Happy Birthday Sesame Street!

“Well, what do you know? It turns out I’m older than Sesame Street,” I said to Tom the night that PNR printed the story about Sesame Street, (probably the first show I remember watching), turning 45. I never even stopped to think that I might be older than the show that helped me earn a badge in Brownies by teaching me to recite 1-15 in French. This same show taught me those same numbers in Spanish as the children I babysat watched the Hispanic version when we moved to the Lansing Area. What kind of childhood show causes an adult of 46 to hum “do doo da doo doo” every time she hears the word “phenomena?” My children watched Barney when they were toddlers and I can guarantee you they don’t sing “I’m the elephant elevator operator!” every time they enter an elevator!

Haven't seen it?

They did watch Sesame Street for a short time when they were young, but it really didn’t seem to be the same. It was a different generation and the target audience didn’t seem to be my Upper Peninsula bred, dinosaur-loving kids. Even though they don’t have the same fond memories it doesn’t stop me from thinking of Big Bird’s giant nest whenever I would see that eagle’s nest on the billboard somewhere near Alanson. Cookie Monster with his googly eyes, who only ate cookies (NOT vegetables! I’m sorry, but that’s just wrong), and Grover were friends of mine. And I loved to count with the Count. I’m even old enough to remember SS before there was an Elmo. I am also a person who was impacted by the life lessons that show taught me. I mean, doesn’t everyone my age know that you should NOT eat crackers in bed? Thank you Bert and Ernie. I don’t even think I would ever use the word “grouch” if it hadn’t been for Oscar. Not to mention calling my kids “Oscar the Grouch” at times. I had some real life friends there too. Maria was probably my favorite human on the street. I can still hear her voice talking to her Muppet neighbors. I can also hear Kermit the Frog singing “It’s Not Easy Being Green.” Even after I became too old for the people in my neighborhood (the people that I meet each day), I never felt too old to sing “One of these things is not like the other. Three of these things are kind of the same.” to my classroom full of second graders. Does it make me feel old knowing that I’m older than Sesame Street? No it doesn’t. In fact it’s quite the opposite.  I want to say Happy Birthday to a show that impacted my life in more ways than one…cookie.

Being a Great Aunt is Just Great!

I am extremely excited to share that I have recently acquired the title of "great aunt." In September my niece and her fiancé welcomed a baby boy into the world. I used to think of a great aunt as someone with blue hair named Mertyl or Dotie. But now that I am one, I think of it more along the lines of being an aunt who just got a promotion. Being a great aunt is almost as awesome as being a grandma without the added grandmotherly responsibilities. I saw that diapers were on sale at Meijer and thought to myself, "I should buy those for Leslie." Now a grandmother really should buy the diapers, but a great aunt doesn't feel the obligation that the grandma might feel. And let's face it, I'd much rather say that I'm a great aunt than a grandmother. I sort of think of myself as a grandma-in-training. My sons aren't anywhere near ready to get married, so I would prefer that they not bestow me with that title just yet. Of course I'll be thrilled when the time is right. It just isn't right now. It's funny to me that not very long ago when I heard the term "great aunt" I though "old." But when Leslie told me she was going to have a baby I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And by the time little Carver came into the world I was telling anyone who would listen that I'm a great aunt. I continue to pass these milestones that are supposed to make me feel older and for some reason I feel the same. I feel like the worlds youngest great aunt. It's so surreal to me that I'm a great aunt that I feel like it should be called something different. Seriously, I remember my own great aunts and they seemed old; really old! My great aunts on my moms side were called "aunties." They had grey hair and made hand painted paperweights. They seemed to be on the cusp of the hereafter. But I wonder if they were like me. Maybe they were pushing 50 and just as excited to be great aunts as I am now. I'm learning that age is just a number and being called a "great" anything doesn't define me. I'm also learning that a title like "great aunt" doesn't mean I'm old. It simply means exactly what it says, that my niece just had a baby and it doesn't make me feel old. It makes me feel just great.

When is it Time to Say Goodbye?

            I don't return home to a loud bark or a wagging tail anymore. These days I go into the house with bated breath, wondering if the curled up ball of orange fur is going to open her eyes and gingerly arise so that I can lead her to the door to go out. I know there will come a day when her eyes won't open; when she won't get up. Actually we are hoping that will be the case. Neither Tom nor I have it in us to make the decision to end another pet's life. We did that with our cat and it was simply too traumatic for both of us. In fact, we swear he is haunting us because of it, but I'll save that story for another time.

Molly, our 14 year old Golden retriever/beagle mix has had several near-death episodes and yet death eludes her. One was nine years ago when she ate enough indoor-outdoor carpet to snake through her entire intestines and leave a loaf of bread sized ball of it in her stomach. But she was only 5 then and we couldn't end the life of a good dog just because of a little carpet-eating habit. Major surgery and about $900 later she was home and on the mend. In 2007 she had a severe injury in to her back that had us thinking "this could be the end" and yet again, with a little bit of doggy Motrin, she was back to her old self. About two years ago we started finding her standing in front of walls just staring, unresponsive. A trip to the vet came back with a diagnosis of dementia (we didn't know dogs got dementia either). The prognosis was 6-8 months and we sadly went home with another prescription to help manage pain. Once again she miraculously recovered. About a year ago she began leaving us presents of the most unpleasant kind. It wasn’t a life-ending problem. We just needed to be more diligent about letting her out and insisting she leave the porch. But you know when they start losing their ability to "hold it" the end is usually approaching.

             "We're nearing the end boys, (again), and you should start preparing yourselves to say goodbye to Molly-Moll" we sadly said. That was a year ago. I even started a little Facebook album called "Mondays with Molly" in which I'd post cute or funny pictures of her, thinking it would only go on for a few weeks. I finally quit after about 8 months. Earlier in the summer she had to be carried down the stairs. “This must be it,” we thought. I asked for prayers from friends. She hasn't been carried down since. She has arthritis and getting up and down is a bit of a struggle for her, but with her medicine she still manages to run laps around the yard like a dog half her age. Every bag of dog food I think to myself "This will probably be the last bag." The same is true with each new bottle of medicine. 

For Tom and I, the hardest part is knowing when is the time to say goodbye. Everyone we talk to tells us that we will just know when it's time. I'm pretty sure that Molly knows it's ultimately up to her and based on the past, I think she's just decided that she isn't going anywhere. And that's ok with me.

Surviving my "Year of Crying"

Welcome to my Year of Crying. It isn't a year of crying over lost loved ones like 2010-11 was. It's more like my year of crying, 2011-12 when Robby was a senior in high school. In fact, I have been preparing myself for this year of crying because I remember every "last" that got me choked up to the point of tears the first time around. This year of crying began at this past spring's CHS commencement ceremony as I teared up watching my emotional friends return to their seats after handing diplomas to their graduating seniors, knowing that I would be doing the very same thing in approximately 364 days, (note to self: get waterproof mascara). This year of crying will be different though. It will be a year of lasts as my youngest son goes from a high school senior to a college freshman. I will cry on his last first day of school, his last first football game, and his last final football game. I'll be on the bleachers wiping away tears during his last first wrestling match and during his last tournament of the season. I will be misty-eyed though homecoming and prom pictures. I'll choke back tears as he pole vaults for the last time and as we go on college visits. Mostly, I will cry because I am not ready for this to end. I'm not ready to be done being the mom of school-aged children although I realize that even if I had 10 children, there eventually must come a time when I would be forced to pass into the next phase of life as the parent of adult children. Tom and I wonder what we will do on those quiet Friday nights in the fall, and the long Saturdays in the winter. There will be a gap between school aged children and grandchildren that we have been preparing for since the kids got drivers licenses and summer jobs. Even though I pray that this year will creep by I know that like everything else in life I will blink and it will be over. I will try to enjoy each moment, every report card, every joyful event, every heart break, every win, and every loss. Because in June 2015, life must carry on in new and hopefully exciting ways not only for our children, but for Tom and I as well. So if you see me and I am in tears, don't worry. They are tears of sadness for what must pass and tears of anticipation for what is to come. I will survive my year of crying because that anticipation far outweighs the wad of damp Kleenex in my hand.

Farming...City-girl Style

I have many hobbies that I enjoy, but gardening isn’t one of them.  I still consider myself a “city girl” even though I’ve lived up her for over 20 years. I grew up with a mom who was and still is, in my opinion, a “master gardener.” When I was a kid we always had a fairly large garden every summer and then a pantry stocked with canned fresh fruits and vegetables all winter. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit her passion or talent for gardening and canning. Tom and I tried growing vegetables, but after a few frustrating summers, our garden now consists of several sorry looking strawberry plants and 5 blueberry bushes, only one of which produces berries. I always want fresh summer vegetables, and since becoming a vegetarian, they have actually become quite an important staple in our house. This spring I discovered Bluestem Farm in East Jordan. They are a CSA, which a farm where you purchase shares, and in return you receive whatever quantity of, in my case, vegetables you order on a weekly or bi-weekly basis. The catch is that you don’t pick what you want. You just take what they bring, which means whatever is in season. Since I only have a vague idea of what I’m getting from week to week, it’s literally like having a vegetable Christmas every Monday! I have only discovered one problem. When one gets enough produce to feed a small herd of sheep, one must first, know how to process and preserve it all, and second, have the patience and attention span to do so. I need to clarify that my fruit and vegetable processing skills include stuffing freezer bags with corn and making freezer jam, neither of which require much time or effort. I did attempt real jam last summer with real canning jars and I need to be honest. The amount of time and effort it took did not in any way pay off with the 6 pints of runny jam that resulted from the process. Since my family is unable to consume such a large amount of vegetables coming in week after week, I had to do some research in order to find quick and easy ways to preserve things like greens and beets, hopefully which involved freezer bags. If I don’t, my fridge is overflowing with produce that we can’t possibly finish before it’s time to pick up the next delivery.  What a problem to have, right? I’m not complaining though. I am thrilled with our decision to buy this share and support one of our local farms. We are loving the new and diverse range of produce, much of which I have never voluntarily bought at the store. Mary, from Bluestem, gives us recipes, tips, and advice in her weekly email. All of which makes the whole process a bit less overwhelming. I am happy to report that I don’t have to be a master gardener/canner in order to live like one. All this city girl needs is an ample supply of freezer bags and a lot of fresh produce.

Got Your Manners?

Wow, it's the middle of July and I just realized that I didn't post my June column! Where is the summer going? I may be a teacher, but I'm definitely not hanging out at the lake. Work beckons 12 months of the year! Well, here it is. Enjoy!

"Doesn't anyone have manners anymore?" I grumbled to my husband yet again as we left the grocery store. I don't know if I'm just overly sensitive, or if there really is a lack of manners in our society. When my friend Lynn's son was much younger, she would cheerfully call out "Got your manners?" as she dropped him off at our house. "Yup!" he would respond as if he had "please" and "thank you" neatly tucked into his pocket. I thought it was such a sweet reminder that I started using it with my own kids. When I was a kid, my mom was a stickler for manners. I'd say "Can I have a cookie?" And she'd respond with, "I don't know, can you?" Although it never happened I vividly remember being reminded that I might feel the pain of a fork in the back of my hand if I reached across the table for food as "Please pass the corn" was an expected exchange at our dinner table. I have carried on the expectation of common courtesy in my own classroom. For instance, if a child asks for something I ask, "Do you have nice manners?" while waiting for a "please" or "thank you." Young children are usually in a hurry to get where ever they're going so I am constantly saying "Say excuse me!" There used to be a Dear Abby-type column in the paper called "Miss Manners" for people who were unclear about the whole concept of being polite. It was a question and answer column mostly having to do with etiquette. The answers always began with "Miss Manners says..." I actually think we do a pretty good job at teaching our kids to use their manners, but somewhere along the way we seem to forget to "practice what we preach," which brings me to my irritation at other shoppers in the grocery store. When I need to push my cart in front of another shopper I usually say "excuse me." Then in my head I wait for the "oh that's ok" that never comes. Sometimes I get a little obnoxious and repeat "excuse me!" In a louder voice as if they didn't hear me the first time. Or when someone pushes their cart in front of me or grabs something off of a shelf that I was looking at I again, assume an "excuse me" is coming. I even say "oh! I'm sorry!" which is frequently met with a blank stare or less. This kind of behavior has transcended all socioeconomic groups. I have nearly been run over by drivers in the nicest cars without even an "Oops I almost hospitalized you" wave of regret. It's almost the opposite; kind of a "You shouldn't have been in that clearly marked crosswalk glare" instead. I guess my point is that I think the world would be a much happier place if we all made sure our manners were neatly tucked in our pockets before we left home. At least grocery shopping would be for me.

Something Suddenly Came Up!

I have a confession to make. I'm not a very eager helper. You are probably thinking that it can't be true because I'm an elementary school teacher. After all, teaching is a helping profession  isn't it? In the confines of my day job, I do consider myself somewhat of a helpful person. I help kids all day long. And I also like sharing lessons and ideas with my colleagues. Outside of my job I like to help out at church and don't mind helping my friends. My shortcomings arise whenever my husband asks me for help. I feel like I have quite a few of my own housework type responsibilities that I take care of with little or no help from the three guys I share my home with. So when I hear "Hey Honey, Can you come out here for a minute and help me?" Let's just say I'm not one to drop whatever I am doing and dash out to the garage to hold a flashlight in the freezing cold. My husband is a busy guy. He works all day then runs a small business out of our home at night. Sometimes he needs another set of hands. I find myself conjuring up projects so I will be too busy to help. It's cold in the garage! A couple of weekends ago some trees had to come down in the yard. I made sure I had plenty to do around the house so as not to get roped into dragging tree limbs into the back yard all day long. I actually managed to avoid it and was quite pleased with myself. That is until I went to school on Monday. A friend of mine was telling me about her sore neck and shoulders that occurred from helping her husband fell trees and drag limbs and branches around all day Sunday. Suddenly I didn't feel so proud of myself. So this past weekend I made amends. I have been wanting our back deck to get finished and convinced Tom to work on it instead of cutting down more trees. Ordinarily I would come up with my usual list of have-tos in order to make myself scarce. However, I knew that the job would not only be the deck railing but assembling the new deck furniture. I decided that in order for this project to take less than two full weekends of Tom doing it by himself with two reluctant sons, that it was time for me to jump in and help. I am happy to report that a sore neck and shoulders later, I assembled all of the new deck furniture while at the same time handing Tom tools and helping him level posts. So maybe this means I've turned over a new, helpful leaf!
"What's that Honey? You're planning on cutting down more trees this weekend and you need my help? Shoot! I would, but something suddenly came up!"

Everything I Really Need to Know I Learned in Second Grade

Many years ago there was a popular poster and accompanying books and calendars titled, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, by Robert Fulgham. It was clever in that it reminded us to share and be nice to one another. I thought it was cute. However, since I am a second grade teacher, I have a version of my own. I call it "All I Need to Know I Learned in Second Grade" and it goes like this:

Have best friends. Lots of them.
Laugh loudly
Find the humor in the little things like the word, "toilet"
Run everywhere
If someone says something mean to you say "I don't want to be your friend anymore."
Be their friend again the next day anyway.
Love learning and love telling others about the stuff you learned.
If someone doesn't know the answer, whisper it to them.
Make everyone's Birthday a important as Christmas.
Believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy.
And when you have some free time, go outside and play, even if it's raining.
Hold hands.
When someone gets hurt show genuine concern and compassion.

I have actually had this idea for a few years. When the testing craze took off and education went from a place of educational freedom and creativity to a microscope of state standards and MEAP test scores, crafts and creative writing were replaced with test prep and running records. My friend was walking down the hall after a morning of trimester math testing in her second grade classroom. She was behind two little girls and overheard them say "When we go out to recess. Let's play princesses." And they held hands as they walked to the lunchroom. My friend later said to me, "These kids don't care about test scores. They just want to play princesses." I wonder when we lose the pure joy in life that we feel when we are young children. Little things make them happy and pride comes from a purple star on a spelling test. They don't care if there's still 2 feet of snow in mid-March. That just means more time to make the world's best snow fort. They don't care if it rains while camping. Heck, I don't think they even notice until the grown-ups say that the fun is over. Yes, I learned a lot of important things in Kindergarten, but I might be a bit biased when I say the real learning happens in second grade.

I Think I Watch Entirely Too Much TV

Every so often I get hooked on a particular TV show. When I was a kid I used to pretend that I was one of the Brady Bunch. I watched every episode and wondered what it would be like to grow up in a family of 6 kids. I watched Laverne and Shirley and couldn't wait to live in a basement apartment with a fun and quirky roommate. I've seen just about every single episode of Beverly Hills 90210, some more than once. That show was what one might consider a guilty pleasure. I don't particularly know what attracted me to it, other than the curiosity of how the other half lives. Now my show of choice seems to be everyone else's too: Downton Abbey. I absolutely love that show. After just one episode I found myself watching entire seasons at a time just to catch up. Downton Abbey is a PBS Masterpiece Classics show about a wealthy family in World War 1 era Britain. The family lives on the fictitious Downton Abbey estate. The show also follows the lives of the servants. It is so well written that its story lines and characters stay with me long after 10:00 Sunday night. In fact, after watching several episodes In a row I find myself thinking in a British accent.  The funny thing is that the show does not make me want to be the daughter of a wealthy estate owner in the 1920s. I actually wonder how these people did not literally die of boredom. The ladies of the house would wake up and ring for breakfast in bed. Someone would bring up the food and pick out the days outfits.  Then they'd basically walk around and talk about arranged marriages, money, and other random stuff all while looking fabulous. Another show I can't seem to get enough of is the House Hunters series on HGTV. It is a show about people looking for a new house either here in America or over seas. As I watch I am literally amazed at how picky and shallow people can be. The potential home buyers say things like "I can't possibly be happy in a home without stainless steel appliances and granite countertops." At the same time I'm a little envious. We hear all over the news how teachers are over paid yet I watch marketing reps search for their second $500,000 home in Houston. I would have to win the lotto in order to even consider just one $500,000 home. I'm also curious about the families who just pick up and move their families to places like France and Brazil. These people are described as world travelers, but really don't seem to have any sort of income. I guess that's why there are shows like Downton Abbey and House Hunters. All of these shows have something in common for me. As I think about how life could be, I remind myself to be thankful for what I have. Yes, at times I live a little vicariously through those looking for the perfect home with stunning views while at the same time knowing that a home can still be  happy with appliances that don't match and laminate countertops.

Keep Calm. Spring is Coming

I was standing in my bedroom one day looking out at the beauty and tranquility of the gently falling snow. I can't describe the feelings that washed over me as I looked out at this "Walking Through the Woods on a Snowy Evening" scene spread out before me. Wait a minute. Yes I could. The feelings were anger, disgust, and frustration. This day in particular wasn't late November or early December, it was March 28th, the first day of my spring break. The previous day we has gotten a whopping 2-3 inches of heavy snow and probably the worst drive to work I had experienced all year. I reminded myself of the same thing I tell myself every year around this time. "It's OK. It will melt. At least it isn't November." Only this year it seems different for some reason. First, I usually find myself saying that to myself in early to mid March. Second, with the February like temperatures we had all through March, April is not turning out to be all that springy. Who's to say that once the lakes begin to melt we won't get April showers in the form of lake effect snow? I really am the kind of person who tries to make the best of it. I feel like if we have chosen to live up here we should take advantage of the winter conditions and do things like ski, skate, and snowshoe. That all sounds good on theory, but I haven't once done any of those things this winter even though I own both skis (downhill and cross country) as well as snowshoes. But enough is enough! I avoided going on Facebook to look at pictures of my friends' fabulous spring break extravaganzas and have forbidden my mom from sending anymore "It's 80 degrees here in Florida and look at pictures of my begonias!" emails. I am reminded of that old British poster that says "Keep Calm and Carry On" (in case you didn't know the original version because it's everywhere in every rendition imaginable). Only I have come up with some versions of my own:

Keep Calm and Keep Shoveling
Keep Calm and Wear A Sweater
Keep Calm and Buy Snow Tires

I usually refuse to wear socks after spring break as a point of protest, but I don't think that's going to happen for a while. And when this endless winter does finally make way for spring the last of the snow is going to melt like gangbusters. Then, well, just Keep Calm and Swim.

My Life in the Stands

This one was written in early March. It didn't make the paper. Enjoy!

It's Friday night and I have done the grocery shopping. Now the weekend is mine, I tell myself. But not so fast. Don't forget that the laundry needs to be done, we are volunteering at a youth wrestling tournament on Saturday and there's church and a play I want to attend on Sunday. Oh, and remember the stack of papers that need to be corrected and the lesson plans that still aren't finished. Since Early December our Saturdays have been spent in the bleachers at various varsity wrestling tournaments throughout northern Michigan. With my son making it all all the way to States this year we tacked on 3 more weeks to the season. Don't get me wrong. I love the sport of wrestling and I especially love supporting my son and his athletics. I enjoy supporting both boys in whatever they choose to do whether it's Sammy's sports or Robby's music and ministry. However, spending 8 hours sitting in bleachers after a two hour drive can test even the most dedicated parent. I always take a little ditty bag of stuff to keep me busy. I have even taken to letting school work pile up so I could take it with me on Saturdays. Even the excitement of the state tournament at The Palace of Auburn Hills quickly wore off as we stayed in the stands for the familiar 8 hour stretch. I have to keep reminding myself that we only have one more year and then it will be over. I do know there are parents who can completely relate when I utter that tiny prayer "Lord, please let this be the blizzard that calls off the tournament just this one Saturday." I understand that swim meets and volleyball tournaments can be just as brutal on the lower back and posterior. I really don't remember my butt hurting that much when the boys were younger. Maybe I just had more padding back then or the cartilage hadn't yet begun to break down in my hips. But besides the pain and discomfort of bleachers, Saturday tournaments reduce my weekends to the 5 hours after church on Sundays to get everything done that I can't do during the week. As much as I would like to say that everyone willingly pitches in, let's be real. Most of it falls on me. Fortunately another wrestling season is behind us and I am looking forward to a weekend of rest and relaxation. It just won't be this weekend.

The Endless Grouchy Teen Stage

"I am soooooooo over the grouchy teen stage!" I lamented to my aunt via text message. We started that stage of parenting when my older son Robby turned 13 and it continues with our younger son, Sammy, who is 17 and literally disgusted with our every word. I should have known. When our boys were toddlers I was having a conversation with a neighbor.
"I remember when my son was little. He was so sweet. Then he became a teenager and he turned on me." She warned.
"You must be a bad parent," I remember thinking. I was going to fill our home with positivity and open lines of communication. Wrong answer. I was quickly humbled to learn that I was just as bad at parenting because with each 13th birthday came a stranger. Apparently this isn't a new phenomenon. In her book, "Just wait till you have children of your own!" Erma Bombeck said that her children withdrew to their rooms when they turned 13 and didn't reappear until they were married. Where were my sweet boys, one who brought me wounded chipmunks and the other, who said "Watch Mom!" as he showed me tricks he could do on his rip-stick in the driveway? They talked to me about everything and had smiles that were contagious.
Now I find myself learning about my boys relationships through the gossip grapevine.
"I hear your son is taking so-and-so to Homecoming."
"Yes he is! She's a sweet girl. We're so glad he asked her."
Then I send the rage-filled text. "Really? I have to learn about your homecoming date from someone at school? Will you at least be kind enough to invite me to your wedding?"
I literally have to work up tears so they will tell me where prom pictures are going to be taken.
"I have raised you for 17 years and I can't even be there with the other moms when you get pictures taken? What have I done that is SO embarrassing? My mere presence is humiliating to you?"
"Take it easy Mom. I'll be sure to have someone's mom tag you on Facebook."
I know I'm not alone in this. One of my friends sat in her car for 20 minutes waiting to take homecoming pictures, only to learn that pictures were being taken at a different location.  Just asking simple questions evokes a hostile response with "that face." I recently said to Sammy, "Do you realize that the only time you're nice to me is when you want something from me?"
"No, he replied. I just asked you for gas money and I wasn't nice."

And there you have it. See you at your wedding!

A Few Simple Rules for Staying Home Alone

At parent teacher conferences I always get to talk to at a least a few parents who are raising boys and I think back to when our boys were young. They were pretty active and at times needed some pretty specific rules and guidance. Our boys are older now so we don't have much when it comes to rules other than, "Make smart choices," "Be home at a reasonable hour," and "Call if your plans change." They really aren't rules as much as they are guidelines. I am a worrier though. I'm the kind of parent that worries that if I don't say it, the worst might happen. I have said "Watch for deer" so many times that the kids thought it was funny to beat me to it and yell "Watch for deer!" on their way out the door. But then when Tom and I hit one with our motorcycle last fall I said, "See! It CAN happen. Anyone care to mock me now?"
When we first started leaving the kids home alone we had the fairly standard list of rules like "No fighting" and "No calling Mom or Dad for stupid reasons." Of course we had to be specific. "An emergency means someone has lost a limb, not Robby won't give me the remote." When they were old enough for whittling with pocket knives and air soft guns we would leave saying "No guns. No knives"  One day I specifically remember leaving for a ride on the motorcycle and as I swung my leg over the bike I called out "There's some steak on the stove!" Then at the same time Tom and I both yelled, "Don't eat the steak! There's yogurt in fridge" (obviously, someone could choke).
No guns
No knives
No solid food

For a while there it seemed like we were adding a new rule to the list every time we went out. Like the time we came home and one child had tied the other one up and left him in the back yard.
No rope

Someone learned that you could set fire to ants and leaves in the driveway with a magnifying glass.
No fire

"Robby broke the couch."
"How do you know he broke it. Looks fine to me"
"Well, we heard a huge crack when he hit it after jumping off the balcony."
No jumping off the balcony.

"Geeze! What can we do?"
"You can stay upstairs and watch a movie. Your brother can stay downstairs and play xbox."
I'm thankful that those days passed us by without serious injury or fire department intervention. These days when we leave all we say is "Clean up after yourselves and don't forget to feed the dog." And the response?  "OK. Watch for deer!"

Let me Tell You About my "Children"

Back in January I eagerly entered this column in the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. The results came out and I wasn't one of the winners, which was disappointing, but I can finally publish it. Enjoy!

I guess I just assumed that bragging about my children would always come naturally. Maybe not. A few weeks before Christmas, a neighbor of ours hosted a holiday open house as a sort of "get-to-know-you" evening. I should probably mention that our neighborhood isn't a young, up and coming area full of families with young kids. It is predominately people our age, (mid to upper 40's), and older. As we were chatting with folks we knew and acquainting ourselves with neighbors we didn't, I found myself talking mostly about our pets. People would ask about our kids and I would say, "We have two boys; one is 17 and one is 20. But let me tell you about our cats!" I seemed to blather on and on about how Nova is an expert mouser, or spent 45 minutes describing the medical concerns of our aging dog. The funny thing is the conversations like that were mutual. When do we stop bragging about our children and start swapping Instagram photos of our cats like I do with my friend Bridget? I have not seen one picture of an old friend's adult daughter on his Facebook page, but I could name every one of his 4 dogs. Our next door neighbor and I were discussing her previous dog, Ivy and also the current one, CJ, when she mentioned something about their son and daughter-in-law. Son? Those people have lived next door for 7 years and I had no idea that they even had children! And likewise, she couldn't get my kids' names straight but she could easily name our dog and recall the name of our last cat. I have known for a long time that the circle of life begins with your pets as "kids" and then when the real kids come along the pets become animals again. What I didn't know is that when you can't gush over those adorable pictures of your kids with green beans smeared over their faces anymore because they are now grouchy teenagers who want nothing to do with you, the next likely step is to revert back to those sweet furry friends who can't get enough of our affection. This went on and on at that party.
"Did you know the cute little dog on the corner, Angel, died? And what's the little girl's name again?"
"Yes, of course I know you. You are the one with the beautiful German Shepherds."
I'm sure this stage is temporary as we patiently await grandchildren. But until that time I'm going to need a bumper sticker that says "Let me tell you about my beagle/golden retriever mix."

Feeding Boys--2 Years Later

A few years ago I wrote a column about the challenges of feeding teenage boys. At the time we were going through roughly a gallon of milk a day and couldn't keep food in the house, now I find myself at the other end of the spectrum. My guys are older. Both are driving and have jobs, sports, and other social obligations or responsibilities that take them away from home quite frequently. In the old days I'd spend an hour or so coming up with a weekly menu. This worked out pretty well until we turned the corner into jobs and drivers licenses. These days my menu consists of 2-3 meal ideas with the hopes of having at least one night with everyone home. Meat stays frozen until the last minute and I make sure we have lots of eggs and cereal. Poor Tom has been the one who seems to suffer the most because if I find out the boys won't be home for dinner I figure there's no point in making an elaborate meal until he says "What's for dinner?" And I say "Oh, um eggs." Or Ill try and act like I had a plan by saying "fried egg sandwiches!" Sometimes we have one of the boys and a friend home so Ill make dinner. Then just before dinner is ready they will say "We're heading out. Sorry! We'll grab something in town" and then Tom and I are stuck with sloppy joes for the next three nights strait. One particularly annoying situation occurs when I make dinner expecting one or both boys home and when they arrive I tell them that dinner is ready only to be informed that they have already eaten elsewhere. Again, Tom and I are eating cream of something casserole leftovers for a few days. As you can tell, I'm kind of an all or nothing person. If we all aren't going to be here I'm not crazy about putting in the effort to making a big meal if its just going to be the two of us at the table separated by a laptop and an iPad. Transitioning into empty-nest hood seems to be a process of slowly making adjustments here and there. I am learning to cook for two while being ready for four. I seriously understand why empty nesters eat out a lot. Its just easier. Our weekly family dinner has evolved to JW Fillmore's after church. It's still a challenge feeding boys. However, the challenge seems to be knowing when and how much. One thing I fairly certain of is when the transition has been made and its just Tom and I, he probably won't be requesting eggs for dinner.

I Don't Have a Problem...I Just Need More Chapstick

I can pinpoint to the moment when the lip balm problem began. I was on the bus in 7th grade and a kid named Chris yelled, "Hey Raisin-Lips!" There I was, completely humiliated and scarred for life. At that moment I vowed to never be called a name like "raisin-lips" again. I have always been a very girly-girl and appearance has been important to me. It would be natural to assume that calling any 7th grade girl a name like "Raisin-Lips" would be damaging, but calling a girl with self-image issues that same name launched a dependence on lip products that has lasted over 30 years. I sometimes call it an addiction because when I don't have Chapstick in a pocket or nearby, I instantly begin to feel panicky and my lips start to dry up and hurt. These are very real, physical symptoms triggered by a fear that I might be more than a 5 minute drive the nearest Walgreens. I never leave the house without making sure I have a tube of lip balm in my pocket, and my purse, and the car. I'm like the guy who has to light a cigarette on his way from the car to the Walmart entrance. I know I'm not alone either. My friend posted on my Facebook page that she was at a concert and forgot her Chapstick at home. I almost made the 20 minute drive to bring her some. I can relate! Don't get me wrong. I don't in any way minimize the real, physical struggles that are part of the lives of those with substance abuse issues. I understand that my dependence, (and that is what it really is, dependence), on Chapstick in no way compares to the dependence one has on drugs or alcohol. Lip balm addiction isn't life threatening and I won't lose my family or job because of it. I can say that it does interfere with my life. I can honestly agree with step 1 of the various Twelve Step programs, that I am powerless over cherry Blistick, which is my balm of choice. Did you know that there are actually articles, websites, and blogs dedicated to the topic of lip balm addiction? Go ahead and Google "Chapstick addiction" and you'll be astounded at what comes up. Here are a few things I have learned from these sources.
Vaseline or petroleum jelly will actually pull moisture from your lips, causing you to need to re-apply more frequently. I know this to be true because I used to carry a hand lotion sized tube around in my purse.
Any sort of mint flavor is irritating to lips.
Tarter control toothpaste will dry out lips. I tried using the whitening toothpaste and it does the same thing. I stick to plain old regular Colgate.
So wherever you are, Chris from 7th grade. I'm placing the blame directly on you. My name is Dawn. And I'm a Chapstick-aholic.

My Bra Gives Me More Support

I recently entered a writing contest and the following post was my second choice. The first choice article has been submitted and can't be previously published in a paper or blog. So wish me luck and enjoy the runner-up!

"You know I could sue you for that" remarked my 17 year old son after he discovered I had mentioned his name in the column I write for a local paper. I mistakenly assumed that after  three years my biggest fans would be my family. Think again. In the beginning Tom and the boys seemed to be OK with being in the public eye because what I wrote wasn't about them. My first indication that the support was waning was when I wrote about my husband referring to me as a "good little cooker." They guys at work thought that was pretty funny and gave him a little ribbing about it. He came home and firmly requested that any columns that included him needed to be reviewed and approved before they could be published. Then after the column about teaching my son Robby to drive, he came home and asked,
 "Did you write about me in your column? Don't do that anymore."
It was evident that support was decreasing. Then came my younger son, Sammy. Apparently his buddies at school had read a column of mine and spent the lunch hour joking about it. He told me that absolutely under no circumstances was I to write about him ever again. Strike three. Do you know how difficult it is to write a column about your life without including the members of your family? Some of my best material comes from my husband and teenage sons. They can be downright hilarious at times. It bugs me that they have stifled my creative outlet so at times I use it against them,
"You better get your keister over here and do these dishes or I'm going to write about you in my column!"
Robby did eventually soften up a bit. When I asked him if I could please write about his homecoming nomination, he said, "It's your column. Write about whatever you want." Sammy, on the other hand, has not. I did mention his name but it was about my husband and I going to his football game, so it wasn't technically about him. There really is a fine line between letting it all hang out and respecting the dignity of your family. I'd love to write about the never ending trail of dirty socks strewn about the house, but in doing so it might cause repercussions that I'm not prepared to deal with at home. For the sake of an interesting and humorous column I'll have to choose my words carefully and find creative ways to highlight the antics of my semi-supportive family without a pending lawsuit.