect.



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