Facebook, Mrs. Faires, and fun music

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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.