All I want for Christmas is ... mind control?

My son wants Mindflex for Christmas. Have you heard of it? You put on the headset and use your powers of concentration to move the ball around the game console and through an obstacle course. Seriously, you raise and lower the ball by alternating concentrating and relaxing your mind.

What ever happened to checkers?

And how does this thing work? It’s by Mattel, so it must be safe. Right.

My son tried to tell me it was good for his brain. I told him so were math problems.

Fortunately, it’s a moot point – it cost $143, and I have a feeling after five minutes of concentrating and failing to move the ball through the hoops, they would soon grow bored.

My daughter wants a frog. They sell them at the toy store now for $19.95. She showed it to me as we were checking out.

“Oh, they are great,” said the saleslady. “You don’t have to do anything to them.”

“Not even feed them?” I asked.

“Oh, well, yes, you have to feed them,” she said, “but you don’t have to clean out their cage.”

Right.

After two guinea pigs and a rowdy puppy, I heard Santa put a moratorium on live animals in the sleigh. You can thank us for that.

It’s always a challenge to find the perfect gift - one that will make your children happy, but not make you broke. I’m sure my Christmas present dilemma is nothing new. When I was a child, I wanted a Cabbage Patch doll with all my heart. I knew someone who had four, and she pulled down their bloomers revealing Xavier Roberts signature to prove they were the real deal. At $100 a doll, I thought she had to be the richest girl in the world. The sad part is they were so valuable she wasn’t allowed to play with them. She had to leave them propped on her bed like trophies.

I’m sure my parents debated, but wisely they chose to buy me an imitation version of the doll. She was just as ugly as the real thing, and I loved her every bit as much until I outgrew her and left her by the wayside, which happened all too quickly.

Maybe I should follow their example and devise an imitation Mindflex. You know, make an aluminum headband and put some balls on the table. Let the kids concentrate until the balls move or they become blue in the face and grow bored with it. I may not be a mind-reader, but I can predict if I spent $143, I would end up with the exact same result.

As for the frog, maybe I can talk Santa into making some allowances on that one. He was awfully cute!

Music to my ears

Someone once asked me if I’d like to be a kid again. I said no, mainly because I sure would hate to go through those awkward teen years again. But, I do think it would be nice to see things as children do sometimes.

This morning, for example, my son was very excited because we were finally going to play the Christmas CD that he brought home from chorus. Since it was homework and the boy is so darn cute, I was willing to break my no Christmas songs before Thanksgiving rule.

“Okay, but we are going to listen to ‘You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch' first,” I said, ever the Scrooge.

“I’m not trying out for ‘Holy Night,’” he said, seriously.

“Why?” I asked, fully expecting him to tell me that he can’t sing. He’s cute, but, unfortunately, he sings like his mama.

To my surprise, he said, “Because I’d be tired by the time I finished singing it. That’s a long song. I’d be out of breath!”

I hugged him and told him to try out anyway. In fact, I even let him practice on the way to school at the top of his lungs. He hit the high notes, much like Alfalfa in The Little Rascals. I declared it beautiful and could tell by the proud look on his face, he agreed.

Oh, to be eight-years-old!

Carpooling to Cotillion

The best conversations happen in the backseat of carpool, especially carpool to Cotillion. I was never in Cotillion, but heaven knows, I could have used it, then and now. My husband outweighs me by 130ish lbs., and I still lead on the dance floor, when I’m not stepping on his feet, that is.

Therefore, I decided to do the right thing and enroll my daughter in it, so she can learn all the manners that she doesn’t get taught at home, including proper rising. There IS a correct way for a lady to get out of a chair, you know.

As homework, each Cotillion participant must get so many signatures saying they’ve practiced different elements of etiquette. One of them was paying compliments. I waited all day for mine. Would she say I was pretty? Sweet? Smart? Finally, it came.

“Mom, did I tell you that the tea you made is very good?”

That was better than expected. In the South, praising one’s sweet tea is the ultimate compliment.

“Now can you sign my book?” she said.

Giveth and taketh away, I thought, as I signed my name in the “Paying compliments” column.

She was still gathering signatures as I drove her and her friends to Cotillion.

“Be sure to watch me proper rise when I get out the car,” she said, “so you can sign off on it.”

I smiled to myself. We drive an Expedition. I couldn’t wait to see her proper rise out of that.

“I forgot my gloves,” said one of the girls hurrying back into the house to get them.

“Good thing you found them,” my daughter said. “I took mine off last time because they were bothering me, and I had to hold a boy’s hand, and it was sweaty.”

“You mean you touched a boy’s hand without a glove?!” asked her friend.

“Yes, ewww, it was gross,” she said.

At this point, I broke the chauffeur’s code and acknowledged I was listening to their conversation.

“Well, I hope you didn’t say anything,” I said, feeling sorry for the poor nervous fellow.

“No, but I made a facial expression to let him know!”

“I hope we don’t have to close dance,” said another friend.

Again, I, being a mom, could not resist.

“Why, because of the sweat?”

“Mom, you know why …. Awkward!”

After a few giggles, the girls debated what kind of punch is served and whether or not they would try any tonight. Soon, we reached our destination.

“Have fun, wear your gloves, and don’t forget to proper rise on the way out,” I said, amidst their laughter.

I drove home in silence, regretting that the drive there had been such a short one. I’m so glad that, despite my busy schedule, I had volunteered to drive carpool that night. Having an opportunity to have a candid talk about boys is very rare. And I must admit that the thought of my little girl growing up made my owns palms a bit sweaty.

Leigh in Wonderland

I’m late! I’m late for a very important date! No time to say hello. Goodbye! I’m late; I’m late; I’m late! – White Rabbit, Alice in Wonderland

I have no idea what Lewis Carroll’s character is supposed to represent, but it reminds me the Christmas season, which apparently now last from the day after Halloween through New Year’s.

Here we are five days into November – the stores are decorated, Christmas commercials are on television, my children are making their lists, parties are being planned and Leigh is feeling as frantic as the White Rabbit. It’s enough to make me want to pitch my pumpkins off the porch.

When I was growing up, we put our tree up the week before Christmas albeit this was more as a practicality since our wood burning stove would quickly turn it to kindling. We sang carols on Christmas morning and made (and ate) fudge all month long. Now, that’s the way to do it.

Now days it’s a frantic rush, which is such a shame. Thanksgiving, an awesome holiday – no gifts, no rushing around, just food, family and friends, and, oh, yeah, remembering what we are thankful for – gets totally overlooked.

I have already heard people say remember the reason for the season, and I will. I promise, just as soon as it gets here.

Take a trip with Brown's Guide to Georgia

My mama is going to be so proud! I made Brown’s Guide to Georgia!

You may have read the popular Georgia travel and recreation magazine founded in 1972, but, growing up, my family lived it. Each summer we marked off scenic places in our Brown’s Guide, most of which had an historical significance, ignored the restaurant recommendations in lieu of Mom’s peanut butter and jelly and a Coca-Cola, and hit the road in our Pontiac, the hot air blowing in our faces.

Road trips have come a long way since then - air conditioning, fast food restaurants, seat belts, DVD players – and so has Brown’s Guide. The magazine is now entirely online, offering an incredible resource for natives and visitors. Instead of 150 restaurant reviews per print issue, Brown’s Guide online now has 800 in Atlanta alone. Want to know where to hike, bike, canoe, shop, eat and sleep in our fair state? Check out Brown’s Guide’s 7,000 listings at their Web site http://brownsguides.com/

In addition, the site contains videos, galleries and blogs, ranging in topics from restaurants to family vacations to Georgia state parks to a young boy’s dilemma over whether he should become president or manager of Dunkin’ Donuts. By the way, the last one’s mine. Hope you and my mama will check it out! (Click here to go directly to my post on Brown's Guide)

Oops, I did it again.

Oops, I did it again. Last time I heard those words I was with my (then) 13-year-old daughter surrounded by screaming teenaged girls as I watched Britney lip sync with a snake around her neck. Who knew I would miss THAT?

Today, I would have been delighted to have been back there (with earplugs) or anywhere else for that matter, because, yes, oops, I did it again. I hit another car in the parking lot. And that scrapping, scrunching metallic sound is far worse than the squealing, ear-piercing screams of teenaged girls. Because that sound means two things: $$$$$ and the call.

What call you say? The call I blogged about this past June when I had my last fender-bender in our church parking lot. Click here to read how that went down.

So, I found myself today making the call again – the “Honey, I wrecked the car in a parking lot” call - except this time, being at work, I had an advantage, I could send an e-mail, which is exactly what I did. And he ignored it until I made - you guessed it - the call.

I fretted all day about the incident, particularly the fact that I didn’t know whose car I hit. I had left a feeble, “I’m sorry!” and my phone number under the car’s windshield. But, I couldn’t help but worry, who did I hit? How would that person take it when he left the office after a hard day’s work only to find the front bumper of his car a crumbled mess? What if it were someone I had to see often like the couple I hit at church? What if they flew into a rage and cussed me out?

After a long day of imagining every possible scenario, I decided it was time to return to the scene. I rode the elevator up with several employees, each getting off at floors along the way, all except one, that is. As we reached the top level of the parking deck, I could stand it no longer.

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked.

“Uh, Monte Carlo.”

“Okay, have a good day then.”

He looked perplexed and walked off as I saw my victim on her cell phone in a heated discussion, with a security guard and police officer standing nearby.

Oh, boy, I’m in trouble, I thought.

“I did it,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”

She waved me off with her hand, “Oh, I’m not worried about this. This is nothing; nobody was hurt; nobody was killed. I hope you didn’t think I was mad because of this. This could have easily been me hitting your car when I drive my husband’s truck. I’m closing on a house and that’s who I was talking to on the phone.”

And then the woman whose car I had crashed hugged my neck, as I blinked back tears, leaving me to think that sometimes we need to have a few fender-benders to be reminded that there are good people in the world. Perhaps, sometime, someone will hit me in a parking lot, and I will remember this day and be equally gracious. Of course, if they do, they’ll have to pay to replace my bicycle.

Time to make the donuts

"Just six more years, and I can be president,” said my son from the back seat of the truck as we drove to dinner.

“I think you have to be at least 36,” said my husband.

“35, and you have to be a U.S. Citizen and have lived in this country for 14 years,” he said. “In six more years, I’ll be 14.”

Then he looks at his older sister, “Were YOU born in this country? How long have YOU lived here?”

“No, I was born in Italy. What do you think?”

“You were both born and raised right here in this town,” I said, trying to end the argument. “Either one of you can qualify.”

But, secretly, I was proud. My son wanted to be president, without my even suggesting it. Of course, I had always dreamed one of them would. The minute after they were born, and I realized they were healthy, I began to dream for them and dream big.

“I bet he makes a lot of money,” my daughter said.

“Well, not as much as you think,” I said, never wanting my children to pursue a career based solely on money.

“Yeah, he doesn’t make money,” said my son. “People just give him money!”

“Presidents also get lots of perks,” said my husband, “cooks, cars, airplanes …”

“And a big, white house!” my daughter added.

“I’m going to be president one day,” said my son, emphatically.

At this point, I was bursting with pride. I’ve always wanted my children to become the best they can be, to reach their full potential, and president - even though if I think about it would be horrible job - is the epitome of that. He wouldn’t be the first from a small Georgia town, either, and I told him so, as I turned and faced him in the back seat.

“What you need to do first is join the school council,” I said, as he nodded, seriously. “Then you need to become mayor, then state representative, and then you go to Washington to become a …”

“Ooh! Or I could work at Dunkin’ Donuts,” he exclaimed as we past the store. “I could eat all the leftovers and bring home fresh donuts every night, cream filled with chocolate, donut holes, sprinkles with chocolate, and they pay you money, too. Yum … I love the chocolate ones.”

“So, you are either going to president or work at Dunkin’ Donuts,” said his sister, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “That’s okay, isn’t it, Mom?”

I didn’t even have to think about it because I knew the answer – I would be equally proud of either job because, ultimately, I just want my children to be healthy and happy and productive members of society. And, after all, someone’s gotta make the donuts.