Life as Leigh sees it

The smoking shoe

2012-01-30T18:55:00.000-08:00

"I smell a column," a friend said, as I frantically tried to put out my smoldering shoe.

Yes, you read that correctly. Just when I was wondering what to write about next, lo and behold, my shoe catches on fire.

It started right about the time my son ran out of the woods and said he'd been shot. Granted, it was by a paintball gun, but I was still concerned. Although since he's now an experienced player (this was his third time), I obviously wasn't concerned enough to put my feet down from the fire ring I had them propped on.

I did, however, turn and listen intently to when, where, how and, more importantly, who shot him. You see, I do keep a list. I know it's just a game, but I'm still his mama, and one day I may just give in to his pleas to join him. And when I do, revenge will be sweet. But for now, I'm gathering intelligence.

I looked in horror as he showed me his wounds - right hip and funny bone, a blow that made his arm shake, he said. I was in the midst of chastising him for not putting on more padding like I told him to when I smelled it -- burning rubber.

He was saved by the smell.

"My shoe's on fire!" I shouted, jumping up and yanking it off my foot, to the amusement of those around me. "Honey, do something!"

"It's fine. It's not on fire," my husband said, nonplussed.

"Yes, it is! It's smoking!"

"Try rubbing it in the dirt," my friend said, helpfully.

I rubbed and rubbed, and in the middle of this chaos, my son -- ever the opportunist - got right in my face and asked, "Can I get a Coke?"

"Sure, sure, whatever you want. My shoe is burning!"

"No, it's not," my husband said, which made me want to prove that it was even if I had to throw it in the fire. Instead, I grabbed a nearby bottle of water and poured it on the sole of my shoe.

"Listen to it sizzling!" I said, watching smoke rise as the fire was slowly extinguished.

"I guess it was on fire," he said. "You're right."

Actually, I made up the last part, but that's how I heard it in my head. It was then that I had a major female dilemma. Do I mourn the loss of one of my favorite tennis shoes or bask in the glory of being right? I'll let you guess which one I decided to do. I'll give you a hint: my toes may have been toasty, but there was a great big smile on my face.

Moms' mysteries of life

2012-01-22T19:28:00.000-08:00

I watched a movie during the weekend about a man who pops a pill and suddenly everything is clear to him. Life is no longer a mystery. He understands the stock market, politics and the actions he must take. Must be nice. It made me think, "What would it be it like to uncover the great mysteries that moms face every day?"

Here are some of the things that plague me on a daily basis:

Why is it that every time I close the bathroom door, someone calls my name?

And why is it when I yell to tell them where I am, they repeat it to the person who's calling on the phone?

Why is it that "Nobody" does so much mischief around the house? He tracks in mud, puts back empty cartons and leaves a mess on the floor. I'm sure "Nobody" knows the answer to this one.

What is it about bedtime on Sunday nights that makes kids remember they have a project the next day?

Furthermore, why is it that they can't remember their projects, but they can remember the exact price I paid for my purse and then they repeat it when their dad is in earshot?

Why is it that I have to ask them how to operate my phone, and the Wii, and the DVD?

Why is it kids can beg for a pet for 10 years and then forget about it in 10 minutes?

What do house plants have against me?

Why is it that coupons expire the day before I try to use them?

Why do kids tiptoe past Daddy in order to wake Mommy up?

Speaking of Daddy, why does his cooking always taste better?

And, why doesn't the fire alarm go off when he's doing the cooking?

Why don't kids mention when something's leaking?

Why is it that every sporting event is called by a different name, i.e., meet, match, game, etc.?

And, why does everybody laugh when I get it wrong?

Why do my kids always win gold fish at the fair?

Why are all my doorknobs used as hangers?

How is it that they get older, but their dad and I don't?

Why is it they don't believe us when we say as soon as they are grown, we're going to buy an RV and take turns parking in their driveways?

Why is it that as soon as you buy a case of their favorite food at the wholesale store they stop eating it?

Why is it they are smart enough to make all A's but can't operate a single appliance?

Where does all the Scotch tape go?

How did my pool table get transformed into a Lego table?

Why is it they want me to hold everything while their hands are empty and mine are full?

And, why is it that I do it?

Finally, the last question is a doozie.

Why is it that in a blink of an eye they are gone?

What DID you talk about?

2012-01-20T19:30:00.000-08:00

I was at a party the other weekend, and the women were gathered in the kitchen, as we tend to do, sharing everything from the crab dip recipe, to concerns about our children's education, to hopes and desires for the future.

During a slight pause in the conversation, we looked out at the patio where the men folk were gathered around the fire.

"I wonder what they are talking about?" one of the ladies asked.

You can bet it was none of the above. Now, am I saying that men don't talk about their hopes, their dreams and their concerns about the future? No, but they certainly don't talk about them with each other. In fact, it's sometimes hard to determine exactly what men do talk about when they are together. I secretly think it's why sports was invented.

Women, on the other hand, are far different creatures. Within a matter of minutes, we know intimate details of each other's lives.

Ironically, though men say less, they seem to remain friends longer. Don't believe me, ladies? Quit talking to your girlfriend for a week and see what happens.

You can bet she'll be at home going, "I don't know what's wrong with so and so. I think she's mad at me. She hasn't called me in a week. How dare she be mad at me after all I've done for her? Just wait until the next time she calls me to babysit ..."

You get the idea.

Men, however, can go decades without speaking to each other and then pick up the phone and go back to insulting each other and talking about sports like they never missed a beat. I've hung around waiting for my husband to get off such a phone call before. As soon as he hangs up, I ask, "Well, what did he say?"

"Not much. He's doing good."

"But what about his wife? How is she? Did he say anything about her?"

"No, didn't mention her."

"Well, what about the kids? Has their son graduated? Did their daughter get married?"

"He didn't mention it."

And, then comes the question all men dread hearing.

"Well, what DID you talk about?"

We had dinner with some friends - Jerry and Barbara - the other night, and they told the story of how they had received a Christmas card from a co-worker and his family. The card showed the couple posed with their 5-year-old son and a newborn baby.

"Jerry, you didn't tell me that they had a baby!"

"That can't be their baby. I've talked to Kurt almost every day, and he never mentioned anything about a baby," Jerry protested. "That must be the neighbor's baby."

"Jerry, why would they send out a Christmas card with the neighbor's baby?"

"Then they must have adopted a baby."

Barbara scrutinized the photo and said, "This baby looks just like everybody in the photo!"

Then she asked yet another dreaded question, "Did you FORGET to tell me they had a baby?"

"No, Kurt didn't tell me. I think they must be trying to hide the baby!" Jerry said in desperation.
Wasn't long before the conversation got back to the couple with the baby.

The wife's reaction?

"Kurt, you mean you never mentioned to them that I was pregnant? What DID you talk about?"

Forever Lazy

2012-01-15T20:20:00.000-08:00

As I write, the temperature outside is 27 degrees, and my son is mourning the fact that he is "left out in the cold."

No need to call DFACs; he's bundled up in his camouflage Snuggie -- last year's hottest "As seen on TV" item. As cozy as it may be, he calls it a "poor imitation of the Forever Lazy."

If you haven't heard of the Forever Lazy, then pat yourself on the back because it means you didn't watch much television over the holidays. If you have seen them, then you are probably laughing, and rightfully so. The Forever Lazy looks like footie pajamas with a hood, which make its wearers look something like a giant Teletubbie. My daughter, husband and I all got them for Christmas.

It was meant to be a joke after we watched the actors on the commercial frolic outside in their warm Forever Lazys. Yes, folks, they aren't just meant for the couch. The commercial even shows how "you'll be the talk of tailgate party" in your Forever Lazy. You can say that again! While Snuggies have an open back -- similar to a hospital gown --Forever Lazy has a zipped flap in the back, very convenient for "when duty calls," said the commercial.

Also very lazy.

"That is one step away from the nursing home!" I said to my husband.

Famous last words.

The next thing we know, the three of us are all zipped up and marveling at how warm and convenient they are. Well, all except my poor son. Fortunately for the rest of the world, we aren't ready to show up at the next high school football game or run down the middle of town in them. But, you just never know.

Last spring, my husband and I went to a Jimmy Buffett concert. It was an unseasonably cold March day. I guess I could have dressed appropriately for the weather, but did I mention it was a Jimmy Buffett concert?

I was freezing, so my husband passed me what I thought was a blanket and, without thinking, I tucked my arms into it, thankful for its warmth, when I heard a 20-something guy exclaim behind me, "Is that a Snuggie?"

Yep, I have worn a Snuggie at a concert. At first, I was mortified, but then realized there was something rather freeing about it. So, even though we laugh at the Forever Lazy, I realize it's only a matter of time before I'm tailgating in one.

In the meantime, perhaps I'll use my Bedazzler to make it sparkle, my Thigh-Master, so I'll look good in it, the Ped Egg for my pre-concert pedicure and my Ove-Glove to help cook the tailgate snacks.

Last year at the Buffett concert, I decided it was a good idea to karaoke in front of the camera. This year, I know I'm better off wearing my "As seen on TV" products than being one. And, if that makes me forever lazy, then so be it!

Christmas, the most wonderful time of the year - or not

2011-12-26T19:25:00.000-08:00

I want to love Christmas. I want it to be like the commercials where everything is decorated beautifully, the gifts are wrapped perfectly and everyone, down to the lowliest mouse, gets along. But the reality is that's not the way the world is.

In fact, even when Jesus was born, conditions were rough. Mary was tired and, as Imogene Herdman from the book "The Great Christmas Pageant Ever" would say, pregnant. No, not great with child, but pregnant. They were dirty and had no place to sleep, and even after their child, our child, was born, things were not perfect. Apart from their smelly, dirty surroundings, there was an even worse threat facing the newborn baby -- Herod.

Today, I think we face our own threats during this time of year, and one is (no surprise here) commercialism. I spent two hours at the local big box store earlier this week and came out with $500 worth of items and disgust for the human race. I often feel guilty for not being happier this time of year, but when I witness the worst of mankind while shopping for Christmas gifts, it makes me think, "This is not what Jesus had in mind."

Christmas is filled with pressure, pressure to find the perfect gift, pressure to buy, buy, buy, and, worst of all, the pressure to be happy. In the meantime, the world doesn't change or adjust itself for the season; it keeps turning. Loved ones still die, friends still get sick, money still runs short and our jobs are just as demanding. It's enough to make one run away to Bermuda, or, at least, dream of it.

We've had many ups and downs through the years at Christmas. Ironically, it's the less-than-perfect ones that stand out. I can remember as a child my dad cutting down a tree in the middle of my grandmother's pasture, while a nearby bull pawed the ground and eyed the back of his Levis. My sister and I warned him just as the bull charged, and the tree fell. Daddy managed to sling it into the back of the truck in the nick of time. That's a good memory, though Dad may tell you differently.

This year has been a tough one. My mother-in-law passed away suddenly after a brief illness. When I recently told someone that she died, he whispered, "Did you get along with your mother-in-law?" I couldn't help but laugh. I know they have a bad reputation, but that wasn't the case with mine. She was my staunch supporter, and I can honestly say I was her favorite daughter-in-law. I'm sure my two sister-in-laws will agree.

My mother-in-law was ahead of her time in a lot of ways. One was she had a knack for predicting what would be the hot new Christmas item and buying them in June, from Beanie babies to Nano pets. We always laughed and teased her until December rolled around and then we thanked her for her foresight.

This year, she's gone. She's now in heaven with my father-in-law, my husband's great aunt and some good friends of theirs. I imagine they are enjoying themselves, and she is getting the last laugh as I run around trying to find the latest hot item for the kids. It sure would have been a lot easier if she were here. She was always a fan of solar lights, and I heard today there is such a thing as solar-lighted Christmas wreaths. I think I will buy one in her honor and, instead of getting sucked into the rush, sit back and remember the reason for the season.

Surviving the drive-thru

2011-12-16T18:38:00.000-08:00

What do two very active kids plus two very busy working parents equal? The answer: Drive-thrus.

Despite the $200 worth of meat that I purchased recently at the wholesale food store, I inevitably find myself waiting in the drive-thru line. Why I think that's easier than cooking a pot roast, I do not know. The truth is, drive-thrus are a pain and have been since the beginning.

Yes, I remember some of our area's first drive-thru restaurants. One was a Wendy's, which later transformed into an Italian restaurant and is now a Mexican restaurant. But, back in the "Where's the Beef?" hey day, we spent a lot of time in that drive-thru. My mother never had any trouble placing our order into the loud speaker, but, for some reason, doing so made my dad break out into a cold sweat.

"I can't do it. You'll have to do it," he'd say to my mom if he were in the driver's seat. She'd lean over and yell our order, which the clerk would repeat back to her -- incorrectly. Times haven't really changed much. I can remember the one and only time my dad placed his own order. Perhaps mom was sick. I don't know. I just recall her giving him a list, and my sister and I riding to the restaurant with him.

He leaned out the window, pulled out his list and cleared his throat.

"Dog food," he said loudly. My sister and I began to giggle. "Milk, bread ..."

"Daddy, I think that's Mama's grocery list. Turn it over," my sister offered.

The other problem with drive-thrus is you feel so rushed, especially when my husband is ordering. He prefers it if we all order a number, so I try to comply.

"We'll take two number threes with Cokes to drink," he said hurriedly.

"Do you want honey mustard or barbeque sauce with that?" asked the voice through the loud speaker.

"What kind of sauce? What kind of sauce?" my husband said frantically, snapping his fingers.

"I don't want any sauce," I said.

"Just pick a sauce!" he yelled.

"What kind of sauce did you say, sir?" said the voice.

"But I don't want sauce!"

"Pick a sauce; don't confuse her!"

By this time I could have made that pot roast.

Of course, I don't blame him. Even though I know there's a real person back there, the voice seems so impersonal -- and inflexible when it comes to special orders. I pulled through a drive-thru over the weekend. It was the type in which there are two lanes to expedite ordering. The problem was the two lanes had to merge. Anyone who's ever driven on a highway knows that even on the best day, the human race stinks at merging. So, expecting hungry tired people with screaming children in the back seat to politely merge is a ridiculous idea.

At this particular restaurant, I ordered a medium milkshake and was told that they only had small or large.

"OK, we'll take the large."

"The large comes in a medium cup. Do you still want a large?"

"Why not?" I said, and then my children and I had a good laugh.

Though they say families who eat at the dinner table together, stay together, I say the families who survive drive-thrus together stay together. As long as you order the sauce.

Not your mama's art class

2011-11-30T18:54:00.000-08:00

My husband and son had gone off on a great Boy Scout adventure, and we girls had been left behind.

At first, I was very sad. Though I'm not exactly rugged, I've always enjoyed the family camp experiences that Cub Scouts offered. In large part because I figured out, it's a lot easier than being at home. Basically, you set up your tent, start a fire, plop down in your chair and watch the boys run around. Bingo, you're camping.

But, this was different. He was merging to Boy Scouts, and Mamas reminding them to brush their teeth before bed was no longer required or, rather, wanted. My daughter and I were on our own. I pouted for about 30 seconds before I realized, "Hey, wait a minute, we are on our own!"

Visions of pedicures, shopping, eating out and watching chick flicks danced through my head.

"What time do you leave?" I asked my husband.

I broke the news to my daughter and told her our itinerary.

She remained expressionless.

I, of course, took it personally. Having been 13 myself at one point, I assumed she didn't want to spend that much time with her mother.

"You can bring a friend," I said.

No change of expression.

I decided I needed to add something to the mix.

"And, we'll take an art class. Not just any old art class, an encaustic art class," I said.

When her expression didn't change, I said, "Encaustic means painting with hot wax!"

She raised an eyebrow. I had broken through!

Later, on our way to the class, she said, "I wish I could have gone camping with them."

Slightly bummed, we soon arrived. Greeting us was our art instructor, Valerie, and best of all, her daughter, Olivia, who is my daughter's age. Immediately, a smile crossed her face.

Now, I should clarify that I am no artist. I know because I've played a few humiliating games of Pictionary in my day. My daughter, on the other hand, is a natural, though she'd probably take offense at this. The truth is she practices all the time. She'll take a subject matter and draw it over and over until she perfects it, and then she moves on to another subject. I guess it's a lot like writing a first draft but more interesting to watch.

Valerie warned us that the hot plates were plugged in and, well, hot. I met Valerie a mere five months ago, and we became instant friends. She's creative, has a good sense of humor and, best of all, puts up with me. What more could I ask for in a friend?

She also has an adventurous spirit that I admire. She loves horror movies and even goes to see them by herself. I couldn't make it through the trailer of Paranormal Activity 3 at home surrounded by loved ones, yet she sits in a theater calmly munching on popcorn while watching a little girl get possessed.

"It wasn't as scary as part one and two," she said.

So, it was only fitting that the tools for our art class included not only hot wax but also razor blades and blow torches. In short, it wasn't your mama's art class. My equally adventurous and creative daughter loved it, as did I, once I figured out which side of the razor blade to use and to listen for the hiss before I clicked on the blow torch.

The end result? We have two masterpieces hanging on the wall in our kitchen. I caught my daughter running her finger over the colored wax, tracing the outline of the poppy flowers we had carved into them. The moment was soon interrupted by the return of the boys - dirty, tired and hungry. My daughter was no longer the only child, and our girls' weekend was over, yet the memory of our adventure remains etched in wax on the wall.

And, for that, I am very thankful.

AARP - not me!

2011-11-20T18:35:00.000-08:00

There are benefits to being 10 years younger than your spouse. One is his eyesight is failing, so fine lines go unnoticed. Two, despite the fact that it’s been over 20 years since you’ve graduated, his friends still say he robbed the cradle. Three, he thinks your hip pain is sexy. OK, I made this one up, but at least he isn’t repulsed by it. In fact, odds are he’ll even think it’s cute when you say, “I’m going to need my hip replaced soon.”

But, the very best part of being younger than your spouse is the discounts. Yes, I’m the proud holder of an AARP (spouse) card.

Recently, I went out to dinner with a girlfriend of mine. I must say we were a little flattered when the young waiter seemed to flirt with us. We blushed and felt quite good about ourselves; though I’m sure he was only after a big tip. Little did he know that the one leaving it would be a bit of cheapskate, and I’m not talking about my friend.

Yes, I love a good bargain. And, while I didn’t chinch on the tip (no need to get Sound Off going), I relished the opportunity to give my new card a try at the movies after dinner.

“Can you believe how that waiter flirted with us?” we laughed, basking in thoughts of how young we must look.

It was then that I ruined it.

“Do you take this?” I asked the lady behind the counter. My friend recoiled in horror when she saw what “this” was – a red and white AARP card with my name printed across the top.

“Are you trying to get a senior discount?” my friend whispered in disbelief.

She slowly slunk away while I pocketed the $5 I saved on the price of an adult admission. I felt kind of funny but proud of my sensibility. So much so I tried the card again over the weekend when I took my children. This time it was broad daylight, however – and crowded. I slipped the card to the cashier, glanced left and right, and said, “I have this.”

“You want to use the AARP card?” she said loudly over the speaker.

I looked around and quickly nodded.

“That’s only good at the concession stand.”

That was better than nothing, so I stood in line, chatting with several other moms I knew.

“Are you really using that card?” my son asked. “Doesn’t that make you old?”

“No, it makes me frugal,” I protested, but the seed had been planted.

“What can I get you?” the cashier asked. I slid the card back in my pocket and began to order.

“Mom, look at how much a Coke costs!” my son said.

This was no time to be vain. I whipped out the AARP card and asked, “Do you have any discounts with, um, this?”

“Yes, you can save on Coke and popcorn,” she said.

“I’ll take it!” I said feeling smug that I had not only saved money but also saved face as no one noticed what I had in my hand.

“Mom, look at the computer screen.”

“AARP combo” was flashing in big, bright letters.

Sheepishly, I took my refreshments and slunk off. Later that day, I bragged to my husband about the fact that I had used the card – something he’s yet to do – and saved $6.

“A small Coke and popcorn only cost $16 today, thanks to this discount card,” I bragged.

“What? You paid $16 for a small Coke and popcorn?” he said.

That’s when it hit me. That wasn’t really a deal. In fact, I had been ripped off. I had traded 10 years of my life for an $8 Coke and $8 popcorn. Apparently, being older doesn’t automatically make one wiser. Next time, I’m ordering the kids’ pack!

Lessons learned

2011-10-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

Like many moms, I try to look for teaching moments. You know, those relaxed times when you are with your children, and, amidst the fun, an opportunity to teach them a lesson presents itself. Unfortunately, as my son once said, "Mom, your lectures don't work out so well."

One of the most memorable occurred during our trip to Boone, N.C., to visit our favorite uncle, Sonny. Along the way, we spotted a woman hitchhiking, and I decided to seize the moment. I mean, really seize the moment.

"Kids," I said dramatically, "don't ever, ever hitchhike like that woman's doing."

"What's hitchhiking?" my son asked.

"It's where you stick out your thumb and try to get strangers to stop their cars to give you a ride."

"How do you stick out your thumb?"

To which, I demonstrated while warning them, "Don't you ever, ever do that!"

"Yes, ma'am," they said.

Not satisfied, I went into greater detail about how dangerous it was, further driving my point home. It wasn't long after, we arrived at Sonny's house.

"We saw a hitchhiker!" my son said first thing, terrified, yet exhilarated.

"Oh, yeah, we have those all the time up here. In fact ...," he said, pulling out a clear Mason jar, "I picked up a couple a few months back, and they gave me some moonshine!"

"What's moonshine?" my son asked, excitedly.

"Something you should never, ever drink!" I said. "I just gave them a lecture on the dangers of hitchhiking, and now you introduce them to moonshine!"

"I can't wait to tell my teacher about this!" my son exclaimed.

Another time, after my husband swerved to miss a squirrel, I gave a long lecture about how we sometimes have to hit animals when they run across the road. I told them the story about how when I was 16 and riding in the backseat of my friend's car (without my seat belt -- another lesson), she swerved to miss a dog, and we ended up in a ditch. My kids once said all my stories end up in a ditch, by the way, and this was no exception.

"So, sometimes you have to hit the animal," I repeated, when, lo and behold, a beautiful white cat ran out in front of our car.

What did I do? If you guessed yelled, "Don't hit it; don't hit it! Swerve!" at the top of my lungs, you'd be correct.

"Mom! I thought you said not to swerve for animals!"

"Well, that was a pretty cat!" I said, ruining my driver's safety lesson.

My most recent example of a good lesson gone bad happened just this past weekend while the kids and I were out for a walk. My daughter spotted something in the grass.

"Look! Are those mushrooms? They are huge!" she said. "Let's go look at them."

"No," I said, seizing the moment to teach. "They might be poisonous. You know you should never eat or touch wild mushrooms. But, you can go look at it."

"No, that's OK," said my daughter, sufficiently frightened.

I should have let it go then, but curiosity seized me, and I said, "Ah, come on. Let's have a look. It won't hurt us to look."

The closer we got, the stranger it looked, until finally I gave it a kick.

Poof! Black ashes flew into the air, and I being the sensible mom, screamed and ran and bemoaned the fact that I would now have to wash my tennis shoes.

"Mom, mom, mom," my son said, tears of laughter rolling down his face.

"I told you not to ever mess with mushrooms!" I said.

They, of course, laughed. And it was then that it occurred to me, my lessons may be unorthodox, but they can't say they didn't remember them, or that I didn't try.

First impressions

2011-10-04T18:48:00.000-07:00

First impressions "Some kids at school had the paper with your column in it, Mom," my son said.

I beamed with pride and tried to act modest and unassuming.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it was art class, and they were using it, so they wouldn't get paint on the tables."

Well, OK, I thought, I'm sure they read it while they painted their masterpieces.

Speaking of reading, he must have read my mind because it was then that he said, "Thank goodness nobody read it!"

At this point, my ego was deflated, but I couldn't help but be amused at how sincere he was.

"Did you read it?" asked his dad.

"No," he looked at him and then a little under his breath said, "I was afraid to."

Poor kid, I don't blame him. It was bad enough when my mother used to tell strangers in the grocery store things about me, I can't imagine what it would be like if she had put it in the paper!

Fortunately, he's a much better sport than I was. I can't help but hope he is, perhaps, secretly proud. And he may very well be, but I've been a mother long enough to know it's not about what I do for a living.

Kids are the great equalizers, I don't care who you are (as Larry the Cable Guy would say). Unless you drive an ice cream truck and allow unlimited free samples, it's unlikely they are impressed with your occupation. Mainly, what they want to know is "Will you be home today?" "Can we go to the movies?" "Will you play ball with me?" OK, so my son hasn't asked me that since I swung the bat at one of his pitches and the ball struck him in the eye and knocked him flat. But you get the idea. Kids really just want your time, not for you to have a bigger 401K.

Of course, we all know we have to have a healthy balance or we won't be able to afford things like the movies, baseball or a home. So, in order to give my children a better idea and greater appreciation of what I do, I drove them to the corporate office of a company I do freelance work for.

We rode the elevator all the way up to the 22nd floor, and I showed them the cubicles and the break room. They responded by yawning and asking if they could go to The Varsity.

"Look at this view," I said, taking them to the window.

"Can you see The Varsity from here?" they asked.

Suspecting that, perhaps, hunger was the issue, I took them downstairs to the cafeteria and bought them a cookie. As we exited, my son got excited for the first time that day. I eagerly turned to see what had captured his interest.

"Look, Mom! You put your trash on that conveyor belt, and it takes it away! This place is so cool!"

I explained to him how I once wrote an article about how the cafeteria recycles. I started to go into great detail about how it worked, then I saw his eyes start to glaze over.

"I tell you what, why don't we go to The Varsity and get an Orange Julius to wash down this cookie?"

A few minutes later, we were inside Atlanta's landmark restaurant. The kids couldn't wait to try on a paper hat. They marveled at the old photos on the wall and were thrilled when the man behind the counter asked, "What d'ya have? What d'ya have?"

I could tell by their faces they were much more impressed here than in the shiny corporate office building.

"Thanks, Mom, for taking us," they said, and, suddenly, that was all that mattered.

It's a happy memory -- one of many I've had since they've been born -- and I'm so fortunate to have an outlet where I can share it, even if the kids at school end up dripping paint all over it.

The snack factor

2011-09-26T10:34:00.000-07:00

As I watched my daughter make a great shot on the volleyball court, one thought ran through my mind, "Oh, no! I think it's my turn to bring snack!"

Who among us has not experienced that fear? And how is it that forgetting to bring cheese-its and juice boxes can cause such panic?

A friend of mine said her daughter called her from school recently. She became very concerned because her daughter's normally booming voice was barely decipherable.

"Mom, today wasn't our turn to provide the meal before the game, was it?" she whispered into the phone. It wasn't, but, apparently, some poor mom had forgotten, and 20 hungry girls were about to revolt.

I'm not sure how this trend of providing snacks for not only games but practices came to be. When I grew up, we didn't even have snacks at home, except perhaps the occasional popsicle. And those were made with Kool-Aid, toothpicks and an ice cube tray.

There were no prepackaged, individual cookies or crackers. No bottles of water or Gatorade. We had Tang and later Hawaiian Punch, and we didn't share with our playmates, much less the whole ball team.

Yet, today, almost every event calls for a snack. I recently watched little church league cheerleaders stand up, do one cheer, and then sit down and have a snack. Sometimes I think it defeats the exercise factor.

It seems to be an evolving phenomenon. When my oldest was young, orange slices were all that was required. She never ate them at home but was served them during halftime at the soccer game and she loved them. As time progressed, however, so did her and her teammates' taste in snacks. Soon, only Chick-fil-a sandwiches or Dominos pizza would do.

There's no denying that the sudden realization that you've forgotten snacks is one of the worst feelings in the world. It's also expensive. There've been many a time that I've had to run to the nearest convenience store or concession stand to buy 20 pieces of candy and bottles of Gatorade. Not providing it is like not providing a goody bag after a birthday party. (Who started that trend anyway?)

During my most recent bout of snack amnesia, my daughter texted my husband, who came to the rescue, showing up in the nick of time with crackers, cookies and a cooler full of ice cold Coca-Colas.

After the game, the girls turned up their cans of Coke like Mean Joe Green in the classic commercial, except this time I was the one who smiled. We weren't parental failures, after all. We hadn't let our daughter or her team down, and, best of all, we could enjoy the rest of the season and not break into cold sweats the next time we overheard one of the girls say, "I'm hungry. Who brought snacks?"

Mom's football practice

2011-09-23T04:37:00.000-07:00

“I don’t know if this blood is mine or somebody else’s,” my son said rather casually as he trotted off the football field. His coach apparently has a “No bleeding on the field policy;” otherwise, he’d still be out there.

Then I said something I don’t believe I’ve said in the ten years since he was born: “Well, I sure hope it’s your blood!”

I’ve always been amazed at the things I’ve found myself saying since I became a mother, and I can certainly add this to my list. I think I’ll put it between, “No, babies are not born by crawling out of their mothers’ mouths,” and “No, the tooth fairy does not give raises.”

Back to football. Realizing that it was, in fact, his blood, I jumped up and sprang into action. Since my husband was at our daughter’s sporting event across town, I had to balance the right amount of motherly concern versus fatherly “Get back out there and get you some!” It’s a fine line.

Somehow, despite the fact that I gave my husband three first aid kits for Father’s Day – don’t ask – I discovered I didn’t have a Band-Aid to save my life or, in this case, to bandage a superficial scratch. I went from mom to mom and waited while they dug into their purses, watching my son patiently inspect the blood that continued to drip down his arm. Finally, one sweet and prepared mom offered to run to her car to get one. She quickly reappeared with wipes, Band-Aids, and even a trash bag to throw the biohazard away. I’ve always said it takes a village.

I got his cut cleaned up, and he was soon back on the field. The coach called a water break not long afterwards, and my son came trotting over again, “My Band-aid fell off already.”

Fortunately, the wound had sealed, and he could go back to head-banging, I mean, football. I have to admit, I’m not the best football mom, but I’m learning. One thing I’ve learned is I need to sit as far away from the action as possible. This prevents me from hearing his grunts and moans and the clanking of his head getting banged, and it also prevents him from having the urge to look pitifully at me. Not that we are making him play, mind you. He loves it and wants to do it. Except perhaps when he practicing nose guard over and over and over again.

On nights like that, I try to maintain a healthy distance, though it takes just as much strength for me not to march out on the field, shake my finger at the bigger kids for hitting my boy and then give him a big hug. But, I don’t. I may not know much about football, but I was raised in the South, and I know how much it means to boys - of all ages.

So, instead, when he comes off the field tired, sore and looking a little dejected and asks me if his head is bruised and shows me his battle wounds, I say, “Football is a tough sport – and you’re a tough kid. Now, do you want to get a milkshake?”

I’m not sure if this is the best way to handle it or not. He may be my third child, but most of the time, I feel like I’m just practicing. I do know one thing, however, and that is there’s not much a good milkshake can’t cure. Thanks be to God.

Allene and me

2011-09-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

I will always remember Allene's laugh. It was a laugh that came from down deep inside of her, not quite a chuckle, not quite a chortle, but definitely infectious. Though it's been over 18 years since I worked with her at the public library, I can recall it like it was yesterday. In part because it was usually something naïve I did or said to cause it.

Like the time I got promoted to desk clerk. After spending my teen years shelving books, I was finally allowed behind the coveted front desk. Allene was working with me and, like she always did, showing me the ropes. It was late on a Thursday night, and the phone rang.

"OK, now you answer it," she said after giving me a few quick lessons.

I picked it up and answered as I was taught while she nodded approval.

"Public library," I said, and Allene winked at me. So far, so good.

"My son is coming after me! I don't know what to do!" said the quivering voice of a woman on the other end of the line. I glanced around to ask for guidance and noticed Allene had gone to the back to retrieve a book for a customer. I was on my own and felt sure I knew the best way to handle it.

"Ma'am, this is the library!" I said and slammed the phone down.

About that time, Allene came from the back, "How did it go?"

"Well ..." I began, red-faced and outraged, "the lady wanted to know what to do about her son who was coming after her, and I told her."

"What did you tell her?" Allene said, growing concerned.

"I told her, 'Ma'am, this is the library!'"

At that point, Allene's eyes widened, she clasped her hand to her mouth, and I knew I was in big trouble. Then she bowed her head, and the next thing I know her body was shaking.

Boy, had I messed up.

"Leigh, what if she were in danger, and this was the only number she had to call?" she said.

"Well, it's still the library!" I said.

At which point, Allene bowed her head and shook it left and right. Her body shook harder, and I saw tears flow down her face. I was about to be fired, and, on top of that, I had probably killed somebody. I knew I was going to be relegated to re-shelving books after laptime from here to eternity.

And then I heard it -- Allene's laugh, and, though I was embarrassed, it was music to my ears.

"Ma'am, this is the library?" Allene repeated and then got so tickled, she put her hand on my shoulder, shook silently with laughter and then walked down the hall and back, trying to gain her composure but laughing at me every time she glanced my way.

I'd like to say this was the only faux pas I made, but it wasn't. Allene was there for many of them -- at the front desk and in life. Throughout both, she managed to offer advice and laugh with me as if I were her equal, though we were 28 years apart.

One day as I worked the front desk, a lady came in to apply for a library card. I tried to take down her name, but I could not spell it. She called the letters out to me, but I couldn't form them on paper. I looked up at her face and could only see half of it. I was young and expecting my first child in a month, and something was wrong. I went to Allene for help. By this time, my left arm and fingers had gone completely numb.

Allene rushed me out back, put me in her car and drove me -- terrified, but calmed by her presence -- to the hospital. She stayed with me while I was admitted. A week and dozens of tests later, it turned out to be nothing more than a complicated migraine.

Allene would later joke that she "practically delivered my first-born."

Had my older daughter been born that day, Allene would have never said, "Ma'am, this is the library!" though she probably would have joked about it. No, Allene would have done what needed to be done, and I would have been in great hands.

Today, Allene is in God's hands. She passed away last week in her sleep after working all day at the front desk. It was a very sad day for me, and I can't imagine what her family is going through. I just know that I lost a great ally that day -- one that can't be replaced.

Allene looked after me during those years -- from giving rides to and from work to advise to company. She kept up with me even as I moved on to other things. In fact, she called the day my first column was published and left a sweet message. I'm sad that I never called her back. I hope she forgave me. But then again, perhaps, knowing all about my phone skills, she just shook her head and laughed. At least, that's how I'd like to remember her.

Man vs. Wild

2011-09-06T04:17:00.001-07:00

Usually when my family and I have an adventure, I go straight home and write about it. I hesitated on this one, however, largely because it took me a few months to find the humor in it.

You see, my husband surprised me by saying he'd like to go kayaking down the Flint River for Father's Day weekend. It had been a good 14 years since the last time we went. Back then, we used to go almost every weekend, and I remember it as being an easy, relaxing trip. I guess you could say those times have changed like the weather.

Speaking of weather, did you know that this past June the Flint River was near or below an all-time historic low level, according to a monitoring station that's been active since 1901? Neither did we. Until we tried to kayak down it with five kids and two other adults, one of whom gave up a day in his recliner, thanks to us.

"Come on, it will be fun," we told him. "All you have to do is sit in your boat and float. We'll take the half-day trip, and you can be in your recliner by noon."

Little did any of us know that nine hours later we'd be dragging our wet, grumpy, sunburned, thirsty and hungry selves out of the water, minus one kayak. The trip was a little like the movie "Deliverance," except this time the rednecks were the heroes. And, no, I don't mean us. Here's what happened:

We started out before the crack of dawn and drove to Thomaston to be ferried upstream so we could float the kayaks we brought back to our vehicle. The van driver was eerily quiet as we joked and laughed and excitedly began our journey. He dumped us and the boats out and hightailed it out before we could ask, "Where's the water?"
"Perhaps it gets deeper downstream," we said, as we hit our first rock located about a foot from where we pushed off.

No one warned us that the river's stream flow was normally five times greater than it was on this faithful day. Somehow, despite our best steering efforts, we managed to get stuck on rock after rock after rock. And, there's only one thing to do when you are -- try not to cuss, get out and drag the kayak off it. That's when we discovered that the Flint River is full of jagged rocks and deep drop-offs. We also discovered that Crocs make great dock shoes and very poor river shoes, and flip flops are equally hopeless.

Fortunately, I was in the kayak with my son, who is still young enough that he likes to prove how strong he is. God forbid the day when he outgrows that. It wasn't long before the kids grew hot and bored and tired and began asking, "Are we there yet?"
We soon pulled our boats up to the nearest flat rock, stretch out and had a great picnic.

"Surely, we are half-way," we said. Yeah, half-way to "H-E-double hockey sticks!"
"Why don't you take my kayak? You seemed to be making better headway than I am," my husband said.

So, I took my son and his friend all the food, a dry bag full of cell phones and sunscreen and pushed off. Immediately, we hit rapids, and, in the midst of it all, a bee stung me on the back. Soon thereafter our kayak flipped, emptying its contents and dragging us across sharp rocks as we clung desperately to the boat until I yelled to the boys to let it go. I managed to lose my shorts in the process, leaving me in my bathing suit and with very little dignity. For the record, my husband's version differs. He swears the water was only knee-deep. He doesn't factor in the fact he is a foot taller.

Once I passed the rapids, I got out and stumbled on the rocks, breaking my flip-flop and spirit in the process.

"I can't do this without shoes!" I screamed and threw the broken flip-flop down as hard as I could.

"Do you want my shoes, Ms. Leigh," asked my daughter's sweet friend.

"Yes, thank you," I said and snatched them before she could change her mind. I still owe her a pair of shoes.

It wasn't long before we learned that the kayak I was in had a hole in the bottom and was quickly filling up with water. My husband and daughter worked with it as the rest of us dragged our kayaks downstream. Soon, they were out of sight. My friend caught up to us and reported, "They said to go ahead without them. They are going to float back."

I felt uneasy but agreed. In the meantime, our friend with recliner dreams in his head left me and my son behind. As soon as he was out of sight, I remembered he had rescued all of our necessities that had gotten away.

For the next four hours, we made our way slowly -- without sunscreen, food or water -- until we could see the bridge and the boat ramp --our final destination --beyond it. It soon became like a mirage, taking us a good hour to reach it.

At one point I uttered these profound words of wisdom to my son: "You just can't beat Mother Nature. You can try as hard as you want, but, in the end, she's the winner."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, as he patiently dragged our kayak out of the weeds. "Can we do this again when the water's up?"

We made it to the boat ramp, and, as I tried to exit, lost my footing and flipped backwards.

We waited about 45 minutes until I saw a beautiful sight -- two canoes navigated by the most redneck-looking people I've ever seen. They were dragging an upside down kayak behind them. Inside their canoes sat my husband and daughter.

"We saw them a way back and knew they'd never make it. We ain't gonna leave nobody on the river," said the redneck boy, causing tears to fill my eyes.

I guess my son and I both learned lessons that day. He learned to appreciate Mother Nature, and I learned that one should never, ever judge a book by its cover. I could probably add that my husband and his friend learned a lesson as well -- when in doubt, opt for the recliner, especially on Father's Day.

The look

2011-08-22T18:17:00.000-07:00

I recently woke up with John Wayne and a host of questions. And, no, they weren't answered with, "Well, I tell you, partner ..."

It was Saturday morning, and my son had been up for hours watching cowboys on AMC. Thanks to Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon, Saturday morning cartoons are a thing of the past. These days at my house, it's westerns -- and questions.

"Is that what dynamite really looks like?"

"Why do they wear big hats?"

"What are corndodgers?"

And those are just a few of the ones I asked.

My son, of course, had it all figured out. He's 10 years old now, so that means he and his dad and cowboys are all starting to bond in a special way. It's the "women -- can't live with them, can't live without them" way. They think I haven't noticed, but it's all in the look.

In fact, when the Duke in "Rooster Cogburn" (and the Lady) -- the 1975 sequel to the 1969 western film "True Grit" -- expressed exasperation at Katharine Hepburn's character by saying something to the effect of, "And wait until they give them the right to vote," I saw my son give his dad that face. It's the "I-want-to-laugh-but-Mom-might-get-mad-so-I'm-just-going-to-glance-at-Dad-and-let-him-know-that-we-men-think-that-is-funny" face.

His dad recognized the look and immediately and wisely, I might add, gave him a quick shake of his head and the "No!-Don't-laugh!-I-know-it's-funny-but-don't-dare-laugh-out-loud" look.
"I saw that!" I said, which made him, yes, laugh out loud. Once he made sure I wasn't mad, that is.

"John Wayne may be able to get away with it, but you sure can't!" I told him.

Though it's a rough life, cowboy relationships probably do seem easier to a little boy.

"They either die or they get married," observed my son.

"I don't know which one is worse," said my husband, a glutton from punishment.

Then the two shot each other the "We-are-in-trouble-now-but-it's-too-funny-to-worry-about" look, to which I responded by giving them a look of my own. I'll leave the interpretation of that one to them.

Luckily for them, I have a soft spot for John Wayne and a certain 10-year-old boy. I soon found myself watching the movie and actually caring about where and when the nitroglycerin would explode. The "if" was never in question to anyone, but my son. He anxiously awaited the moment, and his enthusiasm and observations, such as "Man, cowboys get offended easily," made me happy I have a boy to watch westerns with.

When the big kaboom finally happened, I turned and gave my daughter, snuggled up next to me, a look, and then I granted her permission to change the channel to the new episode of "Cupcake Wars," followed by "Say yes to the dress."

It was then that she returned my look, and I knew just what it meant. It said, "I'm glad I'm not the only girl in the house, too."

Happy campers

2011-07-29T15:24:00.000-07:00

Sending one's little boy off to camp for a week is not for the faint of heart. But, perhaps, worse than that is unpacking his bag of clothes afterwards.

My friends and I recently sent our sons to fend for themselves in the woods. In our case, it meant they'd have to apply their own sunscreen and bug spray and change clothes without being told while they slept in air-conditioned cabins, got fed three wonderful meals a day (not to mention snacks) and were well-tended by some of the most caring counselors I've ever met.

But for 10-year-old boys and mothers who dote on them, it was roughing it.

One might think that our biggest fear would be a snake bite or perhaps them getting lost, or concern over them canoeing across the lake, but no, by and large, it was two things – identifying their toothbrush and using it and keeping their dry and wet clothes separate. If they managed to take a shower, well, that would just be a bonus.

We were fortunate enough with this camp to see daily pictures of the wildlife, I mean the kids at camp, without them realizing it. It's not spying; it's simply reassuring – or not. One thing we moms of boys noticed was that they wore the same clothes pretty much every day. In the midst of their fun, we couldn't help but see that the snacks they bought at the canteen weren't exactly what mom chooses. In one picture, my friend pointed out that the leader was clearly talking, and her son was clearly talking to mine. While I proudly observed in another photo that mine had his hand raised, I'm assuming to answer a question and not to ask if he could go to the bathroom.
Being moms, it didn't take us long to realize that we missed kissing their sweaty happy faces, so we all decided to go down for dinner mid-week. The boys greeted us with great pride and an enormous appetite. Watching mine dig into camp food made me second-guess the saying "Nobody makes it like mama does."

"What have you done this afternoon since it's been raining?" I asked.

"We've cleaned the cabin," my mom ears heard. I beamed with pride and thought, "Well, we've worried for nothing. How sweet of him to clean up for his mama."

As I walked into the cabin, tiptoeing over plastic bags that held God-knows-what, and carefully made my way to the back where his bunk was located, I said, "I thought you said you cleaned the cabin."

"No, Mom, I said we PLAYED in the cabin."

As I watched him proudly show me the tent he made on his bunk, I asked, "Where is your stuff?"

He pulled back the cover and pointed to the damp pile on the floor underneath. I could see crumpled-up letters I wrote, along with all his other earthly belongings.

"Ah, I see."

He was too proud for me to fuss at him. It wasn't long before the locker room smell made me start to cough, so I said my good-byes, got my sweaty hug and promised him Dairy Queen when he got home. I looked back as I left and saw that he and his friends were happily turning the clothes line outside into a sling shot. I couldn't help but smile.

We moms soon congregated in the parking lot to share our horror stories. It went something like this, "Did you smell that cabin?"

"Did you see that bathroom?" the other replied.

"No," I said. "I wouldn't go near the bathroom."

"Well, I did," said one mom, "and I couldn't find the special toothbrush I gave him with the suction cup, so it wouldn't fall over and get germs on it. I asked my son where it was, and he said, 'It's still in my bag. Mom, I'm at camp. I don't need to brush my teeth!'"

"Did you see the scratches and bruises on them? I'm sorry your son fell and hit his head," I said to another mother.

"Yes," she said. "He was so proud!"

"I told my son to change every day before he left. He said he did change every day – into the same thing."

"My son was so proud that he'd only worn one out of six pairs of socks that he packed," said another.

"I had to make a quick getaway," said one mom. "As I was saying good-bye, I saw giant tears wheal up in his eyes. I said, 'Son, are you crying.' He said, 'No, mom, just got something in my eye.'"

And, suddenly, so did we.

Siblings

2011-07-20T17:26:00.000-07:00

"Stop it!"

"I said stop it!"

"Mom!"

"What's going on?" I turned my head around to see what was going on in the back seat behind me as we waited in line for my daily fix of Chick-fil-A sweet tea (split with extra ice).

"He's pointing at my finger and saying, 'Finger!'" my 13-year-old daughter said, looking angrily at her 10-year-old brother.

"Oh, my gosh!" I exclaimed in mock horror. "Son, I thought I raised you better than that! How dare you?"

Of course, they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. And though finger pointing (so to speak) wasn't really a big deal, I did acknowledge that it was the little things that can sometimes drive a person mad -- especially when it comes to siblings.

I grew up with a sister four and a half years younger than I. I have to admit, I wasn't always very nice to her. I didn't want her to touch my stuff, especially a tape recorder I got one year. I remember this because, as an adult, I found a long-lost tape, and on it is my sister's voice, whispering, "This is Leigh's tape-a-ma-corder. I'm not supposed to be on it!"

I guess it was just too much for her to resist.

I also didn't want her to follow me and my friends around -- until we got bored. Then I'd call on my sister for entertainment. You see, she was a great gymnast and could do 12 back handsprings in a row, dozens of round-off back handsprings and pull-ups. She was also the fastest runner on the block. I'd have her line up against all of the neighborhood boys. She'd take off her shoes, and as soon as I said "Go!" she'd run like the wind, leaving them confused and demanding a rematch.

My sister was also very strong for her age. She'd ride me around on the back of her bike, pull me around in whatever toy I was in, and even swim underwater like a dolphin while I rode on her back. I'm sure I never thanked her for it.

And though I can recall many times complaining to my parents "she's looking at me," I was always glad to have her there. We spent many hours listening to records and singing at the top of our lungs. My sister could (and still can) do spot-on imitations of anyone -- mannerisms and all. Never did I appreciate it more than when my mom had a stroke four years ago. My sister's imitation of the little prissy nurse who was rude to us had us laughing until our sides hurt, despite how dire the situation with my mom was at the time.

She's also one of the most caring people I've ever met. Let's just say she has a lot of Mom in her (no offense, Dad). Not only does she care about people, she adores animals -- big and small. I can remember her befriending strange horses and other creatures we'd encounter as children.

Today, she's a grown woman with a family of her own. She is living a good 4,000 miles or more away in Alaska. We called each other recently just to say hello and ended up talking for two hours. My parents were concerned about the bears when she moved, but knowing my sister like I do, they have nothing to worry about. She'll have them eating out of her hands in no time.

So, I hope she'll forgive me for getting exasperated with her as a kid, 'cause the truth is I could not have asked for a better friend -- then and now. I hope my children will grow up and feel the same way about each other. Until then, I'll referee and remind them that one day, when I'm old, they'll be happy to have each other. Who better to complain about their crazy mom to?

What not to say ...

2011-06-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

I heard on the radio recently a list of things not to say to women. While some of them were appropriate, such as "Where did you get that idea, your mother?" the majority, I thought, were, well, more than likely written by men. Therefore, my first reaction was, I can do better than that. So in light of that, here's my list ...

When your wife asks you "How'd you like the new dish I made for dinner?" don't reply, "It was different." She'll take that to mean "horrible" and you'll be eating peanut butter and jelly from here to eternity.

When your wife asks, "How do I look?" don't reply with a "fine." Trust me, she'll interpret that as (A) you didn't look or (B) she looks bad, but you're afraid to tell her. Either way, she'll go change.

When it's Mother's Day --even if you don't have kids --never, ever tell your wife, "You're not my mother."

Speaking of mothers, never tell your wife, "That's not how Mama did it, made it, fixed it, etc." Just don't.

If your wife is sick, never tiptoe into the bedroom and tell her you have a problem, all of the forks are dirty. Just ask my mama.

Never ask your wife why she's not as (fill in the blank) as so-and-so's wife. No matter what the fill in the blank is.

Never ask your stay-at-home wife and mother of a toddler and infant what she's done all day. Trust me, she'll take it wrong, and you wouldn't believe her if she told you.

Never try to tell your wife that traveling for work is work. Believe me, no matter what section of town you have to stay in, it will sound like heaven to her.

Never criticize your wife's ironing.

Never ask, "What's the deal with all the clothes on the floor?" Chances are they are yours.

Never tell your wife she is being too sensitive, or you'll make her, yes, you guessed it, sensitive.

Never ask your wife if her purse is new. She'll immediately be defensive because we all know that question does not lead to a compliment.

Never ask your wife why she hasn't taken out the garbage.

Never ask your wife if she's bought a present for your mom yet.

When your wife comes home from having her hair done, never (A) say nothing or (B) ask what happened or (C) tell her it looks the same. "It looks good," is the only safe answer here, even if her hair is purple.

Never tell your wife she doesn't know what she is talking about, even if she doesn't know what she is talking about.

Never tell your wife she shouldn't feel a certain way. Just say you understand.

Never suggest going to Hooters for your anniversary, especially if she's just had a baby and the only clothes she can fit into are overalls. Trust me on this.

If she says she's going on a Girl's Night Out, never ask, "Again?" Tell her to have fun. You can thank me for it later.

And most of all, never accuse her of being interested in someone else. She loves you, even if you don't follow all of the above.

Speaking of which, if you do follow all of the above, she's going to wonder what you're up to. And when she does, don't tell her she's being unreasonable! Instead, just say, "I love you, too."

Les toilettes

2011-06-20T09:52:00.000-07:00

There's a universal part of women and road trips, and you can probably guess what it is. Yes, it's, as the French say, les toilettes. I used to think they called it "Les salle des bains," until I asked for that a few times on my recent trip to France and learned that it meant, literally, "A place to take a bath." Big difference. Well, in most cases, that is ...

But back to the toilet issue. Women need them, and we need them often, and we need them to smell like roses. I don't know why God made us this way; he just did. As a child, I remember my dad hating to stop, as he put it, "every 15 minutes," though I'm sure it was more like 30 in reality.

My husband is pretty good about stopping, though inevitably he does it at some of the worst-looking places on the planet. I think it's a passive-aggressive way of discouraging me from asking, though I must admit I'm picky, and there have been times when we've pulled up and I've blatantly refused. After all, a girl has to have her standards.

This leads to some driving around, and, after a few tries, I'll find an acceptable place. When I return, he'll ask, "Well, how was it?" Though I realize he's joking, I always end up giving him a rating and some critique of the place. You know, areas they could improve upon and so forth.

After traveling to France, I realized that, as Dorothy says, "There's no place like home," especially when it comes to bathrooms. One thing we take for granted is -- clean or not -- in the U.S., they are bountiful. Trust me, there are more bathrooms in the stretch of road between here and Statesboro than there are in most of Paris.

Don't get me wrong, our tour of the country was incredible. We saw Notre Dame, Arc d' triomphe, the Louvre, the Mediterranean coast, Avignon, Arles, Monaco, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower, but the tricky part of our whirlwind trip, which included 12-16 hour days, was locating a decent powder room. I traveled with a group of women, and we soon bonded over this common issue. Believe me, when we asked each other "Well, how was it?" we meant it!

Soon, if we discovered a place, we'd quickly tell the others, and give them a few tips, as foreign toilettes are not like ours.

"You have to pay for this one," we'd say, or "Just FYI, this one has a male attendant inside the restroom," or "OK, they are in the back of the restaurant, but don't look to your right while you're waiting because the men's urinal has saloon-type doors," or "Save your receipt and use the code to get into this one, but there's no toilet seat (common in most of Paris, I learned)."

But perhaps the most bizarre bit of advice came in Les Baux, a wonderful, quaint place in the Provence area of France. My friend, Staci, and I went to use the bathrooms, which were unusually easy to locate. Fortunately, the rest of our group was there and were coming down the stairs when we arrived.

"There's a trick to this one," they said.

By this time, I'd been in the country four days and felt that I had seen everything, so I wasn't too worried.

"OK, what's that?"

"Well, you have to push the button to get in, and then once you get in, push the button, and the door will lock, the light will come on and the lid will lower."

"OK, I think I can handle that."

"But that's not the tricky part. The tricky part is that when you get out, once you close the door, it automatically locks and showers the place down."

Well, that was different, very different, but seemed relatively easy enough.

"OK, got it!" my friend and I said.

Off went our companions, and I ran up to push the red button. First of all, a red button never stands for anything good. Red equals panic and that was soon the case. I entered the first small silver stall and gave it a push. Immediately, the light went out, and I found myself standing in pitch-black darkness.

"Staci!" I cried and hurriedly opened it back up.

"Why don't I watch the kids, and you go first?" I asked like the good, considerate friend I am.

Staci, whom I learned remains calm through any situation, had no problem doing so.

She emerged with a smile on her face, and, as she exited, I grabbed the door, and quickly went in. It was seconds away from closing when she yelled, "Wait, Leigh! Don't let it close! If it shuts, it will shower on you!"

I stopped it in the nick of time. Flustered, I went out, closed it and heard the downpour of what sounded like Niagara Falls. Once it had finished its car wash-like cycle, I went back in and pushed the button. No problems there. When I tried to exit, however, I couldn't get the door open and soon found myself in an all-out panic: "STACI! STACI! STACI! I CAN'T GET OUT!"

"Push the red button!" she yelled.

I did and, of course, survived.

Now, nine days and approximately 40 bathrooms later, I'm home, and I'm grateful.

My husband should be, too, because something tells me when he stops at some roadside dump and asks, "Well, how was it?" my reply -- as long as my clothes are dry and my hair's not dripping wet -- will be, "Absolutely perfect."

Hey, kids, watch this!

2011-06-04T17:59:00.000-07:00

Ever notice how the older your kids get, the harder they are to impress?

When my kids were younger, they thought I was magic. I'd simply walk up to the automatic door of the grocery store, wave my hand and say, "Abracadabra!" and it would open. If I wanted money, I drove to the ATM, punched in a few numbers, and -- presto -- money for McDonald's would magically appear. In the kitchen, they were in awe of me. I could take a cup of flour, add a dash of food coloring and a pinch of cream of tartar, and -- wham -- playdough. And if they were thirsty, I'd sprinkle a little fairy dust into a jug, add water and sugar, and -- oh, yeah -- it's Kool-Aid time.

Sigh ... those were the wonder years.

Nowadays, I'm lucky if they even go to the grocery store with me (though I'd never thought I'd hear myself say that) and $10 from the ATM doesn't dazzle them much. In fact, it no longer buys us lunch. They haven't touched playdough, homemade or store bought, in years, and after their first sip of Coke, Kool-Aid was no longer their drink of choice. Somehow, between the ages of 6 and 13, I had lost my magic.

Today, my jokes aren't quite as funny (well, they are, but they won't admit it). My daughter can almost beat me in tennis, and my son has realized that I throw like a girl. My job makes them roll their eyes, and my cooking ... well, let's just say I raised them to know better than complain about that.

All this to say, when I see an opportunity to show off for them, it's carpe diem. We spent Memorial Day on the lake and such an opportunity presented itself in the form of water skis. I grew up skiing, though unbeknownst to them, I'm not really the best. I never learned to slalom, much less do the tricks my older cousins could. Mainly, I would just hang on, hold my breath and cross the wake occasionally until my legs gave out.

As an adult, not much has changed, except for the fact that my kids were watching. Forget the long haul, I quickly realized I was good for a short burst, so I might as well give it all that I had. I waved and crossed the wake repeatedly, hanging on by one hand, bounding over the waves and ignoring the water in my contact lenses. In the boat, I could see my kids excitedly waving and pointing.

As I neatly let go of the rope and slide into the water near the dock, the kids cheered and bragged. I stayed in the water to swim a little longer, which delighted them and prolonged the inevitable for me -- getting out. My legs were so tired from exertion, I knew they would quiver the minute I hit dry land. Eventually, they went up to the cabin, and I unceremoniously crawled out, feeling happy and satisfied that I had managed to impress them once again. I fell asleep not long after reaching the cabin.

The next day, I woke up and realized I could not move my lower half without agony. My back was killing me, and the kids were hungry. Determined not to complain, I limped over to the stove, and after standing for a while, I couldn't help but mumble about it being sore.

"What's it sore from?" my daughter asked.

"Skiing," I said, surprised she had to ask.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you skied," she said and then let out a short laugh. It could have been misinterpreted, but I knew what it meant. My back may have been killing me, but I had regained just a little bit of magic that day, and to the parent of a teen and tween, it was worth it.

Now, if I can just use my magic wand to find the muscle relaxers.

The big, comfy couch

2011-05-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

When my husband and I were newlyweds, we lived across the street from a very nice family with four boys. The matriarch was a great mom, neighbor and friend, but there was one thing that bothered me about her — her couch.

It was the rattiest thing I’d ever seen. OK, not ever, but still pretty unsightly. We, on the other hand, had just purchased a beautiful white leather couch. Whenever I’d go visit, I would shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Why don’t they buy new furniture?”

Fifteen years later, as I sat on my faded, cracked, now off-white couch with children of my own, I realized she had four good reasons not to.

Looking back on it, my parents were the same way. We had an orange, brown, yellow and black plaid couch as long as I can remember. It’s a constant in all our family pictures. In fact, it wasn’t until my sister and I moved out that they got a new one.

Of course, there are other extremes, my grandmother kept plastic on hers for the longest time. I grew up living in fear of that couch and thought that eating on it was a mortal sin.

As for my family, we enjoyed our pretty white couch with built-in recliners on each end until the day the recliners would no longer go down, and pillows couldn’t hide the tears in the leather. The kids aren’t quite grown, but it was time for a new one. I just had to talk my husband into it.

I began by giving him a coupon for a recliner for Christmas. He opened it and looked a little disgusted.

“What?” I asked.

“You never bought me the recliner that you promised me last year or the year before.”

I had apparently given him a coupon for furniture for the past several years.

“You have to go sit in it,” I said.

He looked disgusted again.

So, to make things easier for me — I mean him — I scoped out some that had potential. My husband shops in the big and tall section and needed a couch that matched. My requests for extra-long recliners got some strange looks from sales people. It might have something to do with the fact that I’m 5 feet, 2 inches.

After stretching myself as far as I could go, I narrowed it down to a few choices and managed over a recent weekend to lure him into the store. He tried a few, but each lacked the key factor that he was looking for.

As we marched into our final store, he realized what it was and declared, “I want something with power!”

I snorted and asked, “How hard is it to pull a handle?”

But the salesman nodded in complete understanding. Perhaps it was a man thing, I thought.

That was before I sat in one.

Today, I’m proud and slightly ashamed to say we’re the owners of not one, but two couches with built-in power recliners. Despite my earlier prejudice, I do most of my work — thanks to my laptop — after pushing that magic button to just the right position. The downside of finding the right position, however, is inevitably someone will need something. I find myself saying, “Oh, come on! I just pushed the button.”

To which my daughter responded that an eject button might be in order.

As for our old couch, it was a bittersweet day when the truck came to take it away. My husband and I stood at the kitchen window and watched it break in half as the truck picked it up and dropped it with a bang into the back.

It may have been ratty and without power, but on that couch, I snuggled with babies, nursed sick little ones, helped my children with their elementary school homework, scolded them for stray ink marks and laughed at many an episode of “Seinfeld.”

I miss it already. Now, will someone please bring me a glass of water? I just pushed the button.

Boys will be boys

2011-05-07T05:52:00.000-07:00

My boy has turned 10, and you’d think that by now I’d understand him a little better. But, the truth is, little boys continue to amaze me.

The older my son gets, the more I realize my husband really can’t help it. Men and boys are different animals. And, apart from the mess, it’s not that bad — particularly when it comes to planning birthday parties.

When my daughters were young, we spent hours planning unique and beautiful ways to celebrate their big day. Every item was coordinated, from the balloons to the cake to the party favors to the menu. For girl parties, all must be perfect, a trend that continues until the big wedding day. In addition, girls want to invite everyone because they don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I must say, when my 13-year-old daughter watched the royal wedding and announced she didn’t want that many people at hers, I breathed a big sigh of relief. That was right before I asked her, “Can I have that in writing?”

Back to the boy. No kid should turn 10 without a big celebration, and the girl in me was determined to make this one the best one yet. After much stress (on my part) over where to have it — gymnastic center, park, rock climbing facility, laser tag, bowling alley — we decided home parties were best, especially because all the aforementioned places were booked. (Perhaps, someone had called ahead and warned them.)

We agreed that as long as I had my valium, a spend-the-night party with a small group would work (I’m teasing about the valium, unfortunately).

“What do you want your theme to be?”

He thought for about half a second and replied, “War,” his theme for the past 5 out 10 birthdays.

Armed (pun intended) with my theme, I set off to buy decorations. As I perused aisle after aisle of cute party goods in search of camo plates and napkins, I couldn’t help but think, “Thank heaven I have my girls!”

Finally, I discovered a surprisingly good selection of items — banners, dog tags (a big hit), little parachute men and even party invitations featuring a big Army tank on it. I was so excited that when I ran into a friend, I said, “Look, what I found! Isn’t this great!”

She looked down at the invitations and feigned a smile, “Uh huh.”

It was then I remembered she had two adorable little girls and no boys. No wonder she looked so horrified. I was the same way before I had my son. Guns, even toy ones, scared me so badly. I even ran a boy out of the yard once for having one that was too realistic.

I’ve come a long way. Not only did my son have a full on Nerf war for his birthday, we allowed the boys to shoot paintballs (highly supervised) into a wheelbarrow. In fact, when my husband asked, “Leigh, do you want to shoot?” I replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”

The party ended up being a huge success. I’d like to think it had something to do with the little touches that I made — the camo banners I artfully hung, the strategically-placed green and black balloons, and the cookie cake topped with little green Army men, complete with a soldier holding a shovel next to the indention I had made with my thumb. But, ultimately, I think it had more to do with my ability to stay out of the way, and, on his special day, to let boys be boys.

Remember when?

2011-04-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

I just found a photo of me from my 9th birthday. I had forgotten the bowl haircut my mama used to give me (because I detested brushing my hair), but I remember the party very well.

I have a selective memory, it seems. Don’t ask me to recall what I had for breakfast or where I put my keys or the name of the lady I just met five minutes ago, but I can tell you what I wore on just about any given day, details of conversations from childhood and every bit of juicy gossip I’ve ever heard.

I also have a knack for memorizing things and then immediately forgetting them. In fact, this is what got me through college. Memorize what I need to know, take the test and then hit the delete button. It may have gotten me an A in history, but it hasn’t helped me win many trivia contests.

Then there are things I guess one never forgets. And one is this birthday party. It rained. I know this because my birthday is near the end of February, and it has rained almost every year since the Sunday I was born.

All the neighborhood kids were over. The thing with neighborhood kids is you don’t always like them, but back in my day, we were sent outside and had no choice but to play with somebody. I’m sure my mom was trying desperately to keep us entertained on this rainy day. I distinctly remember her saying, “I know! We’ll have a contest. Whoever draws a picture that most closely resembles Leigh wins!”

The excitement was in the air, “Can I draw, Mama?”

“No, Leigh, it’s a picture of you. You can’t draw.”

I don’t need to check with Mom to know I probably crossed my arms, stuck out my lip and stomped my foot. I don’t need to check with her because, 31 years later, I’ve been known to do the very same thing.

My neighbors took the task seriously and began drawing, bearing down hard with their pencils and crayons.

“Turn sideways, so I can get your profile, Leigh,” said the boy next door.

I hesitated. Well, maybe being a model wasn’t so bad.

“Smile,” said the girl from across the street. I grinned and held it while they furiously scribbled, glancing up now and then at me to make sure they got it just right.

I began to eagerly anticipate the masterpieces they would produce.

One friend held hers at arm’s length comparing it to the real thing.

“Perfect!” she declared. “This looks exactly like you.”

I was about to burst with delight and curiosity.

“Can I see now?” I asked.

“Wait, Leigh, you go in the other room while I judge the winner,” Mom said.

I skipped away and waited and waited and waited.

“Mom! Are you done yet?” I shouted.

Little did I know, my mom was undergoing her own dilemma. Ultimately, she made her decision.

“OK, Leigh, you can come back in now. We have a winner!” she said with a hint of false cheerfulness in her tone.

I ran in and took one look at the pitiful green stick figure with distorted facial features and huge feet and hands and cried, “That’s not what I look like!”

I quickly grabbed the other pictures — Mom really had chosen the best one — making for a very bruised 9-year-old ego. My antics soon offended my poor guest artists, and it wasn’t long before several of them were in tears. About that time, I was taken into the other room and given a stern talking to about manners.

“This is the worst birthday ever!” I thought, knowing better than to say it out loud, and, perhaps it was, but the funny thing is, when I look at the photo I can’t help but remember it and smile.

So, as I sit and fret about my son’s upcoming birthday party, striving, as we mothers do, to make it the best one yet, I realize that sometimes the happiest days don’t lead to the fondest memories. And if it rains and we have to (God forbid) have his party indoors, I know just the contest we can have —it’s called “Draw Leigh.”

And this time I’ll be the judge!

Coach and Biscuit

2011-04-11T04:13:00.000-07:00

“Hey, Biscuit!”

My son grins and heads to the door of his elementary school, pretending to ignore the greeting of the man in the funny hat opening the door for him. I’m not sure why he plays it cool because I happen to know he relishes it.

“I’m one of the few at school with a permanent nickname,” my son told me once. One thing I’ve learned about nicknames is you never forget the person who gave it to you; and my son, like so many other students and parents, for that matter, will never forget Coach.

Some folks may see him as simply an elementary school P.E. teacher, but those who know him, know better. Coach is an unsung hero. Each morning, my husband or I drag ourselves out of bed and sleepily drop off our son. No matter how grumpy or tired we feel, once we’ve seen Coach, we drive away smiling. And, trust me, it takes a rare gift to make me smile that early in the morning. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he’s often in full costume — just because it’s a Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday — you get the idea.

Coach is usually joined by his partner-in-crime, a fantastic male chorus teacher who somehow manages to be one of the kids yet maintains discipline in the classroom — when he and Coach aren’t riding up and down the halls on big wheels, that is.

Each morning, as Coach opens the car door, he always has something positive to say to everyone inside. And, for the poochies who ride to school, he carries a pocket full of doggie treats.

Inside the school, Coach is a lot like the Fonz. He enters the cafeteria, and the kids all yell “Coach!” and frantically wave, while the lunchroom monitors roll their eyes in mock exasperation because they have just gotten the kids quiet. Coach will then make his rounds, giving high-fives, calling kids by the special names he has given each one, asking them how their school work is going, and making sure they stay out of trouble — something the kids strive to do because, believe me, no one wants to disappoint him.

On special occasions, he’ll play music in the lunchroom and has been known to pull kids up to dance, including — to their embarrassment — certain visiting moms. Coach coaxes even the shyest kids to participate in karaoke, leading by example (he does a great Johnny Cash). The amazing thing to me is that he’s not like this just now and then. His enthusiasm remains the same day in, day out, and I’ve known him for almost 10 years.

There are several Coach-related events that the kids look forward to each year, and a big one is track.

Each day, my son ran a little farther and a little harder in hopes of getting picked for the team. We found out last Friday that he did. At least, he thinks he did. He said Coach also takes a big group of kids who don’t make it, just to watch. Either way, my son is happy to be a part of it because as he said, “Coach is not about the winning; he’s about the trying.”

I think that says it all.

I have a good day every now and then

2011-03-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

“This is a good day,” declared my son.

I had spent the entire morning at the doctor’s office, being shuffled from one freezing cold exam room to another, forced to repeat one test because apparently the machine no longer worked. I was poked, prodded and walked in on while changing. Somehow that was the worst (even though it was only the nurse). It’s probably fortunate that human modesty is the last to go.

Don’t worry; I’m fine, and it’s a good thing. I’ve always feared something would happen to me, and I’d have to go the hospital, and my sweet church friends would come over to help out and say those dreaded words: “Wow, she’s a slob, bless her heart!”

I’m not the only woman who feels this way, by the way. I talked to a friend who said their smoke alarm went off, and as the fire department arrived, all she could think was, “Boy, I hope they don’t see how dirty my house is.”

I digress, but, in short, it had not been a good day.

But to my 9-year-old son, it was a great day. Instead of being at work, his mama picked him up from school, parking the truck and getting out to surprise him. Now, to be fair, there is a very good reason he prefers my picking him up over his daddy. It’s called Dairy Queen, which is exactly where I suggested we go the minute he climbed into the cab.

I let him talk me into a medium chocolate shake because “you know how little the smalls are, Mom.” When I saw the size of the medium, I knew I had been conned, but he proved to be worth it.

When we got home, he pulled out his folder and revealed, to both our delight, a week’s worth of A’s. Since he didn’t have much homework, he turned on Netflix and discovered an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie that wasn’t rated R. I gotta tell you, the boy was practically in heaven at this point.

After that, we went to his baseball game. Having recently discovered his missing cup (don’t ask), he played catcher, and what a great job he did. And when he wasn’t catching, he was at bat and getting hits. At one point, I was so excited, I yelled, “Boy, oh, boy!” I have no idea where that came from. Too much “Leave it to Beaver” as a kid, perhaps.

But the piece de resistance was when my son took the pitcher’s mound for the very first time. He practiced turning sideways, kicking his leg up and bringing on the heat. After a bit of coaching from an awesome umpire, he was ready for his first pitch. Boom! It was low and right across the plate. The batter swung and, thanks to the magic of Little League, hit an infield ball that rolled past short stop, past the left fielder and to the fence.

I doubt I yelled out anything from “Leave it to Beaver” at that moment.

But, standing on the mound with a big wad of chewing gum in his cheek, my son seemed cool under pressure. He proceeded to strike out the next boy and then the next. The opposing team was bent on not swinging, hoping for a walk. They got one — only one. My son struck out the next boy at bat, and suddenly, it was our turn again. The score was 6-12, and my husband had hopes that they’d come back and win, but to me we already had. We lost, but it was the best Little League game I’ve ever seen.

Afterwards, the coach presented my son with the game ball. Nothing like receiving a reward for something you’ve earned. We wrote his stats on the ball, along with the date.

As I tucked in my sweaty son (it was too late for a needed bath), he grinned, gave me a hug, and said, “I knew this was going to be a good day.”

And, for that moment, I felt what it was like to be a 9-year-old boy who just played his best ballgame ever.

And then I realized, as the mother of one, the feeling I had was even better.

On being stubborn

2011-03-06T14:17:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading a fascinating memoir called "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" by Amy Chua. In it, she's determined -- a positive spin on the word stubborn -- to be what she calls a "Chinese mother."

This means her children will enjoy no sleepovers, no play dates and no excuse for coming in second place. They are expected to become musical prodigies, practicing hours on end.

Though it may sound to our spoiled society ears like "Mommy Dearest," Chua's heart is in the right place, and she truly believes her way is best for her children. It seems to work until Chua quickly learns her younger daughter shares the same stubborn streak.

I can relate to that relationship. My dad was determined, too, when he was raising me. Oh, not to make me any kind of superstar -- just to get me to do things like say "please" and "thank you." Sounds simple enough, I know, but trust me, it was a lot harder than you think. I remember.

One particular time stands out. I was 4 years old and we were on our way to Jacksonville, Fla., to visit my dad's friend, Andy. I loved Andy and his wife and always looked forward to this trip, in part because each morning I'd wake up to see tiny little frogs sticking to the sliding glass door. Hey, I was 4!

It had been a long drive. I can remember the hot air blowing in the open windows of our green Pontiac, with its headliner flapping annoyingly in the wind. Daddy didn't believe in stopping, which meant we knew better than to drink more than a sip of water. So, by the time we arrived, I was hot, a little grumpy and very, very thirsty.

Andy was still at work at the sporting goods store he owned, so we stopped there first. Kindly and mild-mannered, he greeted us and gave us a quick tour of his store, and, to my delight, pulled out a quarter, dropped it into an old-fashioned Coca-Cola machine, and out plunked an 8 oz. ice-cold bottle of sheer heaven.

My mouth watered, and I reached out to grab it at the same time my dad said, "Tell Andy thank you, Leigh."

For some reason unbeknownst to me, instead of simply saying "thank you" and drinking a long refreshing gulp of Coke, like something you'd see in a commercial, I shook my head and said, "No."

"Leigh, he bought you a Coke. Tell him thank you."

Again, I shook my head.

"It's OK," Andy insisted. "She doesn't have to."

"Yes, she does," said my dad, and then he drew a line in the sand with his next words: "We are going to sit here all day until you say thank you."

My dad and I settled in for a head-to-head battle. He glared at me, and I glared at him. And we waited for what seemed like an eternity to all parties involved. I can't imagine what it was like for my dad, a 200 lb. world-champion weightlifter, to have to take on a 45 lb. sassy blonde, but here we were.

The clock on the wall ticked. Andy pulled at his collar uncomfortably. Sweat beaded off our foreheads. Ultimately, I caught a glimpse of the bottle out of the corner of my eye, and I broke.

"Thank you," I said. Everyone sighed with relief. It was probably the best tasting Coke I've ever had, though if it hadn't been for sheer thirst, we may still be there. Later, Andy told my dad that we were two of the most stubborn people he'd ever seen in his life.

I love this story because it's so true. As time passed, I learned stubbornness wasn't all bad. Stubborn is what gets a person from homelessness to success, as in the movie "Pursuit of Happyness." Stubbornness is what pushes a single mom to work during the day and stay up late into the night to study so she can get off welfare; stubbornness is what makes a person get out of bed and continue to live after an unspeakable tragedy has taken place. I marvel at it.

Of course, there's always a flip side. Stubborn people learn most things the hard way (of course, how can anyone tell them differently?). My dad used to tell me there was an easy way and a hard way, and I could choose. I had no idea what he meant. I saw my way. To me, that was it.

I'd like to think that now I'm a little more open and less stubborn. But I'm probably not. Recently, my family went hiking over some rather treacherous rocks, and as I followed my husband, he tried to helpfully show me where to place my feet.

I responded by saying, "Sometimes I want to make my own steps."

And, right or wrong, that's what humans have to do, though it may mean falling down and getting hurt. And when you do, hopefully, there's someone who loves you standing by with a cold Coke. Just don't forget to say thank you.

We love Lucy

2011-02-26T14:48:00.000-08:00

A girlfriend of mine recently complained about the high cost of taking her new puppy to the veterinarian.

"That's why we see a country doctor who charges us a flat rate for shots -- you know, ever since the Lucy incident," I said.

"The Lucy incident?" she asked.

Lucy was our beloved black Labrador Retriever. You see, at the time, we weren't as savvy as we are now. Today, we take advantage of the discounted rabies shots that are offered around the county. When we got a new lab for Christmas, we shopped around for an inexpensive vet, stopping short of buying the shots and administering them ourselves as a friend of mine said she did.

Does it mean our pooch is less pampered or we love him less? Not hardly. It just means that I will never again have to call my husband and whisper into the phone, "Honey, can you please bring me $350, so the vet will release Lucy?"

His reply? "Tell them to keep her!"

Taking Lucy to the vet was never something I relished. She had a way of wiggling her thick neck out of the tightest leash, and once she did, she bolted as if her life depended on it. No calling, begging, bribing or getting in the car and threatening to leave could coax her back. The kids used to think chasing her was the answer. Lucy enjoyed this game very much. She'd allow them to get almost within arm's reach, and then she'd run again.

The day of the incident, I decided to take her and our cat in one fell swoop, a feat hard enough by oneself, plain insane to try to do with three young children. By the time I unbuckled the kids' car seats, and took out the cat, who was hissing and rocking in her carrier, Lucy had slipped out of her collar and was on the run -- straight down the hill into the parking lot below toward some poor terrified man.

"Don't worry! She's sweet!" I screamed down to him.

Not taking my word for it, he decided to run. My kids gave chase, and I tossed the cat carrier aside to pursue them all.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately -- we caught her, put her leash on, dragged her up the hill and got her inside.

"What can we help you with today?" asked the veterinarian.

"Oh, we are just here to get the animals' rabies shots," I said.

"What about a check-up? It's very important that they have their regular check-up. You want to be able to detect any signs of illness early," she said.

"Illness? Lucy's sick?" all three children cried in unison.

"No, she's fine. It's just a check-up!" I said to the kids, beginning to feel a little concerned.

"Hmmm ..." said the vet as she examined our dog. "Have you had her thyroid checked?"

"Um, her thyroid?"

"Yes, it's very common for labs to have problems with their thyroid, especially labs who are overweight like Lucy."

"Oh, I'm sure it's fine."

"I need to tell you that it's a very serious problem, and, if it goes untreated, it could shorten her life span considerably," said the vet.

"Shorten her life span? You mean die? We don't want Lucy to die, Mom! Do the thyroid test, please!" the kids implored, looking at me with big, scared eyes.

"OK, do the test," I said.

"And, I think we need to get her on some diet dog food, too," the vet said. "That is, if you want to keep her around a little longer."

What could I say?

"Sure, we'll take the diet dog food."

The vet continued to make suggestions and the next thing I know I'm calling my husband asking him to take out a loan.

"Diet dog food? Why not just feed her less?" he said.

He had a point.

"You need to get an itemized bill," he said.

I requested one, and as I looked over it, I saw something that I couldn't help but laugh about. At the end of the long list of charges were the words:

Anal glands expressed --complimentary.

That pretty much summed up how I felt.

To add insult to injury, a few weeks later, when I returned home from work one day, my husband said, with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Well, you'll be happy to know that the vet called, and Lucy's thyroid is just fine."

The good news is Lucy lived a nice long life, reaching the age of 13. We fed her table scraps and found her pleasingly plump size made her much easier to catch when she playfully ran away. And she never had to return to the vet again.

Big, fat birthday

2011-02-19T05:40:00.000-08:00

I have big, fat round birthday coming up. My friends love it. You see, there are those who have already past this milestone and feel my time is long overdue. I understand that feeling.

I have a sister who is 4 years younger. I remember once I thought she was turning 30, and she said, "Oh, God, no. I'm not THAT old." I made sure that, the following year, when she did turn 30 that I called her, and do you know what I said?

I said it's about (bleep) time!

That's just part of being a big sister. It's universal. When my good friend, Dee, turned 40, her older sister called her and said, "Welcome to my box!"

"What?" Dee said.

"My box! Now when you are filling out questionnaires, you have to check the 40-50 box!" said her sister giddily.

I imagine I will get an equally giddy welcome wagon call from Dee on my birthday as well.

Aging (man, I hate to use that word) is a funny thing. If it weren't for the fact that my children can almost look me directly in the eye, I don't think I would notice. Well, except for the pain in my hip ...

My dad once said that he feels just like he did when he was in his early 40s until he looks in the mirror and sees how white his hair is. Of course, I'm sure I contributed to many of those gray hairs.

The truth is, I really don't mind turning 40 as long as I don't have to run a half-marathon. While I admire the many, many, many women who do this at this age, I don't wanna. I didn't want to at 20, and I don't want to now.

In fact, I even asked Dee if she thought I had to in order to get into the 40 bracket.

"Nah, you'll still be 40 anyway," she said giggling with pleasure at the thought.

So, in lieu of running, she and I are going to try ziplinning. You can do this in Whitesburg, you know?

My other goals are a little less physical:

Reading more -- I joined a book club six months ago. That was the first step. Now if I would only start reading the books.

Use cruise control -- I don't really have a burning desire to do this, but since my husband can't believe I've never used it, I will give it a try. Plus it might cut down on speeding tickets.

Stay up-to-date on current events -- If they would quit changing everyday, I could do this one.

Above all, I vow to dwell less on age. A friend of mine said 39 really is worse than 40 because of the dread factor, and I believe her. After all, age is just a number. That is until you're filling out questionnaires and have to check the 40-50 box!

Yes or no: a mom's dilemma

2011-01-21T06:54:00.000-08:00

“Can I, Mom?” my son asked.

Was this a yes or no moment? I asked myself, searching his eyes for some kind of clue. Did he want me to say no and save him or yes and allow him. Those are the hardest decisions to make, especially for a mama of a boy. I may not be one, but I know being tough is important to them.

We were standing in the midst of 250 acres of woods. Teenage boys and a few grown men were dressed in camouflage, giddily suiting up in chest pads and face masks, loading the barrels of their guns with small balls of paint that looked a little like the bath beads I used to give my mom each year at Christmas. We had only intended to watch.

Yes or no? I thought. That is the question.

On a rainy day a few years back, we went to Andretti’s Indoor Karting and Games. Unbeknownst to me, my son seeing the go-carts zoom around the track at rapid speed told his daddy, “I don’t think Mom would want me to do that!”

As I exited the ladies’ room, he said, “Mom, can I ride the go-carts?”

“Sure!” I said.

“But I don’t want to!” he said.

The point of this story? From then on, I knew how important my decisions were and have been happy to be his scapegoat ever since.

But, in the woods, under the supervision of friends, I said yes to paintball and am so grateful I did. Not to mention, he’d already told me that there was a girl about his age out there doing it. Later, he would tell me, “And she was good, too!”

So, what’s a mama to say?

A friend put a paintball gun in his hand and gave him a quick lesson.

“This is the safety … Are you familiar with guns at all?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

I rolled my eyes. He’s familiar with every version of Nerf gun there is and has watched WWII movies and asked dozens of questions, so I guess that qualifies as the truth.

He suited up, and the next thing I know my baby went off to battle. It wasn’t long before he came back excited and totally paint-free.

“He did great!” my friend said. “He hung back and watched since this was his first time, which was the right thing to do.”

My son beamed, and so did I. He wasn’t hurt!

About that time, his best friend arrived, and my son was suddenly an expert, giving him advice on where to hide, how to hold his gun and regaling him with the story of his first foray.

On his second battle, he declared he was not going to hang back any more. The teenagers looked at him and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Yep!” He declared and off he marched.

Later he said the teen told him to stay nearby, but, at the last moment, he took shelter behind a tree, leaving my son out in the open, and he was hit. The teen later apologized, but he didn’t need to. My son was proud of his new “wound.”

“It stung a little bit,” he said.

“Do you still want to come back in two weeks and play some more?” my friend asked.

“Yes, sir!” he said.

That’s my boy.

On the way home, he talked non-stop about their battle plan and how much fun he had, requesting that I count the Christmas money that I’ve been holding in my wallet to see if he had enough to buy his own equipment.

“Thank you for letting me play, Mom,” he said. Inside, I felt warm and fuzzy. Despite my initial fears, I said yes when I should have. “Can I wear my sweatshirt with the splattered paint on it to school, so everyone could see where I got shot?”

This one I didn’t have to think about.

My answer? A resounding no!

Sometimes it just takes a snow day

2011-01-17T08:22:00.000-08:00

I rolled my eyes when I heard it was coming. I mean, the kids had only been back in school for two days. They are my darlings, and I love them very much, but two days!

I was in denial, at first, but decided I'd better be prepared, so I did what every other citizen in the county did. I went out and bought -- say it with me -- milk and bread. I couldn't help but wonder if it were the end of the world, would we all run out to Publix for a gallon and a loaf. I can hear it now, "There's a meteor about to strike the Earth ..."

"Honey, quick, run out and buy two gallons of 2 percent and two loaves of Sunbeam!" Which is pretty much how I sounded the minute I heard sleet hit the roof on Sunday night.

"But you just bought some yesterday," my husband said.

"I know, but the weatherman is predicting days of snow and ice. I think we need more!" I insisted, forgetting the fact that I don't even drink milk and more than often our bread turns stale before we can eat it.

My husband obliged, caring less about the food, and more about the adventure. He came back and reported that the grocery employee told him we had bought the last gallon of milk in the county. How he knew this, I know not; but I sure was glad I made my husband go to the store.

Anyway, I knew from our recent snow experience that I would need it to make snow ice cream. My son and I finally perfected the recipe once I learned to use powdered

I know people up North make fun of us, but give us a few more snow days, and we'll have it all figured out. We may be helpless without bread and milk; but when it comes to sledding, we are resourceful. I saw people sledding on cookie sheets, skateboards with the wheels removed, and even a pond liner.

And, it wasn't long before I found myself joining them, just to prove to my kids that I can (or can't). At one point -- as we were sledding down the road in a plastic sled that I bought at Goodwill several summers ago, the one that everyone laughed at me for buying -- I heard my son behind me, yelling, "We're all going to die!" I responded by saying, "At least we have bread and milk!"

He didn't get my joke.

The best part of "the day I dreaded so much" turned out to be my neighbors. I don't know why it takes the coldest, most miserable day of the year to bring everyone outdoors, but it just does. We ended up running into some long-lost friends (It turns out that their son and his young family are our neighbors -- yeah, that made me feel old-ish). Their grandchildren were sledding up and down the hill on a real sled.

"We've had this in our attic for 25 years. It's the first opportunity we've had to use it!"

So, by the time this column publishes, I'm sure I'll be over this pretty mess, but, today, I'm glad I got to meet our new neighbors and watch them use their sled for the first time.

And, amazingly, without being able to run to and fro, I found time to play with my kids, write two articles and a column, watch four movies (thanks, Netflix!), do my exercise DVD (must my family laugh every single time I do it?), chat with some friends and neighbors and simply enjoy life for a while. Sometimes it just takes a snow day, and I am certainly grateful for this one -- despite the wet clothes!

Pot luck

2011-01-08T06:58:00.000-08:00

My New Year's dinner was a real battle. In fact, at one point, so overwhelmed with overflowing pots and smoke and timers going off, I almost quit. I realize that I'm taking a big chance by writing this in light of my last column on how I locked my dinner in the oven. You see, despite the fact that it's 2011, women in the South are still judged by their cooking.

Don't believe me? Show up at a church pot luck sometime. Think you just get in line and put food on your plate randomly? Not more than once you won't. Although church is the last place to judge someone, we all want to know who made what. Because while we still love those who can't cook, we want to make sure we avoid their dishes.

"How's your mom doing? Is she out of the hospital yet?" we ask politely as folks walk into the fellowship hall, all the while building up to our most important question: "What did you bring?"

And trust me, at church socials, you want to make sure it's not store bought --unless, of course, your mom is in the hospital. If it is store bought, I'm not saying flat out lie about it, but you should probably do your best to disguise it. It may mean emptying Kroger's pasta salad into a bowl or wrapping Mrs. Winners biscuits in foil -- whatever you have to do. I think Jesus would understand this one. For women in social circles, being able to cook is important.

And, if you can't cook, then, hopefully, you can do something better -- bake. Baking is close to sainthood, especially at church pot lucks. Lemon meringue pie, chocolate cakes, coconut cakes -- talk about a lost art. Those items go fast. So fast, in fact, that people learn to get dessert first. I can recall one Wednesday night supper when everyone made a bee line for the dessert table the minute the preacher said "amen." It seems word had gotten out that Dorothy Smith made her homemade caramel cake.

If you are lucky enough to have kids, then you can avoid the embarrassment of being the first one seen at the dessert table. They (being smart as they are) will ask, "Mom, can I go get dessert before it's all gone?" and you (being slightly smarter) will say, "Sure, and pick me up a piece of the caramel cake," and as they run off, you yell, "Oh, and a piece of pecan pie, too."
Then later when you hear folks complaining about how many desserts they saw kids hauling off from the dessert table, you can shake your head, and say, "Kids these days! Where were their parents?!" (For the record, I have never done this.)

Now, if for some reason, you have had a busy day and can't bake, or slice Publix pound cake and put it on your best crystal serving tray, or if you don't have time to make a homemade casserole, then I suggest you do what we moms call "making something for the kids." I have to confess this is my favorite modus operandi -- macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, chicken nuggets, even a pizza will work. Parents are happy; kids are happy, and I'm happy because I don't have to sit next to a child, or adult, for that matter, and hear them say, "Ewww," and then look down and see my casserole. Just kidding. That hasn't happened, but I have lived in fear of it.

After all, no one wants to be called a bad cook, especially at church. In fact, the biggest compliment someone can pay you at these socials is to ask for your recipe. And, the Christian thing to do in return is share it with them. I know some people don't believe in sharing recipes. Trust me -- it spreads good will, and chances are it won't turn out as good as yours, anyway. At least, not if I'm cooking it.

Flippin' Christmas fun

2010-12-18T17:11:00.000-08:00

Love her or hate her, there's one thing I know about Sarah Palin -- she was put on this earth to make me feel like one big wimp. She's also the reason we have a freshly-cut Christmas tree.

You see, each year my family and I go to a local tree farm to cut our own and to take our family photo in the process.

Usually we pile on coats, but get so hot and sweaty from walking the property and taking turns sawing the tree that we take them off. One year, my husband and I left ours on just because we didn't want to carry them. The kids were smart enough to realize it was 65 degrees and left theirs in the truck. I had several people comment that year that they liked our cards, and a few were brave enough to ask, "Why were the kids in short-sleeves?"

More often than not, however, my husband is the one who's not like the others. We have several winter pictures in which he is wearing shorts. It looks like we've photo-shopped him in from Bermuda

But, back to Sarah Palin... My daughter and I watched her reality show for the first time while I did what I do best this time of year -- curl up with a cup of hot chocolate. As Sally on Charlie Brown says, "I'm not made for winter!" even if it is in the South.

So, I enjoyed wrapping up in my snuggie (Yeah, I own one, so what?) and watching Sarah climb mountains, cross ice crevasses, catch salmon amongst the bears, hunt caribou, round up her five kids and get up early to do aerobics, all in the miserable Alaskan weather. I enjoyed it so much that I laughed out loud and turned up the thermostat.

That's when my children remembered our tradition. The problem with traditions is once you start them, you have to continue them forever. Just something to keep in mind, especially when it's snowing, and the wind is whipping and it's freezing, and you have to go cut down a Christmas tree.

"Can't we just go to a lot, pull the truck up and have Dad throw it in the back while I wait inside?" I asked. "I'll let you play Christmas music."

(Growing up, my dad would only let us listen to Christmas songs at noon on Christmas. Now that it starts in October, I'm inclined to agree, though I do allow them a little more time -- say, Christmas Eve.)

"We want to pet the bunnies and feed the ducks and drink hot chocolate and see the waterfall. We want the tree farm," they said.

Had it not been for Sarah Palin's television show, Alaska, I would have insisted that it's too flippin' cold for trees this year, but alas I am competitive enough to at least brave a few flurries.
Fortunately, I did. We soon discovered it was the last day of the season for the tree farm.

"Everyone's already gotten their trees. No one really comes this late," the owner said.

Late? I thought.

Ultimately, not only did we get to pet the bunnies, we cut down a beautiful tree and got it for half-price, proving that the early bird does not always catch the worm.

Oh, and what a family photo! This year's has to be our most memorable. We hiked down Candy Cane Lane to a picturesque waterfall. The kids and I sat on a rock, while my husband positioned the camera to take our picture in 10 seconds. He pushed the button and then hurried to sit down next to our son.

Unfortunately, we didn't leave him enough room, and he missed the rock entirely, and to my children's horror, he tumbled into the water. I would say to my horror, but as the saying goes a picture is worth a thousand words, and in this picture, I am staring directly into the camera and laughing harder than I have laughed since the season's changed. Maybe Sarah Palin is right -- sometimes you do need to get outdoors.

The fine art of Ninja out

2010-12-11T10:07:00.000-08:00

I had made it through the introduction of the pep squad team, the girls' volleyball team, including tearful good-byes to their coaches and the entire seventh grade football team, complete with a long lecture on grades at a combined banquet recently when my daughter looked at me and said two words --Ninja out!

She didn't have to explain. Remember James Bond when he received his mission and had 90 seconds to react before it exploded? Well, just call me Bond, James, Bond. I shoved my camera in my bag, slyly slid on my jacket, nimbly lifted my 25-pound purse off the floor and stealthily made my way out the back door of the cafeteria, feeling proud that I timed it just as the applause for the team began. I looked back to smile at my daughter, but she was no where to be found.

Had I left a man, err, girl, behind? Just as I pondered whether to keep moving, she came running up to my side.

"I had to go back," she said.

"What? You went back? You know what we were taught. You don't even look back!"

"But I had to go back for this," she said, holding up her name tag.

"Well, yes," I conceded. "I guess you couldn't leave that behind."

"And I had to tell my friend good-bye," she said quickly.

Sigh. She has a long way to go before she'll be a 007 and me, too, for that matter.

Ninja out, you see, is a fine art. One we aren't taught in the South. I learned it via a friend from Germany who learned it via a friend from Ohio. Now, to be fair, men in the South have, perhaps, been doing it for years. We women, however, just never noticed because we were so busy saying good-bye for 45 minutes.

And that is what Ninja out is all about -- getting out quickly without good-byes, disappearing so that your host or hostess doesn't even realize you are gone. I know, it's against nature, but I have to say, it works.

My first introduction to it came at a party that was gathering steam around the same time as my children's (OK, my) bedtime.

I had just told our hostess that we needed to leave when she said, "Oh, wait right here. You haven't seen the photos from my cruise."

It was then that my friend turned to me and said, "Ninja out!"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Get your purse, get your things and do not look back. Ninja out!" she said as she grabbed me by the elbow.

"But ... but ... we can't just leave," I cried, every fiber of my being protesting.

"Do you want to be here another hour?"

I looked at my children's pitiful faces and thought about how early we needed to get up the next day.

"Well, noooo."

"Then let's go. Ninja out!" she said in her delightful -- yet forceful -- German accent.

I hesitantly complied.

"But it's not the Southern way."

"We can text her tomorrow," she said as she climbed in her car parked strategically facing the road for a quick getaway.

We, on the other hand, weren't as smart or as quick.

"Wait, wait! Where are you going?" asked our poor hostess and a crowd of my friends at the door.

"Oh, I'm sorry. The kids were getting tired, so we thought we'd leave."

"But, Mama, I'm not tir .." my son started to say before I clamped his mouth.

"I'll call you. We really enjoyed it," I yelled out the door of the truck.

"But, wait, you must take some of these brownies home with you," she said.

"Well, OK," I said, reluctantly climbing out of the vehicle and making my way toward her into the kitchen.

"Oh, and look, I found those pictures. Come sit down one minute, and I'll show them to you."

"Well, the kids and my husband are out in the car."

"Oh, they'll be fine. It will just take a minute."

I turned to glance out the kitchen window and saw one annoyed husband, two tired children and the tail lights of my Ninja out master heading northbound down the road. When I re-emerged an hour and a half later, my son said, "Mama, when you try to Ninja out, you pay the consequences."

I think he had a point.

Freedom of the open road

2010-11-30T18:11:00.000-08:00

I’ll never forget my first car. I was so proud the day my daddy plopped down that stack of $100 bills to purchase it for my 16th birthday. I knew I wanted that car the minute I saw it. Why? Because it sure as heck beat the pea-green “old lady” clunker he took me to see first.

“I’ll take it,” I said, the minute the garage opened revealing a well-used black 1980 hatchback Pontiac Sunbird.

“You sure you don’t want to go back and look at the green one again?” he asked.

“No sir, I want this one.”

I can recall him grinning as he told the owner we’d take it. I thought it was because he, too, was beaming from pride. It was only as an adult that I realized he was grinning because I had fallen for it. He had choice number two – the Sunbird - in mind to purchase all along. I have to admit I admire that tactic, though every now and then I wonder what choice number three might have been.

Regardless, I happily drove my new-to-me car home. It had no air condition, no radio, and I needed a cushion to see over the steering wheel, but it was mine. Mine to wash every Saturday, mine to fill up with gas, and mine to scratch and dent, and I did plenty of all three – in that order.

I couldn’t wait to drive my car to school. Soon my days of riding the yellow bus will be gone forever, I thought.

The following Monday, I had my car polished and ready. I timed my exit to coincide with the passing of the bus. I know, rubbing it in that I had a car to the pitiful people with their noses pressed against the school bus window was not nice. But don’t worry, I soon got my comeuppance.

I was running (gasp) late, not to mention I could hear the bus coming up the street, so I hurriedly said goodbye. My parents, my little sister, my grandmother, and, undoubtedly a few nosy neighbors, came out to wave and watch me go. It was February and freezing, and when I started the car, I realized the back window and rearview mirrors were covered in ice. Instead of waiting for my car to warm them up, I thought to myself, “I’ve been up and down this driveway a hundred times. I know this driveway like the back of my hand. Who needs mirrors?”

Yes, this is really – more or less – what I thought as I put it in reverse and hit the gas and … SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH …

That’s the sound I made as I ran into the house and threw myself face first on the bed after I scratched my car down to the metal from one end to the other on a very strong bush next to the driveway. Adding to my humiliation was the fact that a busload of my peers had witnessed the entire event, including me wailing.

But, fortunately, I had my sweet mother and grandmother to console me as my car continued to run (at least I put it in park) with the door still wide open. I may have had a license, but I was still just a girl, and I really did love that car.

Ultimately, those scratches proved to be a good thing – all a part of character building, as my dad might say. I sucked it up that morning and got back behind the wheel. It wasn’t until I parked at school that I noticed the few stray branches lodged under my bumper.

That summer, I worked to save up the money for a new paint job. In fact, I even earned enough to install a new radio. And after school that day, I had a few people ask me if I could give them a ride. I was too scared, so I said no, but still, it was nice of them to ask!

Over the years, several other friends’ vehicles were attacked by what we came to know as the “killer bush.” One day, my dad decided it had wreaked enough havoc. Sick of it blocking his view and maiming others, he took a chainsaw to it. The next day when I backed out of the driveway, there was nothing but sawdust.

“That’s great!” I thought. “I no longer had anything to fear. Now I can back up without any worry at all.”

About that time, I heard my daddy shout: “Watch out for the ditch, Leigh!”

Ladies fire drill

2010-10-29T04:50:00.000-07:00

Well, I wasn't going to tell this story, but at the urging of my girlfriends on a recent girls' night out, I agreed it was too good not to share. You see, on July 4, we had a fire drill -- a ladies' only fire drill.

We spent the day watching our men folk fry batch after batch of catfish, tater tots, hush puppies, fried pickles and anything else they thought might taste good battered and smothered. We were as stuffed as could be -- everyone contently sitting around a great big vat of oil.

That's when my friend came out of the house and said, "We have so much food left; I'm going to take it to the fire department. Who wants to go?"

Remember Road Runner?

That's what every woman there looked like. We hopped up and took off so fast, you would have thought our chairs were on fire. In fact, I even left my purse behind -- the purse I take everywhere with me -- even to the bathroom -- in my house.

As relatively old married folks, our husbands looked on in utter amusement. We could have said we were going to see Chip and Dale strippers and probably gotten the same look -- they were full of fish and content and knew we'd be back by supper.

My friend's daughter, however, has only been married two years, and I must say, her husband looked slightly alarmed as we ran, yes, ran toward her van. The van she'd already jumped in and started up. I guess I didn't help matters when I looked his way and said, "Do I need to put on my lipstick?"

I'd never seen a more shocked looked in my life. As we let out a whoop, my friend's daughter commented, "That's the fastest eight women have ever done anything!"

What can I say? We love our public service officers.

We waved an excited good-bye to our spouses and drove the less than half mile to the fire department. Once we arrived, we excitedly got out, amidst many giggles, with a big pan of food in hand. Ready to make the handsome firemen, I mean, er, the fireman happy by delivering some freshly fried food.

To our disappointment, however, the station was deserted. Perhaps my friend's daughter's husband alerted them that middle-aged-ish women were coming with half-warmed fried food. Either way, they were gone. The place was a ghost town.

What do we do now? We struggled to find an answer. We knew we couldn't go home and let the men folk laugh (more) at us. So, we did what any good citizen would do, we hung around and waited, listening in on the CB radio, until we got tired and eventually wrote a note and left, driving slowing back to our husbands. But not before we made a pact: "Let's not tell them no one was there."

"Agreed!" we all said in unison. Not to be cliché, but how many times do eight women agree?

We didn't have to worry very much. Most husbands didn't ask. As for me, I got in the car and immediately blurted out to mine that the place was deserted. I guess the others did too because by that night, the only poor husband left in the dark was the newlywed.

"So, how many firemen were there?" he asked his young bride later that night.

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't count them,' she said. Months later she confessed the (complete) truth. I must say, I can't help but admire her fortitude and her wit.

And, I have to say, now I know if our house is on fire, we'll be OK, even if we have to go to the fire department to pick them up ourselves. In fact, it may just be quicker that way.

The perfect storm

2010-10-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

Mix two crying babies, one hacking man, a shrill singer and a dash of turbulence, all in the midnight hour, and what do you have? The perfect storm. I know because I am a survivor. The following is my story:

"We're taking the red eye. Is that OK?" I said to my husband after I told him that I had scheduled a surprise birthday trip out west.

"Sure," he said, undoubtedly afraid to offend me by offering any criticism of my travel arrangements. And, to be perfectly truthful, it would have. Oh, yeah, and did I mention we had to leave at 5 a.m. for our flight out there? Yeah, I know (now).

Anyway, fast forward to the flight home. After spending a really long day wandering the streets of Las Vegas (which was experiencing record high temperatures of 105-plus) virtually penniless and feeling kind of homeless after checking out of our hotel room, we made it to the airport.

We thought it would be best to pass the time eating dinner at the airport. I recalled seeing a California Pizza Kitchen down the terminal, so I nonchalantly made my way there, not even bothering to ride the people mover. After all, God gave me legs.

As soon as I rounded the corner, the lights in the California Pizza Kitchen went off, so I started across the hall to the hot dog stand when that light went out. Suddenly, I realized it was 2 o'clock in the morning Georgia time, and I could very well starve to death at any given moment, not to mention I was facing a 3 a.m. flight with my only hope being a microscopic bag of peanuts. This was not good.

Feeling a slight panic, I quickly turned back the way I came, this time taking the people mover. Lights continued to flicker out as I approached like they were on some sort of reverse motion sensor, causing full-fledge panic to set in, which is how I ended up eating tuna at 2 a.m. I must say that was a first.

As soon as we finished our make-shift meal, our boarding zone was called. Have you ever noticed how people push to get on planes? What is up with that? I mean, they have assigned seats. In my tiredness, I wondered this out loud and not quietly, either.

"I agree," said the man in front of me who had just been jostled. "I've never heard the pilot say, 'First class will be landing 15 minutes earlier.'"

"I know, and another thing ..." I said.

My husband shushed me at this point -- he was tired and knew that sleep was no where in sight. I, on the other hand, had total confidence in my ability to doze anywhere.

"You really don't think you can sleep on the plane?" I scoffed.

About 15 minutes later, with my husband snoring by my side, I knew I was in trouble. The baby in front of me started crying, the man behind me began hacking, and, worst of all, the girl next to began singing --loudly. Her first song was Black Eyed Peas "I gotta feeling ..." I'm not sure if you've heard it before, but basically the lyrics go, "Tonight's gonna be a good night" over and over again. It's like a modern-day version of "The song that never ends." That went on for quite some time, until she finally switched to Taylor Swift's "You belong to me." Sadly, she only knew the first line of the chorus: "She wears short skirts, I wear sneakers," which she sang over and over and over again.

I, not wanting to cause trouble, kept mute about it until the flight attendant came by with headphones for sale. I pounced on the opportunity.

"I need them to drown out the singing," I said. I must say the flight attendant then turned and admonished the woman to such a degree that I almost felt guilty, kind of like when I used to tell on my sister.

The night wore on, and though I was terrified that the hacking man's germs were going to come through the seat, I finally managed to curl up and doze off. Of course, as soon as I did, one of two babies onboard would cry (God love them and their mammas). Eventually, the pilot announced that we were about to land in Atlanta; we just had to get through a little turbulence first.

A little? I sure would hate to see his definition of a lot.

The more turbulence we hit, the louder my husband snored (God bless him, too), the louder the baby cried, and the more the man behind me coughed. The noise had reached fervor pitch, when after my silent prayer, calm struck, and we landed safely on the ground.

As we left the airport, vowing to never again take another red-eye flight, it suddenly hit me that I would soon be sleeping in my own bed. Surprisingly, I found myself humming a little tune: "Tonight's gonna be a good night ..."

What is she doing in there?

2010-09-13T06:05:00.000-07:00

As I got ready for work, I pondered a very important question: Am I the only girl from the 1980s who can't get the hang of a flat iron?

For those of you (i.e. men) who don't know, a flat iron or straightening iron is used to straighten one's hair. Again, don't ask me how it works. I have straight hair and somehow can't make it work.

Men, you are probably wondering why you should continue reading beyond this point. Actually, you are probably wondering how you made it this far, but just know that you won't be disappointed. I am about to answer an age-old question, one that husbands have been asking themselves since marriage was invented, you know, the question you ask aloud while you're sitting in the truck waiting for her to emerge from the house, so you can finally leave...

What is she doing in there?

The short answer: Her hair. Yes, even if she comes out looking exactly (or even worse) than she went in, chances are it's the hair.

Back in the 1980s, nothing was easier. All I needed was an Ogilvy home perm and a can of Aqua Net hair spray. Now those were the days. There's got to be some truth in the ozone depletion joke. It's honestly a wonder I have any hair left to straighten. I'd perm it, tease it, turn my head upside down to spray it, curl it with a small curing iron -- the bigger the hair, the better. The result was something like a lion's mane. I thought it looked great, so good, in fact, that I kept that look well into the 1990s.

I guess I should have known it was going out of style when I was getting a perm and another hair dresser walked in and said, "What's that smell?"

Shortly after, I met a lady from church, and she asked, "Is your hair naturally curly?"

"Well, no, it's a perm," I confessed.

"Oh, I hear those are coming back."

That was officially my last perm. From there, I tried every other hairstyle known to man or woman kind -- I copied Jennifer Anniston's (who didn't?), Katie Couric's, Kelly Ripa's and my hairdresser's, though the last proved problematic.

"How would you like your hair cut today?"

"Oh, just cut it like yours."

She then turned to the girl next to her and asked, "How do you cut my hair?"

They don't cut their own hair, it suddenly dawned on me.

And the colors, oh, the colors. I ran into a guy I knew from high school recently. His first comment?

"Your hair's a lot lighter than high school."

I saw my husband visibly cringe.

I simply said, "Yeah, I don't know how that happened!"

I've had brown hair, black hair, blond hair (my natural color, of course), red hair -- what my son likes to call yellow hair -- frosted hair, two-toned hair and many shades in between.

And products -- don't even get me started -- hair gel, hair spray, root lifter, silky spray, shampoo and conditioner that I had to take a second mortgage out on. And the styling contraptions -- small curling irons, larger curling irons, medium, spiral, diffuser for the hairdryer and every contraption in between.

As a result, you'd think I'd have the most beautiful hair on earth or at least on my block. Maybe if I could take my head off and style it and then put it back on. But, no, my best friend is the ponytail, which is exactly how my hair ends up after I've done all of the above. In fact, I'm usually pulling it back as I open the door to the truck just in time to hear my husband mumble: What is she doing in there?

Do you want fries with that?

2010-09-01T19:40:00.000-07:00

“I don’t believe in using prophylactics,” the red-headed pimply face kid lisped through his braces.

“What,” I said.

“I don’t believe in using prophylactics,” he said again pointing at the People magazine I had purchased with the picture of the Duggar family on the cover, “but I think they should use them.”

Then he went on with a full dissertation of the, admittedly, fascinating Duggar family and their (now) 19 kids and counting as he rung up my groceries. About the time he was telling me he thought they weren’t all really their kids, it dawned on me that I was being held captive by my milk, bread, and eggs. And it wasn’t the first time.

Recently, I have had a grocery story clerk tell me about her deceased cat Coco as she rang up my dog food, another told me (as she scanned my toilet paper) about her much younger boyfriend who went to stay with his mama whenever he got mad at her, and another sang to me as she sliced my sandwich meat. I smiled and nodded and tried to be polite.

I’ve written about family, friends, neighbors, and even a (previous) boss or two, but I’ve hesitated to write about this. What if the cashiers read it, and I’m banned to a fate worse than death, also known as Wal-mart shopping?

After my most recent encounter, I decided to risk it. As the cashiers share – a modern term for blabbing - I try to tell myself that it probably helps them pass the time, that they are bored or perhaps they are just being friendly. It’s not their fault that I’m on my way home from work, trying to scrape up dinner for a nest of hungry little birdies who are constantly causing my cell phone to chirp. Yet, do I really need to know what classes the clerk takes at college or what size she used to be?

Another thing clerks now have a tendency to do (as illustrated above) is comment on what I am buying. Recently, the clerk scanned tomato sauce, tomato paste, lasagna noodles, hamburger meat and mozzarella cheese.

“Making lasagna?”

“Yep.”

“My mama used to make the best lasagna. I don’t use the cottage cheese. I always use the ricotta. Don’t you want the ricotta?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

That’s become another pet-peeve of mine. The “Are you sure?” I hear that a lot in restaurants. For example, with my food allergies, I generally avoid salad dressing.

“No dressing, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“We have ranch, blue cheese, the Italian is really good.”

“No, thank you, no dressing.”

“Just dry?”

“Yes, that’s how I like it,” I usually respond to save myself a long discussion on what I’m allergic to, how I found and why.

The waitress will then give me a funny look and bring me a salad with dressing on it anyway.

And what’s the deal with drive thrus? I’ll place my order, and they’ll say, “Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“What about a fried pie?”

“No, thank you.”

“Want to try a mocamamino?”

“A what?”

“A mo-cha frap-pu-ccin-oooo”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Want to medium or super-size your meal?”

“No, I just want to eat!”

I’ll admit it causes me to lose my temper sometimes. Once, after a similar experience at Hardees, I yelled something unfriendly into the loud speaker only to look in my mirror and see my preacher driving the vehicle behind me. My biscuit didn’t taste as good with that side order of guilt.

As far as my (occasional) temper tantrums or tendency to throw a fit, if you prefer, I definitely get that from my dad. He’s never had much patience with salesclerks and waitresses who hover, etc. Fortunately, we both have Mama. My mother has the knack for making every person – grocery store clerks, waitresses, mail carriers and on and on - feel like the most important person in the world. You know why? Because at that moment, they are. My mother doesn’t ignore people or brush them off like I try my best not to do. Even when she’s in a hurry, she takes a genuine interest in them, taking the time to ask questions and find out more about them. My grandmother was the same way. It is certainly a gift. And, THAT is something I’m sure of.

Life in the slow lane

2010-08-25T19:30:00.000-07:00

Alas, a mere week after my last hilariously funny blog on my first ticket, I received another one. Now, I truly understand my children’s oft-used expression: “The first time is funny; the second time is not.” Knowing bad luck runs in three, I sure hope I won’t hear myself saying the last line – “And the third time is just plain old.”

One thing I’ve learned from my rash of tickets is I should really read the road signs. My first ticket was an illegal right on red that I made on the way to work. I felt pretty outraged and picked on until the next day when I saw the three signs that the officer impatiently told me were there. He must have gone and put them up right after he pulled me over – I swear they weren’t there the day before!

Anyway, my latest (and hopefully my last) ticket was for speeding. I am so embarrassed. For those who read my last blog, you’ll recall that I said I “abhor” speeders. Nice, Leigh, real nice. So, it’s safe to say that I no longer feel quite as strongly in that area. Speed happens. I understand that now.

Ironically, I had just said that very morning that I was paranoid now since receiving my first ticket. It’s a rude awakening to know that you can no longer bat your eyelashes out of one (not that I’ve ever done such thing, mind you). But, Smokey got me, once again. It was near the airport on I-285. Did you know I-285 was a 55 mph zone? I had no idea. I thought it was 70, which is why I told him I was going 76. Did you know ignorance of the law is no excuse? Honestly, must I learn EVERYTHING the hard way?

He wrote me my ticket, politely ignored my sniffles, and sent me on my merry way. I made my way to work, paid for my first ticket online and received a jolt – tickets are expensive! And scary – I had to tell my husband.

His reply? “You know it’s going to happen again.”

Vowing to (please, God!) prove him wrong, I drove 55 mph to work the next day. I had a lot of time to think as cars whizzed past me. One of the things I concluded was the good Lord must be giving me a lesson in patience. I admittedly have very little, but in an effort to improve myself and avoid seeing blue lights in the rearview mirror, I drove all the way in the far right – not the left – lane.

At first, I was a little worried. Southerners are as polite as can be, until they get behind the wheel of a vehicle. Then they turn into horn-blowing, tailgating, middle-finger-pointing monsters. Please don’t ask me how I know. However, I was pleasantly surprised. Folks ignored me, and I took deep breaths and tried to ignore them. I soon found myself with a private lane all the way to Atlanta. Well, me and the guy with the pick-up truck full cardboard.

I figured out it was all state of mind and music. No, more “I can’t drive 55.” I cranked up Frank Sinatra and cruised my way down the interstate. Amazingly, I made it there in about the same time. Of course, there’s always the ride home to worry about.

Ain't Gonna Bump No More

2010-08-17T19:50:00.000-07:00

Well, I ain't gonna bump no more. In a fit of friskiness, I bumped hips with my daughter. Immediately, I felt it.

“Ouch!” I screamed and held my hip.

Thinking I was pretending, she laughed, along with the rest of my family, and a few strangers who witnessed the odd sight outside the restaurant.

The next day when I was still leaning forward and limping around like an old lady, well … my family still laughed. Furthermore, when I told people who asked how I did it, they managed to look sympathetic for a minute and then they laughed as I kicked myself for not making up a better story.

But, now, it looks like I will have the last laugh. I, Meredith Leigh Knight, can now tell people – those very people who called me an old lady – that I have a football injury. It’s true. Hip pointer. Look it up. Instead of an invalid, I feel like I’m part of a sports team, an elite group of athletes. Not only is this injury common in football, it is also seen in those who practice martial arts, baseball, rugby, ice hockey and field hockey, according to the website I saw.

And, no, I did not diagnosis myself. I went to the doctor, a specialist, and I have to give him and his nurse credit. They both shook their heads, but neither one of them laughed, although the nurse said, “That must have been some bump!”

Hip pointers are usually caused by a direct hard hit (i.e. by a helmet), but, ironically, I barely touched her. Oops, digressing back to old lady here …

Fortunately, the doctor didn’t tease me about how it happened. He simply told me my options, which lucky for me involve no football, martial arts, baseball, rugby, ice hockey, field hockey or running. As I left the office with my anti-inflammatory prescription and physical therapy orders in hand, I glanced at my chart on the way out and found myself laughing out loud.

It read, “Patient hurt hip by doing 'the bump' with daughter.”

I came home and told her I ain't gonna do it no more.

You mean, this is a ticket?

2010-08-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

So, I got my first ticket today. No, I wasn't speeding. I abhor speeders. It was failure to follow a traffic control device. In other words, I took a right on red where I wasn't supposed to.

I'd been taking that exit to work for a year, yet somehow I had never noticed what the officer said were "two or three signs back there." Even scarier is the fact that I thought the light was green. I didn't tell him that.

It all happened so fast, too. I turned, my destination -- the building where I work a few days a week in downtown Atlanta -- in sight. Next thing I know blue lights, the fuzz, smokey was right behind me.

My first thought was, "I need to get out of his way, so he can go get whoever he is after."

Then my second thought was, "Oh, he's after me." OK, so I cleaned it up a little.

Then my third thought was, "Well, it must be a tail light or a brake light or something that I can blame my husband on."

But, no, it was moi. All moi.

Then I had to decide where to pull over. I couldn't block the exit ramp, so I cruised on a little farther. Smokey didn't like this very much. He turned on his siren. I held my finger up as if to say, "One minute, please."

I could tell by his face that he didn't have a minute.

Not wanting it to turn into some kind of slow speed white Bronco chase, my mind raced, "Should I run up on the sidewalk to get out of the street?"

Smokey's face told me, no, I should stop now and block the lane of traffic or else.

The officer marched to the truck and informed me of my crime. All I could think to say was, "I'm sorry!" before he grabbed my license and went back to his patrol car.

"Wait, I haven't had a chance to kill you with kindness!" I screamed (in my mind).

While I was waiting anxiously for his return, I thought about grabbing my phone and texting my friend, "I am being pulled over." Then it dawned on me that might not be the smartest idea with the new law in effect.

A lifetime later, he returned.

"I've written you a citation. Sign here."

'You mean, this is a ticket?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But, I only drive up here a few days a week, and my building's in sight, and, and, and ..."

That's when I got the "Ma'am there are two or three signs back there" line.

I don't know what upset me the most, getting the ticket or not being considered cute enough to drive away with a warning.

"You mean, you didn't get out of the truck and shake your silky hair from side to side?" my friend teased. (That's a story for another day.)

But, alas, my warning days must be over. I took my yellow piece of paper and drove off, planning to never, ever, even if you honk, turn right on red again.

Rippit into shape!

2010-07-14T17:42:00.000-07:00

I went to the gym today to work on my bikini body – next year’s bikini body, that is, or maybe even the year after next. I think I’ve missed the deadline for this summer. In fact, my exercise and eating chart reads a lot like Bridgett Jones’ diary.

“I haven’t seen you in here lately. Where have you been?” a friend of mine said.

“Oh, I’ve been doing a lot of stuff outside,” I said, neglecting to mention that by “stuff,” I meant sitting on the beach, riding the boat at the lake, and walking to the mailbox on occasion.

Things have changed in the gym, I noticed. For example, apparently, everyone is into jumping. No, I don’t mean jumping rope like I read the Victoria Secret models do to prepare for a photo shoot. (A guy friend of mine told me that jumping rope was not their secret, by the way). I mean, jumping four or five feet in the air and landing on the ground in a squatting position – think bull frog.

Now, I used to belong to a gym in which the median age was 65. I was by far the youngest, though I wouldn’t dare say the strongest or toughest. Old age isn’t for sissies, and it was very inspiring seeing men and women working out despite obvious physical obstacles. But, I have to tell you, nobody in there jumped.

At the new gym I frequent, or should I say visit, it is definitely a young crowd, and today was proof of it. Men and women hoping all over the place. Why? While I’m sure it’s the new craze, the real reason is probably because they can. As I glanced up from the machine I was on, I caught the eye of an older lady across from me. We both broke into a grin.

I thought about the senior citizens at my former gym. They all knew what this lady and I were secretly thinking. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, at least not in public, anyway.

The art of dying in the South

2010-06-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

We like to say people are judged on how they live, but the truth is, in the South, we are more than often judged on how we die.

A person can live an ordinary life, going to church now and then, raise a family, not break any salacious commandments and die quietly in his or her sleep and go completely unnoticed. Sure, his children will miss him.

"What a great dad he was," they'll say. His wife will miss him. Of course, she'll remarry and be buried next to husband number two. And who's to blame her? How can she spend the next 25 years alone?

In a blink, the man will be gone. His grandchildren may remember him by his kindness and the way he shook silently when he laughed, but his great grandchildren?

Now, let him die at age 83 from being bitten numerous times by a rattlesnake while changing the blade on his lawnmower, and the man's a legend. Die in his bed by a lit cigarette, and he's white trash. Struck by lightning, and he is unlucky. Hit by a car, and it's tragic. Stricken by cancer, and it's a shame. We sum up a person's life on how they die.

I, like most Southerners, tend to be a little fixated on death. Don't think we are as a culture? Then count the crosses on the way to Panama City Beach. I've done it before -- with the kids -- as a pastime. (It was pre-DVD.)

I read that the South is one of the few places that honor its dead with roadside crosses. I'm not saying we should or we shouldn't. I know the tributes mean something to the families, but it's amazing how commonplace they are. The total is 900 and something, by the way. That's how many there were 15 years ago. We had so much fun counting them that I refused to do it again.

I can remember being a little girl and Mama pulling over to let a funeral procession pass. We lived not far from a cemetery, so it was fairly common place. Back then, we didn't have air conditioning, so we had to sit in the heat and wait and wait for what, to my younger sister and me, seemed like an eternity.

But my mom always waited patiently, and when we whined, she told us that pulling over was a sign of respect. We hushed after that. We could tell she meant it. Today, people in the South still pull over for funeral processions, though we aren't as patient about it. In our air-conditioned cars, we moan and groan and roll our eyes at the inconvenience. But for the families, it means everything, so we continue to do it, even though we are in a hurry to get to the pool or the store or a birthday party.

We do it because Southerners are really good at death. Not the act of it, which they -- for the most part -- have no control over, but the after. If someone in your family dies, you will have 10 people at your door bringing you things you didn't even know you needed, from toilet paper to paper cups to baskets full of food and a truckload of ice.

And the most amazing part is you won't know or you will barely know half of these people, yet they will take care of you just the same. You may have rarely spoken to them, but if someone dies, they'll be there cleaning the house while you are at the funeral, serving you and your company food when you get home and reminding you that even in the face of death, it's living; it's the living that really matters.

Lessons from a lemonade stand

2010-06-18T19:08:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday was the first time since 2007 that we had nothing scheduled. No sports, no trips, no birthday parties, not even a chore -- which is not to say we didn't have plenty we could have been doing, mind you, just none on the calendar.

My children got up early with their spend-the-night company and by the time breakfast was cooked at 9, they were -- say it with me -- no, not "starving" -- bored. B-O-R-E-D. Especially the boys. And bored boys means one thing -- trouble.

After hearing banging and finally a huge crash upstairs (which I have still been afraid to investigate), I sent them outside to play in hopes of enjoying a little rest and relaxation.

It wasn't long before I heard a bang, bang, bang outside the house. What were they doing? Throwing things at the house. Why? They are boys, and they were B-O-R-E-D.

"I know," I said. "Why don't you have a lemonade stand?"

I must say I felt a little guilty since it was about 95 degrees and there wasn't a car in sight, but I figured it would keep them busy for a little while, and I could enjoy my free day with a little magazine reading AND teach them a little lesson in business while I was at it. See how clever I am?

I had just propped up with an issue of Sandra Lee's Semi-homemade magazine when my son said, "Do you have any poster board? We are having a contest with the girls (the boys' sisters, who happen to be best friends as well), and they have poster board, and we don't."

"Look in the closet," I said.

I hear a tumble and a crash and then a few minutes later, "I don't see any in here."

"Well, go up and tell your sister to find you some poster board."

He stomped upstairs, and she stomped downstairs, but, sure enough, a few minutes later, the two groups were coloring nicely on their separate signs, and I silently patted myself on the back again for having such a good idea.

About two seconds after this thought, I hear my son ask his friend, "How do you spell lemonade anyhow?"

"L-e-m-a-n, no, that's not right, l-a-m-e-n, no ...We can't even spell lemonade!" said his friend, exasperated. "I'm calling this contest."

Fortunately, the girls helped them and after some back and forth over whether the boys had forfeited, they held up two beautifully decorated posters advertising "Lemonade .50."

After much fanfare on filling the cooler with ice, finding the cups, swearing they had washed their hands and then making ten thousand trips in and out doing I don't know what, I could hear them shouting, "Lemonade!" I smiled. They were in business.

I grabbed my camera and headed out to quickly snap a picture before they went out of business.

As I got to the corner of the yard, what do I see? The boys had set up their station on the electrical box that was recently placed in our yard -- the one I tell him never to get near.

"Boys, I want to show you something," I said, fearing they weren't listening to my warnings.

"Look at this picture," I said, pointing to the crude drawing on the front of the box showing what appeared to be a lightning strike and a man falling backwards.

"Oh, I'd love to see you do that dance!" my son's friend said.

"Just don't put anything else on top of this, you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

They returned to shouting "Lemonade!" again at the top of their lungs.

About that time, their first customer drove up and told them to keep the change. I've always thought you can tell a lot about people who take the time to stop at kids' lemonade stands. My friend told me that the neighbor girl used to have them so often that finally a fellow neighbor said, "Can I just write you a check?"

Those are good neighbors. And so are the ones who bought lemonade that Saturday from my children. Funny how they are also the ones who buy wrapping paper in the fall and Girl Scout cookies in the winter. Thanks, you guys. I can tell them to do unto others as you would have them do unto you, but nothing illustrates it further than stopping to buy a cup a lemonade -- even if it is so sour you have to pour it out when you get home.

So, at the end of the day, each had $1.25 in his pocket, a handful of lessons were learned, and, thanks to Kool-Aid, I didn't even have to squeeze any lemons. Next Saturday, however, I'll have a to-do list ready!

Cat's in the cradle

2010-06-12T11:12:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 3:40 a.m. last night and realized immediately it would be one of those nights. Those nights where no amount of counting sheep will put you back to sleep, a night in which even if you do doze off, your dreams are bad and make you wish to stay awake. It was a night where every little noise was magnified, and you're sure someone is hovering in the corner of your room, a night in which your spouse is peacefully breathing, unknowingly rubbing it in that you can't shut your eyes. It was a night in which your mind thinks of every problem and no solution, every danger but no escape route. It was a night in which you realize why sleep aids are always advertising on television - and a night in which you regretted you didn't have any. In short, it was a bad night, and somewhere around 4 (or was it 5? or was it 5:30?), this poem popped into my head.

Cat’s in the cradle

No
Nien
Nada
Non
Not now
Later
Sometime
Someday
Soon
Tomorrow
Tomorrow isn’t good for me
The day after tomorrow isn’t good for me
Maybe next week
Stop asking me
I’ll let you know
Don’t worry about it
Quit worrying
Think
Use your brain
Use your common sense
You don’t have any common sense
Hush
Be quiet
Shut up
Stop talking
I don’t want to hear it
Get out of my face
Go to your room
Leave me alone
Don’t bother me
Stay in there and don’t come out
I don’t want to see your face
Go away
Stop crying
Act your age
I wish you’d never been born
I’m sick of you
I’m tired of looking at you
I don’t want to hear another word out of you
I hate you
You make me sick
Get the door
Straighten up
Sit down
Cheer up
Stop moping
Be happy
What’s wrong with you?
Smile and say hello

Mother of all Olympics

2010-05-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

Did you know tomorrow is Watermelon Day? Neither did I until my son announced it at dinner and then informed me that he told his teacher we would bring two watermelons.

Welcome to May madness also known as the Motherhood Olympics for all moms (and dads for that matter) with school-aged children. From the thrill of victory to the agony of defeat, May brings it all.

I remember when my oldest was in kindergarten. I think it was when she didn’t get the calendar award – an award for doing whatever asinine activity written on that day – that I realized, “Hey, that’s not her fault; that’s mine. I can’t help it that I didn’t want to learn to juggle or count the number of cans in our closet on that particular day. Don’t punish her!”

As I saw the other mothers clap and smile and straighten their backs and slide me dirty looks as their children accepted award after award that they had no idea what it meant, it dawned on me, “Wait a minute … This is an award’s day for moms!”

And then I thought, “And I am a loser!”

Now to be fair, my daughter walked across stage several times in her pretty yellow dress which I still remember though it’s been 20 years ago, but no thanks to me at the time.

Two kids later, and I’d like to say I have it all figured out, but the truth I’m still competing. Fortunately, they’ve passed kindergarten and have the ability to amaze their parents by achieving awards despite us!

May is a month filled with chorus concerts, Boy Scout banquets, end-of-the-year parties, softball parties, honors day, cowboy day, field day, crazy hat/sock/hair day, dance recitals, tennis parties and band concerts. My job is to simply keep up with it all and know when to send watermelons because, sadly, closing ceremonies will be here before we know it.

Our shoe garden

2010-05-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

A soldier's passing

2010-04-24T19:46:00.000-07:00

I never planned to be standing at the ending of my subdivision with my hand over my heart and tears streaming down my face. I planned to be camping with my son. Had he not awoken with a fever, had we not spent 45 minutes in the "Minute" Clinic, had we not picked up a dozen suddenly necessary items while we were in there, we would not have heard about it.

Had we not taken the route we did home, so we could stop by the pharmacy for his antibiotics, we wouldn't have seen them -- the scores of people standing on the side of the road, flags in hand, waiting, patiently for the procession to pass.

I had read the headline about the fallen soldier earlier in the week as I flipped through the newspaper to, more than likely, read Sound Off comments while I ate my cereal as I do most mornings. And, like most mornings, I was interrupted with the sounds of "Mom, can you please sign this? Have you seen my shoes? Can you pour me some more milk?"

And, like most mornings, I placed the newspaper with the headline about the fallen soldier on the stack of books, magazines and items for me to read later when I have some extra time, which never seems to arrive.

It wasn't until I got home and told my husband what I had seen, how people were lining up, that I learned the fallen soldier was a young man from our area. He was killed in Iraq. He was someone's son, and his funeral procession would pass right by our neighborhood. What could we do?

"Do we have any little flags?" My husband asked.

"We had some on the Fourth of July, but I think we threw them away after the parade."

I shook my head at what I had just said. Young men and women are fighting and dying for our right to throw flags away when we are finished waving them.

We walked, feverish son and all, to the corner and stood and waited and waited. We gave up, thinking we'd missed it, and walked back to our home. On the walk home, my husband told me how the soldier graduated from the West Point Military Academy, and how his parents did, too.

We got home but couldn't forget it. I heard a siren, and we ran down the street, only to wait and wait some more. We discussed the timeline where the procession might be and then made the walk back to our house, thinking once again we'd missed it.

But, we couldn't let it go -- a young man, someone's son, a soldier had died. We knew his name. We knew where he graduated. And we knew he did it for us, for our country. As I made my son lunch, I heard the sirens, lots of them. I ran outside in time to see the first patrol car pass. This time we didn't walk or run. We jumped into our truck, and my husband backed all the way down the street to the corner.

We got out, flagless, and placed our hands over our hearts. We saw our hero pass by, followed by hundreds of motorcycles with riders bearing flags. My husband told me what I had heard before but was proud and awe-struck to hear again. They are called Patriot Guard Riders. They travel to military funerals as invited guests. If people protest -- I can't bear the thought -- they shield them from the mourning family by riding alongside, quietly revving their motors.

To my amazement, the riders nodded to us, some waving low, one or two mouthing the words, "Thank you." I could not and still cannot fathom how they could possibly thank us. We couldn't even find a flag.

"Mom, why are they thanking us?" my son asked, his hand over his heart, his faced flushed.

As he spoke, I realized they weren't looking at my husband and me. They were looking at my son -- the little 8-year-old who had just over breakfast that morning innocently declared "War" as the theme for his birthday party. It was then that I broke down into tears and, despite my son's fever, was thankful the series of events had worked out like they did that day. We were exactly where we needed to be.

"To show their appreciation, son," I replied, as I put my arm on his shoulder and babied him for the rest of the afternoon.

Things that go bump in the night remembered

2010-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

Fresh from what my son called a "seven-hour" bike ride across remote Cumberland Island on an ill-fitting bike with a crooked seat, I am rallying for my next adventure -- camping with his scout troop.

I can't believe it's that time of year again. I can remember our last trip just like yesterday. I spent most of the night awake listening to strange sounds -- whistle, honk, growl, snort, moan, rattle and repeat. No, we weren't being invaded by wild animals. That's the chorus of noise that comes from very tired adults sleeping on the ground.

One man sounded like an elephant or a weak trumpet. It was unreal. Finally, I asked aloud, "What is that noise?"

To my surprise an answer came back to me in the dark, "I don't know, but it's the fourth time it's come on."

Actually, I was sleeping pretty well at first, exhausted from a full day of hiking (our campsite was located on Agony Hill, and to get to Agony Hill one must hike up aptly-named Agony Trail), helping my son with archery and BBs, packing and unpacking, and ignoring the large amount of dirt on my son's hands.

So, when it came time for bed, I climbed in my sleeping bag and went right to sleep. Around 3 a.m. or 4 a.m., while I was having an unusual dream in which Donald Trump was trying to court me with diamonds and gold (OK, perhaps, I shouldn't have told that one), I reached over and felt something. No, it wasn't The Donald's lush head of hair.

It felt slippery and rubbery and coiled up like a -- snake! Suddenly fully awake and alarmed, I grabbed whatever it was and flung it onto the floor. Not wanting to scream and alarm my son and the other snoring campers, I woke up my husband, who was in the cot next to me, and said, urgently, "Give me your flashlight."

And what do you think he said? (I would love to hear your guesses.)

He said, "What do you need it for?"

"Just give it to me," I said, growing increasingly panicked and a touch frustrated. "Trust me on this."

"I'm not getting it unless you tell me what it's for," he said.

"There was something in my sleeping bag! Give me the flashlight -- now!"

He complied, and I shined the light on the floor, hoping it hadn't slithered into my bag. But, no, it was right were it landed.

Maybe I killed it, I thought.

I'd forgotten my glasses, so I leaned closer and closer until I realized -- it was a rubber snake.

"Why me? Who would do this to me?" I shouted to God and whoever else was in earshot.
I knew my husband and son weren't brave enough so that left one other culprit -- my best friend who has a wicked (or warped) sense of humor. Plus my son recognized the snake as belonging to her son.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink afterward. I kept my flashlight tucked under my chin and even turned it on a time or two to make sure the toy snake hadn't moved. While I was awake, I tried to match the whistle, honk, growl, snort, moan and rattle to its source and planned my revenge -- my sweet, sweet revenge. Suddenly, I'm not dreading this trip so much after all.

Killing 'em with Kindness

2010-04-09T20:36:00.000-07:00

Baseball season is in full swing -- pun intended -- and my son has worked his way up to kid-pitch. I must say I've learned a lot about sports while raising my first boy, and I don't mean just the catcher inference rule. I mean the crazy things that happen on the sidelines.

For one, I found myself standing up and cheering when my son got hit in the leg by a pitch.
"He got on base!" I yelled to another mother next to me, who was equally as excited, before it dawned on me to wonder if that might have hurt.

I used to think sports was a male-bonding thing, until my baby started playing. It was then that I realized the intense level of female camaraderie that happens while sitting on the bleachers.
First of all, we may not know the rules of the National League versus the American League, but you can bet by the second game, we'll know the names and jersey numbers of every kid on the team and about half of the kids on our opponent's. Mothers talk, which means we know which kid has been sick, which could use an extra loud cheer, and which one could probably use a spanking if that weren't so passé these days.

But the main -- albeit unspoken -- reason for learning who the players are so quickly is so we can alert each other when our kid does something great. And, he will, the minute you turn your head or try to go to the restroom.

Recently, for example, one of the boys scored a run. Sure enough, we looked around, and his mother was coming back from the concession stand, Gatorade in one hand for her slugger, and nachos and pickles to pacify her younger daughter in the other.

"You saw his run, right, Mom? He just scored. You saw it, right?" we asked her.

And she responded just like she will when her son asks her after the game, "Oh, yes! It was great!" With a little wink, slight smile and a nod our way.

Unbeknownst to the men, we moms also keep rowdy fans in check. Yes, they have rowdy fans at the 10-and-under games. At a recent one, a man who didn't seem to be related to anyone on the team started shouting at the boys -- not encouraging words, but barking orders at them. Suddenly, he was yelling at the slowest boy on the team to steal home, fussing at a boy who's never pitched before for walking players, and, worst of all, critiquing the coaches, who happened to be our husbands.

The man was making me so nervous that I got up and walked around some, but not my mom friend. A veteran to Little League games, she stayed firmly on the bleachers, looked the man in the eye, smiled sweetly, and said, "You need you a coach's shirt on!"

Not taking the hint, he laughed and continued hollering.

Undaunted, she said in an even sweeter voice, "You keep yelling like that, and we are going to give you a job."

We mothers nodded in agreement. We knew this play. It takes skill and finesse to execute, but my mom friend was at the top of her game.

He chuckled and walked away for a few minutes, but soon began hollering yet again.
Then my friend smiled and threw him the toss up, "Why didn't you coach?"

He mumbled something about his work schedule and walked away -- defeated.

She had killed him with kindness.

About that time, another mom yelled, "Oh, look, your son's up to bat!"
She turned in time to see him lay down his bat and take his walk to first but not before glancing at the bleachers to make sure his mom was watching.

"Good job, son! Good job!" as she turned to give us a little wink.

Traveling with Auntie Garmin

2010-04-02T05:13:00.000-07:00

It's spring break, so that can only mean one thing in the Knight family -- we've been packing for a solid week to go away for two days.

It was shortly after our daughter was born that my husband and I realized traveling light was no longer an option.

"Want to run to the store?" he asked.

"Sure!" I said, hopping up, and heading toward the door.

It was then that we stopped short and looked first at our precious child and then at the mountain of equipment surrounding her -- baby carrier, diaper bags, bottles, rattles, stroller, car seat, pacifiers and a baby swing that we couldn't leave home without.

"Uh, I think I'll just stay here," I said.

Though we soon realized that staying home for the next 18 years wasn't an option, we never managed to streamline our outings. In fact, the older our children grew, the more stuff we simply couldn't leave behind.

It finally culminated with our last trip to Florida. We went for a week, and my husband and I both declared it would be easier to move. Our truck just wouldn't hold the three kayaks, five bicycles and the vast majority of our earthly belongings, so we decided to haul it all in a 6-by-12 trailer. It was a great idea until we realized we only got eight miles to the gallon.

Despite our packing, however, we always seem to forget something. For my son, that's his toothbrush.

"Can't I just finger brush?" he asks -- every single time.

One item we never forget when traveling is our Global Positioning System (GPS), or as we like to call her, Auntie Garmin. I welcome her on every trip because that means I no longer have to struggle to read the maps or apologize for getting east and west mixed up, or strain my eyes to read the road signs ahead.

Now when we are traveling, I relax and let "her" tell him what to do. And therein lies the problem.

It seems my husband isn't used to taking orders from a non-Southern gal. Somehow, we Southern women have a way of sweetening our commands. You know, we can make it seem like it really was HIS idea to take the scenic route and stop by the antique stores, since it's on the way.

But not Auntie Garmin. She's crisp, harsh, abrupt and doesn't sugar-coat it when you turn in the wrong direction. Although my husband appreciates her input, it's her accent, or lack thereof, that really irks him.

I began to wonder -- why not make a GPS with a Southern accent? I would even volunteer to do the voice-over. It would sound something like this, "Turn rite here, sugah," or "Go down past Bubba's filling station and take a left."

I even imagine she would toss in a few bits of advice. as Southern women are apt to do. For instance, if you make a wrong turn, I can hear her say, "I don't like to impose, but I don't believe I would go that way if I were you," or "Slow down now; what's your hurry?"

In the meantime, however, we are stuck with flat mid-western snippy-sounding Auntie Garmin. She's the one responsible for getting us where we are going. She's the one to blame if we get lost. So, if we drive in circles for hours on toll roads looking for Disney World with three hungry kids because she couldn't tell the difference between east and west, it's all her fault now -- not mine. As we Southern women like to say, bless her heart. Now, if she could just remind my son about his toothbrush.

Moms' magical powers

2010-03-26T09:58:00.000-07:00

My son is convinced I have magic powers. I've worked very hard to perpetuate this myth, so I'm almost hesitant to write this column. My hope is I can bury it in a time capsule for him to unearth in 20 years when he has a family of his own. Then he can go, "Ah, so that's how she did it!" Just like the television show "Magicians secrets revealed."

Now, not all of my tricks can be attributed to smoke and mirrors. While many claim moms have a sixth sense, I believe our true secret weapons come from what my husband calls "Moms' turbo senses."

First and foremost, we have a heightened sense of smell. Who among us can deny that moms have the keenest nose around? If you doubt me, just put it to the test. Take one baby with a dirty diaper (aren't they always?) and place said baby in a room with mom and dad together and observe to see which one breaks down and changes it first.

It's my sense of smell, in fact, that, in large part, makes my son believe I'm psychic. Recently, for example, as I tucked him into bed, I leaned over to kiss his cheek and said, "You didn't brush your teeth, did you?"

"I'm going right now!" he said, springing out of bed, shaking his head on his way out, mumbling, "How does she do it?"

"Poor boy," I said to my husband as I came downstairs. "He hasn't learned that he can't eat beef nachos for lunch and get away without brushing his teeth."

Fortunately, right now they are just kid odors, but I can certainly see why my mom and her super senses waited up to hug and kiss me goodnight as a teen.

Thanks to my heightened sense of hearing, I've also convinced my son I have eyes in the back of my head. Just the other day, I heard the front door (which we use primarily for company) open. Then I heard it close quietly. Next I heard the clomp, clomp, clomp of someone running up the stairs.

"Son, what are you doing?"

My bionic ears heard the sound of his footsteps pausing on the stairway.

"I'm just going up to my room for a little bit."

"I know you are filthy; change your clothes now!"

And then my turbo ears heard him mumble, "How does she do it?"

No mom who has taken her kid to the playground or to Monkey Joe's or any busy area can deny our heightened eyesight. Moms can talk, walk and do crossword puzzles without ever taking their eyes off their kids. It's a gift. Not only that, chances are we can keep an eye on other moms' kids in the process. Who's pinching whom? Just ask; we saw it all.

Moms are, perhaps, best known for our sense of taste. Not really our own taste, but our kids' taste. We know what they like and how they like it. In addition, we know how to make vegetables, such as beans, turnip green and carrots, taste good. Tip: Sugar, sugar and more sugar. There's little better than seeing the pleasure in a kid's eyes and then hearing the surprise in his voice when he asks, "You mean this is good for me?"

But, the best of all our senses is that of touch. There are very few things in life, at any age, that a mama's hug won't cure. And guess what? We moms know that those little squeezes are the true source of our magical powers. Without those, we cease to exist. So, even if you're old enough to see beyond our tricks, please keep 'em coming. Though we seem mighty, we really need them.

Fish Tales

2010-03-19T05:52:00.000-07:00

A friend and I swapped fish tales recently. No, we weren't sitting in a boat on a lake. We were standing in Petsmart looking at aquariums.

He revealed that his daughter would like a goldfish for her seventh birthday. He pictured a little round bowl for her dresser. She pictured a big aquarium with a tank, filter, heater, gravel, logs, plants and fun things for the fish to swim through, to the tune of $180.

As they browsed the aisles, he soon realized that the type of fish she liked weren't actually goldfish. They were blood parrot fish. The difference? About $9!

In addition, it turns out that they are social fish, which doesn't mean they like to be petted like my daughter does ours every morning, but that they live in groups, so he'll need at least three or four.

My reply? "You only turn seven once!"

I told him we won our goldfish from the county fair each year. My kids say they live longer. Of course, I confided, when I added up the entrance fee, arm band, $5 per game fee, cotton candy and corn dogs, we probably could have come home with an aquarium full of blood parrot fish, instead of a plastic bag with one tiny goldfish, for the same amount of money.

Speaking of tiny fish, when my daughter was in kindergarten, we, too, went fish shopping. For whatever reason, she fell in love with "Spot." Once they name them, they are yours. Spot, fortunately for me, was in the two-cent tank, otherwise known as the feeder tank, and, fortunately for him, my daughter didn't care.

"You mean you want this one?" asked the sales clerk.

I looked at my daughter. She beamed and nodded. Two cents later, Spot came home with us. He lived to be one month old.

The next year, my daughter came home and said her classroom aquarium was empty. We decided to surprise the kids by filling the tank. My husband had seen some cheaper fish at Wal-mart. Yes, cheaper than two cents. Just kidding. He splurged and spent $1.50 a piece on them, and then $10 on gas for the return trip, as they both died before he reached the school.

Our current fish is a cannibal. One day we woke up, and the kids asked, "Where's Goldie? Spot the Third's in here, but Goldie's gone."

"Did you dispose of Goldie?" I asked my husband out of ear shot.

"Who?"

"The fish. Did you have to flush him?"

"I haven't seen him."

Spot the Third became known as Hannibal from that day forward.

The proudest fish tale I have to tell is about my son. It happened this past fall. He stood in line for 30 minutes for a chance to throw a ball in a fishbowl and take home a goldfish while his other friends played.

"Don't you want to go do the jumpy thing?" I asked, anxious to go to dinner and dreading the thought of carrying a fish around all night. "You are wasting all your play time."

"I want to win a fish," he said.

"Just what we need," I'm pretty certain I said to the mom next to me. And about that time, "Splunk," in the bowl went the ball.

"Mom! I won! I won!"

"OK, son, well, it's time to go now," I said, less than enthused.

"Wait, Mom, I've got to give this to somebody."

And to my amazement, I watched my son take his bag to a kindergarten boy and hand it to him.
He came back and said, "OK, I'm ready now."

"Do you know that boy?"

"No, but I saw him crying because he didn't win a fish. He needs it more than I do."

I have never hugged a kid so hard.

Later, that little boy's mother told me how much it meant to them. It seemed she'd been sick and in the hospital all week. All her son had talked about was getting to the festival so he could win a fish. Not winning the fish triggered a week's full of emotions. I hadn't even noticed the crying boy running by me. Thankfully, my son had. I don't know which mom was happier, but I know we were all glad for that little boy to go home with his fish in the bag.

Well, everyone except for Hannibal, that is.

Snake bit: luck of the Green's

2010-03-15T19:30:00.000-07:00

Saint Patrick’s Day is almost upon us, and the little leprechaun that my children try every year to catch with elaborate traps, is already creating mischief. Just today, in fact, I began to brush my teeth and bleach! realized someone had dropped a big dollop of hand soap on its bristles.

“Son! Did you accidentally drop soap on my toothbrush?” I yelled.

“No, ma’am! I didn’t do it.”

“Well, then, who did?”

“I don’t know. Nobody!” Apparently, that’s our leprechaun’s name.

Not only that, Nobody likes brownies. He likes them so much, he stashed one way up high in the cabinet. I mean, waaayy up high, as in “I have to stand on the counter to reach that cabinet” high. Methinks this was quite the extraordinary leprechaun. Not only that, he must have stashed them up there last March 17 and forgotten them because they were hard as door stoppers.

Yeah, Nobody’s been busy wreaking havoc on the household, dropping everything behind but what I could use a little of – luck. Of course, luck isn’t something I’m used to. Growing up, my sister had all of it, and I used it to my advantage.

“Christie, here take my tickets and win a cake for me,” I’d say at fall festivals.

“Lucky number 21!” the announcer would call.

“Leigh, what kind of cake do you want?”

I’ve seen her win three in a night – easy.

Sometimes we’d go to auctions and talk our parents into buying us grab bags. I don’t remember much about what was in mine, but I know what my sister had in hers – cash. Always. Every time.

I hope I don’t come across as jealous. I wasn’t. She was/is just plain lucky. Some people are, and others are like me, my dad and his father before him are what my dad calls “snake bit.”

Instead of “Rockabye Baby,” my dad used to sing the song, “Gloom, despair, and agony on me.” I loved it because I felt like our “misery” was something we shared and still do.

And, in case you are wondering, snake bit means that the day after vacation when you have an early a.m. meeting, expect your tires to be flat - on both cars! Snake bit means you cure your headache and then your eye swells. Snake bit means you play tennis fighting off sweat bees in your yellow skirt that you wore backwards while all the other women look as cool as cucumbers. Snake bit means you’ll break the light bulbs or the eggs or drop the milk before you get out of the store. Snake bit means you’ll never win the lottery, a raffle, or those concerts tickets. But, you’ll come to live with it because, occasionally, something wonderful will happen.

When my grandmother, whom we called Mama Dot - whose husband I inherited my bad luck from - passed away, the six granddaughters were instructed to draw for her wedding bands. Piggy Green, whom I’m working on a book about, had given it to her in the early 1920s. It is a beauty, white gold with diamonds, and though he died well before Mama Dot did at 99 years, she never took it off.

My snake bit daddy drew on my and my sister’s behalf, and, guess what, I won. So, though I have my frustrating days, days when I wish things would go smoothly, and I wouldn’t find brownies in the cabinet and soap on my toothbrush, I know deep down that I am actually a very lucky girl. And I won't let Nobody tell me any different.

Another bouncing birthday

2010-03-12T05:42:00.000-08:00

Botox, barbells, a blood pressure cuff and a bigger purse -- can you guess by my wish list how old I'll be? If you guessed 4-0, you are wrong! I had a small birthday party recently with my family. My mother bought me a big, black bag with silver studs on it, and large, clunky earrings and a necklace to match.

"Kelly Ripa wears these, so I thought they would look good on you," she said.

Well, what's good for Kelly Ripa is good for me, I thought.

"It can be a new style for you," said my mom.

Why, yes, it could, I thought. Kelly Ripa and I could look like twins!

"You could call it a pre-40 style," she said. "Because you know you are pre-40 now."

Well, that took a little oomph out of it. (Surprisingly, Kelly Ripa is 40. I could have sworn she was about six years younger than I).

I know a lot of women who treat 40, or pre-40, as if it were New Year's, and not the party-till-you-drop part -- the resolution part. I do not.

In fact, I told my girlfriend recently, "Yes, I have a birthday coming up, and I do not want to run a marathon! I do not want to drink less, go to bed earlier, or even exercise more. I just want to go out to dinner to a nice restaurant and eat creamed cauliflower. I don't want you to pay for my meal; I don't want you to buy me any gifts. I just want to go on a girls' night out to my favorite restaurant, the expensive one that I never get to go to."

"Do you want us to donate money to Haiti in your honor like Melinda had us do on her birthday?" asked my friend,

"Well, no, I'm not that good," I said. "I just want you to show up!"

My other treat for my birthday was gluten-free cake. Betty Crocker has a version, and I was so excited that I bought it months ago and have kept it on the shelf just in case the store stopped carrying it.

As I bit into the wheat-free cake, I recalled how when I was a kid I couldn't wait until I was grown. I could eat whatever I wanted when I wanted, drink anything anytime, stay up as late as I desired and shop until I dropped. Money would be no object. I guess I still could (except for the money part) but now I know the consequences are mighty.

So, I'll stick to my gluten-free cake, and perhaps a little ice cream, chased down with some water since I can't have caffeine past 6 p.m. I guess I'm striving for a happy medium. You know, somewhere between marathon running and walking to the mailbox.

Oh, and that nice restaurant? We went, and do you know what happens when you're pre-40? You trip over the black high heels that you wore to match your pre-40 bag and fall face forward toward the sidewalk. And, suddenly, you find your chin within an inch of the pavement, and you are balancing only by your left hand (the right one is still clutching your new bag). Your wrist is sprained, and your pride is bruised, but you've discovered the best part of your new age -- pre-40 women bounce.

Diggin' the bunny slope

2010-03-05T09:15:00.000-08:00

My family made it to the snow-covered town of Beech Mountain, North Carolina (a mean misnomer) in the midst of what the locals call a winter storm and this Georgia girl calls a blizzard. Despite our trepidation, neither snow, nor ice, nor my migraine would stop us from having a good time.

"Can we make it from here?" my husband asked a lone man walking on the side of the road through what appeared to be a ghost town.

"I've been stuck for days in my two-wheel drive," he said, "but you can make it to the resort. Just whip it into the first parking lot, gun it so you can get up enough speed to make it over the hill, and then be prepared to hike up six flights of stairs."

"Is our truck four-wheel drive?" my son asked. It's not, in case you are wondering, but when you have a headachy wife who drank a whole pot of tea that morning, plus two anxiously chattering children, somehow you overcome these obstacles.

"Are you ready to ski?" asked the man at the ski rental counter once we, particularly, me, had finally located "the facilities."

"Well, I'm a little out of my element," I confided. "I've only skied three times in 20 years. I'm pretty nervous about the slopes. I'm really not sure I can do this."

"Here are your skis. Feel free to trade them in for a faster pair later."

Boy, that man was a lousy listener.

Yet another flight of steps later, and we were ready. But first we had to put our skis on. Did you know that if your ski boot has snow on the bottom of it, it won't fit into your ski? Talk about a design flaw!

Thanks to my husband prodding the snow off my boots with his ski poles, I was finally ready to hit the slope -- the bunny slope -- that is. Unfortunately, my first move toward it resulted in my falling flat on my face, with my boots popping out of my skis; hence, more prodding from my husband's poles while I balanced precariously on one foot.

"Come on, mom," said my son as he zipped effortlessly up the hill to the metal handle tow.

I willed my skis to move. They did -- backwards.

"Just walk, mom!" said my son on his second round down. "Put your skis like mine"

I complied and soon found myself sweating through my seven layers with the lift just out of reach.

"Is this your first time skiing?" asked the twenty-something girl manning the bunny slope bar tow.

I moved my ski, slid back, moved my ski, slid back.

"Noooo," I said.

"Have you taken lessons before?"

"Yes," I said, my pride making it sound like, "Duh?"

"Hmmm ..." she said. She might as well have added, "'Well, they didn't take."

She reached her hand out to pull me toward the tow. I moved my skis, and then slid back. Recognizing a pattern here?

"You've got to dig into the snow," she said. "Don't use your poles! Bend your knees! Turn sideways!"

I tried again -- and failed.

"Here, like this! Dig in like this," I heard a man behind me say. I looked back and that's when I realized there was a crowd of 25 people waiting for me to learn to dig.

"Oh, y'all just go around me," I said, on the verge of tears.

"No," said the darn ski tow girl. "You can do it."

About that time, the crowd started to chant "Dig! Dig! Dig!" and so did my son.

What could I do? I dug in the snow, much to the protest of my knees, and grasped the handle of the bunny slope lift with one hand, squatting like I learned to do with water skis.

"Stand up!" the young lift girl yelled. I did, but not before I dropped my poles.

"Now what do I do?"

"Let go when you get to the top!" my son said.

I did, and promptly fell again on my way down. That's when I realized I had no idea how to get up. By the way, why do other skiers gawk? Isn't it common place to see folks on the ground?

I eventually separated my boots from my skis and made my way to a vertical position. My knees, shoulders, and pride aching, I decided I would become my family's official photographer -- without my skis, that is. But, first, perhaps a little more hot tea, for medicinal purposes, of course ...

Facebook, Mrs. Faires, and fun music

2010-02-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

My husband doesn't understand Facebook -- the social networking Web site that allows one to connect with almost anyone and everyone. He has no interest in it and doesn't see why I love it so.

"Isn't there one person in the world whom you're interested in, one person you'd like to contact, to check on and to see what they are doing now?" I asked.

He put down his paper and looked me in the eye.

"Anyone?" I asked, encouraged.

He hesitated and then responded, thoughtfully, "Nope," before picking up his paper again.

Perhaps that's because he never had a Mrs. Faires. Thanks to the magic of Facebook I've reconnected with her. Mrs. Faires was one of the best teachers I've ever had. And I was her very favorite student. I knew I was because she put my picture on the top of her door; she took a personal interest in me; she loaned me books; she showed off my projects to students studying to be teachers at the local college; she encouraged me to write, and she sent me cards and letters affixed with stickers, some of which I still have today.

Mrs. Faires turned what could have been an awkward fifth grade year for this skinny girl with braces into a magical time -- a time free of worries about boys, peer pressure from other girls and the fact that I can't sing a lick.

In fact, the best part of fifth grade, and I think all my former classmates would agree, were Fridays. Each Friday, Mrs. Faires would pull out her record player and albums and pass out folders with the lyrics to a variety of songs, and we would sing -- loudly and happily.
I had lunch with Mrs. Faires recently -- almost 30 years later -- and I must confess, though I was extremely delighted to see her, I couldn't help but debate whether to call her by her first name or last name. Anyway, she confided in me that since she's been on Facebook, she's had many a student recall those Friday "fun music" sing-a-longs.

During Austell's flood this fall, one former student remembered singing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" during Mrs. Faires' class. Another said her husband started whistling "Tom Dooley," and she surprised him by singing every word. During our lunch, I admitted to her that I've impressed my children with my ability to sing every word of "Purple People Eater" and "The Unicorn Song." Well, impressed or perplexed one!

I remember once my fifth grade class talked Mrs. Faires into playing Pink Floyd's "Another brick in the wall." When we got to the "we don't need no education" part, Mrs. Faires pulled the plug. She loved and appreciated music but valued education more.

But most of all, she valued her students -- each and every one. I learned through Facebook that every student Mrs. Faires taught felt they were her favorite. As we lunched, I told her what a wonderful thing that was. While many teachers show favoritism, it's very few who show it to each and every single student in her class and mean it.

And, in case you were wondering, I did try calling her by her first name, Gayle. And when I told my 8-year-old son about it, he said, "You mean you called her by her first name? I would be scared!"

But, the truth is, no matter which name I chose, I am thrilled to be able to now call her not only my teacher, but my friend.

Even 30 years later, teachers still make the difference. Thank you, Mrs. Faires

King for the day

2010-02-19T05:11:00.001-08:00

I always tell my youngest that he is my favorite son. He used to beam with pride until one day it dawned on him, "Hey, wait a minute, I'm your only son!"

Now I hear a lot of jokes about how I'm his favorite mom.

I read somewhere that if every child thinks the other is the favorite, then you've done a good job as a parent. So far, so good at my house. There's been many a time my son has asked why his older sister gets to do so and so. There's only one answer to the question, by the way: "Because she's older!"

Yes, most of the time, I pride myself on keeping the checks and balances in order, but, occasionally, even I find myself shaking my head at something my favorite son has talked me into doing.

And no matter what it is, his big sister (not to mention his daddy) will call me on it every time. Like yesterday, for example:

"You mean to tell me you are going to buy him an Elvis wig just because he doesn't have any hair to comb?" asked my daughter, incredulously, from the back seat.

"Why, yes, I am," I said, shaking my head in wonderment and thinking, how did this happen?

Then I remembered. It all started with a note from his school.

"You have 1950s day at school on Friday," I said.

"Yippee! I get to wear an afro."

"No, that's 1960s; this is 1950s."

"Oh, I thought you said Hippies day," he said. "What's 1950s?"

"You know, like Elvis."

"Oh, what did he look like?"

"Well, he always had his hair slicked back," I said. "You know, like Uncle Bill."

"The tall one?"

"Yes."

"I need some hair gel then," he said.

"You don't have any hair," pointed out my daughter.

I think it was then that I started feeling guilty. I've been giving my son a crew cut since he was 2, and every time he says he wants it to grow out. And every time I try to explain the definition of a cow lick to him. Not to mention, during his last haircut, I was multi-tasking, left the guard off and scalped the poor kid. As a result, somewhere around this time I MAY have mentioned buying a wig. The next thing I know we are at Party City looking at a wall of hair.

"Do you see an Elvis wig that you want?" I asked my son.

"Do you?" he said.

It was at this point I realized he had no idea what Elvis' hair looked like.

"I see hairy chest hair," he giggled.

"I don't think that will be necessary," I said, and $29 later, Elvis Jr. had left the building.

The next day, after a stern warning not to share it with anyone, my son left for school wearing his new wig along with an old pair of blue jeans, a white T-shirt and some sunglasses. As he was brushing his teeth, I told him to make sure he didn't let anyone step on his blue suede shoes.

"Ma'am?" he said.

"That's an Elvis song," I explained.

"Do I need those kind of shoes to go with my hair?" he asked.

"Oh, no, son, I think the hair and sideburns are plenty," I said.

"Thank you, thank you, very much," he said in character and happily went to school.

He reported back later that his hand hurt from signing autographs, and he had to employ several bodyguards to keep the groupie girls away. His teacher wrote me that he entered the classroom and said, "I have a comb, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Perhaps my daughter and husband were right. Perhaps the wig was silly for me to buy, but after all, doesn't everyone deserve to be a king for the day -- especially when you are 8 years old?

Elvis and the mythical creature

2010-02-05T18:48:00.000-08:00

Bear with me, gentle readers (I've always wanted to say that). I have been asked to write a column for my local paper. It will debut next week, and I have two written, which I will post here ASAP. Btw, my first two are on Elvis and the mythical creature I'm married to, though not necessarily in that order. Once I get my column up and running, I will fill in here with shorter, daily(ish) blogs, I promise.

Bye-bye, Bob Bob

2010-01-31T17:29:00.000-08:00

We said good-bye to a gentle giant today - my father-in-law - known affectionately as Bob Bob by his grandchildren (and me, his only daughter-in-law). I had the honor of writing his obituary. We were being charged by the word, and though he’d probably admonish me for going over my budget, it still wasn’t enough.

Bob Bob was one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. He was quick-witted and liked to tease. If he teased you, he liked you, and you could tell it immediately by the mischievous look in his kind eyes.

After my husband and I were married, and I was pregnant with my daughter, whom I just knew would be a boy (I even decorated the nursery in blue. My first lesson in mother’s intuition), Bob Bob informed me that 12 lb. babies ran in their family. And even though his mom was my size (5’2ish and petite), she managed to have five boys on their Kentucky farm all weighing over 12 lbs. Bob Bob would surpass his older brother and father by nearly a foot, eventually reaching 6’7.”

I guess I could have laughed this comment off, but my daughter had her foot planted squarely in my ribs. Not only could I feel how large it was; I could see it. Each night, I’d trace the perfect outline of a baby’s foot – a foot that I had no doubt belonged to a 12 lb. baby.

Bob Bob enjoyed teasing me about it mightily. In the end? I had a long, skinny little baby girl weighing 7 lbs. 8 oz. with the largest feet you’ve ever seen. In fact, she’s still trying to grow into them. If she follows in her grandfather, great-uncles and cousins’ footsteps, there’s no doubt she will.

I am quickly becoming the shortest in the family as height does not run on my side. In fact, I’ll never forget the first time my dad met Bob Bob at my daughter’s cowboy and Indian-themed birthday party. Bob was sitting in a chair, and my dad (5’8 ¾) walked up, stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Bob Bob stood up and extended his hand, and my dad almost got whiplash looking up. It was a priceless moment. They soon put on their cowboy hats and bonded over ice cream and cake and grandchildren.

Speaking of grandchildren, Bob Bob loved his dearly, and it was mutual. My daughter, in particular, spent many hours sitting his lap. She was his girl. When my son came along, we quickly realized he had inherited a bit of his grandfather’s good-natured personality and wit. There’s been many a time I’ve heard Bob Bob tease him about something and witnessed my son’s innocently funny response leave him shaking with laughter, often to the point of tears.

I sat next to my son today and felt him shake with tears, too. This time they were tears over the loss of his dear Bob Bob, the one who kept him supplied with nutty-buddy ice creams, the one who let him punch him as hard as he could, the one who encouraged him to ask his mama impossible questions just to tease her.

Though we were sad, there were many moments Bob Bob would have loved, including the one when my son, all on his own, went over and peered into the casket. He came back and pulled me over to look as I fretted over what his reaction would be.

“They put a suit on him!” he said, shocked.

At this remark, I’m sure Bob Bob - in heaven, shirtless in his swim trunks, the way we remember him from so many times at the beach and the lake - was shaking silently with laughter.

(We love you, Bob Bob. May you rest in peace.)

What's for lunch?

2010-01-25T19:18:00.000-08:00

I recently met my girlfriends for a Girl’s Night Out (Yes, I feel it should be capitalized). We had just ordered our dinner and were sipping a glass of wine when my friend threw a question out there.

“So, what do you pack in your kids’ lunches?”

Yes, our GNOs are a little like Girls Gone Wild.

Fortunately, I was among friends and could answer truthfully – not! My friends love me, but I know far too well that mothers are judged on the lunches they make, by teachers, kids, and, especially, other parents.

How could I say I haven’t made my daughter’s lunch since kindergarten (She’s very independent), and my son is convinced he’s going to get some kind of medal for buying his lunch every day?

I did pack my son’s lunches for a while, in my defense. Each day, I would pack his favorite meal in his lunch pail – Vienna sausages. I soon learned that, even though he liked them, his teachers did not.

“My teacher said these are gross, and she doesn’t want to open them anymore,” said my son after a few weeks.

Well, darn, there goes that food group, I thought.

At least the elementary school standards are lower than they were when my kids were in pre-school. Back then, even the parties had to be nutritious. I can recall being in charge of the Valentine’s Day party one year. My menu: cupcakes, Kool-aid, chips, dip and chicken nuggets; the other party mom’s menu? Peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat sandwiches, carrots, and bottled water

We compromised, and she ended up taking 25 PB&J’s on whole wheat sandwiches back home.

“No, problem,” she said. “I’ll just freeze them and put them in the kids’ lunches.”

(By the way, shown in the photo is a rare Ed McCauley, Space Explorer lunch box. It can be found in the Lunch Box Museum in Columbus, Ga. I smell a road trip coming on ... Wonder what we should pack for lunch? And will a paper bag be acceptable?)

You've come a long way, baby

2010-01-23T19:12:00.000-08:00

Being pregnant has come a long way since I was expecting my first child some, gulp, 19 years ago. These days being pregnant is en vogue. Hollywood deserves part of the credit as celebrities proudly display their “baby bumps.”(I despise that expression, by the way).

Today, pregnant women have never looked so good. In fact, thanks to retailers such as Target and Old Navy, every pregnant woman can look like a movie star. They have access to stylish dresses, designer shirts and even super cute blue jeans, all for a reasonable price. What a far cry from the homemade orange jumper I used to wear, not because I liked looking like a pumpkin, but because it was comfortable (i.e. it fit), and, oh, yes, free, a hand-me-down from my cousin.

Back then maternity clothes were at a premium. There wasn’t even a Motherhood store in those days. Fortunately, I had a resourceful mom who would scour the thrift shops for bargains for me. I remember one outfit distinctly. It was a pair of pink maternity overalls with what looked like a large bib to cover my stomach. I wore it with fake pearls and white cowgirl boots. It was the late 80’s, after all.

Another advantage today’s women have is special parking for expecting moms. I have never once in my life had special parking, especially when I was pregnant, and hoofing it around my college campus trying to make it to class on time. But, around town, realistically, that was just fine. Someone told me walking would make labor easier, so I walked miles and miles and miles and miles.

Two weeks past my due date, after a full day of labor, I was rushed into the operating room for an emergency c-section. I can recall my doctor asking, “Are you the pregnant woman I’ve seen walking all over town?”

“Yes,” I said, as I counted backwards from ten. “I couldn’t get special parking.”

Today, pregnant women have better ultrasounds than we did, too. With the modern 3-D ultrasounds, you can tell what the baby looks like before he leaves the womb.

“Look, honey, he looks just like Uncle Bill,” says today’s mom as the baby waves.

I’m sorry, that is just creepy.

For my first ultrasound, I had to drink 8 full glasses of water and hold it. I had tears when I saw the black grainy photos of my baby, tears from a bladder that was about to burst.

“Do you want to know if it’s a boy or girl?” the technician asked.

“Yes,” I managed to say.

“Well, you have a 50/50 chance that it’s a girl!”

“Fantastic! Wait a minute! Isn’t that what I had to begin with?” I yelled on my way to the bathroom.

There was one big advantage back then, though, and it certainly wasn’t the baby equipment. I can recall lifting my sleeping baby from the car seat to the carrier to the stroller to the swing. I quickly learned that putting the baby into her car seat was the most difficult task. I would bump my head every time. I really needed a police officer to push it down like you see on COPS.

No, the big advantage was the hospital stay. I spent an entire week with the first, two days with the second (eight years later) and with the third? Let’s just say I had him at 4:27 a.m., and right after my breakfast of watery eggs, they told me I could go home. My reply?

“Can I please stay until lunch?”

The women of my grandmother’s era had the right idea when it came to birthing babies – a full week or two in the hospital, and once at home, they were treated like royalty and not allowed to get out of bed.

I have photos of my grandmother propped up on an array of pillows looking like the Queen of Sheba. My dad was about one-month old at the time. The day I brought my third child home I washed sheets and cooked homemade potato salad. Two days later, I was running car pool, and a week later, I was at Wal-mart. I’m sure today’s women are doing close to the same.

I guess there’s a trade-off to snazzy clothes, convenient parking and cool gadgets after all. So, which generation would you choose?

Don't feed the animals

2010-01-18T20:00:00.000-08:00

The kids were out of school today, so after three days of rain and “Mom, she’s staring at me!” I decided we needed to get out of the house. The Yellow River Game Ranch, near Stone Mountain, had advertised $1 day, perfect for my budget, so off we went.

Before we left, I made sure I packed a few treats for the animals. I can recall spending $4 on bear food when my oldest daughter was young. It came in a brown paper bag. I remember ripping it open expecting to see raw meat only to find four marshmallows. Apparently bears have a sweet tooth. Just not everybody realizes it, I would soon learn.

The park entrance was hard to miss. It was the one with 10,000 cars lined up to get inside, and they were all filled with women drivers. Now, I really hate those kinds of stereotypes, but these women were not doing my sex any favors – backing up when they should be going forward, stopping in the middle of the road and not moving, texting while driving. At one point, my friend (who followed us there) rolled down her window at a woman who was clearly driving in the wrong direction, and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m having a problem,” she said, as she pounded a message into her cell phone. I guess my friend (and I) should have asked if we could help her, but we had wild animals to see. And, once inside, we were not disappointed. The park was full of them. I just didn’t realize they’d all be from the suburbs.

As we entered the park, which is filled with hundreds of deer that roam freely, we saw a small deer being fed a carrot by a lady. Needless to say, my children were excited. They ran up to the deer and stuck out their own carrots on which the deer promptly nibbled, delighting them far beyond their $1 admission price.

“Well, that’s just rude!” said the woman who’d made friends with the deer. I looked around. Yep, she was talking about us.

“Let’s go somewhere else where there’s not so much rudeness!” she said to her friend, giving my innocently eager children a dirty look. Apparently, she and the deer had become more than friends, and she wanted more one-on-one time with him. To each his own.

We then navigated amongst strollers and parents who, to my amazement, warned their kids, “Don’t touch the animals.”

“That’s like taking your kids to a pool and telling them not to swim,” said my friend, Heather.

We finally reached the bear cage where the big bear was lumbering below.

“Mom, quick, hand me a marshmallow,” said my son, looking down on the compost pile of uneaten lettuce, carrots, saltine crackers, and peanuts that the store sold.

The woman in front of me turned to her husband and said loudly, enunciating every syllable, “They do not even allow marshmallows in the park!”

I looked at my friend, a bit embarrassed, and asked, “Did I miss the ‘No marshmallows allowed’ sign?”

My friend assured me I did not.

I could tell these good people were really upset about it, so I frantically tried to cram what my friend called “a lifetime supply of marshmallows” down into my already full back pack. It didn’t matter because my son continued to yell, “Come on, bear, eat your marshmallow! There’s your marshmallow. Mom, can I have another marshmallow? Why won’t he eat his marshmallow?”

At this point, the uptight man looked at him and said, “BECAUSE BEARS DON’T EAT MARSHMALLOWS!”

I wanted to say, Well, tell that to the brown, hairy guy with sticky white goo on his face because, lo and behold, he ate it. And then he licked his lips and sniffed around for more.

I don’t know what that family had against marshmallows, but I quickly guided the kids away from the bear cage and down to the petting zoo. I was starting to get a little bit of a sick feeling in my stomach over human behavior – pushing, shoving, yelling, screaming, and arguing. Which group really belonged in a zoo?

I watched as a little girl tried to feed a small chicken in a cage.

“No, don’t touch it! It will bite! It will bite you!” screamed the girl’s mother as the parents yanked her hand back. I’m no country girl, but this was surreal. I mean, I haven’t heard of anyone who was maimed by a chicken, especially one in a cage.

As I stood there thinking that this was not what nature was all about, something miraculous happened.

“Look!” Heather said, pointing to a quiet corner of the corral. “A mother sheep just had a baby.”

And sure enough, we spotted it, just about the time it stood up and took its first few tentative steps. Without fanfare or attention from the mobs of mankind, a little lamb was born. We stood and watched in quiet awe as its mother licked and then nursed it, all the while throngs of noisy people passed by totally unaware.

When they saw their first deer, my children had declared it the best animal park ever, and, suddenly, I had to agree.

Run like a mother

2010-01-13T09:30:00.000-08:00

I shuffled to the mailbox today looking like Mrs. Wiggins from Carol Burnett. My ankles hurt, my knees ached, my thighs burned, and I think we’d better stop there.

You see, since it’s not socially acceptable to drink 24/7, I thought I would attempt to achieve a runner’s high. I mean, all my friends are doing it. Well, peer pressure ain’t what it used to be. Now days women are expected to bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and then burn it off with a half-marathon. I blame Sarah Palin.

Ironically, the older the woman, the farther the distance she’s expected to run. And having children does not excuse one from this expectation. I recently saw a woman cross the finish line of a 5K pushing not one, not two, not three, but four toddlers, also known as quadruplets.

It was then and there I realized I could no longer use running the Fun Run with my kids as an excuse, especially since they are well beyond the toddler stage. So, last winter, I entered a 5K in my small town. I soon learned it’s not just a 5K. It’s a major social event in which anyone who is anybody participates, if not by running, then serving food and cheering people on along the sidelines.

I will spare you the details of my run – how little kids zipped by me, how I managed to finally pass an 80-year-old (No, I did not steal his cane), how my friend from high school thought my time was great, great for a 10K, that is.

Alas, it’s a new year, and even though I’ve written before (click HERE) about my being born not to run, I’m going to give it another go. This year I’m even training for it; hence, my sore muscles. So, even though I’m in the throes of a runner’s low, I’m going to fill out the application that (ironically) was in the mail today. Why? ‘Cause I’m a woman!

Blame it on my DNA

2010-01-10T19:35:00.000-08:00

I just invested a small fortune on DNA repairing moisturizer, and I didn’t even know mine needed it! Sorry, Mom and Dad, according to the saleslady, it really does. Fortunately, now, if I apply two drops of this magic elixir to my face each night, my flawed, damaged DNA will heal itself.

Amazing, isn’t it? Amazing that I fell for it, that is.

It’s been frigid in Georgia – in the low teens for weeks – and suddenly my face has become exceedingly dry. I realize that’s not a big problem to have, but it’s annoying, so I figured I needed to add moisturizer to my normal skincare regime of doing, well, nothing.

I even mentioned it to a friend at church this morning. And she responded by looking me dead in the eye and saying, “Well, I think that’s because you are just getting old.”

Sorry, did I say friend? I meant ex-friend.

As a result, I took my dry skin, still stinging from the insult as much as the weather, to the make-up counter of our town’s large department store. I marched over to the area in the back where I usually buy my “affordable but still good” stuff and waited. Finally, I was approached by a porcelain-skinned model/saleslady from the “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it” section, who informed me that my girl didn’t show up for work that day.

“I can show you some items over here, however,” she said, gliding toward the shiny counter as I followed blindly.

“Now what can we do for you?”

I told her I was looking for just a plain moisturizer.

“Oh, I have something better than that …”

She slathered my hand with miracle cream. Not only did it feel softer and smoother, I could actually see the difference. Or at least I thought I could. Not to mention there was research to prove it, even the box said so. See below:

This pivotal research showed that clock genes regulate a series of precisely timed repair responses within each skin cell to help maximize its DNA repair. Furthermore, with age and repeated exposure to environmental stresses, skin's clock genes become de-synchronized, causing its repair and protective processes to slow down.

Who am I to argue with facts like that? My skin’s clock genes are counting on me.

So, half of my children’s inheritance later, I exited the store with a tiny bottle of magic serum, plus a tiny tube of moisturizer for my lips. By the way, I’m smart enough to know that it was just fancy chapstick. As far as the miracle moisturizer? I figure it can’t hurt to try. And if it doesn’t work? I guess I can blame it on my DNA.

(By the way, “Blame it on my DNA” is also the title of a song by one of my favorite singers, Georgia’s own Diane Durrett. You can check her out HERE.)

The "S" word

2010-01-07T07:58:00.000-08:00

Lately, everyone in Georgia is using the “S” word. I hear it when I turn on the television, at work, from my friends. Even my son said it this morning. If you are from around here, you know what I’m talking about – snow.

Yes, Georgia is expecting snow – one to two inches, which means we are preparing. Though there’s scarcely a cloud in the sky, schools are already cancelling for the day as are extracurricular activities. I stayed home from work. Bread and milk are flying off the shelves, and, fortunately, the winter coat I ordered online for my daughter just arrived.

Now we are waiting, and I hope it comes because I have a little boy who will be so disappointed if it doesn’t. Even his teachers were talking about it, he said.

I found him looking sadly out the window this morning when I woke up, “Well, no snow,” he said, in a weary voice.

“Give it time,” I said. “Maybe by noon.”

That brought on a whole new set of worries.

“How will I get home? You know the buses won’t run,” he said.

I assured him I would come get him, even if I had to trek to the school in snow boots (which I don’t own, by the way, but he doesn’t know that).

Satisfied, we bundled up and went out the door.

“It doesn’t feel quite as cold as it did yesterday,” I said.

“Well, that’s because it was 12 degrees yesterday; today, it is 18.”

Honestly, that’s cold enough to make me say the “S” word, and I'm afraid I don't mean snow.

Mama's in the kitchen

2010-01-04T09:01:00.001-08:00

What a bizarre day! I’m still trying to figure out how I just spent three hours in the kitchen when none of my New Year’s resolutions had anything to do with cooking. Well, with my cooking, that is.

It started with the collard greens. My daughter loves them, and no wonder – I load them up with sugar. Parents, if you are looking for a way to get your kids to eat their vegetables …

I put a big pot on the stove, tossed in the greens, borrowed some apple cider vinegar, poured in the sugar and then turned around and saw a big bag of new potatoes. Suddenly, we needed potato salad; hence, another big pot on the stove. That’s when I spotted the peanuts, the raw ones that I searched five grocery stores to find this summer when I was determined to boil my own. Enter the crockpot. Followed by a hungry husband who, after opening the pots, wants to know, “What’s for dinner?” which means “Where’s the beef?” My husband does not do veggie plates, with or without sugar.

“How about the leftover shrimp from our New Year’s Eve boil?” I suggested.

“Shrimp and grits?” he asked, always pushing.

“Okay, sure,” I said, thinking I could open a packet of instant grits, throw the shrimp on top and be out of there in 15 minutes.

You see, something happens if I’m in the kitchen too long. Despite its cheery color, I start feeling a little like the woman in the short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper.” In other words, the walls start closing in on me, expiration dates start calling out to me, dishes start begging to be washed, the floor demands to be mopped, and the windows remind me that I never had those curtains made.

“You’ll need chicken broth,” he said, as he opened the cabinet.

Oh, boy, I thought, reminding myself to cancel the cooking network first thing in the morning.

One trip to the grocery later, and I’ve got my laptop propped precariously by the sink as I sauté the shrimp in a pan in which I just fried bacon to crumble on top of my culinary masterpiece. In the pan with the shrimp is freshly minced garlic. I have been in the kitchen about, oh, two and a half hours now.

My very hungry husband comes in, spies the garlic cloves on the counter, and asks helpfully, “How many more of these do you need?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply, stirring collards, peanuts, potatoes and sautéing shrimp, as my kids ran in and out of the kitchen asking, “Okay, Mom?” to a question I never heard.

They know I always say yes when I busy.

“This recipe doesn’t call for garlic,” said my husband looking up from the computer.

“Well, it does now,” I said.

“How about the grits? Which pot has the grits in it?”

“Oh, dear! I haven’t started the grits. I should have cooked those first.”

“Yes, you should have. The grits will take 15 min.” he said.

I looked at the full stove and the shrimp that was almost finished cooking in the pan.

“Well, this will just have to come off,” I said. “I’ll reheat it after I get the grits going.”

And then he did it. He made the face. The “Well, that won’t be any good face,” and I’m putting it politely. I read a lot more into it. So, I gave him the face back. The “I’ve been working in the kitchen for hours, and you are going to eat it and like it” look. Yes, my looks say so much.

He apparently felt the heat because he hustled out of the kitchen. That’s when I realized I really could use some help, so I called the children in – a sure sign of desperation.

“Sweetie, can you please help grate the cheese,” I asked my daughter. “I don’t think your brother can do it.”

“What can’t I do?” he said.

Darn, reverse psychology!

Feeling bad, I said, “Okay, son, you can try it.”

He eagerly reaches for the hunk of cheese.

“BUT, wash your hands first.”

He complied, and I turned around just in time to see him grabbing the cheese with dripping wet hands.

“And DRY them!”

After sheepishly complying, he worked the cheese grater like a pro, as my daughter stirred the pots, read the recipe, and set the table.

When dinner was finally served, they cleaned their plates. I’m not sure whether it was from hunger or pride from their contribution, but they declared it my best meal ever. And I vowed to serve it again – next New Year’s.

(Want to try the recipe? Click Here!)

Blame it on the milkman

2009-12-28T14:01:00.000-08:00

Sigh. Today was my big “Back to work with a vengeance” day, and I woke up with a searing migraine. And, I use the word “searing” because it felt like someone had stuck a hot fire poker through my skull and was slowly twisting. In other words, it was a doozie.

Fortunately, there’s medicine for it. Only one problem, it was at the pharmacy, and I had to go get it. So, as I waited in the drive thru line with my head on the steering wheel, watching the woman in front of me swinging her fist at (and missing) her two small kids as they bounced around in her back seat, I wondered, Why don’t pharmacies deliver?

I would tip them really well; I promise. I mean, heck, I’m already paying $23 a headache pill, what’s 20% gratuity on top of that?

Another item I wish were home delivered is milk. I say bring back the milkman! What happened to the poor fellow anyway? Maybe he suffered from “Blame the milkman” syndrome. I don’t know, but, oh, what I would do to have milk in the house when we need it, which is every single day. Yes, we are out of milk every day. I’ve tried buying two gallons of milk at a time. Know what happens? We are out of two gallons of milk every day.

My boys love to drink milk. When I say boys, I mean my eight-year-old and my husband, who is really an eight-year-old trapped in an adult man’s body, methinks. We girls, my daughter and I, who really need to drink milk since osteoporosis runs in the family, rarely touch the stuff.

Therefore, I never know if we are close to being out until I get the “Stop by and get milk” phone call, which is usually when I’m on the way home from the pharmacy! At the very least, I should be able to pick up a gallon of milk at a drive thru. We used to have a drive thru beer store, so why not a drive thru milk store?

All of this thinking is making my head hurt again. Think I’ll take another $23 pill and wash it down with a cold glass of milk, if there’s any left in the fridge, that is.

Just do it anyway

2009-12-26T18:10:00.000-08:00

It’s the day after Christmas, and I’ve just about given up on my resolutions. No, I don’t mean for 2009 – those were long since abandoned – I mean for 2010.

I knew someone once who never made resolutions. He said they just led to failure. Of course, he started everyday with a Budweiser instead of Wheaties, so, perhaps, he was already there.

Regardless, I’ve about decided that mine – get up early, work-out consistently, stop procrastinating, get organized and walk the dog – are totally unattainable. Yet, I know people who do these things faithfully every day.

As I stumble out of bed and toss my kids their eggos, I see my neighbor sitting around the dining room table with her family feasting on bacon and eggs and omelets and homemade waffles. At least, in my mind, that’s what they are eating. At the very least, she's gotten up early enough to sit at the table.

As I sleepily drive the kids to school, I pass three women who walk five miles every day, whether it be drizzling rain, muggy heat or freezing cold. Did I mention they were all over 60, and one of them has had both hips replaced?

I have a friend who does the opposite of procrastinate. What’s that called? Oh, yeah, planning ahead. She works three months in advance. Me? My husband gave me a three-month calendar for Christmas, and I had to take it down because it made me dizzy. And, believe it or not, I didn’t even get around to making last year’s resolutions until July! (Click HERE to see what they were)

As far as organization, I have a friend who meticulously scrapbooks every moment of her kids’ lives, and - get this – actually enjoys it!

And, regarding the dog, my sister, who is much smaller than I, has two very large dogs that she manages to walk without them jerking her arm out of socket like my dog does – and I use a choke collar.

Though sometimes it feels hopeless, I’m not ready to give up making resolutions and drink Budweiser for breakfast. This year I’m going to make one resolution and one only – quit making excuses and just do it. (Feel free to insert your own bad Tiger Woods joke here, by the way.)

Happy (early) New Year!

Overheard while shopping ...

2009-12-22T18:58:00.000-08:00

Overheard while I was shopping last night …

“Mom, you are in that lady’s way.”

“No, I’m not. She’s helping me find a card.”

“Mom, this isn’t Hallmark. What kind of card are you looking for?”

“I want one that says, ‘To my granddaughter and her new husband on their first Christmas.’”

“Mom”

“What?”

“Nevermind”

***********

“How can you tell what size these are?” asked a man looking at pajamas.

“On the tag,” replied the woman next to him, an apparent stranger.

“But how can you tell what size fits what?”

“Well, I’m a small,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, quickly putting the pair back, “I think I need a medium or maybe a large.”

“Don’t buy her a large,” she said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Just save your receipt. If she needs to take it back, she can.”

Suddenly it hit him, “Ahhhh, medium it is.”

*******

“What is she – a toddler or a baby?”

******

“I don’t want to get them any junk. They will just tear it up and throw it away! Let’s get them a game table. They can’t throw that away.”

Don't ever call me ma'am

2009-12-20T10:51:00.000-08:00

There are certain mysteries that I will never understand: the meaning of life, quantum physics, and why it is that I’m unable to get my 11-year-old daughter to call me ma’am, but a 25-year-old woman will?

It happened last night at a Christmas party – a Christmas party, mind you. Women, you know what this means. I was bringing my A game – boots, new sweater, just-right jeans, big hair – I think the big hair might have been my undoing.

Anyway, I see a woman standing in the midst of a group of men (That should have been my first clue), but instead I think, “Poor girl. She doesn’t know anyone, and she is stuck over there talking to those guys.”

So, I walk over and introduce myself, and ask her some question which I’ve long since forgotten, and the woman, who is a foot taller than I am, looks at me and answers, “Yes ma’am.” Yes freaking ma’am. Sorry, losing my composure a little.

Now, in case you are wondering, it’s not the first time I’ve been called ma’am.(If you’d like to read about that painful experience, please click here). However, it’s the first time I’ve been called that by a woman I’m trying to socialize with at a Christmas party, a woman who is dating a neighbor of mine, a woman who should be my equal (or vice versa).

If I had been wearing a hideous Christmas sweater and polyester pants and had gray hair, then, okay, I would understand, but I had my black boots on, for heaven’s sake.

I felt like I had been slapped in the face.

“Ma’am? Why are you calling ME that?”

“That’s how I was raised. That’s what my parents taught me.”

“Yes, that’s wonderful. IF YOU WERE TALKING TO AN OLD PERSON!”

I was beginning to draw a crowd, so I stammered and stuttered my way on to the next polite question but not before I hissed in a threatening tone loud enough for only her to hear, placing emphasis on each word: “Don’t–ever-call–me–ma’am.”

We got along just fine after that.

Bring on a new year

2009-12-19T07:42:00.000-08:00

It’s almost the night before Christmas, and I say bring on the New Year. Am I a Scrooge? Quite possibly, yes.

I know it is Jesus birthday, and I do love Jesus, but can’t I celebrate it without the lights, the fanfare, the Visa bill? I mean, certainly his birth did not come with all the build up that Christmas comes with now.

And to make matters worse, almost every time I turn on the radio or enter a store I hear the lyrics, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year …” Oh, yeah? Then why is this line so long, and why do I feel so cranky, and why is it I’m so busy buying that I haven’t had any time to spend with my children?

Maybe I’m like Charlie Brown and manage to take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem.

Anyway, I long for a new year. I heard once Christmas is like the Olympics of motherhood. If that is the case, I’m not much of an athlete. My daughter made all of her own cookies, the choir director keeps nagging my son about returning the choir robe, I’ve just now mailed the Christmas cards, and I haven’t even delivered all of our Sally Foster wrapping paper. It’s just not my season.

But New Year’s? That I can do. I make the best turnip greens, just ask my daughter, and I can open the best can of black-eyed peas. And I can resolve to work-out, get up early, go to bed early, drink less, write more, pray more, run, you name it. Yes, New Year's I can do.

And if I don’t? Well, nobody’s disappointed. In fact, it’s expected. So, I say get a move on, Santa. Baby New Year is coming through.

Don't get dirty!

2009-12-13T18:21:00.000-08:00

Raising a boy is a dirty job – a filthy job, actually, especially when you are the person washing his clothes. My son, whom I adore, has reached an all new level of grime.

So much so that I recently told him he would have to learn to do his own laundry. He had the exact look on his face that his dad gets when I tell him the same thing - the kind of too-scared-to-argue-with-a-crazed-woman look.

It all came to a head the night of his choral concert. He was supposed to wear a tux, which was fortunately provided by the school.

“All I need is a pistol, Mom, and I’ll be James Bond.”

I wonder if James Bond’s mom worried about him making it out the door without getting his crisp, white shirt dirty.

The night in question I was working in Atlanta, so I called my husband about an hour before I arrived home.

“Oh, he’s playing in the woods.”

“Make sure he comes home and gets cleaned up.”

“No problem,” he said. Women, you know what that means.

I came home to a sheepish-looking boy and an angry husband.

“He is not allowed to go up there for a week!”

I wanted to say, “Why are you punishing me?”

But, instead, I gave him the know-better-than-argue-with-a-dad-who-has-had-it look.

Apparently, my son had come home as called, gotten cleaned up, put on a new set of clothes and then asked to go back outside again. My husband told him not to come home dirty. To his credit, he didn’t; he came home filthy. At least he wasn’t wearing his tux.

Long story short, after a good scrubbing, some pushing and pulling, we managed to rope him into his penguin-suit. We weren’t allowed to walk him to his chorus room, so we dropped him off and prayed he wouldn’t fall into a puddle on the way.

“DON’T GET DIRTY!” my husband and I warned simultaneously as he clamored out of the truck.

The performance went off without a hitch. He sang his heart out despite the fact that his collar was choking him profusely. And, believe it or not, he stayed cleaned. His shirt was untucked, and there was poison ivy on his face from an earlier romp in the woods, but he was clean. And I even have a picture to prove it.

True love

2009-12-06T19:07:00.000-08:00

My son thinks a girl at school likes him. How does he know? She asked him to marry him. He told her to wait until they are in college.

“There’s no way I’m doing that now,” he said. What a relief for his mom! Not to mention, he’s only in third grade and already thinking about college!

Last night, he announced again, “I think Sally likes me.”

“You do? What makes you think that?” I asked.

“When I dropped my pencil, she picked it up and kissed it over and over.”

“Well,” I said, a little taken aback. “She has very good taste. I don’t blame her for liking you.”

He beamed from ear to ear.

“So, what did you say to her after that?” I asked, practicing my role as future nosy mother-in-law.

“I told her she could keep it,” he said. “No way would I want it back after that.”

We, his dad, sister and me, laughed heartily while my son sat quietly.

“Dang! I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

“Why?”

“I just remembered that was my lucky pencil.”

“What’s so lucky about it?” I asked. I’ve learned it pays to ask these questions.

“I found it on the playground and later I wrote a whole one-page essay with it," he said.

“Are you going to ask for it back?” his sister asked.

“No, I’ll let her keep it,” he said, his eyes shinning and his mouth fixed in a goofy grin.

Ah, true love ….

Why men need Girl's Night Out

2009-12-02T18:35:00.000-08:00

It’s almost that time of the month. Oh, relax! I mean, GNO, short for Girl’s Night Out. Men, if you are, number one, still reading past the first sentence, and, number two, married and want to stay happily married, then embrace these evenings.

Women need to go out with the girls. If you happen to be the jealous type, trust me, they aren’t looking for other men. In fact, usually they are so exasperated with the one they have, they are oblivious even to Brad Pitt, for lack of a better example. Women just need to vent. No offense, but the harmless annoying stuff you do just builds up, and women must have an outlet for it. She’s going to vent, believe me. Far better she vent to her girlfriends about what you’ve done wrong the last few days, weeks, months, okay, years than to you.

So, if you wife says it’s time for GNO, do not reply by saying, “AGAIN?” because chances are, yes, it has been at least a month, and, yes, you’ve done enough that she deserves to go out AGAIN. I know there are exceptions to this. Somewhere out there is a perfect man who does laundry, cooks breakfasts, likes to read and never leaves the seat up, but chances are this mythological creature doesn’t belong to her, so GNO it is!

Another piece of advice for those men who are still reading (and God bless you if you are), don’t think by saying, “Well, I’m going to call Johnny and go to Hooters,” that you are somehow offending her ‘cause she is thinking, “Yeehaw! I don’t have to cook dinner that night!”

Do not ask me how I know this, by the way. I’m a Pisces. I’m intuitive.

Also if your wife goes out, do not comment about how expensive the restaurant is. Just don’t do it. So what if it is the nicest one in town? At least you don’t have to go with her and pay twice as much for something called creamed cauliflower (which I’ve heard is delicious).

In addition, do not lock the door if you go to bed before she gets home. She will not have her key; the spare is never where it should be, and one of you (more than likely both) is going to end up angry. And that means another GNO – soon.

Finally, make sure the kids are in bed when she gets home. No complaining, plus kids asleep, means a good night for you. If you’ve given them a bath, then make that a very good night.

You can thank me later.

The legend of the rooster

2009-11-29T11:49:00.000-08:00

I woke up at 3 a.m. Saturday morning with a strong desire to strangle a rooster. Lest you think I’ve flown the coup (ha, ha, ha), I’d better start at the beginning.

It was Black Friday in the woods. You see, each year on the day after Thanksgiving, while others crowd the mall, my family and hundreds like us flee to one of Georgia’s state parks to either (a) escape from relatives (b) work off the extra dressing (c) get as far away from the stores as possible or (d) all of the above.

This year we chose Tallulah Gorge as our destination, with its cushy rubber path leading, or should I say misleading, us to a horrific descent of 1,000 steps to the bottom of the gorge. Word to the wise – when the park ranger asks if you’ve ever been down there before and then looks at you and shakes his head as to say another one bites the dust, don’t get offended and insist that he underestimated you and your family. And don’t tell him you aren’t afraid of crossing swift water on slippery rocks, like he said his wife was, because you are probably a lot younger than she. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t even think of bragging about what kind of shape you are in because he will see you slinking by the desk after your hike – sweaty, dirty and barely able to put one foot in front of the other. And he is not above telling you I told you so. Just take my word for it!

But back to the rooster story. We managed to drag ourselves out of the gorge without getting wet, a miracle if you know my son’s attraction to water.

“I’m so glad I didn’t fall in,” he said, in the truck on the way out of the park. “Mama said she was going to be mad at me if I did.”

“Which scares you more – falling in the freezing water and getting swept downstream over the waterfall or mama being mad at you?” my husband asked.

“Mama being mad! I could handle the other,” he said, without hesitation.

I smiled proudly. I must be doing an okay job then, I thought.

We were dry but hungry, so after a pit stop at a gift shop called Goats on the Roof, we began looking for food. And, yes, Goats on the Roof actually has goats on the roof. I can imagine how that marketing strategy came about … Say, Daryl, what if we built a gift shop and put goats on the roof? Yeah, Larry, that’s a great idea. We can use your goats. But what do we call it? … (No disrespect, it’s actually a very cool place.)

Long story short, we ended up eating at the Dillard House and taking the last room they had, which was fortunate because I’m sure Norman Bates was running the only other motel in the area with vacancies.

Since this was our first visit to the Dillard House, we couldn’t believe the quality and quantity of the food.

“This is food heaven,” said my son.

Not wanting to waste, plus famished from our day’s adventure, we ate and ate and ate – fried shrimp, country fried steak, fried catfish (Recognize a theme here?), French fries, BBQ chicken, creamed corn, slaw, relishes, salads, butter beans, green beans, one sweet casserole with coconut made from an unidentifiable vegetable, and a creamed cabbage dish that I was relieved I didn’t like. After our food frenzy, we waddled, I mean, walked to our cozy room, marveling again at our good fortune.

The room was warm, and our beds soft and full of pillows. Before we knew it, we were asleep, and I was having a wonderful dream about being at my grandmother’s house, when “Cock-a-doodle-do,” a rooster crows. Really Cock-a-doodle-do sounds pleasant compared to the loud squawking sound this creature was making. It was more like a “RACK-A-RACK-A-RAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCKKKK.” And it went on all night long with his friend joining him.

At about 3:30 a.m., I elbowed my snoring husband, “Do you hear that racket?”

“I do now,” he said.

He did not go out and kill the rooster as I suggested. He did eventually go out and throw a rock at it, however, and reported back that there were two, and they were nestled in a tree directly across from our room.

At about 4:30 a.m. I felt like I was undergoing some psychological torture. The minute I would start to doze off, they would crow again. Clearly, these creatures were mocking me. At about 5:30 a.m., my son woke up.

“Mom, do you hear that chicken?” he asked. “If I had a shot gun or bow and arrow, I would kill it!”

“No, son, I wouldn’t let you,” I said. “That punishment is too easy. I’d rather strangle it with my bare hands.”

Then my animal-loving daughter spoke up.

“Mom, poor roosters. They are just confused by the street lights, poor things.”

“Why do roosters crow at the sun, anyway?” I asked, thinking that the Bates Motel might have been preferable.

Speaking of the sun, it finally came up, and I walked out the door to confront my torturer and put an end to this once and for all. As I did, he and his friend, or, perhaps, his rival, flew right over my head. I guess they saw the crazed look in my eye. The kids thought it was the funniest thing ever.

In fact, instead of being grumpy from lack of sleep, we laughed and laughed as each of us took turns imitating the roosters’ crow. My son said mine sounded like Scooby-doo. We then went out and commiserated with the other sleepless hotel guests. I had just vowed to never return as long as roosters roamed the planet when my daughter made me promise to come back in the spring.

On the way home, I thought maybe one day when they are grown and at the table with their families, they’ll remember this trip fondly, and say to their children, “Did I ever tell you about the time your grandma wanted to strangle a rooster?”

Thanksgiving wish list

2009-11-22T18:50:00.001-08:00

After thirty some odd years of sitting at the kids' table for Thanksgiving, I have been promoted to head chef. It’s like going from janitor to CEO. I would use some kind of sports analogy here like minor to major league, but that’s best left to the sports-writing professionals.

Anyway, it’s on me. And I don’t care if it is just my mom and dad coming, that’s a lot of pressure. Of course, I volunteered for it and am excited about it. I decided I would keep it simple and make it a family affair: turkey cooked by the hubby, dressing by Aunt Pearle (found in the freezer section of Publix), corn by McKenzie’s (freezer section), green beans by Allen’s (found in big can) and rolls by Sister Schubert (We all know where to find her).

But, alas, my husband got involved.

For him, planning a Thanksgiving menu is like the kids making a wish list for Santa - lots of unrealistic items on it. His first one was giblet gravy. For starters, I’m not hundred percent certain what a giblet is much less how to make gravy from it. His second item? Homemade dressing. That I may be able to do, except he and I have a difference of opinion between what qualifies as dressing and what qualifies as stuffing – a major difference of opinion.

Then he requested broccoli casserole. I can’t really blame the man for this one. Ever since we got back from our honeymoon, he’s asked me to make it. I told him as soon as I found a good recipe. That was almost 14 years ago. Needless to say, it made the list. His next item was homemade rolls like my grandmamma used to make. Oh, how I miss her. It’s amazing how certain smells can bring her right back. Makes me wonder if one day my kids will catch a whiff of Little Caesar’s pizza and think, “Oh, reminds me of my mom …”

Back to the wish list …

“I found a good garlic mashed potatoes recipe,” said my helpful husband.

“I don’t think that will work with instant,” I said.

“Well, we can do real ones if you like,” he said. “If we are cooking, we are cooking.”

In case you are unclear, we equals me.

Today, he asked, albeit a bit tentative, “What kind of pies are you making?”

“I am BUYING pumpkin,” I replied.

“Well, what about pecan?” he ventured. “You know Mrs. So and So’s recipe from church. Can you call her to get it?”

Man, he was getting brave in his hunger.

Lest I seem like I’m picking on him, my kids have been every bit as bad. I looked at my list today and someone had added vinilla (sic) ice cream.

Today, as I left for the store, I asked “Does anyone want to go with me?”

Nope.

Then I came home and started cooking, “Does anyone want to help me?”

Nope.

If I weren’t so happy about doing it and so thankful that I am able to and so thrilled to have my parents over, especially my precious mom who has had two very rough years, I would feel a lot like the little red hen. As it is, I feel quite blessed. Not to mention, slightly hungry.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

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

2009-11-16T07:43:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-11T06:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-07T18:27:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-04T19:05:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-02T19:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-10-27T18:51:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-23T19:45:00.000-07:00

"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.

Women are crazy

2009-10-15T20:06:00.000-07:00

As I was styling my hair the other morning, I thought of some of the crazy things only women do. When I say styling, I mean shampooing, conditioning, applying hair cream, root lifter (don’t ask), brushing with two to three different brushes, drying, straightening, curling, spraying and then finally giving up and reaching for a ponytail holder. It was at that point that I spotted my little blonde curly clip-on hair piece, and I couldn’t help but think, Women are crazy!

I would occasionally wear the faux hair piece whenever I was having a bad hair day or feeling just plain lazy. My teenaged daughter had one that she wore, too, until it fell off her head one day, and her brother stomped it thinking it was some type of creature. I wore mine to church one Sunday, and one of the parishioners went on and on about how great my hair looked. I said thank you but felt a little like a fraud in the Lord’s house and haven’t worn it since, although if hair pieces kept one from being holy, we’d have a lot fewer preachers.

So, without further adieu, here are few insane things only we females seem to do (feel free to add your own):

Pass off store-bought food as our own – I admittedly used to do this every tennis match with Publix pound cake. I would slice it and serve it on a crystal platter, smiling sweetly in reply to the compliments it received. Thankfully, no one asked me for my recipe. Just curious, has a man ever fretted about serving store-bought food to company?

Wear clothing designed to torture our bodies from high heel shoes, to jeans we can’t exhale in, to bras that defy gravity by squeezing and pushing, to Spanx, the modern-day girdle. You don’t catch men doing this. At least, I hope not!

Fret over thank you notes not written. I know every person I neglected to send a thank you note to throughout my entire life - everyone who gave me a wedding gift as we had too much libation and rashly opened the gifts without saving the tags, a friend who bought me a casserole after my son was born, and the moms who threw the end-of-the-year kindergarten party.

Moms also fret over whether or not their kids have sent thank you notes, no matter how old they are. In fact, my mom usually buys me a stack each Christmas as a gentle reminder. Btw, if you are reading this blog and haven’t received yours from me or one of my family members and are wondering whether we really appreciate what you did for us, particularly when my mom was sick, the answer is yes, and thank you so much.

Protect her child ferociously, especially if that child is a boy. Daddies look after their girls, and mamas protect their baby boys, even if his daddy says, “Leave the boy alone. He needs to toughen up.”

I once saw an ordinary-looking mother run out of McDonald’s at a breakneck speed and leap a four feet fence on top of a three foot wall in order to prevent a big kid from throwing balls at her younger one on the playground.

I myself am guilty of protective bouts, especially when it comes to bullies. Just the other day, my son came home dirty and frustrated. An older boy kept tackling him, not allowing him to leave the yard. I’ve been telling him to ignore him for months, years, even, until finally I could take no more.

“Just punch him one good time, and he will leave you alone,” I said, hoping Jesus was listening to his iPod, instead of shaking his head at my advice.

“In the face?” he asked, looking excited.

Now, as tired as I was of seeing my son hurt, I could not, in good faith, tell him to hit another woman’s son in the face. But the belly? Now that’s a different story, and I told him so. He grew unusually quiet.

“I can’t hit him, Mom.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“’Cause then he’d just hit me back. It’s better to just ignore him.”

And that was when I realized we girls might be crazy, but there is method to our madness.

What's for dinner?

2009-10-09T20:07:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, my daddy would get home at 5 o’clock, wash his hands and immediately sit down at the dinner table where my sister and I would be waiting. Mama would then hand him the paper and pour him a glass of tea. We would say the blessing and then we would eat. Every night. Same time. All four of us. Together. At the table. What a miracle!

As a result, I make every effort for my family to eat together, although lately it’s been a lot harder. I’ve been working more and haven’t quite gotten the hang of having meals prepared ahead of time or even thawed out, for that matter. I feel so accomplished for getting the kids off to school having eaten some semblance of breakfast that I totally forget about dinner. Until my ride home from work, that is, when I am stuck in traffic and absolutely starving. And, trust me; you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.

“Why don’t you carry a granola bar in your purse?” my frustrated husband will say when I’m getting edgy because I haven’t eaten, and there is nothing gluten-free around. Actually, he puts it a little stronger than that, but I’ve cleaned it up for this blog.

Anyway, last night I wondered the same exact thing as I ransacked the glove compartment looking for something edible the kids left behind. It was then I learned a valuable lesson. If kids leave it behind, it is NOT edible.

Hamburgers? No, had that Monday. Hot dogs? Those are cancer sticks! Pizza? We have a left-over one in the fridge; make that two, one is from the week before. Pork chops? Yes, that’s it! I thought as I navigated Atlanta traffic.

So, I called my husband who was at football practice with the kids, and proudly announced, “We are having pork chops!”

“With mashed potatoes and gravy?”

Sigh. “Sure.”

(Fortunately, he was raised on instant and doesn’t know any better. Thanks, Mom-in-law!)

I could almost taste those chops when I realized it was growing increasingly late, and those were rather large pieces, and I really don’t think they are thawed out. In fact, they may still be in the freezer.

Rotisserie chicken! Healthy, tastes good, I can buy some potato salad to go with it. So, I called the hubby again.

“How about rotisserie chicken?” I said, shattering his visions of gravy bowls.

“You didn’t pack your granola bar, did you?”

Once in town, I stopped by my new friendly neighborhood grocery store, their slogan, not mine. I put a few things in my buggy, feeling pleased with myself because now I can do a little grocery shopping, too, as I looked all over the deli department – no chicken.

“Excuse me, but where are your rotisserie chickens?” I asked an employee, feeling anxious.

He pointed to an empty rack with a sign that read, “Rotisserie chicken, guaranteed from 4-7 or tomorrow’s is free.”

“But it’s empty,” I whined.

“Looks like we’re out,” he said and shouted for a woman in the back three or four times – loudly.
“What do ya want?” she barked, pushing her mop over the floor.

“Do you have any more rotisserie chicken, please?”

“All gone!” she yelled. Apparently she had not packed a granola bar, either.

“But this was going to be my dinner,” I said, looking at the man, who apparently had no control over the deli lady. Her look shot both of us down.

“Can I get my free one tomorrow?” I asked, getting my hopes up that I won’t have to spend another evening scrounging for food.

“Nope, that offer ends at 7.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“7:05”

“AW, COME ON!” I shouted and pushed my buggy out of the way.

I’d like to say this was the first fit I’ve had in a grocery, but it was not. I had one once before in the self-checkout line that involved a baby, a toddler, a teen, a head of lettuce, and a dozen witnesses.

I know what I can make, I think, as I walk out the door and drive home quickly, so I can get it on the table before the gang arrives.

“Breakfast for dinner,” I said to my husband on the cell phone after he called. (Don’t you love cell phones? That’s sarcasm).

“We’re out of milk,” he said.

“Well, I’m not allowed back in the grocery store. You’ll have to stop on YOUR way home.”

And that is just what he did. It may have been 8 p.m., instead of 8 a.m., it may have been milk and juice instead of sweet tea, we may have been eating off paper plates, our blessing may have been sung to the tune of Superman, and I may be half-crazy, but at least we were all eating together.

Amen and pass the butter!

The greatest game ever played

2009-10-08T07:20:00.001-07:00

Saturday I get to watch the greatest game ever played in recreation league football. And trust me, I’ll be watching - every play, every tackle, every touchdown, every field goal. Do eight-year-olds get to kick field goals?

I’m going to learn a lot about the sport this weekend. I’ve always enjoyed football – dressing up for the games, planning the tailgate menu, inviting friends over on game day to gather in front of the big screen TV – I just don’t care much for watching it. In fact, I wrote a blog about my feelings on the subject here.

But this year, things are different. My boy is out there for the first time. He has worked so hard. The first time he practiced with pads he refused to take a shower until I got home because he wanted me to see, feel and smell (Well, that one came with the first two) how sweaty he was.

“Sometimes, you just have to eat dirt, mama,” he said, profoundly, one night as I tucked him into bed after practice.

The other day he came home and announced excitedly, “I’m going to be a full back - F-U-L-L back.”

“F-U-L-L back as opposed to?” I asked, confused.

“F-U-L-L back, not F-O-O-L back,” he said, seriously.

“Oh, baby, I’m so proud,” I said, as I wondered, Which poor kid got chosen to be the fool back?

His coach, an old timer with lots of experience, encourages the boys, including his grandson, to do well on and off the field. My son takes that very seriously, too, which makes me ever prouder. He’s gotten the prize for best effort at practice twice, and his teachers praise his work ethic and character often.

God, I love football! As long as he doesn't get hurt, that is.

Free range kids

2009-10-04T18:05:00.000-07:00

I read an article about a journalist, Lenore Skenazy, who says we overprotect our kids today. Seems the mom let her nine-year-old son ride the subway in New York – alone - earning her the title of “America’s worst mom.”

My first thought was, “Whew, Glad that one is taken!” My second was, “I guess that puts a damper on play dates at her house.”

Her book is called Free Range Kids, and you can read her defense of her behavior here. Now, I haven’t read her book, and I’d never lived anywhere near a subway, or even a bus stop, for that matter, so I can’t fully weigh in on the topic. However, from my Southern smothering mom point of view, it sounds horrible! I sure wouldn’t want to ride the subway alone.

Yet, I do know that when I was growing up, we (my sister, neighbors and I) spent hours roaming the woods – alone - behind our house, sidestepping copperheads, balancing fallen trees over ravines, and marveling firsthand at how much damage beavers can do at the creek/swamp. Oh, not to mention discovering the remnants of a moonshine still near an old shack that was still, apparently, used for gambling.

During the summer, we’d shed our shoes and leave the house first thing in the morning, go into the woods where it was cool, poke under moss, climb trees, make huts, you know, just be kids. My mama didn’t worry about me. She knew I’d be home by dinner. There were only two times I wasn’t, and both times something was wrong. Once I was stuck in a pipe propped up by a fence (Please don’t ask) and another I was trapped in a tree house by a large barking dog. Both times I escaped.

Am I saying parents should allow their kids to wander today? No, I’m afraid that, despite Skenazy’s argument, the world IS a different place. Yet, there is something about giving kids blocks of unscheduled time, time to be free, time to explore, time to learn things on their own that, ultimately, makes them become better and more self-reliant. At least until the dinner bell rings.

Shopping with myself

2009-09-25T19:24:00.000-07:00

My daughter has gone to college, and I can no longer dress myself. I never thought I would miss hearing her say, “Mom, you aren’t really going to wear that, are you?” or “Mom, that looks stupid on you,” but, after a day of shopping by myself, I do.

I’ve always felt comfortable with my taste and ability to put together a shirt, pants and shoes. I mean, how hard is that? Now that my daughter has gone; however, I realize just how much I depended on her for guidance.

Case in point, I went shopping over the weekend and tried on jeans. Fatal error. In fact, I don’t think any woman can buy jeans by herself. This dawned on me as I asked two complete strangers outside the dressing room if my pants looked too long.

“Oh, no, I think they are a good length,” the young women insisted, as I debated whether I should turn around and ask them if the jeans made my butt looked big. (It’s a cliché for a reason, ladies, don’t deny it.).

Perhaps anticipating my question, they quickly excused themselves, which left me with no one to ask but the saleslady. And that is a problem because her job is to sell me clothing, not be honest with me. She could tell me a burlap sack looked fabulous on me, and I would buy it. In fact, I think I did. (Sweater dress, burlap sack, not a lot difference there).

The other problem with blue jean shopping is there are dozens of different kinds of jeans out there – skinny, super skinny, boot cut, straight leg, flare leg, slightly flare leg. I learned, without the help of the salesgirl, that despite their name, skinny jeans don’t make you look skinny. They reminded me of the jeans I used to wear in the early 80’s, the ones that were so tight they needed a zipper at the ankle, so my foot would fit in them, the ones I had to lie on the bed and quit breathing in order to pull up.

“Are these still in?” I asked the salesgirl, holding up a pair.

“Yes,” she looked at me like, Why would be selling them, duh?

“Well, what shoes do you wear with them?” I asked.

“Oh, heels would look good with those,”

I hung the jeans back up. Skinny jeans and heels, uh huh. I can just see me walking into the next PTA meeting with THAT on.

The pair I ended up buying were low cut, petite, straight flare leg, Artist-style, in case you are interested. Actually, I bought a pair in two different sizes because I have no idea which size fits better. I’m not sure how I’m going to tell when I get them home, either, but, perhaps, I’ll just know. Or even better, maybe my daughter will pay me a visit and tell me how stupid they look - that would be music to my ears.

Leigh Knight's high school reunion

2009-09-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

What is it about the mere mention of a high school reunion that brings back every ounce of teenage angst?

I learned of my, choke, 20-year reunion, oh, six months ago. Immediately, I thought I have to finish my book, have perfect kids, run a marathon, and get killer abs – in short, become either Sarah Palin or Kelly Ripa - before I can face those people I haven’t seen in 20 years and will probably never see again (except in the pretend world of facebook)!

Where is the logic behind that?

I don’t know, but the sense of urgency is there. I guess it stems, in part, from the fact that at my last reunion – the ten year - I was told that I was “not all that.” Actually, I was told, “Leigh Knight, you are not all that!” as my ex-classmate turned on her heels, leaving me with my mouth hanging open.

An awkward silence followed.

I looked incredulously at those around me – my husband who didn’t know a soul yet ended up in every photo, the cute boy from history class whose name I still didn’t know, and a couple of nerdy guys who made more money than I could ever dream of.

“Did she just say that I wasn’t ALL THAT?” my voice rising.

“Yeah, I think she just did,” said the cute boy.

“Oh. My. God!” I said, reverting back to high school.

Later, I went home, told my children, and we had a good laugh about it.

My daughter even gave me a birthday card once that I treasure that read, “Mom, you ARE all that!”

But, here we are, ten years later, and I still wonder about that girl. Had she waited ten years to tell me that, and WHY? I barely remembered her. In fact, I don’t think I ever talked to her. Did I used to act like I was “all that”? And what the heck does that mean anyway?

So, now I’m a week out from my high school reunion. I’m 5,000 words into my book, I plan to start running Monday, my children are, well, children, and I’m not even going to talk about my abs or lack thereof. So, am I all that? Despite my shortcomings, I think, yes, I am. And that is exactly what I’m going to tell my classmate if she says anything. It took me ten years to come up with that come-back, but the good part is now I’ve grown up enough to truly believe it.

Confessions of a tennis mom

2009-09-17T17:03:00.000-07:00

My daughter’s played a lot of sports through the years, and I’ve enjoyed passively watching them, not concerned about the score, just making sure she is having fun, and it’s not my week to bring snacks.

I made fun of the coaches who rushed to recruit her for their softball teams after she made a double play by catching the ball in the air and then tagging the base - at the age of five. Apparently, had she known she could have made a triple play. I’ve never seen grown men more excited. And who knew Little League coaches have business cards?

I’ve laughed at soccer moms (Why doesn’t anyone use the term “Soccer Dad?”) who run along the side lines with their child, shouting “encouragement.” When my daughter was eight, she had a teammate who received $20 for every goal. Does that make her a pro, and will it ruin her chance of going to the Olympics? Just curious.

Then there was gymnastics.

“She’s going to be too tall to be a gymnast,” my husband said, when he heard I enrolled her.

“She’s six years old,” I reminded him. “She likes to do cartwheels and flips and get a stamp on her hand after class.”

Sometimes, we, as parents, get way ahead of ourselves when it comes to our kids and sports. And, now, on the cusp of Georgia-girl Melanie Oudin’s outstanding performance in the U.S. Open, my daughter is playing tennis.- my sport. The sport I’ve played for 15 years in order to become mediocre; the sport I wished I would have started when I was her age; the sport in which she naturally excels. And, suddenly, I don’t just want her to have fun and develop skills that she can use for a lifetime - I want her to win.

Of course, I would never dare let on. Truthfully, I am thankful that she is a healthy child and can play. Yet, there’s a part of me - the part that was always picked last for Red Rover, the part that didn’t make the basketball team, the part that always got tagged out at first, the part that failed the broad jump, the part that couldn’t climb the rope to the top in the gym – that really, really wants her to kick butt!

But, if not, I will hug her and be just as happy because either way I am proud. I know what it is like to lose; I know what it is like to cheer for three seasons for a team that never won a game; I know what it is like to try and fail and vow to work harder, and, ultimately, that is not a bad thing. It shapes who you are, the person you become. Not to mention, it makes the wins in life that much sweeter.

A word to the wise

2009-09-14T19:07:00.001-07:00

It took 19 years, but I finally said it – the words my mama once said to me: “One day you are going to have children of your own and then you will understand what I am talking about.”

And you will be sorry for the way you are acting today is the implied rest of the sentence.

Believe me, if you are a parent and haven’t uttered those words yet, you will, and when you do, you will have the most profound sense of déjà vu.

And you will think, “Now I know what my mama meant!”

And then an epiphany will hit, and you will frown and think, “Oh, my poor mama! She was right, and, boy, was I ever wrong!”

And then your teenager will look at you like you are stupid and say, “What are you talking about?”

And you will smile and nod, knowingly, because suddenly you get it. You have become the wise one. Now all you have to do is wait 19 years until she faces her daughter and hears those very words – words passed down through generations – come out of her own mouth.

And when they do, she will do exactly what you did today, and that is to shed some tears and then call your mama to tell her you are sorry.