Can You Hear This?

I have never been a “kodak” moment person. You know those people that always remember to bring a camera to an event so that it may be immortalized in a photo album for prosterity. These folks will make sure that any and all manner of pictures of the activities are taken, often to the chagrin of the those being photographed. My Mama, bless her heart, loves having pictures taken at any family gathering or event, however, she rarely remembers to bring her camera along, but when she does, look out!

She will snap away without care or concern of what she may be “capturing” on film. I have a picture of me and Beau, shortly after he was born, she snapped after I had fallen asleep breast feeding him. As he had fallen asleep too, I was, to put it politely, somewhat exposed. Oblivious to that fact, she wanted to display the photo which I promptly confiscated.

Mama is a piece of work in any situation but put a camera in her hands and she’s either dangerous or infuriating, depending on the circumstances. Since holidays are traditionally great “kodak” memory makers to her, she has been a tyrant on many a Christmas morning. Most kiddies just bound out of bed and run straight to the tree to see what Santa has left under it. My brother and I were restrained once we woke up, forced to comb our hair, wait for her to make coffee and get her camera. Then she had to go into the living room and position herself so that when we came into the room to see Santa’s gifts she could take our picture.

Year after year, every Christmas morning, instead of seeing all manner of toys and packages, my brother and I suffered with flash bulbs going off like we were standing on the red carpet at the Oscars. We saw spots in front of our eyes till noon, too, since each opening of each gift required an additional flash of her camera. Really puts a damper on the festivities, first of all and, second, NOT ONE of those photographs is something I or anyone else would ever want to see, now or then!

The coup de grace this year was on Christmas Day, after the day’s festivities, the opening of gifts, the eating of Christmas dinner and the drinking of much Christmas cheer, Mama announces at 9pm she wants to immortalize the day and take “family” portraits. By this point, my sister-in-law is already sound asleep on the sofa (it doesn’t take much “cheer” to send her to la-la land), Daddy is nodding off, the kids are elsewhere in the house entertaining themselves with all manner of new electronic gadgetry, Darlin’ Boy has the glazed over look he gets when he’s on his third or fouth football game for the day and I’m feeling positively gleeful that this year’s drama is almost over.

Mama, bless her heart, stands up (not too steadily, either, I might add) and begins to shout for the kids and annouces to all the semi-conscious adults that it’s time to take “family” pictures. I can say proudly, the only word out of my mouth was “NO”! She promptly starts to have a hissy. My “cheery” moody rapidly begins to wain and after listening to a few more rants and several more ear-piercing shouts for the kids to come downstairs, I had to intervene. I was direct and to the point!

“Forget it, ain’t happening, no way, no how!”, I tell her firmly. (None of the other adults present want to deal with the prospect of pictures or her tirade.) Then she begins to reference the display her sister has of her family’s portraits taken each holiday and how, she lacks any of our family. My response to this was succinct. “She has family portraits to display because she PLANS—IN ADVANCE!” You don’t wait till 9p at night after everybody is well on their way to a decent buzz to announce you’ve suddenly decided it’s time to take pictures.

To say that she left in a huff would put it mildly but, I am happy to report that we didn’t find her the next morning in the yard with reindeer prints on her forehead.

Hope your Holiday was Happy and Your New Year is Joyful and Prospersous! Cheers to 2007!

Just had to share this slightly different outlook on growing up in the time when kids weren’t swaddled, child-proofed and had only “arranged playdates” organized by soccer moms which I received via email from my friend, Sugah!

Cheers to the author!

CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL THE KIDS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1930’s 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s !!

First, we survived being born to mothers who smoked and/or drank while they carried us.

They took aspirin, ate blue cheese dressing, tuna from a can, and didn’t get tested for diabetes.

Then after that trauma, our baby cribs were covered with bright colored lead-based paints.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, not to mention, the risks we took hitchhiking.

As children, we would ride in cars with no seat belts or air bags.

Riding in the back of a pick up on a warm day was always a special treat.

We drank water from the garden hose and NOT from a bottle.

We shared one soft drink with four friends, from one bottle and NO ONE actually died from this.

We ate cupcakes, white bread and real butter and drank soda pop with sugar in it, but we weren’t overweight because……

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, as long as we were back when the streetlights came on

No one was able to reach us all day. And we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our go-carts out of scraps and then ride down the hill, only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem .

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo’s, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 99 channels on cable, no video tape movies, no surround sound, no cell phones, no personal computers, no Internet or Internet chat rooms……….WE HAD FRIENDS and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no
lawsuits from these accidents.

We ate worms and mud pies made from dirt, and the worms did not live in us forever.

We were given BB guns for our 10th birthdays, made up games with sticks and tennis balls and although we were told it would happen, we did not put out very many eyes.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend’s house and knocked on the door or rang the bell, or just yelled for them!

Little League had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn’t had to learn to deal with disappointment. Imagine that!!

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the law!

This generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had freedom, failure, success and responsibility, and we learned

HOW TO DEAL WITH IT ALL!

And if YOU are one of them!

CONGRATULATIONS!

You might want to share this with others who have had the luck to grow up as kids, before the lawyers and the government regulated our lives for our own good. And while you are at it, forward it to your kids so they will know how brave their parents were.

Kind of makes you want to run through the house with scissors, doesn’t it?!

Sixty seconds. That’s all it took for me to go from a normal, ordinary, stable working mom to a completely insane, hysterical crazy woman. Sixty seconds. Whether or not it’s a record, I don’t really know but it was pretty fast for me! I mean, I’m a fairly rational individual and generally logical in my thinking and reactions. I’m discovering, however, that being the parent of a fast-maturing teenager is apparently more than I can handle at times.

If any of you have a teenager in residence at your home, you know what I mean. You can be completely sane and rational one minute and after 10 seconds of teenage-itis (which even the most properly-raised, polite child, can come down with in a nano-second or less) and you are suddenly ready to tear them limb from limb or send them off to the nearest military boarding school.

It isn’t just the smart-mouth comebacks or the sullen-looks with no verbal response at all. It’s the fact that you raised this kid to be polite, respect his elders and mind his manners which they do routinely with teachers, neighbors, family friends and complete strangers (folks just love to tell you how polite and well-mannered they are) but, when teenage-itis strikes, you, the parent, will see no evidence of your good training at all. The child in question will suddenly take on the persona of someone raised by hyenas.

In all fairness, I can remember my Mama telling me from time to time that I was just being “hateful” which translated into she didn’t like my verbal response to whatever was going on at the time. I guess all your sins come home to roost when you have a teenager yourself.

While it was totally embarrassing to me once I calmed down, I’ll tell you what transpired to make me completely lose it in order to help you prepare for the next time you’re confronted with a case of teenage-itis. Trust me—if there were a vaccine, I’d join W.H.O. to help give it out to the masses to save other parents from my fate today. By the way, for the uneducated, it is also contagious. Put two well-mannered teenagers in a room and, if one comes down with it, the other one will catch it within seconds, even faster if they are, by chance, related.

My experience:

Beau needed a sports physical for football before two-a-days start next week. He also needed to go to the school at a specified time to pick up his first lot of equipment. My work day was somewhat flexible so I decided that, rather than wait to the last minute, we would take care of those items this afternoon.

It might help in your understanding of how quickly the situation deteriorated if you know that for the last week or so we’ve been having record temperatures here in Central VA with many days registering triple digit temps. Today, it only got up to 98 but suffice it to say, it was still like the burning pit of hell if you happened to be out and sitting in the middle of several square yards of asphalt.

After waiting forever for the folks at the doctor’s office to pronounce him fit to play, we drove to the school to pick up his equipment. I, of course, was expected to wait in the burning pit of hell–otherwise known as the compact car I drive parked in the middle of the school’s large asphalt parking lot. The fact that one of the windows in my vehicle is non-working, at the moment, didn’t help. Finally in desperation, I moved the car some distance from the other soccer Moms’ large SUVs and parked where I could open the doors in the desperate hope of getting a little air stirring through my tiny car.

Finally, after every stitch of clothing I had on was plastered to my body, I called Beau on his cell phone to find out how much longer I would be required to swelter, and he announced that he was on his way out. Driving back towards home, I told him that, since Darlin’ Boy was hoping for a salad for dinner (it is far too hot for anything heavier), I needed to stop at the store on the way as we had no lettuce-type greens at home. I chose the Wal-Mart superstore, not because it’s where I like to shop but because it was directly on the path to home. Sometimes convenience wins out over ambience or quality, but hey, such is life!

So, as we go into the Wal-Mart Superstore in search of baby spinach and spring mix, I tell Beau to get a cart. As I’m perusing the lettuce selection, he comes up behind me and I assume it is with the cart I requested. I handed off the salad selection and headed to the back of the grocery section to get another, much needed staple in this heat, beer. Light beer, of course, but definitely something to “wet the whistle” at the end of the day. Once arrived at the refrigerated beer case, I began to make my selection and discovered there is no cart available in which to place my selections.

Beau, gallantly I’m sure, states that it’s no trouble for him to carry it, seeing as how he has spent the summer working out with weights in preparation for the coming football season. He takes both 12 pks by the handles and follows me to the front of the store. Along the way, I grab a loaf of bread and a couple of limes to go with the beer and off to the check out we go. We start to go through the self-checkout but the young lady in front of me is ready to take out her day’s frustration on the machine when it states for the hundredth time “there is a problem with your entry, please wait for assistance”. Fearing that the machine would be damaged beyond use once our turn arrived, we moved quickly over to the 10 items or less register which had the initial appearance of a “live” person as cashier.

That’s when it happened. There we were, innocently holding our selections, when the large female cashier, evidently attempting an impersonation of Rick James, began scrutinizing our items. She asks me who Beau is. Since most people can tell at first glance that we are definitely related, I answered with some surprise, “my son”. How old is he? she asks. By this time, I have taken the pkgs of beer away from Beau and placed them on the counter. A blind man could easily see that he had merely been assisting me with carrying the load and was not making a purchase himself. She demands to see my ID which I produced then asked for Beau’s. I told her he didn’t have one with him and she tells me she’s not selling me the beer and begins voiding it off the register.

That’s when it happened. I had been irritated with Beau for not getting the cart I’d requested in the first place and after lugging that beer from the back of the store to the front of the store, this “Rick James” wannabe is telling me I can’t buy it. I snatched my ID out of her fat paws and stormed out of the store. The volcano of irritation and anger then spewed forth as I launched into a hissy-fit at Beau. I must say that he was catching some of the ire I would have liked to heap on “Rick James” wannabe’s nappy head but, since the whole of the problem could have been avoided had Beau followed the instructions I gave him, he caught the brunt of it.

There I was, in front of God and every red-neck within 50 miles, in the Wal-Mart parking lot giving Beau “down the country” for not doing as I’d asked him in getting a “buggy”. Where I come from, stores didn’t have “shopping carts” they had buggies. You went to the store and put your stuff in the shopping “buggy”. Obviously, when my ire is piqued, my southern becomes more pronounced. All I really remember at this time is Beau saying to me “quit saying buggy” which, of course, just made me more irritated with him.

Now, I suppose in retrospect, if I’m going to have a hissy-fit in public, it’s better to have one in the Wal-Mart parking lot than in Nordstrom’s, but truly, it is embarrassing no matter where it happens once you’ve regained some semblance of calm. However, I know I speak for any parent that has experience a case of teenage-itis, that it is sometimes so severe and completely unexpected that you don’t, for a time, really care where you are or who may be around. We’re talking a serious ailment here, not just some passing “run of the mill” bug—teenage-itis can come on as a full-fledged plague, completely unexpected and difficult to overcome.

My hat is off to those who manage, despite the vile nature of this disease, to stand firm, calm and unaffected by it. Safe to say, those are cooler heads than mine—especially with mine being red, and all. So be warned, those of you who still have those lovely tow-headed tots that say “please” and “thank you” and tell you ever possible chance how much they love you, this too shall pass!!! They will grow up and enter that dreaded stage of life called puberty. Once there, teenage-itis can strike at any time. Take a lesson that I learned the hard way and try to maintain your cool, at least until you are safely in the confines of your vehicle before letting that hissy-fit commence. You’ll thank me for this warning one day, I promise!

Not long after we moved into our current home, Beau and I made a discovery regarding our new alarm system. I have had security systems in the past but this is the first time the smoke detectors were wired into the security monitoring system. Apparently, these new detectors are designed to raise an alarm if anything occurs within the dwelling that might in any way be indicative of the slightest possibility of smoke or a fire. I mean, they are sensitive. At this point, I never know if the fire department might show up if I burn candles on the dining room table or if I walk too close to the detector while running a fever.

In addition to their extreme sensitivity, they are wired directly into the the fire response system. Basically, you don’t want to have anything that resembles a false alarm. If something sets it off by mistake, too bad, the normal time to disarm the alarm is reduced to about 3 seconds. If you’re not “johnny on the spot” entering the code, you do not get to cancel. It’s like in Monopoly when you draw that card that says, Go to Jail—go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Actually, in our area, false alarms can result in fines of several hundred dollars too.

Now, I realize this is done on purpose for the sake of peoples’ safety but there needs to be a backup plan for those times when a few stray crumbs in the toaster can send off the faint scent of smoke or Beau has decided to play chef.

Our first false alarm was when he decided to make crepes for a project in his French class. We hadn’t been in the house very long and I was unfamiliar with the way the system worked. The firemen arrived completed with sirens and flashing lights only to find me standing on the front porch with an apology. They were kind and understanding and explained that there was very little time allowed for de-activating the alarm once it’s been set off as they don’t want to run the risk of someone being overcome by smoke while trying to deactivate the alarm.

The second time they arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing, I was saved the embarrassment of another false alarm explanation. Beau, however, was not. I had gone to my office on a recent Saturday morning to meet with some clients. I had asked Beau to do the honors of preparing Doggie’s breakfast. I explained how to prepare it and off I went. About 30 minutes into my meeting with my clients, my cell phone rings—caller id says “Home”. I answer not to the sound of Beau’s voice but to the ear-piercing shrill of the security alarm going off. My clients, having teenages of their own, could hear the alarm from across the room and immediately grasped what was going on. (They found it humorous the way folks do when teenage antics are being performed by some teenager other than their own!)

Beau had apparently not realized that bacon grease will smoke quickly if left on high heat for more than a minute. The firemen arrived to determine that there was no damage other than the “thick as pea soup” fog of smoke filling the kitchen. The fireman carefully explained the dangers of smoke inhallation. Their recommendation: ventilate the room by opening all the doors and windows on the first floor. Their parting suggestion: for Beau to resign from his temporary positon as dog chef.

After Darlin’ Boy and I had such a lovely time on Chincoteague Island on the Eastern shore of Virginia recently, the parental units decided, since they, while well-traveled, had never been to that area either, to make a trip over. From Richmond, there are only two ways to reach the Eastern shore of Virginia by car. You can travel east and take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel over or you can drive north to Maryland cross and drive down through the Maryland section. For some unknown reason, the folks set off this past Tuesday driving North to Maryland, evidently intending to “make a loop” and return via the bridge.

Visions of vacation mishaps from my youth were brought to the forefront of my memory once they returned and I heard about their adventure. For reasons known only to them, they failed to do two things that I don’t leave home without—a reservation and a weather report.

Since my brother and I have been out of school for many moons now, they also failed to consider that this is the first week of summer break during which teenagers and young twenty-somethings head for the beach en masse. In addition to the large numbers of youngsters flocking to the shore, our first tropical storm/hurricane of the season, Alberto, is marching up the coast and significant area rainfall is predicted.

They drove their “travel” vehicle, a mini van, and made their way north through Virginia into Maryland, stopping along the way any place that piqued their interest. They arrived at a late hour in Ocean City, Maryland. It was described to me as being “covered-up with kids” on summer break. And, where they found, of course, no vacancies in any of the hotels.

Tired but tenacious, they continued south through a number of the very small towns/communities and found no accommodations available. After some time, they happened on a place that my mama exclaimed, “had I seen it in daylight first, I never would have considered a stay there.” After a fitful night in the unacceptable accommodations, they continued south. I should note that apparently just 2 short miles further south the night before they would have happened on two very nice hotels that were fairly new looking but, by then, it was too late.

Did I mention the rain? In Richmond, it was a solid downpour that lasted all day long. On the coast it was apparently a solid downpour, with a pretty stiff wind to go with it. They did stop in Chincoteague and looked around but didn’t enjoy it in a downpour and their original plans to go out to the beach in such weather were quickly put aside.

They decided to cut their sight-seeing short and head home since the rain was not apparently going to subside anytime soon. Since their homeward bound trip was going to take them across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, let me give you a few facts about it.

For those that have not traveled in these parts, the Bay Bridge Tunnel was designated “One of Seven Engineering Wonders of the Modern World” in 1965 after it’s completion in 1964. It is 20 miles long and consists of 12 miles of low-level tresses, 2 one-mile long tunnels, 2 bridges, 4 man-made islands and 5.5 miles of approach road. It’s four lanes and has a gift shop/restaurant located on it. Once you get on, you’re on until you get to the other end.

Well, typical for the folks, they decided they would just have to stop and check out the gift shop/restaurant on the bridge since it is an unusual feature compared to other bridges. That’s when the trip, now referred to by my dear ole Dad as “the two day trip from Hell”, really went downhill. As my Mama, who was driving, attempted to exit the roadway on to the gift shop/restaurant access lane, the steering wheel would no longer turn in either direction. She managed to avoid a collision with either the sides of the access ramp or another vehicle but they were definitely stranded. “In the middle of the creek, with no paddles,” so to speak.

This next part just kills me but it’s oh so typical of the folks. With the wind blowing mightily, the rain falling steadily and a tow truck standing by, my father proceeds to spend four hours attempting to re-fit the belt that came off the vehicle. There was another broken part too but the belt getting back on was the immediate need. The tow truck driver offered a tarp to hold over him while he tried to replace the belt but, apparently, between the wind and the four or five inches of water that he was standing in, it didn’t do much to keep him dry.

Bless his heart, my Daddy is a mechanical genius who can design, maintain and repair almost anything you can think of that has an engine. Despite his prowess, however, he does require basic tools when performing mechanical miracles—none of which he had with him at this particular time. (I can remember trips as a kid where the toolbox got packed before clothes to ensure we were prepared for any and all mechanical difficulties. And, of course, there was always some type of mechanical difficulty.)

Oddly enough, he was traveling with a spare of the other part that broke, although I’m sure I don’t know why and, as the tale was being told to me, I wasn’t about to ask. After four hours, working in the pouring rain with no tools and failing to get the belt re-fitted on the van, my Daddy accepted defeat and succumbed to being towed off the bridge and to the nearest Pep Boys. Once there, with the assistance of some borrowed tools, a new belt and the other spare part already in hand, he managed to fix the van. It took about 5 hours according to Mama who is not the most patient individual on the planet, so it could be a slight exaggeration, but Daddy prevailed in the end and got the van road-ready once more.

Bleakly, they made their way home arrived late and I did not hear of these adventures until the next afternoon. Daddy was sporting some ugly scrapes, bruising and swelling on his hands and arms from trying to complete the repair sans tools.

After all was said and done, apparently some of the locals had attempted to convince them to stay another day which turned out to be clear, bright, warm and sunny. But, no, they came home with much the same feelings as I had returning from my first visit to the Eastern shore, see previous post, Shore Shenanigans for details.

I just had to recommend to my Mama, the part-time travel agent, next time she might want to first consider making a reservation, at the very least. Tuning in to the weather channel probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either…..;)

My Mama was always good at having a quick “turn of phrase” for any particular event or situation during my childhood. Many of these idioms contained kernels of clear, pure truth that were often overlooked as a child yet well-remembered as an adult. If you grew up like I did, being taught the basics of respect your elders, respect yourself, respect others and being responsible, then you will appreciate the following list.

Hats off to the author, although it wasn’t me or my Mama, it sure could have been!!!

1. My mother taught me TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE.
“If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning.”

2. My mother taught me RELIGION.
“You better pray that will come out of the carpet.”

3. My mother taught me about TIME TRAVEL.
“If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week!”

4. My mother taught me LOGIC.
“Because I said so, that’s why.”

5. My mother taught me MORE LOGIC.
“If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you’re not going to the store with me.”

6. My mother taught me FORESIGHT.
“Make sure you wear clean underwear, in case you’re in an accident.”

7. My mother taught me IRONY.
“Keep crying, and I’ll give you something to cry about.”

8. My mother taught me about the science of OSMOSIS.
“Shut your mouth and eat your supper.”

9. My mother taught me about CONTORTIONISM.
“Will you look at that dirt on the back of your neck!”

10. My mother taught me about STAMINA.
“You’ll sit there until all that spinach is gone.”

11. My mother taught me about WEATHER.
“This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it.”

12. My mother taught me about HYPOCRISY.
“If I told you once, I’ve told! you a million times. Don’t exaggerate!”

13. My mother taught me the CIRCLE OF LIFE.
“I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.”

14. My mother taught me about BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION.
“Stop acting like your father!”

15. My mother taught me about ENVY.
“There are millions of less fortunate children in this world who don’t have wonderful parents like you do.”

16. My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION.
“Just wait until we get home.”

17. My mother taught me about RECEIVING.
“You are going to get it when you get home!”

18. My mother taught me MEDICAL SCIENCE.
“If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they are going to get stuck that way.”

19. My mother taught me ESP!
“Put your sweater on; don’t you think I know when you are cold?”

20. My mother taught me HUMOR.
“When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me.”

21. My mother taught me HOW TO BECOME AN ADULT.
“If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll never grow up.”

22. My mother taught me GENETICS.
“You’re just like your father.”

23. My mother taught me about my ROOTS.
“Shut that door behind you. Do you think you were born in a barn?”

24. My mother taught me WISDOM.
“When you get to be my age, you’ll understand.”

And my favorite:

25. My mother taught me about JUSTICE.
“One day you’ll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you!”

Back to school is an event that never fails to amaze me each year. My sweet boy is entering high school this year and I can hardly believe it. It was just yesterday that I took him to his first grade orientation to meet his teacher. Now I’ll be lucky if he lets me pull into the school parking lot to drop him off. I won’t be surprised at all if he asks me to let him out a block away so he can saunter up looking “cool” instead like he doesn’t yet have his own car, let alone a driver’s license.

By the way, has there been some flash-back to the previous century I missed somehow? Beau actually used the word “groovy” earlier this week. What’s up with that? Do idioms come back in style like clothes, handbags, belts and shoes? (I have this thing for handbags and belts and I will save them for years.) Hard to imagine, but, yes, I’ve still got items that have managed to come around again. Oddly, enough, they’re old but this time the “distressed” look is in, so I’m covered! Truthfully, I thought the styles of the 60s and 70s were ugly in the 60s and 70s, I have yet to figure out what possessed designers to repeat these fashion faux pas. Trying to recapture their youth?

Face it people, hip huggers, bell bottoms and halter tops barely look acceptable on Twiggy, they certainly don’t flatter anyone over 20 years of age or 110 pounds. So why would you even try to go there? I absolutely refuse to consider the “peasant” look which seems to be popping up everywhere. I was actually floored to see a woman who had to have been at least 50+ in the grocery store yesterday wearing a skin tight tank top, a peasant skirt and platform shoes. Maybe it’s the “if you can’t beat ‘um, join ‘um” mentality of clothes shopping.

I much prefer the tailored, classic looks of the 40s and 50s but that doesn’t mean I want to be June Cleaver and wear my Chanel two-piece and stileto pumps while on a step ladder electroluxing my door facings. (I actually saw her doing just that in one episode and I didn’t watch that many. But when you only have one black and white TV with 3 channels, you often had to take whatever you could get—assuming the foil was properly adjusted on the rabbit ears!)

Then there are the school supply strategies of the local soccer moms that I just can’t deal with. Buy at least one of everything, two if you’re not sure whether they’ll need it or not. It’s a case of pushing, shoving and grabbing of the highest order, barely short of a riot. Just so you know, I’ve failed as a super mom since I didn’t stock up on every conceivable office supply item available at Wal-Mart. ME… go near that mob, are you crazy??? You’d think it was the double discount rack at Stein Mart. Beau has decided that it’s okay since he doesn’t have any clue yet what the teachers will require this year for supplies. He’s decided he’ll just go to school and wing it a couple of days until they give him a list.

Back in the day when I went off to high school the first time, it was ever so simple. You had a three-ring binder with some new notebook paper in it and a writing utensil or two and you were set. We didn’t have backpacks, we actually carried our books in our arms. Beau acts “put upon” if he has to carry more that one thing in his hands as he expects anything going back and forth should fit in his backpack or computer case.

Oh, yeah, did I mention that our school district has been providing laptop computers to all students from 6-12 grade? My former alma mater didn’t even provide a pocket calculator let alone a personal computer. (Yes, personal computers were around, they just weren’t real portable back then.) Beau is even taking a language class via teleconferencing! Boy have things changed!

The way I figure it, observing technology developments from my school days to now, books will soon be obsolete, and before you know it, “Scottie” will be beaming the kiddies back and forth to class. With the price of gas these days, the sooner that happens the better!

It has begun again, that time of year when I begin to have a surplus of stinky, sweaty gym and football gear appearing around the house. Yep! Since the tender age of 9, my sweet boy, Beau, has been playing football.

Getting him to practice everyday in August, often in extreme heat, as he prepares for the season is something I’ve gotten used to. I do everything I can to make sure he stays hydrated and eats well. There are some things, however, I can’t do! I’m finding that list gets longer every year. (Shopping for certain protective devices is high on that list now! Especially when I’m told that the first trip to the sporting goods store with his father ended quickly because there were none of these devices, and I quote, “big enough for [him]!”)

As Beau is entering high school this year, things are a little more intense. We no longer have one practice a day, there are two. In addition, he’s beginning to take on the same characteristics of a shark. Sharks swim and eat. That’s it! They don’t do much else. Beau goes to practice and he eats, that’s about it. The rest of the time he’s in a stupor from exhaustion or he’s asleep from exhaustion.

Last night he announced that his sweaty football wear needs washing. Since I determined a number of months ago that getting his laundry cleaned was no longer my job, but his, he started getting ready to wash his stuff. Since a lot of the gear is provided by Godwin rather than by me, I wanted to make sure he takes appropriate care of it.

I gently asked the lad what he had put the washer cycle on. Beau had decided on a medium cycle, cold water wash. I commented that it might get a little more thorough cleaning if it was set on a warm water wash. He replied quickly, “There’s nothing on this stuff but grass strains, dirt and blood, Mom cold will be fine.” My immediate reaction was “Who’s blood, yours??”

It’s one thing when they’re little and you can still manage them physically. It’s a real adjustment when they tower over you at 14 (he’s over six feet tall and still growing) and, instead of picking them up and carrying them on your hip, they can pick you up and carry you across the room!

I figure, my Beau, being of lean build, despite his height, is out there butting heads with a lot of other guys bigger and heavier than he is………………..so who’s blood is it anyhow? They haven’t even starting practicing with full gear yet and he’s already getting bloody??! I have a feeling it’s going to be a tough season………..especially for me!

But don’t get the wrong idea, I’ve learned the roll I’m suppose to play. I don’t act concerned over an injury unless it requires a cast, stitches or a blood transfusion. I’m not an insensitive or irresponsible parent, I’ve just accepted the fact that unless it’s a serious injury you have to overlook it. Having a Mother hover and worry is to really more painful to these tough guys than broken bones. It’s just not cool!

So my advice to other football Moms is simple: if it’s bruised, give them an ice pack, if it’s cut, give them a band-aid. NEVER act particularly concerned, especially if their buddies are around. And, if it requires a trip to the nearest emergency clinic, you are only allowed to ask the doctor how long it will be before he’s back at practice!

Good Luck this season, Godwin, may the Eagles soar!

All my friends with teenagers and young 2o-somethings express their worry and concern that their near grown boys and girls will exercise good judgement and not take off on any tangents. Understandable to me as I am approaching that age with my own son.

What I have to worry about at this point, however, is quite different. My folks going off on some tangent. I’ll give you an example and, believe it or not, this is the gospel truth!

My mother, her sister, and one of their life-long friends decided, when the powerball lottery in Florida reached some triple digit number, that they just had to buy some tickets. (One way of “planning” for retirement but I can’t recommend it as sound financial strategy.)

So they get off to an early start one morning. They drive south, stopping at any outlet strip or roadside attraction that caught their eye, from SC to somewhere on the GA/FL state line. They find the ubiquitous convenience store which proclaims to have sold “the most” winning tickets of anywhere around those parts and buy their tickets.

Did I mention the plan was to drive to the state line and drive back in the same day? Well, of course, with all the visits to the various shopping meccas and attractions along the way, it’s fairly late at this point and they are a little tired from their adventure.

Despite the fact they are in a location that in southern-speak can only be referred to as a “wide spot in the road” (meaning so small it probably doesn’t even boast a traffic light, let alone a Wal-Mart), they decide to spend the night. The next challenge they quickly discover is finding a place, other than the side of the road, where they can spend the night in at least “Motel 6″ comfort.

After additional driving of some distance, they arrive at a slightly wider spot in the road that has accommodations that do not completely offend their “delicate” sensibilities. Then they make another discovery, while they planned this to be only a day trip, each, without the others knowledge, had set off somewhat “prepared”.

Into their oversized handbags (which would double as an overnight bag for most people), one had packed a toothbrush and toothpaste, one had packed a stick of deodorant, and another had some hairspray. Being classic southern ladies they had each packed the one and only true essential, their make-up. I also believe one or two manage to have a pair of clean undies tucked away too!

By this time in their adventure, the availability of shops, limited in number to begin with, where they might purchase additional essentials are closing up. As luck would have it they happened on a TG&Y just before it closed up for the night where they managed to purchase additional toothbrushes, a couple of combs, and a three-pack of brief undies, which they split up amongst themselves as needed.

Being considerate as all southern women are raised to be, they each made a phone call to their respective husbands explaining their decision to “stay over”. This was news was no surprise to the men as they have had years of experience where these women are concerned……you just never knew what they might do!

There they were the next morning, dressed and refreshed, having shared the necessities they packed and all having clean underwear. They decide, since they’re so close anyway, to just drive on over the Charleston for the day. Charleston is in the opposite corner of SC from their homes, but they just can’t pass up the opportunity to visit, don’t ya know!

As could be expected, in their travels that day, they visited and shopped ’til they were ready to drop. Unfortunately, they were still about 300-400 miles from home. That being the case, there was nothing to do but find accommodations once more to “stay over”.

By this time, the men, having figured as late afternoon approached and there was no word from the ladies, that dinner would be whatever they could scrap up, wisely decided to get together and dine out. They each had a message waiting when they got home (they didn’t all carry cell phones at that time) letting them know not “to wait up”.

I never did get a clear picture of how they addressed their lack of additional clothing or sleeping apparel, but I do know they each dutifully washed out their undies so they would be fresh for the next day!

So, on the third day, after driving a couple thousand miles, they returned home. They were late to be sure and had all manner of treasures they had collected along the way, save the winning lottery ticket.

The moral of the story……………..young ‘uns aren’t only ones who will “road trip” at the drop of a hat. Better watch those retirees!

One of the things I’m often asked about is how I manage all my responsibilities as a business owner and single parent. There are a lot of people out there juggling these responsibilities everyday and probably more successfully than I do.

When asked, however, I always recommend that parents talk to their children directly about what is going on, whether it’s a tough day because of the boss, the car needs some repair, the grass hasn’t been cut or you just can’t think of anything to fix for dinner. It’s not that you need to go into detail about whatever is creating your stressful days but, it’s better to tell them that your boss was acting like a jerk, than for them to think they’ve done something to upset you.

I am a great believer in “time out”…………..and I mean “time out” for me!

When I’ve had a really bad day, getting home still stressed out and keyed up, and my son wants to tell me all about whatever has happened in his day or has some question that he just has to ask, I often have to say “time out”.

I have to go to my room, change my clothes, go through the mail or just sit and breath until I’ve decompressed a little bit. I remember seeing a talk show years ago and a single mom said sometimes she would lock herself in the bathroom when she got home from work to decompress so she wouldn’t take out her irritation on her kids. I knew exactly how she felt. I explained it to my son so that, if I said I had to be in “time out”, he would understand what was going on and know I’d be back soon to hear all about his day in a little while.

So take a “time out”! Whether it’s a walk around the block, five minutes with your favorite magazine, weeding your garden, soaking in a hot tub, or sitting down and just breathing, take a “time out”. In the end, your family will benefit from it as much as you do!