Eat your Wheaties

Have you had your Wheaties today? I got asked that every morning by my little sister during the summer of 1984.

No, she wasn’t worried -- like my grandmother -- that I was growing too thin. She was making sure I ate my daily bowl so she could collect the box top and claim her coveted Mary Lou Retton poster. I’m not sure how many mornings I spent mindlessly spooning the not-so-flavorful flakes into my mouth with the perky Retton smiling at me, but I believe we needed four box tops or perhaps it was 10. All I know is, I was as happy as she was to receive the poster.

In case you’ve forgotten, Retton was a gymnast who, after winning her second American Cup, the U.S. Nationals and the U.S. Olympic Trials in 1984, suffered a knee injury, according to Wikipedia. After undergoing an operation, she recovered just in time for the 1984 summer Olympics in Los Angeles. During the competition (which was boycotted by the Soviet bloc nations except Romania), Retton went head-to-head with a Romanian gymnast for the all-around title.

If I have to go on, it means you may not have owned a television set. As for my sister and me, we were glued to ours. It wasn’t a big screen like we have today, so we sat right dab in front of it, cheering wildly with the rest of America as Retton scored perfect 10s on the floor exercise and vault to win the all-around title by 0.05 points. Stocky with a brilliant smile, the spunky gymnast won our hearts -- and inspired us, particularly my gymnast sister, Christie. She practiced faithfully at the gym, even on Sundays, and at home. We actually had a gymnastics room, complete with mats and a balance beam, and this was a small three bedroom, two bath house.

Though I never had the courage to attempt a back handspring, and despite nightly stretches, I could never do a split, I spent many a weekend watching my sister and her team perform. They were a team with a lot of heart coached by a local legend – Cricket Shelnutt, whom I’m proud to say was given his nickname by my dad.

Most recently, that group of former gymnasts reconnected on Facebook to reminisce in honor of this year’s summer Olympic games in London, England. Pictures have been posted of the Newnan team, many of whom sported short Mary Lou Retton bobs. The group reminisced about other past gymnasts such as Bart Connor and Mitch Gaylord, whom we had the opportunity to meet, and all the good memories they have from those years in the gym.

This week the Fabulous Five (the nickname for the U.S. women’s Olympic team) earned the all-around team gold. The last time that occurred was right down the road during the 1996 Atlanta Games, when the Magnificent Seven became the first American women’s gymnastics team to claim the crown. Today, the names have changed, but the smiles have remained. Who knows what young gymnast or gymnast’s sibling, for that matter, may be watching and drawing inspiration?

There is something about the Olympics that gives people hope. Underdogs can win. Ordinary people can train and become great. I think the Olympics reminds people that life can be fair and that hard work and determination can pay off.

Just remember to eat your Wheaties.

Peachtree Road Race training secrets revealed

By the time you read this, I’ll either be proudly wearing my very first Peachtree Road Race T-shirt, or I’ll be lying on the side of the road near death. Or perhaps both.

I’d like to say running the Peachtree has been a lifelong dream of mine. It has not. In fact, in Fourth of Julys past, I have rolled out of bed just in time to get the last of the church's BBQ and then gone home to nap in order to rest up for a fish fry supper, all the while shaking my head and wondering how anyone could be crazy enough to get up that early just to run alongside 60,000 sweaty people. This year, I will be one of the insane.

My desire to run happened slowly, and when I say slowly, I mean years. I’m not a set-a- goal-and-do-it-right-away girl. I’m more of a swear I never will, then decide perhaps I will, and then say I am going to and, eventually. When I get to the point that people laugh at me when I mention it, I get mad and do it. It’s an exhausting process.

Since I’ve had years to contemplate this event, you are probably wondering what I’ve done to prepare. First of all, after New Year’s, I hung up a six-week training schedule in my cube at work.

“How far have you gotten on your training schedule?” a co-worker asked recently.

“What training schedule?”
“Um, that one,” she said, and pointed to the faded piece of paper taped to the wall next to my computer.

“Ooooh, that training schedule,” I said sheepishly, wondering how it was possible that I had not looked to my left in six months.
That’s when I realized I had only crossed off one day – the first day – which said one word, “Stretch.”

“Wow, does that say Oct. 31 on it?” she asked incredulously.

Yes, indeed, it did. Apparently, I had eaten a lot of Halloween candy and emailed the chart to myself before the night was over.

Panic set in.

“What do I do? How do I prepare?” I asked my co-worker, a seasoned runner.

“Maybe you should start by getting acclimated to the heat,” she suggested.

I rode home that night with the windows rolled down, instead of using the AC. I figured that was a start. I also determined that if I were going to run, a new outfit would be in order, so I purchased a white running skirt and red tank top and jogged in place some. I was almost ready.

My piece de resistance was to book a hotel room. That way I can roll out of bed, hit the streets (hopefully not literally), and, who knows, maybe I’ll make it home in time for the last plate of barbecue.

Wish me luck!

You grill, girl!

I checked off an item off my husband’s bucket list this past Sunday. I, Meredith Leigh Knight, grilled hamburgers for the first time. It was quite empowering.

As I told my son, “At least now if I’m stranded in the woods with a gas grill and some steaks, we won’t starve.”

I’m not sure why I’ve never done it before. It just seemed to be an item that falls under my husband’s responsibility. I have a lot of these items. Unfortunately, the list is in my head, so my husband isn’t always aware of them. I would write them down, but it’s quite lengthy, and besides, he should instinctively know what they are.

On this particular day, we were entertaining company at the lake, and for the sake of time, my husband dropped me and my friend off at the cabin to get dinner started and allow the kids a little more tubing time.

“What about the grill?” I asked.

“Light it,” he said.

“How?” I said.
Thus, began a long explanation over which way to turn the nozzles during which time I zoned out and wished I had a pencil on the boat to jot it down.

Instead, I looked at my friend, who had never grilled before either, and said, “Got that?”

She assured me that she, in fact, did.

We soon approached the grill, spatula in hand, because how else do you approach a grill?

“Now what did he say to do?” my friend asked.

Fortunately, the instructions were printed on it. We followed them to a tee, even the part that said if you push the self-igniting button, and it doesn’t light, then wait five minutes before pushing again. After a few intervals, we realized the sucker was not going to self-ignite.

That’s when my friend picked up the gas can. It was empty.

“I think there’s another one in the shed,” I said, and since that naturally fell under my husband’s list of obligations, she and I happily went inside and chatted and ate crab dip.

Little while later, with the threat of rain on the horizon, the men and children got off the boat, tired and very hungry.

“Where are the hamburgers?” my husband asked.

“Oh, we are out of gas,” I said.

He looked perturbed and then changed the tank, as my friend and I poured ourselves some sweet tea and worked on solving the world’s problems.
“Put the burgers on while I put the boat up,” he said.

That’s when it hit me. He was serious. I was going to have to grill – for company. My friend and I put the patties on and turned up the gas and got ready to go back into the air conditioning.

“Don’t leave the grill!” Both of our husbands shouted in unison.

We looked at each other in shock. Who knew?

As we manned the grill, it soon became apparent that we’d have to flip the burgers. My primary concern during this exercise was preventing my hair from catching on fire.

“You do the ones in the back,” my friend said.

“But your arms are longer!” I protested, and then added, “My mama always said the burned part is the best.”

“Move them off the flame,” my friend’s husband said, concerned about his meal.

That’s when she and I realized that both men were enjoying a refreshing beverage, grinning with amusement, as we grilled.

“Wait a minute; I thought you were too busy to grill!”

Apparently, they weren’t that busy. Turns out the kids were watching, too. Fortunately, for all parties involved, my friend and I had the last laugh. Our burgers turned out perfect. Perhaps the best I’ve ever eaten. Along with that came a sense of pride. We are women. Hear us roar. Watch us grill.

I think next time I’m going to try chicken.

Don't barter with me

I recently held a yard sale, against my will.

As much as I enjoy shopping at them, I loathe having them. Is there anything worse than waking up to a driveway full of people meticulously inspecting your belongings and then asking, “Will you take less for this?”

This happened on a recent Saturday morning.

My response?

“But I’m only asking 50 cents.”

Their response? They threw down the item and gave me a snobby look.

I wanted to yell, “I’m throwing these away as soon as it hits noon!”

Instead, I yelled, “Here just take it. It’s free.”

Have you ever tried giving things away at yard sales? It’s impossible.

“What’s wrong with it?” the lady asked.

“Nothing. I just don’t want it. It still has the tags. Look!” I said thrusting the item under her nose.

She sniffed and inspected the item, which happened to be a perfectly decent purse. She looked inside each section, turned it inside out, and then held it at arm’s length as if it were contaminated.

“Why are you giving it away?” she asked suspiciously.

“It was a gift. OK, if it makes you feel better, then I’ll take 25 cents for it. It’s never been used.”

The lady looked at her husband and nodded her head toward me and said, “Give her a quarter.”

The man griped about the fact that she never has any money, as he pretended to dig around in his pocket. The woman reminded him of some purchases he’d made and exactly how much they cost. The man then reminded her that she had a dozen purses at home.

At which time, in order to stop a potential domestic dispute, I yelled, “Just take it! Really. You can have it. I don’t want it. I was just going to throw it out anyway.”

The woman looked smug, tucked the bag under her arm, gave her husband a nod as if to say get-in-the-car-before-this-sucker-changes-her-mind, and they hightailed it out of there.

“Darn, I should have kept that one,” I said, a case of deep sellers remorse sinking in.

“Don’t feel bad,” my husband said. “We’ve already made $5.”

“We did? How? That was our first customer.”
“Oh, I cleaned out all of your purses that you plan to sell and found $5.”

“It wasn’t all in change, either, Mama,” said my son. “There were some dollar bills in there, too.”

My attitude suddenly brighten. At least my precious purses were going to a good home. Well, sort of, and if we made enough money, I could more than likely justify the purchase of a new one. Hmmmm â ¦

The next customer pulled up and grabbed a bright yellow bag that I really loved and asked.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just too small for me.”

My family looked at me as if I were crazy. The bag was huge.

“Will you take less for it?”

I couldn’t take anymore.

“Ask him,” I said, pointing to my husband, who had the idea for the sale.

I took the $5 and grabbed my keys.

“I’m going to get breakfast now. I will bring you back some chicken biscuits.”

When I returned, we were $2 richer, and my daughter had found two purses that she liked. She had also gone to the yard sale next door and bought a telescope, and my son had purchased a gun holster for his air soft gun. Being the curious person that I am, I ventured up the hill and, within 5 minutes, returned $90 lighter, with a beautiful wicker furniture set that I can’t imagine anyone getting rid of.

“Noooooo!” my husband shouted, visions of a clutter-free home shattered.

“I tried to see if he’d take less for it,” my son said. “But Mom wouldn’t let me.”

“They’re our neighbors!” I said. “I’m not bartering with them.”

We spent the rest of the sale rocking in our new chairs enjoying the beautiful sunny weather. We didn’t have any more customers, but we watched the kids play. We petted the dog and took it easy. I didn’t have to worry about cleaning the house or running from errand to errand. Instead, we watched some cardinals learn to fly as they left the nest and chatted about the super moon that would be on display that night and marveled at my daughter’s luck in finding a telescope.

And, I decided that perhaps there is some value in yard sales after all.

Aging delightfully

Some women worry what their husbands think as they start to age. I am not one of them.

Why? Because I know exactly what he is thinking, and, believe me, he is delighted.

“Now you see how I feel!” I heard recently after I tried to cram a month’s worth of exercise into one day as part of a “take the stairs” contest that was being held at work. Instead of working my way up, so to speak, I decided to go down 22 flights of stairs not once, not twice, not three times but four, yes, four times. That’s 88 flights of stairs.

And it hurt. In fact, it hurt so darn bad that I woke up the next day and seriously considered calling in sick to work. I probably would have, too, if the phone had been within reach of the bed. Instead, I spent five minutes cursing, 10 minutes trying to stretch and massage my calves, and about 15 praying. I figured that was a good, healthy balance.

I hobbled into work, and thanked God for elevators as I pushed the button. I believe they really are a gift from above. I realized it must be bad when a co-worker suggested I use Bengay, and I actually thought that sounded like a good idea.

Sadly, that’s not the only sign that I might not be as young as my mind thinks I am. Earlier in the week, I got a new computer that required the screen to be pushed farther back on my desk. It was then that I realized something was wrong with the font. I don’t care what the size said, I couldn’t read it. Obviously, it was broken. There was no way I needed large print.

I squinted and strained until desperation and a deadline required me to ask a co-worker whom I knew had larger font how to change mine.

I whispered the request into her ear.

Her response?

Peels of laughter and a hearty, “Welcome to the club!”

Then, to my horror, she then turned to a much younger co-worker and said, “You changed my font. Can you please change Leigh’s? She can’t see the screen.”

In my mind I heard her add, “She’s getting old.”

I mumbled some lame excuse as to why it was the computer’s fault and not mine. I am not to the reading glasses stage, just for the record. However, I do recall when my husband finally broke down and started using them.

He may have been wondering what I was thinking about his first sign of aging (though I don’t think men wonder such things), but the truth was I felt pure delight. To me, it meant I no longer had to read his menus.

That being said, I have no plans to submit gracefully to the inevitable aging process. With or without glasses and Bengay, I plan to go down kicking and screaming.

I’m not sure who said this quote, but the sentiment sums up my view: Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and proclaiming, “Wow, what a wild ride!”

Though, I can’t say I’m ever going to do 88 flights of stairs in one day again. After all, with age comes wisdom.

Sweet summer time

As I tucked my son into bed the other night, he bemoaned the fact that tomorrow was yet another school day.

He loves it, but a week of testing can wear a boy out.

“Cheer up!” I said. “We have big plans for the summer.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“We are flying 4,000 miles to Alaska to stay with your cousins, remember?”

His response?
“Are we doing anything else?”

I shot him a look that made him quickly add, “Just asking!”

Each generation likes to tell the generation after them how hard they had it growing up, and how lucky they have it today.

Well, I’ve now become that generation.

“We need to go buy a 1964 Pontiac with no air conditioner,” I declared as I came down the stairs from saying good-night.
“What?” my husband asked.

“I want an old Pontiac or Chevrolet like I had growing up, so I can pack PB&J sandwiches, roll down the windows and take them on road trips the old-fashioned way, so they’ll appreciate what they have.”

“Why do you want to punish us like that?” my husband replied.

I sighed. He had a point. Anytime we have to drive more than 30 minutes, I marvel at how the DVD is the greatest invention ever. In fact, my kids measure trip distance by how many movies they can watch. Disney World is a five movie trip (one way), for example.

Alas, growing up, my poor parents did not have that luxury. Fortunately, the noise from the air blowing into the windows would drown out the cries of “How much farther?” and “She’s looking at me!” from my sister and me.

Today, summer for kids means camps and planned activities and what adults would consider dream vacations. Back in my day (yes, I just said that), summers meant something entirely different. Summers meant delightful treats, such as wild blackberries and honeysuckles.

Summers meant we could go barefoot (though I don’t know why that was such a huge deal because, frankly, it hurt, especially since our yard was full of bees and sweet gum balls), but somehow taking our shoes off for the first time and feeling the cool sensation of clover beneath our feet meant freedom.

Freedom to roam and play and read and eat popsicles made from Kool-aid in little squares meant for ice cubes. Freedom to get bored and make mud pies and catch lightning bugs. Freedom to be a kid. And, it was wonderful.

Somehow, I hope this summer my children can get a taste of what I had back then – even if we have to travel 4,000 miles to find it. Although, I think we’ll take a plane and not a ‘64 Pontiac for this trip.

The mommy wars

Democratic strategist Hilary Rosen sparked political controversy recently when she accused Ann Romney of “Never working a day in her life.”

While Romney handled it gracefully with a well-thought-out response, I think I simply would have gone on television and held my hand up, palm facing out, and said, “Count them — one, two, three, four, five — boys. B-O-Y-S.”

And then for dramatic effect, I would have added “‘Nuff said!” and walked off.

Now, to be clear, I am no political junkie. Talking politics makes me extremely uncomfortable because it always leads to a debate, which is a polite way to say “argument.” More so, it’s an argument that neither person is likely to win because his or her mind is already made up. It would be like trying to convince me English peas taste good, for example. I don’t care what you say or how you cook them, they do not.

However, Rosen’s comments caught my attention immediately because I am mom, and I know the pressures of raising children, no matter whether you are working full time or staying-at-home. I hate that expression, by the way, because when I was the latter, a day without having to leave the house was a luxury.

You may be asking: Why the debate? Who cares if a woman works inside or outside of the home?

The answer is, women care. No matter whether one is president of the PTA or CEO of a corporation, women are competitive. And we are also our own worst critics.

I must admit, as a working mom, the pressure (or guilt) I felt came mainly from within. Sure, I heard a few stay-at-home moms go “tsk, tsk” when I brought in store-bought goods for the bake sale. But what I hated the most was dropping my daughter off at day care before school opened, so she could be bused to school each day. And I detested being the last one to pick her up from after school care even though she enjoyed every minute of it.

On the flip side, as a stay-at-home mom, I again felt great pressure. Not from working moms, not from other moms, but, again, from myself. I always thought I had to throw the biggest birthday parties with homemade cakes and over-the-top decorations, including homemade piñatas.

One party was so extraordinary, not to mention overwhelming, that my daughter hid in her room. (Don’t worry. She has fully recovered from that childhood trauma and so have I.)

Today, I am continuing my quest for the perfect balance between work and home. I don’t know what the secret is, but I believe it begins by not holding oneself -- and each other -- to impossibly high standards. Whether you have one, two, three, four or five children, being a mother is work. And, though it may not earn a paycheck, it is, by far, the most rewarding.