in the pursuit of happiness ~ rachael ruybalid

Despite my best efforts, I tend to be more of a glass-half-empty kind of person.

I don’t think that it’s because I’m a negative person, but more so because I’m a realist.

I don’t like to get my hopes up only to have them dashed and I like to make sure I, and other people involved, are aware of the negative and positive sides of something before getting involved.

Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad. I don’t know.

But looking at the good in life before I look at the bad is something I’m working on .

This week has definitely been a time for me to practice.

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day as I’m sure all of you know.

For the past eight years, it’s been a day that I’ve tried to pretend didn’t exist.

I would schedule myself for extra shifts at my job, spend the day doing homework, take a road trip by myself or just stay in and watch movies all day.

It’s just easier to forget and pretend it’s an ordinary day instead of a day for celebrating someone I no longer have; my mom.

It hasn’t always been like that.

I remember getting up early to make Mom breakfast in bed with my siblings.

We’d fumble around the kitchen trying not to burn the toast or spill jelly everywhere before proudly taking the tray into the bedroom and presenting Mom with the toast and cereal or blueberry muffins if we were feeling adventurous.

Dad always bought Mom a corsage to wear to church. Whitney and I also got one too because we were “future mothers.”

I remember being so excited to wear it and doing my best to be as still as possible while Mom pinned it on my dress.

During the course of the day, we kids would try to fight as little as possible and get along with each other because it was Mom’s special day and peace and quiet were what she wanted as a present every year.

As Mother’s Day approached this year, I began to dread it like I always do. Memories of past years came flooding over me along with other memories of riding horses with Mom, sharing my new favorite book with her, watching “The Andy Griffith Show” together and having her teach me how to make apple crisp and cinnamon rolls.

Yes. I miss her.

But something different happened this year. I realized, that while my Mom is gone and I can’t buy her flowers and tell her how much I love her and appreciate her, I now have another special woman in my life that I can tell that to and do those things for.

When Leslie and my dad got married, I wasn’t looking for another mom or someone to fill that empty spot in my life.

In my mind, that spot wasn’t empty. I had a mom and didn’t want anyone taking over for her or “ruining” those memories.

Over the last few years, I’ve realized that making space in my life for Leslie doesn’t mean that I’m tarnishing my mom’s memory or making her any less important.

After a while, I got so used to coping on my own and not having a mother figure that I didn’t think I needed one until Leslie came into my life.

As our relationship has grown and matured, I’ve realized that having someone to call for advice, help me decorate my apartment, be sad with me when I’m sad and to rejoice with me in the good is a wonderful thing.

I understand now that I should consider myself lucky.

For 15 years, I had a wonderful mother who taught me to enjoy the good things in life and how to deal with the bad. She gave me her love of all things horses and how to relish the taste of freshly picked black raspberries.

She taught me how to read and how a good book is best appreciated while curled up on the couch with coffee and a cinnamon roll.

She taught me that you can always tell how a man will treat his future wife by how he treats his mother and that beauty isn’t measured by outward appearances but by a person’s heart.

But now, and hopefully for the next large chunk of my life, I have Leslie.

She’s taught me that a smile and a kind word can make even the worst of days better and that forgiveness is always easier and better than holding a grudge.

From her, I’ve learned that colors don’t have to match, they just have to “go together,” and that there’s joy to be found in a freshly painted room or a new wall decoration.

She showed me it’s okay to cry when you’re sad and when you’re happy and even when you don’t know which of the two emotions you are.

I’ve learned that sometimes, it’s better to just toss a recipe and make something up from scratch and that stepping out of my box and trying new things has its rewards.

So see, I am truly a lucky, lucky girl and I am so blessed to have the mothers that I do.

I know that I will always miss my mom and want her around, but instead of spending the rest of my life thinking about how much I’m missing out on , I want to spend it thinking about what I’ve gained.

I can say that I’ve had not one, but two women showing me what it means to be a beautiful woman inside and out.

And you can bet I’m going to take full advantage of that.

Author’s Note: If you see a woman in her twenties with short brown hair who’s hobbling around like she needs two knee surgeries and two hip replacements, that’s me.

I did it.

I ran my first half marathon and here is how I feel about it.

Rachael’s Top 10 Half-Marathon thoughts, feelings and other interesting things

1. Lots of people turned out to cheer us on . Many of them didn’t know anyone running, they were just there for support and to help us keep going. That was really nice of them

2. Those same nice people had really awesome signs. Some of my favorites were: “Run like you stole something,” “I don’t know you, but I’m proud of you,” “Worst parade ever!,” and “Chuck Norris never ran a marathon!”

3. Gatorade is not good to drink while running, at least not for me. Worst. Stomach. Cramps. Ever. It doesn’t matter if they have it at the little rest stations. Leave it and grab the water!

4. Orange slices have never tasted so good.

5. Skorts are still not in. They tried to make a comeback my freshman year of high school and apparently they were trying to make a comeback at the half marathon.

I counted at least six women running in everything from zebra or rainbow skorts to knee length or mid-thigh length skorts. Like my sister has always said, the skort is like a mullet for your butt. Leave it in the 90s where it belongs.

6. Another questionable running attire item was the frilly, eight-inches-long-at-the-most, plaid, school girl skirt. As the skirt flapped up and down, my sister and I couldn’t figure out what was going on .

So we just pumped up our pace and passed the woman as fast as we could to get a change of scenery.

7. By the time I hit mile eight, I wanted to die. My runner’s knee was acting up in both knees, my hips felt out of joint and the balls of my feet were killing me. I kept wondering if this was what it felt like to literally have all your limbs just fall off .

8. Remember those wonderfully encouraging signs that people hold up to help cheer you on ?

Let me just say that by mile 11, you want to rip those signs up and run over them yelling, “Quit telling me I’m awesome and I’m almost there and I can do it!”

In reality, I really did appreciate the signs but when you’re in a pain-induced haze and have been running for more than two hours, you’re not really thinking clearly.

9. After winding your way through south Lincoln for two hours and 10 miles, you turn north onto 10th Street and hit the home stretch. For me, this was the most painful part of the race.

Memorial Stadium is a tease. It’s like a mirage in the desert. You can see it in the distance and you know that once you reach it, you’re done, but for some reason, it just doesn’t seem to ever get any closer.

And then, they have you run down around the stadium, then basically turn around and go back toward the south side of the stadium before you finally get to enter it and finish on the 50-yard line.

10. When I hit that 50-yard line and heard the little “beep, beep” as my micro chip was scanned by the timers, I wish I could say I wanted to sing, jump up and down and just bask in the glorious feeling but I didn’t.

I really just wanted to give into the overwhelming feeling of nausea but my ever-conscious-of-decorum sister wouldn’t let me. “Don’t you puke on this field,” I believe were her words.

So we kept walking, which, by the way is almost harder to do than keep running at that point. I think my legs had forgotten how to walk.

When we went to sit down with our pile of free bananas, plain bagels, Gatorade, donut holes and orange slices I could barely sit down. My knees didn’t bend anymore.

So there you have it, Rachael’s top list of half marathon thoughts, feelings and other interesting things.

My shout outs go to my parents, Dad and Leslie, for getting up super early and driving to Lincoln to stand at the 12-mile marker and cheer for us (even though we were so short that they couldn’t see us and if we hadn’t seen them, they would have missed us completely).

My other shout out goes to my sister for getting me started on this whole half marathon thing and for being there every step of the whole race.

I don’t know that I would’ve been able to do it without her there encouraging and pushing me with her “speed it up Rachael, you’re running so slow you’re basically walking,” and “look good Rachael, we’re on camera/the big screen,” or “only one mile to go, and Dad and Leslie are there so we have to look good.”

She finished four steps ahead of me with a stress fracture in both feet and an injured knee.

What a trooper.

So I guess it all comes down to the fact that I can now cross this off my bucket list and be done with it.

Kudos to those people who run multiple marathons/half marathons because just thinking about doing another one makes me hurt.

It feels good to have finished, and finished without walking one single time I might add.

But when Whit or one of my friends decides to run it again, I think I’ll opt to sit that one out and cheer from the sidelines instead.

After all, someone’s got to make them laugh with a crazy sign.

And who knows, maybe I’ll wear a skort while holding it.

I sit here at my desk and I’m physically in pain.

My arms are so sore that I can’t lift them above my head. My biceps feel as though they’ve been run through a meat grinder.

My feet are achy from being on them a lot in boots.

My thighs are sore and I can barely walk, much less run.

But strangely enough, I feel refreshed and relaxed.

This is the way it always is after time on my grandparents’ Sandhills ranch.

I don’t know if it’s the air, the dirt, the horses, the quality time with my grandparents or the sight of empty, rolling hills, but time on the ranch is sometimes just what I need.

After I exit the interstate and start the drive up into the Sandhills, it’s almost like I can feel my body and mind relax as all of the stress and worry in my life gets left behind.

On this trip, I took one of my friends with me who had never ridden a horse or been on a cattle ranch.

After all, something as good as the ranch deserves to be shared, not hidden.

I planned on taking her riding a few times and introducing her to one of my favorite pastimes.

But we were in for a surprise.

When I called my grandma to tell her we were on our way, she told me that this weekend was branding time.

I hung up the phone and told my friend that she was in for a real treat and a true cowgirl experience.

When we got up to the ranch, branding was already in full swing. People were in pairs walking into the herd of calves and dragging them out one by one. After flipping the calf on its side, one person sat on its head and the other held its back legs to keep it still.

My grandpa walked around with a syringe of what I believe were antibiotics to keep infection away while several other people carried branding irons back and forth between the calves and the thing that heated the irons.

Several of the guys walked around with a bottle of iodine and some clippers, doing the necessary job of castrating the bull calves.

It didn’t take long before we were welcomed into the fray and were getting dirty helping. I dragged the calf out and held down the back end while someone flipped the calf over and my friend sat on its head.

We held tight while it got its shot and then a brand on its side or hip. If it was a bull calf, we held even tighter and turned our heads away while its hopes of ever reproducing were dashed.

At the end of the afternoon, we were both dirty, sore and we smelled like burned hair.

But we still trooped off to the ranch to get some horse time in before supper.

We saddled up and rode off into the hills.

Just like there’s a freeing feeling with just being at the ranch and in the hills, there’s also a wonderful feeling for me that comes when I’m on my horse.

There’s something relaxing in the sound of hoof beats on the ground, the gentle swaying back and forth of the horse as it moves forward and even something in the comforting sound of the horse blowing air out of its nostrils as it takes in the scents around it.

I could ride for hours and never get tired of it.

It’s always hard for me to leave the ranch and all of the simple joys it brings. When I was little, we used to spend weeks at a time on the ranch when my grandpa was ranching in New Mexico.

My mom would have to peel me off the horse at the end of the day and hunger was really the only thing that would get me inside.

It’s nice to take a step back and get away from the hustle, bustle and worries of what sometimes feels like a hectic life.

It felt good this weekend to work hard and get something accomplished and then to sit back and relax on the back of my horse.

And while I’m sorer than I’ve been in a long time, this weekend was good for me.

Despite the sore muscles, it was more relaxing than a day at a spa or a professional massage.

I think it’s so easy for me to get caught up in the busyness of my days that I forget to sit back and enjoy life. I know it sounds cliché and overdone, but it really is true.

It’s good to try something new, work hard and at the same time enjoy the simple things in life.

Sunday night marked the beginning of one of my favorite summer activities: slow-pitch softball.

Ever since I started playing in our little pig-tail, coach-pitch league as a 10 year old, I’ve loved the game of softball.

There’s something wonderful about the feel of the ball diamond under your cleats and the adrenaline rush when you hit a pitch right on the sweet spot of your bat or catch a long, fly ball.

There’s even something addicting about the smell of the diamond dirt on your clothes and ingrained in your skin.

When I was little, I remember going to watch my dad play on a slow-pitch team. Well, I don’t know that I did much watching.

However, I do remember playing in the dirt and messing around with my siblings and some of our friends whose dads also played on the team.

I also remember the dilly bars and blizzards our families would enjoy together after the games as a summertime treat.

Nothing spells summer more than a melting dilly bar with ice cream running down the popsicle stick onto your fingers.

Like I said earlier, I started playing competitive softball when I was 10 or 11. I started out in the league where the girls would get a chance to pitch for a couple innings and then the coaches would finish off the last few innings, just to make sure everyone got a chance to hit and score.

Then I graduated to the leagues where the girls were pitching the whole game and all of a sudden the pitching got harder and faster.

Instead of everyone getting a chance to play all of the positions, we started specializing in one spot.

We outgrew the equal playing time philosophy and the best girls started and played most of the game.

I’ve always had a competitive streak in me. It’s tough for me to even play a simple card game or a pickup basketball game without getting worked up and way too involved in it.

Softball was perfect for getting out that competitiveness in me.

I was the kid who was upset long after losing a game and who kicked myself for days after a game if I missed a grounder or struck out at bat.

That competitiveness alone is what made me think I’d never play slow-pitch softball. I decided that after I graduated high school, I would be done with softball. There would be none of this playing for fun stuff.

I could never understand how my parents and other adults just had a good time, joked with the other team and had fun whether they won or lost.

It didn’t even take a year though before I was signed up to play in a slow-pitch league with some friends the summer after my freshman year in college.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I still love a good, close game and some competition, but it’s interesting to see how I’ve changed over the last few years.

I went out last night, played a good game, had a couple hits and made a few outs while playing third base. We lost pretty horribly but in then end, it wasn’t that big of a deal to me.

Instead of being upset about the loss, I walked back to my car thinking how fun it was to get back out on the field and just enjoy an hour of my favorite game.

I got a little freaked out thinking about my new level of maturity; that ability to shrug off the score and come off the field still smiling and talking about how much fun I had.

It’s a little scary but also rather exciting to realize I’ve reached that young adult stage that my parents were at when they played softball while we played in the dirt at the edge of the ball field.

But I guess if I’m still enjoying that scent of ball dirt on my clothes and skin, maybe I’m not as grown up as I think I am.

It’s a part of life here in Nebraska: the weather.

It can be freezing cold one day and 70 degrees the next. Sometimes it snows as early as October or as late as April.

I remember our spring dance being cancelled my senior year of high school because we were in the middle of a blizzard. This was at the end of March.

People who have grown up here are used to it and when you complain, all you’ll get is a shrug of the shoulders and the phrase “it’s Nebraska. What did you expect?”

I grew up in Virginia where a couple inches of snow were enough to cause school to be cancelled and bad weather events rarely happened.

I remember one winter where we had 18 inches or so of snow and that was a big deal.

Some winters we would go the entire winter with only an inch of snowfall here or there. When the weather started to warm up, it was warm for good and when it started to cool down, it was cold for the season.

We also never had the wonderful experience of growing up in tornado alley. Tornadoes were a completely foreign thought to me being that the only one I’d ever experienced in Virginia really just dumped a whole bunch of rain and broke off a tree or two.

It wasn’t until I was 11 or 12 that I experienced the full magnitude of what these rotating funnels were capable of.

Our family cabin is on a lake near the tiny town of Siren, Wis. We used to spend several weeks there during the summer when I was growing up.

One year, a horrible twister came through the town just a week or two before we were set to go up there. In order to get to the cabin, we had to drive through town and I’ll never forget what I saw.

There were cars on top of houses, massive, several-hundred-year-old trees just snapped in half, entire walls ripped away from buildings and debris everywhere you looked.

Instead of the pretty skyline the town normally had, there were jagged holes where buildings used to be and naked branches and trunks of trees instead of green leaves.

Needless to say, that made an impression on me and ever since, a tornado is on my list of most-feared things. I was always consoled by the childish thought that “this kind of stuff never happens where I live.”

Then my family moved to Nebraska.

Surprise! I found out that there are six seasons in Nebraska. There is spring, summer, fall, winter, construction season and tornado season.

Just the thought that something has the power to throw semi trailers into the air, rip houses from their foundations and destroy what looks like solid structures is terrifying and enough to make me want to move far, far away.

But then if you think about it, every part of the country has its own nature-made terrors.

California has massive forest fires and earthquakes, the southern coast has hurricanes, the north has dangerous amounts of snowfall and ice and the Midwest has tornadoes. Not really a good forecast wherever you go!

I guess it just goes to show that no matter where you go in life, there are always going to be things in your way and things to be scared of.

There’re fears of failure, fears of not being good enough and fears of tornadoes.

You just have to keep going, even when the going gets tough and realize you can’t live your life in fear.

Because what kind of life would that be?

But when those sirens start wailing and the sky looks like a blackish-greenish color, trust me, it’s okay to be afraid.

Also, you should probably get to a basement.

I am almost there. In fact, I’m so close, I can almost taste it.

And it tastes like a little bit of fear, mixed with sweat, pain in my knees, my lungs and my feet. But there’s also a little excitement there as well.

It’s my half marathon fast approaching and while I’m excited, I’m also nervous.

I mean, it is 13.1 miles! That’s a heck of a long ways.

Last week I ran six miles for the first time.

Now, coming from a girl who used to swing on the swing set behind the elementary school and hide instead of participating in the 20-minute runs at the end of high-school track practice, that’s pretty far!

This week I’m hoping to pass seven miles, the week after that, eight miles, etcetera, until the half marathon comes up on May 6.

I won’t be running the full 13 miles before the actual race, I’ll probably only make it to 10, but as I’ve heard from some of my coworkers and my sister who have done it, that’s as far as they ever went and they finished fine.

I’m definitely not a morning person. But due to the fact that my evenings after work are usually packed full, I’ve been forced to get up early before work to get my daily run in.

At first it wasn’t too bad. I was only running a mile or two and since I run about a 10-minute mile, I was only up 30 minutes earlier.

As I’ve started going farther, I’ve found myself getting up 45 minutes early, then an hour and now, I’m up to almost an hour and a half.

The hardest part is just dragging myself out of bed, past all my excuses for needing to sleep in and running extra the next day, throwing on shorts and a running tee and just getting out there and doing it.

Once I’m out there, it’s not so bad. I can slowly let myself wake up as Rihanna, Beyonce, Drake and Jay-Z sing or rap me awake.

It’s also a nice time to just mindlessly put one foot in front of the other and think about what I’ve got going on that day, week or just in life in general.

I’ve found I have more energy during the day if I start it off with a run. Granted, I’m more tired at the end of the day and I sleep harder, but while the day is happening, I’m more awake and ready to work or get done what I need to.

Also, no one ever told me that running clothes are so fun! My new favorite place to shop is T.J. Maxx with their fabulously discounted Nike, Adidas and Under Armour running gear.

My sister has had to rein me in several times though with her logical arguments of not needing a pair of dri-fit running pants in every color of the rainbow and the fact that matching shirts aren’t necessary.

I think my sister has had fun with me starting to run. Running has been her favorite hobby for the last year or so and she’s already done one half marathon in Omaha and then she did the Market to Market run with a team from the Haymarket in Lincoln to the Old Market in Omaha.

Now she has someone in the family to impart all of her running, dieting, water-drinking, natural supplement taking wisdom to.

She’s also been the perfect running partner for me on the weekends. We both have shorter legs than anyone we know so when we try to run with our long-legged friends, we’re always sprinting to catch up.

However, when we run together, we’re just like a perfectly matched pair. It’s been fun having something we can share and do together.

So that’s been my training experience thus far. I’m looking forward to actually running the race and getting it over with.

Some people have asked me what time I want to finish in. I would love to come in at 2.5 hours but honestly, I’ll just be happy to finish at all.

Then I can finally cross this off my bucket list and move on to the next thing.

Some of you probably already know this but…I am a huge fan of “The Hunger Games.”

I was introduced to it by a friend this winter and proceeded to read the first book, “The Hunger Games” in one afternoon, followed by the second book “Catching Fire,” the next day and the third book, “Mockingjay,” later that week.

That’s what happens when I get caught up in a great book series; I read and read and read until I can’t read anymore.

So naturally, when the movie was released, I had to see it. Sadly, I had to wait a week to see it because of my work schedule, but last Saturday, see it I did.

And I’m in love.

Now, I’m one of those people who can’t see a movie before they’ve read a book because in my opinion, the book is always better than the movie.

While this held true for “The Hunger Games,” I thought that the movie was still phenomenal.

(For those of who haven’t seen the movie or read the book, just a warning that there are spoilers ahead.)

Now, my friends and family know that I rarely cry in movies.

But I definitely cried in this one.

I got goose bumps (but kept the tears in) when Katniss basically signs her own death certificate by volunteering to take her little sister’s place as a tribute in the Hunger Games.

I’d like to know what other big sister or brother could watch that and not imagine themselves in her place.

When little Rue, a tribute in the Games, died in heroine Katniss’ arms in the arena, I teared up a bit.

Then, in the part where Katniss covers Rue’s body with flowers in a gesture of defiance to the Capital, I started actually crying.

When the cameras cut to the man I assume was Rue’s father, I started bawling like a baby.

It showed him and other members of Rue’s district watching the scene with tears in their eyes and they gave Katniss the three-finger salute of her district in a sign of thanks and respect.

When Katniss stepped away from Rue’s flower-covered body, Rue’s father went crazy with rage and sorrow and a riot ensued against the Capital’s police force.

It’s crazy to see how this trilogy and now movie have taken off across the world and across all age groups.

I have people of all age groups eagerly discussing and breaking down the movie and books with me. I know fellow fans in their 20s, 30s, 40s and 50s and everyone has something to say about the Games.

I think it’s because there are so many characters and parts in the books that people can relate to and agree with.

You can’t help but fall in love with the main character, Katniss, as she takes her sister’s place and fights to what she thinks may be her death.

No matter what, she does her best to stay true to who she is and to not let evil forces in the Capital take over her identity and make her become someone she isn’t.

She does the right thing no matter how tough it is or what she’s threatened with.

And then there’s the part that I think scares a lot of people: the concept of entertainment at the expense of another person and how far it can go.

Our world has become so engrossed in the idea of being entertained that it doesn’t matter what it is.

We watch shows like “16 and Pregnant,” “Jersey Shore” and pro wrestling, where contestants battle for a prize or where the main source of entertainment comes at the expense of someone else.

In “The Hunger Games,” Katniss and 23 other tributes from the 12 districts battle to the death for the entertainment of the spoiled elite in the Capital.

It’s not hard to imagine a time in the future where a show in which children battle to the death might be popular.

It’s a scary thought and it makes you think a little bit more about why you watch shows or what redeeming qualities, if any, those reality shows have.

Now, I know that a lot of people are digging deep into “The Hunger Games,” and attributing all kinds of motives, themes and lessons to the writer.

I don’t know how many of those she intended to incorporate and how many are simply the products of people with too much time on their hands.

I do know that a trilogy like this deserves to be read, both for its entertaining qualities and life lessons.

But I will tell you this: once you start, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll be frozen to your seat for hours until you’ve flipped that last page. And it might not even end there.

Once you’ve finished the first book, you’ll sit there staring at the second one, needing to know what happens next.

So read the books and then sit back and enjoy the movie. I promise you won’t regret it.

But when you’re up at 2 a .m., feverishly reading because it’s just too good to stop, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to a special program that one of the York Elementary School kindergarten classes put on .

It was called “Donuts for Dads,” and, just like it sounds, the dads all came and had donuts and juice with their kindergartener that morning.

At the end of the program, the kids all got up on the stage and sang several songs with father themes.

While I was watching, I found it was impossible not to smile and get drawn into the program myself with all of the kids belting out the songs for their dads and the dads smiling in pride, each of them with their eyes trained on their child.

One little girl especially caught my eye during the songs.

She was literally bouncing up and down out of excitement with a grin that spread from ear to ear as she watched her dad’s response to her singing. She wanted her dad’s approval more than anything in the world right then and she wasn’t afraid to show it.

Her dad on the other hand, didn’t take his eyes from her the entire time and he clapped and smiled and literally shone his approval on her.

The effect of that approval was almost instantaneous as you could see her stand a little taller and smile a little wider under his gaze.

I got a little choked up watching her because I remember being in her little shoes.

I’ve been a daddy’s girl for as long as I can remember. I don’t think I even realized that I was until a couple years ago. I just knew that I liked spending time with my dad.

At the end of the program, the kids sang a song that was stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

“Have you ever seen a daddy as cool as mine?

To hold me,

And hug me,

And kiss me,

And miss me.

Have you ever seen a daddy as cool as mine?”

I don’t know about you, but I know I haven’t.

When I was a horse-crazed little girl, he found some wiggle room in our family’s already tight budget to buy a pony.

When I disintegrated into a frustrated, upset, crying mess after pushing a fully-loaded wheelbarrow of manure off the ramp and all over me, he would quietly pick me up, dust me off and help me clean it up.

When I was having trouble learning a certain move in ballet, he went in after one of my lessons and asked my teacher to show him how to do it.

He then took me home and worked with me on it in our dining room until I could do it flawlessly.

I’ll never forget that image of him sailing through the air so gracefully (?) and doing the perfect little hip turn at the end.

But then again, I can still do the move so I guess he was a pretty good teacher!

When I needed a closed-in riding arena so I could perfect my technique without my pony running away from me, he built one.

When I needed a job to start saving for my own horse, he found me one cleaning the office next door to his.

When I was discouraged because my hitting in softball had hit a slump, he spent the time and money driving me an hour away to see a special batting coach for several months.

I could go on and on . And those are just the little things.

When my mom died, I think I leaned on my dad more than I ever have before. I needed his reassurance that everything was going to be alright and that life would go on .

He became my rock, my sounding board and my favorite shoulder to cry on .

I know I wouldn’t have made it through college without him. I was in school full time and working 30 to 40 hours a week as a waitress.

It’s my signature move to bottle all my frustrations, emotions and everything else up inside and not let it out.

But when my dad would stop by my work or my house when he was in town, just to give me a hug and check up on me, it was like the floodgates would open and everything come pouring out.

I think it’s because he’s always been that safe place for me and that feeling of “everything’s going to be alright” and “you’re going to be fine,” that I feel like I can let my guard down around him.

Now, I know that our relationship is not perfect. We have the typical father/daughter arguments and I know that I disappoint him when I make choices he doesn’t agree with.

But I know that everything he says to me and everything he does is out of love for me and his desire for me to be the best me that I can.

When I was little, he used to put me to bed and sing me a little song that he made up. I still remember every word.

“Rachael Kathleen, the sweetest girl I’ve ever seen. I think I’ll keep my Rachael Kathleen.”

Yes, I definitely have the best dad there is.

He gets another year older next Monday (I’m not at liberty to release exactly what year that is). I know that I am blessed to have the father I do.

And it warms my heart to see other children with those kinds of fathers like that little girl and in fact, all of those kids in that class at YES.

Someday, I want my daughter to have the same kind of father that I do. I want her to be able to say:

“Have you ever seen a daddy as cool as mine?”

Happy birthday, Dad. I’m glad you kept your Rachael Kathleen.

I love you.

I filled out my very first March Madness NCAA tournament bracket when I was 16 years old.

I’ll admit, I really had no idea what was going on . My dad just printed out a bunch of them and had each of us kids fill one out.

Of course, my little brothers immediately set to work strategizing, planning and researching their teams. Because of course, they had to beat Whit and I because we were the girls who didn’t know anything about basketball.

Honestly though, I really didn’t. Dad had to explain how the whole thing worked and how to pick what teams I thought would win. So I just picked all of the highest seeded teams and called it good.

The completed brackets all went up on the fridge and Dad kept score.

I wish I could remember who won out of the six of us that year, but I don’t. I’m sure it was one of my brothers.

All I know is that I got hooked. There’s something about the excitement and the unknown possibilities that makes me fill out at least one, sometimes two or three brackets every year for the tournament.

It’s fun picking what you think a team’s future will hold. There’s a little thrill for me in trying to figure out which underdog might make a run for the Final Four and mess up everyone’s brackets.

My senior year of high school in 2006 was the year the 11th seeded team from my home state of Virginia, George Mason University, made it all the way to the Final Four after beating UConn.

My George Mason sweatshirt was the most popular item in my school that March and I had multiple offers from my friends who wanted to buy it from me.

In years like that one, even though I only picked GMU to win one game, I couldn’t help rooting for them. They were the little underdog that managed to beat several basketball powerhouses on a quest for the title.

It’s so hard because I always want to root for the underdog but in so doing, I’m technically rooting against myself and my bracket.

It happened again this year when first seed Syracuse almost got beaten by 16th seed UNC-Asheville in the first round. Even though my bracket would definitely have been in the toilet had UNC-Asheville won, I couldn’t help cheering for the little guy.

There’s something refreshing about the underdog getting pumped up and playing their heart out when no one believes they can do it.

And while you can laugh at me, I think that March Madness is a little bit of a reflection of how life goes.

Usually, the expected happens and UNC makes it to the Final Four or Duke wins the championship.

But sometimes, there’s the underdog that comes from behind and just shocks the heck out of everyone. Think the 2006 GMU team or the 2011 Virginia Commonwealth University team in the Final Four.

People always want to cheer for the underdog because in some way, shape or form, they can relate to it, especially in the tough economic times our country’s struggled with lately.

It’s that feeling of being at the bottom and not knowing how to claw your way to the top.

That feeling of knowing you have it in you, but no one recognizes it but you.

That feeling that no matter how hard you work, you’ll never come out ahead.

And then it’s that feeling of finally catching a break and glimpsing the end of the tunnel.

There’s still that chance to see one of the little guys catch fire this year and bust several million brackets.

Thirteenth seed Ohio plays number one seed UNC and 11th seed NC State plays number two seed Kansas on Friday.

Of course, neither of those underdogs are my choices in my bracket.

But in reality, I would much rather see Kansas and UNC go home with their tails between their legs on Friday, than win a couple bucks in my bracket pool.

I have to cheer for the underdog; it’s the American way.

Because we’ve all been there and we know that it’s a tough spot to be in. But when you’ve worked your way out and fought to the top, it feels so good.

I have always been proud to be an American.

I’m proud of our history, I’m proud of the many freedoms and rights the Constitution gives us and I’m proud of the role I get to play through voting.

And while it kills me to say it, this whole Rush Limbaugh debacle that’s gone down in the last few weeks has made me take greater pride than ever before in one of those Constitutional freedoms.

That would be the Freedom of Speech.

When I did my morning perusing of the news yesterday, I ran across an opinion column about how the Federal Communications Commission needs to remove Rush Limbaugh’s program from the radio.

The authors cited the fact that his sexist, mean dialogue from two weeks ago where he attacked a law student who testified on the birth control debate and called her a slut and a prostitute, as the reason.

They said that because his program was so awful, the station that carries it should be accused of using its license in a way that was “not in the public interest.”

For a brief moment, I was excited at the possibility that this horrible man and his program might be removed from airwaves. I’ll admit that the thought of Rush being penniless, disgraced and without a job made me smile and I hoped that the FCC would act by removing his program.

And then, that brief moment ended with the realization that, regardless of how I feel or how abhorrent I found Rush’s comments last week, according to the First Amendment, he still had the right to say them.

Morally, he did not have the right to say them, but legally and constitutionally, he did.

Now as my friends and family who know me will tell you, I am a very black and white person. I have trouble seeing both sides of an issue or seeing gray areas because to me, something’s either wrong or right. You’re either allowed to do it or you’re not.

To me, Rush’s comments were wrong, therefore he should be punished, no questions asked.

When he basically got a slap on the wrist from a handful of sponsors dropping their spots on his show, it made me want to see him punished by a higher authority: the government.

But, as much as I hate to say it, the same constitution that gives me certain freedoms and protections as a member of the press, gives Rush the same freedoms and protections to spew his hatred and misguided, spiteful words.

If I expect to have protections for stating my opinions and thoughts, then I have to admit that Rush, and people like him, have that same protection as well.

Wanting him to lose that protection would be the equivalent of hoping that my protection would also be taken away.

So, while I may disagree with him and wish that all of his fans would see the light and quit listening to him and his show would go belly up for that reason, I hope that the FCC stays out of it.

In order to keep the pride I have in our right to free speech, I’ll grit my teeth and bear the fact that people like Rush can also practice that right.

Because you never know… there may come a day when I might be in need of and grateful for the protection of the First Amendment’s right to free speech.