Champion Bowler

The year was different, although most of the details are the same.  Last night our eight year old daughter, Mary Mac, emerged as the champion of the pool for the college bowl tournament. Among the 30 or so participants who meticulously completed  football pool sheets, our little girl demonstrated  true expertise by winning the whole shebang with picks like the following:

1. Louisville - because it reminded her of Louis from One Direction
2. Nevada -  because she misread it as Navidad, the Spanish word for Christmas, and she wanted to give a shout out to Santa.

In the past three years, Mary Mac has made it to the championship game twice.

Twice.

 (For those of you insistent on doing the math, we are very aware that this reveals that our child has been placing wagers since she was five. Know that we are currently seeking wisdom and counsel from Dr. James Dobson.)

The particulars of how this parental misstep came to be can be summarized as it was last time:

College Bowl games for those in Georgia are like the black jack tables for those in Vegas, just not as frequent or as likely to attend a Gamblers Anonymous Meeting.

As soon as lights are untangled and Christmas trees decorated, men race to their over sized televisions to engage with the emphatic experts from ESPN Sports Center. Pencils in one hand and Bowl Game schedule sheets in another, careful selections are made according to the advice and endless drone of the sportscasters born with an abundance of words and questionable taste in sweater vests.

The winners for thirty-three games are chosen, each team circled with hair-on-the -chest confidence, and then presented with bold certainty to the friend acting as temporary bookie for a group of comrades hoping to prove supreme insight and wisdom in the college football arena.

My husband participated in this activity with a circle of friends - all respectable and mostly law abiding – for a small wager of twenty dollars. The group numbered around thirty, with a cash prize of $500 for first place and $150 for second, with the added bonus of yearlong bragging rights that accompany said esteemed accomplishment.

This year, our two boys – ages 8 and 10 – asked my husband if they could take part in the competition.

(As an aside, notice the inappropriate use of the word “competition”. It erroneously implies that my under aged children could possibly be playing in a wrestling tournament or a swim meet or a tennis match, rather than participating in the ILLEGAL GAMBLING ACTIVITIES that could land us all in the pokey.)

For two and a half hours, the testosterone in my home sat mesmerized by the ESPN pre-bowl telethon that even Jerry Lewis would be unable to sustain. Discussions about picks in relation to quarterback match ups and the strategies behind each team’s defensive coordinator, peppered intermittently with tutorials on point spreads, caused the eardrums in my head to rumble in warning that actual implosion could occur at any moment.

Mary Mac, our precocious five year old, wandered in and out of the living room during the many hours spent in pre-bowl purgatory, with little interest in the information being given but beyond indignant as to why she was not included.

After a while, our daughter expressed the unfairness of it all, using phrases like, “You’re hurting my feelings for EVER AND EVER in the whole universe,” and when that didn’t work, “But I LOVE football. It’s my FAVORITE! I love it more than baby dolls, and animals and cheetos and Dora the Explorer and ...”. This commentary, with real potential for an infinite ending, promptly garnered receipt of a college bowl sheet from her worn-down dad.

With a raised eyebrow, and a disapproving facial expression that wordlessly communicated to my husband that families who gamble together do not stay together, I left the room, pondering the competitiveness that had infiltrated our Jesus-loving household.

The tournament deadline approached and John turned in all four College Bowl sheets to his buddy, including the one decorated haphazardly with flowers, a heart, an angel and a cross. (Oh, Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.)




And then the games began.

From game one of the college football bowl series to game thirty-two, Mary Mac maintained a position of either first or second place. For eighteen days straight, our daughter held a top position, earning her a chance at the $500, which would be decided by the National Championship game between Alabama and Texas.

The irony of the situation is that out of all of the adult men participating in this “activity”, the championship game would determine if the winnings were to be distributed either to our flower drawing five year old, or her fierce competitor, an eight year old boy "G".



Let that sink in for a moment.

Two children, with an averaged age of 6 ½ years old, both with sets of parents demonstrating little regard for the law, would duke it out for the title and the big payoff.

During the game, G's mom, "L", sent me the following good-natured message:

Dear G (copy Joni),

I would like some UGGs, some new jeans, maybe a scarf...just something to make me feel pretty. Would you like to go out somewhere nice to eat? Or maybe we can start planning a trip to Disney! Whatever you want:) I am so glad I am your mommy. I am sure that Mary Mac is fine with $150. She can buy her mommy something really nice too! Roll Tide!

Love,
Mommy

Alabama , G’s pick, decidedly beat Texas, Mary Mac’s pick, awarding the eight year old first prize of $500 and $150 to our little girl.

I sent the following message to G’s mom:


Dear G,

Congratulations!

I think that our mommies should homeschool us next year.....in Vegas.

Love,
Mary Mac


This was her response:


Dear Mary Mac,

Will you marry me? I think we would make a wonderful team!

Love,
G


To which I replied on Mary Mac’s behalf:


Dear G,

The answer is yes. I think that you are really cute.

Let's confirm this arrangement by sharing our assets now. $325 to you and $325 to me.

Looking forward to our next date at the NCAA Basketball tournament. I'm using my "eenie, meenie, minie, moe" method again when filling out the bracket.

(Don't tell the daddies- they will steal my secret.)

Love,
Mary Mac


The circumstances were similar, but this second time around Mary Mac came out on top.
With this year's money, Mary Mac joyfully informed me that she plans to buy an American Doll, visit Disney World and purchase a plane ticket to the North Pole.

I tried to explain to her that she didn’t have enough money for all of these items, that the College Football Bowl games were really not that lucrative, that it would be unreasonable to expect it could somehow support a third grader's lifestyle.

That’s why this weekend we are introducing her to Black Jack.

Resolutions

Never let it be said that I am not ambitious in the goals I have for myself. The following are resolutions for 2013:

1. I will not use the smoke detector in my kitchen as a cooking timer.

2. I will be as grateful for the small blessings as I am for those that are large. But I will still dance gangham style when the large occurs:

                                          

3. I will attend all eyebrow waxing appointments in a timely manner so that weed eating equipment is not necessary.

4. I will schedule office utilities to be paid on automated bank draft so that my husband does not worry about taking care of patients in the dark.

                                  

5. I will laugh so hard and so often that fugitive stomach muscles will be forced to come out of hiding.

6. I will exercise more patience in the carpool line and deny myself all fantasies of skidding to a sideways stop in front of the school in Dukes of Hazard fashion.

7. I will hug my children when they want it, when they don’t, and always in front of their middle school friends.

                                         

8. I will listen more, talk on my cell phone less and continue to grow my relationship with the On Star Lady.

9. I will be more mindful of the food pyramid when preparing meals for my family. However, when said pyramid tries to trick me with terms like monounsaturated and polyunsaturated  fatty acids, I will resort to previous guidelines:

                                              

10. I will believe the scale I step on and not think that it is a conspiracy masterminded by Weight Watchers. I will also not use the excuse that the dryer has shrunk my clothes.

11. I will look for joy in all circumstances, including subpar grooming, parenting, finance managing and weight watching. 

Never mind, there’s no joy in weight watching.

12. And finally, I will love God and I will love others.  I will especially love those who don’t love me back, and if a turnaround ever occurs, remind them later of the nonsense they were missing. : )

Deer Dynasty

I am uncertain as to why they have chosen our neighborhood in which to congregate. Outside appearances would suggest that it wouldn’t be the likeliest choice for privacy, or even an area that would provide protection from the elements. One would think that roaming in the woods, grazing and frolicking with forest friends, would better suit their needs and overall temperament.

Previous encounters with deer have not resulted in positive experiences. They are more aggressive than the movie, Bambi, would have you believe and are slowly taking over our section of the city. I hear that they are even cutting in line in front of our chocolate lab, Sophie, as she waits patiently for her Bojangles biscuit each morning.

As much as deer annoy me, I couldn’t help but cringe at the real life episode of Deer Dynasty that happened just a few yards away from me.

(Special note: Deer Dynasty is my play on Duck Dynasty, a reality television show that has provided my family with hours of entertainment. It is so stinking funny and will make you happy, happy, happy.

An additional note: There is a photo below that is somewhat graphic. It is kid’s stuff for those of you who hunt, and creepy stuff for those of you who don’t. Please proceed with gastrointestinal caution.)

A few weeks ago, I was working in our home office,  contemplating new ideas that could possibly entice my husband to fire me, relieving me of responsibilities that include the begrudges of quarterly taxes and insurance companies that delight in providing reimbursement 120 days after submission,  when a flurry of commotion caught my attention. Facing a window that provided a view of our front yard and beyond, I was startled to see three police cars wheel into my next door neighbor’s drive way.

I immediately did what any concerned citizen would do and grabbed my camera with telephoto lens. A response some might call nosy, but one I would like to think of more as curiously aware. Regardless, documentation would be needed to justify the release of the metal chains that imprisoned me to the work desk, an excuse note of sorts for the boss man more concerned about office utilities being paid in a timely manner than my amateurish attempts at neighborhood paparazzi.

Five police officers stepped out of their vehicles and huddled together in what seemed to be serious, tactical discussion. I stood on my front porch, camera in one hand and cell phone in the other, trying to decide if there was time to call my neighbor, Cammie, to join me in my crime watching efforts.

Suddenly, one of the officers removed himself from the group and in purposeful strides made it to the trunk of his vehicle. He pulled out long, latex gloves - the kind my husband uses for the unmentionables that occur in his exam room - and slid them on up to his elbows.

Just as I began to imagine the elaborate crime scene the policeman was going to investigate and wondering if I should offer my services as photographer, I spotted the object of his intentions. My stomach flip-flopped in the same way it did when I was pregnant and accepted that the stork would not be involved in the delivery of my baby.

A large, unfortunate deer with questionable jumping abilities had tried to scale an iron fence, miscalculating the height that would lead to its demise.  The animal was hanging upside down, hind quarters gruesomely impaled on the iron spokes, a ghastly sight that left me momentarily dizzy.

I watched the gloved officer walk slowly toward the animal, carrying a large stick in his right hand. Despite my nausea and shaky knees, I pulled myself together to photograph what happened next. I am tough like that.

The man eased closer to the fence until he was just inches from the dead deer. He lifted the stick and poked the animal in the side, and without warning, the deer raised his head and brayed loudly in the officer’s face, baring teeth and tongue in a way that makes Freddy Krueger seem friendly. The man stumbled backwards, surely wetting his pants in the process, and in a cartoonish panic backtracked in a canter/ crawl to a safe distance.

For fifteen minutes, I watched the officers gather again in a group to discuss the severity of the situation. The deer was now very agitated, and none of the men in blue wanted to repeat the ordeal as experienced by their damp comrade. One pulled out a cell phone and began talking in animated expression.  I wondered if he was calling his supervisor, animal control or another officer to bring a pair of dry uniform pants. It turned out that it wasn’t any of these options.

A few minutes later, a beat up Bronco pulled into the driveway. A fellow in camouflage hat and t-shirt emblazoned with “Sponsored by Beer” emerged from the vehicle. Without hesitation, he walked to my neighbor’s yard to get a closer inspection of the deer. 

With a plan in mind, the man took off his white tennis shoes, and then planted himself in a bear hug position behind the animal.

With a grunt and a thrust, he lifted the deer off of the fence and dropped it ceremoniously to the ground. The white shoes didn’t suffer a single scratch.

He hauled the animal across the yard……

And then loaded it into the back of his Bronco.

I would like to think that the man took the deer off to a secluded place in the forest , burying  him after a meaningful recitation of  the Lord’s Prayer. But my Southern roots know better, and accept that the deer ended up grilled to medium rare perfection, devoured by a table full of good ol’ boys enjoying a fine meal and an elaborate tale about law enforcement  incontinence. 

Fetch

We live in a neighborhood that seems secluded from the world but in reality is right on the edge of it. At the entrance is a busy road that leads to every fast food restaurant your money and lack of menu planning can buy. It is somewhat of an anomaly, to wake up early morning with a herd of deer grazing in your front yard while only a hundred yards away folks are doing the same at an all you can fit in your stomach buffet.

It would appear that our twelve year old chocolate lab, Sophie, enjoys the comforts of both worlds. We knew that she made rounds throughout the neighborhood each morning, greedily accepting treats from the kind hands of many of her friends, all the while helping herself to some items I have convinced myself she is only borrowing.

But, what we couldn’t have anticipated is her daily jaunt through a fast food line, where somehow Sophie receives a Bojangles biscuit from an employee sympathetic to a dog without a wallet. Sometimes she swallows the egg and cheese concoction in one bite, while at other times she trots back down the neighborhood street with biscuit between her jaws, mocking neighbors eating cold cereal for breakfast.

Neighbors continuously comment to us on the sighting of Sophie and her Bojangles biscuits. Depending on the manner in which the comment is presented, I either smile somewhat sheepishly, understanding that Bojangles is not necessarily on the food list as recommended by veterinarians, or I respond in a way illustrating puzzlement, claiming that the dog must surely be a stray.

My husband just shakes his head in disappointment. As a puppy, he worked diligently with Sophie in the backyard, hoping that one day she would frolic in the swamps, gathering Daffy and his unfortunate friends  ducks fallen from the sky by bullets that outnumber them ten to one.  It would seem that Sophie has an affinity for the beloved cartoon character and has never had the stomach for collecting the bird and all manner of scattered feathers.

Much to the chagrin of my husband, no amount of prodding can influence the dog into using innate canine skills to fetch ducks.

She saves those for the biscuits.

New Ride

It was time.  After close to nine years of more physical abuse than should ever be experienced, our family car was finally put out of its misery. Chugging along in its final days, as it emitted unrecognizable noises from the bowels of the worn out engine, I became surprisingly nostalgic about this hunk of metal that had served us so well.

I remembered the three car seats that secured our little ones behind me as I drove.  With one hand gripping the wheel, I became proficient at servicing all manner of needs with the other.  Miraculously, this limb could stretch out behind me , like a freaky female version of Plastic Man,  and return dropped sippy cups, locate a fallen pacifier or hold the chubby hand of the child most unhappy.

One by one, those baby seats were removed, leaving permanent remnants encrusted in the upholstery that would make even the strongest stomach gasp in disbelief.  And the abuse would only continue - windows left down in a pouring rain, forgotten lollipops entangled in the carpet, and spilled milk that would sour in places unreachable. Many brave souls attempted to detail our car only to walk away in defeat, shoulders slumped discouragingly at trying to accomplish the impossible.

Over the years our family car has suffered through carpool lines, been assaulted by wayward birds, and presented a humiliating award in front of thousands.  It has served as my office, as a traveling closet, as an impromptu infirmary. This car has been ridden hard and  has the vomit stains to prove it.

When looking for a new family vehicle, I didn’t have a long list of expectations. I wanted it to be large enough to tote our children and their friends as well as the sports equipment that would take up permanent residence. In addition, I wanted a working air conditioner, having spent the last year with one that only functioned sporadically.

We narrowed down the choices, and on recommendation from my sister and a close friend with a similar vehicle, we chose the one that seemed to be sturdy enough to withstand the battery our family would surely bring.

Because we haven’t owned a new car in close to a decade, it was with childlike joy that we discovered the bells and whistles available to those in the current century.  Seat warmers that ensured one’s tush is never cold and a DVD screen that flips out of the ceiling were unexpected bonuses to the simple list of wants that included an operable cooling system. The added delight of the lady from outer space that can be summoned with the push of a button labeled OnStar, providing direction, area interests and companionship when one is bored, seemed almost too good to be true.

I liked  my new ride and as evidenced by the tone and affection of the OnStar lady, it liked me.

That is, until the car decided to punk me last week.

I was riding along the interstate, talking on my cellphone to my good friend, Tricia. In mid conversation, a phone began to ring loudly inside of the vehicle.

“What’s that noise?” Tricia asked me.

“Um, I’m not sure, but I think my car is calling me,” I responded.

(loud ringing continues)

“Don’t you think you should answer it?” my friend prompted.

“I don’t know how,” I said a little panicked.  “Hello! Hello?  Who’s there?” I said into the air. The ringing continued.  Obviously.

Tricia burst out laughing. “I don’t think its voice controlled. There has to be some button you can push to answer the phone.”

I began pressing random buttons and the ringing suddenly stopped.“That was weird,” I told Tricia, relieved at the absence of the noise.

Five seconds later the phone began to ring again.

“Wow, your car must really want to get in touch with you,” said my friend. “You better answer it. What if your SUV has an emergency?”

“Very funny,” I responded, frantically pushing the random buttons that previously stopped the ringing phone.

Silence.

“Hello?” said a deep, husky voice through the speakers in my car. “Hello? Can I speak to Raymond?”

I punched a new button and the phone cut off again.

“That was bizarre,” said Tricia. “But I have to go now. Hope you work out things with your car.”

Soon after hanging up with my friend, the phone rang again. After more random button pushing, the same, 

deep voice came through the ceiling of my car. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

My heart beat out of my chest. Was I about to have an experience with God? Sort of a modern day version of Moses and the burning bush, but instead Joni and the fuel burning car?

“Hello?” I croaked out in a shaky voice.

“Can I speak to Raymond?’  said the speaker voice.

Raymond? I don’t remember a Raymond from Scripture. I don’t even know a Raymond. Who is God talking about?

“There isn’t a Raymond here,” I told the caller/God

.

“Well, what number is this?” demanded the person looking for Raymond. I was starting to get that it wasn’t the Almighty on the phone. I am quick like that.

“I don’t know,” was my intelligent response.

“How do you not know your own phone number? And where is Raymond?!” responded the man with more contempt than necessary.

Now that I knew it wasn’t God, the initial shakiness in my voice turned a little sassy.

“Look, mister, you are calling my car. MY CAR! And no, I do not know the number. I imagine it is the same number YOU JUST DIALED. If you are looking for Raymond, I suggest that you call the OnStar lady in outer space. She can find anything.”

And with the stab of a button, we were disconnected. I rode home in silence, waiting anxiously for the man from who knows where to call back. But it seemed as though he realized I was a dead end to his search for Raymond. Or maybe OnStar pointed him in the right direction.

For a brief instant, I missed my old car, lacking in complex features and complications. Its stereo speakers had only harassed me with static, not random voices from way out yonder. However, the melancholy moment didn’t last long. The remembered appreciation for a functioning air conditioner quickly replaced the misdirected emotion.

Not to mention the opportunity now available for a warm tush.

Aftermath

Although in possession of more #2 sharpened pencils than the law should allow, our twelve year old still felt ill-equipped for the SAT taken on Saturday.

In his words, the aftermath of math.... minus the joy:

Saturday of Horrors

He would rather have a tooth removed than to participate in the events of the day. Chase, our twelve year old son, growing faster than the bean stalk Jack climbed, is appalled at the way his Saturday will unfold. Today he will take the dreaded SAT for the first time and tonight he will attend his first school dance.

A double whammy for the hormones of a pre-teenager, perpetually teetering precariously on the edge of a meltdown.

First, he will wake up at the same unmerciful hour our neighbor’s dog is allowed outside. While Chase showers, the stranger dog will yip around our yard with such a high pitched bark that all canine peers will use paws to cover their ears in distress.

In the meantime, my husband John, will bounce happily around the house with coffee cup in one hand, and a fist full of #2 pencils in the other, finely sharpened to a point of perfection. Although we were told that Chase would only need two pencils, my Eagle Scout husband added extras, because you can never be too prepared for the onslaught of disaster a broken piece of lead can bring.

Last night, John organized the testing packet, laying out the entrance ticket and school identification card by the back door. In his scholarly mind, this test represents the academic’s ultimate environment to regurgitate all stored information one will never use again.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who test well and the disdain that comes from those who do not. Call me a cynic, but the idea of any five hour test makes me want to poke out my own eyeball with the finely sharpened #2 pencil. For John, it is prime opportunity to showcase understanding of an endothermic reaction, knowledge that Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia is the fear of long words, and offer complete explanation of the Binomial Coefficients in Pascal’s Triangle.

(Now I would like to poke out my other eye)

The above provides insight into why my own SAT scores weren’t all that stellar. The only scientific fact I could remember from high school science was that the brain is made up of 80% water.

For some of us, I believe it’s closer to 90.

Later today, after Chase emerges from the scholastic coma the SAT will induce, he will reluctantly dress to prepare for the middle school dance. In the meantime, I will frolic happily around the house with fabulous tie in one hand, and all manner of cameras in the other, charged and ready to document this long awaited milestone. Although we were told that there would be a photographer at the dance, a meddling mom can never be too prepared or too irresponsibly reliant on the artistic eye of another.

Last night, I laid out the freshly pressed pants and newly purchased shirt. In my fashion conscience mind, this dance represents the ideal setting to example how one should never underestimate the effects of a well contrasted necktie.

It never ceases to amaze me the joy that comes to those who love a school dance and the disdain that comes from those that do not. My husband would rather chew off his right arm rather than to ever have to attend again a middle school social function. For me it is the perfect opportunity for my son to prove that the lessons learned in Junior Cotillion were worth all the pre-pubescent tantrums thrown in transit, that the box step can indeed be used to replace the gyrations of hip hop nonsense, and that tucking one’s shirt into belted pants does not bring about community catastrophe.

(My husband would now like to chew off his remaining arm)

The above proves insight into why the social aspects of middle school weren’t all that stellar for John. Understanding the color wheel proved of little use to one who tested color blind and dance of any sort only heightened awareness of double left feet.

As for Chase, he has little interest for either – test taking or dance step making – and continues to claim this day as horror of all horrors. In his opinion, a Saturday bookended by sharpened #2 pencils and color coordinated tie is enough to make a kid poke out his own eyeball AND chew off his right arm.

And remove another tooth just for hormonal effect.

Is There A Doctor On Board?

The morning of our flight to New York was uneventful. We made it through airport security without taking much offense, and found our gate without losing our way or a small child. Boarding the plane with our crew of five, I remember thinking how relieved I felt that the hard part was done, that we could finally take a break from work responsibilities and enjoy our brief trip.

I must have momentarily forgotten that where we travel, shenanigans are sure to follow.

We all were seated in the same row, in the middle of the plane. The flight was smooth, the children well behaved, and the landing perfect. As I unbuckled and began to collect my belongings, a frantic stewardess raced from the back of the plane, almost colliding with another stewardess coming from the opposite direction. The commotion was enough to gather the attention of everyone on board.

Before long, a huddle of four panicked stewardesses arranged themselves around a passenger sitting five rows in front of our family. In a high pitched voice, an attendant yelled out the question that always causes my chest to tighten, my heart to race, and my palms to sweat: “Is there a doctor on board?”

My nervousness doesn’t come from lack of confidence in my spouse, who has practiced medicine for almost twenty years. There is very little he hasn’t seen or responded to. The anxiety comes from that same place that finds you holding your breath when your child is up to bat with two outs in the bottom of the 9^th, or wringing your hands when another is only one of two remaining in the school spelling bee. Time seems suspended during those moments when you are praying for the best outcome, but prepared to comfort your loved one in case of the worst.

John stood from his seat and made his way towards the huddle of stewardesses. Years of dealing with the medical induced hysteria of yours truly only served to help his cause as he encountered the plane personnel, who made me seem calm, cool and collected. While trained in first aid, the dire situation before them was more than the training manuals had covered.

A young lady traveling alone was unresponsive. Apparently, she had boarded the plane in a somewhat confused state but not enough to warrant concern from those sitting beside her. Eventually, she closed her eyes, appearing to sleep, when in fact she was unconscious.

John arrived in time to prevent a stewardess from forcing orange juice into the mouth of the ill passenger, potentially asphyxiating her in the process. A medical alert bracelet and insulin pump identified the young lady as a diabetic, but clenched jaws prevented sugar intake. John found glucose pills in the woman’s purse and held one to the side of her mouth, hoping it would absorb through the lining.

In the meantime, passengers were directed off the plane, filing past John, the woman and the array of flight attendants. Mary Mac, our seven year old, began to feel nauseous. After turning the shade of green that signals imminent upheaval, I picked up my daughter and raced to the back of the plane to the bathroom. As she vomited, I looked towards my other two children, one of whom had taken out the video camera and WAS NOW RECORDING THE MEDICAL CRISIS OF THE POOR LADY. Holding one child over the toilet, and wishing that I had arms long enough to snatch the other, I yelled across the plane, “STOP FILMING RIGHT NOW!” I added the evil eye to emphasize the point. The flight attendants all looked at me as though I may be their next emergency.

It would be another thirty minutes before the EMT’s arrived with a stretcher. After conferring with my spouse, they carried the still unconscious lady off of the plane and through the terminal.

Another thirty minutes later, after conversations with the pilots, and forms to complete with airport administrators, we were allowed to finally disembark the plane.

We had officially arrived in New York City.

iPhone Joy

Recently, I downloaded photos from my iPhone to our home computer - all 612 of them. Glancing through the pictures taken, I realized that the majority of them were not familiar to me. Apparently my phone is considered shared property, much like that of my always missing hairbrush and the poorly hidden swiss cake rolls in my closet.

The following pictures were captured by the wayward children in our home. I have tried to discern the purpose behind each but even the most creative of minds would have trouble finding rational explanation.

I do not know why Chase is dressed like this. Or why one would want documentation of it.



Although he does look eerily similar to a man I sat next to on a plane this past September.



The Jonas Brothers captured on TV, hopefully taken by Mary Mac and not my spouse.



Just once, could I have the bathroom to myself?



Olan Mills, American Girl style.



The nut........



....does not fall far....



...from the tree.



The waxing of eyebrows clearly a fascination to a certain seven year old, and worthy of capturing such a special moment. (Edited to add: okay, the upper lip was waxed as well. CAN'T A GIRL HAVE ANY SECRETS ANYMORE?)



Documented proof taken by Chandler that indeed his little sister had finally gone to bed.



Family memory caught by Chase of his desperate mom using coins to enter the restroom in a condemned gas station off of the interstate. My hand is trembling in the picture.



No words.



I had a hard time finding explanation for this this photo. After a few minutes, it finally hit me that a child took this for sentimental reasons....



...as a sweet reminder of their mother's neck.

The Man Who Intruded My House

It was late at night. John was at the hospital, and the children were in bed. I was standing at the sink washing dishes, with my back to the room. I rinsed the 39th glass to place into the dishwasher, wondering why the offspring in my home insist on using twelve different cups for their beverages in the same day.

But then I immediately realized that this is the same genetic defect that causes them to change into seven different outfits in the same day, while throwing every piece of clothing used for thirty seconds into the dirty laundry basket. Unfortunately, this won’t be corrected until brilliant scientists break up the dynamics between the nucleotide sequences from those of the amino acids.

(Special thanks to Encyclopedia Brown – also known as my spouse- for that titillating piece of trivia. In my humble opinion, I think the phrase “they get this from your side of the family, not mine” provides sufficient scientific proof.)

Lost in thought in my own little world, where dishes are cleaned and clothes laundered like those in the household of George Jetson, I never heard the footsteps creeping up behind me. Suddenly, a deep, unrecognizable voice said somewhat emphatically, “COME WITH ME RIGHT NOW!”

(Anytime someone uses their capital letters voice, it strikes fear to my core.)

I’ve seen all the Oprah shows that demonstrate what women should do in an emergent situation - thumb to the eyeball, elbow to the groin, karate chop to the throat. I’ve always wondered which method I would choose when placed in a precarious, threatening situation, one that demanded quick thinking and instinctive reflexes. The technique of choice?

I wet my pants.

Three children later, it should come as no surprise that my bladder fights like a girl.

I prepared to take on the intruder in my damp pajama pants. Personally, I can’t think of anything more intimidating, or frightening, than a grown woman facing down her attacker emulating an odor that rivals those found in the church nursery.

Spinning from the sink and landing in a Karate Kid Crane Stance, I faced my attacker on one wobbly leg. Struggling to maintain balance, I stared incredulously at the person standing before me. It was Chase, our twelve year old son, staring back at me in a manner that suggested he was as scared of me as I was of him.

“What are you doing?!!” I exclaimed. (Really, I yelled but the word “exclaimed” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency)

“What are YOU doing?” Chase countered right back.

“Why are you talking in that voice?!!” I asked. (Really, I yelled but the word “asked” sounds better to those nice folks at the child protective agency.)

“What voice?!” he yelled in exasperation.

And then realization hit me in the same way it struck when I finally comprehended that the parentheses marks between my eyebrows were indeed permanent punctuations to my face.

Oh, no. It’s here, I thought to myself. But, I’m not ready.

Twelve year old hormones had been raging for weeks. Irritation with me, impatience with siblings, impossible mood swings and irritation with me pointed to the day that I had been dreading since the day Chase was born. Transforming from a boy into a man despite pleading prayers that he stay little for just a while longer, the fellow who presently stood in front of me as tall as an adult, now spoke like one. In a matter of hours, his voice, intermittently squeaky and weirdly pitched over the last few days, was now unrecognizable and very deep.

Bottom lip quivering just slightly, I took in fully this new man-child, my heart full of joy yet breaking at the same time, and said, “Never mind. Why are you up so late?”

“The toilet is stopped up and making this funny sound. Somebody needs to fix it quick!” Chase said.

“Okay,” I responded, “but you know, Roto Rooter is at the hospital. I’ll give it my best shot, though.”

As we walked down the hallway together towards the offending toilet, Chase turned to me and said, “By the way, did you get that move from the Karate Kid movie? And what’s that terrible smell?”


There were two lessons to be learned that night - one for me and maybe one for you. The first is that children grow up overnight. In just a blink of the eye, they go from diapers to kindergarten to shaving a sparse beard. And, of course, that’s the way it should be, even if I don’t like it, even if it hurts more than I thought.



Secondly, let this be a warning to all those out there who may consider intruding into our home, or worse, kidnapping yours truly. I fight back with my bladder. You better borrow a buddy’s car because your upholstery will never be the same.

You Know It's Summer When....

1.Suppertime is random as well as the food you serve. Six thirty one night, eight thirty the next. Well-balanced meals become off-balanced meals, sometimes in the form of pure preservatives. Cheetos with a side of Oreo cookies is a standard request, and the unbearable heat tricks you into believing it has nutritional value.

2. Sighting of the ice cream truck in the neighborhood rivals the discovery of Santa Claus in the chimney. Barefooted children joyfully dart across the yard, waving arms in desperation and screaming in high pitched tones, all to buy a $3.00 ice cream sandwich that currently resides in their home freezer.

3. Your children’s attire chosen for the day resembles that of colorblind hobos, but you are too hot and too unconcerned to put together anything remotely resembling precious.

4. A highlight of the day is retrieving the mail. You watch for the mail truck like a child watches for said ice cream truck, and you begin to seem borderline creepy and stalkish-like to the unsuspecting mailman.

5. You crave barbecued anything like a pregnant woman craves pickles and a glimpse of her swollen ankles. Suddenly everything tastes better grilled and topped with a little barbecue sauce including deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and summer squash.

6. Your calls to your husband at work increase ten fold. Highlights of The View are surprisingly not received warmly from your spouse even if the segment on bikini waxing was highly informative.

7. You see canning jars at the local grocery store and for a brief moment consider canning vegetables for the upcoming winter. That is, until you remember you don’t know how to can and wonder how canned vegetables can be better than the miraculous “steam in the bag” vegetables found in the frozen section. Not to mention that it is tough to get the daily summer dose of preservatives in fresh vegetables.

8. You reluctantly put on a bathing suit for ALL to see, all in the name of taking your children to the local pool, even when normal, every day modesty prevents you from allowing family members (or friends for that matter) to EVER see you in your undergarments.

9. Every time you glance in the mirror you see a multi-colored ring around your lips because you can’t seem to stay out of the children’s Popsicles.

10. You realize the enormous amount of “summer grooming” that has to take place after the ongoing neglect that has occurred during the school year. Appointments attended for highlighting the hair, pedicuring the toes, and waxing the eyebrows begin with your “specialist” saying, “So exactly how long has it been since your last visit?” After wiping your eyebrows out of your eyes, you lie, and say just a few weeks.

An Early April Fools

For Spring Break, John and I decided to surprise the children with a trip to Orlando, Florida. Ambitiously, we wanted to keep the destination a secret until we actually arrived outside of the gate of the first theme park. We knew that it was an unlikely scenario as our three offspring are very perceptive, sort of like an adolescent CSI team who can sniff out a hidden box of Cheese Nips or discover an imminent trip to the dentist despite concerted attempts at concealment.

Who knew that it would be so easy to deceive them, to fool these little children in the same way we used to years ago when we told white lies about the bedtime hour when they couldn’t tell time. (“I know it’s still daylight outside, but my watch says that it’s 8:00. It’s reeeallly late.” And then John and I would watch the 7 o’clock news in blissful quiet.)

The story (lie) told to our trusting trio was that we were going to go to the beach for a couple of days over the break. We loaded up in the car for the 8-hour drive, explaining that we would break up the trip with an overnight stay in a hotel in Florida. All went well as we unloaded later that night, checked into our hotel and woke early the next morning for the supposed last leg of our trip to the beach.

Heads buried in game devices, none of the three noticed the overwhelming number of signs that screamed all things Orlando. Neon lights announcing the approach of our first destination, Universal Studios, were also missed as Mario took precedence over the revealing surroundings.

As we entered the parking garage, my husband said that we were making a quick stop for coffee. No one said much as handheld games were paused and we exited the car.

The juvenile version of CSI did not think it odd as we traveled on moving sidewalks for several hundred yards. Intuition was not perked as they saw for the first time signs pointing towards encroaching theme parks. My oldest investigator, Chase, even rolled his eyes as I complained to my husband the inconvenience we were all experiencing just for a jolt of caffeine.

As we made our way to the entrance of Islands of Adventure, one of two theme parks located in Universal, Chandler, our nine year old, finally commented, “This place looks awesome! Can you get us some tickets so that we can come back someday?”

It was then that we told them of our deception, relishing in their squeals as they jumped up and down with joy.



Soon after, they handed in their CSI badges, accepting with reluctance that their parents had finally trumped their keen, investigative skills. Not only did it provide us both with enormous parental satisfaction, but restored lost hope that we might once again mislead them about the hour of bedtime.

Rotten - Part Three

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part two before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part three. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available for your convenience.)

Tonsillectomy recovery was not going well for Chandler. Because of pain, he was unable to swallow liquids. Because of projected hypochondria, I was convinced he was moments away from the evils of dehydration. While it had been less than 24 hours, I picked up the phone to call my husband’s office.

That’s when I saw this outside of my son’s bedroom window.



I blinked my eyes twice, hoping to remove the sight that looked like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie starring a worn-out, dramatic prone parent.



Typically, one can expect to see one or two buzzards meandering about in the sky when the demise of an animal has occurred. They have a good sense of smell and are able to smell the dead they focus upon from great heights. (Thanks Wikipedia.)



The issue immediately at hand was twofold. First, the large quantity of vultures directly outside of my son’s window would suggest that a dead carcass buffet was available to all in my front yard. Looking closely at our lawn recently shredded into Bermuda slaw by winter sledding, I could not locate an animal of any kind – dead or sickly - that might attract such a large gathering.

Secondly, Chandler was the only ill entity within the radius of the flock of gore eating birds and that meant.....

I quickly dialed the phone to my husband’s office and asked a nurse to retrieve him from an exam room (Sorry Mr. Patient. An imminent attack by vultures supersedes your strep throat. Hope you feel better soon!)

Skipping pleasantries, I relayed the emergent situation to John, who held the phone at a safe distance from his ear so that the shrillness of my voice didn’t shatter his eardrums into a million pieces.

“Chandler won’t swallow, and he’s in pain, and there’s vomit currently all over me, and I’m pretty certain he is dangerously dehydrated which the doctor warned us about and you know what that will lead to, well,of course you do because you were a graduate of medical school and all, but I think it is really serious now because there are a hundred buzzards outside of his bedroom window who any minute may eat the flesh right off of his bones.”

BIG BREATH.

“Are you going to come home or should I call an ambulance?”

Long silence.

Even more silence.

“Well, before you call the ambulance citing buzzards and dehydration as your emergency, let me take a look at him in a few moments after I finish up with my patient,” John responded in the calm doctor voice that always has the potential to cause my head to spin off of my body.

“Okay. But I’m telling you that it’s really serious. Did I mention that he can’t swallow? At all? And you really need to consider these buzzards....” I countered, trying to imitate the calmness in my husband’s voice but audibly failing because of the high decibels warbling from my mouth. The dogs in my neighborhood were the only ones who could correctly identify the serene nature of my sound.

John made it home soon after our conversation to assess Chandler’s condition. He did not think that our son was dehydrated. He did not think that the the buzzards would eat him. And he did not think it necessary to summon emergency vehicles. Filling a syringe with water, he was able to convince our son to swallow a little bit at a time, which we slowly increased throughout the remainder of the day.

It took nine days for Chandler to fully recover from surgery.

I may never.

Which is what these vultures know, as they still periodically hang out out in the trees of our front yard, waiting for the day when dramatics, hysteria and projected hypochondria finally cause the spontaneous demise of yours truly.

Rotten - Part Two

(Due to excessive words routinely and joyfully used by yours truly, I have divided the following account into three parts. You may want to read part one before continuing to suffer through the wordiness in part two. The little red box in the right-hand corner is always available to use at any time.)

Some things in life have the potential to bring a mom to the very edge of insanity: A child’s laundry hamper overflowing with clothes that are CLEAN because it was the easier choice over the hanger beckoning in the closet. A carpool line that moves so slowly that one is able to witness the actual growth process of grey hair in the rear view mirror. A monkey fit thrown by a three year old at church, in the main entrance, on the floor and in front of the preacher.

Then there are those moments that not only push you to a teetering position on the edge of insanity, but catapult you deep into the valley known as Lunacy. Recently, I made myself at home in this cavernous space for a good seventy-two hours, wearing out my welcome in such a manner that even the insane residing with me in Crazy Canyon would not allow continued co-habitation.

A child in pain brings me to my knees. I lose all sensibility and rational thought which is then replaced with pure panic. I want to urgently minimize it, impulsively fix it, or irrationally inject myself with it.

Our physician warned us of the pain Chandler would experience after the combined tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy. However, he told us that dispensing the pain medication at regular intervals and continued hydration throughout the course of recovery would greatly help in alleviating the discomfort. It was imperative, he firmly told us, that dehydration not occur during the healing process.

After returning home from the hospital, we settled our nine year old into his bed. I fluffed his pillows, placed a water bottle on the nearby desk and watched him fall asleep as his body recuperated from the surgery. Every hour or so, Chandler would awaken and groggily take a few sips of the water I offered before returning to sleep.

This schedule continued for the remainder of the day and throughout the night as the combination of anesthesia and pain medicine given at the hospital provided drowsiness and relief.

Early the following morning, Chandler woke up as a mime. Soreness of throat prevented speech, but from wide eyes and emphatic hand gestures, I was able to surmise that it was time for the pain medicine prescribed.

I am quick like that.

I gave him a dose, which took a little bit of effort as it was difficult to swallow, and then my sweet, obedient child flat out refused to take a sip of water. Mr. Mime placed both hands over his mouth and violently shook his head back and forth like a Labrador drying off from a swim.

The doctor’s echoes warning of the evilness of dehydration rang in my ears and I could feel the panic rising. Chandler hadn’t eaten the day before, and drank very little, and OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

An hour passed, and I tried again to get Chandler to drink a little water. This time he looked at me with the stink eye and aggressively pushed the glass away from him. My tenderhearted son, the one who is kind to all and loves his mama, had turned into the devil. He had the red eyes to prove it.

A third attempt a little while later found him kicking the air in my direction. The Mime had added karate to his collection of wayward communication skills and not even Mr. Miyagi would be able to get near him with a cup of water. Chandler looked pale and his skin seemed to shrivel right before my eyes from obvious lack of fluids.

Thirty minutes later, I made another attempt. As I slowly neared him in a defensive stance prepared to intercept a hand sword collar-bone chop, Chandler weakly sat up, turned in my direction, and threw up all over me.

I could have moved in time to avoid the spew of vomit but maternal instinct overrode maternal sense. I held out my hands, in cup like fashion, in an attempt to CATCH THE CONTENTS OF MY CHILD’S STOMACH.

What is it in a mom’s DNA that releases a reflex quicker than that of the feline variety to catch vomit? I don’t feel compelled to catch the throw up belonging to my husband, or that of my best friend. But gagging that involves a child of mine? I turn into an all-star center fielder who will dive across a room to trap regurgitated pop tarts in the palm of my hands.

The pain Chandler must have felt when becoming sick all over me made me weak in the knees. If the vomiting continued, then this would mean that even if I caught my little mime in a weak moment and convinced him to swallow, he wouldn’t be able to keep any of it down. OH NO, WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO IF HE BECAME DEHYDRATED?

It was clear I was in the beginning stages of working myself into a “tizzy” (Southern word for an adult hissy fit or tantrum; also a state of confusion or anxiety), so I picked up the phone to call my husband at work. Surely, sound counsel would calm my fears.

And that’s when I saw the swarm of buzzards outside of Chandler’s window.

Rotten

Chronic strep throat and sinus infections led our pediatrician to the conclusion that our nine-year-old son, Chandler, should have his tonsils and adenoids surgically removed. (As opposed to the thought had by yours truly that magically wishing them away or clicking my heels together three times would somehow prevent a visit to the operating room.)

A consultation with an ENT (ears, nose and throat) doctor confirmed that the procedure was necessary and a surgery date was scheduled. A week after Christmas and a week before school resumed, we felt confident that the timing of the tonsillectomy would allow an ample recovery period. It ended up however, that physical healing for my son took longer than anticipated and mental recuperation for me is still somewhat suspect.

The day of surgery went well for Chandler. He was calm during the pre-op rituals, rolling his eyes appropriately when I asked if the “happy medicine” given to him could be shared with his legal guardian. The nurse did not really think that I was funny, which is fine, because I really was not joking.




As the medicine took effect, I watched my son drift in and out of goofy joy land, that wistful place I would like to visit when the loads of laundry in my home threaten rightful sanity. Chandler stared with fascination at the ceiling tiles above him, only to then turn his attention to the magic and wonder of the bed rails:



Every once in a while his focus would find me long enough to inquire why my eyeballs were so close together:



or how it came to be that I was the only mom with two noses:




When it was time for surgery, the nurses wheeled my son away and I felt a sob escape from that sacred place familiar to all moms. The place created uniquely for a child the moment they are born, that opening that will leave your heart vulnerable for all remaining days. I stood in the hallway, fighting for composure and losing badly, until I spotted a nurse I knew pretty well. Surely she had some random sedatives to spare......

(Oh, I kid.)

I sat in the waiting room pretending to read the book in my lap but totally eavesdropping on the captivating conversation happening behind me. There was an argument occurring between a husband and wife about whether time permitted a smoke break outside. In summary, the woman’s point was that while she hadn’t had a cigarette since her morning coffee and really needed one or four, she was afraid that she would smell like smoke when the doctor called them from the waiting room. And she didn’t want said doctor to know that she smoked. To which the husband responded, “But you do. So why you fakin’ it? Let’s go smoke.”

My name was finally called and a nurse led me to a small waiting room outside of the operating room. The doctor came in shortly after, removed his face mask, looked me squarely in the eyes, and said, “Those tonsils were rotten.” A simple, direct diagnosis if I ever heard one. I thanked the physician and he led me to my son.

Chandler was wheeled into a recovery room, sectioned off by movable curtains that allow for patient privacy. I sat in the small area with Chandler as I waited for his anesthesia to wear off, thankful that the surgery was a success and free of complications. I closed my eyes in the quietness of the space and prayed, grateful to God for keeping my sweet child safe. A sudden, loud sound interrupted my thanksgiving.

It was a familiar sound, but one out of place. Surely, I misheard.

The sound erupted again, but louder, accurately confirming what I initially identified. A man recovering next to us, separated by only a thin barrier of cloth, was burping. Note the plural form of the word as it was done with repetition and considerable volume.

(As a sidenote, the current Guinness world record for loudest burp is 107.1 decibels, which is louder than a chainsaw at a distance of 1 metre. Thank you Wikipedia.

In addition, Wikipedia notes “Belching in front of people in public places tends to be received in a manner similar to flatulence”. I wholeheartedly concur.)

Every ten seconds or so, the man would release a lingering belch, followed by his companion telling him to “let it all out” so he would feel better. I began to wonder if the man recovering had been anesthetized with a carbonated drink.

Clearly, the patient was uncomfortable, which made two of us. Mercifully, after a fifteen minute chorus of varying lengths of eructation (thanks again, Wikipedia), the burping man and his companion left the recovery area.

Chandler slowly came out of his anesthesia, a little disoriented and in some pain. The worst is behind us, I remember thinking, as I carefully helped him into our car. I could not have known that the next nine days would be so trying, that in my mental instability, I would begin to wish for the presence of the belching patient if only as a distraction.....

Christmas Day

Christmas Day was unlike any other day our family has ever experienced. From the moment we awoke - an hour earlier than the law should allow- beautiful, giant snowflakes fell to the ground. Because we live in the South, snow of any kind is somewhat exceptional. However, when the worn-out weatherman, donning rolled-up sleeves and a questionable sweater vest, severely broadcasts impending ice and/or snow, folks in our area race to the grocery store in response with paranoid excitement, as though bread and milk the answer to the potential evil of black ice.



According to Georgian historians, snow has not fallen on Christmas day in 150 years. A rare occurrence that found families all over our state peering from windows in disbelief, as if dollar bills were floating down from the sky, declaring all Georgia residents the long shot winners in the weather lottery.

With a fire roaring and tree lights blinking, the silent snow provided the perfect background for a picturesque Christmas Day only highlighted by the reactions of a few silly elves and a sleepy-headed little girl.





Santa’s dubious gift selections this year were a little surprising. However, compared to the arsenal given the previous Christmas, the theme was arguably more peaceful. While Rocky may seem to be a movie about the aggression of boxing, Sylvester Stallone maintains he wrote the movie as a love story. Sort of the same way romance followed the movie Titanic to the bottom of the ocean.



Notice the headphones. Peace.



Curiously, Santa brought this one a cellphone, despite the debates offered by yours truly that a phone is not needed IF THE MOM ALWAYS KNOWS WHERE YOU ARE. Regardless, the man in the red suit must have taken pity after listening in on the conversation between my sixth grade son and a friend from school:

Chase: Can I borrow your cell phone to call my mom?

Friend: Sure. Did you leave your phone at home?

Chase: No. I don’t have one.

Friend: Wow. Your mom must hate you.



The jolly man brought Mary Mac the American Girl doll, Lanie, that apparently will no longer be in production after December. A little known fact that sent Santa's workforce into a last minute frenzy, that left said force with excessive grey hairs that will make her colorist cry. Oh, why must the dolls expire? American Girl People, can't you just give peace a chance?



More Christmas Peace and Joy:





(My husband claims that our gift wrapping looks as though our home is the location for UPS headquarters. During the renovation of our home, the large roll of Craft paper that protected the refinished hardwood floors was not used in its entirety. With a little craftiness (Get it? Craft? Craftiness? Never mind. Please utilize the red box in the upper right hand corner when you've had enough) and an enormous amount of packing tape, a small fortune was saved in wrapping paper.

Until that is, all of the ends of the packages popped open because of the heaviness of the paper, and a small fortune was spent retaping every package two days before Christmas.)


Later that evening, as it continued to snow, we celebrated the day with more family.

Nana, Mary Mac, Aunt JJ and Uncle Curt's arm:






And the next day, while it continued to snow, we furthered the peace and the joy at the home of Uncle Josh and Aunt Julie.

Josh and Briggs:



Mimi, Dude, McKinley and Mary Mac:



John, Chandler, Chase and Tanner:



Rocklan and Jeni:



It’s a day we will always remember - a Christmas winter wonderland that may only happen this once in our lifetime. A gift of peace and joy that will always fill our hearts and our memories. And as so succinctly put as the text sent to me by the phone of my oldest, sitting in the same room with me and just a few feet away, adolescent thumbs a blur of unnecessary activity: “This has been the best day EVER.”

To which I responded via the same, “Stop texting me.”

Merry Christmas everybody!