Suburban Turmoil

I've Moved!

2011-06-28T17:32:00.002-05:00

And soon you'll be moving, too. In a few seconds, you'll be redirected to my new site at:

www.suburbanturmoil.com.

You can subscribe to my new feed here: http://feeds.feedburner.com/suburbanturmoil/aaIB

See you soon!

This is The End

2011-06-27T07:30:00.001-05:00

Well, sort of.

I've had this blog design for quite a while now, and over the last couple of years, I've felt like the whole format was sort of limiting when it came to what I wanted to do, and where I wanted to go with it.

I solved the problem by starting a number of different blogs. The style blog (now at CafeMom) addressed my fashion and beauty addiction. A separate food blog gave me a place to share some of my favorite recipes. For a while, I wrote a blog for Parents.com and there, I could share more of the photographs I love taking of my children, as well as ideas for fun activities that the kids and I have enjoyed doing together. And my review blogs provided a place for me to tell you all about the cool products that I get to try out.

But there were problems with these solutions. While a separate style blog has been a great decision (thanks, @MandyHornbuckle!), the recipe blog was self-designed, ugly, and eventually abandoned. And then Parents.com opted to get rid of its blogs. And then there were other topics I had been wanting to write far more about, like faith and spirituality, that just seemed a little weird to get into on a regular basis on this blog, even though I know there are a lot of you out there that would love to mull it over with me.

Plus, I'm not the same person I was when I started this blog. I like to think that I've evolved at least a little bit. And while I still make lots and lots (and LOTS) of mistakes, I've been at this parenting thing now for ten years. TEN YEARS, PEOPLE. Can you believe I've now handled every age except second grade? Yeah, so can all my new wrinkles and gray hairs. Bah dum CHHHH!

In other words, it has become clear that it was time for a change.

And if all goes well, at some point ~~today~~ Tomorrow? Maybe? You're going to see it.

The new and improved Suburban Turmoil will allow you to access all the things I like to share with the Internets, all in one place. To help you figure out where to go, there will be shiny, new CHANNELS!

LIVE will be the place where most of the posts I normally write here go.

PLAY will be filled with inspiration and ideas on spending quality time with your kids, helping them learn, and keeping them from (gasp!) getting bored.

EAT will contain all my favorite recipes.

PRAY will be a place where I can write about faith and spirituality to my heart's content, and not worry about freaking people out in the process!

TRY will hold my reviews, but I'm solemnly promising before God and everybody that it will ONLY contain reviews of things that I think you really should see for yourself...

And WIN will have my giveaways-- As many of you know, giveaways are kind of a pain to host, so I only do the really good ones, like those that will score you a $100 VISA gift card or $100 in Mary Kay makeup, for example (These two are going on now, by the way).

A handy dandy slide show at the top of the screen will feature the five latest stories I've published, recent posts will be listed under that, and you can always click on the channel tabs at the top of the page if there are particular types of stories you like to read most. My site designer and I have tried to make everything pretty obvious.

More channels could crop up over time- I've intentionally kept things fairly basic so that my site can change as I change. I'm a work in progress and always will be. I want a website that has the ability to be that way, too.

Oh, and I'll also have a new tagline! But you'll have to come back to see it.

Expect things to be a bit wonky for a few days as we get everything in place. And then? KAPOW.

The new and improved Suburban Turmoil!

I hope you like it.

Sweet Dreams are Made of This

2011-06-24T08:20:00.006-05:00

Last night, I read the kids a story before bed. It came from a book of children's literature from the turn of the century and was full of big words and outdated phrases. While my 7-year-old, Punky, was riveted (it was about fairies, after all, and written by one of her favorite authors, Frances Hodgson Burnett), 4-year-old Bruiser quickly dropped off to sleep.

When I was finished, I looked down at him and smiled. He'd had a rough day, complete with not one but two public meltdowns, but in sleep he looked like a rosy little angel. It was hard to imagine that the dear cherub face I gazed down on was the same one that had proclaimed, "I don't even like you!" in the grocery when I wouldn't buy him a Hot Wheels car. I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"Can I kiss him, too?" Punky asked from her bed. I smiled and nodded.

"Isn't he cute when he's asleep?" she said after kissing him on his other cheek.

"He really is," I agreed.

"Sometimes when he's asleep and I'm awake," she continued, "I whisper things in his ear that will make him have good dreams."

"Like what?" I asked. I'd never known that she did this.

"Like, 'Vroom vroooooom. Bruiser Ferrier, you've won the race!'" she said softly.

My heart swelled.

I write a lot about the unconditional love parents have for their children, but I hadn't really thought about the fact that siblings feel the same way. Bruiser is very often the most difficult part of his sister's day. He's prone to hitting her when they fight. He follows her around, insists on playing with her friends, breaks her toys, and cries when she won't give him his way.

But at the end of the day, she's still there, whispering sweet dreams into her little brother's ear.

And I'm wiping away tears just thinking about it.

Flash Mob Rage

2011-06-22T10:00:00.006-05:00

Oh you crazy, crazy flash mobbers!

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a total sucker for a good flash mob.

It all started about a year ago, when I saw this famous flash mob video from the Oprah show. Twenty thousand people surprised O by doing a choreographed dance while the Black Eyed Peas performed. I'm not a huge Oprah fan or anything, but I may have cried a little watching it.

Such is the power of the flash mob...

Ever since then, I've been hooked, completely hooked by great flash mob performances.

There was the unforgettable Hallelujah chorus in a shopping mall food court (might have teared up at this one, too)...

And then there was that truly awesome Hammer Time flash mob in an LA clothing store...

Before I knew it, I was scouring YouTube for more flash mob magic.

But there was a problem. The truth was that most flash mobs were kinda... sucky. Like this one in Minneapolis:

I don't mean to go all Debbie Allen in Fame, but come on, people. Your choreography was sooooo sloppy, and as for that guy in the blue t-shirt? He had absolutely no business being there.

A word of advice to flash mobbers: If you can't bring it, you're just blocking the sidewalk.

But that was nothing compared to this flash mob monstrosity:

Okay, so maybe that really was a bad hotel.

But that was also FIVE MINUTES I'LL NEVER GET BACK.

"Gah, Lindsay, you're so cranky today," I can just imagine you thinking to yourself as you scroll through this post. "If you don't like it, don't watch it."

Well, I had that attitude, too, once. Live and let flash mob, I told myself grimly whenever I was tricked into watching a bad one. I have too much on my plate to worry about whether those prisoners stayed true to the spirit of Beyonce's Single Ladies.

Unfortunately, though, I can't keep my angst confined to the Internet. Because as the flash mob mentality infiltrates mainstream America, I'm starting to see flash mobs in real life. A lot. That would be great if they were all wearing gold Hammer pants. But mainstream flash mobbers are too busy for costumes or choreography. They simply want to get their flash mob on as quickly and easily as possible. And where's the fun in that?

I mean, seriously. Do ten people standing frozen in my Kroger for five minutes really constitute a flash mob, or are they simply preventing me from getting to the organic romaine? I'm gonna go with the latter.

This all came to a head at the downtown library a few weeks ago. I was in the library's courtyard during a puppet festival when I heard a loud throat-clearing from a nearby bench. I looked down and saw two hipsterish twenty-somethings, sitting as if they had been turned to stone mid-conversation. The girl hipster's eyes darted to me to make sure I was watching, then returned to the frozen boy across from her.

"Oh, I get it," I said. "A flash mob." I looked around, but there were no more frozen figures dotting the courtyard. Everyone else was moving about normally.

"Wait," I said. "There are only two of you? Really? No one else showed up?" The hipster boy's hands, spread as though he had been about to make a point to his partner, began shaking.

"This isn't even a mob," I told them. "It's just a flash duet. And that's... lame." Sweat beads began to appear on the girl's forehead. Clearly, they were committed to seeing it through, which was sort of impressive. But that meant that I, in my role as flash mob heckler, had to stay committed to my role as well. So I sighed loudly. "Well, this was certainly worth the price of admission," I said. "Bravo." And I walked away.

But not really. At the end of my diatribe, I was still standing there, silently staring at a supremely lame flash duet on a library bench. If the truth be known, I hadn't actually said anything to them.

I'd just thought it. Because that is how I roll.

"Heh," I said instead. I chuckled weakly and walked away from them, fists clenched. I had been forced, forced to view what was very possibly the worst flash mob of all time. And I wasn't one bit happy about it.

Flash mob rage. It's real and it's ugly.

And so now, I am appealing to you, America. We already have to deal with bad drivers. Rude convenience store cashiers. Parents who let their kids run wild. Double parkers. Loud gum chewers. Sufferers of simple chronic halitosis. Out of shape streakers.

What I'm trying to say is that the market on annoying people is already saturated.

So please. Keep your bad flash mobs to yourselves.

Photo credit: Michael Dolan/Flickr

Pssssst.... Wanna win something cool? I'm giving away a $100 VISA gift card here and $100 in makeup here. Go enter- It's soooo easy!

So Many Sandcastles

2011-06-20T07:30:00.002-05:00

Before I had children, the beach was a place for pure, mindless relaxation. During visits to the seaside, I’d spend hours lazing on a towel in the hot sand. I’d walk along the shore for miles, picking up shells along the way. I’d read frothy novels from under a fluttering blue beach umbrella, pausing to gaze out over the blue horizon and empty my mind of every last worrying thought. I’d paddle on a cheap raft out beyond the surf and lie on it with my eyes closed, rocked gently by the waves, one leg dangling in the water.

In my mind, the beach is still a place to relax and unwind… but with a 4 and 7 year-old now accompanying me there, relaxation is the last thing on my mind... and the only thing unwinding is my fraying sanity.

We had planned all kinds of activities both on the water and off during our week on Hilton Head Island, but my little ones were really only interested in spending as much time on the beach as possible. Unfortunately, their idea of a good time on the sand was very different from mine.

There would be no reading or long walks, and I could forget about lying on a towel and soaking up the sun. Instead, my children had a set of beach games they’d invented, which their father and I were expected to supervise each and every time we put on our swimsuits and headed down to the saltwater.

First, my 4-year-old son would drag me out into the ocean, just to the point where the waves tumbled and broke at his waistline. There, his rules required us to point at each wave as it approached, shouting “Dude!” When an especially massive wave came along, we’d turn and run screaming back to shore. Then, after congratulating each other for our bravery, we'd wade out again, and repeat the game.

For hours.

As the week progressed, Bruiser grew bolder, constantly attempting to go deeper in the water and giving me brash assurances that he could swim. “See?” he’d say when challenged, swinging his arms in a caveman’s approximation of the butterfly, “You just go like this!”

“You can’t swim yet, Bruiser,” I’d insist, stopping him from going any deeper by hooking my arms under his armpits and around his chest. He’d counter by going limp and I’d drag him like a potato sack back to shore.

Good times.

Seven-year-old Punky was more interested in planting herself in the sand at the shore and digging for razor clams. Once she tired of that, she’d put Hubs or me in charge of the impossible job of using a net to catch the tiny fish that darted here and there in the surf. Or she’d demand that one of us sit beside her on the shoreline and let the waves crash over our laps. After that, she’d enlist the entire family to take part in a few (dozen) rounds of Ring Around the Rosie. There's nothing quite like playing Ring Around the Rosie in a bathing suit in front of dozens of parents sitting smugly in their beach chairs and gazing at you over their Pat Conroy novel, you know?

But before any of the made-up beach games began, I was expected to build my children a sandcastle, surrounded by a small pool of water. In that water, we’d store all of the treasures we found in the ocean, from starfish to sea snails to the disgusting lone crab claws that occasionally washed ashore. A lounging Barbie in a skimpy bathing suit gave our moat a Jersey Shore vibe, and an assortment of cheap plastic ocean creatures we had picked up at a marina fishing shop made the scene especially festive. No one could say I didn't give it my all.

Building the castle and moat was time-consuming, and it could also be frustrating. The kids wanted it to be as close as possible to the water, which meant that more than once all my hard work was destroyed minutes after its creation in the wake of a miscalculated tide.

Surprisingly, though, I found that I enjoyed building the castle for my kids. I learned to smooth the sand walls with a flat plastic shovel, and to decorate them with the tiny clamshells that dotted the sand. I drizzled wet sand in loopy designs over the top, and painstakingly made a ramp so that my son’s treasured plastic monster truck could roll up and circle the moat’s walls. I found myself becoming completely absorbed in the job, carefully shaping and molding and refining and decorating my sand structure long after my children had moved on to other attractions along the water.

And as I worked, it occurred to me that ten years ago, I would never have had the patience to carefully build and rebuild sand walls that would only be knocked down again by the surf. Just as the waves slowly change the shoreline over time, though, being a wife and mother has gradually reshaped me.

Molding the sand wasn’t so different from my duties at home. I spend hours each week washing and drying and folding clothes, scrubbing pots, mopping floors, brushing tiny teeth, washing hair, making breakfasts, lunches and dinners and doing a hundred other household duties, only to repeat it all over again just as soon as I’ve finished. I spent a few years there at the beginning railing at the indignity and unfairness of the fact that so much of my work was unnoticed, undervalued, and ineffective but over time, I have learned to take satisfaction in the act of simply doing it. I have learned that, whether or not any of my family members ever notice or recognize it, making sure their house and clothes are clean, their food is tasty and their lives are comfortable is a wordless, age-old act of caring.

Of love.

And it goes far beyond household duties. What mother hasn't put in endless hours molding and shaping her children’s lives, creating as much joy and beauty for them as as she can? Experience and time will erode our castles and in some cases, smash them to bits. We know this, and yet we continue to build. And smooth. And decorate. And when the walls start to crumble, we patiently start building all over again.

And so while a part of me would rather be stretched out on the sand with a good book, I’ll build that sandcastle for my children as often as they let me. The waves will destroy it sooner than I’d like- but for one long, glorious moment, the sun will shine, the water will sparkle, the castle will stand magnificent, and my children and I will laugh in delight.

Best. Dad. Ever.

2011-06-19T12:00:00.004-05:00

Happy Father's Day

to a man who's devoted his life to being the best dad he can possibly be.

It is paying off...

And um, also?

It is incredibly sexy!

xoxo,

Lindsay

Your Summer Reading List (for the Next 50 Summers)

2011-06-15T07:30:00.002-05:00

I am, as many of you have probably guessed, a bit of a workaholic.

I am also, as many of you know, at the beach this week.

I've spent the last month or so working ahead on all of my writing assignments so that I could have a fantastic week with my family that was unfettered by deadlines. I also planned ahead for a mental vacation of my own- one that would involve the one thing I love doing but don't get to do enough lately (well, actually, there's more than one thing, but stay with me, mkay?):

Reading.

And so about a week ago, in an effort to have the best Week O' Reading possible, I asked for your book recommendations. And you delivered.

Boy, did you ever deliver!

You gave me so many great titles (each of which I cross-referenced on Amazon, by the way), that I decided I needed to share them with you. I also got out my handy dandy list of EVERYBOOKIHAVEVERREAD and picked out all the ones I think you'd love.

And so now, without further adieu, I present to you....

Your Summer Reading List. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

You recommend:

My Family and Other Animals
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
If I Stay
A Girl Named Zippy
The Heretic’s Daughter
One Last Thing
Heaven is For Real
The Book Thief
Little Bee
The Bitch in the House
Same Kind of Different as Me
The Historian
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
The Magnificent Ambersons
Cane River
Pope Joan
The Dry Grass of August
The Last Chinese Chef
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down
The Book of Joe
Every Last One
The Pillars of the Earth
Snow Flower and the Secret Fan
Water for Elephants
This is Where I Leave You
Cinderella Ate My Daughter
A Visit from the Goon Squad
One for the Money (Book 1 of the Stephanie Plum series)
The Paris Wife
How Did You Get This Number?
Sarah’s Key
Cutting for Stone
Little Bee
The 19th Wife
How to Talk to a Widower
Winter Garden
Firefly Lane
The Wilder Life
The Swan House
Divergent
In the Woods
The Passage
The Gargoyle

I recommend:

The Secret History- Donna Tartt
Run with the Horsemen- Ferroll Samms
Madame Bovary
All the King's Men
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy
Night- Elie Wiesel
Love in the Time of Cholera
100 Years of Solitude
The Witching Hour- Anne Rice
What Fresh Hell is This (an excellent Dorothy Parker biography)- Marion Meade
Fear of Flying- Erica Jong
To Kill a Mockingbird
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
Cold Sassy Tree
Christy- Catherine Marshall
Wuthering Heights
Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady- Florence King
The Two Mrs. Grenvilles- Dominic Dunne
I'm with the Band- Pamela Des Barres
Jane Eyre
Edie: Diary of an American Girl (amazing biography of Edie Sedgewick by George Plimpton)
Tales of the City-Armistead Maupin
Emma
Self Help-Lorrie Moore
The Diary of Adrian Mole
The House of the Spirits- Isabel Allende
Lakota Woman
Interview with the Vampire
The Vampire Lestat
Charms for the Easy Life - Kaye Gibbons
In Cold Blood- Truman Capote
My Father's Glory/My Mother's Castle- Marcel Pagnol
A Lesson Before Dying
The Lords of Discipline
Corelli's Mandolin
Naked- David Sedaris
Play It as It Lays- Joan Didion
The Remains of the Day
A Year in Provence- Peter Mayle
The "Lucia" books by E.F. Benson
Anna Karenina- Leo Tolstoy
The Once and Future King
The Reader
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
Memoirs of a Geisha
Vanity Fair
The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing
Jean de Florette/Manon of the Springs- Marcel Pagnol
The Harry Potter books- JK Rowling
The Corrections- Jonathan Franzen
Freedom- Jonathan Franzen
The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency- Alexander McCall Smith
Mr. Bridge/ Mrs. Bridge- Evan S. Connell
Coraline
Bel Canto- Ann Patchett
The Hiding Place
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
The Blind Assassin- Margaret Atwood
The Lovely Bones
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers
The Time Traveler's Wife
Running With Scissors
The Other Boleyn Girl
The Ruins

Feel free to add more suggestions in the comments- The more the merrier!

And your suggestions are totally rocking my world- We stopped in a locally-owned bookstore in Savannah yesterday and I had a GREAT time because I kept coming across all the books you've recommended. It was so much fun recognizing them and getting a chance to flip through them in person!

Now... What do you recommend?

Image courtesy of nseika/Flickr

Psssst.... I'm giving away $100 in Mary Kay makeup! Enter to win it here.

Wish You Were Here

2011-06-14T07:30:00.000-05:00

Hilton Head. June, 2011.

xoxo,

Lindsay

The Road Warriors

2011-06-13T07:30:00.001-05:00

On Saturday morning, Hubs and I got up at 2:45am, threw on some clothes, made a pot of coffee, loaded up the kids and a few last bags into our SUV, and headed south for Hilton Head Island.

It can be rough getting up hours before dawn, but in the end it was worth it- The roads were relatively clear-- at least until 8am. That's when, just south of Atlanta, we hit construction traffic and went at a snail's pace for about 45 minutes.

As we crawled along in one of two open lanes, our speed maxing out at 10 mph, we had ample time to examine the activity in the four shut-down lanes beside us. And for me anyway, this is where it gets to be frustrating when it comes to highway construction. Because for all the orange cones and the Let ‘Em Live signs, for all the police officers monitoring our behavior as we roll grumpily by and all the big , important-looking paving machines parked here and there beside the interstate, for all the men in hard hats and safety vests, 95% of the time, absolutely nothing is actually happening.

“What are they even doing?” Hubs asked, frowning.

“Well, that guy is taking a stroll, and he’s confused about something,” I said as we passed a man in a neon green vest, wandering down one coned-off lane with the look of a newly-minted zombie.

“And that guy,” I continued, pointing out a man slouched down smoking a cigarette atop a machine with an enormous roller on its front, “is taking a breather.”

We passed a group of construction workers huddled in a group. “Those guys are probably talking about what they did on Friday night,” I said, “and those men sitting on the median over there look like they might be overcome by the car exhaust fumes.”

We drove on for several miles and passed dozens more construction workers who were sitting, standing, smoking, belly scratching, meditating, praying, taking five, taking ten, taking twenty, planning, plotting, musing, loitering, lollygagging, and lazing about.

Finally, 30 minutes later, we came across one single, solitary man sitting behind the wheel of a moving paver. He was a loner, clearly scorned by his fellow construction workers. He was a man who appeared to be operating machinery, a man who was… wait for it… working.

“Wow,” I breathed as we watched the man do the unthinkable. “Wouldja look at that...” A moment or two after we passed the man by, the lanes opened up again, the congestion eased and we were once again on our way.

Road work. It takes a village.

Photo by Flickr/dreamglowpumpkincat210

Crane Day, 2011

2011-06-08T10:22:00.004-05:00

As my rough band of renegades and I strode into Snappy Tomato, all seven heads in the place turned, a mixture of fear and awe plainly visible on their faces. I paused for a moment, lowered my aviators, and took a quick look around the room.

"It's in the back, gang," I muttered to the two henchmen flanking me. "Let's roll."

Confidently, we passed the greeter, the cashier, and the cook and made our way to the back of the restaurant.We had no time for silly pizza. We were there for one reason and one reason only.

The Crane Claw Game.

Crane Day was the official launch event for Bruiser and Punky Ferrier's 2011 Summer Experience. I knew this because it was in my calendar.

After spending a disastrous summer of 2010 with few plans other than "relaxing" and "enjoying the break" (phrases that, incidentally, don't sit well with 6 and 3-year-old children WHO NEED TO BE ENTERTAINED DURING EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY), I spent a week last month mapping out the kids' entire summer. Day camps were booked. Vacation Bible Schools were noted. Beach plans were finalized. Grandparents were called in as reinforcements. By the end of that week, every single day contained at least one set-in-stone activity or excursion.

And it all began with Crane Day- the day that we would do whatever it took to win a stuffed animal from a crane machine. Why?

BECAUSE IT WAS FUN AND A LITTLE BIT INSANE, THAT'S WHY.

I was armed with ten dollars in quarters and a list of nearby crane claw locations, helpfully provided by my Facebook friends. We'd been told Snappy Tomato had a machine that was full of WIN- and so of course, we hit it up first.

I had my doubts, though, as I popped in the first two quarters. The crane claw was small. The stuffed animals were large, and packed in together. This was gonna be tough.

Since I'm a champion crane claw machine operator from way back, the kids had already decided I would man the crane while they directed from either side of the glass windows. We also had made a pact that we would go for the EASIEST stuffed animal to win. Even if it was a dirty and torn stuffed monkey in a sea of brand new Steiff bears. It didn't matter.

Easiest was best...est.

With that in mind, I aimed the claw for a purple hippo that was lazing atop the other toys. But after just two tries, we could tell that our efforts were pointless. The claw had zero grip. The purple hippo didn't even move.

"This machine is a rip-off," Punky said. "Let's go to the next place."

"Great idea," I told her. I didn't smile back at the manager who said goodbye as we made our way out. I knew his dirty crane claw secret. He wasn't to be trusted.

Our next stop was Shoney's. A former co-worker had informed me that Shoney's was home to one of the best crane claws in town, and when we saw it for ourselves, we weren't disappointed. The claw on the Shoney's machine was enormous. The stuffed animals were in complete disarray, and clearly had been knocked around more than a few times. We decided to go for a tacky red dog, and within two tries...

HE WAS OURS.

My daughter squealed and immediately claimed him as her own, naming him Lucky and hugging him much like I would have hugged a $500 Boden gift certificate. (Oh, if only they had a crane claw machine full of $500 Boden gift certificates. I'd be there all day.)We still had a lot of quarters left, too, and that could only mean one thing.

"Let's win one for Bruiser!" I said excitedly. The kids cheered.

And that's when things started to go downhill.

The Shoney's machine had a Clifford dog dressed as a fireman that was giving me fits. We'd drag him toward the drop bin, only to watch him fall back on his fat doggy a$ at the very last moment. Dumb dog. I wasted five dollars in quarters and attracted a small crowd of onlookers before we decided it was time to move on.

Next stop on our list: Toys R Us.

Toys R Us was a total disappointment, and we didn't stay long. It had the same pathetically small claw as Snappy Tomato, and while the grip was slightly better, the toys had been carefully arranged to not budge. Boo.

We moved on to Pizza Perfect, where the game cost just 25 cents as opposed to 50. I thought that was appropriate since the Pizza Perfect claw was completely ineffectual. By this time, our efforts were half-hearted. We were all thinking one thing...

"Let's go back to Shoney's!" my daughter crowed. "Shoney's has the big claw!"

I agreed, but I had to make a return trip worth our while. I called Hubs.

"Hey honey, this crane claw thing is taking longer than I thought. Want to meet us at Shoney's for dinner?" We don't go out to eat a whole lot because frankly, we can't afford it. (despite SOME PEOPLE'S belief that I shop all day long.) But I had an ace up my sleeve and knew my husband wouldn't refuse.

"Shoney's?" he said happily. "I have a 50% off coupon for Shoney's!"

Bingo.

Yes, my husband is a coupon clipper, at least when it comes to restaurants. He keeps a bag full of coupons from all the clipper magazines and sorts through it at least once a week. Just for fun. There. The secret's out. Your man might keep a stack of car magazines or back issues of Playboy in his nightstand. My man clips restaurant coupons. I'LL TAKE IT.

"We'll meet you there," I said. "And uh, Hubs? Bring quarters."

As we made our way back into Shoney's, the employees looked up in surprise. One of them noted my glazed eyes and smiled wryly. "Need more quarters?" he asked. Clearly, he knew the Power of the Big Claw.

"No," I said. "I'm good." I'd used up all of my own money, but had thought to raid Punky's piggybank before we left. Fortunately, she was as hooked as I was.

"You can do it, Mommy!" she whispered, pulling her quarters from her Barbie purse as we made our way back to the crane claw. "I know you'll get Clifford this time!" I smiled at her and got to work.

I was on my fifth try and had only two quarters left when Hubs entered the restaurant. "We need all your quarters," I said without looking at him. "Hand them over."

"How much have you already spent?" he asked suspiciously. Evidently, he recognized my expression as the same one I got in front of the Plinko game at Chuck E. Cheese.

"Seven dollars," I lied. It was more like twice that, but what Hubs didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He dug out his wallet and scrounged up two more quarters.

"This is all I've got," he said. I took them wordlessly and inserted them into the machine. But it was no use. The claw scraped uselessly at Clifford's stupid fire hat and then bobbed back up, empty. I stared desolately at Clifford and from behind the glass, he met my gaze with a mocking one of his own. Punky put her hand on my arm.

"Well, at least we have Lucky," she said.

"But your brother..." I said brokenly. We looked over at him, where he stood atop a stuffed bench in the waiting area. He farted loudly and chortled. The man sitting beside him gaped.

"I think he'll be okay," Punky said. And she was right. Bruiser had given up on the crane claw game long ago, resorting instead to Entertaining the Customers. Smart kid.

As for me, well you can say I was a fool for wasting all my money on a cheap stuffed dog. But I have only three words for Crane Day 2011:

We got Lucky.

And that's all anyone needs to know.

Crane claw photo courtesty of Leland Francisco/Flickr

The Voice

2011-06-06T08:41:00.001-05:00

"Hello?"

"Hi Susan, it's Lindsay," I said into the phone. "We were wondering if Jenny might like to come over and play for a little while."

There was a confused pause and then a loud exhalation into the phone.

"Susan?" I asked.

"I'll get my mom," she answered.

Oops. I realized in that moment that she was a he. And he was Susan's ten-year-old son.

What can I say? On the phone, at least, he sounded exactly like Susan.

I covered the receiver while Joey went to look for his mom. "Oh no!" I whispered to my husband. "That was actually Joey on the phone!"

"Niiice," my husband said, chuckling.

In a few moments, Susan answered and I managed to keep my giggles at bay as we arranged an impromptu playdate. I didn't mention what had happened with Joey, but I had no doubt it was still on his mind. The memories had all come rushing back the moment I heard his exaggerated sigh.

I vividly recall a few years growing up when adults would call our home and think my older brother was my mom. Oh, the mortification! The shame! To a boy right on the verge of The Changing of the Voice, there's not much more humiliating than being mistaken for your mother.

GAH.

"Do you remember that happening when you were a kid?" I asked Hubs after I'd hung up with Susan. "Because I remember when that would happen to my brother, and it was a VERY BIG DEAL. There was a lot of angst afterward. A lot of accusations."

"Of course I remember it," Hubs said. "It was awful! So embarrassing!"

I looked over at Bruiser, innocently playing with his Batman set, and thought about what was to come-- It's yet another piece in the puzzle of raising a boy that I hadn't considered up until that moment. Being mistaken for a woman at a time when that seems like the worst, most humiliating thing that could possibly ever happen to you...

I giggled again. I couldn't help it.

It's going to be hilarious.

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*Alert! I'm giving away $100 worth of makeup! Go here and enter to win it.

Balloon Rage

2011-06-02T11:09:00.004-05:00

It was a typically magical Sunday afternoon at the Nashville Library's annual puppet festival. There were puppet shows and demonstrations...

Random acts of cuteness...

...And then there was this guy.

The balloon guy.

You know him... or at least, you know his kind. He shows up at birthday parties and childrens festivals, delighting the kids and striking fear and loathing in the hearts of parents. For while the balloon guy can work magic with balloons, his lines are inevitably hella long. And his air-filled poodles and pirate hats nearly always pop within five minutes of their creation, resulting in a crying child and, for the weak, another eternal wait in line.

This particular balloon guy was one of the best... He was clearly a Grand Poobah of Balloon Creatures, whipping up all kinds of elaborate creations: three-foot wizard wands with fuzzy pom poms rattling around inside... crazy balloon hats with tentacles that extended in every direction... and, after an hour-long wait, a unicorn for my daughter and a spider hanging from a tree branch for my son.

Understandably, my children were thrilled. They waved their balloon creations around happily as we filed into one of the library's auditoriums for the final show of the day: Pinocchio, a one-man performance from Atlanta featuring puppets made out of found objects.

As we settled into our seats, Bruiser and a kid in front of us staged a mock battle between Bruiser's balloon spider and the kid's balloon pirate sword.

"That's enough," I told Bruiser after the other kid bonked me in the head with his sword. "The show's about to start. Let's put our balloons under our seats until it's over so that they don't pop." The kids whined a bit, but eventually allowed me to stow their balloons for the duration of the puppet show. But as I looked around, I noticed that other parents weren't bothering to do what I had done. Everywhere in the auditorium, balloons were visible- balloon wands waved, balloon flowers bobbed, balloon swords swished. The lights went down and across the auditorium, dozens of balloons quivered in anticipation.

The show started and my kids forgot their own balloons entirely as the puppeteer launched into the story of the puppet my son calls "Pokey-nose." Indeed, the entire audience was riveted by the performer's completely unique rendition of the tale. A hush fell over the crowd as Pinocchio ran away from home and joined the circus-- and then-- about 15 minutes into the performance during an exceedingly quiet moment on stage, there came a loud

POP!

from the audience.

"GET THAT THING OUT! OF! MY! FACE!" a woman yelled from one of the seats on the right side of the auditorium.

Every head in the audience turned to see what was going on. The performer continued with his show, but the woman was still carrying on, and you could hear bits and pieces of her diatribe over the puppeteer.

"...HAVE HAD ENOUGH!"

"...COMMON DECENCY..."

"...AGGRESSIVELY WAVING THAT THING..."

I sat listening, agape. From what I could gather, the woman had grown tired of some kid waving his balloon in front of her during the show and... and...

popped it.

"Balloon rage," I whispered to my husband. He nodded sagely.

Because while the woman's actions were shocking and strangely... violent, I think we've all experienced balloon rage at one time or another. Who among us hasn't dealt with someone constantly getting in our face? Which of us hasn't felt the temptation to just reach out one time and...

POP?

Balloon rage. Unleash your inner straight pin.

When Tiger Mom Attacks

2011-05-31T12:00:00.000-05:00

The last time my inner Tiger Mom made an appearance was at Punky's first grade awards program.

While all of the children sang two songs as a group, a few individual kids had been chosen to step up to the microphone and announce each selection. I was trying my best to simply enjoy the show... but my inner Tiger Mom was making that impossible.

Why wasn't Punky chosen to introduce a song? she hissed in my head. What do those kids have that she doesn't? You really need to work with her on her speaking skills!

"Don't be ridiculous," I murmured through gritted teeth. I smiled at Punky up on the stage and she grinned happily back. My kid didn't care. So why should I?

But Tiger Mom wasn't giving up that easily.

As the singing ended and the awards began, she was more vicious than ever, booing when Punky wasn't voted Best Citizen and screeching in dismay when my daughter narrowly missed the top reader award. I thought of all the books Punky had read- three a day sometimes- and dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands. My inner Tiger Mom laughed approvingly.

Next year, we'll work even harder, she promised, her voice quivering with rage. We'll take that award next year and our honor will be restored. RESTORED, I tell you!

"Shut up!" I whispered.

"Excuse me?" said a mom beside me.

I paused. "What up?" I said finally. She stared at me. "What up, girlfriend?" I repeated. She snorted and looked away.

Tiger Mom was at it again.

I have always been competitive, which is not entirely a bad thing. Correctly harnessed, my competitiveness has spurred me on to to do some things I'm really proud of. As a parent, though, my competitive streak is actually a liability- especially when there's an excellent chance that neither of my children have inherited it.

Certainly, Punky wasn't feeling the wrath of her own personal Tiger Kid as she stood on the stage. She smiled with pleasure when her friends received their special awards. The only thing that would have upset her on that day was if her dad and I hadn't been there.

I constantly remind myself of these things as I watch my daughter fall behind while riding bikes with friends or write her letters and numbers backward. I tell myself that her father and I know she's special, and so does her teacher, and so do her grandparents. I review the facts over and over again in my mind: Punky is a very happy child. Punky loves to learn. Punky will spend the rest of her life feeling pressure and that pressure doesn't need to start in first grade.

But Tiger Mom is always lurking, always ready to take advantage of my weaker moments. And the truth is, I suspect I'm not the only one she's bothering. I think most every mother has at least a little bit of Tiger Mom in her, regardless of who she is or where she came from. We all secretly want our kids to be the best...

At absolutely everything.

I've seen Tiger Mom's distinctive mark in graded school projects that have clearly benefited from a "helping hand." I've heard Tiger Moms at soccer games, when otherwise mild-mannered women scream at refs and coaches over "bad" decisions. I've witnessed dozens of Tiger Moms emerge at kids' competitions and award ceremonies-- they're the tight-lipped, fidgety ones sitting up front, talking to no one until the winning names have been called.

Don't blame us. Blame our inner Tiger Mom.

I really need to figure out how to shut mine up once and for all.

It's Called Bruiser's Theme

2011-05-25T12:47:00.007-05:00

Now that my son is four, he's becoming more and more independent with each passing month.

Bruiser spends the bulk of his days completely absorbed in play, whether he's drawing space men with colored markers, molding Play-Doh into flying machines, playing robot games on the computer, or looking through his dog-eared collection of toy catalogs. As he plays, he talks quietly to himself, giving voices to the characters he has created in his own mind, while I often stand just around the corner, listening to his scenarios and fighting back giggles.

Bruiser, you see, includes something in his imaginary play that his sister did not:

A soundtrack.

He's always hummed soundless tunes as he's played-- but I noticed recently that the tune has now become a theme... a recurring theme. Judging by the gusto with which he sings it, in his little mind the music clearly invokes passion and toughness, engine-revving, motor oil and sweat. Bruiser is growing up in an era of video and computer games, HD movies on a 47-inch screen and 3D films at the theater. It only makes sense, I guess, that the pretend scenarios he creates for his stuffed animals and Tonka Trucks also have a soundtrack-- one he's created. THERE WILL BE NO COPYRIGHT ISSUES FOR MY BOY.

Despite the honored position it holds in his playtimes now, I knew the tune would be forgotten after a few more months-- and I couldn't let that happen. So I taped it. I had him sing it for me.

And yes, I did what I can never seem to resist doing when interacting with my son. I teased him just a little bit.

Here you go.

BRUISER'S THEME:

That's all...

Setting Our Kids Loose in Today's Real World

2011-05-23T09:30:00.000-05:00

I have a confession.

I've been watching a show that's so trashy, so salacious, so disgustingly scandalous that I hastily turn it off in embarrassment whenever anyone else is in the room.

It's called Real World: Las Vegas, and even though its disturbing images haunt me for days, I can't stop watching.

The premise is the same as you remember from your own MTV days. It's the story of seven strangers, picked to live in a house and have their lives taped.

Gone, though, are the staunch Republicans, the AIDS patients, the cowboys, the naive Southern girls from the Real World we remember. They've been replaced by young men and women whose sole goals in life seem to consist of hooking up with as many people as possible, fighting, and getting fall-down drunk.

This season alone, every single castmate has made out with or had sex with another castmate. One was sent home for repeatedly getting wasted and trashing their penthouse suite. Another was outed as having gay porn videos on the Internet- even though he was hooking up with a female castmate each night and hadn't bothered to tell her about his past. That same female got drunk after learning about his sexual history and hooked up with another female castmate. Two more castmates endured a pregnancy/STD scare, after the guy admitted he hadn't been using protection with the other women he'd been sleeping with in Las Vegas. And the scandal and bad behavior goes on. And on. And on.

Why am I watching this trash? For one important reason.

Our kids are going to be watching it, too. Like it or not, MTV continues to be the arbiter of what's current among teens and young adults.

I remember relating to the Real World cast members when I was their age. On some level, their lives and experiences, their likes and dislikes, mirrored my own and those of my friends. I'm going to sound like a codger now, but wasn't it important when we were Real World age to stand for something? Sure there was drinking and there were hookups among our friends, but there were also lots of heartfelt talks about the meaning of our lives and where we were headed. There was concern over the state of our government and our world. Relationships were painstakingly analyzed. Ideas were exchanged. Philosophies were tested.

I see none of that now. I see young people concerned only with getting drunk and getting laid. That's essentially the plotline of every single Real World episode that airs.

And that concerns me.

I'd like to see MTV catch up with these castmembers six months after the last Real World has aired. And a year down the road. And five years after that. I'd like to hear what the castmates have to say about the random hookups and excessive drinking then. I want to know how their pasts affect them when they have their first serious adult relationship. When they marry. When they have kids of their own. That's the Real World. But our kids won't see that on MTV, will they?

It's depressing that sex is portrayed now as being no more meaningful than an extended makeout session. It's depressing to hear that young, educated men and women are still using the "pull-out method" and going without protection when they have sex with strangers, because that stranger "looked clean." It's depressing to see that a night out on the town isn't really complete unless it ends with everyone doing something they wouldn't do sober, whether it's hooking up or fighting or passing out on the floor of the bar.

It's depressing that this is the Real World our kids are inheriting.

I don't like it. But I do feel the need to know about it. How else am I going to know what I'm up against?

What do you think about the Real World our kids are entering? Do you see differences from when we were growing up, or do you think it's no different from when we were their age?

Cicadageddon

2011-05-20T07:43:00.005-05:00

Last night, we all got home from the Y and heard a very loud rustling from underneath the mulch in our front yard planters. It sounded like an effect from some sort of sci-fi alien thriller.

It was, we soon discovered, the sound of thousands of cicadas, emerging from underground.

Hubs ran and grabbed a flashlight so that we could see for ourselves exactly what was happening. When he came back out, he shined the beam onto a tree in our front yard.

Its trunk was completely covered in cicadas, slowly climbing up into the tree's branches. It was so gross, I had to video it.

Tomorrow is supposed to be C-Day here in Nashville. Cicada Day. Their numbers will peak, and if last night was any indication, it is wise for all of us to be very, very afraid.

It also is starting to seem like more than coincidence that tomorrow is the Day the World is Scheduled to End.

I'd say this cicada thing definitely qualifies as a plague.

Wouldn't you?

Mall Meltdown

2011-05-18T10:11:00.004-05:00

Over at The Stir this week, I wrote a post about getting snubbed by a couple of sales people while shopping at a clothing store here in Nashville.

It was one of those topics I thought a lot of women would be able to relate to- and boy, was I right. Commenters came out of the woodwork, itching to talk about the times they had been dissed by store employees.

The funny thing was that the snubbing I experienced wasn't the only bizarre incident I had with a sales person that day at the mall. On the very same visit, I managed to cause great consternation among the employees at Dillards AND Macy's. Now that I have small children, I don't go to the mall as often as I used to, and at the end of that day I was left thinking that somehow, mall etiquette rules must have changed, and no one had bothered to send me the memo.

It happened like this...

I went to Dillards looking for spring clothes on a weekday morning, when the store was all but empty. Within a few minutes of browsing in the woman's department, I had a couple of pieces thrown over one arm. A sales person came and asked if I wanted her to start a fitting room for me.

"Oh no thanks," I said. "I'm okay for now."

In salesperson-ese, refusing the starting of a fitting room is basically like spitting in the salesperson's face. At least, that's what I gathered from the woman's expression after I turned down her offer.

But here's the thing... Women's departments are sort of large and spread out. I'd rather gather up all I'm going to try on, THEN find a fitting room and get it all over with in one fell swoop, as opposed to letting some salesperson start a fitting room and spending ten minutes once I'm ready to try things on attempting to figure out WHICH of many fitting rooms in the store she put my clothes in.

Also? Quite often, I want to keep the clothing with me so that I can match it to other pieces. IS THAT SUCH A BIG DEAL?

Apparently, yes. Yes it is.

The woman proceeded to tail me at a distance and within a few minutes, she was joined by another employee, who, after a whispered conference with the first, also asked if she could start a fitting room for me.

"No thank you," I said politely. "But I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Cue horrified Did-you-really-just-SPIT-ON-ME look from the second employee.

And now I had two salespeople tailing me at a not-so-respectable distance.

Brilliant.

Eventually, I had about eight things to try on. I headed for the nearest fitting room, found an empty stall, and went inside. There were a few items of Dillards clothing on the floor of the fitting room, but since I was the only shopper I'd seen in the area for quite some time, I logically assumed that person was done trying on clothes and the things she had tried on hadn't been put away yet by an employee (probably because the employee was too busy tailing dangerous customers like me).

I began trying on my clothes.

A good 20 minutes later, I was almost done, and a customer and salesperson came into the dressing room.

"Oh, whoops," the customer said. "Someone else is in there now. I had a pair of pants in there I wanted to buy."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"I need a pair of pants that were left in that dressing room when you went in there and I need them now," the salesperson announced testily. I could tell by her voice that it was the first woman I had "spat" on.

"Okay," I said. "Let me just put a shirt on."

"Another customer was trying on clothes in there," she hissed. "I need those pants now."

"Just trying to get un-naked," I said. "I'm moving as fast as I can!"

Seconds later, I opened the door and handed her the clothes.

"I couldn't have known," I said apologetically. "This dressing room has been completely empty for the last thirty minutes."

"We like to let customers into dressing rooms ourselves," she said angrily.

"Clearly," I said, smiling and shutting the door.

A few minutes later, I was done. I took two items I had chosen to buy and left the dressing rooms. Outside, the saleswoman stood with a pack of other saleswomen. She saw me come out and her voice dropped to a whisper.

I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter. 'D' for Dressingroomstealer. Or maybe 'W,' for Wouldnotletsalespeoplestartafittingroomforher. I held my head high and marched past them with burning cheeks. What was with all the hostility? I hadn't meant to steal someone else's dressing room. Even the customer seemed to know that. And where were the rules posted stating that I had to let a salesperson start a fitting room for me or suffer dire consequences? GAH.

I left Dillards and headed straight for The Snubbing.

After that, I ended my morning at Macy's, where employees waved their arms and shouted at me as I got on the escalator, apparently because I was carrying a blouse from the second floor and headed down to Petites to see if I could find a coordinating skirt. Is that not allowed now, either? I didn't know and at that point, I was too beaten down to bother with it.

"No speako Englisho," I shouted back at the employees, shrugging and pointing at my ear. I've begun using this phrase whenever I don't feel like answering questions, and it tends to be pretty effective, particularly if delivered with a Southern accent. It worked at Macy's, too. No one followed me downstairs.

I'm beginning to wonder if there's some sort of WANTED poster with my picture on it in all the employee breakrooms at that mall. HOW ELSE can you explain the number of people there who were suddenly all up in my grill? Was Marzipan behind this? Or maybe Ima Nidiot?

I don't know... but I'm determined to find out.

In Defense of Germs

2011-05-16T07:30:00.005-05:00

Like so many first children who've come before her, my daughter Punky spent her early childhood in a virtual plastic bubble.

Her hair was combed. Her fingernails were clean. Her hands were sanitized. Her clothing was spotless. My girl baby was germ-free and, fueled by my pediatrician's warnings, Parents Magazine articles, and television commercials featuring wise-looking, capri-wearing moms armed with Lysol Spray, I went to extraordinary lengths to keep her that way.

Toys were wiped down daily. Children with runny noses were scorned. Hand washings were frequent. Shopping carts and restaurant highchairs were painstakingly double lined with blankets. Yes, I bought into the anti-germ propaganda peddled to anxious first-time moms, because I cared. Obviously.

Of course, seasoned moms can guess the results of all my labor.

Punky got sick anyway.

Quite a lot, actually. Rotavirus, croup, ear infections, flu... She had it all. Oftentimes, more than once.

But I didn't make the connection. No, when Bruiser was born, I resolved to keep him just as germ-free as his sister. As many of you remember, though, Bruiser was a... well... a more challenging baby than his sister had been. He cried a lot. He slept a little. That meant that much of the germ-killing attention I had planned to shower on him was rerouted to ensuring that both of us simply survived.

(Lest you think I'm exaggerating: Bruiser [and therefore, I] didn't sleep through the night until he was THREE AND A HALF. That was just six months ago, people. It's a miracle that I'm not in a sanitarium right now, if you want to know the truth.)

Suffice it to say that Bruiser was a very different child than his sister had been. Where Punky had one meltdown ever in the history of her baby and toddler years, Bruiser had them weekly. Daily. Hourly. My husband and I raised our son during those early years like he was a human hot potato, passing him back and forth, each hoping the other would be holding him when he went off.

Consequently, the kid got away with far more than his sister ever would have. He was an emotional terrorist and we were his sleepless victims. On the rare occasions that we took him shopping, he ran and shouted and we often bit our lips-- calling him out would have resulted in screams that would have attracted even more negative attention. And when we went to restaurants, the kid spent most of his time under the table, crawling around in God knows what was down there, and then stuffing his fingers in his mouth.

Oh yes.

I watched it happen more than once. Much more than once. Not only that, I let it happen. Why? Because I wanted to finish my Black and Blue Salad in peace, dammit. Was that so much to ask?

And that's not all.

Over the years, I've watched in horror as Bruiser has picked up dirty candy from the ground outside and eaten it. I've shuddered to see him sucking on his fingers, just a few minutes after playing in rainwater that had accumulated in the wheelbarrow in our backyard. I held back dry heaves as he scrambled to eat a wet fruit gummy that had rolled under a bench in a government building, held it up to the light so that I could see the scum and dust bunnies hanging off it, and happily popped it into his mouth. And on at least one memorable occasion, I cleaned poo out of his mouth.

It's not that I didn't try to prevent these things from happening. It's that they generally happened so frequently and so fast, there was nothing I could do about it. And at other times, God help me, I chose my battles. Of course I'd prefer Bruiser not lick the wooden blocks in the doctor's office waiting room, but better the blocks than a toilet seat, right? That's the power of positive thinking, people. Try it some time.

So with all this germ eating, you'd think Bruiser would have spent his early childhood twice as sick as his spotless sister, right?

Think again.

Bruiser got sick maybe once or twice a year. Max. Often when he did get sick, he hardly showed any symptoms. He was the first of us to get Swine Flu, for example, but his symptoms were so minor that we didn't even realize he had it until the rest of us had come down with it. When my husband and I came down with a wicked case of strep throat a few years ago, I had Bruiser tested, just for kicks. It turned out he was the carrier, but he was showing absolutely no signs of strep... so we'd had no idea.

As for all the usual childhood illnesses Punky endured- stomach flu, rotavirus, croup, etc- Bruiser didn't get a single one.

And while it's hard for me to admit, I think... I mean, I hate to say it but I think...

All those germs he ate had something to do with it.

So to all the new moms out there with your super-sized bottles of hand sanitizer, your shopping cart seat covers, your gadgets that allow you to conveniently hang your baby on the bathroom stall door while you empty your bladder, I have a little advice for you.

Let them eat dirt. And dust bunnies. And maybe even... poo. As long as it's their own.

It probably won't hurt them. It might even help them.

But you didn't hear that from me.

Invasion of the Cicadas

2011-05-13T11:35:00.005-05:00

Well friends, it looks like the thing I've been dreading for months has finally arrived:

NASHVILLE CICADA INVASION, 2011.

Yes, this is the year that "Brood XIX" emerges from underground and does their mating thing. What that means for us humans is that millions of cicadas will be wreaking havoc on Nashville...

for the NEXT SIX WEEKS.

*shudder*

I wasn't here the last time Brood XIX came up for air thirteen years ago, but it seems that everyone who was has a story about it.

And most of those stories involve a cicada in the mouth.

IN THE MOUTH, people.

Let us pause for a moment as you imagine this thing flying into your mouth.

Of course, I'm hoping that the stories I've been hearing of cicadas in homes, in clothing, in hair, and in other, uh... orifices... have been embellished a bit in people's memories over the last decade or so. I'm hoping that all the tiny holes that have appeared in the ground in our front yard around our big elm tree were actually created by a silent team of cleats-wearing soccer players, who just happened to run through our yard at midnight. I'm hoping that the beetle-like creatures I'm starting to see on trees and sidewalks everywhere I look are just ordinary bugs. I'm hoping that that whirring sound in the trees that I couldn't ignore yesterday was just...

Oh hell.

They're heee-eere.

And I'm not leaving my house until they're gone.

Images via Anderson Design Group and tinyfroglet/Flickr

Rage Against the Dry Cleaner

2011-05-11T10:56:00.009-05:00

A few months ago, Bruiser had a bout of potty training regression and managed to wet both his bed and ours in the space of two nights. As a result, I had not one but two down comforters that needed to be dry cleaned, and since I wasn't willing to hand over my life savings to the overpriced dry cleaners down the road, I decided to try a drive-thru dry cleaner about 15 minutes away, in a less-expensive part of town.

When I drove up to the door of the place, I spotted a little man inside. An adorable, sweater-clad lapdog was seated in a chair beside him.

"Look at that doggy, kids," I said. "Isn't it sweet?" The dog, I thought, was a good sign. Clearly, this man was something of an eccentric. He would probably clean my comforters cheaply and perhaps even give me something a little more interesting to report when it came to the dreaded how-was-your-day conversation I had with my husband each evening. (Dreaded because "I cleaned out the oven. It took a whole hour," just doesn't have the same impressive ring as my husband's "A serial arsonist threatened to shoot me when I asked him to do an interview.")

"I have these two comforters to be cleaned," I told the man as I pulled the comforters from the back of my car. He gave them a quick once-over.

"Pick them up... Thursday," he said, nodding curtly. He asked for my phone number, then printed up a ticket and handed it to me.

"Okay, thanks!" I said. "'Bye now." I looked at the ticket. Four days was a long time to go without our comforters, but he was ten dollars cheaper than the dry cleaners near my house.

SCORE.

After suffering under thin blankets for a few chilly nights, Thursday couldn't come fast enough. I picked up the kids from school that afternoon and then headed back over to the dry cleaner. Once again, the man was sitting there with his dog beside him. This time, the critter was dressed in a little yellow sweater. I smiled indulgently. "There's that doggy again," I said to the children. "See?" The man stood up and came to my window and I handed him my ticket. He looked at it.

"Not ready," he said. "Come back tomorrow." Without a word of explanation, he turned and went back inside. My smile changed to a frown. I drove away.

"Mommy, I want my blanket," Bruiser whined from the backseat.

"I know, honey," I said through gritted teeth. "I want mine, too." As if in league with my new dry cleaner, the temperature dropped another 20 degrees that night. Bruiser got the extra comforter we kept stashed in the hall closet. Meanwhile, huddled underneath two guest room blankets, my husband and I had never been so cold.

The very next afternoon, I headed back to the dry cleaners. It was so cold that the man had closed his sliding glass door. I peered inside and could see him behind the counter, with his back to me. He was wearing a large pair of headphones. I tapped on the glass. "Hello," I called. Nothing. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped tentatively inside. "Hello?" I said. He didn't move. "Hello. Hello! HELLO HELLO HELLOOOOOO!" At my feet, the dog barked. The man still didn't turn around. I sighed and looked out at my children in the car, who gazed back at me with questioning faces. This sucked.

Finally, the man turned around. He saw me and grimaced.

"Not ready yet," he said. "Come back Monday."

"Monday?" I said. "But this is my third trip! What is going on?"

"Not ready," he repeated, motioning for me to leave. "Come back Monday." As I was shepherded toward the door, I turned back. "We are very cold," I said pleadingly. I wanted to make sure he understood. I held my arms and shivered exaggeratedly. "VERY COLD," I repeated.

"Come back Monday," he said, sliding his glass door shut.

Scowling, I got back in the car.

"Where are our blankets, mommy?" Punky asked from the backseat.

"That's what I'd like to know," I said, seething. We went back home and endured two more bone chilling nights of thin blanket torture.

I went back Monday afternoon, of course. This time, I didn't smile when I saw the man and his stupid dog.

He came to the door. "Not ready," he said.

Not ready? NOT READY?! That was it. I had had about enough. I needed to let this horrid man see for himself my white hot rage, my righteous fury. And I needed to not do it in front of the kids. Quickly I stepped out of the car and shut the door. I couldn't remember the last time I had been this angry. I was about to GO BALLISTIC.

"What the heck!" I shrieked. He gazed back at me impassively. I said it again, more slowly.

"What! The! HECK!"

Yes, readers, that is what happens when you make Lindsay Ferrier mad. Mess with the bull and you get the horns.

"Come back tomorrow," the man said, but this time I thought I detected a hint of fear in his voice, a certain vague tone of near-hysteria, which I chose to believe indicated a newfound respect for the value of my time.

I gave him one last long look of indignation, then left.

"What happened, Mommy?" my daughter asked.

"What happened was that I let that man know I was not pleased," I said. "Those comforters will be there tomorrow. Mark my words."

And sure enough, they were. The next afternoon, he loaded them into the back of my car without a word of apology. And he charged me full price. And his dog totally peed on my tire, too.

Gah.

Of course, I didn't go back. But I also didn't tell you this story for a few months because I was so embarrassed that I had completely lost my temper in front of that man. What will my readers think of me when they know the truth about the seething rage that lies beneath my smiling exterior? I asked myself. What will they do when they see the full extent of my uncontrolled anger?

Well, now that you know what happens when I get ugly, I guess that decision is up to you. I think we'll still be okay, you and me. We seem to get along pretty well, don't you think? But I do have one small piece of advice, in light of what I've just admitted:

DO NOT MAKE ME WHAT THE HECK YOU.

Because you will live to regret it.

Terror in the Sewer Mars Mother's Day for One Suburban Neighborhood (VIDEO)

2011-05-09T07:00:00.001-05:00

NASHVILLE, Tenn. -- A man's ego is still recovering today, just hours after he found himself trapped in a subdivision sewer, while neighbors pointed and laughed at him.

The incident happened around 4:00 pm on Sunday afternoon. Hugo Huckleby* attempted to remove a grate from a sewer on his street after a ball being used in a children's hockey game rolled into the street's drain.

According to four-year-old Bruiser Ferrier, an eyewitness at the scene, "The lid were too heavy for him. It falleded in the hole." Huckleby bravely jumped in after the grate-- and that's when neighbors gathered around the sewer to ~~jeer~~ come to his aid.

Nashville resident Dennis Ferrier was returning home from a run when he saw the scene of terror unfolding. He rushed to his garage and retrieved a length rope to aid in the recovery of Huckleby and the grate. Eyewitness Lindsay Ferrier caught the scene on camera:

"I try to tell people that there's major drama on my street all the time," Ms. Ferrier told reporters afterward during a press conference. "I mean, just a few weeks ago, my neighbor Steve took out his trash on the wrong day! I'm hoping that this video gives people clear proof of the insanity I have to deal with on a near-daily basis."

Ms. Ferrier just might get her wish. NBC's Today show has announced plans to air tomorrow's 7:00am-9:00am program live from her street as Meredith Vieira and Matt Lauer investigate the dangers of playing street hockey near sewer drains, while CNN's Anderson Cooper will be conducting an exclusive interview with Mr. Huckleby later on in the week.

*Some names have been changed to protect the egos.

One Day, We'll Laugh About This. Today is Not That Day.

2011-05-06T08:00:00.005-05:00

For the last few days, I've noticed something unpleasant-- but not exactly unusual in a house with small children:

The smell of pee.

It was bothering me more it typically did because I could smell it downstairs, where, you know, outsiders were likely to smell it, too. I knew it would take only a few impromptu drop-ins from neighbors before my house was labeled "that pee house..." and that would not do at all. Not surprisingly, the smell was strongest in the downstairs bathroom, but a quick inspection of the floor and toilet offered no clues as to where it was coming from.

But still. It smelled like pee.

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that I emptied the trash can in the bathroom-- only to find that everything in it was sodden and stinking. As liquid spilled from the trash can into the open garbage bag I'd placed beside it, I knew exactly what had happened and, more importantly, who was responsible.

"BRUISER," I said, my voice instantly an octave lower. "Did you pee in the trash can?"

"Somebody else did dat, Mommy," Bruiser said quickly from his seat in our den armchair. "But it wasn't me." I looked out at him, peeking at me from over the back of the chair. We made eye contact and he ducked. I put down the trash can and walked over to him.

"Bruiser," I said, gripping him by the shoulders. "Did you pee in the trash can?"

"No," he mumbled, avoiding my eyes.

"Did you pee in the trash can?"

"No, I didn't," he said, squirming.

"Then how did you know somebody else did it?" I asked him. "Who else would pee in the trash can, Bruiser?" He paused for a moment. Busted.

"Ac-shully, I did do it," he said.

Punishment and wailing followed, of course. As did a thorough scrub-down of the trash can, along with the walls and floor around it. As I cleaned (and cursed under my breath), I suddenly remembered an "incident" that had happened a few months earlier. We had hosted our weekly church small group at our house, and hired my stepdaughter to watch the half-dozen kids from the group in our playroom.

A few days later, I emptied the trash can in there, only to discover that someone had peed in it during the gathering! Obviously, it had been one of the five small boys from the group, but which one was it? Whose child would do such a horrid thing? Which one of those children had such appalling manners (not to mention obvious psychological issues), that he had opted to pee in a trash can as opposed to going to the potty like a normal kid?

I stood frozen at the sink in horror as it dawned on me that that troubled imp, that miniature miscreant doomed for a lifetime of citations...

That was my son.

"Mommy," Bruiser said from behind me, "The sunroom smell real bad, too." I froze. Oh no. Oh. Hell. No. Silently, I walked to the sunroom, the children trailing behind me. There, in the sunroom, was another trash can.

Filled with pee.

I turned to Bruiser. "Is there any other trash can in this house with pee in it?" I asked him quietly.

Fearfully, he said, "Well, I think dere might be anudder one, Mommy."

"Where?"

"In the playroom," he whispered. The three of us walked to the playroom. Sure enough, standing in the middle of the room (the pee bandit was getting bolder!) was the trash can. I picked it up. The carpet was wet beneath it.

There was only one thing I could do.

"You won't BELIEVE what YOUR SON did," I informed my husband on the phone. He listened in shocked silence as I recounted the events of the last few minutes.

"Why would he do that?" my husband asked in wonder.

"Marking his territory maybe?" I said. "I don't know, you tell me. He's YOUR SON."

"Stop calling him my son!" Hubs sputtered.

"Well, no one says he takes after me, that's all I know!" We were at an impasse. I hung up.

Bruiser and I had a serious talk (The Farm may or may not have been mentioned), at the end of which he tearfully declared that 'he love us all SO BAD,' and would never, ever, ever pee in the trash can again.

A few hours later, I was watching the kids play outside with the neighbors when Bruiser stopped abruptly and ran to me.

"I need to go pee pee!" he announced.

"Okay," I said. "Go on inside and then you can come back out and play."

"But Mommy," he said, coming up to me on the stairs and whispering in my ear knowingly, "Big boys ac-shully go pee pee... in a secret place... outside."

Here we go again.

This Thing Called Hockey

2011-05-04T11:25:00.013-05:00

So there's this thing in Nashville now. It's called hockey.

We went to see a hockey game last night.

From what I could gather, hockey is this sport where a bunch of men skate around on ice and hit a little black disc with their sticks.

They also hit each other.

And they fall down kind of a lot.

Oopsie!

They try to get the disc into a goal, but it's pretty hard because the goals are tended by men dressed up as robots.

The neat thing is that our Nashville team is pretty good! We made the playoffs! We didn't exactly win the playoff game last night, but we came really close-- and Hubs says we were playing the best team in the league.

We're starting to get a little bit excited about this hockey thing here in Nashville. It isn't NASCAR or pro wrestling, but it seems like the kind of sport that might just catch on!

Still, I was pretty reserved at last night's game. I mean, I haven't really decided whether I'm in to hockey or not...

We'll just have to wait and see.

Have you ever heard of hockey?

Preschool is No Place for Parents

2011-05-02T10:30:00.000-05:00

When I received my copy of the April calendar for my son's preschool class several weeks ago, I read over it with dismay.

There was an Easter Egg hunt (parents invited to attend!). A special joint performance with the church children's choir. Another singing performance, just for the preschoolers and their parents. And a Munchies with Mommy morning.

Here's the deal. I love my son and I love celebrating him. But he's only in preschool for a few hours a week. And when he's there... well...

I don't want to be there.

I feel that old familiar mommy guilt creeping over me even as I write those words.

It's not like I didn't know this was coming; Bruiser's preschool is simply following in the tradition of pretty much every other preschool in the country. And perhaps if I could have afforded to send his older sister to preschool, as a first-time mom I would have proudly attended everything they had to offer-- and then some.

But now, I'm older and wiser.

For one thing, I don't really need to see my son hunt for eggs in a church gym, or dance to music in the fellowship hall, or have a snack in his classroom. We do our own egg hunt here at home. We dance to music together all the time. We have snacks every stinking afternoon.

For another thing, let's be honest. He's four. Ten years from now, he won't remember whether I was there or not.

I'm all for attending special events for parents in grade school. My daughter is away from me for too many hours each day, and I love going to lunch with her and chaperoning field trips and volunteering in the classroom. It's a way for me to feel connected to her life away from me.

But honestly, I don't need to feel connected to my son's preschool class. Ninety-one percent of his life is spent with me. I feel completely comfortable allowing my son's preschool teachers to have that remaining nine percent all to themselves. Please! By all means! Be my guest!

Meanwhile, I'll be home, getting writing assignments done without feeling guilty. Mopping the kitchen floor without my son in the doorway, whining pitifully about needing to walk in the kitchen "all the time and forever." Running errands, getting my hair done, and visiting the doctor, Bruiser-free. I'm absolutely sure he's having more fun in preschool than he would be having with me.

I don't need to see the proof for myself.

Is that so wrong?

I sense a few pursed lips on those of you reading this story right now. So you don't want to go? I hear you saying to yourselves. Then DON'T GO. Quit complaining.

Well, that's not an option. Here's why:

This is the face that greets me when I get there.

How can I leave this face in the lurch?

And so I hide eggs for the Easter Egg hunt in the church gym. I crouch at tiny preschool tables for cupcakes on his birthday. I smile and watch my son pretend his whole body is spaghetti during his music presentation. And I'll (pretend to) munch whatever I'm given to munch on Munchies with Mommy Day.

HOWEVER.

If my preschool happens to decide that it can do without ~~a few~~ ~~some~~ most of these special parent events?

I won't be complainin.'

The Ballad of Bobby Joe

2011-04-29T12:30:00.003-05:00

I'm lucky (so, so lucky) to live on a small street full of children, all fairly close in age to my own kids. This is the first year that everyone on the street is old enough (and young enough) to play together, so most afternoons once school is out, you'll find up to a dozen kids running through yards, riding on bikes, trikes and big wheels, blowing bubbles, and playing ball in our cul-de-sac.

This is a long-awaited, magical time for the parents on my street, and we're all a bit giddy with the excitement of seeing our children live out the dream most of us had in the backs of our minds when we moved to the suburbs. For me, that dream is very personal- Growing up, I lived on a street much like the one I'm on now, and my adventures with my neighborhood friends are some of my favorite memories. And so while this new playtime scenario means I get pretty much nothing done from 2:30 on, I'm okay with that. I willingly abandon the laundry, the cleaning and the writing and instead keep watch over the kids from my front steps.

In exchange, I get the comfort of knowing my children are growing up doing what children do best- playing outside, using their imaginations, and communing with nature.

Nature, as it turns out, plays a big role in their outdoor activities. The lure of Spongebob and LEGO Star Wars just isn't strong enough to override the appeal of snail hunting. Or caterpillar trapping. Or butterfly netting. Or acorn gathering. Or four-leaf clover seeking. Or bird watching, lizard gazing, squirrel chasing, and sewer cat hunting. (Yes, we have an elusive population of former house cats and their progeny who emerge every so often from our sewer to poop in our brush piles. Good times!)

But all of these things have absolutely nothing on frog catching. There must be a bumper frog crop this year, because the little hoppers seem to be everywhere-- and the kids are loving it. That's how I knew exactly what my daughter and a neighbor friend were looking at a few days ago, when I spotted them peering into a small outdoor trashcan and squealing with delight.

"Mommy!" my daughter shouted a few minutes later from our deck. "Sally and I found a frog! Come and see!"

I did.

"We're having a argument," my daughter told me after I'd made a proper fuss over their new acquisition. "I want to call him Bob, but Sally wants to call him Joe."

"Oh, that's a tough one," I said. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

A few minutes later, Punky came in to get a plastic cup in order to try and trap some flies for the frog to eat.

"What did you decide to call him?" I asked her.

"Bobby Joe," she said. "We're cooperating."

"Oh good!" I told her. "Cooperating is always a great idea."

Bobby Joe provided the bulk of the girls' entertainment that day. They took him on hops in the park, offered him a variety of food options from worms to animal crackers, and tried their best to make him feel at home while he was visiting. In fact, Bobby Joe was so much fun that I had a hard time convincing them to let him go a few hours after they'd caught him.

"Why can't we keep him as a pet?" Punky demanded.

"Because he would be very unhappy living in my mixing bowl," I explained. "Wouldn't you be?"

That convinced her; Bobby Joe was set free a few minutes later, after several elaborate goodbyes.

A day or two later, my entire family was outside getting ready to leave when I spotted something strange on the street in front of our house, just behind my 17-year-old's car. I walked over and looked at it more closely.

"Eww! I said, turning to my stepdaughter, who was standing across the lawn. "You ran over a frog!"

"I did?" she said in surprise.

I hope it wasn't Bobby Joe," I blurted, not thinking. Hearing me, Punky rushed over while I cringed. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Now there would be tears. And wailing. And gnashing of teeth. And, most likely, one of the things every parent dreads most: A PET FUNERAL.

I held my breath as Punky stood over the frog, hands on her hips, surveying the gruesome damage.

"It is him," she said at last. She turned and looked at my stepdaughter. "Sister, you runned over Bobby Joe," she announced loudly. Then she turned and ran to get into the car. My stepdaughter and I burst out laughing.

Since that time, Bobby Joe has become even more popular with the kids. He's been "runned over" a few more times and now looks more like a dark silhouette of a frog, imprinted on the street. (But, as the six-year-old across the street noted gaily, you can still see his tongue sticking out. Awesome.)

Fortunately, none of our young neighbors have taken Bobby Joe's untimely demise too hard. In fact, they've turned out to be an incredibly fickle bunch. Last night, a new visitor showed up and Bobby Joe was all but forgotten.

Meet Fred.

Let's hope he's a little bit smarter than his predecessor.

EDIT: A reader has informed me that Bobby Joe and Fred are/were actually toads. If my usage of "frog" bothers you in this post, feel free to substitute the word "toad" in your head as you read it. There. Feel better? ;)

Scared

2011-04-27T09:18:00.005-05:00

I have lots of stories to tell you all, but to be honest, this is all I'm thinking about today.

Nashville is expected to get between 4 and 8 inches of rain this afternoon, along with tornadoes, high winds, large hail, and flash flooding. Most of the school districts in Middle Tennessee have canceled school. Ours has not, but I kept the kids home anyway. I'm confident that they'd be safe inside their school buildings during severe weather. I'm not confident I'd be able to get to them during or after a major storm, and that freaks me out. And I know me-- I would NOT be able to stay home. I'd be doing everything I could to at least be with them and make them feel safe.

A few weeks ago, the kids were at school during severe weather. We get lots of thunderstorms this time of year, so I didn't think too much about it-- at least until our weather radio started going off every 20 seconds. I turned on the news just in time to see that the worst of the weather was right over my neighborhood, and as I watched the news, the wind picked up, the house began making sounds it's never made before, and I ran for our bathroom in the center of the house. A dozen minutes later, the worst had passed-- right in time for me to pick up the kids, whose schools are just a few minutes away.

I headed out only to find that a large tree had fallen, blocking the road. I turned around and took an alternate route. Everywhere around me, power lines and trees were down in lawns, on tops of houses and in the roads. I barely made it around one fallen oak to get to the kids. As I drove, I started crying, despite my best efforts to stay calm. I was definitely a little more panicked than I should have been, and how could I not be?

A 1,000-year flood will do that to you.

I'm thinking of all of us today, across middle Tennessee and especially here in my community. So many of my neighbors lost their homes last May. So many have only just moved back in. I'm sure we're all feeling a little more panicked than usual this morning as the weather people warn us of impending doom. A little more fearful. A little more prone to tears.

Here's hoping that tomorrow morning, we'll find that all our worries have been for nothing.

A Pebble for Your Thoughts

2011-04-25T07:30:00.004-05:00

"Mommy!" my four-year-old cried pitifully from the bottom of the stairs a few days ago. "A rock blowed up my nose."

I put down the clothes I was folding on my bed and went to the top of the stairs. Please oh please let me have heard him wrong, I thought to myself.

"What did you say?" I asked him.

"I was playing and a rock felleded up into my nose," he said, his face streaked with tears and dirt. "It just blowed up in dere."

Oh Lord.

I went downstairs, crouched in front of Bruiser and held him by the shoulders. "Look up," I commanded, peering into his nostrils. I paused for a moment and shuddered.

There, lodged as far back in his nose as I could see, was a small, smooth pebble. It was completely blocking his nasal cavity.

As you can imagine, this was deeply distressing. I mean, I'd heard of small boys putting things like rocks and Legos and peanuts up their noses, but I had always known that my children would never do anything like that. Because my children were, frankly, smarter. My children had common sense.

My child had put a FREAKING ROCK UP HIS NOSE.

"Why did you put a rock up your nose?" I demanded. "Why would you do that?"

"I didn't," he insisted. "It just blowed up dere."

"Rocks do not blow up your nose."

"It did!"

This was no time to debate. "Stay here," I said. "I'll be right back. And whatever you do, don't sniff!" I ran and grabbed a box of Kleenex.

"Okay," I said when I returned, handing him a wad of tissues. "Blow into this and let's see if the rock comes out." Dutifully, he blew. And blew. And blew.

The rock stayed put.

"Uhhhhh, okay," I said. "Let's go upstairs and I'll try to get the rock out with tweezers." Hand in hand, we went up to my bathroom and I found a pair of tweezers in my drawer. After wiping down the tweezers with rubbing alcohol, I had Bruiser look up again. Tentatively, I attempted to get a hold on the rock with the tweezers. But the rock was very far back in his nose, and it was slippery with snot. Visions of accidentally pushing the rock farther back into his nasal cavity filled my head. It was like the worst game of Operation ever.

At that point, I came to a stunning realization. As a mom, I had learned that I was capable of doing far more things than I had ever dreamed possible. I could carefully pry ticks from my children's skin without them even noticing. I could catch their vomit in my hands. I could wipe their butts. But I could not remove a rock from my son's nasal cavity. Nope. I just couldn't do it.

"We have to go to the doctor," I said grimly, standing up.

Bruiser began crying while I went into controlled panic mode, running around the house and grabbing things. The phone. My purse. The car keys. My daughter. As I rushed about, I dialed the doctor's office (a number, by the way, that I totally have memorized. Don't you?) and waited on hold to speak to the receptionist.

"Don't sniff!" I warned my son, pausing for a moment. "Whatever you do, don't sniff!"

I was trying hard not to work myself up any more than I already had. It was just a rock, for heaven's sake. Boys put rocks in their noses every day, right?

But I couldn't help myself. Because what if the rock wouldn't come out? What if the doctors had to perform surgery to get it out? What if the rock traveled back farther into his nose and LODGED IN HIS BRAIN? OH GOD. Why wasn't anyone answering at the doctor's office?! Where should I even take him? To my doctor's office or straight to the hospital? Would they make us stay overnight? Would I need a change of clothes? Should I call my husband? An ambulance? The police department? My congressman? WHY wouldn't someone answer the freaking phone at the doctor's office?!

"Mommy," Bruiser said.

"Just a minute, Bruiser," I said, running back and forth. "We'll leave in one minute."

"Mommy, the rock came out."

"I've just got to find my shoes," I said. "And a first aid kit!"

"But the rock came out!"

I stopped short, and looked at him. He held out his hand. In his palm was a GIGANTICALLY ENORMOUS PEBBLE. I had only seen a small corner of it in his nose. Thank God I didn't know how big it really was.

"How did you get it out?" I asked him incredulously.

"It just blowed back out," he shrugged.

There would be no brain surgery, then. No prolonged hospital stays. No pointed barbs from other mommy bloggers about how maybe fewer boys would stick rocks up their noses if their mothers weren't on Facebook all the time. No Dateline exclusive. No Nancy Grace dissecting my mothering skills while displaying a photo of me from college, beer in hand and eyes half-closed, captioned "Hard Rock Mommy." My son was going to be okay. IT WAS A GOOD FRIDAY MIRACLE.

"Oh, thank God," I said. And then I took the rock and carefully placed it in a plastic bag, to be tucked away in Bruiser's keepsake box beside his first lock of hair. I'd have to make a little card to put in with it, written in fancy calligraphy. Bruiser put this rock up his nose. Age 4. How special.

At our community-wide Easter Egg Hunt the next day, I ran into a mom I had met a few months earlier on a park nature hike. (No, not that mom.)

"Boys are very... different, aren't they?" she mused, watching my son punch himself in the head.

"Um, YES," I said. "He keeps me busy. In fact, just yesterday, he shoved a rock up his nose."

"Well, after three girls, I was convinced my son needed therapy," she told me. "But then my husband said, 'No, honey, he's just a boy. I remember doing stuff like that too when I was his age.'"

I laughed. I had thought the same thing about Bruiser.

"Just the other day," she continued, "I thought he was playing so nicely in his room. I went up there and he had taken a butter knife and was digging a hole in the drywall! I said, 'Son, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!' He told me he was looking for The Littles!"

Now I understand why it has always seemed to me that moms with boys have their own little club. As it turns out, we're not mean girls. We're merely survivors, exchanging war stories from our time spent in the trenches of boyhood.

And oh hell....

I'VE GOT A LONG WAY TO GO.

Our Weekend, in Pictures

2011-04-24T07:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Easter, everyone.

What was Your Strangest Pregnancy Craving?

2011-04-20T10:52:00.007-05:00

I've tried to block out most memories from my pregnancies (No, I didn't enjoy being pregnant. Deal with it.), but I do vividly remember the crazy food cravings I had during those times.

When I was pregnant with Punky, I ate an insane amount of spinach. Every single day, I'd thaw a block of chopped spinach, mix it up with handfuls of shredded Parmesan, and scarf it down. I also had an entirely inappropriate relationship with Edy's Double Fudge Brownie Ice Cream. I couldn't get enough of the stuff. It tasted exactly the way I imagined everything tasted in that room where everything was made of candy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Once I'd given birth, I worked hard to take off the pounds I'd gained (Thanks, Edy's). After I'd lost most of the weight, I decided to treat myself to a single bowl of magically delicious ice cream. Eagerly, I put two scoops in a bowl and sat down to enjoy the thrilling shiver of that first bite. After a moment of heart-pounding anticipation, I put a spoonful into my mouth, and felt...

Nothing.

It tasted like chocolate ice cream.

Big whoop.

With a mixture of disappointment and elation (after all, I was a slave to Edy's Double Fudge Brownie no more!), I washed the rest of the ice cream down the sink. It was then that I realized that pregnancy really does a number on your taste buds.

And so I was really interested to read that the famously vegan Natalie Portman went back to eating eggs once she got pregnant because she found that she was craving them (along with egg-based cookies and cakes). I wrote about it for my style blog on The Stir and asked for readers' strangest pregnancy cravings. I was thinking about my spinach craving, my ice cream craving, and my strange craving for bags of chocolate-covered mini donuts when I was pregnant with Bruiser.

I quickly realized, though, that my cravings were tame in comparison to some of yours. Here's a list of what came up in my comments and in an earlier pregnancy craving post on The Stir:

Raisin Bran with sliced tomatoes on top
Chocolate covered fried chicken
Cool Ranch Doritos dipped in caramel
McDonalds french fries dipped in vanilla ice cream
Ribs dipped in peanut butter
Cheetos with green beans
Harvest Cheddar Sunchips dipped in the meatball sauce from Subway
Watermelon slices dipped in ranch dressing
Peanut butter and Dorito sandwich
Grapes dipped in spaghetti sauce
Pumpkin pie with Dijon mustard
Oreos dipped in nacho cheese
Rocky Road ice cream with watermelon

I could go on, but I'm beginning to feel a bit barfy. I do, however, have to include She's Still Got It reader Lee, who wrote, "I would eat carnita tacos from Roberto's everyday. I named my son Robert after them!"

Named for your mom's pregnancy craving. WOW. I guess Punky should be grateful she's not named Edy! And Bruiser could have ended up being named... Hostess.

Anyway.

I thought it would be fun and interesting to hear your craziest pregnancy cravings. Tell me about them in the comments and I'll try and post some of the strangest ones at the bottom of this post!

Still Undiscovered After All These Years

2011-04-18T11:30:00.009-05:00

If you want major street cred with your friends the next time you’re in New Orleans, take them to Galatoire’s.

You can easily overlook this legendary New Orleans restaurant if you’re not careful, sandwiched as it is in between gaudy sex shops and bars on Bourbon Street. The lettering on the front door is plain. The windows are curtained.

But inside, you’ll find yourself transported to a world of bygone Southern glamour, where the men wear sport coats (it’s required) and call you dahlin’ and the women are bouffanted, tastefully clad, and generally very, very drunk.

Blame the Sazeracs, the restaurant’s signature drink. They're heavy on the bourbon and can knock you on your you-know-what before you can say Laissez les bons temps rouler. The main dining room downstairs tends to be noisy and raucous, as tables full of inebriated country club types with flushed faces offer up endless toasts and the occasional singalong. I had always heard that the locals are seated in smaller, quieter dining rooms upstairs, and so when my friends and I were offered a table in one of those rooms on Saturday night, I eagerly accepted.

We weren’t disappointed.

Within a few minutes of being seated at our table, an elaborately dressed woman swept in, flanked by two silver-haired gentlemen. I tried not to stare as they sat down at the table beside us, but it was all but impossible. She was old, very old, yet she had a full head of long, riotous brown curls and the diminutive body of an Olsen twin. Her face was stretched so tight that you could bounce a quarter off it and her mouth was drawn wide into a permanent, leering grin. She immediately noticed me looking at her and returned my curious gaze from under her long, fake lashes with a Don’t look at me (Please look at me) simper that Elizabeth Taylor would have envied. Clearly, she was Someone.

But who?

Then it hit me.

“Oh. My. Gosh. Y’all,” I hissed at Julie and Jen, who were staring right along with me. “I think we've hit the jackpot. Do you know who that is?”

“Absolutely not,” Jen whispered back.

“Chris Owens!” I said triumphantly.

I was met with blank stares.

“Chris Owens!” I repeated. “She’s only the most famous living burlesque dancer in the whole world. She's practically New Orleans royalty! She even has her own bar down the street. Look her up on your iPhone and let's see if it's her.”

Quickly, Julie pulled out her iPhone and Googled Chris Owens. A few seconds later, she gasped and handed the iPhone to us.

There, staring back at us with a wide, Joker-like smile, a lush mane of ringlets and... not much else... was the woman sitting right next to us.

“Oh, now, that's awesome,” Jen said. We stared a little more and then our attention was diverted by plates of Oysters Rockefeller and Soft-Shell Crab and Potatoes Lyonnaise. But I couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. Because we were seated right beside her. And she kept looking over at us. And, well, as I've written about here before, I have this little problem.

My problem is that I'm always waiting to be Discovered. It must be a carryover from my childhood, when I dreamed of being the next star of Kids, Incorporated or You Can't Do That on Television. Even now, any time I go to a concert, a little part of me is always waiting for the singer to shield her eyes, point me out in the audience and say, "You. Yes, you. There's something really amazing about you. Come up here and join me for a duet." And I'm pretty sure that when I finally run into Reese Witherspoon here in Nashville, she's going to take one look at me and say, "I can tell just by looking at you that we were destined to be BFFs! Let's fly to Canyon Ranch for the weekend!"

"Do you think that just maybe," I asked Jen and Julie as we ate, "Chris Owens is thinking right this moment that we seem like we are probably really amazing? And she's going to come over here and insist that we go back with her to her bar? And then she's going to bring us onto the stage and introduce us to everybody?"

"It could happen," Julie said, nodding.

"Or she could decide that one of us is destined to be the Next Great Burlesque Dancer," Jen added.

I thought for a moment. I didn't really like that idea so much. "No," I said. "I think she'll just want us to come to her bar so that she can introduce us on stage to all of New Orleans." I sat up a little straighter and smoothed my hair. "I'm going to ask to take a picture with her before we leave. She'll probably really like that. And that will give her a chance to invite us to go back to her bar with her."

For the next few minutes, I could hardly contain my excitement. We were going to be introduced by Chris Owens on the stage of her bar! I was just sure of it! "Ladies and gentleman!" I imagined her announcing. "Allow me to present Mrs. Lindsay Ferrier! She won't strip, but she seems really amazing!" I would smile modestly and then perhaps be cajoled by the crowd into singing a Cole Porter tune. It would be a true New Orleans Experience.

Before I knew it, we had finished our meal and signed the check, and so had Chris Owens and company. It was go time.

I stood up, brushed off my dress, and walked over to her table.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Owens," I said discreetly. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm a huge fan. Could I get a picture with you?"

She looked up at me. I gave her the most really amazing smile I could muster. Surely, she noticed the super sparkly twinkle in my eye, the cartoon birds singing "She really is amazing!" as they flew around my head.

"Oh, I don't evah take pic-chuhs," she said, and quickly looked down at her plate.

HORRORS.

"Okayuhwellthanksanyway," I said, my face burning. I turned and fled, Julie and Jen trailing behind me. We didn't speak until we were out the door.

"I can't believe it," I said, crushed. "We were supposed to be sitting at Chris Owens' table right now, so that she could quiz us about our amazingness."

"Oh well," Jen said kindly. "She probably would have expected us to take off our clothes if she introduced us at her club, and that would have gotten awkward."

But I couldn't be consoled. I tried to mitigate my pain by buying a pair of sequined, flame-shaped pasties at the shop next door. Yet they did nothing to soften the blow. "Chris Owens is next door at Galatoire's and she wouldn't take a picture with me," I blurted out to the cashier as I paid for my pasties and wiped away a tear.

"Aw no, really?" he said, clucking. "Naw, that ain't right."

"I know," I said. "It was just... It was very upsetting."

"What's she not taking pictures for?" he said.

"I KNOW!" I said. "I tell you, I am not feeling very good about myself right now!"

"Don't let it get you down, chere," he said. "She probably thought you'd make her look old."

"Yes!" I beamed. "That's it! Thank you! I feel better already." We left and I felt my spirits lift a little.

"You know, he was very nice for a sex shop worker," I told Jen and Julie. "So kind and sympathetic."

The moral of this story, of course, is that I should probably stop waiting to be Discovered. Even by an elderly burlesque dancer. I am 35 years old, after all, and the producers of Kids, Incorporated still haven't called. Perhaps it is time for me to admit that Discovery is, at the very least, unlikely.

I'm going to hold onto those pasties, though, just in case.

Suburban Turmoil

2011-04-14T11:46:00.002-05:00

As I returned home yesterday morning after taking my son to preschool, I noticed something ABSOLUTELY SHOCKING.

Our neighbors across the street had put their trash out on the curb.

They had done this even though the garbage truck doesn't come until Saturday.

I know, right? WEIRD.

"What on earth?" I said aloud, pulling into my driveway. Our neighbors are very meticulous people. They're not the sort to break homeowner's association rules and put out their trash days before the truck arrives. Why would they do such a thing? Why? WHY? WHY?

The morning wore on and I tried to ignore that lonely trashcan sitting out on our cul-de-sac... but I found myself returning to the window every so often to gaze at it with a furrowed brow. One thing I like about living in the suburbs is its predictability. But this trashcan was totally unpredictable. Its presence rocked the foundation of all I believed in. It represented, standing there with its bags and its boxes spilling out of the top, a huge tear in the fabric of humanity.

"Why, Steve?" I mumbled aloud from the window. "Why would you do such a thing? Why?"

Unsettled and answerless, I went about my work, only to find when I left in the afternoon to pick up the kids that another neighbor had put his trash out on the curb as well. A few minutes later, I returned home again and saw that a third neighbor had put out the trash.

This strange situation had just gotten stranger.

People on my street began arriving home from work. A group of them congregated outside my house, gesticulating in confusion and pointing at the trash cans. "There's no holiday this week," I imagined them saying. "Why did Steve put out his trash? And Ned? And Larry?" "Should we put out our trash as well?" "WHAT COULD THIS MEAN???!!!"

The phone rang.

"I just wanna know why Steve has his trash out," my next door neighbor said breathlessly into the phone.

"I want to know the same thing!" I responded.

"Well, I saw that Larry had his trash out, too, and when I pulled in the driveway, I saw Ned bringing his trash out. I asked him why he was doing it and he said, 'I don't know!'"

"It's a mystery," I whispered.

As we said our goodbyes, I noticed Steve, the man at the center of this perplexing conundrum, come out from his garage. As the neighbors looked on, he quietly walked to the end of his driveway and wheeled his full trashcan back to his garage.

Collectively, we breathed a sigh of relief.

All was well with the world again.

You see, my friends, there is plenty of drama to be found in the suburbs.

You just have to be a little more creative when it comes to finding it.

Her Super Sweet Seventh Birthday Party

2011-04-12T07:57:00.008-05:00

Ordinarily, we like to keep birthday parties small around here.

But this year was a little different.

This year on Punky's birthday, there was a bounce house. In our driveway. Don't ask me how it fit, because I'm still scratching my head over that one. Hubs has a friend in the inflatables business-- so we decided to have a traditional backyard birthday party, with the bounce house as primary entertainment. And since Punky's class is small this year and the kids in it are very well-behaved, we were able to invite her whole class, something I've always wanted to do.

W00T!

The bounce house, of course, was supposed to be the only expense. So when Punky said in a tiny voice the day after we ordered it, "I wish we could have snow cones at my party, too," I answered something to the effect of, "Dream on, honey." Not in the budget. Nope. Uh uh. No way. Not.

Heh.

The very next day after Punky made her wish, I got one of those Groupon-style e-mails from Fleur-de-Lis Flavors, a business (and family) we LOVE at the Nashville Farmer's Market that specializes in authentic, New Orleans-style snowballs. The e-mail deal was that they would come to a party location and make unlimited snowballs for 2 hours- at half their normal rate.

It was a sign.

God wanted us to have snowballs.

Of course, Hubs, our household's Chief Financial Officer, had his usual panic attack on the morning of the party. While out running errands, he called me and I held the phone away from my ear as words like "completely out of hand" and "spoiled rotten" and "budget out the window" wafted from the phone.

He ended his rant with "And by the way, I decided to buy a pinata for the party, too."

PINATA!!!

Of course, no party would be complete without (mercifully free) WHEELBARROW RIDES!

In lieu of a cake, we decided on cupcakes. So much easier.

The end result? One very happy little seven-year-old.

Also, one very happy little four-year-old. Because what makes Punky happy makes Bruiser equally happy. That is how they roll.

Also, one very happy mama. The inflatables people didn't come back to pick up their bounce house until seven that night, so after the party was over, guess who played in it for the rest of the day?

That's right. Me. And I have burn marks on my elbows to prove it.

Yes, ordinarily we believe in small birthday parties. But it is fun to spontaneously splurge a tiny bit every five years or so. Punky had a fabulous time, the bounce house kept the kids busy enough that the adults actually got to enjoy themselves, and the snowballs were a HUGE hit.

At one point, two girls ran up to me, snowballs in one hand, pinata candy in the other.

"You're the best mom EVER!" one of them shouted before they ran off.

SCORE.

Now You Are Seven

2011-04-10T16:55:00.024-05:00

Dear Punky,

I can say without hesitation that I've seen more changes in you during this past year than any other.

When you turned six a year ago, you were still our baby girl.

But now, you are a baby no longer.

You had so many firsts as a six-year-old. You graduated from kindergarten. You got your first (and, um, second, although you didn't know it!) goldfish. You went on your first blogcation and made a new friend.

You lost both your front teeth.

You went to your first movie premiere and met one of my heroes. You formed a few unorthodox friendships.

You spent a week at the beach-- and you've been talking about it ever since. You started first grade. You had your first (and hopefully LAST) bout with Pneumonia.

Your first year of school created endless dilemmas for me as a mom. I worried over lying about the nature of your absences and suffered agonies over a horrible swim instructor who let you sink to the bottom of the pool, ruining your excitement about learning to swim. I freaked out when you weren't invited to a friend's birthday party extravaganza and I agonized over having to get (practically) naked in front of a bunch of fully-clothed parents in order for you to go to a birthday party you were invited to. I prayed you'd turn out to be a nerd and I fretted about the girls in your grade starting clubs. I also turned the both of us into a pair of Daisy Scout dropouts. Sorry about that.

Despite my concerns, I shouldn't have worried. You were doing just fine. Better than fine, actually. At six, your brain went into overdrive. You started the year reading simple picture books and by the end of the year, you were reading chapter books written for fourth graders. Your vocabulary grew along with your reading skills and I loved it when you began peppering your speech with 'advanced' words you'd learned from your books. You asked questions about everything, from anyone who would answer you and chose your own topics of study from the library each week, just for fun. You amazed me with your intellect and your confidence.

But as much as you learned at six, I really believe you taught me even more. You showed me how to worship God, without worrying what others think. You demonstrated the poignant art of crying tears of joy.

You taught me to dance, rather than remain on the sidelines wishing I had the courage to join in. You taught me to appreciate all I have-- because I COULD be naked. With no lights. You reminded me that I'm still a princess, just like you.

You also taught me about loving your brother as yourself. Your little brother is your best friend and you do everything you can to make his life better. Even on the morning of your seventh birthday, when Bruiser cried because he had to take his bath first, you quickly intervened. "I'll go first," you said, comforting him. "It's my birthday and I want everyone to be happy." That's my girl.

You also made us laugh. Oh, how you made us laugh, although often, we couldn't let you know we were laughing! There was the Pounder incident. And the time you learned bug bites were really... nibbles.

And then there was the time you brought this home from school...

I tried to help fill your sixth year with laughter and fun, Punky, and I hope the year brings you many wonderful memories as you grow older. We did so many things together while you were six. We picked pumpkins and went to fall festivals. We had impromptu backyard parties with neighborhood friends. We began our daily One Hour of Girl Power. We went to the zoo. We started some wonderful new Christmas traditions that I hope you'll continue with your own children some day. We went on winter walks, where we dealt with braying wildebeests.

And we made it through an endless series of snow days.

Barely.

"You know what I love about Punky?" a mom said to me recently. "She still enjoys being a little girl." I knew exactly what she meant. While other girls your age wear Justin Bieber tattoos and think The Wonderpets are for babies, you really enjoy being a child and have no desire to grow up too fast. You still believe in Santa Claus and the Elf on the Shelf. You won't watch the tween shows on Disney or Nickelodeon. You love dressing up in costumes. You're happy to play with smaller children on our street or at the Y when girls your own age can't be found.

I treasure every moment of this time. I know it can't last.

Because just a few days ago, you woke up and you were seven.

Seven.

It sounds so... old.

You are seven and learning to ride a bike. You are seven and reading books every chance you get. You are seven and you're a social butterfly, happiest when you have a friend by your side. You are seven and full of projects and ideas. You are seven and you love God and your family more than anything else.

You are seven and no, you're not a baby any longer. But you're still not too old for snow cones and cupcakes.

Thank God.

Happy Birthday, Punky. This one made me cry a little.

Love,

Mommy

Seattle, Denver, A Blizzard, and a Tornado. Not Much Happening Here. You?

2011-04-06T10:48:00.010-05:00

If I wasn't around here much last week, it's only because I... wasn't around.

I left on a plane early Thursday morning for a blogger trip to Seattle. I'm not generally afraid of flying, but when the pilot started talking on the PA, I'll admit I got a little nervous... I've flown enough times to know CaptainSpeak, and how to translate it. Check it out:

THE CAPTAIN SAID: Ladies and gentlemen, we’re anticipating some choppy air up ahead.

TRANSLATION: What I’m actually anticipating is that we’re all gonna die!

THE CAPTAIN SAID: I’m going to turn on the fasten seatbelts sign now.

TRANSLATION: Seatbelts are no good in a plane crash! Prepare to die!

THE CAPTAIN SAID: We’re facing some strong head winds and our flight’s going to take a little longer than normal.

TRANSLATION: Head winds! Did you hear me? HEAD WINDS! We’re gonna die!

THE CAPTAIN SAID: I’m going to ask the flight attendants to be seated now until the ride evens out a bit.

TRANSLATION: What the hell does it matter? We’re all gonna die!

THE CAPTAIN SAID: We’re expecting to see some turbulence during the next hundred miles or so.

TRANSLATION: Don’t be fooled by my soothing voice. We’re gonna die!

THE CAPTAIN SAID: We do ask that you stay in your seats at this time.

TRANSLATION: And start texting your loved ones, because we’re gonna die!

Miraculously, we somehow made it to Seattle without dying, but let me tell you. It was ROUGH. And we weren't alone. Just about everyone who flew into Seattle for the event had a bumpy flight. One blogger told me her head got knocked against the window three times on their descent into Seattle, and two people on the plane threw up.

I'll say no more about the actual event here, only because contractually, I CAN'T. (You can, however, read about it here.) What I will say is that it was wonderful, but I was absolutely dreading the flight home, because it included a connection in Denver.

My experiences flying into Denver have been decidedly unwonderful. Every time I've flown into Denver, I've had a bad flight. More often than not, I've also been delayed in Denver, and seen lots of other delayed passengers there as well. So when I schedule a connecting flight, I make sure it's not connecting in Denver. This time, however, I had no control.

Sure enough, as the plane began its descent into the Denver area, we hit major turbulence. Like, the WORST turbulence I've ever experienced. I've heard about the plane suddenly dropping thousands of feet, but that had never happened to me until this particular flight. And it didn't just happen once- It happened two or three times in a row.

TERRIFIED.

Eventually, we bounced down onto the runway more or less intact, and as my heart rate slowly returned to normal, I tried to look on the bright side: The flight was on time. I still had 30 minutes to make my connecting flight to Nashville and then I would be HOME.

My Nashville travel companions and I hopped off our plane and raced down the concourse to our connecting flight. We were overjoyed to see that it was on schedule. But as we prepared to board, some other passenger laughed cruelly at us.

"This flight's been delayed," she said. "Until 12:30. Midnight."

What?

WHAT?!

Yes. Our 7:55pm flight had been delayed to 12:30am, and was scheduled to arrive in Nashville at 4:30am. Maybe. At the time, it was still on the ground in San Antonio with mechanical problems, and they weren't sure it would be arriving at all.

Glumly, Carrie, Calie, Jamie, Tori and I headed for Customer Service to figure out what our options were. As it turned out, Frontier Airlines only had two flights to Nashville on Sunday- One seat was available on the 1:55pm flight and seven seats were available on the 7pm flight. We went ahead and rebooked for the 7pm flight. Fortunately, the next day was Sunday, so our husbands all could handle our kids alone for one more day.

After hours of paperwork, negotiating of hotel vouchers, and waiting for the shuttle, we arrived at an airport W Hotel, which looked a lot like a low-budget MTV Real World house. We checked in, walked over to a nearby Applebee's and proceeded to have a bizarre late dinner at what was clearly a Denver hotspot. It was trivia night, and it was SERIOUS BIZNESS, as we learned after Carrie yelled out an answer and was publicly reprimanded by the hostess. We tried our best to keep silent after that, but some of the answers were SO OBVIOUS and people at the bar looked SO CONFUSED that I resorted to helpfully coughing the answers to them.

The night ended with couples spontaneously standing up and slow dancing together. In Applebees. Yeah. It was that kind of night.

The next morning, we got up and took a cab into downtown Denver. The day was sunny and bright and we had a truly AMAZING brunch at my new favorite restaurant, Rioja.

By the time we came back outside, clouds had filled the sky. We headed over to 16th Street for some shopping. With each block we walked, it grew colder and colder, until suddenly...

There came A FREAKING BLIZZARD.

Seriously, it snowed and snowed and snowed and snowed

And so I did what any sensible woman would do when faced with this kind of adversity.

I shopped.

And after that, I took refuge with my blogging friends in a restaurant until it was time to call a cab back to the hotel and take the shuttle on to the airport. We were very concerned about our flight being delayed again, but after a thorough de-icing of the plane, we took off, and had a relatively smooth flight. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES. I finally pulled back into my driveway at midnight Sunday night.

Whew.

The next day, tornadoes hit Nashville and the surrounding area. I was home alone when the storm came through, and when the house began making noises I'd never heard before and the weather people on television started telling me to go to my safe place wearing a bike helmet and carrying an air horn so that people would be able to find me later (I kid you not), I ran to my downstairs bathroom. I stood there nervously for a few minutes before realizing that in my panic, I had grabbed my cell phone and my... purse.

My purse.

So that I'd have my ID if I wanted to order drinks in Oz, I guess!

So. I survived Seattle. I survived Denver. I survived an unexpected blizzard. I survived a tornado (although I had to take an alternate route and drive around several trees to pick up my kids five minutes away, which was scary).

Next up: a visit from the in-laws (tomorrow), Punky's seventh birthday (Saturday), and a trip next week to Mom 2.0 in New Orleans!

Pray for me.

Mom, Interrupted

2011-04-04T07:30:00.006-05:00

I took my number at the DMV, scanned the rows of plastic chairs, and paused when I saw Margaret seated next to an empty one.

Margaret was a casual acquaintance that I hadn't seen in a few years. I instantly recalled that I didn't much like her-- but I couldn't for the life of me remember why. Still, I walked over and sat down beside her. We were going to be waiting for a while and I figured I'd rather sit with someone I knew, even someone I knew and didn't think I liked, than a stranger.

"Hi Margaret," I said.

"Why, Lindsay Ferrier!" she said, surprised. "I haven't seen you in ages. How have you been?"

"Oh, you know. Busy." I laughed falsely. "How are the kids?"

"The kids are fabulous," she answered. "Sally is loving soccer and James is reading on a fifth grade level."

"Wow, that's fantastic," I said. "What books does he like to read?"

"He's really into Bailey School Kids," Margaret answered.

"Oh my gosh," I said. "Punky loves Bailey School Kids! She's been reading about--"

"And Magic Treehouse," Margaret interrupted. "He reads a lot of Magic Treehouse."

"Magic Treehouse is fantastic," I agreed. "Especially the one where--"

"James is also playing piano now," Margaret said, ignoring me.

"Okay!" I said. "Well, that's great! I've heard there's a fantastic piano instructor at that music school over on--"

"And Sally is playing guitar," Margaret went on as if she hadn't even heard me. I shut my mouth and listened as she proceeded to launch into a long and involved story about Sally's guitar teacher.

"You know, our neighbor is a guitar teacher," I said once the story was finished. "He-"

"It's funny that I've run into you," Margaret said. "I talked to Mary Helen just the other day." I bit my lip.

"He's quite popular with the moms," I said, stubbornly finishing my sentence.

"What are you talking about?" she said. "Mary Helen is a she."

"Oh, well, I was still on the guitar teacher," I said, shrugging.

Long pause.

"Well, Mary Helen is selling Pampered Chef now," Margaret said, undeterred. She went on to enumerate every Pampered Chef item she had ever wanted, and why.

"I like the baking stones," I said when Margaret at last paused for breath. "I have two and I use them for--"

"And the onion slicer," Margaret said over me.

"--I USE THEM FOR BISCUITS AND COOKIES." I said loudly.

Margaret looked startled.

"Anyway," she said, "the onion slicer is so handy when you're sauteeing vegetables, and what I do is this..." She continued talking, but I couldn't listen anymore. Blah blah blah. Drone drone drone. My eyes glazed over as she went on and on and on. "... but I had to do something drastic after I started watching Hoarders," she finished. Suddenly, I perked up.

"Hoarders!" I said. "I love that show! Did you see the one where--"

"I packed up six bags of junk and took them all to Goodwill," Margaret interrupted. I paused.

"Did you see the one where-" I started again.

"They asked me if I was moving!" she interrupted again. "I said, I'm not moving, I've been watching Hoarders!"

"Did you see the one where-" I said a third time.

"And trust me, I'll be back again next week with more bags!"

"THE ONE WHERE THE WOMAN HAD SO MUCH JUNK THAT HER CATS HAD BEEN CRUSHED-" I continued, raising my voice. It didn't faze her.

"I'm going to attack our basement next because--" she went on.

"AND THEY STARTED CLEANING UP THE PLACE AND THEY FOUND ONE OF THE CATS, LIKE MUMMIFIED-" I went on obstinately.

"Because OUR BASEMENT REALLY IS A TERRIFIC MESS," she said, practically shouting herself in order to hear her own voice over mine. But I wasn't backing down.

"AND ITS FACE WAS FROZEN IN HORROR, LIKE SOMETHING HAD FALLEN ON IT, AND IT WAS SO GROSS-" I boomed.

"AND I MOVED ALL MY GRANDMOTHER'S THINGS DOWN TO THE BASEMENT AFTER SHE DIED AND-"

"-SO GROSS THAT THREE OF MY GIRLFRIENDS CALLED ME AS SOON AS THE EPISODE WAS OVER TO ASK IF I'D SEEN IT AND I SAID-"

"-I HAVE YET TO GO THROUGH A SINGLE BOX, BECAUSE I COULDN'T BRING MYSELF TO THROW ANYTHING OF HERS AWAY, BUT-"

"-THAT REALLY TOOK CRAZY CAT LADY TO A WHOLE NEW LEVEL!"

"-IT HAS TO BE DONE! I HAVE TO MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE AND CLEAN OUT MY BASEMENT!"

We stopped talking at the same time. Both of us were flushed and out of breath.

"Number 27!" the woman behind the counter shouted.

"That's me," Margaret said, standing. "It really was so nice to see you again,"

"Good to see you too," I said, smiling a little too brightly. "Bye now."

As she walked away, I stared after her, frowning. What was it about Margaret that had rubbed me the wrong way all those years ago?

Hmm......

Cherish Every Moment? No Thanks.

2011-03-28T10:41:00.003-05:00

I realize that I'm supposed to Cherish Every Moment™ as a mother. I've heard that phrase ad nauseum from older moms, and having raised two stepdaughters, I totally know where they're coming from.

I've learned the hard way that puberty is like the ultimate parenting bitch slap, and it has a sting that lingers. We parents are like human Silly Bandz to our kids, desired and revered for a few years before we're ultimately rejected and deemed embarrassing. In the end, all we're left with are memories of the golden years and a drawerful of elementary school art we don't quite know what to do with.

Despite all this, there are still some Moments with my little ones that I could do without. One is taking my 4-year-old son to a public restroom.

For one thing, he's recently decided that it's a major indignity to have to do his business in a room that's intended for women only.

"AWWWW, LAY-DEEEZ!" he bellows when he sees the sign over the door as we prepare to enter. "I HAFTA GO IN THE LAY-DEEEEZ ROOM?! WHY, MOMMY? WHY?" He tries to pull me toward the men's room instead.

"Because I am a lady and you're coming with me," I say, yanking him into the restroom as he struggles in the opposite direction.

Once inside, he of course feels compelled to try and peer underneath every stall with a closed door. I actually believe this behavior is ingrained into all boys, because I can't tell you how many impish little faces have peered up at me over the years from under stalls and dressing room dividing walls. How many chubby fingers I've gently stomped on. How many foreheads I've prodded with the underside of my shoe.

"Stop it," I hiss, dragging him toward an open stall door on the other end of the room as he attempts to crouch before each closed door along the way. "That is not allowed. Stop it right now."

"BUT DERE'S FEETS UNDER DERE, MOMMY," Bruiser shouts. "LOOK," he says, lunging toward a pair of cute red pumps under one door. "FEETS." Suddenly, he stops, his attention diverted. He wrinkles his nose. "EWWW, WHAT'S THAT SMELL?" He laughs in delight. "I THINK SOMEBODY POOTED."

I push him into a tiny stall and lock the door behind us. This is the part where I'm actually grateful to have a boy. When Punky was small, restroom visits involved wiping down the toilet, lining it with paper, lifting her onto the potty, making sure her dress was carefully bunched around her, and helping her wipe at the end. Bruiser, on the other hand, can do everything himself. Better yet, neither one of us have to touch anything.

Unless I have to go. And I usually do.

"Hold on," I say when he's finished. "Now you have to wait for me." We swap places in the cramped stall. Of course, I'd much rather Bruiser wait outside, but in this day and age it doesn't seem like such a good idea. At least at first.

"WHY YOU NOT HAVE A PEANUT, MOMMY?" Bruiser says loudly. He chortles. "WHERE YOUR PEANUT?" Outside my stall, the restroom falls silent.

"Shhhhhh!" I whisper. "Girls don't have peanuts. Turn around."

With his back to me, Bruiser focuses instead on the stall's latch. Slyly, he starts to open it.

"Don't you DARE open that door, Bruiser," I say.

"I'M GOING TO OPEN IT," he says in a singsong voice.

"Don't you DARE."

"I OPENING IT NOW," he taunts, slowly sliding the latch.

"Do it and I'm calling The Farm," I say desperately. It's been a long day already and I'm nearing the bottom of my bag of threats. Fortunately, The Farm is enough to stop him. Briefly. He sighs the sigh of someone who's been waiting lifetimes.

"WHAT TAKING YOU SO LONG, MOMMY? ARE YOU GOING POO POO?"

"No I am not!" I hiss.

"THEN WHY YOU TAKE SO LONG?" He hesitates. "DO YOU HAVE DIARRHEA?" he says daringly.

As if in answer, I hear a snort from the stall beside mine.

"I! do! Not! Have! Diarrhea!" I say. "Be quiet!"

"MOMMY HAVE DIARRHEA! MOMMY HAVE DIARRHEA!" Bruiser sings. I hear snickering coming from the direction of the sinks.

This is unbearable. It's time to pull out all the stops and use the Ultimate Threat. "That's it, Bruiser," I say quietly. "You're going to get spanked."

"NOOOOOO!" Bruiser shouts. Before I can stop him, he yanks open the latch and zips out from the stall into the restroom. The stall door swings open and I grab for it from where I sit. I manage to slam it shut, but not before I've made eye contact with four different women in the mirror over the sinks.

Brilliant.

"Wait for me outside, Bruiser!" I say helplessly. "I'll be out in one second."

"DERE'S FEETS UNDER DERE, MOMMY," I hear Bruiser say outside. "I THINK SOMEONE UNDER DERE.... OWW!" I'm guessing that that someone's foot has made contact with Bruiser's face. Well, the kid finally got what he deserved.

As quickly as I can, I finish up in the stall and come out into the restroom. Bruiser joins me at the sinks, rubbing his forehead. Together, we wash our hands in silence. Beside us, a grandmotherly woman watches us, smiling.

"Cherish every moment," she says, catching my eye in the mirror. "They grow up so fast."

I try to smile back at her, but I'm afraid it ends up looking more like a grimace. I make a mental note then to tell younger moms one day to cherish most moments when their kids are small.

Because I have to believe that moments like this one are better forgotten.

My Own Mr. Muffet

2011-03-25T10:27:00.010-05:00

I happen to be married to a Manly Man, which I'm coming to appreciate more and more now that the Manly Man is slowly becoming extinct in our society.

The Manly Man, once revered in westerns and pioneer sagas, now is more likely to be connected to inane TV sitcoms featuring beer-drinking rednecks. These days, America likes its men soft-spoken and fully shaven, with artfully mussed hairdos and a minor in Women's Studies. That sounds nice and and all... but does it do the yard work?

Not usually.

I married my Manly Man with the basic understanding that I was responsible for the inside of the house and he was responsible for the outside. My Manly Man does heavy lifting, kills large and scary bugs, disposes of any small creatures that happen to (*shudder*) die in our yard, and takes care of car maintenance and repairs. He changes lightbulbs in hard-to-reach places, mows lawns, rakes leaves, and pressure washes. And as an added bonus, my Manly Man is a fantastic bodyguard. On the rare occasions that we find ourselves walking on a lonely sidewalk late at night, I never feel frightened. I know for a fact that he'd fight to the death to protect me.

My Manly Man, you see, isn't afraid of anything.

Well...

That's not entirely true.

There is one small thing that really seems to bother him. It's so small, in fact, that you've probably never even seen it yourself-- and neither has he.

It is the brown recluse spider.

And as far as he's concerned, anything in our house with eight legs is likely to be one.

"CAREFUL," he'll say as I reach with a paper towel to smash a small brown spider that's spun a web in the corner of our kitchen. "Let me get a closer look at that thing." He walks over and peers at it for a long time. "Hmmm," he says. "I'm not sure, but maybe, this might possibly be.... A BROWN RECLUSE." Cue dramatic swell of music.

"You'd better let me kill it," he says, manfully.

"Okay, fine," I say, backing away from the web and handing him the towel.

Painstakingly, he lines up the paper towel just so... and then SMASH! The spider is decidedly dead. He walks quickly to the trashcan and deposits it inside, before its POTENTIALLY DEADLY VENOM can make its way through the paper towel's fibers and EAT AWAY HIS SKIN. As he closes the lid, I bat my eyelashes appreciatively and try to approximate a simper.

"Oh thank you," I say in my best Southern accent. "You sah-ved me from that deadly spi-duh!"

Hubs's shoulders straighten noticeably. "It was nothing," he says gruffly.

Even worse was the time I asked him to move the sofa in the den out from the wall so that I could vacuum beneath it. Behind the sofa were a few dusty strands of spiderwebs.

"Will you look at that?" he said breathlessly. "BROWN RECLUSE SPIDERWEBS. Unbelievable! I knew we had brown recluses in this house!"

"How do you know they're brown recluse webs?" I asked.

"Because that's exactly where brown recluses like to hide!" he said. "Behind sofas! And underneath them! In fact, you are all forbidden now to reach under the sofa to get out toys. It's just too dangerous."

"Okay, honey," I agreed in the same soothing voice I imagine nurses use in the psychiatric ward. "You're right. From now on, I will call Critter Control the next time a toy ends up underneath our sofa."

I think it's normal to have some fear of brown recluses here in Tennessee. They are everywhere, the stories about what their venom can do to a person (just a tip: DO NOT GOOGLE IMAGES OF BROWN RECLUSE BITES) are pretty awful and chances are we really do have a few in and around our home.

But from what I've read (and I've read a lot, actually, because you know, the fear. IT SPREADS.), brown recluses are very shy and retiring. They don't like to hang out in heavily-trafficked areas. So while I completely understand his concern when cleaning out our seldom-used garage closet, I'm thinking his microscopic examination of EVERY SINGLE SPIDER THAT HAPPENS TO MAKE ITS UNFORTUNATE WAY INTO OUR HOUSE is maybe a teensy tiny...

itty bit...

unfounded.

But don't try to tell him that.

"You won't believe this," Hubs said several mornings ago as he came into the kitchen. "Just look at my nose. I think I may have been bitten by a BROWN RECLUSE while I was sleeping!"

I turned away from where I was making coffee at the counter and peered at a small spot of redness on the tip of his nose. If you looked very, very closely, you could see twin red dots, each the size of the point of a straight pin.

"I think it's just a normal spider bite," I said. "Spider on your face. EW."

"I hope it was just a normal spider," Hubs said darkly. "But there's a good chance it was a BROWN RECLUSE."

"Well, I guess we'll find out at the end of the day, when your nose is either eaten away by spider venom... or it isn't," I said airily. For a moment, Hubs looked as if he were about to weep. But then he shook it off.

Because he is a Manly Man. And Manly Men aren't afraid of anything.

What They Don't Tell You About Potty Training

2011-03-23T12:00:00.002-05:00

It's time for me to be completely honest with you.

Over the last couple of years, I've kept you pretty informed about Bruiser's potty training escapades. Somewhere around two-and-a-half, he managed to diaper train himself, stepping out of his old diaper, throwing it in the trash, and putting on a new diaper from the cabinet. When I attempted to remind him of the presence of his child-sized potty in the bathroom, I was met with screams and howls that were very... annoying. And so, being a ~~lazy~~ good mother, I decided that at least for the time being, diaper training was good enough for me.

By three-and-a-half, though, Bruiser was still adamantly opposed to all things potty. As far as I was concerned, he could wear diapers for the rest of his life so long as he continued to change himself- but there was one big problem. Preschool wouldn't accept him unless he was fully potty trained. And so, two weeks before his first day, I did what I had to do... I told him the cashiers at Kroger wouldn't sell me diapers anymore, because they said Bruiser was too old for them.

When I gave my son the unfortunate news, he screamed. He howled. He climbed the stairs to his room and once there, slammed the door as hard as he could.

Five minutes later, he came downstairs and without fanfare, peed in the potty. And he's been doing it ever since. He was completely trained and accident-free by the next day. Forever.

Except for one small problem.

He absoutely refused to go poo poo in the potty. And since I wouldn't let him put on a diaper, he just... didn't go.

What resulted was a poo poo standoff. Two days passed and my son was unwilling to give in. But by day three, he couldn't hold it any longer. He attempted to make it to the potty and did-- sort of. But there was some major cleanup involved. And maybe some dry heaving. And then the whole process started over again. Bruiser held out for three days... and the bathroom was declared a disaster area for three days after that.

With the first day of preschool less than a week away, I began having horrible nightmares about the situation. I had a feeling they wouldn't take it well at all if he happened to be at school during one of his three-day poops. In fact, I had a feeling he'd be kicked out if they were exposed to one of his three-day poops. And I had worked so hard to get him into this particular preschool and to have some real writing time to myself that I could not let that happen.

Here's where my deep, dark confession comes in.

I gave him back his diapers.

"For poo poo only," I warned him sternly. "And you can only go poo poo at home. Not at preschool. If you say anything about diapers at preschool, they will kick you out."

Bruiser looked worried. "Will they kick me out with a hammer, Mommy?" he asked nervously.

I had no idea what that meant, but I nodded grimly. "Yes," I said. "With a hammer."

Bruiser swallowed hard. "Okay," he said. "I not say nuffing about diapers at preschool."

"And you'll only go poo poo at home," I prodded.

"I only go poo poo at home."

It wasn't perfect, but my plan totally worked. Bruiser would go to preschool, come home, and at some point during the day, he'd put on a pull-up and have some alone time. I had to change him myself, of course, but frankly, it was a lot easier than cleaning up after him in the bathroom.

This went on for a few months, but I knew it couldn't last. Bruiser was about to turn four, and I could not have a four-year-old in diapers. Even I have some standards. And so I decided that during the week of spring break, we would give it another go. For a few weeks before his fourth birthday, I warned Bruiser that when he turned four, he would no longer be allowed to wear diapers.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because they won't let you turn four if you're still wearing diapers," I told him patiently. "Diapers are for three-year-old babies."

"Then I not turn four," he said, sticking out his chin defiantly.

"Then you won't get any presents or a party, either," I said.

"I turn four then!" he said quickly. "But I will wear my diaper, Mommy. I WILL!"

"No you won't."

And so on.

Finally, the fateful day arrived when Bruiser's diapers disappeared forever from the cabinet. He came to me, outrage plainly visible on his face.

"Where my diapers go?" he demanded.

"They're gone," I said. "You're four now and they won't let four-year-olds use diapers."

"I not go poo poo then," he said resolutely. And for two days, he didn't. By the third day, noxious smells were emanating from his behind with nauseating regularity and I couldn't take it any longer.

"Bruiser," I wheezed. "You have GOT to go poo poo."

"I not!" he said. He paused. "My tummy hurt, though," he said quietly.

"It'll stop hurting when you go poo poo in the potty."

"I not!" he insisted. He paused again, and rubbed his tummy. "Okay, maybe I go," he said. Together, we went to the bathroom and I helped him sit down.

"Ac-shully, I don't need to go," he said. He hopped down again. But five minutes later, he was ready to give it another try.

Again, nothing happened. He climbed down from the potty once more and fled the scene. A few more minutes passed, two people passed out from Bruiser's gas fumes, and I knew I had to do something drastic.

"Come on, son," I said, leading him into the bathroom and shutting the door. "We're not leaving this room until the poo poo comes out."

"NOOOOOO!" he shouted.

"Yes," I said. "Whether you like it or not, it's time. But don't worry, honey. I'm going to help you through this."

Bruiser paced back and forth in the tiny room, holding his belly and wincing at the pains.

"Okay, I ready," he said. I lifted him back onto the toilet. He began straining.

"Push!" I said. "Come on, push!"

"It not coming out!" he howled. "It not coming out!!"

"Push harder!" I said. "You can do this, Bruiser!"

I held his hand as he pushed and howled, howled and pushed. His face had turned bright red.

"I'm with ya!" I cheered. "We're gonna get that poo poo out!" Briefly, I wondered what my husband must be thinking as he watched television on the other side of the door, but the thought abruptly went away as Bruiser's face changed.

It was still contorted in agony, but there was also a new sense of purpose, a weird ecstasy shining through his suffering. I recognized that face.

The kid was crowning.

"Okay son," I said, squeezing his hand. "This might hurt, but you're going to feel so much better when it's all over and we have a brand new..." I shuddered, despite myself. "...poo poo in the potty."

Bruiser gave one last, long scream and then... relief crossed his face.

"It come out, Mommy!" he said with weak satisfaction. "It come out into the potty!" He stood, I helped him clean up, and together, we gazed into the toilet.

"You did it, honey," I said. "I'm so proud of you!" As we stood there for a moment in silence, I marveled at what had to be the most bizarre moment of parenting I've ever experienced. Coaching my child through poo poo labor wasn't in a single book I've read on potty training.

What's up with that?

Anyway, from that moment on, Bruiser has been done, completely done with diapers. He is officially potty trained!

And I?

I am forever scarred.

A Very Dangerous Situation

2011-03-21T07:30:00.011-05:00

Last week was Spring Break, which explains my absence from this blog for the last several days.

Hubs worked Tuesday through Saturday, the kids were home, and it was up to me to entertain them. All day. Every day. In addition to writing 15 posts "in my free time" for The Stir.

Yeah. That was a fun week.

By the end of it, I felt like I had been run over by a mac truck. But! The kids were happy and that's what matters, right? Right?!

Anyway, we celebrated Bruiser's birthday on Sunday and Monday with a low-key playdate party, cupcakes at preschool, and a family dinner at Chuck E. Cheese. During the rest of the week, we went to an indoor playcenter! We met friends at the playground! We went to the library! We went back to Chuck E. Cheese for a party celebrating its new and improved pizza! We went to Warner Park! We went to a birthday party at a gymnastics center! We went to McDonalds! We had friends over! We had movie nights! We read many, many books!

And we spent a day with friends at the zoo!

Along with every other family in Nashville!

Regular readers out there know we go to the zoo A LOT. We're members and so I try to take the kids at least once a month-- sometimes more. We love going on sunny days during the winter months, when the zoo is all but empty and we can pretend like we run the place. So this time around during Nashville schools' spring break and on one of the first warm spring days of the year, with nearly every spot in the massive parking lot filled, with long lines at the entrance, the bathrooms, the carousel, and the restaurant, with sweaty, slow-moving bodies everywhere I turned, and with Bruiser alternately zipping off through the crowds and begging to be carried, I felt a little cranky.

And so when I sat down with Bruiser on a tube slide at the zoo's playground only to encounter three "precious" little girls climbing up the slide toward us from the opposite direction...

I wasn't having it.

The girls were impeccably dressed in coordinating smocked dresses and big hairbows, so I said in my best Nice Lady Voice, "Oh girls, you can't come up the slide like that! Goodness, it could be very dangerous! Someone could come down the slide and hit you and knock you down and you could all be hurt!"

"Move over!" the lead girl, who looked to be about five, said in return.

"Go back down the slide now," I said, smiling through gritted teeth as they attempted to step over (and on) us to get by.

"We won't," the second girl said. "You can't tell us what to do!"

I blew a piece of hair out of my eyes. "Well then, I'm going to find your mother and tell her," I said levelly.

The girls gave me looks of loathing before turning and scooting back down the slide. "The nerve!" I said, pushing off and looping around and around with Bruiser in my lap. And the nerve got worse!

They were waiting for Bruiser and me at the bottom!

"What did you mean you were going to tell our mom?" the five-year-old demanded, her gigantic grosgrain hair bow bobbing with indignation. The other two girls, twins who looked a year or two older, stood behind her like identical pouting henchmen.

I put my hands on my hips. No more Mrs. Nice Lady. "I mean that it's against the rules to go up a tube slide. It's not safe. And if you won't listen to me, I think your mother will be very interested to know what you insist on doing!"

The girl said nothing, but continued staring at me meanly, her arms crossed. I stared back, but I have to admit, I was starting to get a little scared. The kid had a monogram on the front of her dress, for heaven's sake. M. Her name was probably Makinzee. Or McKinnsy. Or Mackennzye. Or maybe even Makkinnzzee. Anyway, by all rights, she should have heard my words and run for the hills.

But instead there she was, giving it back as good as she got. After a long, awkward moment, I broke eye contact with her and looked off beyond her shoulder.

"Oh let's see," I said. "I'm sure it won't be too difficult to find your mom." I strode off purposefully toward a horde of mommies chatting on the enclosure surrounding the playground. The girls darted away in the opposite direction.

"Well that takes care of that," I muttered to myself, taking my son by the hand. "Come on, Bruiser! Let's go on the rope ladder again!" I said, smiling. I had no intention of actually finding the mother of those girls and tattling on them. I've found that moms don't really take that sort of thing very well, particularly moms who dress their daughters like Mary Engelbreit characters.

But those girls didn't have to know that.

Bruiser and I circled back around the playground and I managed to find the mom friend who'd joined me with her kids for the day. As we chatted, my eyes roamed over to the tube slide-- and damned if that five-year-old wasn't standing at the bottom with her eyes on me, getting ready to climb back up it.

"Hey!" I shouted. "I've got my eye on you!"

My mom friend turned and watched the girl as she ran off. Then she looked back at me in confusion.

"Just a little uh, tube slide situation," I said, laughing weakly. "I've got it all under control." Still, I moved over a bit to where I could keep a close eye on the slide as we talked. I was not going to be beaten by a five-year-old. Not today. Not ever.

"So then you just add a little sour cream," I continued to my friend, "and a squeeze of lemon and chopped onions and..." I stopped short, seeing the girl edge back up to the slide, looking at me warily. Slowly, I pointed two fingers at my eyes and turned my two fingers toward the girl. Watching! You! I mouthed. She ran off again.

At this point, I had thoroughly freaked out my mom friend and so I quickly tried to debrief her before she had a chance to text any of her friends about me. "These girls were coming up the tube slide," I said, "and I told them very nicely that they needed to go back down or someone would get hurt and--"

The girl had come back to the slide a third time. She looked at me warily, then put one foot up on it and grabbed the sides with both hands.

"...AND I HAVE JUST CALLED THE ZOOKEEPER AND HE SAYS HE IS ON HIS WAY TO DEAL WITH THIS VERY DANGEROUS TUBE SLIDE SITUATION!!" I shrieked angrily to my friend, waving a finger in the air for emphasis.

It worked. The girl made like a banana and I didn't see her ever again.

Come to think of it, though, I haven't seen or heard from my mom friend since that day, either.

Weird...

Best Bookstore Bathroom Graffiti EVER.

2011-03-15T11:39:00.003-05:00

Seen yesterday at the Cool Springs Borders.

And Now You Are Four

2011-03-14T09:29:00.016-05:00

Dear Bruiser,

Too quickly, another March has rolled around. It doesn't seem like 12 months could possibly have passed since the time I was watching my two-year-old baby become a three-year-old boy.

And yet, here we are.

Three has been a year of major changes for you. Before my eyes, you slowly outgrew the tantrums and meltdowns that dotted your toddler years (thank God). You became... rational. Reasonable. And I have to say, my back is much better for it, not to mention my emotional health!

From the moment you turned three, you began insisting that you were a "big guy," with "big feets" and "BIG muscles!" You began making it painfully clear that you were all boy, and I began learning how to use that fact to my advantage.

For much of your third year, though, we could still see traces of baby in you. From your pinchably chubby cheeks to your chunky legs and round belly, I delighted in each remaining vestige of your babyhood (well, almost each vestige), winced each time it was time to give up another of its tangible reminders from your highchair to your board books to your crib, and hugged and held you as often as you'd let me, knowing that a chapter of motherhood was on the verge of ending.

At three, you became far more independent. You took your first solo pony ride, started learning to swim, and rode on your first roller coaster. You potty trained... in your own strange and hilarious way. And you became a first-rate storyteller (which is a nice birthday word for, erm, fibber.)

You grew old enough to play with your sister and neighborhood friends in the backyard without me hovering over you the whole time, making sure you didn't try to eat rocks or small bugs. But I still watched you like a hawk from the kitchen window, mindful that at three, your newfound independence was very, very limited.

Three was full of other new experiences, as well. We spent a week at the beach for the first time in your life (and you've been asking to go back to "the BIG water" ever since). We went through three days of heavy rains and no power during Nashville's thousand-year flood. We took a trip to Chicago, where you met your new best friend. We dedicated you to our church.

And we did small things, too. We went to the zoo a lot. We played on playgrounds. We jumped through sprinklers. We started new holiday traditions. We ran down garden paths. We danced.

We attended festivals. We chose our favorite fruits and vegetables at the farmers' market. We baked. We went to all kinds of Halloween events. We read books at the library. We went sledding. We had snowball fights.

We went on nature walks. We painted and colored and drew. We played with Play-Doh and Moon Dough and Bendaroos. We went to art classes and made collages. We filled the year with as many activities as we could, and you loved every minute of it. Well... almost every minute of it.

I'm referring to that fateful day when we signed you up for your first soccer team. Our hopes were high, and we were encouraged when you bravely endured your first game, despite temperatures that hovered near 100. We didn't know it then, but that would also be your last soccer game. After two more games spent unsuccessfully trying to coax you out onto the field, we decided to retire your jersey for the season. What could we say? You were three.

You were also the most loving and affectionate at three of any of our children. Everyone adored you at three, Bruiser, despite your occasional tantrums, your proven stubbornness and not-so-occasional naughty behavior. You loved all of us. Deeply. Loyally. And with great affection. You didn't reserve your love entirely for family, either. You were a first-rate playmate at preschool and on playgrounds, always willing to cooperate, always showing enthusiasm for whatever it was that your little friends wanted to do.

You charmed many a stranger as well (and more than one Santa), walking right up to them at airports and in supermarkets, showing them your toys, telling them your stories, and listening very seriously to theirs in turn. I was so proud and happy to see you in these moments, because I could tell at three that this was going to be a lifelong characteristic of yours. You have a way with people. And your time here on earth is going to be much happier and more fulfilling for it.

And this only grew more evident as you approached four. In the last few weeks, your daddy and I have noticed that the tantrums have all but disappeared. You've stopped putting toys in your mouth. You've become more rational, more reasonable. You've started sleeping through the night. WE CAN TAKE YOU OUT TO EAT.

You were ready to turn four.

This morning, you woke up a four-year-old. In honor of the occasion, you and Punky got to sleep in our "big bed." When you woke, Punky said, "Stand up, Bruiser." You did so. "You've gotten taller!" she said, impressed. You walked on your tiptoes for the rest of the morning, a huge smile on your face.

You are four and I'm so excited for you, and so looking forward to all that's in store for us this year.

You are four and you love your family, and make us all feel so loved in return. You are four and already, you're so brave and strong and loyal and loud and completely hilarious.

You are four and you've grown a mustache!

Time flies, doesn't it?

Happy Birthday, Bruiser. I love you forever and then some.

Mommy

Searching for My Crown

2011-03-11T10:12:00.015-06:00

My daughter has always known she was a princess.

From the time she could walk, she was reaching for her older sisters' tiaras and feather boas and tutus. By the tender age of three, she had amassed a sizable collection of pint-sized princess dresses and accessories and she didn't go a single day without them- whether she was fully outfitted as Snow White...

...or opting for a more casual mealtime look in a crown and pink kitten heels.

Even now at the age of six, Punky often comes home from school and heads straight up to her room, returning to the kitchen in Belle's yellow ballgown or Sleeping Beauty's pink dress. "I just can't stand my school clothes," she'll say as she sits down daintily for a snack. "This dress is much more beautifuller, don't you agree?"

"I do," I say, quietly relieved that Justin Bieber temporary tattoos and iCarly lunchbags are still eclipsed in her mind by the sparkly gems and tulle skirts of Cinderella and Ariel and Tiana.

Overall, though, I have to admit that I've grown so used to Punky's well-documented princess fixation, I've come to take it for granted-- at least until recently.

I'm doing Beth Moore's Living Beyond Yourself Bible study right now with a group of women from my church. In this week's session, Beth talked about doing a book signing for a children's book she had written. The signing was held in a church courtyard that had been decorated to look like a kingdom, and the children attending the event were asked to dress accordingly. The girls all showed up in their princess gowns, of course, and most of the boys dressed as knights-- and what struck Beth was that they all acted so naturally in their royal garb... as if they were wearing the clothes that they should be wearing all the time.

"Have you ever noticed," Beth asked (and I'm paraphrasing), "that little girls seem to know they were born to be princesses and inherit a kingdom, but ask those very same little girls years down the road if they're queens and every one of them will shake her head and say, 'Not me.'"

And that's when I got a little teary-eyed. Okay, I got a lot teary-eyed. Because I thought of my own little princess, brimming with confidence, running toward her royal destiny with open arms and a glad heart...

...and it occurred to me for the first time that life would very likely steal that crown away from her.

I resolved in that moment to help my daughter feel worthy of wearing a princess's robes, long after she's outgrown them. I resolved to remind her in every way I can as she gets older that she is truly special. Treasured. Loved deeply. Filled with noble attributes. Destined to do great things.

But in order to do that, I have to feel worthy of wearing a crown myself.

Somewhere inside, under layers of disappointment and heartbreak, we all still bear traces of that little girl we once were- the one who was sure, absolutely sure that she was born a princess. Now that we are mothers, there's never been a better time to dig deep inside ourselves and find her.

After all, every little princess needs a queen to show her the ropes.

Top photo by Claire Wise

Small Steps

2011-03-09T09:45:00.005-06:00

Yesterday, I tried to message a friend on Facebook, only to find that she had deleted her account.

So I did something completely archaic.

I called her on the phone.

"Yes, I got rid of my Facebook," she admitted. "It was a time suck and it wasn't good for me or my family. So now it's gone. And I am more fully present."

I loved hearing her admission, and I loved that she did something about it. Because this whole social networking/smartphone thing has been both a blessing and a curse for most moms I know.

Our Facebook pages and our smartphones allow us to keep in near constant contact with each other in a way that was never before possible. But they're also addictive. Highly addictive. And while it would be unthinkable to say something to a mom friend about the fact that she seems to always be on Facebook, or that she spends too many of your playdates together with her eyes glued to her iPhone screen, I think we'd all admit that we've thought these things privately. Or maybe (gulp), others have thought them about us.

Facebook isn't a problem for me, but as a diehard e-mail addict, I'm pretty sure an iPhone would be- and so, as I've written before, I don't have one. I can't send or receive e-mails on my cell phone. I can't tweet from it and I'm horrible at texting. Only a handful of people even know my phone number.

I endure the teasing from my friends about my ridiculously uncool cell phone because when I'm out and about with my kids (or my friends), they have my full attention. It is my small step toward being there for my children while they still want me around. And yesterday, I took another step.

When I took my son to Cheekwood Garden here in Nashville yesterday, I wore workout clothes and running shoes. I know this sounds silly to some of you because you do this all the time, but too often, I wear clothes when I'm with him that are fine for trailing along behind him, but not fine at all for actually playing with him. And right now, playing is what he wants me to do.

Why, I wondered, do so many moms (including me) have no problem spending an hour on the elliptical, but shudder at the prospect of running and jumping and climbing with our kids? What would happen if I treated our outings as an extension of my workout? Wouldn't everyone be happier?

And so yesterday, rather than following along behind my son as I've done too many times in the past, I ran beside him. I went hard with him for two hours and I was rewarded at the end of our playtime with an unexpected workout for me and a long nap for him. (Of course, he woke up at 4 this morning and wouldn't go back to sleep, but let's not talk about that part right now!)

I want to constantly challenge myself to step up my game when it comes to my kids. I'm taking small steps toward becoming a better mom- small steps that are less stressful and more realistic. Putting on running shoes was one. Another step I'm taking is to start now creating a game plan for our summer, one that I'm sharing with you here. My goal is to take a picture of each experience as it happens and post it beneath the activity. We probably won't get through all of them, but at least I'll have no excuse for spending a day doing nothing to engage my kids. And by making my list public, I'm holding myself accountable.

I'm going to challenge you to take a small step today toward becoming a better mom. It could be direct, such as having a Girl Power Hour or putting away your Droid for the afternoon-- or it could be indirect, such as going to the gym or committing to a daily devotional time (two things that I firmly believe also make me a better mom). Share your step with me in the comments if you'd like- I love hearing your ideas. And feel free to share your own ideas for summer plans, as well. I could definitely use them!

Bug Bites and Nibbles

2011-03-07T11:17:00.005-06:00

Last week, six-year-old Punky and a friend were sitting in the backseat of our SUV, examining the latest hot commodity among first grade girls: a Barbie Fairy Secret doll from McDonalds' current Happy Meals.

"I don't like her," I heard her friend announce.

"Why not?" Punky asked, mystified.

"Because she's not modest."

"What does modest mean?"

"It means she's showing too much skin," her friend said. "She needs to cover up her body."

"Oh," Punky said. I glanced at them in the rearview mirror and saw Punky looking down at her doll thoughtfully. She sighed. "I guess you can never go to Mickle Donald's again, then," she said sadly. After a pause, though, Punky brightened and put a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder.

"Don't worry," she told her. "I'll tell ya when they stop selling them." Her friend giggled.

As they continued talking, I smiled to myself. That was a classic Punky conversation.

And it was about to get even more interesting.

"They're not called bug bites!" her friend scoffed as I pulled into our driveway. I grimaced. I was soooo not prepared to have this conversation right now.

Bug bites, you see, is what Punky has always called breasts. And while I realize I'm wildly out of fashion as far as current parenting wisdom on the subject goes, I've never bothered to correct her. For one thing, the term 'bug bites' is so hilarious, I couldn't bear to make her stop using it. For another, I decided not to use proper terminology about certain body parts until my kids are old enough to understand why we can't shout those words out in public. Teaching my kids proper terminology at a young age would inevitably mean adding at least a vague sense of shame and secrecy to the notion of private parts... and the longer we could reasonably go without that happening, the better.

And so at this point in her young life, Punky is well-versed in good touch/bad touch and she knows which body parts are meant to remain hidden-- but she has yet to ask any questions about where babies come from or why boys' parts are different from girls. She's totally innocent, and while I realize the day is coming fairly quickly when some 'splainin' will be called for, that day hasn't yet happened.... and I am glad of it.

"Yes they are called bug bites!" Punky shouted.

"Ask your mom!" her friend retorted.

Apparently, though, that day will be coming a little sooner than I had expected.

I opened the back door to let the two girls out of our SUV and Punky gave me a questioning look. "Well, Mommy?" she asked.

"Well.... There is another name for bug bites," I said cautiously.

"What is it?" Punky demanded.

I looked quickly at Punky's friend. Oh Lord. I had no idea what words her mother was using with her, and whether she'd be okay if I used them in front of her daughter.

"I'm going to whisper it to you," I told her.

I leaned in and whispered into Punky's ear. "NIBBLES?!" she shouted.

"No! Shhhhh!" I said. I whispered the word into her ear again and she nodded.

"Do you have any questions?" I asked her. "Nope," she said. Satisfied with our impromptu girl talk session, I helped both girls down from the running board and they walked to the door ahead of me.

"She does have nibbles, though," Punky said obstinately, holding out her doll in front of her friend. "You just can't see her nibbles because of her top."

Nibbles.

NIBBLES.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Finding Myself

2011-03-04T13:00:00.003-06:00

In lieu of a long list of soon-to-be forgotten New Year's resolutions, I decided last year to come up with a word or phrase that I hoped would define the year for me personally.

Last year, the word was 'discipline.' There were so many things I wanted to do with my life, as a mom, as a wife, as a writer, even as a housekeeper... and I felt if I worked at having more discipline, I'd have a better chance of accomplishing my goals.

All year long, I kept that one my word in the back of my mind. Discipline, I'd think to myself each time I was faced with a job I didn't really want to complete. Discipline, I'd say quietly when I had a fantastic idea and didn't know if I had the energy to carry it out. Discipline, I'd whisper through gritted teeth when faced with a seemingly insurmountable task.

And it worked. By the end of the year, discipline had become a way of life. I still backslide, of course-- who doesn't? But I find it much easier to get back on track and in my "zone" of getting things done. And I've grown addicted to that feeling of accomplishment after finishing a difficult or time-consuming task.

This year, my phrase has been "find yourself." And I don't mean finding myself in any New Age-y sense. Thanks largely to this blog and your responses, I am all too well acquainted with myself and most of my strengths and shortcomings. I am pretty much sick of myself, if the truth be known.

What I mean by the term is that it's time for me to stop flitting from one fun-looking project to the next and figure out what I want to do with my life. I know I want to be a writer for the rest of my life- I joke to my husband that writing has sort of become my fifth child- the one that will never leave me. Writing is emotionally fulfilling, it meets my personal wish to do something with my life that will outlast me, it's a sort of continuing love letter to my children, my children's children, and so on, and it has within it the potential to make a difference in others' lives as well.

But I'm 35 now, and it's time to stop moving aimlessly from one random idea to the next. This is the year that I want to set a serious long term writing goal and stick with it. And first, I need to figure out what that goal is. Where do I see myself in five years? Do I want to have written a memoir? A screenplay? A novel? Do I want to focus on spirituality? Family? Fashion?

I'm happy with how far I've come in the last five years as a writer. But I realized at the end of last year that I had never really set any specific goals. What was I doing? Where was I going?

I had no idea.

I tell you this now because I'm guessing that many of you can identify with what I'm going through. Motherhood has a way of causing us to set aside our own personal goals in favor of helping our children reach theirs. And while many of us have careers, it's all too easy for our jobs to become nothing more than hoops that we jump through each day in order to put food on the table.

If you don't have a clear picture of where you'd personally like to be in five years, there's a problem. At the beginning of this year, I didn't have that mental image. Now, I'm in the process of forming it.

That process already has led me to make some major changes. After much deliberation, I put Bruiser in preschool three days a week at the beginning of this year. This was a big step for me- Punky, as many of you know, didn't go to preschool at all. But Bruiser is a different child, and I'm at a slightly different stage in my life. He is loving the preschool experience and I am loving having the time to get my work done in peace, to have a little space to dream and plan for the future, and to be done with all of my tasks each day when I pick up the kids from school.

You can read about the second big change I've made here. After five years of writing a weekly newspaper column, I've decided to use that time instead to work on longer-term projects. I've been thinking about doing this for some time, wondering what I could do if I had a month to work on an essay rather than a week. Now, I'm finally going to find out.

Third, I'm working on myself personally, if you haven't already figured that out. As most of you know, my spiritual life is very important to me. I've discovered that I'm a better, happier, more fulfilled wife, mother and woman when I have a structured spiritual life, and so I make time to go to church every week. I'm part of a weekly women's Bible study group. And my husband and I meet every other week with a small community group of couples from my church.

By the end of this year, I'm hoping to have a clear picture in my mind of where I'm going, and what I want to do with my life. I'm 35. It's time to get my act together and get this show on the road.

I'd love to know if you can empathize. Do you have a clear image of your own long-term personal goals, or has your role as a wife and mother made everything else a blur? How do you make room for yourself and your own needs and wants?

Death by Balloon

2011-03-02T10:52:00.007-06:00

When I was a kid, going to the supermarket with my mom was something I tried my best to avoid. Now, though, the game has changed.

Driven by competitive fever to corner the mom market, our local Kroger has made itself into a veritable carnival of pleasures for the under ten set. Samples of store-baked pies, cakes, and premium fruit are scattered throughout the produce section. Free cookies can be found in the bakery. Special carts are outfitted with child-sized race cars for the kids to "drive" through the store. Stickers await the well-behaved at checkout.

But all of these wonders apparently aren't enough. Oh no. In yet another effort to thumb its nose at the Publix across the street, Kroger has decided to take its kid-friendliness to eleven. The result?

A basket of balloons awaiting children at the exit, each one anchored by a lollipop.

A basket of freaking balloons.

Not much makes my kids happier than balloons, but for me, they're a nightmare. Because while my six-year-old daughter is good about keeping her balloon within her own personal space in the backseat, my three-year-old son is another story.

He spends his time hugging his balloon. Biting his balloon. Rubbing his balloon with his grubby little hands and producing unbearably squeaky balloon noises while I cringe, waiting for the inevitable POP. But that's not even the worst part. Despite our many warnings and threats, Bruiser always allows his balloon to roam into the front seat, where it floats in front of whomever is driving.

We've taken Bruiser's balloons away when that's happened of course. We've shaken our fingers at him. We've sworn up and down that he'll never bring another balloon home again.

But try keeping that promise when you've got a cart full of groceries and a three-year-old boy who will surely throw a tantrum of crowd-drawing proportions if his sister is allowed to have a balloon and he is not.

"I be a good boy this time, Mommy," he assured me yesterday afternoon with an angelic smile when the Kroger cashier asked if the kids wanted balloons. "I keep my balloon wif me. One more chance. Peeeeeees?"

Two minutes later, I was headed out to the car with my cart, my kids, and two bobbing balloons.

Once we'd loaded up and gotten moving, it seemed at first like the short drive home would be uneventful. The children played quietly with their balloons in the backseat and I rolled down my window, enjoying the warm, sunny day. I smiled to myself, thinking about what a pleasant afternoon this was turning out to be. And that's when I was assaulted.

Without warning, Bruiser's balloon whipped around my face and out my window. With Bruiser still holding tight to one end of the ribbon and the wind pummeling the balloon outside my car by the other end, the ribbon drew tight across my open mouth like a gag.

"AAAAAACHGHHHHCKKK!" I screamed, swerving as I tried to pull the balloon back inside with one hand and steer with the other.

THE BALLOON WAS TRYING TO KILL ME.

My life flashed before my eyes, ending with the news report that I imagined would air that night. "A suburban mom was gagged and killed by a rogue balloon while on the way home from Kroger this afternoon."

Death by balloon. What a stupid way to die. And what would the witnesses say who were passing me now in their cars on the other side of the road? "I seed her with that balloon pullin' her mouth back all crazy like. She was screamin' bloody murder. I'll never forgit it. No sir." How embarrassing. I simply couldn't let it happen.

Summoning my reserves, I desperately yanked at the ribbon as hard as I could and somehow, miraculously, managed to pull the balloon back inside the car.

"WHAT THE HELL!" I yelled, panting for breath as I angrily batted the balloon into the backseat. I couldn't think of anything better to say, so I said it again. "WHAT. THE. HELL."

Punky gasped.

"Why you say what the hell, Mommy?" Bruiser asked from the backseat. "Why you say that?"

"Because your balloon nearly killed me that's why!!" I said. "I am very mad at you, Bruiser!"

"Oh," he said. There was a moment or two of silence as I rubbed the corners of my mouth.

"Can I have fruit snacks when we get home, Mommy?" Bruiser asked. I said nothing. "Peeeeees? Can I?"

"Okay," I said quietly.

"What?" he said. "What you said?"

"I said okay." My children weren't showing the kind of concern that I felt the situation warranted. But I knew my husband would. I told him about my near death experience last night after he got home from work.

"I almost died," I ended. "Literally. For a minute there, I thought that balloon was going to win."

And then, my husband did something very strange. He laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

"You're such a dork," he said. "I can totally see something dorky like that happening to you."

"You wouldn't be laughing if I were dead right now," I muttered.

Death by balloon.

Mothers? BE WARNED.

Oscar Fashion 2011: The Official Wrap-Up

2011-02-28T07:30:00.002-06:00

Last night, it was OSCAR TIME. And you know what that means.

Yes, friends, it's time once again for my annual wrap-up of the highs and lows of Oscar Fashion, 2011....

What is Michelle Williams hiding?
Pretty much everything in this dress.

Battenberg. It's not just for duvets anymore.

Hey Florence Welch, your mom called. She wants her prom dress back.

I get the impression that Erin Andrews would look good in a paper sack. But this silver dress was nice, too.

Designer Valentino only uses Real Italian Leatherface.

Maria Menounos wanted America to know that the Bumpit is still alive and well.

Oscar dress or bath towel? You decide....

Jennifer Hudson announced tonight that she'll be starring in a remake of The Incredible Shrinking Woman.

It all would have been so perfect if only she'd kept her big mouth shut...

Let's just pray Scarlett Johansson keeps rocking dirty, messy hair and ugly dresses-- That way, the rest of us women might have a fighting chance!

Hit me with your best shot.

Bride of FrankenStone

Celine Dion looked stunning. But wait.
IS THAT THE HEART OF THE OCEAN NECKLACE?!!!

It's called a hair dryer. Look into it.

And the winner of my Best Dressed Award goes to... PUNKY! She's wearing vintage Disney, carrying a Vera Bradley bag, and despite her busy schedule, after I explained Oscar night to her she ran upstairs and somehow managed to pull this fabulous look together all by herself.

MAGNFICENT.

What did you think of last night's Oscar fashions?

All images from Yahoo. Except for that last one.

Adieu, Adieu. To Them, But Not To You.

2011-02-25T22:17:00.001-06:00

This is my last column for the Nashville Scene. The full text below...

Five years ago, I started a blog.

At the time, I didn't even know what a blog was — I looked up "online diary" and blogs were what I turned up. I spent about five minutes registering for a website, choosing a blog template design and coming up with the name Suburban Turmoil. And then I started writing.

I wrote stories about being a stepmother to 12- and 14-year-old girls. I wrote about my toddler's antics. I wrote about becoming a stay-at-home mom and feeling as if I was losing my identity in the process. Within a week or so, readers began showing up — first five, then 40, then 200 each day. I had always secretly wanted to write for a living and the response my posts were getting began to give me courage that I could actually make that dream a reality. And so I took a deep breath and sent my blog's URL to Liz Garrigan, then the editor of the Nashville Scene.

And I got a job writing a weekly column.

In 2006, this was kind of extraordinary. Blogging was still viewed with skepticism by traditional media, and bloggers — particularly "mommy bloggers" — weren't being offered writing jobs like they are now. The day my first column ran in the Scene, I put my real name and a photo of myself on my personal blog, my readership soared, and I began coming to terms with the fact that everyone from my stepdaughters' principal to the woman working out next to me at the Y was about to know my bidness.

I also began coming to terms with the hate mail my new column inspired.

Oh, the hate mail. I got plenty of positive comments, too, but not everyone was pleased with the fact that this supposedly edgy alt-weekly had hired on a snarky suburban mom. One reader wrote that she used my column to line her cat's litter box each week. Another said she felt sorry for my mom for having me. And still another claimed to open the Scene each week expecting to see a burned-out hole where my column should be. After that one, I looked into actually publishing a burned-out hole in lieu of my column, but unfortunately, it just wasn't possible.

I'll admit that initially, there were some major what-have-I-done moments upon reading those letters. It's different seeing personal insults on a printed page than it is reading nasty comments online. For one thing, there's no delete button. It's out there, indelibly, forever. But over time, I got used to it. And looking back, I think that's the most valuable thing I've gotten out of writing this column, as strange as it sounds.

I can now take criticism.

I don't always like it. But it doesn't bother me like it used to. Give me a couple minutes of fury and I'm rational again. If there's a lesson in there somewhere, I try to learn it, and if it's just plain mean, I forget about it. Completely.

Fortunately, the hate mail slowed after a year or so and now, I can't remember the last time I got a nasty letter. I guess people just got used to the snark. And I think I've grown more seasoned, too, over time. But I've had quite a few adventures along the way.

Remember when I wrote about a bathroom incident involving Martina McBride, and the column resulted in a music industry McToiletgate? And the time I riled up a bunch of stay-at-home dads because I wouldn't invite them to my play group? And remember that time when I waited outside a swingers club in order to spy on who was coming in and out? And the time when I was in a fashion show in New York City and I didn't wear pants? And remember that time when I went to a baby beauty pageant and wrote about it and a bunch of pageant moms wrote in saying I was just jealous that my kids weren't pretty enough to be in pageants?

Yeah. That was awesome.

But enough navel-gazing. If you haven't guessed, this trip down memory lane is happening only because it's my last column for the Scene. It's been fun, but five years after my first column was published here, I've started wondering what my writing would be like if I didn't have a weekly deadline. Or a word limit. Or an audience based mostly in Nashville.

I think it's time for me to find out.

Thanks so much for reading, for commenting, and even for complaining. You've made me a better person. And I hope that in return, I've kept you entertained — or at least given your cat something to poop on.

Daisy Scout Dropout

2011-02-24T14:00:00.004-06:00

"Mommy, I want to be a girl scout!"

It began with all the golden light and birdsong you'd expect from the opening scene of a Lifetime docudrama. My six-year-old daughter skipped up to me after school, clutching a flier that advertised the formation of a new troop of Daisy Scouts.

Only 12 dollars to join! the flier stated in bold words. I eyed it skeptically.

"Honey, are you sure this is something you want to do?" I asked my daughter.

"Oh yes," she said. "A lady came to our school and told us all about it. You get to go to camp and ride horses and do arts and crafts and sit around a campfire and roast marshmallows!"

"Okay, well, I guess we can at least go to the informational meeting next week and find out about it," I said.

A week later, we found ourselves in a middle school cafeteria along with a bunch of other parents and their potential Girl Scouts. Once all of the interested parents and children from Punky's grade were seated at a table, a Girl Scout official sternly informed us that unless one of us volunteered to be the leader, we could forget about having a Daisy Scout trooop.

With our daughters seated among us, it was a classic set-up. How could we say no to these wide-eyed, hopeful girls? After we all endured a minute or two of awkward silence and avoidance of eye contact, one brave woman finally raised her hand. "I guess I'll do it," she said. "If some of you will help me."

We all quickly agreed. After all, it didn't seem like being a Daisy Scout would be that big of a deal. From what I could gather, it only involved monthly meetings where the girls would talk about character and work on craft projects that would be donated to the poor. And it was only 12 dollars!

Except that it wasn't.

After we'd signed up, we were informed in an e-mail that once registration costs and uniform costs and patch costs and adult costs and other costs I didn't really understand were added in, we actually owed the Girl Scouts a check for ninety dollars.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked Punky again. "I mean, are you really surely sure?"

"Oh yes I'm sure," she told me. "I want to be a Daisy more than anything in the world. I'll cry if I can't be a Daisy. It will be the worstest day of my whole life ever."

I wrote the check.

A few days later, we attended our first meeting. The troop leader and a few other moms did a bang up job preparing for the big event. Posters had been made with the Girl Scout pledge! Craft supplies were in place! An elaborate spread of snacks was on the table! Punky dutifully sat in a circle with the other girls and read the pledge and talked about integrity and manners, and then she sat at a table and obediently completed her craft. We went home at the end of the hour and all was well...

...at least until it was time for the next meeting a month later.

"It's Daisy Scout day!" I said merrily as I woke her up that morning. "I'm taking you to your scout meeting as soon as school is out!"

"Do I get to ride a pony?" Punky asked excitedly.

"No honey," I said. "You get to learn more about being a Girl Scout and do a craft project with your friends!"

"Another meeting?" Punky groaned. "When are we going camping?"

"Uh. You're not," I said.

"But the lady who came to our school showed us pictures of horse riding and being in the woods and roasting marshmallows!" she protested. "And so far, all we've done are meetings. I don't think I want to be a Daisy Scout anymore, Mommy!"

"Well, ninety bucks says you do," I said. She looked at me in confusion. "Stick with it, Punky," I said, helping her out of bed. "I'm sure it'll get better."

But honestly? It didn't.

Because suddenly, there were all these events we were supposed to attend in order to get petals for Punky's Daisy Scout vest. And if we didn't attend them, her Daisy would be petal-less, and that would be embarrassing! But the events were all on Saturdays and Sundays! And I had been trying hard to reserve Saturdays and Sundays while the kids were small for family activities! And so we didn't attend any of these special Girl Scout events! And there was concern! Because OUR DAISY HAD, LIKE, NO PETALS!!!!!11!!

Clearly, I was in over my head. But I tried to stay calm.

We are doing Girl Scouts Lite, I told myself. We will attend the monthly meetings. We will get through the year. And that will be that.

But as any mom who's familiar with Girl Scouts knows, THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS GIRL SCOUTS LITE. There's only Girl Scouts Sucks the Life Out of You.

Because suddenly, it was Cookie Time.

And at the November meeting, the appointed Cookie Mom formally announced that each of our 6-year-olds was expected to sell 150 boxes of cookies.

Mother of God.

150 boxes of cookies?!

Ladies, I truly respect those of you who get into the cookie selling thing. You are awesome. And honestly, if Punky were a little older and really wanted to sell cookies, I'd do everything I had to do to help her.

But these girls were six years old. Cookie Mom didn't really expect our daughters to sell 150 boxes of cookies. She expected us to do it. The moms. This wasn't Girl Scouts. This was Mom Scouts.

And I'm sorry, but there was no way in hell that I was selling 150 boxes of cookies. Especially right after Christmas, when I was practically a vegetable from my efforts in carrying out Operation Ferrier Family Holiday.

Therefore, instead of selling Samoas, I laid low.

But the e-mails. OH THE E-MAILS. They caught up with me.

At first, they were chipper. There would be a meeting for parents so that we'd all know the specifics of our cookie-selling responsibilities! DELETE. The deadline for selling cookies was coming up fast! DELETE. Okay! The deadline was tomorrow! DELETE.

Then, the tone changed a bit. All parents really needed to sign up for booth sales. It was required. Feeling guilty, I tried to imagine myself selling cookies in a parking lot. Uhhhhhh... DELETE. All parents really needed to come and help take the cases of cookies off a forklift on Saturday morning. I searched my soul and tried to imagine the prospect of spending a Saturday without my family, taking boxes of cookies that I didn't sell off a forklift. Oh, this sounds horrible, but... DELETE.

After that, a few e-mails were sent out implying that it wasn't fair for certain ones of us to participate in activities when we hadn't helped sell the cookies to pay for those activities. Another e-mail informed us that next year there would be a point system, and we'd have to have enough points from selling cookies to participate in future events.

Daisy Scouts had turned from a fun, once-a-month fling into a needy, nagging girlfriend... and it was time for me to break up. I sat Punky down and tried to explain the situation to her as gently as possible.

"You know how you thought that Girl Scouts was all archery and horseback riding and it turned out to be all meetings?" I asked her.

"Yeah."

"Well, I thought Girl Scouts was a once-a-month after school meeting and that was it. But it was more. SO MUCH MORE." I was starting to get worked up and Punky was intrigued.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well for starters, they wanted you to sell 150 boxes of cookies! 150!" I said. "Can you even imagine? We would have had to go out in the cold, door to door, asking strangers to buy your cookies," I said dramatically. Punky shuddered. "And we also would have had to stand in a parking lot and sell cookies to strangers who were just trying to do their shopping!"

"I don't want to do that!" Punky said stoutly.

"Me neither!" I said. "But it's a big part of Girl Scouts, and I didn't understand that until now. So I think we should gracefully bow out."

And that's exactly what we did.

Now. I'm sure some ~~Girl Scout officials~~ ~~cookie moms~~ ~~former Girl Scouts~~ ~~troop leaders~~ people will read this and get their noses all out of joint. Please don't. I have absolutely no gripe with the moms who were trying to keep our troop operating smoothly- They were just doing what was required and they all tried to make the best of it. I also agree with their e-mails. Since Punky and I weren't doing the cookie work, it really wasn't fair of us to benefit from the proceeds that paid for future events.

So why am I writing this? Because this is my sad, sorry life people and you deserve to know the truth about me. I am a Daisy Scout Dropout. A traitor to Thin Mints everywhere. Brownies see me coming now and cross the street.

Scouting is one of those Mom Tests that most of us face at some point in our children's lives.

I'm pretty sure I got an F-minus.

The Year It All Falls Apart

2011-02-21T07:30:00.002-06:00

When I became a stepmother to eight and ten-year-old girls, one of my first new duties was serving as team mom for my eight-year-old's soccer team.

I remember scanning the team roster with growing dismay as I noted the parents' names:

Mr. and Mrs. Al and Maria Bernard
Ms. Jeanine Grayson
Mr. and Mrs. Steve and Abby Johnson
Ms. Catherine McGuiggan
Ms. Sue Davis
Ms. Cynthia McPherson
Dr. and Mrs. John and Sally Thompson
Ms. Eileen Boyd
Ms. Carol Parker

In this microcosm of typical suburban eight-year-olds, more than half of the girls' parents had already divorced. As a newlywed, it didn't make me feel very confident.

This flashback hit me five years later when my three-year-old daughter joined a soccer team of her own, and I received a roster composed entirely of kids whose parents were all still together. Based on this meticulous scientific research, I deduced that there's a year somewhere between the time that a child is three and eight that tends to be a tipping point for a whole lot of marriages. As time went on, I realized it wasn't happening at four. Or five.

But now, my daughter is six years old, a first grader, and it is becoming dismally clear to me that this, at last, is the Year It All Falls Apart.

Not for everyone, of course, and not all at once-- Over the last few years, I've seen some marriages get stronger and others sputter and fail here and there like the occasional abandoned car on the interstate-

This year, though, it's been different.

This year, I've watched a formerly confident friend break into pieces in the wake of learning that her husband was having an affair . This year, I've seen another friend struggle with anger and fear as she's been forced to transition from married, stay-at-home mom to single, working mom. This year, today in fact, I'm feeling down after receiving an e-mail from an old friend detailing years of pain and sorrow that have led up to her decision to divorce. This year, for the first time, I can take a mental assessment of all of Punky's friends and acquaintances and think of a sizable list of them with parents who are either newly separated or newly divorced.

This is the Year it All Falls Apart.

Or at least, the year it starts to.

We all enter marriage with that dire statistic in the backs of our minds-- the one that tells us half of all marriages will end in divorce. In some ways, accepting a marriage proposal feels a little like spinning the roulette wheel. Red says we're happy, black promises attorney fees and child support checks in our futures.

I suppose the split-ups are starting among the moms and dads of my daughter's set because once the kids are in school, it becomes a little easier for both parents to get jobs of their own-- and to visit a divorce attorney. And I'm well aware from raising older girls that from now on, we'll see more and more couples calling it quits each year. We'll hear a few more tales from our kids of friends' dads sleeping in the den. Or kids moving out of state with newly-ringless moms who want to be closer to their extended families. Or kids coming to terms with a new stepparent.

For the first time, though, I'm seeing couples that I'm close to go through it- Couples who've laughed with us over dinner and a bottle of wine in our dining room, who've sat beside us at soccer games, who've raised their own babies alongside ours.

And while I knew from a statistical standpoint that many of the marriages around me were bound to fail, I had no idea how painful it would be to watch.

Can You Relate?

2011-02-17T12:00:00.001-06:00

A few days ago in a moment of typical mommy multitasking, I plopped 3-year-old Bruiser in a shallow tub to play for a few minutes, spread out a few toys for Punky on the bathroom floor, and hopped in the shower. Through the shower door's glass, I was able to keep an eye on both of them, and see that Bruiser, as usual, was driving his 6-year-old sister crazy.

"STOP IT!" she squealed as he splashed water on her for the 15th time. "I mean it, Bruiser! You're not my friend!"

"You're a baby!" he shouted back, and splashed more water on her.

"Cut it out!" I bellowed from inside the shower. Bruiser splashed more water on Punky. "That's it! This is your last chance, Bruiser!"

The kids quieted down momentarily and I sighed and closed my eyes as I rinsed the shampoo from my hair. I couldn't believe the hoops I had to jump through just to take a simple shower. And then, quickly, I opened my eyes again, conscious that the bathroom had gotten a little too quiet. The bathtub faucet, which I was running at a trickle to keep Bruiser's bathwater warm, was silent. I rubbed the fog from the glass shower door and peered through it.

Bruiser had put the big plastic cup I use to rinse his hair over the faucet, so that all the water was running into the cup... and then back out, onto the bathroom floor.

"BRUISER!" I screeched. "GET THAT CUP OFF THE FAUCET NOW!!" He shot me an impish grin before quickly removing the cup.

"THAT'S IT!" I said. "NO MORE CHANCES!" I opened the shower door a crack and looked out onto the floor to assess the damage. There was a lot of water on the floor beside the tub- enough that it was very well leaking down and staining the den ceiling below.

"Oh, you are in SO MUCH TROUBLE!" I said from the shower. "SO MUCH!" He gave me a withering look, and I realized that since I was in the shower, he assumed I was powerless to punish him. As if underscoring that point, he turned and splashed more water across the room onto his sister.

"That's it, young man! I'm..." I paused, trying to think of a way to fully express my wrath. "I'm sending you to The Farm!"

Bruiser froze where he sat, a look of horror on his face. Then he tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and howled. He'd gotten the message loud and clear.

The Farm, created by my own mother, is a place where naughty children work for a living. They scrub floors and wash windows and do various other unpleasant jobs, and all they get to eat (I added this to the legend myself) is cold mush. The Farm helped keep my brother and me in line when we were growing up, particularly once we'd looked it up in the phonebook and called it to make sure it was still open. And while I hadn't spoken of The Farm that often to my own children, clearly the little I'd told them about it had made an impact.

Satisfied that Bruiser was feeling a suitable amount of remorse over the situation, I turned off the shower faucet and grabbed a towel. But as I was drying off, another wail rose to meet the cries of my son from the tub. I wrapped my towel around me and opened the shower door again. Punky sat on the floor amid her toys, sobbing.

"What is it, Punky?"

"If you send Bruiser to The Farm, I'll miss him so much!" she cried. "Waaaaaaaaaahhhhh!"

Hearing her, Bruiser cried harder. "I miss you too, Punky!" he yelped. "WAAAAHHHHHH!" Together, their cries were deafening. I frowned and considered my dilemma.

"He'll have to work... for... a... living!" Punky gasped between sobs.

"I have to WORK!" Bruiser howled from the tub. "WORRRRRRRKGKFLEKJWLK!"

"But maybe it'll be good for him to go work for a while," I said quietly to Punky. "Maybe he'll stop hitting you and taking your toys."

"But I love him!" she wailed.

"She LOVE ME!" Bruiser chorused mournfully. As they continued crying, I floundered, at a loss for words. Before my eyes, a simple attempt to take a shower was turning into fodder for future therapy sessions.

"Mommy, if you send Bruiser to The Farm, it'll break my heart!" Punky keened, clutching her chest before dissolving again in tears.

"Mines too, Mommy!" Bruiser shouted in anguish. "My heart will broke! Broke! Broke! Broke!" He beat his chest each time he said 'broke' to emphasize his suffering.

It was time to admit I'd been defeated.

"Okay, okay!" I said. "Calm down. Bruiser can stay." Their sobs quieted to sniffles and I dropped to my knees, trying to wipe up the standing water with an extra bath towel. Dammit. There was a lot of water. "He can stay if he promises to be a good boy from now on," I added.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!" Punky howled. Bruiser looked over at her and joined in. "WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"

"What's wrong now?!" I asked, exasperated. "I said he could stay!"

"I don't think Bruiser can be a good boy," Punky cried. "I just don't think he can do it! Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"

"HE CAN STAY NO MATTER WHAT." I said over their cries. "OKAY? ARE YA HAPPY? HE CAN STAY NO MATTER WHAT." Abruptly, the crying stopped. My children both burst into cheers.

"I staying!" Bruiser shouted with the same gleeful delirium you see when Publisher's Clearing House goes to a random person's door and tells him he's won ten million dollars. "Mommy say I staying, Punky!" As they continued their celebration, I turned away, grimacing.

This is parenting. Don't let the experts tell you any different.

True Love, Ten Years Later

2011-02-14T08:00:00.001-06:00

You can't watch television, listen to the radio, surf the Internet, or read a magazine for any length of time without encountering something inspired by love. Our culture is obsessed with it.

More specifically, our culture is obsessed with new love. Popular singers rhapsodize about infatuation. Magazine ads depict bedheaded women with glazed, lustful eyes. Romantic comedies feature our favorite winsome starlets meeting and marrying the man of their dreams. Hit television shows parade a stable of hot men and women who rotate partners with all the predictability of a square dance.

When it comes to long term relationships, though, everything changes. Turn to Lifetime and you'll see movie after movie about cheating spouses and murderous mistresses. Talk shows hosts quiz married men who are "on the down low" and housewives moonlighting as call girls. Magazines spotlight stories about open marriages, swingers, and cyber affairs. Popular literature explores the psyche of the modern married couple and why, after years together, boredom is inevitable... along with betrayal.

Of course, we all get married dreaming that our relationships will be different. We hold out hope that, decades down the road, we'll be like one of those old couples in When Harry Met Sally, reminiscing about the day we first laid eyes on each other 50 years ago.

But once we've exchanged rings, we don't get much positive reinforcement. I'm certainly not hearing any top 40 hits about hot married sex, and I'm not seeing many movies being made about couples who've been happily married for, say, 15 years. Real life mirrors the media; for the first time, the number of kids my six-year-old daughter knows who have divorcing or divorced parents is... significant. It's noticeable enough that she's asking questions about my marriage, and worrying when she hears my husband and I arguing that we might get divorced, too.

And the thing is, my husband and I do argue. Not all the time, but y'all. Honestly, at times that man drives me out of my mind. Someone has got to set him straight and who else is going to do it but me?!

Anyway, I have to admit that based on all I've seen and heard, and the fact that my own parents divorced when I was six, and the statistic that 70% of blended family marriages fail, I always knew in the back of my mind that there was a good chance that my own marriage would founder, too. Our passion for each other would fade over time, our arguments would multiply, our interests would diverge.

Like most other married couples, we'd either continue on through life tolerating each others' existence-- or we'd call it quits. Looking back, I've probably been more guarded in my marriage than I should have been, because a part of me was girding myself for what seemed to be, according to all I saw around me, inevitable. I hoped for the best, but prepared for the worst, because if the worst did happen, I wanted it to be as pain-free as possible.

Funny, though, life never turns out quite like you expect it to.

I don't know how, I don't know why, but I've been with my husband pretty much every single day for ten years now and by some miracle...

I'm more in love with him than ever.

THAN EVER.

Yes, he wears an ushanka. Yes, his obsession with coaching youth soccer almost forced me to stage an intervention. Yes, at times he drives me insane.

But he is also my very best friend. My defender. My champion. He makes me feel beautiful and sexy and smart. He can make me laugh until I cry. He never bores me. He still manages to surprise me on a regular basis. He's romantic. He's thoughtful. And he's the best father I've ever known.

I'll be honest. Marriage has been the hardest thing I've ever done. My husband and I have had to put a monumental amount of effort into maintaining a close relationship. We've spent money on babysitters and weekly date nights that a more prudent couple might have put into fixing the stain in the ceiling from that upstairs shower leak. We've stayed up late talking and watching movies together when a smarter person might have turned in early and gotten some much-needed rest. We've foregone girls nights out and men's bowling nights in favor of spending every possible moment together that we could.

But looking back, it has all been so worth it. Because the love I have for my husband now is 100 times stronger from the love I had for him on the day we married. Popular songs aren't written about our kind of love. Movies aren't made about it. Wives don't whisper about it over coffee at Starbucks. But it's so much better than anything I could have dreamed up on the day I married, when shiny, happy, new love was the only kind of love I was seeing around me.

My husband has seen me at my weakest. My ugliest. My most embarrassing. He puts up with my anger. My tears. My petulance. My pride. And he loves me anyway. With passion. He has never given up on me.

And I will never give up on him. How could I? With a little luck and a lot of perseverance, we're well on our way to becoming that little old couple who reminisces about the day we met forty years ago.

It could happen. It could totally happen.

Happy Valentine's Day, Hubs.

I love you now more than I ever realized it was possible to love.

Problem Solved

2011-02-11T12:56:00.003-06:00

As we returned from a date night a few evenings ago, I got out of the car just in time to see an enormous pair of wings swoop low across the street and land in a bottom branch of our neighbor's pear tree.

"Hubs!" I whispered excitedly. "You have GOT to see this!" I ran down our driveway and out into the street. Hubs shook his head.

"Let's go inside, Lindsay," he said in the manner of someone who's used to his wife running down the driveway and out into the street at night for no good reason.

"No, I'm serious!" I said. "I just saw this huge bird! It was enormous! It landed in the Simpsons' pear tree!"

"It's probably a crow."

"No it was bigger! It was gigantic!" I raised my voice in a stage whisper as I approached the tree, trying not to scare whatever it was off. "You've got to see this!"

Reluctantly, Hubs joined me in the middle of the street and we both peered into the branches of the pear tree in silence for a moment, our eyes adjusting to the darkness.

And then we gasped.

Staring back at us from the bottom branch was the largest owl I've ever seen. It was easily the length of my forearm, from the tip of my finger to my elbow. Maybe bigger. We stood facing the owl at eye level, just 15 or so feet of distance between us.

"Stay here," Hubs said in a low voice. "I'm going to bring out the kids and a flashlight." Quietly, he retraced his steps back to the house and slipped inside.

Meanwhile, I stood frozen, staring at the owl. The owl stared back at me. And I knew as I stood there that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.To be so very close to such a large owl was... extraordinary. Amazing. Profound.

The owl didn't move. Neither did I. For one long moment, the world melted away, time stood still, and it was just the two of us, staring. Marveling. And then in the distance, I heard the click of my front door opening.

The owl shook himself and silently flew off into the night. I heard my husband and children approach behind me, but I didn't move. A thought had formed itself in my mind as the owl and I had stared at one another, a message had somehow been conveyed, one that filled me with intense satisfaction.

Hubs and the kids came up beside me, and I turned to him, my eyes gleaming.

"So that's what happened to all the mice around here," I said happily.

Life is good.

Parenting. Try It Some Time.

2011-02-09T13:00:00.003-06:00

I once read a brilliant blog post (which I can't find now, arrrrgh) written by a man who was thinking back on a conversation he'd had with his stepdad when he was 17. Their topic of discussion is unimportant- What mattered was that at 17, he'd thought his stepdad was full of it, and didn't know what he was talking about.

But at 40, the man thought about that conversation often, because he totally got what his stepdad had been trying to convey.

At 40, his stepfather's words were poignant, because they made perfect sense.

The man, now a father himself, learned from that discussion that as a parent, the words we say to our children matter. We just don't always know when they'll matter.

Because of that long-ago conversation with his stepdad, the man knew that he would sometimes have to say things not necessarily for the benefit of the 15-year-old standing before him, but for the 30-year-old down the road.

I've parented with that in mind ever since. And I think it's how many of our parents operated, too. At 17, I thought they were way too strict. At 35, I see the logic behind their decisions. I like to think they knew that this would happen.

So why aren't parents acting this way now?

I wrote a post recently for my style blog on The Stir that generated a lot of discussion. TOO MUCH DISCUSSION. The topic was on... um... pubic hair. Or the lack of it-- and the fact that according to an article I had read, the absolute and complete lack of it is what most teenage girls are going for these days.

Now as anyone who reads my blog knows, I'm all for grown women doing whatever the hell they want in that department. I did not need to know what the readers of the post were doing with their pubes and ~~500~~ ~~600~~ 700-something comments later, I am forever scarred by the number of personal pubic hair confessionals that the post elicited.

WHY, LADIES? WHY? I DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT.

But I digress.

I did admit that if I found out MY teen were doing that (and I haven't by the way, this is purely hypothetical), I would be concerned. I wouldn't freak out. I wouldn't forbid it. I might not even discuss it with her- It would totally depend on the teen and what was going on in her life. But I would be concerned. I would wonder why she felt the need to do it and whether it was for someone else. I wrote as much in the post, and OH. THE FALLOUT.

My attitude indicated that I was repressed, wrote commenters! I was Victorian! It was none of my business! It was her body and she could do whatever she wanted with it and I needed to just butt out! I should get my head out of the sand and realize that teens have sex! I needed to get over it! I should accept that this is just the way it is and focus on educating her on how to have safe sex! Etc, etc! Blah! Blah! Blah!

Truthfully, I'm seeing this kind of attitude from parents of teens more and more these days, both in popular media and in real life. Teenagers are going to do what they want, right? It doesn't matter what we tell them. So we should just give them their space, make sure they're educated about safe sex, and keep them well stocked in condoms and birth control pills. And if we're cool enough, maybe they'll tell us what's going on in their world. But probably not. It's none of our business, anyway.

I couldn't disagree more.

No one cares for our teenagers like we do. No one is more invested in their lives. No one else is charged with raising them, nurturing them, and teaching them right from wrong. I'm sure I will say many things my teenagers don't want to hear, things that aren't "cool," things that go against all they're seeing on MTV and hearing on the radio.

My 16-year-old children won't necessarily get it. My 16-year-old children may go ahead and do the very things I warned them not to do. I'm well prepared for that reality.

But years down the road, I'm hoping that the 35-year-old versions of my kids will look back and totally understand. My 35-year-old children will realize how difficult it was for me to say those things, and know how much I loved them.

Or maybe they won't. After all, we parent knowing that we may never get any sort of reward at the end for all our years of labor. But I've learned a few things over the last twenty or so years-- I've learned to respect myself and my body. I've learned that our God is an awesome God. I've learned that seeking a life filled with meaning and service to others really is more fulfilling than seeking a life filled with worldly pleasures.

And if I can't convey what I've learned to my children with authenticity and compassion, I've failed them. I've failed them.

So with all due respect... to those who call me old-fashioned, who say I need to stay out of my teenagers' business and let them live their lives and make their mistakes without my pesky interference and opinions?

You're wrong.

This is Who I Am

2011-02-07T10:28:00.009-06:00

I don't write very often about being a Christian.

The reason I don't write about it is that for a number of you, reading that I'm a Christian doesn't give you a mental image of a belief system- it gives you an image of a lifestyle, one that many of you either idolize or detest, based largely on your experiences with other Christians.

And for better or worse, I don't often feel like I fit within the confines of that perceived lifestyle.

That's not to say I haven't tried. When I was young, I went to church. I attended Sunday School. I was a member of the youth group. I sang in the church choir. I went on mission trips and retreats.

But I couldn't maintain that facade of perfection 100% of the time, and so there was another side of me... a side that smoked Marlboro Reds. And went to parties. And drank. I wasn't consciously trying to be bad, but I did have an insatiable curiosity about life and need for adventure, which led to all sorts of narrow escapes and ridiculously dangerous moments. Through all of that, though, I never for one minute stopped believing in God and heaven and hell and JesusChristHisOnlySonOurLord. I read my Bible and I prayed regularly... and I'll admit the praying (and the memorized scripture) came in handy, particularly when I was in the midst of one of those ridiculously dangerous moments.

As an adult, the Jekyll and Hyde quality of my religious life continued. I joined a church and got involved, leading a church playgroup and volunteering for various church committees. But I also wrote an unapologetically snarky blog. I drank martinis. I cussed under duress. While I didn't think I was a very bad person, what I was doing didn't seem to be compatible with the requirements of The Christian Club. And so around Christians, I didn't talk about my blog or my favorite bars in town or the really excellent miniskirt I found on sale at Forever 21. And around my blog, I didn't talk about my Christianity. Ever.

But that wasn't working for me, either. My spiritual life could never really progress as long as it was separate from my "other" life. It all came to a head a few years ago, when I began to realize that God made me this way for a reason. And rather than apologizing for it and trying to cover up my imperfections, I needed to figure out why I was here, and what it was that I was intended to do. I suspected that this blog, where I try to lay it all out and be unapologetically 'me' as much as I can, was going to have to figure into it.

That's when, with great fear and trepidation, I came out of the Christian closet. While there were critics, there was also a huge sigh of relief from a surprising number of you. As it turned out, PLENTY of you also wanted to pursue a relationship with God, but felt you'd never be able to live up to Christian Club standards. And PLENTY of you felt sometimes like you were leading a double life because the "real" you seemed incompatible with the sanitized "Christian" version of you that you thought certain people were expecting to see.

And I can't tell you how many other bloggers, many of whom you'd recognize, have admitted to me over the last few years that they, too, go to church and read their Bibles and yearn to feel God in their lives- but they're too afraid to ever admit it on their blogs because of the standards people would then expect them to have as writers. There could be no cursing! No drinking! No bitching! No sinning! And THEN what would they write about???!!!!

I am still in the process of discovering my true calling in life, but one thing I know is that I'm called to be honest on this blog. Even when it's scary. Even when it's ugly. Even when it hurts. And because of that, I've had to come to terms with the fact that rawness of my own "public persona" makes many "public Christians" keep me at arm's length. That's been hard to deal with, because while I dearly love having close friends of all faiths and beliefs, I would also love to have a seasoned spiritual mentor or two- yet every time I've put myself out there and tried to find one, I've been gently rebuffed.

Yes, the Christian Club is real. No, I'm not an honored member. But I do have hope that despite all this, I'm on the right path.

Last week, a post came to light that I had written three years ago. It was endlessly discussed on various forums throughout the week and while I'm certainly not ashamed of the post, I realized in re-reading it and the vitriolic reactions to it on the message boards (where its tongue-in-cheek context was completely lost) that I couldn't muster much interest in defending it, because it wasn't something I would write now. I've progressed at least a little bit beyond that point. I still make huge and horrible mistakes, of course (many of which are documented here), but I'm MAKING PROGRESS-- which is a sign, to me, that I haven't made a mistake in writing about my faith here, despite some of your misgivings.

I also realized that between that time and today, I've truly managed to integrate my spiritual life with my "real" life. I am who I am. I go to church most Sundays. I'm in a Bible study group and a couple's group. I read my Bible every day. I pray. I also love a good martini. I argue with my husband. I suffer from pride. I make mistakes with my children and stepdaughters. I lose my temper. I put my foot in my mouth on a regular basis, both in real life and on this blog.

It has occurred to me that while you'll definitely never see perfection here and you will probably never read my posts and feel inspired to scrapbook and sing hymns, you may, as I have, see progress over time. You may see glimmers of God working in my life. You may feel that if someone as obviously flawed as I am can keep struggling toward the Divine, then you can keep trying, too- if you want. You may realize you're not alone in feeling spiritually inadequate and unworthy. You may discover from time to time, as I have, that you're following the Christian Club's will, but not necessarily following God's will for you. And there may be some value in that.

Or? You may think this is all a bunch of hooey and religious crap, and you know what? That's fine with me too. This is my journey and my leap of faith. I may not write about it often, but in the interest of authenticity, I do like to keep those of you who care updated.

So there you go.

Where Have All the Video Stores Gone?

2011-02-04T11:58:00.006-06:00

This column originally appeared in the Nashville Scene.

Requiem for a Video Store

In retrospect, I should have known when Movie Gallery closed that it was the beginning of the end.

For better or worse, the Movie Gallery on Highway 70 was one of Bellevue's main social hubs. On weekend nights, you'd find it filled with neighbors chatting in the aisles, small children made maniacal by the images of SpongeBob, Strawberry Shortcake and Scooby-Doo on the shelves, teenagers hand-in-hand in the horror section looking for anything that would provide an excuse to snuggle, and single men trying to make it in and out of the "Adults Only" section unnoticed.

Movie Gallery may have been a chain, but it had the feel of an independently owned video store. The employees were die-hard film buffs, eager to pontificate on Robert Altman's directorial style or the best Japanese cult horror movies. When it closed a few years ago, Bellevue was forced into a DVD rental divide, with some retreating to the Blockbuster across the street, and the others taking their business to Hollywood Video on Highway 100.

We were part of the exodus to Hollywood Video. It wasn't nearly as quirky and convivial as Movie Gallery had been, but the employees were affable and never complained when my children occasionally knocked over some promotional cardboard cutout. Things got murky, though, when we discovered Netflix. For a while we abandoned actual movie stores altogether, finding joy instead in building our online queue and eagerly awaiting the arrival of the little red envelopes in our mailbox. Over time, however, the novelty wore off. We canceled our subscription and began haunting Hollywood Video once again, hoping no one had noticed our traitorous absence. But as it turned out, we were hardly the only ones heeding the siren call of the mail-order DVD and the digital download. A few months later, Hollywood Video closed up shop.

And that left Blockbuster, the bottom of the movie rental barrel. A new subscription to AT&T U-Verse and the handy RedBox machine down the street kept us out of the place more often than not — but we still relied on the store for older releases, not to mention its 99-cent children's rentals that brought me back from the brink of nervous breakdown on more than one snow day.

When I took the kids to Blockbuster a few weeks ago, though, I could tell something was up. The employees had the hangdog look of dead men walking, and the store seemed dirty and disorganized. Sure enough, a few days later, the signs were posted. The Bellevue Blockbuster was going out of business.

And just like that, video stores have become obsolete. Sure, a few of them are still clinging to life around town, but I doubt they'll be open too much longer.

It's strange now to think that my kids probably won't even remember what it was like to visit a video store. It will be as much of a foreign concept in their minds as the cassette tape, the rotary phone and the newspaper classified ads.

They'll never feel the excitement of seeing rows and rows of actual movies just waiting to be rented. They won't know the disappointment of finding that the new release they've been dying to see is completely checked out. They won't get to snicker with everyone else in line when the rental guy loudly tells old Mr. Thomason that Big-Busted Babes is due back on Wednesday. They won't be offered rental protection and shown a warped VHS tape as proof of what can happen if they leave their rental on their car's dashboard. They won't rack up late fees. They won't know the frustration of getting an hour-and-a-half into a movie only to discover that a single scratch on the DVD renders the remaining 30 minutes unwatchable.

On second thought, maybe the demise of the video store isn't such a bad thing after all.

Or at least, it won't be once technology manages to bridge the gap. I have no doubt that we'll all eventually be able to stream any movie rental we want to our televisions without ever having to leave home. But we're not there yet. You can easily stream most recent releases, but don't even think of accessing older films like Shine, Fresh or A Place in the Sun. They're not available. Despite this, Netflix is already moving to abandon its mail-order DVD service altogether; It recently deleted the "Add DVD to queue" option from subscribers' streaming devices.

As for me, I've only now realized I'm going to miss the video rental store. I'm going to miss running into my friends in the aisles and I'm going to miss watching the glee on my children's faces as they choose from a candy store-like collection of kids films, and I'm going to really miss having same-day access to movies like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Cool Hand Luke.

Farewell, video store. I didn't know how much I loved you until it was too late.

There is Fitting So Untold of the Slobber I Can Occupy

2011-02-02T11:00:00.001-06:00

The other day, a very unusual reader comment turned up in my e-mail.

It had been left on an old post (What is it with the old posts this week?) about one of my least favorite things in the whole world:

Kidz Bop.

If you want to know the extent of my hatred for these damnable children's CDs, understand this: In my opinion, when aliens happen upon our ruined planet thousands of years from now and try to figure out what went wrong and why humans no longer exist, the destruction of our species will be traced back to the introduction of Kidz Bop to our society.

Don't believe me? Take a look:

The thought that my daughter might want to look and act like this in two years, and that grown men and women are actually allowed to produce these songs and videos and market them to kids?

END TIMES.

Anyway. Plenty of you agreed with me in the comments, but no one phrased it quite like my new friend Florina:

"And I say Amen again!" she wrote. "There is sooo such smashing adult sound that is satisfactory for children. For information, why "Kidzbopped" Beatles instead of the actual and most superior abstract? Sure, the subsequent whatsis has to be picked finished a bit, but their incipient penalization is eager. We also same "They Power Be Giants", Elvis, and 50's and 60's are worthy too. I sat through the Doodlebops, there is but fitting so untold of the slobber I can occupy."

At first, I thought it was spam. And maybe it was. But I realized after reading it a couple of times that Florina must have written her comment and put it through an online translator. Because it sort of makes sense if you read it carefully.

She hates Kidz Bop, too!
She wonders why anyone would buy a bastardized version of a Beatles song for their kids when they could introduce them to the original!
She thinks there's plenty of great "adult" music out there that's appropriate for kids, like They Might Be Giants, Elvis Presley, and 50s and 60s music!
She also freaking hates The Doodlebops!

Honestly, though, Florina said it best:

"I sat through the Doodlebops, but there is fitting so untold of the slobber I can occupy."

A-FREAKING-MEN.

PARENTING IN A NUTSHELL.

I hope you'll take Florina's words to heart and perhaps use them the next time your kid is begging you to watch another episode of Barney. Or Caillou. Or Dora. Or {insert your nervous-breakdown-inducing-kids-program-of-choice here}.

"Sorry sweetie, but there is fitting so untold of the slobber I can occupy."

As an added bonus, I'm pretty sure this phrase will also work on husbands!

You're welcome.

How to Deal with Trolls

2011-01-31T12:40:00.005-06:00

Over the weekend, I noticed an unusual amount of traffic on my site.

I couldn't tell exactly what was prompting it, but I did notice a whole bunch of searches for "Fashionable Single Girls." Weird.

A tiny bit detective work led me to an 'etiquette' message board, where someone had pasted a post called "An Open Letter to Fashionable Single Girls Who Spoil My Dinner," which I wrote three years ago. At the time, I had been seeing a number of diatribes on the Internet from the 'child-free' against (their term) breeders who dared to bring their sniveling brats into public places, where adults might have to see or hear them and thus have their dinner/shopping trip/doctor's appointment totally spoiled.

In response, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek letter based on an experience that had happened to me. In short, I described those very special adults who give my kids dirty looks for existing, even though- like most parents- we only take our kids to family-friendly establishments, the children do a good job of behaving themselves, and we're all clearly doing the best we can.

The post generated plenty of discussion at the time, and it was having the same effect on the message board, where what appeared to be a small group of losers with nothing better to do on a Saturday than sit behind their computers and come up with insults... did just that.

And far from being outraged or wounded, I thought it was hilarious. I mean, is there any dumber, less fruitful way to waste your time than by inventing things you'd like to say to a woman who wrote a parenting blog post three years ago? Many of their responses were very elaborate, too. Clearly they'd really spent some time on their words-- words that they thought I'd never even see, since my post wasn't actually linked- it was just copied and pasted.

But finally, after several pages of tripe, one of the lugheads managed to find a link to my site and triumphantly post it.

And that led me to do what I hope you'll consider doing should this kind of thing ever happen to you. I made a slight adjustment to the original post, which they of course, were eagerly clicking on in order to read it for themselves. Check it out here.

Yes, friends. This is how I troll.

(I temporarily moved the original post to this spot so that you can read it if you'd like. You know I'm not going to leave you hanging!)

Clubbed

2011-01-28T09:46:00.003-06:00

"Mommy, sometimes Mary is really nice and sometimes she's a bully," Punky said thoughtfully last night as I was getting the kids ready for bed.

"How is she a bully?" I asked.

"Well, I tried to play with her and some of the other girls on the playground," Punky said, "but she said I couldn't because I wasn't in their club."

"So what did you do?"

"I just went and sat down at the edge of the playground," Punky said.

"By yourself?"

"Yeah."

"And did you feel sad?"

"Well yeah, but I don't feel sad anymore because later, she let me in the club. Because sometimes, she can be really nice. So she said she'd squeeze me in."

I raised my eyebrows. Clubs? In first grade? Really?

"I mean, I don't even know what to think!" I told two moms in the shampoo aisle at Publix this morning after I'd dropped the kids off at school. (Our local Publix, I've found, serves a useful function as a free parenting advice center if you hit the beauty and personal care aisles right after drop-off time.) "Clubs! In first grade!"

"Oh, it only gets worse," one mom said. "Wait until second grade. That's when the boys get involved."

"And then third grade is when it all goes to hell," the other mom said. "Did you hear what happened with the school dance?"

"You mean when that DJ came and played music in the hallway during the fundraiser?" I asked.

"That's the one," she said. "We just thought it would be fun to have a DJ for the kids to do the limbo or something. Only the third graders decided it was a boy-girl dance, and you had to have a date to go." The moms laughed wryly like seasoned soldiers comparing tours of duty. "What a mess," one of them said, shaking her head at the other. "The tears. The drama."

"Third grade?" I whispered.

"But that's nothing compared to fifth grade, when they get to junior high," the mom continued. "Jeffrey came home from school and wanted to know what 'orgy' and 'threesome' meant. Apparently, one of the kids in his class has no Internet restrictions."

"Mia asked what an abortion was just yesterday," the other mom said. "And last week, I had to explain 'friends with benefits.' That was an interesting conversation."

We said our goodbyes and I walked out of Publix in a daze. Was this what I had to look forward to over the next four years? Dating troubles? Questions about orgies and threesomes and friends with benefits?

Suddenly, home school is looking like a great option. So is the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard, where it takes two days by boat to get to the nearest city. Surely there aren't any first grade clubs in Svalbard.

Anyone know of a good Norwegian real estate agent?

Naked. With No Lights

2011-01-26T08:41:00.006-06:00

We took the littles to see Shrek: The Musical last night (which, incidentally, was FABULOUS and I highly, highly recommend it).

Hubs had dropped the kids and me off at the door before the show, but when it was over, I thought it would be easier for us all to walk with him back to the car. It was raining outside, but the rain looked light and both the kids had their raincoats on. No biggie, right?

Wrong.

As soon as we got outside and crossed the street, I realized I had made a mistake- at least as far as I was concerned. The rain was actually pretty heavy and within a minute or two, it had soaked through my coat and turned my carefully styled hair into a bedraggled mess. Of course, Hubs didn't mind the weather- He strode across Legislative Plaza carrying Punky, who was warm and dry in her waterproof winter coat. Behind him, I struggled to keep up, but it wasn't easy. The rain made the marble surface as slippery as glass, I was wearing impossibly high platform heels, and Bruiser was doing his darnedest to struggle free from my grip and jump into every puddle he could find.

"Wait!" I cried to my husband, who was getting farther and farther away. "Wait for us!" Several people walking to their cars under cozy umbrellas turned and gave me pitying looks. Bruiser and I got caught at a traffic light (OF COURSE) and I stood miserably on the sidewalk, soaking wet and feeling very sorry for myself. Hubs had finally stopped and was waiting for us on the other side of the street.

When we at last managed to cross the street and continue on toward the car, I saw Punky looking at me contemplatively from over Hubs's shoulder. I gazed back at her mournfully. Punky has always been my biggest supporter, and I felt sure she'd give Hubs an earful when we all managed to get in the car.

Instead, she said, "Mommy, you really need to stop complaining."

"What?!" I said incredulously.

"You need to stop acting so upset and think good thoughts instead. Think of how lucky you are right now!"

"How... lucky?" I asked.

"You could be naked right now!" she said. Then she gestured at the street lamps lining the sidewalk. "And there could be no lights!"

"Well..." I said, noting Hubs's wry smile. "I guess you're right. I could be naked, with no lights. Really, I am very lucky, aren't I?"

Punky gave me a satisfied smile and a few moments later, we reached the car. Once we'd gotten the kids inside and climbed into the our own seats, I sighed and shook my head.

"I think I may have taught her too well," I said. "That sounded way too much like the kind of thing I tell her when she complains." Hubs laughed. "I can't believe I just got schooled by my six-year-old!" I said.

"You got schooled," Hubs said. "You totally did."

And if I learned my lesson, you might as well, too. The next time you think life just couldn't get any worse, REMEMBER:

You could be naked. With no lights.

You are so very, very lucky.

I Hated Breastfeeding. Deal with It.

2011-01-24T07:30:00.001-06:00

A few days ago, I wrote a post on The Stir about some of the more ridiculous breastfeeding t-shirts I've seen on the market. From a woman's t-shirt bearing the phrase "Nipple Lickin' Good" to a ball cap for dads that says "I play with my baby's food," I questioned whether some of the pro-breastfeeding t-shirts out there, rather than raising breastfeeding awareness, simply made the men and women wearing them look like tacky, tacky fools.

Some readers agreed with me, some didn't-- which I expected.

But the real controversy came over the fact that I wrote these words:

"I considered breastfeeding to be a very private burden I shouldered for the sake of my children, and while I was honored to be able to do it, you can bet I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a t-shirt bragging about it."

OMG SOMEONE CALL THE BREASTFEEDING POLICE. WE HAVE A TRAITOR IN OUR MIDST.

"I NEVER considered BFing 'a private burden a shouldered for the sake of my children.' Maybe you're so against pro-BFing shirts because of your views on nursing..." sniped one reader.
"I agree with some of the other commenters who stated that you may have an issue with breastfeeding because of your "private burden" comment," wrote another.
"I'm more concerned with your describing breastfeeding as " very private burden I shouldered for the sake of my children"....wow sounds like you have breastfeeding issues that have absolutely nothing to do with a silly T-shirt," added a third.

And this is what breastfeeding has become. Even if you yourself breastfed, if you're not waxing rhapsodic at all times about the glorious wonderment of nursing your child, then you have ISSUES WITH BREASTFEEDING and/or (I've gotten this one in the past) YOU WERE DOING IT WRONG.

So I'm just going to say it here publicly because I believe I'm speaking for a group of women out there who've breastfed and been scared silent about the fact that it was not entirely a positive experience.

I hated breastfeeding.

I HATED it.

I tried to stay positive both times I did it, and yes, of course I had those rosy, treasured moments of bonding time with my children as a result of breastfeeding (although I don't believe they were any more special than they would have been if I were tenderly giving my babies a bottle), but overall?

Breastfeeding was a burden. And while I'm totally okay with the fact that many of you out there loved/love breastfeeding and didn't/don't consider it to be a burden at all, I believe there's something wrong with the fact that a mother is judged for admitting that it was a burden for her.

So in the interest of getting real, here's why I hated it...

My hormones were out of control the entire time I breastfed. I wouldn't just get annoyed, I'd get PROFOUNDLY ANNOYED. I wouldn't just get tears in my eyes when something went wrong, I'D SOB. THAT'S TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE, people. I think I can fairly call two years of effed up hormones "a burden."

Both times I had children, the pain of breastfeeding for the first week and a half was worse than childbirth. It was torturous. Hellish. I had read up on it and knew that it would get better after the first 11 or so days (and it totally did- in fact, it didn't hurt at all after that), but man, that was not something I needed to be dealing with immediately after having a baby. And yes, both my babies were latched on correctly. La Leche made sure of that.

I'm a modest person and when you're breastfeeding, modesty pretty much flies out the window. Everyone who lives in my house regularly saw my boobs, and since I have two older stepdaughters, we were always out at their events and activities and I'd have to nurse anywhere I could. While I definitely believe nursing moms should be able to nurse wherever they want (and I did), I didn't enjoy breastfeeding in public, okay? I DIDN'T ENJOY INADVERTENTLY FLASHING MY NURSING BOOBS AT STRANGERS AND ACQUAINTANCES. I MUST HAVE ISSUES.

Breastfeeding gave me more embarrassing moments than I can count, from leaky boobs in public to the aforementioned accidental flashing to (in my case) having a motorized pump crap out at the BlogHer conference and asking a near-total stranger (at the time) to borrow her pump motor, which necessitated knocking on her hotel door at random times all weekend and pumping in the room with her (admittedly very understanding) mother.

My son was a biter. 'Nuff said.

Despite all this, I'm pretty proud of myself for getting through it. Yes, it was a burden. It was an imposition. It wasn't my thing. But I did it because I was able to do it. I did it because my pediatrician recommended it. I did it because I loved my children so much that it seemed entirely reasonable to endure something that (FOR ME) was at times painful, inconvenient, and embarrassing. (But I think bottle-fed babies are just fine, too, mind you. Heck, I'm one of them.)

I did it and I hated it.

And guess what? That is totally, completely okay.

Snow Daze

2011-01-21T08:22:00.009-06:00

Wanted: Clone. Must love Snow Days.

"I remember a time not so long ago when I loved snow," I told Hubs a few days ago. "I remember a few years ago, we'd have a snow day or two and I'd be so excited. But now when the snow starts falling, I just get this feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach."

Too many snow days'll do that to you.

Last school year is when the trouble began. We had one really big snow and school was canceled for what seemed like an epoch. Days after the roads had been cleared, we were still getting a phone call each day that school was out. I think I developed a permanent migraine during that fateful week that has yet to go away.

The trouble with all the school days was that it's our district's policy to cancel school for the entire (massive) school district if there's even one single, solitary, lonely neighborhood road on the bus route that's got an ice patch.

In other words, we parents are too stupid to understand what two-hour-delay-in-opening means. Or today-buses-will-be-following-predetermined-snow-routes. Or even bring-your-kid-to-school-if-you-can-make-it-and-those-who-can't-will-be-excused.

And so I spent a memorable amount of time last year slowly losing my mind in the face of snowdayaftersnowdayaftersnowdayaftersnowday.

Spring eventually came and all was forgiven, but now, guess what? Winter is here again and SURPRISE!

The snow day situation has gotten even worse.

The kids were out every day last week because of three inches of snow. Then they were out for the MLK day holiday. Then last night, guess what? IT SNOWED AGAIN. Yes, today is ANOTHER snow day! What's more, it's supposed to snow AGAIN on Monday!

I love my kids and all, but enough is enough!

I joked yesterday that I passed a liquor store on the way home yesterday as the snow started falling, and the parking lot was filled with minivans. I think I speak for every mom when I say:

NO MORE SNOW DAYS.

PLEASE.

I wrote a column for this week's Nashville Scene about exactly what causes all of my snow day stress here at home. I think plenty of you will be able to relate. Here it is for your reading enjoyment...

Snow Daze

When the news comes that Metro schools will be closed for a fourth day, my 6-year-old daughter squeals. "YAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!" she shrieks with the kind of frenetic energy that would remind one of Alvin the Chipmunk on meth. "This is the BEST! WEEK! EVER!!"

As for me? I am curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth and drooling. Another snow day? ANOTHER SNOW DAY? Calgon. Take me away.

Of course, it didn't start out this way. It never does. The first snow day off from school is kind of like an official holiday, complete with its own time-honored traditions. On that joyous day last week, I woke early and enjoyed a steaming cup of coffee at the kitchen table while gazing at what had become a lovely winter wonderland outside our window. Soon the kids came tumbling down the stairs in great excitement. "It snowed!" they cried. "Mommy! Daddy! It snowed!"

In honor of the occasion, I made steaming hot biscuits! And we all stayed in our pajamas as long as we wanted! Later, we met up with friends at the top of the tallest hill in our neighborhood and spent a few hours sledding! Next, we built a snowman! Then we came home for some hot chocolate! And then? Miracle of miracles, both kids fell asleep! For three blissful hours! That night, Hubs lit a fire in the fireplace and we all snuggled up together in a cozy nest on the sofa! Hooray for snow days!

By Snow Day No. 2, the novelty had worn off a bit and most of the neighborhood kids had been shuttled off to friends' and relatives' houses so that their parents could go back to work — but I still tried to make the best of it with my 3- and 6-year-olds at home. I baked cookies! We watched movies! We went sledding! We had a snowball fight! We made crafts! The kids didn't nap! The kids argued! The kids screamed! The kids whined! The kids complained that they were bored! I got a migraine! I put the kids to bed early! I drank a lot of wine!

Snow Day No. 3? Let's just say it wasn't one of my better parenting moments. Good times had given way to complete pandemonium. The kids bickered over everything from what to watch on television to whether or not there was such thing as a purple Power Ranger. Woefully behind on writing assignments, I tried — and failed — to get work done. The house looked like a war zone. A chocolate milk explosion in the den and dried boogers smeared on the walls in combination with a blaring television and screaming kids brought me to my breaking point. In desperation, I called Hubs.

"I can't take it anymore!" I whimpered. "When the hell are they going back to school?!"

My husband wasn't very sympathetic. "They need a break," he said. "Punky has too much school as it is." "I know, but normally when she's off, I have plans for her!" I said. "We go places. I have my work done in advance. This? This is torture! There's nothing to do! Nowhere to go! I have work I've GOT to get done!"

"Well, I'm sure they'll be back at school tomorrow," Hubs said. "The roads are completely clear."

And with that, a ray of sunlight shone through the dark clouds of my psyche. School. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, there would be school. SCHOOL! The word had never sounded so glorious!

For the next couple of hours, I was a veritable Mary Poppins with my kids. Because tomorrow! There would be school! Therefore, I could handle TODAY! Because tomorrow? SCHOOL! SCHOOL, SCHOOL, SCHOOL!!

And then Metro had to go and cancel it. Again. And Punky squealed. And I drooled in the corner.

Yes, I had a breakdown moment, one that I'm quite certain was shared by thousands of mothers across Davidson County. But then I picked myself up off the floor and decided to take action. I got on Twitter and sent a very polite, well-thought-out public message to @metroschools. It went like this:

ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME OUT OF MY MIND?!!

For its part, Metro had anticipated my rancor. It already had a message up on its website, explaining to all the frazzled parents out there why school had been called off. There was something about a snow patrol and lots of people talking to each other about the weather and blah blah blah. But they didn't fool me. I was still 99 percent certain that the decision was made by some childless "official" guy, who was currently sitting in front of his DirectTV, drinking a Pabst and enjoying his extended snowcation.

Well I've got news for you, Metro. The snow may have disappeared, but rest assured that our memories of last week have definitely not.

The next time you're tempted to cancel school across the district because Bumblepodunk Lane in Joelton has an ice patch? Call me instead.

I'll drive over there and bring those kids in to school myself.

Good Housekeeping

2011-01-19T07:30:00.003-06:00

You deserve a break today.

Snap, crackle pop.

Just do it.

How many slogans are still dancing around somewhere in the dark recesses of your brain, years after you last heard or read them? Probably more than you'd like to admit, because there's no denying it- Slogans work. They're memorable. They stick in your head like an old piece of chewing gum, and the best ones can be almost impossible to pry away, particularly when they rhyme.

Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is.

Loose lips sink ships.

Takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

All of this occurred to me the other day as I was cleaning up after the five other members of my household for what must've been the 1,537,654th time this week. Over the years, I've shown you photos of the damage my family is able to inflict on the house when I'm gone for a few days, but the sad truth is that they can do a shocking amount of dirty work in just a couple of hours. On those rare occasions that I sleep in or go shopping, I can expect to find that a dozen crusty dishes have appeared on the counter top in my absence, food and goo are stuck to the floors, a big red mystery stain has turned up on the den carpet, and toys, crumbs, and cast-off clothing are everywhere I look.

"I would never allow my children or my husband to make that kind of mess," some of you inevitably comment when I occasionally whine about the problem on my blog.

"My children get up at five every morning in order to mop the floors and do the laundry," you write. "My husband dusts and vacuums before he goes to work. It's up to you to show them who's boss!"

YEAH! I always think to myself. I'll show them who's boss all right!

And that's exactly how I came up with the idea of posting passive-aggressive housekeeping notes around the house. Because I'M THE BOSS.

Strangely, though, those didn't go over so well.

And so I labored on, sweeping up crumbs, picking up toys, and scraping boogers and Cheeto-dusted fingerprints off the walls... until that recent fateful day when I had an epiphany.

SLOGANS.

Slogans would help my family remember to clean up after themselves, just like they help me to remember that Milk Does a Body Good and Trix are for Kids!

And so last night after my family went to sleep, I got busy.

I thought this one had a nice ring to it.

Think I'm kidding? I'm so not.

No need to beat around the bush, right?

Obviously, these messages were meant primarily for the older members of my family, but my little ones could definitely use a little sloganizing, too. I created a few signs just for them.

Some may say these are simply dire warnings that rhyme, but I much prefer the term 'slogan' for them. It's catchier. Anyway, good housekeeping requires thinking outside the box, and I have high hopes for my new strategy. I may even copyright a few of these slogans and put them to music if they start to catch on around the house.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Golden Globe Red Carpet Recap: The Best of the Worst

2011-01-17T11:32:00.021-06:00

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the Golden Globes. And you know I can't let the big event pass without commenting on the more, um, interesting fashion choices of some of our favorite actresses.

Without further ado, here are my picks for the Best of the Worst Golden Globes fashions for 2011!!!!

Many wondered what led Angelina to wear this dress last night... When you see what Brad was wearing, maybe you'll understand.

I had the nagging feeling that something was missing with Halle Berry's look. Maybe it was.... a dress?

Perfection.

Imperfection.

Who let the dogs out?

Who let the dogs out?

Who let the dogs out?

Who... put the dogs back in?

Golden Globes or guest appearance on Dynasty? You decide...

Flawless.

Well, now we all know exactly what Bruce Willis sees in Emma Heming....

Dress by Jenny Packham. Hair by Halloween Express.

Dress by Tom Ford. Hair by Edward Scissorhands.

One part Ken doll. One part Your Mom.
Tilda Swinton always manages to scare the hell out of me.

Hey look! It's a woman in a tuxedo on the red carpet! That's never been done before!

Oops.

Uhhhh.

Nevermind.

♫ One of these things is not like the other♫

What did you think of last night's Golden Globe fashions?

An Open Letter to the Check Writer at the Supermarket

2011-01-12T09:30:00.003-06:00

Dear Check Writer,

You've been a supermarket fixture for as long as I can remember. But unlike New Coke and... Chicken Dinner Candy...

You've withstood the test of time.

Yes, even as the rest of modern society began leaving their checkbooks at home in favor of the quicker and easier check card, you remained a staunch supporter of check writing. Your trusty checkbook cover is worn from years of use- its pages are tattered and covered with the handwritten notations of all your purchases.

I don't have a problem with your method of payment, Check Writer. To each her (totally outdated) own.

But I do have a problem with the fact that you don't start writing the check until all of your groceries have been bagged and the cashier gives you your total.

Why is this, Check Writer? And why do you only seem to do it at the supermarket?

You never notice me in line behind you with my two small kids and cart overflowing with cereal, juice boxes and frozen meatballs. But I sure do notice you.

"Your total is $63.90," the cashier says.

"Oh," you say. "$63.90, huh? Okay." Casually, you reach into your enormous shoulder bag and hunt around for that trusty checkbook. After a very long minute, you find it, then begin searching for a pen. Once that's located, you finally begin writing the check.

Kroger, you write (in what must be calligraphy, given how long it's taking you).

1/12/11.

Sixty-three and 90/100.

63.90

Groceries

Louise Greenfield

Meanwhile, my daughter is crying because she dropped her Kids Klub cookie and my son is methodically emptying the candy rack and throwing everything on the floor. I'd give you a pleading look, but you're too engrossed in this check writing business to turn around. Clearly, you've been waiting for your moment in the check-writing spotlight.

Several flourishes later, you hand the cashier your check.

"I'm going to need your drivers' license," she says.

This results in more rooting around in your enormous bag. You extract from it a bulging billfold and after sorting through two or three dozen plastic cards, turn up your drivers license.

The cashier writes down your drivers' license number. Then she scans the check.

Behind you, we wait. My daughter cries, my son musses up the magazines, and in a low voice, I mutter various dark promises to make tell-all phone calls to Santa and the Easter Bunny, finally resorting to swearing that I'll call the doctor's office in order to schedule "a happy child shot." Thanks to you, Check Writer, I've hit rock bottom in the threat department.

Eons pass and civilizations rise and fall before the cash register spits out your receipt. I breathe a sigh of relief.

But you're not finished yet.

"That ten for ten dollars deal," you say, looking over the receipt in your hands. "Did it or did it not apply to the Jell-O?"

"If it did, the computer should have taken it off at the bottom," the cashier says.

"Let me get out my reading glasses," you say, putting your bag back down on the counter. "I can't see a thing without them."

A long, silent scream escapes from my lips. By this time, both my children are crying and begging for fruit snacks, while steam shoots out of my ears. I try to distract myself by thinking of other women who've spent their lifetimes waiting... I think of Penelope waiting for Ulysses. Jennifer Lopez Waiting for Tonight. Kelly Rowland waiting for breast implants. They all know my pain.

Even if you don't, Check Writer.

After a few more minutes of discussion about various items on your receipt and where and how your discounts were applied, you put your reading glasses away and zip up your coat. Eagerly, I begin inching my cart forward.

But then you stop again. "It sure is cold outside, isn't it?" you ask the cashier.

I can't help myself. I keep moving, and very carefully bump your down-covered rear end with my cart.

"Oh goodness!" I say as you turn around and look at me for the first time. "I'm so sorry!" You raise an eyebrow.

"These kids," I say by way of explanation. "They get so tired of waiting."

You nod with a knowing look and are finally on your way. "Thank GOD," I breathe before turning my attention to my own groceries coming down the conveyor belt. "Why do people still write checks anyway?" I ask the cashier. "Check cards are soooo much faster." She nods impassively and continues scanning my food.

"Your total is $102.37," she says after a moment.

"Not so fast!" I chuckle. "I've got these." I hand over 47 coupons to the cashier, and hear a loud sigh from the woman behind me in line, but I ignore her.

She'll just have to wait.

Right, Check Writer?

Your fellow shopper,

Lindsay Ferrier

When Wildebeests Attack

2011-01-10T07:30:00.001-06:00

"Is everyone ready for our Winter Walk?"

At the naturalist's call, my husband, children and I gathered along with five or six other young families inside our local park's nature center for a guided walk through the woods. The temperature hovered at around the freezing mark, but the kids were dressed warmly, the sun was shining, and I was excited to get everyone out of the house for a hike.

Before we got started, the naturalist handed out a map to each family with pictures of six items to look for along the trail, like a cedar tree, mistletoe, and a squirrel-- simple stuff. The naturalist told the kids she'd stamp their map each time they spotted something, and if they managed to find all of the items, we'd earn cookies and hot chocolate at the nature center once we returned.

We set off along the trail in a groups of two and three. Moms and dads gamely dragged along bundled-up preschoolers, and bits and pieces of muffled conversation could be heard as we all tromped over the fallen leaves.

"Look, Bella, aren't those ferns pretty?"

"Hey Carl, see where the bark's gone from this tree? That's where a buck has been rubbing his horns against it!"

"Is that mistletoe up there, or a squirrel's nest?"

"ISN'T THE WEATHER SHARP AND COLD, STEVIE? IT MAKES MY FINGERTIPS NUMB. DO YOU KNOW WHAT NUMB MEANS, STEVIE? IT MEANS I CAN'T FEEL MY FINGERS. HOW MANY FINGERS DO YOU HAVE, STEVIE? LET'S COUNT OUR FINGERS. LET'S BOTH COUNT OUR FINGERS RIGHT NOW."

I turned, briefly wondering if the mom behind me was carrying a megaphone. Nope. No megaphone. Just-

"OOH, STEVIE IS THAT A SYCAMORE TREE UP AHEAD? WHAT IS THE LATIN NAME FOR SYCAMORE TREE, STEVIE? DO YOU REMEMBER? I'M SURE YOU DO. WE CAN DRILL AGAIN LATER IF YOU'VE FORGOTTEN. SPEAKING OF ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT I'M ABOUT TO SAY, WHY DON'T YOU RECITE YOUR CHINESE ALPHABET RIGHT NOW, STEVIE? GO ON. RECITE IT."

A few years ago, I would have turned around and shot her a dirty look at that point, because. Hello! Forest! Shut up!

But in an effort to be a kinder, gentler human being, I tried to indulge her, erm, attention-getting style. She was just excited, bless her heart. Bruiser seemed quite happy trotting along beside me, so I decided to simply take my focus off the air horn behind me and focus it instead on Nature. Beautiful, wondrous Nature. Stark, serene Natu-

"NO, STEVIE, WE CAN'T MAKE THEM GO ANY FASTER. THAT BOY IS SMALLER THAN YOU AND CAN'T WALK AS QUICKLY."

There was a short pause as Stevie, who had a rather quiet voice, said something I didn't catch, and then-

"STEVIE, IT DOESN'T MATTER IF YOU THINK THEY SHOULD LET US PASS. IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER IF I AGREE WITH YOU, AND IN THIS CASE, I HAPPEN TO BE OF THE OPINION THAT YOU'RE RIGHT. EVEN THOUGH YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT SLOWER PEOPLE SHOULD STEP ASIDE AND MAKE WAY FOR THE FASTER ONES, MAYBE OTHER PEOPLE JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND THAT. BUT YOU SHOULDN'T TALK ABOUT OTHER PEOPLE WHEN THEY MIGHT HEAR YOU. YOU SHOULD KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF."

Waaaait a second.

Did she really---?

Was she talking about...?

Oh hell no.

I turned around again. "Perhaps you should view our slowness as a chance for you and Stevie to review the Periodic Chart," I said to her, smiling.

Okay. I wanted to say that. I really did. But! As I said, I am now a Better Person, and Better People don't make snide comments in response to passive aggressive ones!

They just might walk a little slower, though.

Even then, I opted to continue ignoring her. For one thing, this was a walk for 2-6 year-olds, not a sprint to the finish line, and the fact that someone had apparently skipped her Klonopin that morning had nothing to do with me. For another, this was my family's Winter Hike, dammit, and I wasn't going to let someone's observations, ear piercing as they were, ruin it.

It took a few minutes, but I eventually managed to convince myself that the woman's grating voice was nothing more than a wounded wildebeest braying in rage and confusion somewhere just off the trail. And wildebeests are a part of Nature, right? So It Was All Good.

At least until we got to the bird blind.

The bird blind is one of my family's favorite parts of the park. It's... well, it looks like this.

Yes, we are bird blind regulars and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

On the other side of this wall are a few large tree stumps and bird feeders. You can put a few handfuls of seed out onto the tree stumps, then run around to the viewing side and watch various birds, squirrels, and what must be the fattest chipmunks in all of Tennessee have a field day with the feast you've put out for them.

Our Winter Walk had almost come to an end, and while we'd had no trouble finding the inanimate objects on our maps, strangely, cardinals and squirrels were nowhere to be found. A lesser person might reflect that perhaps the sounds of the wounded wildebeest were responsible for every single last one of God's creatures fleeing our presence-- but I personally refuse to speculate.

At any rate, this was our absolute last chance to earn hot chocolate and cookies, and the kids were in a dither to spot some woodland creatures before the walk ended. All of us quietly crept up to the blind and peered out at the bird feeders.

Well.

Not all of us.

"COME ON, STEVIE, CLIMB UP ON THIS BENCH SO THAT YOU CAN SEE THE BIRDS. I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO NAME FOR ME EACH BIRD THAT YOU SEE. AFTERWARD, WE CAN GO TO THE LIBRARY AND FIND BOOKS ABOUT EACH BIRD. WE WILL READ THOSE BOOKS TO ONE ANOTHER, STEVIE, AND THEN WE CAN MAKE A DIORAMA OF WHAT WE'VE SEEN HERE."

Not surprisingly, the perches remained empty. Punky looked over at the wildebeest and then shot me a worried look.

At that point, I'd had just about enough.

"BE VERY, VERY QUIET, BRUISER," I said brightly to my son, who was standing silently beside Stevie and looking through the slats. "IF YOU TALK TOO LOUD, NO CARDINALS OR SQUIRRELS WILL COME OUT. AND THEN ALL THE CHILDREN WILL CRY AND THEIR PARENTS WILL BLAME YOU FOR KEEPING THEM FROM HAVING THEIR HOT CHOCOLATE AND COOKIES AND THAT WOULD BE AWFUL. JUST AWFUL."

Bruiser ignored me, but I heard a short gasp come Stevie's mom. I looked at her and smiled warmly and she glared back at me, lifting her chin a little in defiance.

I'm not exactly proud of myself. I can't shake the feeling that a Better Person would have found a way to handle the situation differently. Perhaps a Better Person would have gently tapped the woman on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, I do hate to inconvenience you, but would you mind terribly shutting your piehole?"

I will say that it was only a few moments before the squirrels and cardinals came out from their hiding places. The day was saved. The hot chocolate was drunk. The cookies were eaten.

Long live Nature.

Oh, the Games We Play

2011-01-08T11:04:00.006-06:00

Television commercials make Family Game Nights out to be a sort of Hallmark Card Experience of cozy togetherness.

Little Sterling-the-third shouts out the correct answer just as the buzzer goes off, while his younger sister Baylee cheers him on. Across the table, a perfectly-proportioned Mom and Dad chuckle and then pull comically long faces in feigned competitiveness. On television, the Game Night Family is always bathed in a warm glow of golden light. They are rosy-cheeked. Tastefully dressed. Their home is comfortably immaculate.

Watching these commercials, I'm always filled with an aching desire to achieve that sort of idyllic camaraderie in my own home. 'That does it!' I've thought to myself on more than one occasion. 'I'm heading out to buy a new Monopoly/Life/Trivial Pursuit Jr. tomorrow! We're going to be That Family too, dangit!'

It doesn't occur to me in that moment, of course, that the reason I need new versions of those games is that the old versions have been torn and kicked and stomped on and stained with soda and abandoned in various now-infamous fits of familial rage.

The idea of Family Game Night is a good one. The reality, at least in this house?

Not so much.

I wrote about a typical Ferrier Family Game Night in this week's issue of the Nashville Scene. Check it out below....

The Real Family Game Night of Davidson County

In theory, it's a good idea. A very good idea. We are a big family, after all, and we love any excuse to spend time together. What better way to keep that Team Ferrier spirit going the week after Christmas than with a few (thousand) rounds of Uno Attack? Or several (hundred) hours of Scene It? on Xbox? Or Cranium! Everybody loves Cranium!

Yet strangely, Family Game Time always ends badly. Once, my father-in-law accused me of cheating at Pictionary and I burst into tears. Another year, someone who may or may not have been me turned over the board in a blind rage during a very unfair game of Sorry! And then there was the time a few years ago, when one of my stepdaughters decided to bring home Scattergories.

Of course, when we first started playing, Scattergories seemed fun. All Family Games do — that's part of their insidious charm. We proceeded to play it every evening the week after Christmas, often late into the night. By the end of the week, we had become Scattergories addicts, jonesing for rounds like they were vials of heroin.

"Just one more," I said hoarsely after what must have been our 6,759th game. It was midnight on Friday and I hadn't moved in four hours. Our two smallest Ferriers had ended up putting themselves to bed.

"Yeah," my bloodshot-eyed 17-year-old agreed. "One more round, Dad, come on."

Hubs looked leery. He had already agreed to get up with our early-rising son. But he was caught, as we were, in Scattergories' evil clutches, and clearly had become yet another pawn in the Scattergories Strategy to Take Over the World, One Player at a Time.™

"OK," he said quickly, and another round began. Scattergories has a very simple premise: A letter die is rolled and players have a limited amount of time to fill out a list of categories with words beginning with that letter. My stepdaughter rolled a T and we all got busy coming up with appropriate T-words. When our time was up, we went around the table comparing notes.

"Transylvania," I said triumphantly when it was my turn to announce an answer for the category "Foreign Countries." The girls nodded.

"That's not a country," Hubs said dismissively.

"What? Yes it is!" I blustered. "Count Dracula! Hel-LO!"

"It's a province of Romania," Hubs said. "A province."

"No it's not," I scowled.

"Yes it is."

"It's not."

"I'm an expert on Count Dracula," Hubs announced. I stared at him in surprise. He had never mentioned this before.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," he said, dead serious. "I've read first-person accounts, seen documentation. Transylvania is a province."

Documentation? That did it. My so-called "family" took a vote. Transylvania was out.

"Loser," I whispered darkly, but after that I made a valiant effort to let it go. I was going have to live with this "loser" for the rest of my life, so I might as well make the best of it. A few minutes later, though, he challenged my answer of "Lapdancers" in the category of "Villains/Monsters," and that was just too much to take.

"Why are the police always trying to shut them down, then?" I demanded belligerently. "Because lapdancers are monstrous, that's why! It is so obvious!" Unimpressed, Hubs led another successful effort to vote me down. "Fools," I muttered under my breath, crossing out the point I had added on my score sheet. I looked over at Hubs and noted his smirk. Was this really the man I had married? This man who apparently studied documentation on Transylvania in his spare time, and didn't think lapdancers were villains? My eyes narrowed with steely resolve. It was time to fight fire with fire.

The next few rounds, I disputed everything of his that I could, leading thumbs-down votes on everything from his answer of "Music box" ("That's not an instrument!" I howled derisively), to his claim that "Babs" was a term of endearment. Once, a long, long time ago, I had tried to give this man I loved the benefit of the doubt, but on that fateful night, the sentimentalities we had exchanged over the years evaporated in a toxic cloud of outrage. Where Scattergories was concerned, I would show him no mercy.

By the end of the game, it was clear my husband wouldn't be winning as long as I was around to prevent it. He frowned as he looked at his scorecard, then put on a bright fake grin for the girls' sake while I did my traditional and highly annoying Winner's Dance beside the kitchen table. We decided, finally, to quit for the night, and as we got up from the table, Hubs and I reluctantly smiled at each other.

"Here's to togetherness," I said warmly, opening my arms. As we hugged, I put my lips to his ear.

"Asshole," I whispered.

"Bitch," he whispered back.

Hand in hand, we went upstairs to bed.