Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Thank you, Easter bunny!

Sadly, I could only find one photo (above). The caption on the back
has my son's name and the Easter bunny, you know, just in case
you didn't recognize him.
Easter is upon us, which means the resurrection of Christ, whose rebirth is symbolized by all things spring – Easter lilies, abundant eggs to decorate with beautiful colors and designs, little baby chicks, and, oh, yeah, big-a** rabbits.

A friend brought the question to my attention – what IS our fascination with giant rabbits? And did the movie Harvey starring James Stewart and his invisible 6’3 ½” rabbit best friend play a part in it?

I understand that bunnies represent the fertility of spring, but do they have to be so large? And do we have to dress up our precious children and put them in their giant laps and expect them to smile? What kind of torment is that? It’s no coincidence that the Easter bunny as we know him was created in 1958 and child psychology a year later.

When my daughter was younger, she accepted that Santa came down the chimney and spied on her throughout the year, seeing her when she’s sleeping. She was OK with the tooth fairy fluttering about her room and was even fond of setting leprechaun traps, but a rabbit that resembles a grown man hopping down the bunny trail? Now, that was too much.

“How does he get in? Does he have a key to the house?” she asked, clearly alarmed.

I thought that perhaps a visit to see the Easter bunny might alleviate her fears, though I knew from experience I must tread lightly. When my oldest was young, I took her to have her photo made with the Easter bunny at the mall. I thought it went well. She sat on his lap and flashed a big, cute smile, not the least bit afraid. I even had a key chain made from the picture to commemorate the moment.

It was on the way home that things turned sour.

“Mommy, there’s a man inside the Easter bunny,” she said.

“No, sweetie, of course there’s not.”

“Yes, there is. I see his face inside of the bunny’s mouth,” she responded.

It was then I noticed she was inspecting the photo inside our new key chain.

“What? Let me see that,” I said.

I studied it and realized, yes, Virginia, there is a man inside the Easter bunny. In fact, his creepy face was peering right through the giant bunny’s smile, just as my daughter had said.

With this in mind, I decided the best way to relieve my younger daughter’s fears was to dress as a non-threatening bunny myself at our church’s egg hunt. Well, that, and I was the only person who could fit in the costume. At least that was what I was told. It was only later that I learned I was the only fool who would put on a bunny suit that had been around since the early 70s, especially when the bank that loaned it to us left these instructions: Fragile. Do not dry clean.

Though it felt dirty, I donned the suit, knowing dozens of kids would be disappointed if the bunny didn't show up, including my own. As I stepped around the corner out into the open, guided by my so-called girlfriend who had talked me into it, the reaction from the crowd was nothing short of a Godzilla movie. Kids were running and screaming; parents were snapping photos and forcing the children they could catch into my arms. I was doing my best to appear friendly and hold on to them as they attempted to wriggle free, all the while worrying about what communicable bunny diseases I might be contracting from the germs inside the suit.

Despite the discomfort, it was worth it. Moms were able to snap the obligatory kids-so-scared-it’s-cute photos, while my daughter totally overcame her fear. In fact, she came right up and held my hand. I was so proud of her for being so brave. So proud, in fact, I knelt down and hugged her, and as she squeezed my neck, I heard her say, “I know that’s you, Mommy.”

And from that day on, she never worried about a giant bunny having keys to our house again.

Thank you, Easter bunny, for the memories.


Tuesday, February 11, 2014

The weather is coming!

The weather is coming! The weather is coming! And, I must admit, I’m feeling rather anxious. I guess it’s natural since it comes just weeks after friends and family members were trapped in their cars on the interstate due to icy conditions.

 Fortunately, I was safe at home with a full belly and a comfy couch, and, most importantly, my children. The news was riveting; however, and the Facebook stories horrific. I spent a lot of time praying for those having to spend the night in their cars, and the hundreds of school kids separated from their parents.

There have been parodies on some comedy shows, including a pretty hilarious interview with fictitious Southern gentleman Buford Callaway, on Saturday Night Live who expresses horror over what he calls, “the devil’s dandruff,” but the truth is it was scary. Perhaps the worst story was of a mom who had to pee on the side of the interstate with everyone watching. Her Facebook post read, “Kill me now!” That could have been me, I thought. Heck, that would have been me.

While the predictions of catastrophic ice alone make me want to wet my pants, some of my fondest memories as a child centered on snow and ice storms, which back then, were equated with long power outages. I can remember one time in particular when it was out at least a week. Others may have suffered, but my dad had the wood burning stove roaring. In fact, we got so hot, we had to open the front door.

The best part about it was not the snow or being out of school, however. The best part was the food. Mom had cooked a huge meal the week before – turkey and dressing, sweet potato soufflĂ©, mashed potatoes, squash casserole - and that is what we ate, heated up in aluminum foil on the stove.

While today, my family is outfitted in North Face and Patagonia, as a child, I used socks for gloves and an old Georgia Bulldog toboggan, which I still have today. Despite our lack of designer clothes, my sister, friends and I braved the storm for hours upon end, not wanting to waste a moment for fear it would disappear. We made sleds out of plastic swimming pools, cardboard boxes (as long as they lasted) and scraps of metal from heaven knows where, but our primary purpose was the construction of a snowman.  

Our goal was to make him as large as we could, and we worked for hours doing so. That year, my friend’s dad chipped in and helped us roll the base. I can recall feeling such elation. In hindsight, it was probably because the socks on my hands were soaking wet, and I could barely move my fingers. I don’t remember minding it then. In fact, it was exhilarating.

Eventually, though, my sister and I would go in the house and hang our soaking wet clothes out to dry in front of the stove. And, after a time, the power came back on, and the snow melted – all but our masterpiece in the front yard.

I can recall riding the bus home from school and feeling delighted that he still was. We played with what snow was left day by day, until one bright sunny afternoon we came home, and he was gone.

I’m not sure what this year’s (or week’s) snow and ice storm will bring. I don’t have any delicious leftovers nor do I have a wood-burning stove, but I hope we can find something to sled on, and more importantly, the desire to do so.

And, who knows, maybe we’ll bring Frosty back some day.


Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Useless Southern talents

This new year has me thinking a lot about God-given talents, something which I think everyone has. They just aren't always readily apparent.

Take mine for example. I have quite a few that go utterly wasted. Here are some off the top of my head:

Fly swatting – When I was child, instead of air conditioning, we had screens on the windows, which would sometimes get holes, usually exacerbated by my mindlessly picking at them when I should have been washing dishes. We also had screen doors, which I was known to hold open long enough that my parents would yell, “Close the door! You’re letting in the flies!”

All of this to say, we grew up vigilant about killing those pesky creatures. I can recall my dad with a fork in one hand and a fly swatter in the other at the kitchen table. Flies were an inevitable evil of growing up in the South. We always had a swatter within arm’s reach, and I grew pretty darn good with one.

So much so, that, today, when a rare fly strays into our air conditioned home, I rush to the pantry to pull out my decorative swatter and say, “Watch this kids!” right before I smash its brains out. Don’t worry, the foul creatures never know what hits them. They’re gone before they get a chance to glance up and cry, “Help me.”

Arm wrestling – My dad had a rule that no boy could date me unless they beat him at arm wrestling. He chose his means of competition wisely. He was very good at it, and I did not have many brave dates. So, I spent my Friday nights arm wrestling him myself, increasing my strength and picking up a bit of technique in the process. Today, I’m fairly confident in my ability. Perhaps I should offer the same deal to my son’s future girlfriends.

Taxi hailing – I discovered this talent when I visited New York City with my husband this summer. Getting a taxi to stop plagued my husband, the bell hop and even other New Yorkers, but I simply raised my hand, took a step forward and waited less than a second for one to whip over. It even worked at night in Times Square. In the South, this skill goes, mercifully, unused. I say mercifully because if you need a cab down here, you’re more than likely intoxicated and have offended any friends who may have given you a ride home.

Picking up objects with my toes – This is another skill I learned from my dad. I can use my toes like fingers to pick items – like socks - up without bending. I am nowhere near as skilled as my dad who can actually use his toes to put on his socks. And he’s remarkably quick about it, impressing us all with this hidden talent after his recent hip replacement. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll amaze the world yet with this one.

Remembering what I wore almost every day of my life – Yep, if it’s a day I can remember, I can tell you what I had on. The time I got sent to the corner in kindergarten? Remember it. Of course, that’s partially because it was my wardrobe getting me in trouble – at five and 15. In kindergarten, it was for wearing fake glasses, in high school, well, let’s just say my wardrobe was a little too Madonna-ish …

Ultimately, I may not be able to sing like an angel, play an instrument like my friend, Staci, draw and paint like my daughter, decorate a house like Martha Stewart, and sew like my mama, but I can kill a fly almost as good as Sensei in The Karate Kid, and if you don’t believe me, I’ll arm wrestle you, hail a cab, toss you in and later tell you exactly what shoes I had one when I did it. A useless Southern girl can survive ...

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

11 things you never wanted to know about me

I was asked to write 11 things you may not know about me. Even my mom who is programmed by default to love me wouldn’t want to read 11 things about me, but here it goes anyway.
  1. I’m actually very shy. I made the conscious decision in the 8th grade to be outgoing. This was made easier by the fact that I didn’t wear my glasses; therefore, I said hello to everyone, just in case it was a friend whose face I couldn’t make it.
  2. I’m a huge fan of eggnog, and one of the few people I know who loves fruit cake.
  3. I hate ironing. Think people who do are born with that gene.
  4. I’m very good at hailing cabs, a skill that completely goes to waste here in the South.
  5. Though other people may complain about their in-laws, I miss mine very much.
  6. I’ve lifted in a couple of weightlifting meets, thanks to my dad an Olympic lifter and coach who’s trained Olympians and world-class athletes.
  7. I always wanted to visit France, but when I did, I got so homesick that I cried on top of the Eiffel Tower.
  8. I’m not a big fan of Christmas. Christ, yes. Christmas, no.
  9. I was once on welfare.
  10. I ate chicken pot pies every day during my last pregnancy.
  11. My husband and I got married at a health club where we first met. My dad drove me down in a golf cart to give me away. 
 I would love to hear yours!

   

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Don’t call me Ms. Amazing!

“I am not Ms. Amazing!” I shouted into the phone.

It was Sunday morning, and I was worked into a frustrated fury.

“Stop calling me that!” I shouted again.

No, I wasn’t trying to be modest. No, I didn’t have a person on the other end of the line arguing about how great I was. I was talking to Siri.

You know her well by now, I’m sure. She’s the sarcastic voice that lives in the iphone, a device that reminds me every day – despite what Siri calls me – that I am not Ms. Amazing. In fact, smart technology reminds me every day that I just might be an idiot.

I had upgraded my work phone to the new IOS 7 and had gotten several emails that morning, all addressed to, you guessed it, Ms. Amazing.

“Arggggh,” I screamed into the phone, sounding like Charlie Brown when he is tricked by Lucy again as he is about to kick the football. “Kids, you did this!”

“What?” they asked as they looked up from their weekend homework.

“You told Siri I was Ms. Amazing two years, and now everyone in my contacts knows!”

They both looked confused - and amused.

I remember it well. I had first gotten my phone, and they wanted to talk to Siri, and I allowed them to ask her a few questions until she seemed to get annoyed and finally said, “I don’t know who you are.”

My daughter had responded by saying, “Call me Ms. Amazing.”

Siri, in all her brilliance, had added the title to my name and given the kids a big laugh in the process. I had forgotten about it until the upgrade when, suddenly, my nickname was back, showing up in the to field of my email.

“I’m trying to get people to take me seriously at work,” I said. “I don’t want them to know I’m Ms. Amazing!”

My son asked, “Do you want them to think you’re ordinary?” and he shouted in jest, “I’m just like everybody else!”

I had to admit that was pretty funny. His comment calmed me down and allowed me to see the humor in the situation. It was Sunday morning after all.

In the end, my rant took longer than it did to actually fix the problem on the phone. The kids got a lecture about never touching it again and an apology from their not-so-amazing mom for overreacting.


Lesson learned, Sir, lesson learned.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

A day to remember (why I bought the big burger)

“Do you think they really sell that?” my son asked, pointing to a photo of a giant stack of burgers on the window outside of Steak ‘n Shake, his choice for dinner since his dad was out of town.

“I don’t know, but if they do, I’m ordering it,” I said, thinking a) it was just an artist rendition, and there’s no way they sell anything that size, and b) if he doesn't finish it, we can take it home, and he can eat on it for the rest of the week.

We went inside and waited to be seated while he got more and more excited over the prospect of his giant meal.

“You mean you’d really buy that for me?” he asked.

“Your dad would kill me, but, yes, yes, I will,” I replied.

“It’s probably $20,” he said.

Thinking the waitress would laugh at us for even asking if it existed, I told him, that even so, I would buy the giant burger. I told him it was worth it for the picture alone.

This was not entirely the truth. The truth is if it had been any ordinary day, I would have nipped his request to get Steak ‘n Shake in the bud. At best, I would have gone through the drive thru and told him no way were going inside just because he thought the milkshakes tastes better in the fancy glasses versus the paper to-go cups. I would have balked at spoiling him in such a way, even if he had just worked pretty hard on the football field. I would have told him that we had plenty of food at home and that he had homework to do, and I was tired from working all day.

Instead, I said OK.

What he didn’t know, and what he will never know, is this was not an ordinary day. Today, someone’s mom was dying. Today, maybe even while we were ordering and devouring our seven-patty burger – which was not on the menu – two little girls, 11 and 9, were losing their mom to cancer.

I didn’t know the woman, but I had gotten to meet her girls at my son’s football game. They were beautiful brown-eyed girls with braids that were twisted with bright pink and purple thread. They were striking, and they were sweet, as they innocently played with the daughter of the nurse who had been caring for their mom. My nurse friend had brought them to the game because their mother was dying - today.  

My friend took a photo of them with the game mascot and told them she would frame it and wanted them to remember this day when they got to come and see a football game and have so much fun playing with her little girl. I was thinking, “How could they forget?”

It was a special day, indeed. One I’m sure my son will never forget either, for obviously different reasons. I’m sure he’ll remember me laughing at him trying to fit the entire monster burger in his mouth, marveling at how he finished it before the waitress brought our milkshakes, and him groaning afterward that he’d never order it again.

On this day, he declared me officially the best mom ever. When I saw the greasy cheeseburger, I felt like the worst mom ever. Let’s hope I fall somewhere in between.

I don’t know where the mom who passed away today stood on that scale, but I could tell by the kindness in the eyes of her kids, their simple gratitude at being able to watch a football team from another town - a town that they were only visiting because their mom was terminally ill and in the hospital - that it must have been somewhere very near the top.

(Dedicated to Angela and Ladonna)





Thursday, September 12, 2013

Getting Pretty Muddy



I gotta admit I used to love making mud pies as kid. As an adult, however, the thought of purposely wading in it was not appealing. Yet, for my 15-year-old daughter, it was a goal and one she wanted to share with me – her over-40 mama. 

Would could I say? 

In one month, I’ll be dressed in pink and participating in the Pretty Muddy Women’s Mud Run in Atlanta, Ga. Actually, it’s just south of Atlanta in the tiny town of Fairburn. I’ll be covered in mud, having run 3.1 miles, tackled 10 obstacles, and I will pose with my incredible teammates, and I will feel proud. I will feel exhilarated. I will be a mess – and I won’t care.

I know because I did my first mud run this summer at the urging of my daughter. It seemed an impossible – and dirty – task. But, after having surgery last Oct. and being on bed rest for a time, I knew I was lucky for a number of reasons. One, to have the ability to participate – not win - but participate, and, two, to have a teenage daughter who wants to do something so healthy – with me, nonetheless.

Of course, she hasn’t seen my costume yet …

Want to join me in this all-women's run? Visit www.prettymuddywomensrun.com to start your own team or sign up as an individual. If you'd like to be on my team, just email me at leighslifeblog@aol.com. Event occurs Sat., Oct. 12. Start times vary. Free family run at the end for husbands, brothers and the like.