The Significance of Having Curly Hair

What I'm Thankful For This Season

Sun, 30 Nov 2025 14:30:00 GMT

Calming the Crazy

I’m still reveling in the post-Thanksgiving carb-loaded emotional bliss. It’s a day when I intentionally overlook my step count or my carb-to-protein ratio, but focus on enjoying being around the people I love. This year we spent the holiday at my parents’ house, each of us bringing several dishes to lighten the load, and invited several groups of people that had never met. When we went around the table stating what we were thankful for, it was heartwarming to hear how so many were thankful for the blessings of togetherness and friendship. It reminded me that even though we all come from different backgrounds and standpoints, we can still share in friendship. Opinions and political viewpoints do not have to divide our hearts.

Earlier in the week, I had a pleasant reminder while at the grocery store a few days before showtime. Everyone seemed to be clogging the aisles of Kroger, long lists in hand, minds in a faraway land of hand-me-down recipes and pre-holiday stress. After contemplating how much powdered sugar I could possibly need, I realized that I was blocking this man with a loaded cart right behind me. I turned to him and apologized, stunned by his remarkable response.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’re all in this together!” I couldn’t help but bust out laughing. He was so right. We were all in this together with the same goal and probably the same groceries. Why stress? I was so thankful for this man and his positive holiday attitude. I gave him a double thumbs up and moved on. His comment changed my attitude from tense to chilled. I’ve thought about him and smiled several times since then.

My own blessing came on Friday when I awoke at 8:20 am to complete silence. Kim was already at work, and Senia Mae had dragged Grammy to the outlet malls for their dose of Black Friday chaos. I sat in the hot tub with an espresso, watched the sun shine on the gray bark of an oak tree as a squirrel worked diligently on its winter nest. Birds chirping in the background, I realized I had the entire day to do as I wished. I read a little, bought a few items online, worked on some email stuff I had been putting off, and allowed myself the freedom to relax and enjoy some well-needed alone time.

Thankfulness comes in different sizes and formats. The important part is recognizing and appreciating what we have, while giving others the love and space to thrive as well.

Now as an Audiobook! The Significance of Curly Hair

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 17:58:54 GMT

Ease your holiday travel stress by listening to The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss!!

I am so excited to announce that the audiobook version of The Significance of Curly Hair is out in the world and available for your listening pleasure this holiday season! Meghan Kirby did a fantastic job narrating my family's crazy story, and even if you have never met me or my complicated mess of a family, I'm sure you'll enjoy being a part of the love and chaos! Download your copy today: https://www.amazon.com/significance-curly-hair-loving-memoir/dp/BOD2QX3SQ9

Kara Zajac: Curly Hair, Strong Women, and a Grandmother’s Legacy

Tue, 02 Sep 2025 17:25:08 GMT

Wrote Podcast: Interviews Me

Tue, 02 Sep 2025 16:31:41 GMT

Season 10, Episode 31: Dr. Kara Zajac!

Michele Karlsberg interviews me in The Bay Area Reporter

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Tue, 22 Jul 2025 22:43:05 GMT

Words: Kara Zajac on 'The Significance of Curly Hair'
by Michele Karlsberg Sunday, March 2, 2025

In Kara Zajac's memoir, "The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss" (Atmosphere Press), she shares the story of growing up with her grandmother and the bond they created that transcended time.

They were opposites in every way. Her grandmother was a barefoot, family-first woman who raised children with unconditional love, even as she quietly bore unimaginable hardships. Kara, on the other hand, had crafted a life as a gay, fiercely independent career woman, avoiding the very traditional roles she embodied.

But her Gram's death revealed secrets that reshaped everything she thought she knew. This is a memoir of discovery, transformation, and the enduring power of love across generations. But most importantly, it's about preserving her grandmother's legacy.

Zajac is a freelance writer, chiropractor, mother of a daughter, wife, entrepreneur, musician, and diehard romantic. She received her Doctor of Chiropractic degree from Life College of Chiropractic and for the last 20 years has maintained a private wellness practice in Dawsonville, Georgia. Zajac is also an accomplished multi-instrumentalist who started playing drums at two years old and currently tours the Southeast with The Jessie Albright Band.

Author Kara Zajac

Michele Karlsberg: You mentioned your grandmother asked you to write her story when you were ninth grade.

I was the age my daughter is now and was young, cocky, and thought I had all of the answers, just like most teenagers. My grandmother told me that she had been reading a story a boy wrote about his grandfather, proud of his accomplishments in WWII. She looked at me with that hopeful twinkle in her eye and asked, "Would you ever write a story about me?" I hardly noticed the anticipation in her loving smile as I snarked back, "But you've never done anything."

Of all the things I regret, my utter disregard for her feelings is what I wish I could erase. Instantly the twinkle in Gram's eyes faded, her joyful smile replaced by sadness or maybe even embarrassment that she asked in the first place. The subject was never brought up again.

When I got the call that Gram had fallen I got on the first flight to Boston but wasn't going to make it in time before she died. Although in a coma my Mom held the phone to my Gram's ear and I told her that I was writing a book, the story she asked me to write so many years before.

I was able to tell her that her life mattered, her story was worth telling, and that her strength is what made all of us children and grandchildren the successful people we became. I knew Gram heard my words because Mom said her heart rate jumped from 64 to 78 when I was talking about the book. Gram's biggest fear was being forgotten, by writing her story I will make sure that never happens.

What was the most challenging part of writing your memoir, and what was the most rewarding?

My mother is the youngest of four girls. When coming up with the outline and/or storyboard I tried to format the story around major life events. It was amazing to interview my aunts and mother, realizing that they had all experienced the same event, but had completely different memories and opinions about what happened.

Trying to blend everything into a story that someone would want to read was a bit of a challenge. With memoir writing, it's very easy to add too much or include information that doesn't move the story forward. A few of my aunts were upset with my book, feeling like I exposed things that shouldn't have been talked about. But if no one ever talks about the hard stuff, then no one heals from the past, we continue carrying the weight.

The most rewarding has been seeing the heartfelt connection the story brings. The story helps people remember things they may have forgotten, or helps them move forward where they might have been stuck. Total strangers have come up to me and said, "I really needed to hear this right now." Or "Your words helped me get over my own grief."

Being able to bring people together and share love through vulnerable storytelling is quite rewarding. But most important is the feeling I have honored my grandmother in a way that makes her feel loved and appreciated, that her life will affect future generations.

You found a time capsule in one of Gram's drawers. What did the capsule reveal?

Gram rarely talked about painful things. We all knew she had a nervous breakdown but didn't really know any of the details. As we were sitting around discussing her life, we realized the big gaps, wishing we could ask more questions because obviously we didn't know as much as we thought about the specifics of Gram's life.

My two younger cousins heard us talking and went to their garage, where a lot of Gram's old things were stored. They brought back a drawer from one of Gram's old dressers. The drawer itself was the time capsule.

We first uncovered heavy, dark green saucer-shaped tablets. On the prescription label, dated 1957, the year my grandfather died, was Gram's shaky writing, "Nerve Pills."

Finding these were uncanny because Gram never took any medicine, not even aspirin. Finding drugs of any sort was quite unsettling because it allowed us to see the enormity of the pain Gram was trying to forget.

The drawer also contained an envelope with Gram's writing. There was an itemized list of her expenses: milkman, dentist, Nancy's asthma medicine, dancing lessons... She didn't have enough money to pay for all of these things, so she would pay each one of them a little bit and had a running balance.

I think her starting figure was around $18, and you could see her struggling to pay her bills, how she would save $.33 for Campho Phenique, which I still have in my medicine cabinet today. In the drawer, we found a bank book that showed deposits made into Gram's account by my grandfather's sister, Dorothy. She was the money tree. We also found spermicidal jelly and a diaphragm.

The secret drawer gave the family a very intimate glimpse into the pains and struggles Gram had before my grandfather's death and after her nervous breakdown. Finding these things answered a lot of questions we never thought to ask her.

How did you come up with the title of your memoir?

Gram always wanted curly hair. In her day curls were all the rage and she thought you could do absolutely anything with them. Gram's hair was thin, flat, limp, and baby-fine. She would complain about how it stuck so close to her head. She was always in rollers or pin curls, getting permanent waves, anything to make her hair the opposite of what it was. She told me once that one of the reasons she was attracted to my grandfather was because he had curly hair and at least their children would not be burdened with her limp locks.

How important is it for you to share your Gram's wisdom, wit, recipes, and family bond with your daughter?

Having a child of my own helped me deal with Gram's death. I realized I could pass all of the wisdom and knowledge Gram taught me onto the next generation, keeping Gram's spirit alive. It also meant that death wasn't the end of Gram, she lives within all of us and now within our daughter, who is named after her. Senia, after Gram, and Mae, because we're Southern now.

Kim and I have tried to instill Gram's love, empathy, and compassion into our daughter. My parents moved 10 minutes down the road and for about 8 years Kim's parents were 10 minutes in the other direction, so grandparents were very present in Senia Mae's childhood. I feel like traditions and values are passed down from women, braiding generations together from lifetime to lifetime. It's important to learn from our past, so we can protect our future.

You meet with grief support groups. Why is this important to you?

Grief is a funny thing. No one really knows how to do it. You can't really be taught the right way or the wrong way. Gram suffered a nervous breakdown after the overwhelming grief of losing her husband and then never really talked to any of us about the pain it inflicted on her.

I feel like sharing stories and talking about our pains is a way to cope and move forward. It also makes us realize that deep down, we're not that different from each other. We feel the same joys, the same pains. I think in this world of intense division, it's important to remember how we are all deeply connected on an emotional level.

www.karazajac.com

www.atmospherepress.com

Michele Karlsberg Marketing and Management specializes in publicity and marketing for the LGBTQ+ community. This year, Karlsberg celebrates 36 years of successful campaigns. www.michelekarlsberg.com

Kara's recent interview with Voraka Magazine

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Mon, 23 Jun 2025 01:36:48 GMT

VORAKA INTERVIEW

Exclusive Interview with Author Kara Zajac

What inspired you to write The Significance of Curly Hair,

and how did the process of creating this memoir impact

you personally?

I was the age my daughter is now: young, cocky, and sure I

had all the answers. Gram, lacing her running shoes, asked,

“Would you ever write a story about me?” I scoffed, “But

you’ve never done anything.” Her smile faded. I didn’t realize

then how much my words hurt, something I’d regret forever.

At fourteen, I saw Gram as just a housewife. I didn’t know she

survived an abusive marriage, five kids in six years, and her

husband’s early death, leaving her penniless. She had a

breakdown but came back stronger, vowing never to let stress

consume her again.

Determined to live differently, I moved to Atlanta, earned my

doctorate, and built my career. When I got the call she had

fallen, guilt overwhelmed me. I flew to Boston, but I was too

late. Over the phone, I told her I was finally writing her story.

Her life mattered. Her strength shaped us. Mom said her heart

rate jumped, proof she heard me. Gram feared being

forgotten, but I won’t let that happen.

How do your professional experiences as a chiropractor

and wellness expert influence your writing?

As a chiropractor, I help the body heal naturally but I couldn’t

save my grandmother. The grief and guilt were overwhelming.

Writing became my way to process emotions I didn’t realize I

had. Good storytelling heals both the writer and the reader.

Writing Gram’s story kept her with me and helped me move

through my grief. It allowed me to heal from the inside out.

How do you manage to balance your roles as a writer,

chiropractor, musician, and mother while maintaining

your creative pursuits?

I have to block out my time to give each area enough space.

The key is balance. Fortunately, the artist side uses the

creative side of my brain while being a chiropractor uses the

scientific side. It’s a great balance. As for marriage and

children, there have been many times I’ve been holed up

writing, trying to meet a deadline and I get a knock on the

door, “How many more minutes until you finish that chapter?”

Any artist knows you can’t put a timeline on creativity!

What do the recognition and multiple awards for The

Significance of Curly Hair mean to you as a debut

author?

There is nothing more rewarding than hearing how my story

has impacted someone's life. I believe storytelling helps us

process our own experiences because, deep down, our

emotions are more alike than we realize. Seeing Gram’s story

reach more people through awards means the world to me, it

keeps her memory alive. As a writer, that’s the greatest honor

I could ask for.

What key messages or lessons do you hope readers will

take away from your memoir?

A person’s memory, and the lessons they taught us, continue

long after their death. Writing this memoir showed me the

power of family values and traditions. Through my daughter,

Gram’s love and strength will continue to shine. Life is a gift,

and sharing it keeps us connected.

Can you share more about your upcoming book, The

Special Recipe for Making Babies, and the inspiration

behind it?

At the end of The Significance of Curly Hair, Kim and I chose

to honor Gram by having a child and raising them with her

values. My upcoming book, The Special Recipe for Making

Babies, shares our unconventional journey to parenthood

bypassing sperm banks for a more personal approach, from

quirky offers to unexpected twists, until we find our perfect

recipe.

How did sharing an excerpt of your memoir in Stigma

Fighters shape your perspective on mental health

advocacy?

For many years I believe people kept to themselves about

mental health, either hiding it or not discussing it at all. Gram

never spoke about her breakdown, we knew it happened but

not its impact. I’m proud her story was shared in Stigma

Fighters, giving mental health a voice and fostering

compassion, understanding, and strength.

How have your experiences with the Creative Writing

Workshop and the National Writers Union impacted your

growth as a writer?

I always suggest writers join critique groups. Hearing other

people’s opinions on how a piece can be improved helps the

writer see the story from a different perspective. Not only does

it make you a better writer, but it gives your work more

strength and credibility.

What role does humor play in your writing, especially

when addressing serious or emotional topics?

I often write about subjects that are uncomfortable to discuss.

Adding humor while addressing difficult topics can make

heavy subjects a little lighter. This can keep the reader more

present and engaged, instead of becoming emotionally

withdrawn and possibly even skipping over a subject because

it brings up unwanted feelings and/or memories.

What advice would you offer to aspiring authors who

want to share their personal stories with the world?

Don’t be afraid of what others say. It’s your story from your

perspective. Somebody always needs to hear what you have

to say and most of the time you have no idea how deeply your

story is resonating with someone else. I am passionate about

memoirs because real stories matter. Why should we have to

change our truths to please Hollywood or the publishing

industry? Go ahead, have no fear, get your stories out there.

Your words could change someone’s life.

VORAKA MAGAZINE

Better Luck Tomorrow

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Wed, 19 Feb 2025 02:17:22 GMT

Check out my new post in Story Circle!

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Personalized books: Order through Dec 21!

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Wed, 04 Dec 2024 00:17:39 GMT

Personalized books make great holiday gifts.... almost as good as a dollhouse!

It's the holiday season and life seems to be in full swing. Even though I'm the mother of an awesome teenager, when Santa's list consists of Sephora gift cards and noise-canceling ear pods, the holidays feel different, not as fun as the previous years. Those were the dollhouse years. How I miss staying up late with hex wrenches and seventeen plastic bags filled with stickers and screws, making sure that special morning was filled with magic and delight, no matter how tired I was the next day. Seeing her light up as she stood face to face with Barbie's Dreamhouse was, for me, the epitome of successful motherhood. I'm still getting the children's ads this year, wishing there was just one more dollhouse Christmas. But this year's excitement comes from hearing how my recently published book, The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss, is affecting people's lives. As a writer, you want your words to matter, to help with that emotional shift within someone else. I truly appreciate all of the love, support, and kind words all of my readers have offered me. No bigger joy is felt than when a reader comes up to a writer and says, your words were exactly what I needed to hear at the exact right time. Being able to share my grandmother's life and my journey to motherhood is almost as good of a gift as any dollhouse I've ever received. I'd be happy to sign one for you or a loved one. Personalized hardcover copies make great holiday gifts and are available for $37.00 until December 21st, just email me at dr.kara7258@gmail.com. Payment accepted through Square and Venmo.

Come See Me at my hometown book signing: Tewksbury, Massachusetts

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Sat, 02 Nov 2024 17:27:59 GMT

I'll be signing books and talking about the process Saturday 11/9 and Sunday 11/10

Hope to see you there! For Georgia folks, I'll be at a Local Author's Book Signing at the Dawson County Library Thursday, November 7 from 11-1!

Visit Me October 5th at the Decatur Book Festival

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Tue, 24 Sep 2024 19:52:08 GMT

Get your book signed or simply stop by and say hello! Either way, I'd love to meet you!

As a person raised in Massachusetts, with its gone in the blink of an eye summer season, I usually feel some sadness on September 21st. Not this year! I'm excited about this fall's lineup of live book signing events. On Saturday, October 5th, I'll be at The Decatur Book Festival street fair in Decatur, GA. The festival will be in the historic Decatur Square from 10-5. Please stop by my booth and pick up a book, discuss what you loved about Gram's story, and learn more about the local literary scene. I can't wait to connect. See you there...

Significance Zoom Open Discussion Panel

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Thu, 22 Aug 2024 18:21:00 GMT

Join the Zoom meeting to ask questions about the book or share your feelings

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My first 5 star review!

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Mon, 27 May 2024 18:32:21 GMT

Thank you for all the pre-launch love Reader's Favorite!

I am so thrilled to announce that I've gotten a great review of The Significance of Curly Hair from Reader's Favorite. Please check it out here:

https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/the-significance-of-curly-hair . Launch date is July 16th from Atmosphere Press. The official launch party will be Tuesday July 16th from 6-8 p.m. at Because Coffee, 240 Dawson Village Way N. Ste 100, Dawsonville, GA 30534. Hardcover copies will be available for signing!

Book Review: Where You End by Abbott Kahler

dr.kara7258@gmail.com (Kara Zajac) — Sun, 03 Mar 2024 16:45:31 GMT

Book review

Abbott Kahler has mastered the page turning thriller with her story of mirror image twins who are not only connected with their looks, but also their minds. A tragic accident leaves Kat with amnesia, deleting any memories of a childhood worth forgetting while her twin tries to protect her from their haunting past. Uncovering clues of her twin being deceitful, Kat turns on her twin and goes on a journey of self discovery, only to find herself befriending the perpetrator of her forgotten horror story. Artfully crafted and fast paced, this book is a thrill of the ride must read. I loved it from start to finish.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/39887476-kara-zajac

It's Finally Happening - The Significance of Curly Hair - coming Spring 2024

Sun, 04 Feb 2024 15:38:34 GMT

In case you've been wondering what I've been up to

It's finally happening! The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss is being released in just a few short months. Keep posted for how to get your copy.

Girl Moms vs. Boy Moms: The Real Difference

Tue, 23 May 2023 18:13:12 GMT

I Didn't Realize I was Afraid Until...

I was hectically running back to the house to grab a phone number I forgot when I saw the turtle on the two-lane highway. It first looked like a large rock, or roadkill from a mid-sized raccoon, but when I looked closer, I saw it was a huge turtle trying to cross the road during morning rush hour. I knew immediately that if someone didn’t intervene, this was not going to end good. So, I made a u turn and turned on my flashers, blocking the lane and temporarily preserving the life of the turtle.

When I stepped out to get a look, the two-foot-long turtle looked alive but not moving. Here’s the girl mom in me. Hmm. I better get a stick. What if its one of those snapping turtles? I could lose a finger. After finding a stick in the grass, I’m poking at its shell and thinking, maybe I have some gloves in the car? People are now driving around my car and looking at me like I’ve obviously gone insane.

A maroon Nissan stops on the other side of the road. My friend, Allison, mother of three boys, fearer of nothing that lurks in the mud. “Kara, what are you doing?” she asked, after she pulled onto the side and rolled down the window. Then she spotted the turtle.

I’m still standing in the road, deliberating on the best way to move the turtle. Maybe it would clamp down on the stick and I could just drag it across the highway? Maybe I could use the stick as a lever and slowly hoist it across the road?

Without a second thought, Allison throws her flashers on and joins me in the road. Before I have a chance to explain my ideas of how to move this enormous turtle without having to touch it, Allison reaches down, grabs the turtle by the sides of the shell and carries it across the road. Job complete. I’m dumbfounded as I realize that I was petrified of moving the turtle and Allison didn’t think twice about just picking it up. There’s the difference between girl moms and boy moms, I deal with tutus and glitter, she deals with dirt and creepy crawlers. Thanks, Allison. Mr. Turtle thanks you, too.

M.I.C - See Ya Real Soon!

Mon, 13 Mar 2023 02:29:14 GMT

About That Mouse...

Last week, I reached for a frying pan in the lower kitchen cabinet, discovering what was either a single chocolate sprinkle or a mouse turd. We can't possibly have a mouse in a home with five cats, can we? I thought having cats was a guarantee that nothing creepy or crawly would coexist in our home, just look at all those old cartoons. Tom the cat was always chasing Jerry, whether it was out the back door or into two pieces of Sunbeam bread disguised as a snuggly bed. How could this possibly be happening? (We are building a garage that is drastically effecting the landscape outside, I heard mice come in when their outdoor homes are disturbed.)

As I'm toiling over my five lazy cats and which one is just letting the mouse walk on by, two are lounging on the couch grooming their perfect coats, one is sitting on the counter staring a hole in the plastic container of Friskies Temptations, and the other two are outside, supposedly protecting our domain. I decide I must take matters into my own hands and purchase a humane mouse trap at Tractor Supply. If we have a little critter, I'll trap him, gently scold him for trying to share our home, then release him back to the wilderness of our yard.

The flat metal trap is the shape of a rectangle, large enough to house about four to five doughnuts. I lift the clear lid and plop a large spoonful of delicious, irresistible peanut butter in the middle of the trap. Certain that we will not catch anything but setting the trap only to ease my mind, I place it in the dark space between my flour and sugar jars on the shelf on the bottom cabinet and go to bed.

First thing in the morning, before brewing the coffee, I grab the headlamp off the bookshelf and peek under the cabinet. In the corner of the trap I see this cute little fluffball, with round ears, beady eyes, and white whiskers. Aww, I think to myself, suddenly glad I didn't use a gruesome glue trap. "I'm sorry buddy, you belong outside!" I say, as I release him by the drainage ditch at the side of the yard. He looks at me with one eye, thanking me for the meal before he runs off under the rust colored leaves. Just to be sure, though, I place the trap back under the counter.

The next morning, I peeked under the cabinet and there was another mouse, happily licking peanut butter off his paws as he sat in the corner of the humane mouse trap. Like the day before, I told him he needs to stay outside and released him in the side gulley thirty feet from the house. When we caught a mouse on the third day, I was starting to panic. How can you tell if you have an infestation?

I had only seen one turd. There weren't chew marks on the cabinets or holes in the plastic rice bags in the pantry. We'd caught three mice. What if they'd had babies? A sour taste burned in my throat as I asked Senia Mae to Google the life span and reproductive cycle of mice. She proudly announced that they fully mature in nineteen to twenty three days and could have a litter size between four and twelve. I almost threw up. If we'd caught three, there could possibly be nine more. Ugg.

The next two days we'd caught two more. I'd bought some Great Stuff to fill in any cracks in the foundation but then worried if I seal them in they might perish in the walls, their little corpses decomposing in places we can't reach. Kim realized the door sweep had broken off the screened door in the kitchen last summer. While she replaced it, I placed two peppermint sachets between the two kitchen doors. Even though we were taking all the correct mice blocking steps, I still worried. That's when I decided to do a deeper internet search of mouse behaviors. It's not like we live in a filthy house with food left out everywhere. How can we possibly have so many mice without knowing it? We have five cats!

I typed Can You Catch The Same Mouse in a Humane Mousetrap? into the Google bar. The answer was a starling yes. It said mice remember patterns and return to familiar areas out of habit. Could we possibly be catching the same mouse over and over again? Certainly not! But, just in case, the next morning when I opened up the cabinet and saw the cute little guy munching away in the corner of the trap, I toted him all the way to my office and released him in the woods by the parking lot.

The next morning there was no mouse and there have been none since. I feel like a complete idiot, catching and releasing the same mouse over and over again. Maybe I should just take it as a compliment. We obviously have the best peanut butter in the neighborhood.

You're Disappointed in Me? But I'm the Mom, I'm Supposed to Say That!

Sun, 05 Feb 2023 15:49:40 GMT

Sometimes the Roles Get Reversed

This was the year I thought my dreams were coming true: we were not going to have to lug all the Christmas decorations back to the storage unit since we were finally building the garage. Unfortunately, it's not done yet, so once again, just like the Grinch, we had to haul the light up Santa, my favorite tinsel wreath, and the million red and green totes back up Mount Krumpit. It's okay. I consider it seasonably appropriate.

Looking over at my tween in the passenger seat, I can see she's visibly upset. She still gets the same look as she did when she was little and got her feelings hurt: the watery eyes, the droopy lids, and the bottom lip poking out in a pout. I get it, I never want to put the light up Santa away either. I mean, we're in the South. Why can't we keep him up all year?

"Are you okay? You look upset," I asked while braking lightly, ready to make a left turn at the light.

"I'm just disappointed," Senia Mae says.

"Oh. What are you disappointed about?" I ask. We're heading into teenage years and I am learning very quickly that certain subjects should be tread upon very lightly.

"I'm disappointed in you," she says and turns to look at me. She is holding back a waterfall of tears, her disapproving look describing how I have failed to uphold some expectation, unable to believe whatever it is that I have done. Suddenly I'm gripping the steering wheel, my palms are sweating, I'm taking quicker breaths. Seeing my daughter's disappointment in me was way worse than any condemnation my mother could have ever given me in high school. I just couldn't take it. But wait a minute. I'm the parent? Why am I sweating? I'm the one who's supposed to be saying those words.

"Why are you disappointed in me?" I asked because I was clueless. There had been no warning. I really had no idea where this was coming from.

"I found your cigarettes," she said. They had just had a lesson in school about all of the carcinogenic additives in tobacco products, I'd noticed several worksheets had been left on the kitchen counter sitting under a pile of mail.

"My cigarettes?" I still had no idea what cigarettes she was talking about.

"On your dresser." I racked my brain for a second, now that I'm forty-nine and don't always recall things as easily. I don't smoke. If I did smoke and was trying to hide it from my daughter, I definitely wouldn't be dumb enough to leave cigarettes out on the dresser. Then I remembered what she must have seen: a box of Dad Grass CBD joints.

"That box of Dad Grass?" I asked. She crossed her arms in front her chest, nodding disapprovingly. "That was a joke I bought for Grampy last year. Somehow they got shoved behind some cards on the dresser and I forgot to give them to him for Father's Day."

"Why would you give him cigarettes for Father's Day?" she asked, apparently appalled that I was giving away a deadly present like cigarettes, unaware they might be more incriminating than what she was accusing me of.

"My parents used to wait tables and one time someone left them a joint as a tip." I'm not sure she knows what a joint is, but I continued anyway. "They kept that joint in the top drawer of their dresser. When I was a teenager, they'd tell me I didn't have to go out and try drugs. I could just take that dried up, old joint that they had in the drawer and smoke it. That should suffice if I wanted to experiment with drugs." I laughed at the memory. Their ridiculous method actually worked. I never felt like I had to sneak or be extremely deceitful because in a way they had given me the okay. The choice always ready and waiting in their top drawer. It probably still is.

"Mommy and I were shopping in Clayton one day and I saw that box of Dad Grass at the register. It's just CBD, it's not illegal. But it was so funny I had to get them for Grampy. It reminded me of the joint in their top drawer. Then, of course, I got busy and forgot about them."

I looked over at Senia Mae and she was smiling, my justified explanation worked. The heaviness of the moment before was forgotten and replaced with relief.

Whew, that was a close one. I'm sure there are going to be many more times that she is disappointed in my decisions, my actions, my truths as compared to the version of me she has seen through her rose colored glasses. I never want to be any less than she thinks I am and then I wonder how does she actually see me? As my daughter looked happily forward, moving on to the next important thing in her tween life, I wondered who was more relieved, her or I?

The Biggest Insults Start With the Best Intentions!

Thu, 26 Jan 2023 20:15:03 GMT

Sometimes, you're not even aware you screwed up until they start crying...

Years ago, before I was aware that women's underwear sizes were NOT the same as their pant sizes, I gave my then girlfriend some full coverage panties that she had been needing to go under her nursing scrubs. Thinking I was really scoring big with this well needed and thoughtful gift, I waited in anticipation as she opened the gift wrap. When she pulled them out of the package, instead of throwing her arms around me and giving me a big hug, she burst into tears.

"You think I'm so fat that I'll fit into these enormous Granny panties?" she cried as she threw them on the floor and left the room. What I bought were enormous, old lady underwear that were about half the size of a pillowcase, so huge they could have been flown on a flagpole. Oops, that didn't go as planned. That's when I learned size 18 in pants was not the same as size 18 in underwear.

Today, over twenty years later, I was strolling through the bakery in Walmart when I spotted these cute, personal-sized conversation heart cakes. I first thought January was a little early to be putting these on the shelves, but couldn't resist taking a peek at the Valentine messages. The first one I picked up had a typo. Instead of Hug me it said Huge me. No one, especially on Valentine's Day, wants their insecurities validated on a cake message. Someone who's not paying attention is going to think they're getting bonus points with this cute cake...then they're probably going to get the same reaction I got years ago. Oops. Sometimes you're not even aware you screwed up until they start crying!

This Year I Choose Joy

Sat, 31 Dec 2022 20:09:34 GMT

What do you wish for in the upcoming year?

I don't know about you, but for me 2022 was a year with a mixed salad of emotions. After 9 years I finally got a literary agent so there was elation. There was worry about a recession. There was fear of ( covid, aliens, the stuff stuck on the ship outside of California, add your fear here.) Of course, there was the happiness of spending time with family and friends. But this year, I'm going to start out right, and go right for joy because who doesn't need a little more these days. Happy New Year to all!

The Best Christmas Present for People That Love To Read

Mon, 28 Nov 2022 15:21:18 GMT

What could be better than a nightstand caddy that holds your cup, your page, your phone and glasses?

I have to thank Camille Styles for finding this treasure, but as soon as I saw it, I wanted to buy one for all of my friends. It's a rare occasion that I get to snuggle up in my favorite reading nook with no interruptions. But sometimes, if I'm really lucky, my daughter has been dropped off at school, Kim is at work, and all other demands can be put off for a few hours. That's when I tuck myself back under the down comforter as the morning sun lights up the room at the perfect angle. My steaming cup of coffee sits next to my bed as I lean into the pillows, stacked up so snuggly that I'm ready to get lost in my favorite read. This is my kind of morning. Unfortunately, my cat likes to get up close, walking gingerly on my nightstand, while sometimes knocking off my reading glasses, or unintentionally flipping the page on my book. This little gem solves all my reading problems. I can't wait to try it out and hope you enjoy it, too!

https://www.uncommongoods.com/product/book-nook-reading-valet?utm_source=google%20surfaces&utm_medium=organic&flow_country=US&aw_cid=1067452262&aw_aid=51988624466&aw_dev=c&aw_loc=1015323&aw_key=&aw_mtype=&aw_net=g&aw_ad=253153795843&aw_pos=&aw_shopid=55665&aw_prod_partid=1664678527104&gclid=Cj0KCQiA1ZGcBhCoARIsAGQ0kkrvnqp6X_1jZFa0dr9CVCXd5VRtLBpMWl1yy3M6KirmFSy1V2eTS-oaAkThEALw_wcB

What's Disturbing Your Sleep?

Wed, 16 Nov 2022 12:09:20 GMT

It's still quite dark. Why am I up so early?

No, I'm not a morning person. It's just been a very disturbing morning. I tossed and turned all night because before bed, Kim and I turned out all the lights and finished that new creepy show on Netflix, The Watcher. It's an excellent series, one of those that's so captivating and thrilling that, like Lays potato chips, you can't stop at one. I'm not going to spoil anything, but it ended with a cliffhanger, multiple nosy neighbors with the ability to appear in the main couple's house in the middle of the night. Creepy.

So, of course, I bring my phone to bed and have to look up the real story of the massive, Victorian home in New Jersey, so elegant that people would just stare at it from the street. But it had a scary secret. These are not things you should research right before a long winter's nap. Even under the safe, weighted comfort of the cozy down comforter. It's just not a good mix.

Why? Because we live in the woods. There are noises. Branches dropping on the tin roof, animals howling in the distance, and our home is in no way air tight. It was built by two brothers and a dad, who were not construction engineers but pharmacists. When we knocked out a wall during renovations, we discovered a base beam made out of an old railroad crosstie. At least it wasn't Legos. There are many ways for the creepies to get in. It's just part of living here.

It rained all day yesterday, so my hair was larger than usual. In fact, I could have been mistaken for the third, lost member of Simon and Garfunkel because my nest was so full and poofy. Humidity makes porous curls grow up and out. All curly heads know this. Yesterday was a day I just gave in and let my big, wild locks remain free. Why fight it all of the time?

All night, it felt like I was in that half sleep, where you're kind of dreaming but you must have gotten some rest because time did go by. I'm still dreaming of The Watcher, not peaceful, rest assuring thoughts, but haunted, creepy thoughts. That's when I feel something clambering through my big nest of hair. I give it a shake on the pillow and try to go back to sleep. Obviously, my dreams are coming to life and it's affecting me physically. In an hour or so, it happens again and the third time I jump out of bed, flip on the light switch, and start tossing the pillows on the ground. I know something is after me, I can just feel it. Is it The Watcher ? It's five o'clock in the morning and I'm in a fearful tizzy of hours of non sleep and fear of what's lurking in the dark, when I pull the covers back and a hard-shelled beetle gets flung from the covers and scurries to the floor. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. There was something after me, making his home in my nest all night. CREEPY!

I'm imagining I'm screaming because I don't want to wake up my daughter at five in the morning. Obviously, we're going to have to sell the house because is there enough dietomacious earth or crawling bug spray to conquer something as disturbing as this? I am living The Watcher. I can't go back to bed, now I'm pacing around the living room. What is the solution? I just don't know. I stepped on the bug with my hard slipper sole, but still, it's been an utterly disturbing morning. Maybe I'm overreacting, maybe I didn't get a good enough sleep, maybe I just need a cup of coffee.

The Cutest Biter

Wed, 28 Sep 2022 16:23:05 GMT

Senia Mae’s new cute “thing” is scurrying around the house picking up random shoes and carrying them throughout our home spouting “shoes” in the most delicate, sweet angelic voice you ever heard. As the words come out of her mouth her pitch raises into a slight question, “shoes?”, although she is well aware that she is indeed correct. She gets a marvelous reaction out of us, enthralled with the fact that she is becoming a little person, steeping her with oohs and aahs commenting about how smart she is. This is, of course, why she continues to repeat this adorable behavior. Everybody likes a good positive reaction, right?

In the meantime Senia Mae is still cutting teeth. We’ll go through six months of no tooth activity and then suddenly they all want to fiercely appear all at once. This week three incisors are bursting through her tender, swollen gums, causing almost constant discomfort for the poor little tyke. Yesterday we were being cuddly on the couch, enjoying each other after I came home from work. As I laid my cheek on her soft, snuggly face I got caught up in the moment, relishing in the feeling of absolute lovingness that I know is only available to me for a limited time, since independence marches in so quickly and steals those moments away. My heart was filled with that exuberant, abundant love that you can only feel for your child as I suddenly became aware of an intense, sharp, shooting pain in my left breast. I let out a high pitched, tremendously painful scream, realizing that in her own excitement, she bit me! I responded with an exaggerated pout and pretend onset of tears, scolding her with “Oww, you hurt Mommy”, as I caressed the wounded area of my body.

You could see her mind racing frantically, trying to accurately deal with the emotion that followed her realization that she indeed hurt her mother. There may have been some feeling of remorse or possibly even regret, but I will never positively know, because her ingenious little mind redirected, deciding to go with the option works every time, what we call laying on the cute. She looked up at me with those sweet, tender eyes, grabbing something off of the floor and placing it at my eye level as her eyebrows rose in question as the word “Shoes?” slowly crossed her lips! At that moment my eyes almost popped out of my head as I tried to contain my laughter so that she would really understand the consequences of her actions. In reality, she is so much smarter than we give her credit for. We are the ones who are really in for it!!!

I Can't Possibly Need Reading Glasses... It Was Just A Pinecone

Sun, 07 Aug 2022 22:21:59 GMT

I hate to admit this. It's hard to type, as if the words coming on the screen can't possibly be true. Okay, so out with it. I'm going to be forty-nine this year. What? How? Where? Why? My brain asks these questions and I just don't have the answer.

Yes, I agree, it is better than the alternative. Within those years has come an immense wisdom, like when my daughter asks if I will join her in flinging herself off the twenty five foot jumping rock into the lake. I no longer have to question whether or not jumping from extreme heights is a good choice for me. I immediately know that it is not. I don't have to sit and ponder it, I just know. This type of learned wisdom I do appreciate.

What I do not appreciate is the need for reading glasses that seemed to oddly appear on the day I turned forty. No way, I thought to myself as I squinted to read the tiny ingredient list typed on a package of gravy mix. I admit, I have been in denial of this unavoidable sign of aging. This is something that happens to other people, not me.

Years ago, I had Lasik surgery which eliminated my dependence on any lens or contact. Three days after the surgery I was blessed with 20/20 vision and it was thrilling to be able to wake up in the morning and not have to fumble for my glasses just to be able to read the alarm clock. For eighteen years my vision was perfect, until it wasn't. I went into the optometrist to treat what I thought was allergies and he told me the bad news. I needed reading glasses.

I am a stubborn person. Somehow, I feel if I don't allow my presbyotic eyes to become dependent on these darned reading glasses that maybe my vision of the elderly will improve. Eyesight is related to eye muscle strength. I'll just exercise my eyeballs and use the reading glasses for emergencies only.

I'm able to make it to the coffee pot in the mornings without any obvious oversights. Yes, my sight is a little cloudy, and I probably step on more Legos than I should, but my visual field usually clears up by eleven. I've increased the size of the font on my phone and I feel like I'm completely stretching out my biceps when I have to hold instructions a mile away to actually read the inscription. How can it be that I need these glasses meant for old people?

The other day Senia Mae and I were driving after a pop up summer thunderstorm. The road was warm and wet, debris scattered everywhere as the steam rose off of the hot pavement. I screeched on the brakes, causing her body to fling foreword in the front seat as I pulled into the nearest driveway to turn around.

"What's going on?" Senia Mae asked.

"I think I saw a turtle crossing the road." I said to my daughter. If I'm able and it is safe to do so, I will always stop and help a turtle get to their destination. I can't stand to think of those innocent creatures getting squashed on the road. It hurts my heart.

As we drive closer to the brown object on the opposite side of the double yellow lines I find myself squinting my eyes, trying to focus on what is ahead. Suddenly, Senia Mae is slapping her knee and laughing in the passenger seat.

"Mama, that's a pinecone!" She's now in hysterics, chanting, Save the pinecones! Save the pinecones!

Maybe the pinecones, as well as the turtles, do need saving. This is something I may take the time to ponder or maybe its time to give in and start wearing my glasses!

My book.... a Charlotte Lit Nonfiction Finalist!

Sun, 17 Jul 2022 22:33:51 GMT

Wow. First time seeing my name in print. So proud that my second book, The Special Recipe for Making Babies, was a nonfiction finalist! Thank you for the opportunity Charlotte Lit Litmosphere. #charlottelit

The Princess Attempts Overnight Summer Camp

Wed, 06 Jul 2022 22:37:41 GMT

Out of my window looking in the night I can see the barges flickering light, my mother and I belted out as Kim drove the car, hugging each curve as it ascended Crown Mountain. In the backseat, sitting next to my mother, who was eagerly typing fun camp songs into her Google search engine, sat a rather cantankerous, Senia Mae, texting me pictures of thumbs down, the poop pile, and barfing emojis from the backseat.

"I don't understand why I can't bring my iPad to 4H camp," Senia Mae said. The trip to Savannah was going to take five hours, I know she was thinking how could a child on a trip possibly survive without any electronic devices? It was her first time going away for overnight camp and I wanted her to participate, not be off somewhere in her own world escaping on her device. We weren't being completely mean, we let her bring her Apple watch so she could contact us if necessary.

"Before there were iPads and movies in cars we actually used to talk to each other," Kim said. "You could also draw, read a book. We'd like you to be a little more open minded."

"For five hours?" Senia Mae's grumpiness was not improving as I had hoped. "And there's no way they are going to sing those stupid songs on the bus!"

"Oh no," I said. "Camp is always about singing." I even texted the camp administrator to double check. Sing along songs were still a big part of 4H camp.

I'll sing you one ho, green grow the rushes ho, and what is your one ho? Grammy continued her string of long lost camp hits from the backseat.

"What the heck is a rushes ho?" Senia Mae asked.

"We never asked or even cared what a rushes ho was, it's more about singing and being happy, just like we weren't really questioning why someone was so interested in finding a peanut last night," I said. Senia Mae was not amused. I was trying to add some much needed comedic relief, hoping she would lighten up and just get into that old camp sprit. She wasn't.

The next morning, we sat on the curb in the junior high parking lot waiting for the late bus. I remember many school trips, the motto always being hurry up, wait. At least everything hadn't changed since I was a kid. When the shiny motor coach finally pulled in, Senia Mae's eyes lit up. It looked like it could have been Katy Perry's tour bus. Even though she wasn't going to admit it to me, I think she was excited as well as nervous.

After the bus pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed a text from Senia Mae. There's no wi fi on the bus followed by the crying emoji. I smiled to myself before responding. I don't want to ruin my child's trip, but I want her to experience the comradery and togetherness that camp offers. She's an only child and doesn't have to deal with sibling rivalry, or teasing, or playfulness that you get by being around a large group of children. She doesn't know how it feels to have to share a bathroom or even consider someone else. Senia Mae thinks staying at the Budgetel instead of the five star lodge is actual suffering! Camp was going to be good for her. I could feel it.

No wi fi? I guess they'll just be more time for singing! I added the laugh until you cry emoji and hit send. We'll see how the rest of the week goes!

Which Cinderella Do You Prefer? Hair Metal or Disney Princess?

Mon, 04 Jul 2022 12:19:18 GMT

Many of you know that I am currently working on my third manuscript, my first work of fiction. A few months ago, I sent several chapters to my writing coach for revisions. My main protagonist, Shawn, has a memory of rocking out at a Cinderella concert in the late nineteen eighties.

Getting the script back I see a red line through Cinderella with a question mark and the comment, maybe use someone more well known like Bon Jovi. I wrote back, laughing as I typed, I realize that you may have been a little more refined, but in order to play drums with the fifteen year old boys I had to play what they liked: Dokken, Iron Maiden, Cinderella. I went on to explain that Cinderella was a huge band in the eighties and how I wore out the Heartbreak Station cassingle in my old, beat up Chevy Cavalier. Shawn was going to stay true to character.

Fast forward several months. I am in what I call the end of summer panic, spending the last few moments of summer with my daughter, trying to cram in a couple more precious moments, special times that you only seem to experience during those two summer months when life moves at a slower pace. We were taking our bikes up to the Hardman to Helen Trail, which meant driving the curvy, North Georgia roads in the squeaky, old truck. The truck is our only remaining vehicle that still has a cassette deck.

On this particular curve, the only radio station that would come in clearly was a classic rock station. I hear the throaty groan Don't Know What Ch Got, Til It's Gone and turn up the volume, flipping my curly hair back and forth in the wind.

"Mama," Senia Mae says, "You like this?" She turns to face me and has now begun to laugh because my entire body is swaying to the hum of Tom Keifer, the lead singer of Cinderella, feeling the pulse of an eighties true power ballad.

"What?" I snap out of my the memory of me forty pounds lighter and thirty years younger, remembering I'm in the truck with my witty, twelve year old. "I love Cinderella. Back in the day, this was my jam."

"They named their band after a Disney princess?" Senia Mae asked. "This guy sings like a dying pig!" She cracked up and tried to flip the channel. Listening to it now, his voice was a little unique, maybe not as smooth as other artists but look at Joe Cocker or Bob Dylan. They both had huge careers with uniquely different voices.

"I did love this band, but you can flip the station to something more modern." I said. She happily changed it to some pop station playing The Kid Laroi singing Without You. She leaves it on his crackly , unique voice and I joke, "you think this is any better?"

"You might have a point," she laughs.

Little does Senia Mae know that before our next bike ride, I'm heading down to the basement to dig through my shoebox of old cassettes. I'm going to find the Cinderella Heartbreak Station cassingle. She'll be trapped in the truck with me as I belt out, Waiting at the station, tears filling up my eyes, sometimes the pain we hide, burns like a fire inside...

When she asks why we don't get a new truck, I say the old one works fine. And for what its worth, its the only vehicle we own that can replay my high school memories in cassette form and I wanna rock....

You Can't Be a Vegetarian and Not Like Vegetables!

Sat, 25 Jun 2022 22:41:33 GMT

Last Sunday, after two weeks of Singin' in the Rain training at the Holly Theater, Senia Mae announced, "My friend Sadie is a vegetarian. I think we should be, too." I knew this was coming. She is my daughter and watched me stand up for the things I am passionate about, so of course she is going to do the same.

In health class last year the school showed the movie, Diet For a New America, which showcases the food industry's mistreatment of animals used for human consumption. When I was in chiropractic school we watched that same film. Learning the truth about factory farming and the inhumane treatment of living creatures was appalling to me and the following day I vowed to not eat meat, which I did continue for the next twelve years until I became iron deficient in pregnancy. How could I expect my daughter to react differently? I am going to support her and help in any way I can.

The problem? She's not a huge fan of vegetables.

"Senia Mae," I said. "You can't be a vegetarian and not eat vegetables." She's okay with cucumbers and broccoli sometimes, but spinach is a hard pass. Asparagus, no way, and don't even come near her with any tofu or vegetarian meat replacements.

"Mama, those things are just disgusting. They don't taste like hamburger," she said. I realize this and try to explain that meatless alternatives are not going to taste the same because they are not the same. I try to explain the importance of good nutrition and protein and iron for her developing twelve year old body. I'm pretty sure her ears hear me saying : Rah rah rah rah rah.

She is going to continue to consume dairy products and seafood, which I'm thankful for. In all honesty, I feel like I was a more creative cook when I was vegetarian. I ate a more complete diet, but in general was healthier. I think having the convenience of having meat available in fast food or as a quick fix has made me more lazy in the kitchen. So, I'm kind of excited about this new adventure.

Yesterday, I made one of my old favorite recipes, Crawfish jambalaya, loaded with nutritious onions, peppers, celery, and tomatoes. The savory smell infused the kitchen as I licked the last bit of spicy goodness off the wooden spoon before plopping it in the sink. I scooped a small portion into Senia Mae's bowl.

"Mama, you know I don't like peppers or things that are green," she says, as she's making a definitive line separating the rice and crawfish from the celery and peppers. She'll eat beans sometimes but would prefer her vegetarian diet to be mainly macaroni and cheese, shredded cheese, sliced cheese, and maybe a scrambled egg,

"If you're going to be a vegetarian you're going to have to like vegetables!" It felt like a futile plea coming out of my mouth as I lowered my head on the table in defeat. I'm still trying to figure out the end to this story :)

A Week Ago I stopped Recycling. Now I Feel Like A Terrible Person

Thu, 16 Jun 2022 22:49:05 GMT

So far, this has been the summer of shingles. Four words that describe shingles? Painful, grumpy, isolated, and yes, electrifying, but not in the good way. When Senia Mae heard of my malady, she said, "but Mama, that's an old person's disease and you're not even fifty!" I know that comment was intended to make me feel better. It didn't. My shingles suddenly felt more painful, and I was more grumpy, which made me want to go hide in the closet so I could isolate myself from the stress of summer. Part of that stress? Our local recycling drop-off stopped recycling due to budget cuts.

I want to believe I will go to all ends in order to save the earth and the wellbeing of its inhabitants. Most of the time I am successful at believing the story I am telling myself, but lately life has been crazy and painful. I choose to live in the country, so recycling pickup at my home is not an option. There is a county recycling center but it is twenty five minutes in the opposite direction of my daily travels. The Catholic martyr in my head, the one who always talks down to me is saying, good people will make the effort anyway. Catholic martyr, I see you and I hear you.

The first day of non-recycling our garbage can filled up in what felt like five minutes. I peeked in the can only to witness a messy, hodgepodge of plastic Simply Lemonade containers and cardboard wrappers mixed with coffee grounds, banana peels, and every other discarded household item that was going to be dumped and forgotten in a landfill. The tightening in my jaw made the vein in my temple pulse in synch with my increased heartrate. My body can't lie just like Shakira's hips don't lie. I was lying to myself thinking I could just stop recycling without being overrun by guilt.

I remembered a 1970's television ad from my childhood in Massachusetts. An older Native American man, complete with the long braided ponytail and turquoise beaded headband, was casually walking through the woods. The camera zoomed in on his weathered, leathery skin, showing a solitary tear rolling down his wrinkled face as he speared trash with his wooden walking stick. He was crying because of thoughtless humans, specifically ones who litter. Now, I was the one making him cry. And what kind of person does that?

Going back into the garbage can, I pulled out the plastic covered in coffee grounds, rinsed it off, and set it aside in the blue recycle tote. That's enough for today. I made one step in the right direction. Then, passing through the store this morning, I spotted this. Maybe there's still hope after all!

This is why I read. This is also why I write.

Fri, 10 Jun 2022 22:53:04 GMT

To experience that one moment where you are in the exact right place, the exact right time, and the exact right frame of mind to honestly say, Somebody Understands.

Thank you, Jennifer Weiner: That Summer

I'm a Bad Dieter

Wed, 08 Jun 2022 22:57:00 GMT

It's hard to keep up with the diet regimen when this homemade delight is delivered to my office... #Ilovetoeat

The Question A Parent Never Wants to Hear...Or Answer!!

Tue, 07 Jun 2022 23:02:42 GMT

There are so many moments, completely unexpected conversations, that happen as a parent. I remember, before becoming a parent, how I worried about trivial things. Would my child be gay just because she is being raised by two gay parents? Nope. When Senia Mae was four she sat both of us down, worried that she was going to break our hearts with her heavy news, and said, Mamas, I'm going to marry a boy. What? That is the news? I thought she was going to admit she shoved a Barbie dress down the toilet. We told her, you love who you love and it doesn't matter if its a girl or a boy, but thanked her for being honest. Inside, I let out a sigh of relief as I crossed worry number one off the list.

Since then, there's been a million times that worries, ones that used to keep me up at night, have gotten turned around on me. Sometimes I just have to laugh at how silly my old worries seemed. This year in school our daughter had the sex class. We always said she could ask us anything, we'd answer any questions she had. What did she come up with? Mama, how many people have you slept with? Oh, the innocence. The redness in my face matched the glass of wine I spilled all over the dinner table as I fumbled for the right words, not wanting to lie, but... isn't there an option B? My answer began with well, mine was a crooked path, I didn't know what being gay was.... Y'all, this parenting thing, I had no idea.

This week, one of her theater friends is watching Heartstopper on Netflix. We sat down as a family and watched the first three episodes. I am so proud of Netflix for airing a show like this and what our new world has become. Heartstopper is a series about a gay high school boy who has a crush on a rugby player. There are scenes where the two boys are hesitant about texting each other, showcasing the awkwardness of communication in teenage years, as they type and delete, type and delete. When they finally get the courage to touch, their pinky fingers barely glancing each other as they attend a 16th birthday party, they show cartoon fireworks and exploding flowers around the boys' hands. I never imagined I would live through a day where I felt it was appropriate for me to explain to my twelve-year-old that those kind of sparks happen with straight people, too! Wow. My old list of worries? I can hardly remember what they were. But how proud I am of the new stuff, the real stuff.

Sixth grade had been a little harder on Senia Mae than previous years at school. She got into band and a theater group as well as being in gifted and accelerated classes. When she started coming home with some Bs on her report card, Kim and I said we would accept those grades as long as it was the best she could do. Senia Mae claimed she was doing her best, but when Kim upped the ante, saying that if her final report card had all As she would buy her an Apple watch... suddenly, everything changed. I learned that effective parenting is not about just dangling a carrot, but dangling the right carrot. Again, who knew? Senia Mae bolted down the stairs to the house, proud as a peacock as she talked into her new Apple watch. Siri, call Mama, she said, a smile overtaking her entire face. Siri's reply? Which one? My chest became so big, full of all the love pouring into it.

I know this one little snippet isn't going to be the answer to all of my problems, or even a smidgeon of the world's problems, but at this moment, all is right in my sphere. I love this crazy world we live in, I love this kid, and now, I love you Siri!

No Time for Tidying Up? Sorry, I Can't Help With That!

Wed, 18 May 2022 17:45:24 GMT

My daughter has recently become obsessed with the professional de-clutterer, Marie Kondo. She's gotten hold of my disheveled tee shirt drawer and spent over an hour folding and rolling, shifting, and stacking. Opening my drawer, it now looks like an ad in the IKEA catalogue. "Mama, you're such a mess," she says. It's not completely untrue. Organization is definitely not one of my strengths. "But I'm an artist!" I joke back at her.

When she starts heading to my closet for my haphazard pile of jeans, looking more like a less put together version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I beg to delve into it later. What would I rather do? Go through my jeans pile or punch out the next chapter of my new manuscript? Duh. I am not a hider of my weaknesses, in fact I will admit I have flaws-a-plenty, I just try to highlight my strengths instead. You probably don't want to invite me over to help tidy up your basement, but I guarantee I can make you out to be a Rockstar on your resume! What would you choose?

Holy Mary, Mother of God...Pray for THIS Mother!

Sun, 25 Apr 2021 14:57:43 GMT

Me (r) and my niece, Savannah, doing a Mary Catherine Gallagher skit

I will never be ready to have the sex talk with my fifth grader. NEVER. I realize it is important, especially as a female, but, there must be a class for that. My opinion is so different from Kim's, who says we should just explain it as she asks. I don't remember my parents explaining it to me. What I remember is hiding in the back of the library and reading the cartoon book, Where Did I Come From? Those were the days.

The questions always seem to come when I least expect them: in the carpool line, at the grocery store, or when watching a show that I thought for sure was appropriate for an eleven-year-old. The other day on the way to school we were sitting at the red light, Madonna came on XM Radio. Of course, I get excited, crank up the radio, and spill just a drip of my coffee on the console. My curls bop to the thick synthesizer into....left for two, right right for two... and drums... I'm totally in the zone. I made it through the wilderness, somehow I made it through... In my mind I see her cropped jean jacket and black leggings. Then I get pulled out of my daydream from a voice in the backseat.

"Mama, what's a virgin?"

Noooooooooooo, you're only in the fifth grade, I think to myself. I'm not ready for this. Damn it, Madonna. Maybe I can pretend I was so into the music I didn't hear her. This sometimes used to work when she was little.

"Mama? What's a VIRGIN?" Senia Mae asks a second time, letting me know I was in no way off the hook with this imperative question. This past Christmas I let her watch my favorite tis the season chick flick, The Holiday, thinking there was nothing inappropriate in there. The dialogue between Jude Law and Cameron Diaz' characters actually mention the word sex frequently, enough for my daughter to ask what sex was. I got away with saying sex was a bunch of kissing and stuff. Now she was four months more mature. I wasn't getting let off the hook easily.

"Well, a virgin is someone who hasn't had sex before." I said the words with lightning speed hoping she didn't catch the content and we could, hopefully, move onto the next topic. Nope.

"Huh?" It was like a grunt from the backseat. She didn't get it, I knew, but this gave me a second to reorganize my thought process. And what was my most natural go to? Without being aware, I went at it Catholic grandma style.

"You know the most famous example of that is the Virgin Mary," I said, unable to believe that these words were flowing from my mouth, but I just couldn't stop. "God loved Mary enough that he chose her to carry his only son, Jesus. She was a virgin, pure and innocent, and Jesus was the miracle baby that happened." I could almost feel my Catholic Grandma smiling down from heaven, nodding her head and realizing that taking me to that Rosary meeting on my tenth birthday actually had been a good idea. Just look at the results.

Silence filled the backseat. I was pretty sure my child had more questions now but realized that I was going to give her the "Ring Around the Rosy" answer and she should probably ask Momma Kim. But at least it gave me a little more time and isn't that what we all want... just a little more time?

Curly girls... Our hair can easily be mistaken for a nest!

Mon, 01 Mar 2021 16:01:16 GMT

Random Acts of Kindness... You Never Know Who Needs One

Thu, 28 Jan 2021 19:00:57 GMT

If I had only been thirty seconds faster I would have beat that white BMW to the Dunkin' Donuts drive thru window. This was taking forever, like a full five minutes. What was she ordering, anyway? I wasn't necessarily in a hurry, but was completely starved, feeling like in another minute I could take a bite out of the steering wheel.

When I finally pulled up to the window, I tried handing the drive-thru attendant my five dollar bill as I grabbed my order with my free hand. The smell of the sugary coffee wafted into my car on this cold, windy day.

"Oh, the lady in front of you paid for your order," the attendant said, refusing my money.

"She did?" I said, stunned at the thoughtfulness of a complete stranger. "Paying it forward, eh? I guess I'll get the tab of the person behind me." Just then I glanced over at the bright red digital numbers next to the open window. $16.85? Mine was going to be less than $3.00. I considered changing my mind, then thought better of it and rustled through my wallet for a twenty dollar bill.

The light at the intersection was red and I had my egg and cheese wrap almost devoured when a car pulled up in the lane next to me. I was fiddling with the radio, trying to resume playing the audio book I had been listening to, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the driver to my right waving her arms. When I looked at her, I noticed she looked haggard and exhausted as she rolled down her window to talk to me. I rolled mine down as well, wondering what she could possibly want to talk about at an intersection.

"You are such a wonderful human being. It just means so much to me that you paid for my Dunkin' Donuts order. My dad is having surgery and I am taking this order back to my family as we wait for the outcome." You could see the stress on the woman's face, the fear of the unknown, the doubt, and then the gratitude from such an unexpected gift. "Thank you again, you are such a wonderful and kind person, this really means so much, especially on this day." She let out a sob and blotted her face with a white napkin.

Feeling a little embarrassed, I felt my face reddening and gave the lady a thumbs up. "The person in front of me paid for mine, so I thought I'd keep it going." Just as the light turned green, I had just enough time to say, "I hope your dad's surgery goes well."

"Thank you again," she said, as tears streamed down her face.

I just couldn't believe that such a small gesture of kindness could effect someone else so profoundly. It just goes to show that you never know what someone else is going through. That measly $16 made this woman's day so much better, and in return it touched my soul, bringing so much joy both of us. I was so glad that I had a change of heart. The experience today made me remember how much power comes with one act of kindness. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could each pass some along to someone in need?

Very Superstitious, Writing's on the Wall

Tue, 03 Nov 2020 16:54:53 GMT

"Don't look at your Amazon Prime," Kim said. "I ordered your anniversary present on your account."

"Oh, okay," I said, thinking I just wouldn't open up the website. Unlike Kim, who claimed to like surprises but then scoured the house like Nancy Drew, claiming that I always left a paper trail, I actually enjoyed the not knowing. Plus, this was year fifteen, so maybe I'd be getting a gift worthy of the one-third of my life spent together.

Unfortunately, my new iPhone updated to version 14 and I now get updates of nearly everything from begging candidates to upcoming packages on my opening screen. I didn't even need to search for it. The message was right there waiting for me. Out for delivery today: Women's Citizen EcoDrive.

A watch? I was flabbergasted. When Kim and I first met I had a lengthy discussion with her, confessing my fears of watch giving and how it always leads a couple to break up. Everybody knew about it. We agreed we would NEVER do that. Why risk something so severe when rings and other jewelry are equally as pleasing? Plus, I loved the watch I had bought as a graduation present to myself twenty something years earlier. It was perfect and no other watch would ever be the one.

So when I realized my anniversary present was indeed a watch I was a little disappointed, not because of the watch itself, but mostly because I thought after fifteen years Kim didn't know me. I thought she forgot about our conversation and hurriedly picked some quick gift while cruising the internet. I spent the next few hours thinking of how I could pretend that I liked it because I am a terrible liar.

But before Kim handed me the gift, she gave me a hand written letter. "Read this first," she said, as I sat down with my first cup of coffee.

In her letter she said she knew I was superstitious but did her own research of what to give for fifteen year anniversaries. The modern fifteen year gift is glass or a watch, symbolizing the time we've had and the time we plan to have in the future. Watches are a meaningful gift that is a way to tell someone that you care about them and want to be in every second of their life. Her letter ended with, "You and I have that magic that will debunk any superstitions. I'm ready to get matching tattoos, I'm ready to travel on Friday the 13th, and I'm not afraid to gift a watch to you."

How could I be disappointed in those sweet words? She had thought of a meaningful gift. Maybe stepping on a crack wouldn't break my mother's back, maybe a broken mirror was just that, something broken. I guess I could be wrong about superstitions but I'm still going to make sure I look everyone in the eye during a toast because seven years of bad sex is just too much to risk.

Just for the record, I do love my anniversary gift, it is brilliant and beautiful watch perfect for dress up occasions. When we do something fancy Kim can wear the new American Eagle jeggings and ankle boots I got her for our anniversary. Just for giggles, I looked up the worst things you can give as a present. A watch was not on the bad gift list but you know what was in the top three of worst gifts? Clothes! Well isn't that the pot calling the kettle black. I guess I'll be eating my words from now on!

How to Tell You've got a 'Tween

Thu, 29 Oct 2020 16:00:53 GMT

Hurricane Zeta made landfall at our house late last night. We live inland, so the catastrophe here wasn’t as devastating as the folks who live right on the coast, but our yard is dense with trees. We have centuries old hardwoods mixed with Georgia Pines, and that combination mixed with rain and forty-mile per-hour winds is almost a guaranteed power outage.

This morning when I woke at seven am, to the sounds of muffled voices and flashlights beaming through the dark house, I realized that once again we were out of power. I am a fairly organic girl and there are many luxuries I can temporarily live without: water, electricity, current weather alerts, but not being able to have my morning coffee? Now that’s a little rough. I have to admit that my morning pick-me-up is definitely on the high-needs essential list.

I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes as I remembered that I ordered a two-hundred-and-fifty-watt mini portable generator on Amazon Prime Day a few weeks ago! I tripped over a pair of shoes before I was able to locate my glasses as I reached instead for the flashlight on my phone. I made my way over to the electric outlet I had it plugged the generator into and sat it proudly on the counter. In real life, the object was much smaller than it appeared online, but what the heck. I was ready to try out my new emergency survival toy.

The cords behind the coffee pot were all tangled but after fishing around for a few seconds I was able to unplug the cord and stick it into the socket of the generator and flip the switch to “on.” I could already imagine the caffeine flowing through my veins and before I even got the coffee filter out, Senia Mae came around the corner and spotted the generator. “We have a generator?” she said with excitement. I stood there proudly, feeling like I was taking care of my family like any wilderness prepared Mama would. “Can we plug in the wi-fi?”

“What?” I spat back at her. “I was going to use this for things that are necessary… like a cup of coffee or for plugging our phones in when they go dead.”

“Netflix is kind of necessary,” Senia Mae said and I realized that gone were the days of us sitting in bed, snuggled up to each other shoulder to shoulder, while reading her favorite story. She was now a tween who had been sucked into the black hole of the internet. Who was I to say what was necessary and what should be considered “essential?”

Of course, our needs were going to differ, and in general she’s a really good kid, sensitive and empathetic. Not this morning. Suddenly she’s all into her Hanna Montana-ish shows. So after the coffee brewed we found the cord for the router and plugged it into the generator. Now everyone is happy, I’m sitting on the porch watching the wet leaves blow, drinking my coffee as my daughter sits on the couch with her iPad. In a bit I’ll pry the device out of her hands and we’ll go take a walk on the dirt road to assess the damage. There will probably be some resistance on her end, but I’m not going to waste all of our limited electricity on wi-fi. I’ve given each of us just enough of our fix so we don’t get forced into detox!

How I Almost Flashed the UPS Guy

Fri, 08 May 2020 16:06:58 GMT

Twelve years ago, when Kim and I were still in the planning phase of having a baby, I imagined our volleyball court sized front yard, then mostly hardened patches of red clay with a few sparse clumps of weeds, as a grassy area for our future child to play. After years of sodding, seeding, and now even hydro-seeding, we actually have a plush little patch of green that, even with my best efforts, still gets overrun with weeds.

Fast forward a little over a decade. We are in week seven of social distancing and solitary confinement, which may as well be house arrest, trying to slow the spread of the pandemic Coronavirus. For a month and a half we have been assisting the public school teachers with home schooling our ten-year-old daughter, now in the fourth grade, as she longs to be with her friends and we long for life to get back to normal. The tight confinement has caused us all to re-evaluate our appreciation of togetherness and become acutely aware of just how much togetherness causes us to go stir crazy and argue more than normal.

Two Saturdays ago, Kim and I dropped Senia Mae off at Grammy and Grampy's house for a little social distancing of our own. We all needed some time apart and some fresh perspectives. I needed a change of scenery and a break from my new normal which included two things: binge watching Netflix and rebuilding the rotten side deck with Trex decking. Before we pulled out of their driveway we had the top down on the convertible and Randy Travis swooned and crooned with his velvety voice bellowing out over the open road. As we cruised up 441, the wind blew through our hair, secretly cleansing our hearts and minds of this Corona craziness.

We didn't do a whole lot of talking during the drive, but being together in a more invigorating environment seemed to remind us of what we actually liked about each other. It was almost like hitting the refresh button on our relationship, an innate form of marriage counseling when nothing else was a viable option during the crisis.

Today, after what feels like many weeks later, Senia Mae is finally done with her online schooling. They are allowing the students to finish the year early if they have completed all of their assignments and Kim rewarded our daughter with a new set of Legos for receiving all A's. Senia Mae begged me to help her put together bags three and four of the Lego set, and although I had several things to do on my task list, I felt I hadn't spent much quality time with her lately besides nagging her to get schoolwork done. I plunked down at the dining room table toting my reading glasses and a hot cup of coffee, ready and rearing to go.

After an hour or so of me picking the microscopic pieces out of the pile and her doing the fun part of putting it together, she was deeply engaged in assembling a glow in the dark claw bridge. I quietly pushed my chair away from the table and snuck outside to look over the new patio set I ordered myself as a prize for finally finishing up the deck.

There it was: two curved chairs with pull out ottomans set apart by a cute little accent table. I made my way over to the edge of the deck and heard Senia Mae hollering after me. "Mama," she said in her mock you're in trouble voice, "We're not done building Legos!" I sighed in defeat.

"Senia Mae, that set is gi-normous," I pleaded. "It has over fourteen hundred pieces. We don't need to complete the whole thing in one sitting." I turned around and fluffed the throw pillows, placed them nicely on the two curved backs, then dusted the topsoil off the scarlet begonia before sitting it in near the back of the glass- topped accent table. I just wanted one minute to pull out the ottoman and test out the comfort of the chair. We had been stuck in the house all morning. I leaned back in the chair, stretching out my legs and adjusting the pillow so it supported the right spot, then closed my eyes as I basked in the morning sun.

We were fortunate to live in a private, wood-lined yard where we were somewhat hidden from the neighbors. The warm rays felt so good that I pulled off my top and laid there in just my pants and bra, letting the sun's radiance soak into my into my ghostly white midriff, turning my face to the sky and enjoying the wonderful gift I was receiving. Nowadays I felt a little too lumpy to sport a bikini with confidence, so my abdomen rarely saw the light of day. My assistant always said that toasted cheese is better than white cheese when referring to cellulite. Today I was toasting it up, letting my skin absorb as much vitamin D as possible.

Senia Mae then found her soccer ball hiding under the deck and began kicking it around the front yard which, over the years, has become the home to multiple obstacle courses, multi faceted dog training arenas, and lately a micro soccer field. A moment later I joined her in the grass, punting the ball back and forth as the sun warmed my bare skin. The feeling was so fabulous and freeing. Just then I realized that my dream from years ago had come to fruition.

Here we were, my daughter and I, playing ball in the grass just like I had envisioned before she was born. My heart soared with a primal sort of happiness, like all was right in the world. The dogs lounged lazily on the walkway as we laughed, playing around like a couple of kids, free and light in the open air. It felt like a scene from a movie, utterly perfect in that moment.

Then something changed. The dogs tore up the hill barking furiously. Senia Mae panicked and yelled, "Mama, it's the UPS guy! Get your shirt back on!" I pivoted around and grabbed my long sleeved shirt, throwing it on with such fury that the tag was in the front, the vee neck facing the back. We waited to hear the sound of tires crushing the gravel or squeaky brakes and shocks bouncing down the dirt road. Nothing.

Eventually the dogs came back down to the house and we realized it was a false alarm. It must have been a twig or a falling acorn that ruined what felt to me like a once in a lifetime precious moment. Before I knew it we were back in the house putting more Legos together. Part of me wanted to go back outside and re-create what we had just experienced before the bark invasion and the flashing UPS guy panic, but it was too late. I decided to just enjoy our time together however we spent it because it is impossible to recreate the past. It is also impossible to predict the future... but when it actually happens... wow. There are no appropriate words.

Everybody's Changing and I Don't Feel the Same

Thu, 09 Apr 2020 16:11:16 GMT

The dinging of my phone woke me from my only deep sleep I was getting that night. I shifted in bed feeling the pulling ache in my hips. The tightness in my shoulders reminded me of my age and questioning why I thought those acrobatic moves earlier, trying to tighten the lag on the Edison lights from the twelve foot light post in my driveway, were a smart idea.

Who's sending me a text message this late? I thought to myself. If it's after 11 p.m. I automatically shift into mom mode and assume someone must be dead or severely injured. It was my niece Savannah.

Savannah:
Are you guys free to go to home depot around 2 tomorrow?
I am selling my electric piano on let it go and am meeting someone I don't know in public.
Don't want to be alone just in case

Me:
Yes, that's fine.

To be honest I was thrilled to have an excuse to escape the Shelter in Place order. I mean I want to be a good citizen and keep COVID-19 at bay but, being forced to stay at home is rough. The weather has been sunny and 80 degrees, meeting Savannah would be the perfect reason to take a joyride in my Mini convertible. What better way to ward off a nasty virus than immune boosting sunlight and fresh air?

The next day I looked at my watch just as we had crossed the third task off our "We've got time now that we're stuck at home" chore list. It was time for me to meet Savannah. I was glad she was being smart and having someone else present for the transaction.

I circled the parking lot twice and didn't see Savannah's blue Nissan, which was really fine because the longer this took the longer my freedom. Then decided I should be a responsible aunt and text her.

Me:
Where you at?

Savannah:
Oh I just pulled in to the back of parking lot by car wash. I see you driving towards me... lol.

Savannah had her window down as I pulled in opposite her so our driver's doors were facing each other. "Thanks for meeting me,"
she said.

"No problem. It feels good to be getting out of the house and it is very responsible of you to have someone else here. Are they here yet?"

"No. He said he should be here in a couple of minutes." Within a minute a white Toyota Camry pulled up to us. "Are you Savannah?" the man, probably in his mid-forties shouted out the window at me. I shook my head no and pointed to the left where Savannah was stepping out of her car.

He was buying the piano for his son who was probably fourteen or so. They had brought an extension cord and an adapter that turned the cigarette lighter into an outlet so they could make sure the piano worked. Before we knew it Savannah and John (the dad) had the electric piano set up, they had wiped the whole thing down with Clorox wipes, and the son just sat down and began playing.

I was leaning against the light post, watching this boys fingers move so beautifully across the keys, right here in the middle of a once busy but now that we're on restrictions no so busy parking lot.

"How great is this?" I asked. "That we can't be within six feet of each other because of this crazy virus, but we can stand here in the sunshine and enjoy a lovely concert in the parking lot." The boy laughed and continued to play the Coldplay song he was hammering out.

"You know if you put out a tip jar I bet every person walking into that store would start throwing money at you. You could probably pay for this piano." I smiled and continued to watch him, they way he was so comfortable on the bench, his playing seemingly effortless.

"Do you take any requests?" He laughed again.

"I'm just learning," he said.

"There's a song that came out around the same time Coldplay came out...probably fifteen years ago, by a band named Keane. The song is Everything's Changing and I don't Feel the Same. It's got a real cool piano riff and come to think of it... that might be the most appropriate song amidst all of this COVID craziness."

I'm not really sure if he understood what I was saying. The fact that we're so isolated from each other that the way we connect is by playing an electric piano in a parking lot is... strange. Everything's Changing and I Don't Feel the Same. How appropriate. Everything is changing but some things that don't have to change is our humanness or our need for connection in whatever way we can get it, especially during this stressful time.

So I would like to thank my niece Savannah for getting me out and I would like to thank that young boy for playing such wonderful music in the middle of a parking lot and letting me enjoy something so simple while allowing me to forget, just for a moment, what a crazy world we live in.

Check out the first 3 chapters from The Signficance of Curly Hair in Scarlet Leaf Review!

Sun, 22 Mar 2020 16:13:17 GMT

Check out the review on Scarlet Leaf Review

Snowy Days, Great Memories

Sat, 08 Feb 2020 17:20:27 GMT

Snow days in Georgia are rare, so when we actually get one, we try to make sure we appreciate Mother Nature to her fullest. It always humors me when I realize that we've had next to no lake activity for months but as soon as it starts snowing we're just drawn to the water: hot tub, lake, whatever.

Years ago, before we got our foam dock floats replaced, our covered steel dock would often sink in the snow. Kim and I would have to scramble, quickly hopping in the paddle boat and kayak to tap the heavy weight off the roof in hopes of getting it on top of the water again. Today we are just appreciating the beauty of winter.

This morning we all sat in the hot tub with our coffees. Senia Mae, of course, made a snowball and started eating it. After a few tasty morsels she turned to me and said, "Wanna bite?" And in a moment of un-adultness I said yes.

Instantly I remembered that cold, crunchy flavor of real snow... gritty, a little dirty, but unbelievably a flavor that brought me back to my childhood in Massachusetts where winters always meant hours outside building igloos, sledding, and yes... eating snow.

The taste sent me into a time warp when I, too, was ten and the most scrumptious meals were in the form of snowballs and icicles. What were your best snow day memories? Send me your your winter snow day pictures. I'd love to see them.

It's All Greek to Me

Sun, 15 Sep 2019 16:25:38 GMT

I consider myself a food purist. When I eat grape leaves I want them to be authentic Greek, when I eat shrimp and grits I want it to be Southern home cooking not served up at a Mexican restaurant, and when I eat pizza I expect it to be Italian. For years I fussed over traditional pizzerias around the metro Boston area becoming "Greek" pizza places. The crust is thicker and a little more greasy, the sauce has a sweet flavor to it, and the cheese gives me hives (at least it did when I was in the 7th grade.) I love Greek food but I want my pizza to be Italian.

Today we were in the city for a friends birthday party and Senia Mae was starving when we left. They served tapas at the party and she would rather go hungry than try something new. Two buildings away was Il Forno NY Pizza & Pasta, a place I had frequented years ago when I was in chiropractic school. Back in the day Il Forno was an authentic New York Pizzeria meaning: thin crust, large fold-able slices, and enough oil on top to drip down your arm while you're eating it. My mouth watered at the mere thought of what was to come.

We parked the car and rounded the corner of the old familiar building. Then I looked up at the sign:

The words New Mediterranean Menu should have been clear enough for me to know I'm going to be disappointed and should just turn around. My family was now laughing at me, nudging me through the door as I spotted another sure sign of non-Italian-ness: an ad to stop by the local Serb-fest gathering next week. We went inside and of course they were playing Greek music not Frank Sinatra and not the Three Tenors.

"Aww, come on," Kim says, "What's the big deal? Pizza is pizza, right?" Wrong... pizza is not pizza. I'm sure the gyros there are awesome, the baklava looked fresh and lovely, and I bet I would have loved the stuffed eggplant but their pizza was Greek not Italian. Maybe I'll have better luck next time!

Why I love XM Radio

Sun, 25 Aug 2019 16:30:45 GMT

Howard Jones belts out the words of New Song on XM channel 33, First Wave classic alternative. The awesome synthesizer melody plays as I turn onto Highway 400 in my mom car but my mind remembers riding my three speed purple Schwinn up and down California Road, butt always hovering a foot higher than the hard, cracked banana seat.

I'm messy haired and gangly dressed in my cousin's hand me down Jordache jeans rolled up at the leg because she was so much taller. That girl that is me belts out Don't Crack up, Bend Your Brain, See Both Sides, Throw Off Your Mental Chains as the wind blows through her hair. It's funny how one song can toss you back thirty five years in a blink.

I remember trying to learn that riff on my sister's Casio, wishing it had just one more octave so I could reach the highs, frustrated that Santa always chose to leave her instruments under the tree even though I was the musical one. Even with that frustration I can hear the message in those lyrics Don't Crack up, Bend Your Brain, See Both Sides, Throw Off Your Mental Chains and with those words of wisdom everything seems right in the world.

Are those words better than any self help book I've ever read? Maybe. Music has always helped me escape and unwind, what is your escape? I'd love to hear.

Unicorn Bakers Unite!!

Tue, 20 Aug 2019 16:35:15 GMT

I have said many times that if I don't make it as a writer and I become too feeble to be a good chiropractor then I will make a living baking unicorn and Barbie cakes for kids parties. Piping purple frosting into flowers of a Victorian ball gown or making sure the sugar cone horn is angled just right is a secret passion of mine. I could do it all day.

One of my patients that also shares my unicorn baking passion presented me with a hilarious handmade Yeti style cup the other day.

I could not take my eyes off of it between the glitter, the real epoxied rainbow sprinkles, the baking unicorn, and of course the hilarious message. It seemed that I could not have received a more awesome and appropriate gift. The next couple of days I proudly poured every cold drink I ingested into it.

Senia Mae was also smitten with the glitter and the sprinkles. So lickable... almost, so sweet... but not really.

"Mama," she gasped after reading the cup's message, sounding completely appalled. "I can't be...lieve you would use THAT cup with the BAD word on it!"

The great thing about her being nine is that she still thinks I'm cool, still wants to snuggle, and basically can get herself up in the morning. The bad thing about her being nine is that she can read.

"I know its a bad word but..." I wanted to say that as an adult there are plenty of times you want to serve some shut the fucupcakes but can't. I wanted to say that in twenty five years you'll understand and laugh with me. But what I really said was, "I really like it for the picture and the sprinkles," which was not completely untrue! How often do you fib to your kids?

Morning blessings

Tue, 13 Aug 2019 16:37:01 GMT

Sometimes my morning prayer goes like this...

"Lord, thank you for all of the gifts and blessings you have given me."
"Thank you for giving me my loving wife and our beautiful child whom we adore."
"Thank you for blessing me with a successful office with a career that I love and feel passionate about."
"Lord, I thank you for all of the talents you have bestowed on me..."

"Lord, I'll try NOT to screw it up!!"

I'd love to hear your morning prayer/meditation...what is yours?

Rock Rock Til You Drop

Sun, 04 Aug 2019 16:42:01 GMT

In my mind I'm still a baby skinned, bad-ass rebel. In reality, I once was a bad-ass rebel but am currently a dutiful, obligated, child-rearing softie. To make myself feel better, like I'm still cool, I put the rag top down and let the warm summer wind blow through my hair.

The open air is freeing in a sense but as I take the curve with a little more gusto than usual, my mid drifts and I realize that I can't even remember the last time I misbehaved. I mean regretfully misbehaved (not get yourself sent to prison misbehaved, but embarrassed if anyone really knew misbehaved.) I drive a little farther and ponder the differences between my current persona and the twenty year old one.

The car hugs the curve and as I feel that familiar resistant pull on the steering wheel. I turn up stereo as it booms Def Leppard's Rock Rock Til You Drop. The thud, thud, thud, rings in my chest as my neck bobs to the heavy, pulsating rhythm. I move my hands from their ten and two positions to a single grip, right palm resting a top the steering wheel as I push my aviators up and view life through their yellow ambiance. Oh yeah, this is the stuff. That girl is still in there. I suddenly feel powerful, confident, and in control.

My moment lasts for just that, a single moment before a sudden gust of wind bellows through the front seat and sends my grocery list flying out of the car like a brittle, autumn leaf. I sigh a deep heavy sigh wondering how I'm going to find it on the side of the busy road but then remember... I'm a bad-ass rebel. I don't need a grocery list, I've got it all upstairs. Take that Kroger!

Maybe Wishes Really Do Come True

Fri, 02 Aug 2019 16:45:09 GMT

"Make a Wish," Senia Mae said as she blew the billowy, white seeds of the blossoming dandelion in my face.

"My wish is...," but before I can finish my words are abruptly cut off.

"Mama," Senia Mae said in a gentle yet scolding tone, "everybody knows your wish has to stay a secret. If anyone else knows it won't come true."

"Oh," I said. "I guess you'll never know what it is." I've never really believed that your wish has to be kept a secret because if it is never heard than how can anyone make sure it happens? This opinion I kept hidden from my daughter although I'm sure she knows my wish for the last 10 years has been for my manuscript to be picked up by a traditional publisher.

This morning, though, I believe a subconscious wish of mine may have come true... getting Senia Mae out the door on time. After a summer of struggling to get our bodies over the threshold before 8:25 a.m., I thought today, the first day of school, would be one more dreadful morning of the wrestling of wills. Imagining that I would have to drag myself to her room several times, pleading with her to climb out of bed and not make me late, I was pleasantly surprised when she crept into my room before the alarm went off at 6. Who's kid is this and what did you do with mine?

"Mama, it's the first day of school. Time to get up!" she said. The rest of the morning was nearly effortless.

"You must be really excited."

"I am," she said. "Now, please don't make me late." I laughed when I realized my own words were being tossed back at me.

I'm sure every parent dreams of easy mornings where the kids get themselves ready, pleasant mornings when you it isn't necessary to raise your voice and you actually get to sip your coffee while its still hot. I don't know, it sure felt like a dream today. I guess I'll just have to see how long this independent spell lasts, for I know even the best intentions sometimes get blown into the wind like dandelion seeds. But for now I'm going to hang on to this one and hope that wishes really do come true.

Broken nipples? No Problemo!

Sun, 23 Jun 2019 16:46:52 GMT

Let me begin by saying that I am a fairly self sufficient woman. Most minor home repairs, computer technicalities, or appliance mishaps are events I can handle on a regular basis. So when the hot tub repairman was booked out three weeks to a month I thought I might be able to address the issue myself.

Fortunately the repair manual was online and I was able to locate the FLC error code being associated with a pressure switch failure. Of course none of the local spa stores carried the part. The guy on the YouTube video made the replacement of it look simple so I ordered the universal switch online and it arrived promptly in two days.

Taking off the service panel I located the water heater and then the faulty pressure switch that was screwed into it's top. I knew to turn off both pressure valves to stop any excessive flow of water before I started unscrewing the old switch. Water slowly dripped as I turned it ever so gently, trying to let the pressurized water release. I obviously gave the second turn too much gusto because the whole switch just popped right off. Instantaneously a magnificent geyser of water erupted all over the circuit board... not good.

I did know enough about how water and electronics should NOT mix to put put my finger over the hole to slow down whatever permanent damage I was causing. Looking at the size of the heater, which was no larger than one liter, I estimated all the water should be released in a few minutes. There I stood, in the muck underneath the sticky hot tub deck maneuvering my finger every few seconds so the squirt of water was aimed at me instead of at the electronics.

Minutes passed and the pressure was not slowing so I thought I'd just try to screw in the new switch. After several unsuccessful attempts, water was spewing into the circuit as I cussed, my frustrated voice echoing into the peaceful wilderness just as our guests arrived. Natalie and her boyfriend Jeff, who happens to be an electrical engineer, walked down the steps bringing gifts of frozen watermelon margaritas.

Keeping my left finger over the darn overflowing hole I gladly accepted some liquid relief and asked Jeff if he could take a look at what was going on. As I licked the frozen goodness off my upper lip he said, "You can't get this new one screwed in because the threads of the old switch broke off in the hole." Instant relief flooded me knowing it wasn't only my lack of skill.

"How can that come out?"

"Well you're going to need to go to the Home Depot and get a broken nipple extractor..." I nearly peed myself I laughed so hard. Isn't that just what every woman needs? A broken nipple extractor? It was the perfect phrase to break my terrible mood. Thank you, Jeff.

So off I'm heading to the Home Depot where every other female employee is somewhat similar to me. I will then proceed to ask them if they can help me locate a broken nipple extractor.

To be continued...

Instantly Loving My Insta Pot

Wed, 16 Jan 2019 22:02:54 GMT

This past holiday season seems like it went by in a blur, in fact I don't think I landed in one spot for more than thirty minutes from Thanksgiving until New Years Day. During these times of what I call "constant chaos" my family doesn't get the home-cooked meals that I normally pride myself on and are left to fend for themselves in the freezer. I must admit as a wife and mother I feel a mountain of guilt over this. These feelings are not placed on me, the issue is purely my own.

Oddly enough, under the Christmas Tree sat a enormously wrapped gift with my name on it. I knew I heard something whispering sweet nothings to me from inside the wrapping paper. I opened up my gift and met my new Insta Pot!

I had heard of these but had not given them a single thought. My eyes darted over the box as I took in just how many functions this one piece of cook-ware had. A few days after Christmas I perused some online Insta Pot recipes and decided on a Beef Strogonoff soup. In a little over an hour I had delicately moist and fork-tender beef over egg noodles. Not only was it delicious, but it seemed almost effortless... toss some ingredients in there and voila you have an entire meal.

One of my favorite features is the pre-set timer. I can prepare the ingredients in the Insta Pot at lunch and schedule it to start cooking at 5:30. After it finishes it will keep the meal warm so when i get home from a crazy day at work dinner is hot and ready! Goodbye mom guilt! I've already used it five or six times in a two week period. Although I've never been personally interested in yogurt making (I'm happy to just buy it) the Insta Pot has a yogurt making feature, so of course I had to try it and now I am a full on domestic goddess who even makes her own Greek yogurt.

After my two weeks of walking in Betty Crocker's footsteps I thought my hard work deserved some sort of prize or trophy. In my mind good cooks had to earn the right to have expensive kitchenware, and I felt like I had earned my token especially since my favorite extra wide, extra high ceramic lasagna pan didn't make it through this year's holiday rush (it got dropped in the sink.)

I saw Williams Sonoma was having sale on Le Creuset covered casserole dishes and figured my recent Insta Pot success earned me the the honor of having the finest of French cookware proudly displayed in my own kitchen.

After waiting 3-5 days for my online order to arrive the UPS man happily left my box in the driveway. You could imagine my dismay when I read the print on the side of the box that said my fine new "French" Le Creuset dish was actually MADE IN CHINA... just like everything else! Oh well, hopefully it cooks the same as the French one!

Singing Road Trip... the best form of kid torture EVER

Thu, 18 Oct 2018 21:06:51 GMT

We had just finished packing up the car, our Grey Traverse stuffed to the rim with dogs, bikes, the kid, and the numerous beach supplies needed for a week's stay in Gulf Shores. I was happy that the morning had been smooth and relaxed. We had managed to shove off at the planned time with no extra packing stress.

Just as the dirt road turned into pavement the voice floated up from the backseat. "Mama, can I have your phone?" I rolled my eyes. Once again we were not on the road more than three seconds before Senia Mae wanted to plant her face in the screen, getting completely sucked into the vacuum effect of electronic stimulation. What ever happened to families talking to each other during long drives. Didn't kids play I Spy or the Alphabet game anymore?

"Kara, it's going to be a seven hour drive," Kim said.

Most days I would push the family talking argument, trying to treasure the lost trove of Americana, but that day I just handed the phone back. Here we go, I thought to myself as I flipped on SiriusXM radio channel 15, The Pulse! Suddenly over the airwaves I heard the voice of Katie Couric announcing she was live on the air with Steve Perry of Journey and was going to spend the next full hour discussing his disappearance from the public eye over the last thirty years.

"Whaaaaat?" I yelled out in excitement as I raised my hand across the middle console to give Kim a high five. "I loooooove Steve Perry!"

Closing my eyes I could still see Steve Perry's smooth black hair and chiseled chin on the faded cover of Tiger Beat Magazine. That ripped cover remained plastered to the wall beside my bed until the mid-eighties. It was going to be a great day, I could feel it. Leaning forward I turned the volume knob up higher, drowning out the Monster High voices coming from the backseat.

"Even his own grandfather believed the rumor about him having throat cancer," I said, turning to Kim, my ears desperately hanging on every word that came out of the speakers.

"That's unbelievable," Kim replied. "Must be crazy living in the spotlight like that."

After a few minutes Katie said they were going to take a short break. I so wanted to be taking her place in that interview. She left us with Steve Perry's smokey voice belting, "I should've been gone... knowing how I made you feel..."

I screamed like an excited schoolgirl going to the eighth-grade semi-formal. Kim and I started swaying left to right in unison with the pulsating bass as he moaned, "Oh I must have been a dreamer..."

"Dream of Gold" Kim and I both sung back-up, wailing at the top of our lungs as the car rocked back and forth, bike tires spinning on the rear rack. We could have easily been Wayne and Garth cruising around town in a Pacer or Melissa McCarthy singing the Milkshake song during the car scene of Identity Thief.

"You guys know all the words to this song?" Senia Mae asked after we both belted out "You'd be better off alone... if I'm not who you thought I'd be..."

"Of course," I said. "I've had Journey's Greatest Hits on cassette, CD, and on iTunes. Even though this was his solo album."

"We love this music," Kim added. "I had this record on 45."

"Yes, I can tell," Senia Mae said with a cake-thick layer of sarcasm. "Do you think you can turn it down? I can hardly hear my video."

"That's what headphones are for," I piped in happily as a deep grunt came from the backseat.

"How long is this guy going to be on?" she asked.

"Hopefully the whole seven hours!" Kim said excitedly. "But more like sixty minutes."

"Sixty minutes? That's a long time..." Senia Mae groaned as Kim and I busted out laughing in the front seat, realizing that this was the best form of kid torture ever.

Thinking of all the countless hours I've had to listen to those annoying YouTube videos where the kids are screeching in pretend baby voices, this moment in time was absolutely priceless. We may not be day trippers but we definitely ARE fun Road Trippers!

Mama, It's Just TOO MUCH!

Fri, 05 Oct 2018 21:10:13 GMT

Sitting in the salon chair yesterday, my stylist mentioned the stress of planning her daughter's birthday party after the last two years coincided with trips to Walt Disney World. "Now my daughter expects every birthday party to be at Disney World," she sighed as she rolled her eyes with a look of exasperation.

"You've set the bar pretty high. It's hard to compete with the magic of Disney. How 'bout a bouncy house?"

"That's what we're planning for this year," she said.

"We thought we had the same trouble with Senia Mae's party last year," I said as she snip-snipped and my curly locks floated down the the floor. "I'd tell her: Senia Mae we need to decide where your party is going to be so we can send out the invites in advance. You know what she said?"

"Mama, this is all just TOO MUCH!"

"What do you mean too much? You sound like a Grandma!"

"You know deciding who can come and who not to invite... it's just stressful. Can it just be the three of us?"

I didn't tell her I'd love to save the hundreds of dollars to costs to throw a big party! I said, "Sure. We can have lunch at American Girl and how about getting a hotel room with an indoor pool?" She was thrilled about staying in a hotel. In her mind very few things compared to the importance of a hotel stay.

Later on when someone asked what she was doing for her birthday Senia Mae said,"we're going on vacation."

"Oh, to where?" they asked.

"Senia Mae spouted off proudly, "Alpharetta."

"Oh you're going on a nice vacation to Alpharetta!" What makes this so funny is that Alpharetta is about a twenty minute trip, two towns over from where we live. So we looked like real big spenders taking our kid on a birthday vacation in Alpharetta! The important thing was that she loved her special birthday with just her moms and that in itself made the voyage to Alpharetta worth the trip!

Number two? Lucky you.

Tue, 11 Sep 2018 21:13:03 GMT

I don't know if it was the full summer of sun scorching or the fact our internal clockwork is messed up because school starts twenty minutes later this year, but even after four weeks in session the Zajac family can't seem to get into the proper flow of fall.

Yesterday morning I was thrilled as I peeked around the corner and saw Senia Mae completely dressed and fixing her hair thirty minutes before we had to leave. Thinking that all technical difficulties had been avoided, I took the rare occasion to focus merely on getting myself ready for work. Big Mistake.

After finishing my hair and makeup, packing up her lunch, and filling my Yeti to the rim with piping hot coffee, I headed around the corner towards Senia Mae's room.

"Senia Mae, it's 7:45... time to leave for school," I called out happily.

"Just a minute," I heard in a muffled voice.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In the bathroom."

"Well honey it's time to go," I added as I turned the knob on the bathroom door only to find my daughter sitting completely naked on the toilet, shorts, shirt, shoes and socks scattered across the aqua colored tile. Trying not to let her see my sudden flare of anger as I realized that ONCE AGAIN she wasn't ready, I faked my empathetic voice. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I just had to go the bathroom," she said.

"So you're not sick?"

"Nope," she said. My immediate thought was why she hadn't gone to the bathroom twenty minutes earlier when I heard her singing and playing with her new LOL doll.

"Senia Mae," I said trying to calm the irritation in my voice, "You were all ready for school thirty minutes ago. If you had to suddenly go to the bathroom, why is it that you came in fully dressed and now you are completely naked?"

"Mama," she said, looking so hurt that I didn't just automatically know the answer, "I had to go POOP!"

Some people have the ability to remain clothed AND have a bowel movement, I whispered to myself as I shut the door in defeat. Apparently that is not the case with us. So instead of a stress free morning we ended up speeding to school, screeching into the parking lot, and landing right in front of the double doors at 8:10... just as the bell rang. Maybe we'll have better luck next week!

The Inventor of Personal Water Receptacles

Sun, 05 Aug 2018 21:17:49 GMT

An excerpt from my memoir: The Significance of Curly Hair

My best friend Laura lived directly across California Road on the opposite end of the cul-de-sac. We spent nearly every waking minute together. Whether it was playing Barbies, riding bikes, or rolling down the hill until we almost threw up, we were practically conjoined twins. One exceptionally sweltering day we were caught up complaining about the heat and why we could never have a pool. While most days our burning desires were pacified by skipping through the lawn sprinkler while singing at the top of our lungs, this day was different. Skipping and singing was not going to be good enough. We needed more water. As Gram came around the corner of the house carrying her garden whip-it, we confronted her with the question that every kid bugs their parents with summer after summer.

“Why can’t we have a pool?” I said pouting, looking like I had just taken a huge bite of crab apple salad. Without even batting an eye, Gram came up with a witty response, it was so quick that it seemed as if the words were just resting on her tongue waiting for us to ask.

“Why do you need a pool,” she said with that glimmer of magic that made her eyes dance when she knew she was coming up with something really good, “when you can each have your own personal swimming receptacles?” Laura and I stared at her in wonder, hopeful with possibility and grateful that we were finally being heard. Both of us eight year old, twig legged, tangled haired girls looked up at her with bottom lips sticking out, as we listened intently to the fabulous, yet fantastical description of these personal swimming receptacles. They were round, chest high, and held enough water to cover our shoulders. “It’s like having your own pool all to yourself,” Gram said with such enthusiasm that we needed to know exactly where to get them.

Laura and I both agreed that the receptacles were exactly what we were looking for, possibly the only things that would let us survive the excruciatingly hot day that still included many more blistering hours. Nodding to each other in unison, we asked Gram to explain one more time where exactly they were located, because she made it absolutely clear that we already had them and we could be swimming within minutes.

“Oh yes, they’re right there behind the house, in between the hose and the bulkhead,” she said pointing towards the water spigot. Her voice remained steady and serious as she turned away from us, heading back inside the house. My last two toes caught a few pieces of tall clover in between them as we quickly pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and ran at a full sprint to the back of the house. In my head I imagined they looked like those see through plastic dunk tanks you hit with baseballs at the carnival. Scanning the back of the house from left to right I didn’t see anything big and clear and plastic. I looked between the hose and the bulkhead. There were no receptacles. Maybe she meant inside the bulkhead. Laura and I stood on the gray painted plywood doors, chipping from years of weather, and pulled on the metal handles with all of the strength we could muster. The doors didn’t budge.

“Do you see them?” I asked Laura as I started to get frustrated. She shook her head. Jumping off the bulkhead we decided to look behind the house one last time, uncovering the hose, two brown rubber trash barrels, a shovel, and three milk jugs with twigs in them. Where were the personal water receptacles? We stormed back to the screened door demanding an answer.

Gram met us at the door as she dabbed her forehead with a cool cloth, the neck of her blue tank top moist with sweat after whacking down weeds with her whip-it. “We can’t find them. They’re not there,” I said abruptly, looking directly into her eyes through the screened door. We both informed her that they were nowhere to be found, we had looked three times.

“I saw them there earlier, let me come with you and maybe we can find them together,” she said as her voice crackled slightly, trying to maintain her serious tone and not laugh. Laura and I turned around and sped down the five concrete steps with Gram in tow.

“See, there’s nothing there,” I said pointing to the back of the house, dragging Gram up close so she could see with her own eyes that we were not skipping over anything. We had thoroughly scoured the exterior of the house, the personal water receptacles were not there. Gram smiled as she walked up next to the bulkhead, grabbing the two brown Rubbermaid trash barrels by their handles and flipping them over.

“Here they are right where I said they were.” She pointed proudly at the barrels.

“But those are trash barrels,” I said, “You said these were personal water receptacles.” My disappointment was building as I crossed my arms and stuck one hip out, temporarily annoyed at the ridiculous idea of swimming in trash barrels.

“All we have to do is rinse any loose grass clippings out of these barrels and they are perfectly clean. We’ll carry them down to the bottom of the hill, sit them in the sun and fill them with water. You will each have your own personal water receptacle, much better than any pool you’d have to share.” Gram walked off carrying the barrels with us following like slugs. “Bring the hose down with you.”

Laura and I tugged at the hose, each carrying three or four connected ringlets down to the bottom of the hill. When we reached Gram we handed over the hose and I sprinted back to the spigot to turn the water on, still skeptical of the idea of a trashy pool. Gram quickly rinsed a few strands of loose grass from the barrels and all three of us agreed that they looked good as new. She lined them up side by side and filled them each half full with water, placing a cinder block in between the barrels to use as a step to get in and out.

I had Laura try it first; she was always a good Guinea Pig. Watching her skinny leg slide over the rim and into the water, I saw her eyebrows lift in pleasant surprise as her smile widened. “It’s great,” she said as she plunged her body up and down, “You should try it.” I reluctantly followed, still wanting to be upset but unable to keep the pout on my face. The cool water felt so refreshingly wonderful that before we even realized it, we were springing up and down in our personal water receptacles, singing, squealing, and having a big time. We jumped up and down and in and out, over and over and over again. We were having so much fun that we didn’t even notice that Gram went back to the house until she returned with a plastic flowered serving tray and two paper cups filled with Lipton Instant iced tea.

“You must be getting thirsty with all this exciting activity,” she said in that I-told-you- so tone, handing over the cups as we gulped ravenously. Laura and I were bubbling over with delight, having absolutely no recollection of our sour moods thirty minutes prior.

“These water receptacles are the best ever. I can’t believe we didn’t think of this earlier,” Laura said as she spun around in her tub. “Oh and thanks for the iced tea. We’re really workin’ hard out here.” Gram turned around then, letting us delight in our summertime glory, pleased at her accomplishment of the day. The joys and simplicities of life peaked that day, teaching me first hand a valuable life lesson: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. If no lemons are available then iced tea will always do.

I'll Be Seeing You... If Only In My Dreams

Tue, 03 Jul 2018 21:24:23 GMT

This title of this post was written in a love letter from my Grandfather to my Grandmother in April 1945 when he was still serving active duty in the Air Force. I never met him, he passed back in 1957, but the loss of my Grandmother, who's traumatic death happened suddenly ten years ago, left me feeling as if I had severed off my right arm. There are certain days I feel more positive about her being gone, but even after a decade our entire family feels the emptiness of her absence.

Last week we had the pleasure of having my sister's four children down for a cousin's camp week at the lake. I have no doubt that Gram was looking over us, happy to see her great grandchildren making family memories that will last a lifetime.

Needless to say after a week of entertaining five kids, utter exhaustion had set in for the adults. Last night Senia Mae crept into our bed claiming to have a belly ache but I knew it was really because she missed us after focusing so much attention on her cousins!

Our queen sized bed used to be large enough to house our family of three, but with a long-legged eight year old who still ends up sleeping in the H position, someone usually gets the boot. Last night it was me who ended up on the couch.

I chose to lie flat instead of trying to get sleep in the automatic recliner. The sensation of my right arm tingling and going numb kept me from entering a deep sleep but allowed me to have a vivid dream about Gram. In the dream my mother and I were near her and she told us she was going to die. I felt the gripping panic I had felt during her actual death and somehow she calmed me, saying I should not worry and that she will visit me on Wednesdays.

When I awoke I felt as if she had really visited me in my dream and ran over to the stack of books I keep next to my bed, gabbing an old favorite, "Ask the Dream Doctor."

Quickly flipping to the chapter on dream encounters with the already deceased, I read that up to 50% of people believe that they actually can be contacted by loved ones who have died because of the trance-like state of mind during dreaming. Closing my eyes, I hoped it was so. What I missed was having one more conversation with my beloved grandmother.

On page 117 Charles Lambert McPhee states,
"The gift that death bestows upon the living is the awareness that our hours in the sun, genuinely, are fleeting. In death's shadow we learn that every day is a good day to smell the roses, to perform a kind act, to contact an old friend, to breathe deep in the ocean of life. By providing contrast, death sharpens our vision of the miracle of life."

Senia Mae woke up to see me reading the dream book with tears flowing steadily down my cheeks.

"Mama, what happened?" she asked.

"Oh, I had a dream about Gram," I said. "I miss her so much, but she told me she's going to visit me on Wednesdays. It kind of makes me feel better. I think I might write about it."

"Mama, aren't you afraid that if you talk about it your dream won't come true?"

"No,baby," I say as I rub my hand over her sleepy forehead, "It already has come true."

Princesses Never Retire...They Just Reformat!

Sat, 02 Jun 2018 21:26:15 GMT

I walked into the bathroom to find my little princess perched on the throne, Elsa's glittery chiffon 'Ice Queen' ensemble lying in a heap below her dangling feet. This came as a surprise because earlier last year when I asked if she still liked being a princess she had promptly reminded me that she was now eight and into Monster High. I made a mental note. Point taken.

"Mama, I'm going to wear a dress every day this summer," Senia Mae said.

"Is that so," I said as I leaned over the sink to examine a few straggling hairs poking out of my right eyebrow. "Why do you want to wear a dress every day?"

"Just because I want to," she said. "I like being fancy." And fancy she was. Kim and I have always joked that when Senia Mae was born she came out with a poof of glitter.

"Mama come here," she said. "Do you know what a butterfly kiss is?"

"Of course I do," I said as I bent over her little body and gently rubbed my nose against hers. "Like that, right?"

"No, that's an Eskimo kiss." She then turned her head to the right brought her face closer to mine, and giggled as she fluttered her long arched eyelashes until they tickled the ends of my own eyelashes. "THAT'S a butterfly kiss." At that moment there was a peace in my heart that is unlike anything else I have experienced before parenthood.

I can't say I look forward to days no longer filled with the simplistic wonder of a child's imagination. The mere thought of this going away makes my heart ache just a little. Although I'm sure recitals, graduations, proms, and (gulp) weddings will be major milestones in our lives; the little stuff, the days of childhood innocence, the days of wrinkled chiffon dresses and butterfly kisses, are really the days I want to make sure I never forget.

Becoming Those Sisters Again

Fri, 25 May 2018 21:28:38 GMT

The sweet “sirens” of caffeine addiction were calling out to me as I poured my second cup of coffee, realizing that it was time to wake up Farts, a nickname I had given my sister when we were kids. When she was really little she used to sit on my father’s lap and watch TV. My dad was not at all discreet about his bodily functions, so he would let one rip and start laughing right before Kristy said, “Dad, I LIKE farts!” Of course as an American, beer drinking, Three Stooges loving, blue collar working male, he found the comment absolutely hilarious, connecting with his prima donna toddler on a whole new level.

Kristy and I used to play an old version of Jeopardy on the home computer, back when an Intel 386 was as close to lightning speed as we could possibly imagine. We had to name our own contestants and I would always sneak in her contestant’s name before I called her down to play. As soon as she sat down, the cartoon version of Alex Trebek would say, “OK, Farts, pick your first answer,” and I would burst out laughing. She would sit there giving me that “this is SO unfair” glare, gritting her teeth as she sat next to me fuming mad, but continuing to play anyway, because restarting the game could take up to twenty minutes.

*****

I headed up the stairs with the intention of rising my mother and sister. They were both overly exhausted and probably could have slept all day, no one eager to confront the next task: going over the details of Gram’s funeral. The door to my parents’ room was slightly ajar and I could see my mother sleeping on her side through the crack. I gave a soft knock as I nudged it open so she wouldn’t be frightened. She struggled for a second, trying to appear more awake than she really was.

“We have to leave in an hour.” I whispered. She nodded in response and I backed out of the room recognizing the role reversal that at some point happens between parents and children.

Kristy appeared in her doorway like a more attractive, female version of Archie Bunker, slow moving and groggy, before I had made my way across the hall to wake her.

“You didn’t need to be woken up after all,” I joked.

“Yeah, who would want to miss this,” she smirked and shuffled towards the bathroom.

None of us were what you would call “morning people,” we woke very slowly, moving about with a slightly forward leaning gait and foot shuffle, not speaking in full sentences for at least the first thirty minutes. Gram and Kim were the exceptions. As far back as I can remember, Gram was alert and ready to go before sunrise, maybe because that was the only time of day a widowed mother of four had an actual moment of solitude.

*****

When I was about seven years old, McDonalds introduced their first line of refillable plastic coffee mugs. For some reason, Gram thought these new mugs were just awesome. If you arrived at the restaurant before 6 in the morning, for the early bird special, you would receive a free travel mug with the purchase of breakfast. Since the family only had one car, and neither my Mom nor Dad worked weekend mornings, we were guaranteed the use of the car both Saturdays and Sundays.

Gram and I would wake up at 5:30 a.m., making sure that we were silent enough not to wake Kristy. It was fairly easy since Gram and I shared a double bed. We would have our clothes ready the night before, carefully planning our escape from the house without anyone else knowing.

If splitting a plate of sausage and pancakes wasn’t exhilarating enough on its own, being the secret accomplice in deceiving my sleeping sister was enough to make this seven-year-old feel ecstatic. I remember the pride I felt when we shared our “secret breakfasts,” moments that were just ours. During those stolen meals, I had won the daily battle of “who gets Gram,” an unspoken possessive power struggle between Kristy and me throughout our childhood. We were always pulling Gram in opposite directions, hoping she’d secretly like one of us better. Fortunately she had enough love to divide between us equally, and solved the problem by making each one of us feel like we were individually getting more than the other.

When the five people could no longer comfortably fit in the four-room cottage, my parents doubled the size of the house by adding a second floor. The new upstairs had three bedrooms as well as a second full bathroom and compared to the tight living quarters I had been used to, I remember feeling as if we now lived in a mansion. My parents had the master bedroom, while Gram and Kristy got twin beds and moved into the larger of the other two bedrooms. My room was a little bit smaller but came with all the privacy a nine year old would require.

Having my own room was a great idea in theory, but deep down I was insanely jealous of my sister sharing her room with Gram, because I was the oldest and thought Gram was all mine. I came up with a fantastic way to trick my sister out of having Gram and Gram must have found it fun because she went right along with it. The nightly plan unfolded like this: Gram would pretend to go to bed in Kristy’s room, going as far as getting under the covers and faking sleep. When she was absolutely sure that my sister was sleeping, I gave her strict orders to silently tiptoe into my room and spend the rest of the night in my bed. I even kept one of Gram’s favorite feather pillows in my room to make the trip more enticing. To avoid any conflict between her granddaughters, she would have to wake very early and return back to her other bed. I don’t remember how long this crazy routine actually went on, but I imagine that it meant as much to her as it meant to us and on the life long list of things that really matter, it was worth all of the trouble.

*****

If she wasn’t mad at me for teasing her, Kristy and I would sit together at the top of the hallway stairs, playing Uno or Barbie dolls, sometimes just talking and enjoying being with each other. In my room we would make a tent out of blankets, draping them from the brass footboard and hiding underneath, spending the night cuddled up in a ball as we shone our shiny metal flashlights on the wall, making shadow figures and giggling while trying to scare each other. It was easy to get the spooks as I told stories of the lonely old ghost woman who cried out in the night, “Who stole my golden arm?” making the sound of wind whooshing and tapping on the blanket as my sister jumped out of her skin.

On schooldays Kristy would come into my room before she left the house and ask my opinion on her outfit. Some days I would not pay close attention, mumbling that her dress was fine as I focused on something else. I was a teenager with a bustling social life, busy focusing on who had broken up at school and what our clique was doing on Friday night. I had more important things than my little sister’s wardrobe to focus on.

“What do you think of this?” she’d ask as I blew her off, looking for my other pink Converse All Star high top under the bed.

“Yeah, that’s good.” I said in an unconvincing tone, still not giving her my full attention.

“Would you wear it?” she spat back, her hands perched on her hips with her lower lip stuck out, intensely waiting on my response as if I was the fashion mogul of the world and my opinion would make or break the outcome of the day. If I said no, or even implied it with a smirk, there would be thirty more minutes of rummaging through the closet for the appropriate attire of the day, tops, skirts, and leggings strewn every which way all over the floor, looking as if someone had been on a crazed rampage searching the closets for hidden treasure. Eventually I would give in, going in her room and offering up advice. “You can’t wear a tight fitting shirt with tight fitting pants. If you want to wear those leggings than you need a shirt that is kind of loose. It’s the rules. Here, try this one.” When she left the house, she left feeling confident. Secretly I was, too, but would never admit that the older sister liked playing dress up with a real Barbie.

My mom would do Kristy’s hair with the back down and a ponytail at an angle on one side, kind of like Punky Brewster. What Mom didn’t realize was that by the third or fourth grade the Punky Brewster look could put a huge target on Kristy’s back. With that hairdo and the large round blue glasses she wore, my poor little sister had no chance of being one of the cool kids at school, even though Mom and Betty swore that they read the fashion magazines and these styles where what everyone else was wearing. I was never fully sure that they were reading the “current” fashions. Having been the different kid for years, I knew on a deep level that school taunting to some could be considered “character building,” but I didn’t want her getting picked on like I did and would sneak my sister in to my room to re-do her hair, letting it down and brushing it out, using the curling iron to give it a little extra body. It gave her a more mature and sophisticated look rather than like she was going to ask to join the Double Dutch game.

“There ya go….” I would say as I finished up, running my fingers through the base to separate the curls. We did this routine a few times a week. Sitting on the bench of my walnut armoire, I watched her confidence grow as she viewed her reflection in the mirror. Her face lit up as she thanked me and ran off. Since I was cool in her eyes, whatever I did was obviously superior to anything she or Mom could do.

*****

Mom told me that when I left for college Kristy cried every day and slept in my bed for four weeks. I thought our relationship would always stay the same, even though I wasn’t around as much; we could talk on the phone and visit every few months, but somehow that wasn’t enough. We grew apart and she started to close herself off. Looking back I think I acted as a sort of buffer amidst the oil and water relationship between my sister and mother. I wondered if on some level she felt like I abandoned her, leaving her there to fight all the battles on her own. We had always been a team, she and I, taking it on together.

I hated that I missed being an active part of her teenage years, but I was 5 ½ years older, and at that age the difference was tremendous. When I was available again, after chiropractic school, it was too late, that space in her heart had been replaced. She had found Matt and gave all the trust she had in me to him. Nowadays we could go months without talking, and even though we got along great when we were together, those occasions were so rare that our relationship didn’t have the same strength. I wasn’t the one she called when she needed an open ear, and I hated that my leaving in 1994 had caused such irreversible damage. It seemed like she no longer needed me.

In Atlanta, I lived far enough away that I could consume myself in other things, pretending that the emotional distance between us didn’t hurt as badly as it did. That is until I met Kim and witnessed the closeness she shared with her Mom and three sisters. Even though they all lived in separate states, they managed to talk several times a week, keeping active in each other’s lives. If one happened to visit without the others, they would call all day, their excitement traveling over the phone line as they checked in, making sure whomever made the flight, jealous of what they were missing even if it only involved sitting around the table and catching up. They all appreciated the time they spent together and their closeness had value. I wanted to feel that again with Kristy.

It was rare that my sister and I were both home without our spouses, reminding me of the forgotten dynamics of our relationship that got tossed aside in the busyness of our adult lives. Somehow time changed us, affecting things I usually don’t have the nerve to bring up when we are actually talking. But right then we were those sisters again, Farts and Doobla, the girls helping to hold the family together.

Bang Your Head...The Princess Has Awoken

Fri, 23 Mar 2018 21:32:18 GMT

In my forty-four years I have learned that there are only two types of people in the morning: the ones who are morning people and the others who are clearly NOT morning people. These two types of personalities can happily coexist but it does require a delicate push/pull dance from both sides. Clearly in our home today the morning people took over the entire dance and grabbed the microphones.

I'm not going to say she's a slug... but Senia Mae, like myself, is NOT a morning person. She moves at the pace of a turtle until she is completely awake. This morning Kim had the pleasure of rising the princess, of which the first three gentle attempts were a complete failure.

Mommy Kim, with her morning person ingenuity, thought giving Senia Mae a little extra incentive might work. She hit the volume on her phone up as loud as it would go and started blaring, "Bang Your Head... Metal health will drive you MAD" by Quiet Riot and secretly snuck out of the room.

A few minutes later a lower lip out, pouty child sat on the kitchen bar stool angrily glaring at her now cold scrambled eggs. Kim was dancing around the kitchen, ignoring the grumpy lump sitting on the stool who now was so mad that there was a tear welling up in the corner of her right eye. Kim had now moved on to AC/DC's Thunderstruck, trying to mimic Angus Young's little leg shuffle as she grabbed the peanut butter for Senia Mae's lunch.

"I DON'T LIKE TO WAKE UP TO ROCK N' ROLL," Senia Mae grumbled, in a voice similar to the father on The Christmas Story when he said "You used all the glue on purpose!" I froze in my tracks hearing those words, for I, like Eric Clapton, have a rock n' roll heart. This clearly did not affect Kim because she continued to happily skip around the kitchen.

"Young Lady," I said in a mock authoritarian voice, "It's a long way to the top if you want to rock n' roll..." Senia Mae looked at me totally baffled but before she could respond with any more anti-rock semantics I forked a piece of syrup drenched waffle into her mouth. "I'm sorry, but this is a rock n' roll home." I turned around so she wouldn't see me laughing as I was trying to lighten her mood.

Just then Kim pulled up the last scene from Jack Black's School of Rock. "Just look at these kids'" I said as they're playing It's A Long Way To The Top for the battle of the bands while rolling the credits. The camera then shifts to the School of Rock sign that reads: After School Program 3:00-4:30 Rock On... 4:30-6:00 Advanced Rock. Senia Mae took the phone into her room while she got dressed and came out singing "Shoo be doo be doo bee" with the back up singers.

"Now THAT'S a better attitude," I said as I kissed her forehead and guided her out the door. Parenting can just be so HARD sometimes!

Since we got the whole rock n' roll thing settled I wonder if she'd like to wake up to a drum solo Monday morning? Guess I'd better ask first! All you parents out there... how do you wake up your sleeping zombies? Drop me a line, I'd love to know!

Forty years later...Thank you, Santa!

Tue, 06 Feb 2018 22:38:17 GMT

It was Christmas 1977, the middle of a decade that flourished on the mindset that bigger is definitely better. The world cried as they watched the funeral of their larger than life icon, Elvis Presley. Gram's Chevrolet Caprice came standard with a 454 engine and a back seat the size of a double bed. My enormous but stylish bell bottoms got stuck in my bicycle chain daily until I learned how to keep them contained with rubber bands around my ankles. Yep, we were living large for sure.

That year I asked Santa for a small palm-sized television so I could watch my favorite cartoons on the bus as I rode to school. My creative little mind yearned for the exact opposite of everything gigantic in the 70s. Little did I know back then.

The jolly, white bearded man turned towards me with an extremely serious expression, as if I were insane for even considering that a small, TV-like device could ever be possible. I thought elves could make anything.

Santa was courteous enough to leave me a note on the chalkboard that read, "In the North Pole we just don't have the resources," but hoped I would be satisfied with him leaving the family a present... our first color television. I was thrilled.

Flash forward forty years. I am completely immersed in adulthood stress with a list of chores as long as my arm. This morning I'm sitting in an uncomfortably hard chair in a room over scented by car fresheners smelling like a cheap flower explosion as I wait on an oil change.

Today I have a palm-sized iPhone 7 plus in my hand. I hit the home button and get a Yahoo finance alert that says, "Morning brief: Dow recorded largest single-day point decline in history." Fortunately in 2018 I have the choice to either watch as my financial future crumbles right in front of my eyes or I can put on my earbuds and open up my new Boomerang from Cartoon Network app.

Flintstones... Meet the Flintstones...They're the Modern Stone-Age Family...From the Town of Bedrock...It's a Place Right Out of History. I'm already feeling more positive about the day.

Who says you can't always get what you want? Sometimes it's all about the timing. Thank you, Santa, better late than never.

The Chickens are On Strike

Tue, 30 Jan 2018 22:46:47 GMT

"Put eggs on the grocery list," Kim says this morning while I'm pouring myself my first cup of coffee. The list is written on a piece of scrap paper that sits on a wooden stand right next to my beloved Bunn O Matic.

"I don't think buying eggs is necessary, we have chickens for that," I say, while trying to come up with a quick chicken defense.

"Have you looked in the refrigerator lately? I think the chickens are on strike."

It is true, lately the consistency of egg laying has been a little... well... inconsistent. I relate it to the stress caused after a neighborhood dog attacked our flock last November, killing Brownie, my favorite Rhode Island Red and severely de-feathering Sunflower the Americana. Between that and the last month of below freezing temperatures I'm ready to pack up this entire herd and head down to Key West, where the sun is always shining and humans, chickens, and other animals seem to naturally co-exist.

"You know it's been a stressful winter on all of us, not just the ladies," I say. I've always called our chickens the ladies because they feel like they're part of us, especially when they fly up to the kitchen window and peer inside, looking as if they are wondering, "What's cooking in there?" Don't worry, it's not chicken.

"I think we just need to give them a little more time."

"Time to what? The whole reason we have chickens is to have fresh eggs, they're not keeping up with their end of the bargain," Kim says. "Why do you have to take it so personally anyway? This is only the second or third dozen eggs we've had to buy in like three years." She was right. Until recently, we always had an abundance of eggs.

Several years ago, when I was trying to convince Kim how great it would be to have pet chickens, part of my seductive sales pitch was, 'Just consider how much money we spend every week on organic, free range eggs... and the cost is just going to increase.' I sounded like a 1950's door to door saleswoman, but I was ready to be a farmer and I knew had to raise the persuasive bar.

"For some reason buying eggs makes me feel like I am cheating the ladies in some weird sort of way. It's crazy, I know."

"Crazy indeed," Kim adds.

So today I bought a dozen organic, free range eggs at Kroger for $3.79. I didn't tell the ladies, I merely snuck the eggs into the house while they weren't looking. Afterwards I went into the coop and made their nesting boxes more attractive with fresh shavings and several ceramic eggs to get them in the mood. For now I'm just going to keep reading

and hope to see a blue egg in the nest tomorrow morning.

If you have any good ideas I would love to hear them!

The Long and Short of Things

Sat, 27 Jan 2018 22:50:57 GMT

"Those new sweatpants your mom bought Senia Mae are almost too small," Kim said as she pulled a colored load out of the dryer. "Do you think she knows she got her a 6x?"

"You know how my mom is with sizes," I said while rolling my eyes.

Recently, well maybe not so recently, my baby weight has returned and is now mixed with hormonal peri-menopause. So, after years of having almost identical body shapes, my mother and I are no longer able to share the same clothes. She is now two to three sizes smaller than me, which would be not be a problem if it wasn't made into such a spectacle when we are together.

A few months ago we happened to be clothes shopping. My mother turned to me and shouted, "Do you think this comes in a small or extra small?" I had to warn her that she might want to talk more softly because an average shaped woman is going to want to yank on her ponytail in frustration when they overhear that all of the sizes are "just too big."

My side of the family has an obsession with all things small and being small and staying small... forever. At some point in my life I would like to be able to look at myself in the mirror and be happy with what I saw in the reflection, whatever size I am. The weight obsession is a constant struggle, one that I am trying not to pass down to my daughter who is perfect just the way she is.

"Senia Mae is almost 8. We haven't bought a 6x in two years," Kim said.

"I don't know. Maybe she thought Senia Mae is still extra small," I said, eye-balling the length of the sweatpants while holding them up in the air. "At least they're not super short."

"Yet," Kim said. "She'll be outgrowing them in a month. I'll ask your mom about them tonight."

Later that evening I sat down next to Mom. "Did you know that running suit you bought Senia Mae was a 6x? She's practically outgrown it already."

"No way," Mom said. "I'm pretty sure I got all the kids the right sizes."

When my parents visit my sister's family in North Carolina Mom runs with all five grandchildren. The kids love it and call their group 'Grammy's Running Club.' Over the holidays Grammy got each of the three boys and the two girls matching running suits for the club.

"Did you check the size of the top?" Mom asked.

"You know, I didn't even think about that," I said.

"I'll call Kristy and see if Morgan has the right size since their suits are almost identical," Mom said. Morgan is a year and a half younger and one size smaller than Senia Mae.

"Yep, Kristy said Morgan's pants are a size 7/8 and her top is a 6x. They must have got switched in the laundry when we were up there a few weeks ago. I knew I wasn't completely losing it."

The moral of the story?

When multiple kids have the same clothes in different sizes make sure you pack up YOUR OWN kid's clothes BEFORE you start blaming your own insecurities on your innocent mother! Sorry Mom!

3rd and Inches

Sun, 07 Jan 2018 22:57:22 GMT

Picture it: January 4th, 2018 in North Georgia. The East Coast is getting plummeted by what meteorologists have labeled a "bomb cyclone," a mammoth storm bringing frigid temperatures and arctic blast weather. Fortunately in this part of Georgia we didn't get hit with any snow, but the well below freezing temperatures made it feel like Queen Elsa had gotten more than a little bit angry with us.

My parents hoped to avoid the arctic chill by taking Senia Mae to Universal Studios, but even in Orlando it was a chilly forty- six degrees. Our car has a built in DVD player so we let my parents drive our SUV to Florida and I decided I could tool around in our old truck for a couple of days.

Under normal conditions we take the truck out at least once a week to keep it running well, but over Christmas we had to make extra room in the driveway for guests and parked the truck in the woods up by the road. It was already pitch dark when we moved the truck so we pulled it into the space facing two trees and a five foot high woodpile instead of backing it in like we usually do. Yesterday when I tried to crank the engine, not a single sound came from under the hood. The arctic blast had frozen the life out of our old truck battery.

Because of the way the truck had been maneuvered into the tight slip in the woods, there was no way to pull another car anywhere close to the engine for a jump start. My only option was plugging up the battery charger, which was a good choice except that it required electricity. The nearest outlet was about the length of a football field away from the hood of the truck.

"I can do this," I said to myself as I headed to the storage shed. The two remaining extension cords were six-foot candy cane striped cords I had gotten in last year's clearance sale at Walmart. They were the only ones currently not in use either for Christmas decorations or to keep something from freezing in the frigid cold.

I couldn't unplug the heater keeping the well pump from icing over or the cord for the heat lamp to the hen house, but we could do without the light up Santa on the porch. Even though that drop cord was probably fifty feet, sixty-two feet of cord was still not going to be enough. Remembering the last time I used the battery charger was on the dock last summer, I ran down to the boat and found the charger tucked away in a compartment with a twenty-five foot extension cord. Bonus points... I was making headway.

My hands burned in the bitter cold as I lugged the two extension cords and battery charger up the thirty stairs dropping them by the electrical outlet in the driveway. I eye-balled the length of the four cords I had piled up then looked up the hill to the truck in the distance realizing I was still going to come up short.

Years ago, during a bad breakup, my crazy ex had said, "I came into this relationship with ten extension cords..." as we were dividing up the house stuff. My initial reaction was "who the heck counts extension cords?" but I sure wish I had fought harder for them now. Heading back down to the basement, I rummaged through some boxes in the utility closet and found one more fifteen foot cord.

The two candy cane cords made it from the outlet half way across the width of the driveway. I then attached the fifteen foot orange cord and tossed it across the rest of the driveway. Instead of climbing up the steep embankment, I carried the other two cords and the charger along the edge of the drive and started at the engine of the truck.

The charger itself had about two feet of cord, so I clamped the red and black posts and laid the charger on the edge of the truck. Tossing the first drop cord over the five-foot high wood pile, I carefully navigated through the briars in what seemed like the shortest path to the electric outlet. The second cord seemed like it was going to be plenty long enough as I tossed it down the embankment towards the open end of the orange cord in the driveway. All I had to do was walk back down the hill and put the ends together.

When I got back to the driveway, what looked like plenty of cord was probably the same illusion that baffles football players after third down when the chains come out and measure third and inches. I could hold both cords, one in the left hand and one in the right, it was so close. But even with a good tug on the line, there just wasn't enough leeway to connect them together.

I ran back up to the truck to see how I could stretch a few more inches out of the already taught line. Grabbing a knee high camping table, I placed it halfway between the hood of the truck and the woodpile then stretched the cable of the charger enough so it reached the table. Hopefully this would be enough. When I pulled the two cords together I lacked about a half of an inch. A swift tug on the cord running up the hill allowed me enough lag to plug the cords together, leaving a spot in the middle slightly suspended in the air. Finally the crazy debacle was over.

A few hours later I checked on the battery. I turned the key to find lights turning on and dinging on the dashboard, but the engine wouldn't turn over. It went into the passive theft-deterrent mode as a safety precaution. The last time the truck battery lost power it took me over an hour to figure out how to disengage the high tech security feature of the truck. I had written the sequence down and kept it in the glove box.

All I had to do was hit unlock on the key less entry fob, place the key in the ignition, turn it slightly, press and hold the valet button under the steering column for at least five seconds and then the security system should disengage. Simple enough. I fumble through the cup holder with the spare change to find the keys. When I hit the unlock button on the fob nothing happened. I hit it a second, third, then fourth time with no results.

"Nooooooooooo," I whined as I laid my head on the steering wheel, disgruntled and disgusted. Of course, the battery of the key fob was dead too. Thanks Elsa. I may as well buy a couple more extension cords while I'm picking up new batteries for the key fob!

Pluck Me Out of the Hand Basket to Hell

Wed, 13 Dec 2017 23:01:19 GMT

Growing up Roman Catholic in the 1970’s, I don’t feel I was as exposed to “hard core” religion as the kids raised in other denominations. We carried our Bibles to catechism but didn’t necessarily read them; it was only in 1969 that the Catholic Mass had been translated into English. The official language of the church is Latin and each new Missal is still recited in that tongue, so we Catholics have always been used to not being able to understand what the Priests were saying anyway. The one main thing we did learn as Catholics is how to love and be good to one other, and for that I will be forever grateful.

A few months before my twenty-first birthday I moved south of the Mason-Dixon Line to Atlanta, which unbeknownst to me was in the heart of the Bible belt. I was frequently asked by complete strangers if I was a Christian and if I had been saved. When I replied, “Of course I am a Christian, I was raised Catholic and baptized as an infant,” they looked like they were going to pass out. “I do proclaim Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior…that makes me a Christian, right?” Not necessarily to everybody, I soon learned.

While attending Chiropractic school in Marietta, I picked up a part-time job at an on campus café and during slow periods I would slip off to play the piano in a side room. One day, as I was playing and singing a Melissa Etheridge song, a gentleman knocked on the door and asked if he could kneel down and pray for me. “Sure,” I said innocently as he knelt beside the piano bench, placing his hand on my shoulder. The next few moments were filled with a style of preaching I had never experienced: speaking in tongues, eyeball rolling, raising of voices in prayer, and hand gestures swirling over my head. It ended with, “Lord please release the demon from inside this young woman’s body for she doesn’t know what she is doing.” He then turned and looked directly at me.

“Do you realize that by living your lifestyle you are going to have to walk through the gates of hell?” he asked me. “Homosexuality is a sin and your soul will rot in hell for all eternity if you do not change your ways. I can help you, just ask Jesus to be your Lord and savior.”

“Jesus already is my Lord and savior,” I curtly replied. He looked stunned. By this point I was a little annoyed that this man had overheard my singing, interrupted my practice session, claimed I was possessed by a demon, and was going to try to remove it for me. “But I appreciate your passion for your belief system and trying to save me.”

“Young lady, it is not about my belief, it is about your soul for all of eternity. You will be going to hell with the other sinners.”

“Sir, pardon me if I offend you, but I believe that if God didn’t want me to be this way then he would not have created me this way. Homosexuality is not a choice, like what color socks you are going to wear that day or what you plan on cooking for dinner. No one would choose to be different. No one intentionally wants to be the outcast or the deviant, sometimes we just are. I didn’t choose to be a homosexual, I just am.”

I gave my voice a moment’s rest, I felt like I was being attacked and was becoming emotional. “I never understood why Christians are so judgmental. Doesn’t it say in the scripture, “Thou shall not judge?”

“But you can change your ways and still be saved,” he said passionately, his voice trailing as he rose up and placed his right palm on my forehead. I politely removed his hand from my face.

“Look, none of us really know all of the answers, we are just guessing in hopes of getting it right. What I do know is that Jesus wants us all to emulate him: by loving, by giving, by serving others. I don’t believe that he cares who we love, just that we love. I don’t believe he cares what we give, just that we give, and I don’t believe that he cares who or what we serve, the important thing is that we do it.” I was stunned at the words coming out of my mouth, not sure exactly where they were coming from. “I cannot believe that a God who loves is going to banish me for loving someone else, no matter who it is. I spend my life giving and serving others out of my own abundance, which is my way of serving the Lord.”

“It says in the bible that homosexuality is an abomination.” He wasn’t going to back down.

“If what you are saying is true, and I don’t necessarily believe that it is, than I am just going to have to risk it because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on Earth living a lie. Would it be fair for me to marry a man I couldn’t love with all of my heart, just because the church told me to? I believe lying is a sin and I try to live my life as real and true as possible. Can we just agree to disagree?”

Eventually the man gave me one final blessing, turned around and left the room. That was the first of many times I have had to defend my “lifestyle choice” to a religious zealot who felt it important to try to “save” me without my permission or particular interest.

Twenty years later I am in a committed relationship with the love of my life. We are now allowed to legally marry in Georgia and we are raising our seven year-old daughter together. I volunteer my time playing drums in the Praise Band at the Bethel United Methodist Church, where they accept our family as we are and do not try to change us.

Whenever I hear the phrase, ‘Love the sinner, hate the sin,” I shudder. I am not saying that I don’t sin. In my forty-three years I have fallen victim to lust, pride, and envy. I have felt jealous and I have told lies. I have sinned and hopefully I am forgiven, but my life is not God’s mistake… and the love I feel for my wife… that is not my sin. I just can’t believe that.

Positive Parenting? What Comes Out of Your Mouth?

Thu, 30 Nov 2017 23:04:42 GMT

It's always shocking to hear any stern disciplinary words coming from the mouth of my tenderhearted daughter, especially since they are usually connected to a string of words that just left my lips. If you ever wonder how your parenting style sounds, hide in the bushes and give a listen to how your little ones talk to their own kids. It might surprise you.

Last night I walked around the perimeter of the house to close the gate to the chicken coop. This corner of the house is closest to Senia Mae's bedroom and even though our home is made of sturdy brick, it is hardly soundproof. I overheard her reprimanding her cat, Tulip.

I could hear Senia Mae grunting, "Tulip, NOW!" in a seriously irritated voice. Even though I usually save that particular threat as the fourth and final warning, I realized then that I was going to have to be a little more aware of any uncensored words that escaped my mouth. Who knew that my parenting was going to be the primary model for her role playing. AARG! Back in the house I noticed her looking at herself in the bathroom mirror.

"How'd you get that red spot above your eye?" I asked

"Tulip scratched me," she said.

"Why did she scratch you?"

"Well I was trying to get her tucked into bed and she was growling at me."

"And..."

"So then I put her in time out," Senia Mae said, "And she scratched me."

"Hmmm," I said. "I think when cats growl that means they don't want to be touched anymore."

"But Mama, she WASN'T listening!" Senia Mae pivoted around and pranced out of the bathroom knowing full well that not listening always has negative repercussions.

I sat there for a moment trying to come up with an appropriate response... but none came. Maybe I'll just take this one back to the drawing board and think about it overnight. Hopefully after a thorough rest I can reformat my parenting skills so my child's innocent cat doesn't suffer the consequences!

Holiday Stress: Something to be Thankful For

Sun, 19 Nov 2017 23:12:46 GMT

Even though this is the time of year we are all supposed to be listing what we are truly thankful for, I find myself burdened with stress as I try to get everything done before the holiday. We will be spending it with family after watching our lovely niece walk down the wedding aisle. I am truly thankful that she has found love and can't wait to see her in her white gown, even though in my mind it still feels like she is eight years old. Once again I'm stumped with the eternal question of the ages: how does the time fly by so quickly when you are old but so slowly when you are young and waiting for life to begin?

Because our southern dogs aren't used to the weather in Delaware, I tried to get them matching fleece cover-ups so they don't have to warm up by lying on top of the heater vents

Luna was thankful for her festive jacket after her beautifully flowing Cocker spaniel coat had to be completely shaved off after a romp in the sticky burr bush. Birdie, on the other hand, acted like she was being punished, giving us the poor pitiful me face as she imagines herself confined in a full body cast.

Who would have imagined a power outage right in the middle of baking the holiday cookies? Although they will probably turn out looking more like chocolate chip crepes, or sweet Thanksgiving nuggets, if I am truly thankful I can be gracious enough to realize that we have enough food to make cookies, perfectly baked or however they come out.

I am thankful for everything in this last picture. God has provided me a life of abundance with everything I need to thrive, whether I realize it or not. I have the love and support of my wonderful family to share the holidays and the normal days.

And finally, after the stress I put on myself trying to make everything perfect, I am thankful for being able to sit in my hot tub with a glass of red wine. Life is good.

Oh, For the Love of Lipstick...

Sun, 05 Nov 2017 23:20:41 GMT

I've always said that when Senia Mae was born she appeared with a poof of glitter. That's not exactly true, it was actually an emergency c-section, but even then it seemed that right after her first bath she was already wearing a tutu. Much to my chagrin, the tutu talk has now flip-flopped into in-depth discussions of bras and makeup.

"Tons of girls in my class are wearing bras," Senia Mae says nonchalantly as we stand next to each other brushing our teeth over the bathroom sink.

"What?" I gasp. "You're seven... girls in the second grade should not need to wear a bra unless they are having a severe hormonal imbalance!" I view my reflection in the mirror and am not sure if the foaming at my mouth is excess toothpaste or my body's appalled reaction to my daughter wanting to grow up too fast.

"Well everyone else is wearing one," she says.

"We don't always do what everyone else does," I say. "By the way, I noticed you've been into my lipsticks."

"How could you tell?" she asks as her face flushes a bright crimson.

"You have to twist the lipstick back down before you put the cover back on."

"Oh," she says. "I was going to talk to you about them anyway."

"About my lipsticks?" I ask.

"Yes, Momma, you have way to many of the same color."

"What do you mean? These are all different colors. There's Tobago, Rain, which is a moisturizing gloss, and this one, custard, is actually a concealer even though it's shaped like a lipstick."

"What's a concealer?"

"It hides the dark circles under my eyes when I don't get enough sleep."

"Oh, like when I come into your bed in the middle of the night and keep you awake by sleeping sideways."

"Exactly," I say.

"Well, since we're both not getting much sleep... maybe I need to use concealer, too."

This, That, and the Other

Fri, 13 Oct 2017 22:30:34 GMT

Most of the time, with the modern advances in digital photo-shopping, I am able to disguise the fact that I am indeed a child of the seventies. That is until my mother comes on the scene.

Before my parents headed south, Senia Mae and I flew up to the Beantown one last time to help them clean out the attic, which looked strikingly similar to an episode of "Hoarders."

"Mom, why are you saving all of this crap?" I asked.

"You never known when your children are going to want a piece of their childhood...," she said as she held up a Smurfs mini deck of cards key ring. "Remember this?" Mom asked. "This was your first key to our old house. You demanded to have your own key when you were only in kindergarten!"

The Smurfs key ring was not something I was particularly interested in but come to think of it I wouldn't have minded uncovering my old Pigs in Space lunchbox. I remember strutting into the cafeteria of the Shawsheen School feeling like I was the coolest kid on the block (believe me, I wasn't) just because I was toting that square metal lunchbox.

For some reason, my clouded memory seems to think I might have had an incident at the bus stop where I pounded my beloved lunchbox over the head of Richie Gardner, the street bully, and then shamefully threw it away to hide the evidence. No, I must have dreamed up that terrible story. I urged Senia Mae to keep looking.

After the last box was finally cleared, the old attic looked amazingly empty. I was reminded of how enormous the space was.
"Mom, there is so much room you could have a whole bowling alley up here! Why didn't we think of that before?" I laughed as the three of us walked down the creaky attic stairs and closed the door for the last time. There was no sight of my old lunchbox, I knew it was gone.

On the plane ride back to Atlanta I asked Senia Mae if she found any great treasures in Grammy's attic. "Oh yes," she said as she pulled out a dusty coloring book that Grammy has secretly slid into her bag. Senia Mae beamed proudly as she displayed the yellowed pages of what obviously was once my Disco Girl coloring book.

Of all of the discarded pieces of my childhood, Disco girl was what she chose. And that is why there's no real way to hide my age because there's always evidence hiding somewhere in my mother's house!

By the time we had gotten home, Kim had heard all about our adventures in the attic and my disappointment over not finding my Pigs in Space lunchbox. One of the great benefits of our modern computer age is that if you can't find what you long for in your mom's old attic, you can usually find it on Ebay! Thank you, Kim!

Mom's Nightmare...Don't Say The Washing Machine is Broken!

Tue, 22 Aug 2017 22:39:17 GMT

The past few times I have showered downstairs after my morning workout I have felt a tingling sensation run up my arm as I turned on the hot water. "That must have been an electrifying workout," I would kid to myself without much more thought. That was until I stepped out of the shower and looked up, noticing the ceiling light fixture half-full of water. My workout wasn't any more intense than usual, I was just unknowingly electrocuting myself.

Water in the downstairs light fixture usually means the washing machine is leaking upstairs. If you don't know so already, our lovely abode is a 1957 lake cabin that slants downhill towards the lake. Any stray water runs down the wall, through the ceiling, then uses the bathroom light fixture as a collection bucket.

In this house, saying the washing machine is broken is almost as severe as saying Christmas has been canceled. Kim was the oldest of six kids, so she grew up washing the few sets of clothes they had on a daily basis.

Even though our family of three creates much less dirty laundry than what she is used to, Kim still has that old mindset and is now what I call a "constant launderer." Even though our washer is only a few years old, because it is constantly running it probably gets the use of a washer five to ten years older.

I like to consider myself a diva of diagnosis. It's what I do in practice to help people heal from the inside out... I see no reason why I can't help the washing machine do the same. The LG help line sent me a text of the six most common front loader leak areas, I should be able to check those locations and be done with it. Nope. After cleaning all six areas and running the empty tub clean cycle three times in a row, warm suds are still spewing from underneath the machine. Of course I declined the extended warranty, guess I'll have to suck it up and call the 800 number!

Butt paste... not only for sore bottoms!

Tue, 15 Aug 2017 22:46:02 GMT

Here in Georgia, it seems as the first school bell rings into session, so do the back to school sniffles. I am always surprised that after a full summer of fresh air and immune-boosting sunshine... seven hours of a packed classroom can bring on the bright red, inflamed upper lip from a runny nose.

It used to be that I could run to the white bathroom cabinet, grab the salve, and have it applied to her face without any fight or fury. This particular evening we were tired and sitting on the couch. Nonchalantly Kim asked if Senia Mae could run into the bathroom and grab the green tube of cream on the bottom shelf so we could address her sore upper lip before bedtime.

Every mom knows that most household items have multiple uses, much more than what is printed on the label. Forgetting that our child can now read, we burst out laughing as Senia Mae returned to the living room with a completely appalled expression on her face.
"But Momma, THIS is butt paste!"

"Oh, that's the stuff, it's just called butt paste, but its really good for any type of skin rash or irritation."

"Are you sure?" she asked skeptically holding it up to her nose as if it might actually smell like a butt.
.
"Yes, its the same stuff we put on last night... you just didn't know. Sometimes I forget you can read!" LOL.

Why I Hate To Admit That I NOW Understand The Concept For Mom Jeans

Thu, 18 May 2017 22:50:05 GMT

Even though all of the text books say I am in the prime of my life, some days I just want to stick up my middle finger to the mid-forties. My metabolism has come to a screeching halt, I am pretty sure my thyroid function is non-existent, and I really don't know why I am saving any of my pre-pregnancy tops that once looked good around my midriff because those days are apparently long gone too.

I remember the days when I would look at my body in the mirror and like what I saw; granted it was my "just out of high school" running body, but once upon a time had chiseled abs and a rear end that would make a truck stop. Nowadays it doesn't seem to matter how many miles I put on the treadmill, if I nix sugar for the zero calorie monk fruit packets, or dine on a salad and hard boiled egg instead of lasagna, my body is clearly NOT THE SAME.

There is part of me that is still determined to shop in the trendy juniors section. I find myself huffing over the racks silently saying, "Why don't they carry this in an extra-large?" And everybody knows all of the cutest tops are made out of 100% rayon. For some reason, even if the label says machine wash cold then line dry, my rayon shirts seem to have the "Incredible Shrinking Woman" problem, where the vertical coverage decreases with every wash.

Since birthing a child at thirty-six, midriff exposed shirts are no longer a good look for me. That baby pouch just never seems to go away even when I give us this day our daily planks...hence my new appreciation of mom jeans. Once I couldn't understand why anyone would wear any pant higher that their hip but now I'll take a little height around the waist.

My Conclusion?

Mom Jeans: It's not about the camel toe...it's about hiding and preserving what once was!

The Tired Kisser - What Does Your Child Do When They Are Exhausted?

Thu, 04 May 2017 22:54:12 GMT

Some kids have meltdowns, some kids get grumpy, some get sleepy, others get hyperactive when life has pushed them past the time when they should really be in bed. Fortunately for us, Senia Mae has never been a fit thrower or tantrum raiser. She is, however, a tired kisser.

When Senia Mae stays awake and dips into the bewitching hours, her reaction has always been to cuddle up to us, covering our faces with gentle kisses. I remember riding the tram back to the parking lot after an exhausting day at The Magic Kingdom. Many of the other younger children were screaming or acting belligerent, making their parents' memory of the happiest place on Earth a little less than magical. Senia Mae draped herself over my shoulder planting little pecks on my neck as she nuzzled her face into my hair. Although these tired kisses can get a little wet and drippy, if this is the worst behavior we get, we'll take it.

Now that she's a little older she doesn't require as much cuddling and caressing from me. She wants to be independent and do things herself. It saddens me that she's too heavy for me to carry her tired little body in from the car, but our tired kisses are not all lost. Instead of me holding her, she hunts me down in the only place a Mama can get any privacy, the bathroom.

The other night she poked her head around the white, six-paneled door that separated me momentarily from the chaos of my daily life.
"Mama, can we kiss on the toilet?" she asked, trying to delay getting into bed.

"Yes," I say, because I realize that part of her still needs my comfort even while I'm temporarily indisposed!

Bless Her Heart, There's No Cooking That Compares to Mama's

Fri, 17 Feb 2017 00:00:57 GMT

As parents, we all want our children to remember us in some special way. It may be that super ability to make the hurt spot feel better with just a little kiss or being the protector from the scary monsters during the darkest of nights.

I show my love in the kitchen and would love my daughter to remember the food I made for her as a labor of love and devotion, one that provides happiness and comfort, like being wrapped up in a warm fuzzy blanket. More often than I would like to admit, my labors of love feel unappreciated because Senia Mae is a picky eater. Sometimes I make things especially for her, using ingredients I know she likes, and still my vittles can go untouched. I try not to take it personally, she is only seven.

The other day when I picked her up from school her eyes were red, like she had just stopped crying.

"Senia Mae, what's wrong?" I asked, alarmed that my happy go lucky child got in the car with sad, watery eyes.

"I had a terrible day," she said. "I'd call it a zero." We have her rank every day at school between 1 and 10. It's a way for us to get a better idea of how her day went rather than asking," How was your day?" and getting the standard, non-descriptive response of "fine."

"A zero? Why?" I asked as I pulled the car into the breakdown lane and turned around to face her in the back seat. Her lower lip poked out, just like it had when she was a toddler, as she held back tears. "Honey, what is it? Was someone mean to you?"

"Carson poked me in the eye by accident during parent pick up," she said, looking down. I tried to keep my face serious.

"I bet that hurt."

"It did," she said. "And I got kicked during recess."

"Who kicked you?"

"Some boys that were playing soccer and running by."

"Oh, that's terrible. Did they apologize?" I asked.

"Yes, she said. But what made everything worse was that I spent the whole day hungry and still am." A few tears rolled out of the corner of her eyes and landed gently on her sleeve. Obviously to her being hungry was much worse than I could have imagined.

"Why were you hungry? Didn't you eat at lunch today?" I asked remembering how I urged her to diversify her palate and try the school lunch instead of just another peanut butter and jelly. "They had meatball subs... you love meatballs."

"Mama," she moaned as if I should already know what she is about to say, "those meatballs were all hard and dark. Plus they were really burnt, not soft and moist. I wouldn't even touch them. Yick."

I do remember disgusting school lunches from my day, but from what I had observed at her school, the food was actually decent.

"So you didn't even try them?"

"No, I just ate the bread and sauce."

"Well you should at least try them, don't you think?" I ask, feeling like Sam I Am. Would you eat them near or far? Would you eat them in a car?

"Mama, they weren't good like your meatballs... "
And there... there it was... the little gem I had been waiting seven years to hear. My face lit up with joy over my fussy child's sudden appreciation of my cooking. If I had the ability to record that sentence I would have played that tape over and over.

"Well of course their not going to be like Mama's," I say with one of the biggest, proudest smiles my face has ever produced. "Let's go get you something good to eat."

The Discovery of Valentine's Day Costumes

Wed, 08 Feb 2017 00:07:06 GMT

"Mama, can we go to Target?" Senia Mae asks as we pull out of the elementary school's parent pick up.

"What do you need there?"

"Some Valentine's decorations for my American Girl dollhouse. You know my girls need to be ready."

"Of course they do," I say with sarcasm, "Um, Target is twenty minutes away. How about if we run through Walmart real quick? We are low on milk and we also need to pick up some cat food."

"OK, Mama," she says, sitting happily in the back seat.

We enter Walmart not on the grocery side but through the retail door because the "seasonal" promotions and pet sections are equally close.

"Mama, look at THOSE costumes," Senia Mae excitedly shouts as she points to the rack that held the children's Halloween costumes a few months before.

"Ahhh, those aren't really costumes," I say nervously as two other women overhear our conversation and choke back laughter.

Walmart O Walmart... how I love thee. When I'm in my mad dash to get my list completed in thirty minutes, you provide everything I require in a quick one stop shop: groceries, first-aid, lawn care, arts and crafts, and now even chintzy Valentine's lingerie! Watch out Frederick's of Hollywood!

Why Meal Planning is NOT on My List of Goals For the Year

Tue, 17 Jan 2017 22:59:38 GMT

In case you missed it, here's the link to my latest article on Red Tricycle, Why Meal Planning is NOT on my List of Goals For the Year

https://redtri.com/why-meal-planning-is-not-on-my-list-of-goals-for-the-year/#

What to do when your child no longer NEEDS you...

Tue, 10 Jan 2017 22:55:03 GMT

I secretly fret over when that day will come. The day when Senia Mae chooses to soother herself or even scarier yet, finds comfort in the company of a boyfriend. I realize this is inevitable... but I just need a few more years to get ready.

Click on the link below to read my most recent article in Red Tricycle about my dreaded fear.

https://redtri.com/just-when-i-thought-she-no-longer-needed-me/

Please Celebrate Me Home

Mon, 02 Jan 2017 00:12:00 GMT

As another crazy holiday season wraps up, Facebook Time Hop reminded me of a time a few years ago when the holidays were even a little bit more chaotic. But who doesn't love a twenty hour road trip to kick off the holiday celebrations? I've always considered the season not completely over until I'm utterly exhausted, red numbers in bank account broke, and crammed in the car with all the excessive trimmings and trappings.

This picture was from our road trip in 2012. Those days we used to travel up the East Coast, stay a few days with Kim's family in Delaware, then spend Christmas Eve and day with my parents in Massachusetts. Even though those trips took up most of my vacation time for the year and we usually came home sick and tired, they were so much fun and I actually miss taking them.

On the twenty hour drive back to Georgia, we would sometimes stop in Delaware again and pick up Aunt Katie and cousin Olivia. Adding a few more people to the Christmas load always meant the last twelve hours of the trip the car was stuffed to the max, giving new meaning to that old Grinch saying, "We rode with our load."

During the every few hour body rotation, Aunt Katie got transferred to the tiny third row seat. Out of courtesy and politeness I asked, "Do you have enough space back there, Katie?" Her sarcastic reply, "Um, yeah... TONS" is still told with laughter at the Christmas dinner table. And isn't that what a family Christmas all about?

In 2012 Senia Mae was two and a half years old. That particular trip, besides being sardined in the car for twelve hours, we experienced an employee brawl at a roadside Waffle House. The manager and the cook started throwing punches at each other right in front of the grill as we ducked under our booth in horror.

At another pit stop one of the dogs escaped from the car and was rapidly heading towards the highway. All of the adults blanketed the parking lot and we eventually trapped our feisty canine. As we were pulling the reluctant dog back to the car, a certain toddler with a limited few-word vocabulary, realized that our plans involved returning to the crammed car. She locked her knees and halted right in the middle of the parking lot like a stubborn old mule.

"Poopie Diaper, poopie Diaper," she pleaded.

"Senia Mae, I know you don't have a poopie diaper because we just changed you in the rest room," I said. Her saucer shaped eyes had the most pitiful look as she peered up at me.

"Poopie diaper?" she asked now, hoping she could at least get a few more moments of freedom.

"We'll be home soon, ok?" I reassured her and we finally got back on the road. The little one completely understood why the dog tried to escape the confines of the overcrowded vehicle.

It's been several years since we've made the Christmas trip up the East Coast and Santa now visits us at our home. Even though it is much more relaxing to not have to make the great drive, I am surprised that my fondest memories are not actually of the family celebrations, but the humorous two-day road trip that always ended up being the highlight of my holiday. The best part is not always the destination, but the journey. I told Kim this year that I actually wished we were making the trip again.

Perry Como was so right in Home For The Holidays when he sang, "Take a bus, take a train, go and hop an aeroplane, put the wife an' kiddies in the family car! For the pleasure that you bring when you make that doorbell ring, no trip could be too far!"

Hopping on the Birthday Scales

Thu, 29 Dec 2016 16:24:46 GMT

I want to thank everyone for sending birthday wishes my way yesterday. As lovely as growing another year older and wiser is, I realize that it is not nearly as fun as when I was younger, having all-girl sleepovers and night sledding parties at Trull Brook Golf Course. One of my special presents this year was having to renew my driver's license.

My last experience with the Department of Motor Vehicles allowed me to choose the ten year renewal program, meaning the picture taken was of me in my early thirties. My face was a little brighter, all lit up with new love. My skin was a little tighter, my hair was a little darker. I didn't have to ask them to angle the picture from the top down because having a double chin wasn't an issue then.

All of the other vital information was transferred from when I first got my license at sixteen years old. That has always been fine with me because even though an officer of the law may question my weight calculations, I would rather someone still think I am one hundred and fifteen pounds instead of whatever I happen to be that week. I do pride myself on being an honest person, but this figure I didn't seem important enough for me to go out of my way to change. Until yesterday.

Since I had the ten year renewal plan, I missed many of the new rules and regulations regarding proof of citizenship, proof of address, proof of marriage, and proof of weight... WHAT? Well they didn't actually make me jump on the scales but I was appalled that after twenty five years I was actually going to have to be more truthful about my size. If I ever get pulled over, it's not like they are going to pick me up and test my weight. Yes, I was one hundred and fifteen pounds twenty five years ago, just not recently.

This time they actually asked for my current weight on the form. I felt guilty about blatantly lying, since I am a Christian and all, so I added twenty five more pounds to the original calculation. I'm sure with all of the treadmill running I plan on doing in the next few months I'll be getting pretty close to that figure I put on the form. But, since it's my birthday week, I'll just sit down tonight with a glass of wine and piece of cake and leave the working out for another day!

Forgive me father for I have sinned... hahahahahahahah!

Sun, 18 Dec 2016 16:50:40 GMT

Let me just start by saying that most of the time I am a fairly good mother... for real. But today? I must admit that I tricked my own child because it was too easy and just too funny. So, yes, forgive me father because this incident happened on the ride home from church!

It can be challenging raising a child in an ever-consuming world of continuous electronic stimulation. With the availability iPhones, tablets, and dvd players right in the car, I can almost guarantee that having a conversation with my daughter will likely not happen. It is too tempting to have her face plastered to a screen where she can just engage in the life of someone else instead of her own.

This issue really bothers me and I try to dissuade too much electronic usage, especially during short trips in the car where my daughter and I have a moment to catch up. Some days I win the battle. Other days I lose.

This morning, before I could even shut the door and click my seat belt, the usual annoying question floated up from the third row seat. "Can I have your phone?" No please, no ma'am, no nothing.

"Why don't we talk instead?" I suggested. I had put the new Pentatonix Christmas CD in the car and heard the first funky melody of their version of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" playing through the speakers.

"I don't want to talk," she whined.

"Don't you like this new CD?" I asked. I could tell she was enjoying it when I looked in the rear view mirror and spotted her swaying in the back seat.

"Yeah, it's nice. Can I have your phone now?"

She had gotten to bed after eleven last night and was up at seven this morning to go to church. It was easier to give into her demands when she was tired but I was going to try one more time.

"What did you learn at children's church?"

"Nothing."

"You just sat there and did nothing for an hour?"

"No, we learned about the birth of Jesus. Can I have your phone now?"

Some days the struggle is not worth it. I begrudgingly handed her the phone and realized that I had forgotten to turn off the Bluetooth that automatically connected to my car's hands-free calling option. This is where the story gets funny.

The bellowing tones of Pentatonix are temporarily halted as Senia Mae hit the voice to text button on the Google app. After the initial Ding Dings ring through the dashboard I hear her say, "American girl doll videos" from two rows back.

The microphone is located somewhere close to the steering wheel and I am suddenly aware that it will not be able to pick up her voice from that distance. I can end her call and listen to my music with just the touch of my thumb. She'll never know it was me.

"Oh come all ye faithful, Oh come all ye faithful, Oh come all ye faithful to Bethlehem," booms out of the speakers once again. I am laughing but she doesn't notice because her face is buried in the screen. After another thirty seconds go by my music pauses and I hear the ding ding noise again.

"American girl doll videos," comes rambling from the back seat. I give it a little longer this time before I hit the end call button.

"Sing choirs of angels... sing in exultation," the female voice blares as the bass vocal hums. I am mouthing the words in the front seat while stifling my laughter. Senia Mae isn't aware that I am currently winning the battle. She thinks we are experiencing technical difficulties. I let this go on for one more round before I suggest that she type the words into the Google search field.

"Oh," she says and the phone disconnects the phone from the call.

Suddenly we are both getting what we want: me listening to my Christmas music and her watching other girls play with American Girl dolls. She won't know it was me cutting off her phone connection for a few more years at least. Is it wrong for me to want to be more interesting to my own daughter than a darn device?

Hello Operator, Please Give Me Number Nine

Mon, 14 Nov 2016 16:55:32 GMT

Apparently Miss Susie is still a hand-clapping hit of modern day schoolyards. My first grader came home singing, "Miss Susie had a cymbal, the cymbal had a bell, Miss Susie went to heaven the cymbal went to Hello operator please give me number nine... "

"I think Miss Susie really had a steamboat and the steamboat had a bell," I said.

"No, Chloe said it is a cymbal," Senia Mae confirmed.

"Well a cymbal does have a bell," I racked my brain for any further recollections.

Memories of little girls wearing plaid bell bottoms and Exersoles in the Shawsheen School parking lot came flooding back. We were sitting cross-legged in the shade, clapping our hands to the fast rhythm as we recited the naughty poem. There was always a row of girls waiting to sit in and I remember hoping I wouldn't screw up the words and have to wait at the back of the line for another turn.

"What are the boys doing in the bathroom?" I asked.

"I can't really remember," she says. "Do you know?"

"Well, I used to. We sang this when I was a little girl, too." Her eyes lit up, excited that we had one more thing in common. "But I haven't sang this song in a long time."

"I know, I know my Ma, I know, I know my Pa, I know, I know my sister with the alligator bra... " Senia Mae continues. "Mama, what's an alligator bra?"

"Hmmm," I said. "I not really sure." After searching Wikipedia we learned the skipped line after operator was "If you disconnect me I will paddle your ... behind the frigerator..." and that it was originally an alligator purse, which, of course made more sense than an alligator bra.

"Do you know what it means to call an operator and give me number nine?" I asked my six year-old.

"No."

"Well you used to pick up the phone and talk to an operator on the other end." I pointed to the retro phone we had hanging on the wall. "You'd pick up the handle and ask her to be connected to someone else's phone."

Instead of being amazed that you had to talk to an operator, my child was more amazed that the phone was stuck to the wall.

"You mean you couldn't take the phone in the car?" she asked.

"Nope," I said, laughing about how different her childhood world is from mine. Wow, it doesn't feel like it was that long ago!

What's Your Perfect Part?

Sun, 02 Oct 2016 16:00:29 GMT

"Everybody has a part of them that is perfect," Senia Mae said.

"Huh?" I asked, a little unsure of exactly what we were talking about.

"You know, a part that's absolutely perfect. Everyone has a perfect part. What's yours?"

"Perfect part? Do you mean their heart, soul, or mind? And just how do you know this?" I questioned, wondering where my daughter had ingested this little pearl of wisdom.

"Mama, like a part of your body. I learned it from Picture Perfect on Super Spies. Clover has perfect legs," she said. "Grammy's perfect part is definitely her fingernails, don't you think?"

"Um, yeah, of course."

"What do you think mine is?" she asked. I felt the vice begin to cinch my diaphragm as we embark on the first of probably many future conversations about body image. Somehow I want to protect her from the lifelong issue that torments me: feeling like I have to be a clone of Barbie to be considered perfect. I don't want her to grow up judging herself that way.

"I guess I would say your eyelashes. They are perfect," I said as we walked inside.

"What about Grampy? What is his perfect part?" Senia Mae asked. She scanned his body up and down as he snoozed in his comfortable chair.

"I'm not sure, what do you think?"

"I think it is his abs."

"His abs!" Grammy laughed, thinking of how Grampy's midriff looked more like a soft pillow rather than a six-pack.

"Yes. I think Grampy's perfect part is his abs," Senia Mae said proudly. Thirty seconds later she turned around to me and asked, "Mama, what are abs?" :)

We are the Winners!

Tue, 13 Sep 2016 16:02:50 GMT

"I just can't believe we won," Senia Mae said, both hands holding on as she peeked over the tailgate at the folded green and metallic pile in the truck bed. Yes, we were the lucky winners. I had totally forgotten that we had placed a silent auction bid at

Shenanigan's last week until I got the call this morning.

Who would actually buy that? I laughed to myself as we walked up to the brightly colored double dog stroller during the Shucking for Shamrocks fundraiser Labor Day Weekend. I was more interested in the tour posters signed by the Indigo Girls or the sterling silver wrist cuff with the turquoise cross inlay, but the Best Pet Double Dog Stroller seemed like a useless item that would just take up space in the garage. My six year old daughter thought differently. She was instantly mesmerized.

"Oh, Mama, look at this!" she said enthusiastically. "Birdie and Luna would just love it!" She glided her hand over the mesh zipper enclosure looking longingly at the device that would basically force the dogs into going everywhere with her. They may love it if they were miniature Yorkies, but Birdie and Luna were both twenty pounds and usually ran the roads with us. For Senia Mae's sake they might tolerate the stroller, but they definitely wouldn't love it.

"I don't know," I said trying to guide away from the Best Pet.

"Mama, please, it would be just perfect. We NEED this!" We definitely didn't need this, I don't know if anyone really needed this, but it was cute. I looked at the sign up sheet and only one other person had placed a bid. It was still early in the auction, so I thought if I bid $5 over the first offer I would certainly be outdone by some other crazy person yearning for a double dutch pooch pusher.

I heard giggling on the other end of the line as the girl read the auction item we had won. "You are the winners of the Best Pet double dog stroller!"

"Please tell me you're kidding," I mocked sarcasm. "I didn't win the tour of the winery or the barbeque grill?"

"Nope."

"My daughter is going to be beside herself when she hears the news that we are the winners of such a major award," I said.

"Well I'm glad it went to you then."

"At least now the poor dogs won't be shoved into her doll carriage." I said. "I'll pick it up today so she'll be surprised after school."

She spotted it in the back of the truck as soon as we pulled into the driveway and her look of pure joy made a useless purchase completely worth it.

Mama, Guess What I Learned at School Today?

Sat, 10 Sep 2016 16:05:55 GMT

It's that time of year again, the kids are back to school learning reading, writing, arithmetic, and other forms of education that we as parents seem to never know about. The other day Senia Mae screamed from the bathroom as I was in the kitchen preparing her peanut butter and jelly for lunch.

"Mama, Mama, I've got lice," she shrieked.

"What? How do you know it's lice?" I yelled through the house.

"The nurse at school showed us a video yesterday."

"Are you sure it's lice?" I asked nervously, trying to remember if we still had the special shampoo from last year when the little critters were running rampant at school.

"Yeah, I saw it flying around the sink in the bathroom."

"Honey, lice don't fly." I said as I walked back to investigate. "Show me what you are calling lice."

"See?" she pointed to a minute black fly that landed on the mirror of the medicine cabinet. "Lice." From the enthusiasm in her voice it almost sounded as if she was proud to be the carrier of lice.

"That's a fruit fly. Remember, I've been trying to catch them since we found that rotten potato in the kitchen?"

"Oh, yeah," she said.

"You probably shouldn't be parading around claiming you have lice. People kind of freak out over that," I said.

"Oh, OK." she said, moving onto the next conversation before I had time to check her scalp!

*****

Today's hot tub conversation started with:

"So Ms. Purdy, the school counselor, came into class yesterday. Guess what she talked to us about?" Senia Mae waited for us to guess.

"I don't know," I said.

"What?" Kim asked.

"Concussions and empathy," Senia Mae said proudly. "Mama, what is a concussion?"

"Well it's a traumatic brain injury," I said, thinking how advanced the school counseling system was to be teaching concussion education in the first grade. It was kickoff week in college football and I planned on sporting my pumpkin orange Tennessee Vols shirt that Saturday. "The counselor was talking about concussions?"

"No, that's not what it was," Senia Mae said.

"I did think concussions and empathy was a strange mix," I said more to Kim than Senia Mae. "Although it is very important to have empathy for people suffering from concussions. Those injuries are serious and can be permanent."

"Was the word caring?" Kim asked.

"Ummm, no, I don't think so," Senia Mae said.

"How about love and empathy?" I asked.

"That doesn't sound familiar."

"Well what did she talk about?" I asked.

"Like how to be nice and care about each others feelings."

"Oh... did she talk about compassion and empathy?" Kim asked.

"Yeah, that's it! Compassion and empathy!" Senia Mae said. "Mama, what is compassion?" and the conversation started all over again!

Does Mae Mae's Mom Got It Going On?

Wed, 07 Sep 2016 16:11:28 GMT

Just for the record, I'm no Mrs. Robinson. I know my limitations, I realize that I am in my early forties and happen to be stumbling upon my much anticipated twenty five year high school reunion. But today, for a brief moment, I felt what she felt.

It had been a long day, the first after the Labor Day Weekend. To help myself feel better I decided to wear something that screamed summer, a pink and orange above the knee prAna razorback dress, because even though it is September, the temperatures here are still climbing into the mid nineties and every year I mourn the end of the season.

My theory has always been that hard days don't feel as bad if you know you look good and for some reason it seemed like I just couldn't catch up with my schedule. When I finally I stepped out of the office a few minutes after six, I still had no idea what I was serving for dinner, thinking I would just run into Kroger and it would come to me like a thought cloud above my head.

For once I didn't have a six year old hanging off my hip or droopy mom hair and I might have actually passed for a bustling twenty something double stepping it into the dairy to pick up some half and half for tomorrow morning's coffee. As I was trying to get through the milk aisle I got stuck behind another mom who was equally as annoyed that Kroger was sold out of the half gallon creamer cartons. That's when I noticed I was being sized up and down by a trendy young man on the other side of the refrigerator section.

A second earlier he had stepped back to let me pass and I caught him peeking at me while I opened and closed the glass doors. As I walked on past, I heard the woman call out to him and realized that he was her son. He had stepped away from her to make it appear to me like he was shopping on his own, not with his mom. I tried to contain my laughter as I walked away, realizing that he couldn't have been older than nineteen or twenty.

I can't remember the last time I turned the head of a teenager and even though I am probably old enough to be his mom, that boy put a spring in my step and was the highlight of my day. Walking out of Kroger with a satisfied smile on my face, I felt myself put on a little strut as the words to "Stacy's Mom Has Got it Going On" ran through my mind!

Mother's Little Helper

Thu, 01 Sep 2016 16:47:08 GMT

OK, I admit it, I am a terrible housekeeper. Although I can prepare a five course spread that looks like the Pioneer Woman herself just moved into my kitchen, the daily nuances of domestic science are still exactly that... A CHORE.

"I will gladly pay someone to do this work..." I say to Kim, dreading the laundry pile that needs folding."Why can't every house have a live in maid like Alice? Look how effortlessly the Brady house ran...and with six kids."

"Because you won't want to pay what someone would charge to remove your clothes from the end of the bed everyday," Kim says.

She is right, that is what I would consider an unnecessary expense, but after a full day of serving patients the last thing I want to do is come home and get right back to work. I don't need my slippers waiting at the front door and a glass of red wine next to my chair... well, that would be nice... but you get my point. All I want is a chance to sit down with my feet up.

To combat my own house cleaning inadequacy, I try to continuously throw in small efforts like swirling the toilet brush around the bowl after I flush. It helps keep the orange ring away. Senia Mae must have witnessed me do this because recently the toilet brush has gone from being naturally unsanitary (it does go in a toilet) to completely defiled.

The last few times I brushed the bowl I did notice some dried up pieces of paper on the bristles but thought nothing of it because I was already mentally tackling the next item on my never ending to do list. Yesterday I looked down from the throne and saw crusty brown remnants intricately woven throughout the once white and grey colored bristles. This is the part of parenting that gets a little... yicky.

"Senia Mae," I called out, trying to compose myself before she arrived in the bathroom. She bounded in, covered in her fleece footy pajamas, her face glowing and full of life. "Have you been trying to help Mama clean the toilet?"

"Yes," she said with a slight lisp. Her beaming expression indicated that she was mighty proud of herself for giving a helping hand... I didn't want to squash her spirit.

"I sure appreciate you helping clean the toilet... but there is one really important step you have to follow." I said carefully.

"What is it?" she asked innocently.

"Well, you have to make sure you flush all the stuff down the toilet BEFORE you use the toilet brush... or else it gets really dirty like this." I tried not to gag as I held the brush to show her.

"Oh, OK." she said.

"But thank you for being Mommy's little helper... I really appreciate it." I tried to put a positive spin on a disgusting lesson before she skipped off.

"Mama, I like to help you..." and she ran out the door, her little mind onto the next big thing.

As I placed the soiled toilet brush into a trash bag, hoping that we all wouldn't come down with a case of eColi, I said out loud, but mostly for myself to hear, "This is the EXACT reason this family needs PROFESSIONAL help!"

Trading Teeth for Cash

Sun, 28 Aug 2016 16:13:25 GMT

We had a visit from the tooth fairy last night. Because the tooth was an incisor, she left three dollars which is more than her usual payment. Senia Mae was skipping around the house in glee, thinking about how to spend her money.

"I want a Lego Minifigure of Velma from Scooby Doo," she said.

"Didn't she come with the Mystery Machine Lego Kit?" I asked.

"No, Mama, that only came with Fred, Scooby, Shaggy, and the Zombie."

"Oh," I said. "What set does Velma come in?"

"She's only with the Mystery Mansion," Senia Mae said. "Can I buy that with my three dollars?"

"No. That's going to be something you'll have to ask Santa for. Maybe we can just get Velma by herself. Let's look it up and see," I said, pulling up Google on my iPhone. I was surprised that a plastic figure that stood only three quarters of an inch tall was $24.99. "Wow, Mae, you're going to have to lose a lot more teeth to be able to afford Velma. She's almost twenty five dollars!"

"How many teeth would that be?" she asked. "I've got another loose one."

"Well if you get three dollars per tooth, count how many teeth that would be." Senia Mae ran over to the desk and grabbed a pen and paper. She began listing groups of three in a line down the left side of the sheet, very impressive for a first grader.

"Seven, no, eight," she scratched her head. "I need to lose between eight and nine teeth, Mama."

"Very good Senia Mae!" I was so impressed that I almost ordered the Velma figure online, forgetting the important lesson I was trying to teach my young daughter. "Hmmm. Maybe we can look for something a little less expensive at Walmart today. Velma's going to have to wait until you can save up a little more."

"Awww, Mama," she moaned, "I need her and she's got the magnifying glass and everything!"

"Why don't we go down the My Life aisle and look for some supplies for your American Girl doll?"

"OK!" and she ran to the door, ready to go.

"Don't forget your three dollars," I reminded her, glad that she was temporarily distracted, but worried that the tooth fairy might just get a letter with the next tooth defending the inflation rate!

The "Not So Great" Way To Teach Your Kid How To Ride a Bike

Sun, 26 Jun 2016 16:16:40 GMT

We have been having the same training wheel battle for months, Kim and I say Senia Mae is big enough to ride without any extra help and she begs to differ... literally begs and whines. I have gotten the tag along bike attached to mine, hoping that riding with me would give her confidence and help her balance. Just when I think it has given her enough boost, I decide it is time to try the old fashioned bike once again.

Today while we were in Grandma's pancake flat driveway, I brought out Senia Mae's 12" toddler bike. At six years old her legs are so tall and lanky that when she sits on the seat her knees practically hit the steering wheel. Standing ten feet away at the other end of the driveway I prompt her.

"Just push with your feet and balance with your legs out," I say as she fidgets with the glittery streamers dangling from the handlebars. "You don't even need to pedal if you're not ready." She juts her lower lip out in a pout, staring at me as if I am asking her to rearrange her underwear drawer. "Come on," I say. "It's no big deal. If you get scared or off balance just put your feet on the ground."

She shoves the bike with her feet, sticks one foot haphazardly on one pedal, and is barely moving before the bike leans to the left and she has to catch her self.

"See? That wasn't so bad. Lets try pedaling a couple of times now."

"Mama, I just can't get it. I keep falling over," she says.

"That's because you are not balancing. You can't do it standing still, the bike has to be moving."

"But I don't know how," she says and gets off the bike, walking towards the garage.

"Here, I'll show you," I said, and this was my fatal error. Not thinking that this was a small 12" toddler bike that sat lower than my knee, I plunked my butt down on the seat and gave the bike a push, letting my legs stretch out as the bike rolled forward. "See, its simple."

"Mama," she says.

"You can do it, too, Senia Mae."

"But Mama..."

"What?"

"I think you gave the bike a flat tire." I looked down and the back tire was completely flat. When I got the pump out of the garage I couldn't even inflate it because the seal was also broken. I was in such a hurry to teach my daughter how to ride a bike that I didn't even think my 25 years post high school butt might pop the seal on a midget bike. My mistake. Instead of teaching my daughter the right way to ride a bike without training wheels, I had to run out to Walmart, hoping that I wouldn't have to explain that my big butt busted her tire.

By the time I had the tire fixed she had already moved on to something else. Maybe we'll have better luck next time!

Enjoying a Summer of Simple Pleasures

Thu, 16 Jun 2016 16:21:02 GMT

I have this crazy list I keep in my head. It's a list of simple gratifications, things I feel are important to our personal development, things that I want to make sure my daughter experiences during her childhood. I want her to remember summers as more than weeks at a time of watching marathon Scooby Doo videos, realizing that her world, a world of iPads and Netflix, is overloaded with electronic time wasters. She might need to be guided into learning how to appreciate life's quintessential pleasures, activities that are satisfying enough on their own, without demanding additional entertainment.

Thankfully, some activities have already been crossed off my list because they are regular occurrences in our home. These are things like: squeezing out fresh lemons to make lemonade, building a tent in the living room and watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure while lying on our stomachs, and pulling out the Southern Living Book of Cakes and making the prettiest one just because we feel like it.

Two days ago, right as the sun dropped out of the sky and the skyline was nothing but a lingering purple haze, we slowly walked though the front yard and carefully cupped our hands around a few fluttering lightning bugs. We capped a Mason jar with a piece of tin foil pricked with a fork after sprinkling the inside with some of the extra food leftover from her Ladybug Land. Peeking around the corner into her room, I saw the little bugs lighting up the jar as they sat atop of her dresser. She had nodded off while watching her fireflies and her sleeping face had a delicate little smile. This alone made my heart happy.

Others things on the list need to be planned out more diligently, like taking a family road trip cross country and visiting the ghost town that has popped up under Lake Mead, camping in Yellowstone National Park, and the hiking inside the Grand Canyon. Before she goes off to college I want to have this time together because childhood only lasts so many years and the years seem to be passing by so quickly.

As I had a moment of alone time this morning I took the chance to enjoy one of my own personal simple pleasures. Senia Mae had been dropped off at camp, the chickens had been fed and watered, both Kim and my parents were off to work, and I had the whole house to myself. On this quiet Thursday morning there was no activity on our end of the lake: no fishermen, no neighbors, and no random boats flying past our cove causing excessive waves. I decided to indulge myself and take a dip in the water without my suit.

Swirling around in the gentle rippling waves, the warm sun touched places on my body that usually don't see the light of day, I felt that satisfaction, the wonderful feeling of basking in nature as I turned my face to the cloudless blue sky and floated on my back. The cool water rippling over my skin left me feeling refreshed and completely rejuvenated. Life was good. Then I remembered something my daughter had said yesterday.

"My kindergarten teacher said there are electric eels in Lake Lanier!" I snapped out of my moment of bliss trying to erase the thought of a slimy eel sending 600 volts of energy into one of my more sensitive areas. Aarg... for some reason I couldn't erase the image of a long creature rubbing up against my bare, glistening skin in the water. Certainly that information is not true, I think to myself as I quickly wrap my robe around my body. I'm definitely not going to let fear ruin my ultimate moment of Zen but just in case I'll Google it when I get back to the house!

The Reason I Work Part Time

Sat, 04 Jun 2016 16:23:28 GMT

Although I know they are only joking, when people give me a hard time about only working three days a week I still second guess my choices. Every time I hear "Oh, you're whole life is a vacation," or "I can hardly keep up with your limited schedule," I stop and wonder if maybe I should go back to practicing full time. Originally I took Tuesdays and Thursdays off to be able to spend more time with Senia Mae while she was still young enough to want to hang out with me. I am aware that in a few years I may not be the companion of choice, so I've wanted to soak up all of the goodness while its still available.

The other day, while still drinking my first cup of coffee, Senia Mae grabbed my hand and drug me over to the dining room table to help assemble her new Scooby Doo Lego kit. "Mommy, look how cool the Mystery Machine is," she said after we had spent an hour assembling the 1960's retro Ford van replica. She rolled the lime green Lego van happily across our re-purposed pine table. It was cool. Both sides on the back opened up exposing their mystery solving equipment. She was so content, playing all by herself with her new toy.

"Hey, you feel like going to the trail and riding our new bike?" I asked. A few weeks ago I picked up a tag along bike to attach to our mountain bike. She loves being able to ride together. "We can take a picnic!"

"Sure... I'll get the snacks," she said as she skipped into the kitchen.

In an hour we were on the Big Creek Trail, riding easily through the shaded water oaks and talking back and forth about the different varieties of trees, the squirrel we saw standing on the boardwalk with a mouthful of acorn pulp, and how much fun we were having, just the two of us. After three miles we parked our bikes in the shade and grabbed some cold water from our bike basket. We sat next to each other on the bench, enjoying each others company in the solitude of the great outdoors. I could have stayed there forever and I think she could have too.

After we pedaled back to the truck I thought about how wonderful our day together had been. As I was loading the bike up onto the tailgate I looked at Senia Mae and said, "You know today really was... " and before I had time to complete my sentence Senia Mae finished it for me.

"Awesome," she said.

"Yes, it was awesome," I said thinking about how we had just spent an entire day enjoying each others company, without T.V., without electronics, and without having to spend money. Any doubt or guilt I had about working part time had suddenly disappeared. She thought spending the day with me was awesome and I could think of no other way I would want to spend my valuable time.

Can dogs have kittens? lol

Thu, 12 May 2016 16:26:44 GMT

A conversation from our morning commute to school:

"Mama, is Birdie going to have babies?" Senia Mae asked. Fortunately I am facing the road and she can't see me rolling my eyes saying, "Thank God, no," under my breath.

Birdie is our six year old pound puppy that looked strikingly similar to every stray dog roaming the streets of Cozumel... the ones whose pitiful eyes gave the poor me look as they begged for food. Although we love Birdie and have no doubts that she would be a expedient mother, we already have plenty of animals that require love and attention, one more puppy could easily turn our happy go lucky mini-farm into a literal "funny" farm. I spend nearly half of my day feeding and watering things. Right now our herd consists of two dogs, five cats, four chickens, and two fish.

After a long exhalation I answer, "No, honey. Birdie has been fixed so she can't have babies."

"But I really wanted a kitten!"

I was laughing so hard as we pulled into the carpool line that I didn't have time to explain that dogs have puppies and cats have kittens. Birdie, I am sure, would love to have her own kitten, birthed or adopted. She is very good mother to the ones we have now, letting them rub up under her belly and swat their tails over her face. I didn't have the heart or the time to break the news to Senia Mae that Birdie could never be a "true" mother of a kitten. I guess it will have to be a conversation for another time!

Getting Back to the Basics on Mother's Day

Sun, 08 May 2016 16:29:05 GMT

As I look at the young lady about to give birth in four weeks I think, "You have no idea how your life is going to change." None of us had any idea until the day it happened, the day we became mothers. There is no way you can understand the depth of emotion that surrounds the enormity of someone else's life being completely dependent on you. All of a sudden your most important job becomes being a teacher, making sure this new person feels safe, feels loved, knows how to love, and turns into a person with honor. What a huge responsibility but what an awesome responsibility, knowing that our actions, our feelings, and our morals are formulating what this little person is to become.

This little person watches every move we make, learning by examples that we set on how to be an adult. Yikes! How have I addressed the people I love lately? Has it been with compassion and empathy or with frustration and hatred. How have I reacted when stuck in that traffic jam or when the person in front of me in line is texting instead of paying attention? What about when this little person says, "Mama, look... " as I am in the middle of something I feel is more important. Have I dropped what I am doing to show them that they matter as much as getting my tasks done? What a huge responsibility but again, what an awesome one.

My parents have been living with us the last several months while looking for a house in Georgia. We see each other every day. I was surprised when friends invited my mom to spend a long weekend with them in Myrtle Beach and instead of packing her bags and getting the hell out of dodge, she thanked them and politely declined.

"Mom, you've been dying to go to the beach... Why not go and get a few days of fun in the sun?" I asked.

"You don't understand," she said. "You've been living away from me for 22 years."

"Well we are living together now, you see me every day," I said.

"I haven't gotten to spend a Mother's Day with my daughter in 22 years. That is more important to me than going to the beach," my mother said.

"Oh." I couldn't think of anything else to say. She was right, Mother's Day has a deeper meaning than just a card and flowers. Even when your children are adults they are still your children and you get to be proud of who they have become, the product of years of hard work and sacrifice. And even though as mothers we sacrifice time, money, sleep, friendships, our own thoughts, and sometimes our own sanity, I can't imagine a life any better than this, because this is the most important job I will ever have. And the most important thing we give and receive as mothers is LOVE. Happy Mother's Day, Mom and all mothers everywhere!

Appreciating That Special Moment

Sat, 30 Apr 2016 16:33:39 GMT

Some days just have moments, snippets of your life that you know are extra special right as they are happening. Today I had one of those moments. It was a melancholy day anyway, the eight year anniversary of Gram's sudden death, and Kim, Senia Mae, and I decided to take the back roads instead of the major highway. We ended up with a whole hour to waste, normally unheard of, and Kim said, "Let's get some ice cream."

We stumbled upon a Mom and Pop ice cream shop on Main Street in Alpharetta, an old fashioned brick colonial storefront with white painted trim and windows. It was exactly the building I would have imagined housing a little piece of historic downtown Americana and looked strikingly similar to the Pewter Pot Restaurant Gram and I would walk to when I was a child. I remembered warm corn muffins and hot tea in pewter pots as we pulled open the glass door.

Four Fat Cows was lovely as well as locally owned. I was sold as soon as the eager ice cream clerk informed me that their ice cream was made with a higher fat content which resulted in a creamier flavor and with less sugar. We ordered three cones of homemade heaven and decided to sit outside on the brick patio, shaded and comfortable as the trickling sound of the garden fountain muffled any unwanted street noise. An arched trellis, laden with the star flowered blossoms of Confederate Jasmine separated the patio from the parking lot. Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, the sweet aroma carried me back to the day Gram and I planted the same vine outside the front door of my future Chiropractic office fourteen years earlier.

I thought about how drastically my life has changed in the eight years since Gram has passed... in some ways it feels like an entire lifetime ago. Since that time and solely because of Gram's death, Kim and I decided to have Senia Mae, named after Gram. I completed a full length manuscript about the life and loss of Gram and am currently pursuing publication. Kim and I have become parents, learning how to live and love in a way I never would have imagined possible, a way that is passed down from generation to generation.

Eight years ago today was the worst day of my life. I miss Gram every time I see my daughter mimic something she would have done, like taking a cardboard box out of the trash and saying, "We can re-use that!" But her death somehow kicked me into a new beginning, a better version of myself more available for giving and loving and becoming more of who I am supposed to be. That I wouldn't change for all of the apple turnovers in the world.

I miss you Gram and can't wait to see you on the other side.

Look Who's Burnin' Doing the Neutron Dance

Sat, 16 Apr 2016 16:37:42 GMT

It is a rare occurrence when I cross paths with my wife during a lunch break. The other day, like all of the moons lining up around Jupiter, she showed up at home as I was finishing up a yesterday's leftovers sandwich. When we have the opportunity to actually talk to each other without someone else repeatedly shouting, "Mama, mama, mama, mama," sometimes we catch up with each other in the hot tub. Believe it or not, you can say, "Would you like to... (and insert just about any word)... in the hot tub?" My answer is almost 100% of the time going to be yes whether it is: do you want to go over our tax statements or drink a glass of wine in the hot tub? So when Kim asked me at lunch time, of course I said yes.

This time the question was a little bit different, "Aren't you going to ask me why I carried up that old box of cassette tapes?" Kim asked. I had been floating on my back, daydreaming as I gazed at the cotton ball clouds. Sitting myself up I stared at her, clueless about the conversation we were having.

"What?" I responded.

"The tapes," She smiled, "Didn't you wonder why I carried them up from the basement?"

"Umm," was all I could say. In truth, I hadn't even noticed... maybe I'm not as astute as I pride myself to be.

"I've been reading this book and the main character has this old Trans Am," Kim's eyes became illuminated as she told the story. "His old car has a tape deck so he gets out his high school tapes when he takes the car out for a ride. It's totally awesome. After I read the story I thought about our truck having a tape deck and decided to dig my old cassette tapes out from under the spare bed downstairs." You could tell by the excited look on her face that she was just thrilled with the idea.

"Yeah, that's cool," I said, trying to sound more enthused than I really was. "Which ones did you bring up?"

Because we were raised in different parts of the country, Kim and I had very different tastes in music during our high school years. I was a complete alterna-chick, listening to Kate Bush, The Dead Milkmen, and Cure. Kim was raised in a suburb of Chicago and was totally into the pop side of rhythm and blues, something I showed very little interest in.

"Well I brought up Klymaxx, Guy, Ralph Tresvant from New Edition," she looked up and I was laughing hysterically. "I also have Price, The Time, and The Pointer Sisters!" You could tell that she couldn't wait to jump in the truck and start singing at the top of her lungs. "What?"

"It's just so funny, I never had any of those tapes even though we were in high school at the same time," I laughed.

"Maybe I just had better taste in music," Kim said as she went on to discuss another subject.

My lunch break was finally over and I had to make my way back to the office. I couldn't help but laugh as I thought of what the two of us were doing at that same exact moment: I was heading back to work to help heal the world from the inside out, Kim, on the other hand was riding around doing the Neutron Dance!

Going Home

Thu, 31 Mar 2016 16:40:35 GMT

You never know when an ordinary day is going to turn extraordinary. Yesterday was that day for me. I had a long, tedious day at the office, followed by a delicious dinner that I practically inhaled in order to spend a few quick moments with my daughter before she went to bed, and then I was off to praise band practice at the church. To say that I had little left to give is a major understatement. By that point in the day it is all I can do to just show up, go through the drumming motions, and drag myself to bed when it is all over. Fortunately, yesterday, something else was forcing me to pay a little more attention.

As I was sitting on my drum stool, waiting for the rest of the praise team to get their microphones and amplifiers from squeaking and squealing, I noticed a petite, white haired older lady standing with the choir director. Her hair was the color of the snow and she gripped her choir folder nervously as she gazed at the woman speaking to her.

"You are going to fit in just fine," the director said to her. "It just seems a little intense right now because we are getting ready for the choral competition in a few weeks. Stick in there, you are going to love it and we love you." The woman seemed unconvinced as she rolled her shoulders in, looking downward as she stepped down from the choir loft.

"Well the Praise Team always needs more singers if you are willing to get here at 7:45 a.m. on Sunday mornings," I said to her, hoping to lighten her mood a little. Her face lit up as she walked over to me, explaining that after holding down two jobs for over forty years she did not want to ever have to intentionally wake before 10 a.m..

"I completely understand. Every Sunday, when I really want to stay tucked in nice and warm under the covers, the only thing that gets me up is the thought that it is time to praise Jesus," I said with a laugh. "The voice in my head says, 'Get out of bed you lazy bum!'... and I always do, but it is hard." Those few seconds of sharing allowed her to open up about missing her home in New Jersey because her husband was still there.

"Your husband is still living in New Jersey while you moved down here?" I asked, confused as to why after being married for 63 years that living separately would be even be an option.

"No, he died last year," she tearfully said. "So he is still there and I am here. I just want to go home." My heart broke for the woman as she relived her moments with him; telling me their story: how she had taken care of him while he had been sick the last twenty years and how she worked two jobs to be able to put their daughter through school. "His last day," she said, "he wanted to take a shower. He could barely stand on his own and was legally blind. I said no, it was too late, I would just clean him up in the bathroom." The woman turned and looked away for a moment.

"When I was done he got up and walked to the bedroom. He didn't say one word to me, just kept moving. I told him to stop and let me help him," her voice quivered. "When I got to the bedroom he was looking up into the corner of the ceiling with his arms outstretched and the next second he fell to the floor. I thought he was joking and threatened to call 911 if he didn't help me get him up onto the bed, but he said nothing. At first I couldn't believe it was happening, not like this, not now. After shaking him for a few minutes he still laid there limp, not moving, so I called for help and when the police arrived they pronounced him dead."

I tried to not let my jaw drop as I listened her story. "You mean to tell me you witnessed your husband with his arms outstretched as he was being taken into heaven?" I was completely in awe and holding back my own tears.

"I just can't believe he didn't even say anything to me," she said, obviously still drowning in grief, sorrow, and self pity. She still seemed too wrapped up in the pain of losing her husband to realize how powerful an event she had the privilege of witnessing: God reaching down and pulling the spirit into heaven. I don't judge her because I can't understand the kind of intense sadness that accompanies that level of loss. But all I could think of was how many people fear death, just that unknown feeling of what actually happens: is it painful or terrifying? Am I heading upstairs or downstairs? Will I be ready to leave the people I love? But this woman got to see what actually happens... her husband reaching up his arms like a child wanting to be picked up and his spirit leaving his body to be with the Lord. I can't imagine anything more comforting or soothing than knowing for sure that is what happens when you die. You are in fact going home.

Green tea for me? There's no way... please make it a triple espresso!

Fri, 26 Feb 2016 17:43:43 GMT

Yesterday my friend proudly boasted that she had kicked the coffee habit and was now healthily enjoying green tea every morning. I was happy for her, wondering if I would ever be able to even contemplate such a drastic measure. She must have caught me rolling my eyes.

"What?" she laughed.

"It's just funny because there is no way I could even consider giving up morning caffeine until Senia Mae is about eighteen and I am retired. With the amount of effort I have to put into everyday and my lack of sleep over the past six years, a day without coffee would be physiologically impossible," I said. "I am certain I would drop dead before the end of twenty four hours." I'm not being overly dramatic, either. Some mornings it is all I can do to get the child dressed and out of the house.

The alarm buzzed the other morning as I slammed the snooze button for the third time. Please tell me I'm dreaming and it's still the middle of the night, I thought to myself. Although I tuck my daughter into her own bed every night, she often ends up pancaked to my side after spending most of the evening encroaching on my sleeping space, leaving me hot flashing and sandwiched into the 12 inch pocket between her and Kim. That is rarely a restful sleep. When it is time to gently nudge her awake all I hear is this squeaky little moan, "Momma, nooooooooooooooo," as she rolls over to face the other direction.

"It's time to get up for school."

"I don't want to go to school today," Senia Mae mumbles, barely moving her lips.

"Maybe if you stayed in your own bed you would sleep better," I joke.

"But I miss you so much in the night time," she says as she wraps her legs around my midriff, arms around my shoulders and covers my face in gentle kisses. I am trying to enjoy her innocent affection while being aware that we have to be dressed, ready, and out of the house in forty five minutes. Yes, that should be plenty of time, I know, but Senia Mae is very unfocused in the mornings. Some would even say we have a dilly dally-er.

After I sent her to her room to dress in the clothes that were already laid out, I had to check on her three times. The first time she was naked and back up in her bunk bed playing with her cat. I politely asked her to get dressed before I ran back to the kitchen to make her lunch. The second time I caught her sitting on the floor of her closet pulling out clothes for Naked Baby, her favorite doll. I demand a dressed child more firmly this time before I throw on something suitable to wear for the car ride to school. When I come in the third time and she is only wearing her underpants while looking through her bookshelf I raise my voice to get full attention.

"Senia Mae we're going to be late for school... get dressed NOW!" The power in my tone grabs her attention as I point my finger, feeling like the parent in Dr. Seuss' Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now? I really hate to have to use the Mom voice but sometimes it feels like its my only weapon. Eventually she is clothed and heads into the bathroom. As she is sitting on the potty I instruct her to make sure she brushes her teeth while she is still in the bathroom. At least we can attempt to multi-task.

"Well that should be edible," Senia Mae says as I am turning towards the door.

"Edible?" I ask, stifling a giggle. "Do you know what that means?"

"No," she says, completely straight faced.

"Edible means something you can eat." Senia Mae laughs at her misunderstanding. "Are you looking for a different word, like obvious?"

"Yes, Momma, it should be obvious that I am going to brush my teeth while I am still in the bathroom." She said the words with such conviction now that she had the right word. How, during this chaotic morning, could I possibly think she could get off target?

I laughed as I hurried her to the bathroom sink, placing the toothbrush in her hand as I quickly combed the snarls out of her hair. By some act of God we made it to school on time, pulling in as the last car in the parent drop off line. Could a few sips of green tea light enough fire under me to get this family moving in the right direction or any direction for that matter? I don't think so! I am going to stick to mind stimulating coffee until I can get just a little more control over my own crazy herd.

From Atlantic to Pacific, Gee the traffic is Terrific!

Thu, 31 Dec 2015 17:49:09 GMT

To me, nothing says happy holidays like an extended stay road trip. What could be more fun than cramming the whole family into the car while singing, "From Atlantic to Pacific, gee the traffic is terrific," packed tight like overstuffed olives, as we inhale stray strands of hair from the dogs balancing on the wrapped gifts in the back seat? Yep, there's no place like home for the holidays.

Before my parents moved South, we would make an annual Christmas road trip from Georgia to Massachusetts, stopping halfway in Delaware so we could spend time with both sides of the family. Sometimes, on the way back home, we would load up Aunt Katie and cousin Olivia to make the last thirteen hours of the trip a little more exciting and ring in the New Year with some real Chesapeake Bay pizzazz. The challenge was always how to add two more passengers to a vehicle that already resembled one of those tiny circus cars with the twenty something clowns in it. We rode with our load far beyond the top of Mount Crumpit!

On that particular trip, Senia Mae was probably a year and a half, no more than two, and was still at the age where she spoke only a few choice words. I called them "power words" because the phrases she spat our had to have the effect she wanted; sometimes she had to use a little more vocal force to drive the point home. After a exceedingly long standstill on 95, the bumper to bumper chaos was beginning to take its toll on our moods, so we pulled off somewhere in Virginia to get a little fresh air and stretch our legs.

After we had all used the restroom and refreshed our beverages at Dunkin' Donuts, the dogs had been walked and we were crossing the parking lot towards the car. When Senia Mae realized where we were headed, she immediately cemented her feet to the pavement like a stubborn old mule.

"Poopie diaper, poopie diaper, poopie diaper," she grumbled, resisting our attempts to move her forward.

I had just changed her diaper a few minutes before. When I slid my finger around her back side and propped it open, there was nothing in there, just like I thought. Senia Mae must have been testing out her dawdling tactics in hopes of going elsewhere, anywhere but back in the car. At eighteen months old she was already giving us the fake out!

As grownups, we don't always appreciate our ability to freely express our opinions. I guess shouting "poopie diaper" was the only way Senia Mae could delay the inevitable, her way of telling us she was NOT going to be shoved back into that micro machine... at least not without letting us know how she really felt about it!

The real Porno for Pyros

Sat, 19 Dec 2015 17:53:33 GMT

Yesterday, as the mercury plummeted to a level where a jacket was deemed necessary, it finally became cold enough in Georgia to build a fire in the fireplace. Although I always appreciate seventy degree weather in December, the sudden chill in the air, like shoving through the crowds of overzealous mothers clawing the last available doll at Toys r' Us, does seem to be seasonably appropriate.

Whenever it is fireplace weather there is always this underlying competition of who can build a better fire from scratch, me or Kim. I feel superior because I was a Girl Scout, spending much of my youth heaving and hawing through the woods with sit up-ons and tuna can fire starters. I pride myself on knowing how to build an oven out of a wine box wrapped in aluminum foil and have no problem throwing on an old pair of boots in order to scavenge the depths of the woods to find the best dry kindling to start a fire.

Kim was a Blue Bird. I know Blue Birds eventually turned into Campfire Girls and obviously with that title they would have the appropriate skills to maintain a blazing fire in the hearth.

Whenever Kim starts the fire I always get in trouble for trying to rearrange her logs. "Get out of there," she says to me as I sneak over trying to maximize air flow under the grate. It seems hilarious now, but years ago we actually got into an argument over our competitive management of the fireplace.

She seems to have no recollection of what she learned as a Blue Bird, just that she was one. Even though I feel as if I have superior fire training, I would love to actually hear from some other Blue Birds out there, just to give Kim some extra support because even though everyone is the best fire starter in their own mind, it probably depends most on WHO is telling the story!

There's a Missing Member from the Manger

Sat, 05 Dec 2015 17:56:47 GMT

I feel myself starting to unravel as Senia Mae scants from bin to bin pulling out random Christmas decorations, giving them the quick once over, and then proceeding to discard them on the floor as she moves on to the next discovery. The mood is supposed to be good: it's chilly and raining outside, we are drinking eggnog and blaring the Glee Christmas album on Pandora. Why can't I just enjoy this moment of family bonding as we decorate our home for Christmas? Taking a deep breath, I let my shoulders relax as I step over a mound of tinsel garland and help Senia Mae pull out her Little People Nativity scene. That is what she is really searching for.

When we find the box underneath several hand blown glass ornaments that were placed haphazardly a midst the table runner in the Christmas tote, I pull it out carefully, like it is the lost treasure we have been seeking for decades. Within seconds the box is on the floor and there is plastic hay, a mule, and a couple of wise men camouflaged into our tan and white shag carpet.

"Let her be," Kim says to me, smiling and putting her hand on my shoulder in hopes of calming down the manic expression she sees rising on my face. "We can gather up all the pieces when she is done playing."

But I can't just let it go. I have always had this neuroses where I can't stand for parts to be missing from a set, it makes me crazy. Why can't we keep all of the pieces together? It feels like its been the daily battle of my existence, trying desperately to keep all of the pieces of my life neatly together.

I remember sobbing in my mother's lap after the neighborhood kids left our old house on California Road. Pieces of my Barbie Dream house furniture were scattered in every room and I was a total mess, spinning out of my control because my "stuff" was not in a contained area. Looking around my living room today, I realize that not much has changed with my mental incapacities as I try to control myself and let my child have her own Christmas experience.

Apparently I am not Elsa and I just can't just let it go. I line the Little People up on the mantle, feeling the strong urge to make sure all of the members are there. Of course, several are missing: a donkey, one palm tree, and the cart that goes on the mule. Instead of unpacking the rest of my pre lit garland and my special Christmas tableware, I find myself digging through Senia Mae's four bins that happen to contain a mixed salad of everything from Barbie shoes to palace pets to farm tractors.

After thirty minutes of digging, I recover two of the three lost manger members. One is still missing. Is Christmas really going to be ruined over a missing donkey cart from the Little People Nativity scene? Hopefully not.

Since then I have been able to move slightly forward, I have gotten the upper mantle partially decorated. But I can't seem to get past the thought that maybe the cart got mixed in with the farm toys we passed down to her cousins last summer. I'll call my sister later to see if she came across a stray cart with no donkey. Since this isn't a dire emergency, my therapist would probably appreciate it if I held off calling her until Monday morning!

The Dawning of a Diva

Sun, 15 Nov 2015 18:02:38 GMT

The padded thud, thud, thud, thud suddenly stopping without making its way into my bedroom was the first sign that something was askew. I waited a moment, hoping she would change her mind and go back to bed, which I know from five and a half years of experience, was never going to happen. Opening my eye a pinch, I made out solid shadows of furniture in the dark, but the silence was alarming.

The hardwood floor felt good on my feet, slightly chilly but relaxing as I slipped on my favorite robe, the waffle woven one from Pottery Barn with the terry cloth liner. Silently I crept out into the hallway to check the status of my daughter. There was no sign of a child except a red doll stroller rolled halfway into the wall in front of the bathroom door. Fortunately, at this age, they always leave clues.

Poking my head through the doorway so she couldn't immediately see me, I viewed her pudgy behind balancing solely on one leg, wobbling on the stool in front of the sink. Her right leg bent and balancing in the sink, still covered in the pink pajamas with the white and black penguins, I watched her hand reach deeply into the medicine cabinet. When she turned around smiling with the small metallic tube, I knew her desire had been the Urban Decay lipstick.

"Do you know why Mommy puts that up high?" I stun her with my voice, she thought she was being completely silent, but my smile shows her that she is not in trouble. "So little hands wouldn't get into it when I'm not looking."

I can't blame her for being so excited about makeup, aren't we all that way on the inside? It was purchased special for her dance recital last year and she's only gotten to try it a couple of times. The instructor suggested Urban Decay because of their cruelty free policy towards animal testing. Even though I probably could have spent $50 less at Walmart, I thought we should get the extra fancy red at Ulta for the recital, not just the cheap stuff. I am aware that this is an attitude that I will probably regret in about ten years.

Although having to clean bright red lipstick smeared all over her cheeks is somewhat time consuming, isn't this what having a little girl is all about? The fun of fancy dresses and makeup? I guess so. We'll just call this stage the dawning of a diva and I must admit... I LOVE IT!

School Rules

Thu, 08 Oct 2015 17:11:06 GMT

When I told Senia Mae that I was going to be in "school" today she was enthralled, like her and I were connecting on a whole new level. Her first year of kindergarten seems to be all about sticking to the rules and maintaining status quo. Going over who's clip got moved is the only subject she is interested in discussing when she gets home.

My class is actually twenty hours of continuing education which happens to be at Life Chiropractic College, where I attended graduate school. So, technically, I was in school today.

"Does your school have a principal?" Senia Mae asked, looking interested as she gave me the questioning eye of a five year old.

"Well... no, it's kind of a school for grown ups," I said.

"Oh," she said. "Well, what are the other rules?"

"Ummm, I'm not really sure, I haven't been in school for a long time."

"Running or skipping in the hallways... are you allowed to do that?" Senia Mae asked. "We aren't allowed to skip or run in the hallways. The principal is always watching on tiny cameras. We have to walk quietly with our hands behind our backs, no running and absolutely NO skipping." Thinking of her question I giggled at the vision of middle aged, suit wearing professionals randomly skipping through the hallway by the Nell Williams Library. I saw their faces glowing, their smiles beaming with joy, replacing the solemn, serious gaze that usually accompanied task oriented adults.

"You know, sometimes adults forget how fun it is to skip. We probably shouldn't do it through the hallways but maybe outside in the courtyard for sure." Satisfied with my response, she looked down at a pad of paper she had prepared just for this conversation and placed a check mark next to a squiggly line.

"What about whistling in class?" Senia Mae asked. "I got a warning for that the other day, but Ms. Marlene gave me two more chances." She sighed a little, looking exasperated as she shook her round little face back and forth. "I just didn't know there was no whistling in class." She is so expressive for a five year old, sometimes it feels as if you are talking to someone much older.

"I am sure our teachers would not want whistling in class, either." I said. "I bet they want everyone to just pay attention."

"Yeah, you're probably right," she agreed as she made another check mark on the next squiggly line. "What time do you have recess?"

"Ha, unfortunately never."

"Momma, that's too bad, but I'm sure you are going to have fun at school anyway. Don't be scared, o.k.?" She looked me in the eye and stuck her soft, little hand on my cheek before she turned and skipped away.

At that moment I just wanted to fold her up and stick her in my pocket. Sometimes it takes the innocence of a child to remind us the importance of a simple yet happy life. How I love that kid.

I wish that I could be like the cool kids...

Tue, 22 Sep 2015 17:14:05 GMT

I knew that one day the phrase would eventually come back and bite me in the... well, you know where and it finally did. For several years now, when Senia Mae feels hesitant about anything from riding her bike down a hill to heading into kindergarten all by herself, I have jokingly said, "Come on, all the cool kids are doing it!"

Last summer we were celebrating a two year old's birthday party. The high school principal happened to be the birthday girl's grandmother. She overheard me reciting my line to Senia mae and laughed. "You better watch that one," she said, slapping me gently on the shoulder as she turned away. I laughed back and thought nothing of it.

A few weeks ago after getting home from school, Senia Mae came down the front steps in her new apricot laced, knee length school dress with matching white patent leather slip-ons. Without thinking I dashed in the house, unloading my armload of supplies I had lugged from the car down the thirty steps to the house, trying not to drop anything as I managed my daily balancing act. As usual my mind easily wandered and I was soon wrapped up in another chore, cleaning off the counter so I could prepare dinner while Senia Mae played outside. After several minutes of not seeing my vibrant child skipping, squealing, and doing pirouettes through the front yard, I knew something was awry. Grabbing the dish towel, I quickly wiped off my hands and headed out the screened door.

In the distance I heard the usual outdoor noises, chickens clucking, crickets chirping, owls hooting, all mixed with a little girl's voice talking quietly to herself. I rounded the corner and saw Senia Mae sitting happily in the chicken coop. She was holding her favorite chicken in her arms as she perched herself, still clothed in her beautiful lacy dress, on the poop covered ladder to the nesting box. You could tell by her look of absolute pleasure that she was where she wanted to be, spending quality time co-mingling with her fluffy, feathered friends.

"Senia Mae," I screamed, resisting the urge to yank her out of there by the ponytail, "What are you doing sitting in the chicken coop with your school clothes on?" She looked up at me with total surprise, as if she couldn't possibly understand what was making me so agitated. And do you want to know her response?

"Momma, all the cool kids are doing it!"

I guess I deserved that one.

Who needs sleep?

Tue, 01 Sep 2015 18:22:57 GMT

Although she is all glitz and glamor on the outside, inside she is mush...one of sweetest, most sensitive individuals I have ever met. So much so that she doesn't want to ever leave us...especially when having to spend the whole night alone in her room.

"I am the only one on this whole house who has to sleep by myself," Senia Mae complains.

"That's not true," I lie, "You have bunny, chicken, all of those little stuffed dogs, and Elsa and Anna sleeping right in that cradle." My detraction works for the moment and I am able to kiss her goodnight and leave the room. She is right, everyone else does have someone to sleep with, but I am not going to admit that to her.

One o'clock in the morning creeps around and I hear the shuffling footsteps stopping at my side of the bed. She doesn't ask anymore, she just hopes she can sneak in without me noticing. Sometimes I am so tired that I am not aware until a surging hot flash floods my innards because I am surrounded on all sides. I've got Kim on one side, Senia Mae spooning the other, and the kitten curled up behind my knees. Sweat beads my forehead and I have to thrash the covers off, but they won't move because Senia Mae lies on top of them.

"Senia Mae," I groan, "you have got to go back to you own bed." She moves about one inch to the edge of the bed, hoping I will fall back asleep. Although consciousness is poking my face from its silent abyss, I am trying to remain asleep without a battle of wills that often ends in tears...tears laced with enough guilt that she thinks she may get her way. "Mae Mae, time for your bed."

"Aw, come on, you're not even giving me a chance," she pleads. Where did that come from? I think to myself, laughing at how her comment sounds like it came from an adult.

"For real this time. I can't sleep all crammed up like this," I say quietly, trying not to wake Kim. I almost have to roll her off the edge of the bed and she stomps to her room. But that is not the end. She decides to stand in her bedroom doorway and whimper about how lonely it is in her room. I try to ignore this and just let her fall asleep. The specialists would say, "Do like Elsa and 'Let it go.'" But I have a very heavy conscious and it is still the night of her birthday. I don't have the heart to let her biggest day of the year end in a weepy mess. So I drag myself out of my warm, comfortable bed and console her in the doorway.

"Hey, kiddo, why don't you get in your bed and I will stay with you until you fall asleep," I say. She nods her head and wipes a tear with her pudgy little hand as she heads under her Ariel blanket. Sitting on her very small princess fold out chair, I sit quietly with my hand on her chest, feeling it rise and fall as she drifts away peacefully.

When I think she is asleep after about fifteen minutes I stand up and one eye immediately opens, as if she were peering through a monocle, spying on me. I sit down and wait another thirty minutes, until my legs are feeling pins and needles and I am certain she is in a deep sleep. I tiptoe back to my room and get under the covers, now fully awake because I have been up for over an hour.

Finally I coax myself back to sleep, but after another hour or so the midnight bed monster returns. This time I am too tired to talk, argue, or carry her back to bed. I just move on over because I have to be completely functioning in just two hours. This has happened on and off for the past five years.

So to all who all who enviously ask, "You sit in the hot tub and drink your coffee every morning?" My answer is YES! It is one of the few guilty pleasures that I have left and a good way to bribe my sleep deprived body out of bed!

Sleep deprivation at its finest.. It's a hard night's day!

Tue, 01 Sep 2015 17:54:25 GMT

There is not a single concealing cover-up in the whole makeup industry potent enough to hide the bags that I am trying to hide this morning. On the forefront of one of my busiest weekends of the spring, I was awakened every hour on the hour by a daughter who was announcing the latest actions of our Cocker Spaniel who, although I wasn't aware, was having "trail through the house" attacks of diarrhea. This was last night's schedule:

9:00 Senia Mae went to bed after having a large sweet tea at the Mexican restaurant... Big mistake.

10:15 I hear footsteps at the side of my bed, "Can you blow my nose?" she asks. She is sent back to bed.

10:45 Through my closed eyes I hear the frogs croaking outside but then in the distance a human voice. I get up to ensure our home has no intruders only to find Senia Mae singing at the top of her lungs in bed.

"Close your eyes and go to sleep," I demand.

12:00 I am suddenly awakened a third time by someone screaming, "Momma, Luna is pooping in the hallway! And she peed on the rug, too!" While cleaning up the mess in the semi-dark I am wondering why she is awake at midnight.

"Thank you for the report. Now go to sleep," I say with my irritated voice.

12:45 Again footsteps at my side of the bed. "I have a boo-boo." This time I didn't respond, just point at her bedroom like the parent in that Dr. Seuss book, Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go NOW!

1:30 Standing in our bedroom doorway Senia Mae announced, "Momma, Luna pooped again and I stepped in it." By this time I am beyond tired and well past irritated.

"Why are you out of bed in the first place? If you were in your bed you wouldn't have stepped in poop." Somehow stepping in the poop must have made her realize how tired she was because she finally fell asleep soon after the foot washing.

This morning I am dragging myself out of bed while contemplating the events of last night. After my second strong cup of coffee and a long, steamy shower, I rush out the door fifteen minutes later than I should have. Of course, I am stuck behind a slow traveling Buick driven by an elderly man wearing a Tam O'Shanter cap. As I pull up behind him at the stop sign I notice his bumper sticker:

I nearly spilled my coffee all over my lap because I was laughing so hard. It may be the funniest bumper sticker I have ever seen and oh so appropriate for a morning like this!

What did your childhood taste like?

Fri, 28 Aug 2015 17:17:25 GMT

This morning a box that looked full of big, round greenish pink overstuffed grapes sat on my desk. "What are these?" I asked my assistant.

"Oh, they are muscadines. Someone gave them to Ivy and with their thick skins and big seeds, she said they were too tough to swallow. She left them for us." I opened up the plastic container and popped a plump, juicy ping pong ball sized piece of heaven in my mouth.

With the first bite, as the juices burst into my mouth, I immediately recognized the unique smell, that old familiar fragrance as the musky sweetness infiltrated my nostrils.

Instantaneously my mind skipped back thirty five years and I was running through my childhood backyard, wrestling the waist-high vines with the green, palm sized leaves that got caught in our shoelaces and the pockets of our dungarees. Back then us kids called them "wild grapes." I remembered biting into their thick skins, sucking the sweet layer off the inside as the slimy inner portion floated over my tongue. Since no one liked the sour inside we would have contests to see who could spit the slimy balls the farthest. Many a mud pie was made with a secret "real" ingredient that grew wildly abundant in the overgrown pastures of Eastern Massachusetts, making my backyard recipes that much more appealing.

I probably hadn't eaten a muscadine since I was seven but today I tasted my childhood again. What did your childhood taste like?

Grabbing LIFE by the A$$

Sun, 16 Aug 2015 17:19:30 GMT

The alarm buzzed like several angry bees trapped inside a tin can, letting me know that it was, once again, time to get up and go. On Sunday mornings I rise early, drag myself out of bed, grab a cup of coffee, and head to church to warm up with the praise team as we prepare for the 8:45 Contemporary Worship Service. Although I was exhausted from playing with my rock n' roll band last night, (at a place where we actually got a better response playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for a trio of toddlers than when someone in the crowd sarcastically requested Freebird and we nailed it)I was happy to be exhausted as a result of living one of my dreams.

Once upon a time I thought I was going to spend my life on a tour bus playing late nights to sold out stadiums across America. Over the years the plan has changed drastically, but my passion is still the same and I feel fortunate that I am able to live that passion, as well as being a wife, mother, chiropractor, and writer. I love to play the drums whether it is in front of three dancing toddlers, a sold out stadium, or a church full of people praising the Lord. And even though I was tired as I sat lazily on the porch swing with the sun warming my face, when Senia Mae wanted to build a tent in the living room and watch Pee Wee's Big Adventure, I couldn't say no because I am aware that special times are, like everything else, limited.

Today my partner, Kim, learned that a dear friend's life was ending. She got the call as her friend was headed to the hospital, holding onto those final hours before she lost her battle with pancreatic cancer. They had gotten out of touch over the years and finally reconnected a few years ago. Kim was stunned to learn of her friend's terrible diagnosis at such a young age. But there seemed to be nothing anyone could do. In the end she was very thankful that they had found each other once again.

It hurts my heart to see people going through the motions of life but not living: afraid to take the chance, too lazy to make the time, or even worse, frozen in the pavement of procrastination. Instead of saying, "Maybe one day when we win the lottery," make it happen now, take a risk, follow your heart, remember what it feels like, spend the extra time, make that call, book the flight anyway, write the letter, shout it out for the whole world to hear because we are alive today... but we are not promised tomorrow.

Capitalizing the Sweet Tooth

Thu, 30 Jul 2015 17:24:38 GMT

"I don't like that," Senia Mae says before I can even get the lid off of the dutch oven to show her what's simmering inside. "I'll have peanut butter and jelly." Somehow I have been plucked from my old world of red wine and brie en croute only to be vigorously tossed into the land of peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"You are not having peanut butter and jelly for every meal. Little bodies need different kinds of nutrition to grow. Peanut butter and jelly is good sometimes, but tonight I made something you're really going to love."

"What?" she asks.

"Well its pot roast, green beans, and home made macaroni and cheese. Three things you really like to eat." Instead of forcing fancy cuisine on my five year old, I was trying a more moderate tactic: cooking foods we could all enjoy together.

"OK," she said as she headed to the table.

A few minutes later I noticed she had eaten most of the beans, all of the mac and cheese, but hadn't touched the meat. "Momma, I don't like this," she said pointing to the bbq style sandwich I had made her on a hamburger bun.

"Why not?"

"It's too sweet." Now if I had been serving her brussels sprouts I could understand, but nothing to her is too sweet. This was a slow cooked beef bbq with brown sugar and hickory: moist, tender, and almost heavenly. I knew she was just being obstinate.

"But you love sweet things," I said. "You have a sweet tooth." She stopped for a minute, touching her teeth as she thought about what I was saying. It was hard to keep a straight face.

"Where?"

"Oh, the sweet tooth is the one next to the big one in the front." It came out so fast that I didn't even realize what a tall tale I was telling.

"This one?" she said, pointing to her left incisor.

"No, one in from that one." I moved her finger over one tooth.

"This is my sweet tooth?"

"Yep," I lied, knowing I was taking advantage of my daughter's gullible nature. "That's the tooth that makes you like all sweets. Now you can finish your meat because you have a sweet tooth."

She was amazed at her special tooth, touching it with one hand, thrilled by the new discovery as she speared little pieces of food with her other.

I know that lying is one of the "Thou shall nots," but my little white one got three more bites into her without any more argument. Certainly on the big chart in the sky those two things can cancel each other out!

Is it early stage Alzheimer's or just busy Mom syndrome?

Tue, 14 Jul 2015 17:31:13 GMT

People tell me all of the time, “I can’t believe how much you can get done. How do you manage to fit everything in?” By everything they mean being a full time wife, mother, and chiropractor in private practice… a drummer in the church praise band, writer, blogger, sometimes good cook, and hopefully soon to be published author.

What they really don’t know is… I am not really that organized. Actually I am a complete unsystematic mess. The only reason I have any efficiency whatsoever is that I tackle tasks immediately. If I do not tend my mental garden soon after the seeds have been sown, all information seems to be permanently rinsed down the drain, never resurfacing. Just this morning we showed up at my in-law’s house and my partner said, “Kara, tell them why we are here….” I had no recollection of why we were there even though we had been just talking about it in the car. The problem was we also talked about refilling our coffees, where we were going for dinner, and how my editor commented on the final cuts.

Lying in bed at night I wonder, “Is this how Pat Summit felt: overbooked, overcompensating, and overwhelmed, trying to avoid the diagnosis of early onset dementia?” I make a mental list of my symptoms, most of which could go either way. I usually remember at least 2/3rds of the grocery list although I rarely find the need to write it down. I can remember complaints a patient had two years ago, even if they haven’t been in since then. I don’t necessarily get lost on the way home, sometimes I just get so absorbed, singing at the top of my lungs as the bass rattles my brain, “I’m sorry but I’m just thinking of the right words to say. I know they don’t sound the way I planned them to be. But if you wait around awhile I’ll make you fall for me I promise. I promise you.” I have only driven past my road a handful of times.

Maybe it really is nothing. My partner and I are managing to have sex at least once a week, my five year old still crawls into bed wanting to snuggle with me, and although I have set up a workstation on my treadmill so I can get more done while I get my workout, I am convinced that I appear to be well contained on the outside. A couple of days at the beach should really slow me down enough to get myself back together. But until then my motto has shifted from “Get it done” to “Get it done right now or I will have no memory of it.”

If there are any other busy moms out there that can relate to this level of hysteria please let me know… if only to put both of our minds at ease.

A cute little story about fathers on Father's Day

Sun, 21 Jun 2015 17:38:17 GMT

What do kids who don't have dads do on Father's Day? Mine is at the beach right now and this afternoon we will spend time with her Grandpa.

When she asks why other kids have a Daddy, we just tell her how lucky she is to have two Mommies and that she has Grampy, Grandpa, Uncle Terry, Uncle Paul, Uncle Richie, Uncle John, Uncle Bubba, Uncle Joe, and Uncle Ben to help us fill in that special place. Most days she is completely unaffected, perfectly well balanced and centered, but some days it hits her a little differently.

About a month ago we were having our morning discussion in the hot tub as she stole sips of coffee from my mug. These kind of mornings we have deep conversations, not one typical of having with a five year old. It started like this.

"Who made you, Momma?"

"What?" I said, a little stunned.

"Where did you come from?" Senia Mae asked.

"Well, Grammy and Grampy are my parents. I came from them."

"But who created you?" I was a little surprised at the depth of her question, assuming they must have been talking about creation in Sunday School that week.

"Oh. God created me and you and all the birds... basically everything. He gave us his son, Jesus to forgive our mistakes."

"So God is Jesus' father?" she asked innocently.

"Yes and God is the father to all of us. We are all God's children," I said, hoping I had explained it in a way she could understand.

"So I DO have a father!" The look of satisfaction on her face was so pure and undeniable, like she had just been explained the answer to the question of life itself.

"Yes, Senia Mae, God is your father," I said.

Suddenly all was well with the world and Senia Mae swam away happy and content that yes, she indeed did have a father. Before I could even process the depth of our conversation or how affected or unaffected she actually was, she was already onto the next topic and stealing another sip of my coffee!

It's all in the wave

Mon, 15 Jun 2015 17:41:08 GMT

All my grandmother ever wanted was curly hair. Well maybe not all, but there was definitely a deep yearning, enough so that she married a wavy-locked man in order to pass the desired gene on to her offspring. Unfortunately all four of their daughters ended up with stick straight hair as well as the same undeniable curling desire. If any of you have seen pictures of me you know the end result... the hair DNA skipped a generation. On humid days in Georgia I practically have a full Afro. Don't get me wrong, I fully appreciate all my grandmother's efforts, enough to write a book about it and name my daughter in her memory. But the connection runs deeper.

Senia Mae sees things on a very linear level. Whenever we play princesses, even though there are a total of eleven, I always have to be Snow White because we both have dark, curly hair. Why can't I be Merida (very curly hair) or Tianna (an excellent cook) or Ariel (a wonder in the water)? With my natural traits and talents I could easily be one of those princesses. Her answer is always, "No, Momma, you have curly hair... you have to be Snow White." And so it goes. Once again, I am Snow White, even in the summer with a tan.

I wasn't aware that Gram's curly hair obsession was spontaneously transferred into my young daughter until the day I spritzed some product into her hair right after her bath. She wanted me to wrap the terry cloth towel around her head and let it sit for a few minutes, like I do mine.

When I removed it she looked in the mirror and responded like this, "I love the curls... I love the curls!" It was so adorable.

And that is why the book had to be named The Significance of Curly Hair, because even if we don't really admit it, in this family the deep, yearning desire for waves is utterly undeniable.

"Who's your Daddy?"

Fri, 08 May 2015 18:10:59 GMT

Some of our deepest conversations happen while floating face up in the hot tub. Senia Mae and I ponder life's philosophical questions, some of which I have the answer to and some that I don't. Yesterday, completely out of the blue, her question was, "Who made Jesus?"

"God made Jesus," I said.

"And who made God?" Senia Mae asked.

"I don't think anybody made God, he just is. God is the father to all of us." I said without much consideration. Senia Mae thought about my answer, her inner brain circuits rapidly firing away.

"Oh," she said as she smiled back at me, "then I DO have a father." I exhaled slowly, aware that my second biggest worry, "how are you going to explain that she has no father?" was being brought to the surface.

"Yes. God is your father." I said, relieved with the conversation was flowing somewhat effortlessly.

A few moments went by and I wondered if I was going to face any repercussions. We had already sailed through three years of preschool with no real issues. When asked about having a father she always thought nothing of it and replied, "I have two mommies."
Our pastor offered to fill the role when her school had "Donuts with Dad." Senia Mae decided that she would rather go to Dunkin' Donuts with her mommies. But I knew someday the question would go deeper, would it be today?

"I am glad that God is my father... but I am really glad that I have two mommies," Senia Mae said as if she could sense my apprehension. She gently slid her body onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck.

Senia Mae's face was nuzzled so deeply into my hair that she couldn't see the look of utter relief on my face, thankful that our wonderful, loving child is so remarkably well rounded. I looked up to the sky and whispered the words, "Thank you, Jesus."

Madder than a wet hen

Tue, 05 May 2015 17:47:03 GMT

For any of you that aren't completely following our lives on Facebook, we are now proud chicken farmers. O.K., maybe it requires a bit more knowledge to be considered an actual farmer, but I am so excited about our three "ladies" that I almost ran out and bought a pair of Osh Kosh B'gosh overalls. Senia Mae and I find ourselves wanting to hang out in the coop and we've even built them their very own chicken tunnel for playing in the yard. Mommy Kim likes them too, but from a distance.

Every morning we are gently woken up by a "bak-bak-bak-kaaaa, bak-bak-bak-kaaaa(the end note is very highly pitched)." I am almost positive they are speaking to us saying, "I'm laying my egg! I'm laying my egg!" because when I go out there holding my morning coffee and dressed in my bathrobe, they have this satisfied look that almost says, "go ahead, see what's in that nesting box!" We pull up the lid and there are usually three eggs: a brown one from Brownie, a white one from Bianca, and a little egg from the little hen, Snowflake.(Senia Mae named her that even though she is brown!) It is so funny.

Sometimes I can't get Senia Mae out of the coop. She just wants to hang out and chat with the ladies, feeding them worms she pulled out from under rocks. One day she thought they needed a little more roaming space and let them out in the yard. Eventually we are going to let them be free range but I wanted them to get used to their surroundings first.

"Senia Mae," I shouted, "why did you let the chickens out?"

"They wanted to run around," she said, completely matter of fact. She gave me that look that teenagers give to their parents when they are certain that as adults, we obviously know nothing.

"What if they fly away?" I said. Suddenly a look of horror crossed my daughters face as a deluge of water filled her lower eye lids. Maybe my question was a little too direct, but I knew if something did happen to one of those chickens we would have a heart broken little girl. She loves those chickens.

"Lets see if we can round them up," I said, coming around the coop and cornering Brownie. I quickly placed both hands around her girth and tucked her under my arm, putting her back in the pen. The little one was pretty easy to catch, too. All I had to do was hold some grass in my hand and she came right up to me. But Bianca was really enjoying her freedom. I'd run behind her and she would scoot to the right, hiding and scratching under the cover of our 4x4 elevated garden. Even though it is raised two and a half feet above the ground, I was not going to crawl under there and get all wet and dirty following a happy chicken. After several more rounds of "chase the chicken," all of which Bianca won, I was frustrated, flustered, and about to be late for work.

"This is all my fault," Senia Mae cried, sitting on the ground Indian style with her face hiding in her hands.

"It's going to be just fine," I said. "We will just open the door to the coop when it gets dark and Bianca will go in with the others to roost." I had heard that was what chickens did and hoped that would be true this time. "Lets go in the house and give her some space." Bianca was staying in the front yard, happily pecking in the grass. Once inside, Senia Mae crawled up on the stool by the breakfast counter, still looking distressed.

"Hey guys, why is Bianca running around in the grass?" Mommy Kim said as she walked through the front door. Senia Mae laid her head on the counter, face down.

"She kind of let the chickens out unknowingly and now thinks she has ruined everything," I whispered to Kim.

"Well, I need an ice cream, does anybody else need one?" Kim opened up the freezer and pulled out the box of Blue Bunny chocolate dipped mini cones. Senia Mae lifted her head from the counter.

"That is the only thing that is going to make me feel better," Senia Mae said with total relief, graciously taking the cone with a napkin.

"Maybe we should watch an episode of Monster High and get our minds off the chickens," Kim said, turning on Netflix and plopping Senia Mae down on the couch. I left for work, leaving Kim in charge of the chicken fiasco.

After an hour and a half I had gotten a text from Kim. "You won't believe this story, call if you have a second." I called her immediately.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Well, Bianca was perfectly happy in the front yard until I forgot she was out there and let Luna out." Luna is our 2 year old Cocker Spaniel who lays outside of the chicken coop daily, gazing at them with a yearning so primal that it could only come from a bird dog.

"Oh, no."

"So Luna is chasing Bianca around the front yard and then around the side of the house. By this time I hear the fluttering of wings and Luna is howling while headed towards the lake. I am yelling frantically and after five minutes get both dogs back in the house."

"What happened?" I asked. "Please don't tell me Bianca drowned in the lake."

"Well, I wasn't sure. I was looking out the window and saw a white fluff ball in the weedy bushes by the edge of the water. I told Senia Mae to stay in front of the T.V while I went down to the lake to check on the chicken."

"She stayed in the house?" I couldn't believe it.

"She wanted to come with me but I didn't want her to see anything gruesome so I let her stand by the window," Kim said. "I walk down there and Bianca is perched on a small limb, hanging about four feet above the water. her bottom feathers were wet and dripping. You could tell she was totally freaked out and in shock, the poor thing. I felt so bad for her. The limb she was on was too far out over the water, I couldn't reach her from the land and there was no way she was moving. You could tell she was holding on for dear life."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Well I got in the kayak and paddled over to her."

"What?" I was hysterically laughing now.

"It gets better. So I paddle over to her but the bush is so thick that I can't get all the way in to touch her. I'm wondering how I am going to save this scared chicken... then the answer just comes to me! I took my paddle and held it out by her branch. She looked at me, then marched right up the paddle. I took her in my arms and rested her between my legs as I paddled back to the shore."

"No way," I said, unable to believe the crazy chicken rescue. "Why does all the good stuff happen when I am at work?" I laughed.

"I don't know. I wished someone would have been taking a video. It was unbelievable. I was still kind of afraid that she was going to start pecking at me, but I had to get her back to the coop, so I tucked her under my arm and started walking up the hill. Her bottom side was completely sopping wet."

"You mean to say the term 'madder than a wet hen' is real?"

"I don't know if she was mad or just paralyzed with fear, but she let me carrier her up the hill. She didn't even move when we ran into Hazel (our neighbor's Labrador). I shifted my body and hid her behind my chest and Hazel didn't even notice that I was carrying a chicken!" Kim sounded so pleased with herself.

"That is an unbelievable story. I am so sorry that I missed it."

The moral of the story is: chickens can fly and chickens can swim, but if your hen is mad and wet while perched out on a limb, you better rescue her in a kayak!

Key West - Blistering in Paradise

Sun, 19 Apr 2015 17:51:44 GMT

I am getting teary eyed as I call the island bike rental place to return our beach rides. We have pedaled all over this beautiful island, enough that both of our butts are sore. I have actually developed a little blister on the pad of my right thumb from gripping the handlebars, but it has been totally awesome.

Although Kim and I get along exceptionally well while on a relaxing vacation, I have realized that, as kids we must have been polar opposites. My personality as a child was a little more cautious and reserved, checking twice before I took any action. Kim on the other hand, was daring and care-free, cutting through traffic and doing wheelies. I have picked up on these details while trying to follow her on my bike all week.

Last night, after a few margaritas on Duval Street and watching the sunset, we got back on our bikes. Being safe riders, we pulled out our mini headlights and as we are clipping them on the handlebars Kim says, "Look, I've already got them flashing."

"I don't want them flashing, someone's going to have a seizure... they look like strobe lights," I said as I pushed the red button on mine to make it a steady stream of light.

"Well I want mine blinking," Kim said as she took off, quickly launching her bike over the side of the curb, merging in with the traffic.

"Hey Blinky, wait... ," I said to no one because she was already off. I am not comfortable riding my bike over the curb and feeling the hard seat slam into my innards. I rolled it gently over the edge then had to wait for a few cars to pass by, looking carefully to the right and left before making my move. Before I knew it she was almost a full block ahead of me, zipping through the streets like a courier, while I rode carefully beside the traffic, aware of every bump as I enjoyed looking at all the brightly colored Victorian homes with their tropical foliage.

Even though we both ended up in the same place, our travels were very different, but it didn't matter because each one of us was enjoying the ride, our own way. And isn't that really what visiting Key West is all about?

What to do when your son takes to building with your Tampax boxes... at Walmart

Tue, 24 Mar 2015 18:01:18 GMT

My friend Kelli came into my office the other day and said, "I've got a great story for you to blog about... it was so funny," she leaned the desk and looked down at the floor, letting out a deep belly laugh, "but I can't remember what it was!" How wonderful it is that other people are coming up with fresh bogging ideas for me to use... so much less pressure.

"I know the feeling," I said laughing with her because I completely understand that level of what I call "manageable forgetfulness." Many times I will get distracted in the cooking utensil aisle at Kroger and completely forget why I was originally shopping.

"Oh, I know what it was," Kelli said. "It was Brandon in the shopping cart the other day. It was that embarrassing moment in Walmart when you are walking through the feminine products aisle with your four year old son. To keep himself entertained he is building a high rise, right there in the wagon. It's got toilet paper for the ground level, Oil of Olay for the turret, and every exposed wall is either a box of Tampax or Poise pads!" Her cheeks blushed at the memory.

"Ha," I spurted out, "keep your eyes down and don't stop walking!" My words came out almost illegible because I was in complete hysterics, remembering Senia Mae's public outburst on the swing the other day, "Mama, my hoo hoo is going crazy!"

Everyone who has a child knows that keeping your child calm, quiet, and collected in the store is always going to rank higher than any type of personal embarrassment on the endless list of things that really matter. Kelli, I would remember your Poise Pad Parade with pride and say that your were merely taking one for the team!

Sugar...Yes, Please. How using your kids' sticker reward system can revamp your marriage.

Mon, 16 Mar 2015 18:04:49 GMT

A few years back, during the dreadful days of potty training, a simple sticker chart was taped on the glass of our white bathroom cabinet. I was always astonished to see how much confidence and pride Senia Mae gained when she knew did good, with something as normal as going tinkle in the potty. After she was done she would turn down its lid and sit on the potty like a stool, staring at her chart with the big Dora the Explorer stickers, so pleased with herself. "I did it," she would squeal as she took me by the hand, leading me into the bathroom to show me her accomplishments.

One morning, after an exceptionally romantic evening with Kim, I deliberately stuck a extra large heart sticker on our kitchen calendar. "What's the sticker for?" she asked, finally noticing it a few hours later.

"I thought you deserved a sticker for a job well done last night," I said, giving her a wink. It may have been the best compliment I had ever given her because almost immediately her smile changed into a panoramic grin, her chest peacocking out as she strut out of the kitchen with quite a bit more spring in her step. Something as simple as a sticker, a symbol on a calendar, made her realize that she was still special to me. She once again felt worthy, accepted, and loved while I felt close and connected to her.

It was a refreshing break to our routine that had over the years become slightly blase'. Seeing the stickers on the chart was a sort of challenge to do better all of the time, a simple reminder of how much enjoyment we have together when we take the time to do so. Something as silly as adding stickers to a monthly calendar has enhanced one of the strongest bonds that holds us together as a couple. Not surprisingly, when there are more stickers on the chart we seem to get along better. If we argue, the fights are less intense and we seem to be able to reach a common ground quickly. Our differences don't seem as noticeable because we are adding strength to our core.

Overall we are more happy as a couple and that joy flows into the heart of our impressionable daughter. In the couple of years since we began the chart we have told several people about our system, laughing about how easy it is to reward our kids but how seemingly hard it is to reward ourselves. The most common response we get is, "Oh wow, why didn't we think of that?"

Some tips that everyday, real-life princesses can learn from Frozen

Sat, 07 Mar 2015 19:17:25 GMT

As you know I am the mother of a five ear old. This morning as I left for work she was sitting on the couch watching Frozen for the millionth time, but this time comparing it scene by scene to the Frozen Sing-along Storybook. While my family was in deep analysis mode, I decided to do a little analysis of my own because I agree that the storyline of Frozen unveils some positive life lessons for all of us.

When someone's life "appears" perfect it doesn't mean they are happy.
Elsa's icy power caused her so much fear she felt she had to hide in order to protect the people she loved. It is easy to envy people we think "have it all" when they may be living in their own misery
The Prince/Princess who appears to have it all is not always "The one."
Dashing, debonair, and in Hans' case delinquent, just because their last name happens to be Charming doesn't give mean they are all that. We've all been there... the amazing sex, the breathtaking look, the glamorous stuff. It is easy to be swept up by illusions. Don't let your senses get so bombarded by bling that you forget to notice the girl or boy next door.
Be grateful if your parents were not lost at sea.
Um, yes. I think this one is self explanatory. :)
An act of "true love" isn't always a kiss.
We assume it was true love's kiss that was going to break the icy spell on Anna, but it was actually the love and compassion she had for her sister. Hmmm... what a concept.
Do real people have "powers?"
Senia Mae asked this legitimate question a few weeks ago. While you or I might not boast magical ice powers, I believe we all possess special strengths and talents that make us unique and exceptional. Honing in and using the gifts God bestowed upon us is our own way of expressing powers.
Why have a ballroom with no balls?
I skip through my living room singing this phrase all the time. We work hard in life to be able to afford finer things. But if fear or fanaticism is keeping you from enjoying the things you work so hard for... what is the point? Take time to savor the small stuff today because tomorrow is not guaranteed.
Holing yourself up in a room rarely makes any relationships better.
Anna will probably need years of extensive therapy to conquer her abandonment issues with Elsa. Try talking about your feelings, someone is bound to understand.
When life gets to be too much, chocolate is always a simple, sweet, and satisfying solution!

Just wear one of these and call me in the morning!

Sat, 28 Feb 2015 19:20:37 GMT

It's not my birthday, mine is two months long past, but this is a remnant of celebration that Senia Mae wore to school on her birthday a few weeks ago. When we placed the glamorous Happy Birthday crown upon her head she instantly transformed, as if the crown itself contained powers that made any ordinary day magical. She walked through the double glass doors with pride, her expression read, "Make way, here I come," as she sported her purple, glitter, salutary headdress indicating that today, in fact, she was the real deal, a true princess.

Since her birthday the crown has been sitting on top of a pile of mail on the right side of the mantle. It has been a crazy busy month, we've had a death in the family, have been iced in our houses for most of this week, and I am stressing about not having enough time to work on my query letter that is due to be sent out in just a few weeks.

In the meantime I am trying to fight off a sinus infection without having to get on antibiotics. Last night I decided that the saline rinse was not working fast enough, so I doused a few Q-tips with pure oregano oil and shoved them deep into my nasal cavities. Oregano is more than just a palate pleasing pizza addition, the organic pressed oil has extremely potent anti bacterial properties that are so strong they leave a deep burning sensation on the skin. It took almost ten minutes for my eyes to stop watering from the zestfulness as I finally released my death grip on the sink. When I woke up this morning, although my sinuses were a little more clear, I felt like I was recovering from a wild night of snorting lines of wasabi.

Senia Mae could tell I wasn't my usual self because I was sitting in the chair with my chin down, rubbing the space in between my eyebrows. As she and Mommy were packing up her things to go over to Grandma's house, she ran and grabbed her folding pink princess card table chair. Carefully she opened it in front of the fireplace and used it as a step stool, her little hand reaching up to the top of the mantle, quickly retracting it as she tried to hide whatever it was behind her back.

"Mama," she said as she presented the glittery birthday crown and placed it on my head, "I want you to wear this." She looked so serious and grown up with her eyebrows furrowed, her expression identical to the one I use when expressing something of utmost importance to her. "There you go," she said as she fiddled with my curls around the cheap silver headband.

"Why do you want me to wear this?" I asked.

"I think it will take your mind of the pain," she nodded to herself as she rubbed her fingers on her chin, lost in deep thought.

"So wearing this Happy Birthday crown will make my sinuses feel better?"

"Mama, just wear the crown. You will feel better I know it." Her satisfactory grin showed me that she was pleased with herself and absolutely sure that her remedy was going to be a success. Who wouldn't feel better knowing that with the addition of a crown they would instantly become a real princess? It was so adorable... her most sincere wish... I had to admit that I felt better almost immediately!

The problem with thrift store shopping

Sat, 24 Jan 2015 19:25:10 GMT

I always find it humorous to watch which character traits Senia Mae has taken from me and what she has picked up from Kim. If any of you know us personally, you probably know that Kim is the clean freak and I am the sentimental storer/pile maker. Today's background squabble of the day was Kim threatening to vacuum up Senia Mae's Barbie shoes that she haphazardly shoved under the bookshelf when asked to clean up her mess. Okay, that would be a Kara trait she picked up. The house was suddenly loud with the whirr of the vacuum as Kim pulled out the shelf and Senia Mae pleaded in the background, "No, no, those mean something to me," running up to the shelf and scooping the shoes up in a hurry.

"Well a clean house means something to me," Kim replied.

On goes the daily battle of what stays and what goes. Sometimes it is even so tough that we have to go through Senia Mae's clothes and old toys when she's at school. Several weeks ago, after the Christmas surplus, we made a quick deposit at the Abba House thrift store about a mile down the road. I have thought nothing of it since then.

A few days ago I wanted to drop off an old office chair as Senia Mae and I were running errands. "Can we go inside?" she asked. "I want to see the fish and the waterfall."

"Ok," I said, wanting to see how many steps I would get walking around the thrift store with my new Fitbit.

The thrift store resides in a now defunct outdoor sportsman's shop, so the inside is sanded pine and very rustic, with a flowing waterfall that collects into an indoor coy pool. Senia Mae thinks it is totally awesome because there is a walking bridge over a narrow section of the pool. Right behind the coy pond is the used treadmill and lawnmower section that I was eying as Senia Mae stared into the continuous ebb below.

"Mama, can we go see the toys?"

"Sure," I said without thinking. Then I spotted the half broken Barbie house we had donated the week before. Maybe she wouldn't notice.

"Look, Mama, this looks just like mine," Senia Mae said as I guided her past the other Barbie houses to the clothes rack. She immediately gravitated towards the shoes, another Kara trait, and sat down, pulling a pair of purple Laura Ashley flowered sandals off the shelf.

"I just love these, they look just like the ones I have."

"Had," I whispered under my breath, hoping I wasn't going to have to purchase something I had already donated. That is the problem with shopping and donating to the same store. You never know when you might just have to buy your own stuff back in order to save face.

"Senia Mae, those are really too small," I said. "They won't fit in the summer time. We have another pair at home that is a little bit bigger." Fortunately for me she agreed and we headed on to the next aisle. Whew. That one could have gone either way!

She was right...Disney princesses do NOT wear blue jeans!

Sun, 18 Jan 2015 19:29:42 GMT

We spent several days last week chasing down princesses at Disney World and I have to admit it was magical. Watching my daughter's face light up as her dreams were coming true was more fun than when I went there myself as a kid.

Senia Mae was right, though...not one of those princesses was wearing blue jeans. She decided that she wouldn't either. The first day she was Queen Elsa, the second Princess Belle, and the third day Princess Anna. When we finally met the 'Real' Princess Anna Senia Mae drilled her.

"Are you the real Anna and Elsa?" she said.

"Well, I'm the real Anna," Princess Anna said. "Go ahead, touch me!"

It was awesome!

Underwear is Fun-to-wear! Underwear is Fun-to-wear!

Thu, 08 Jan 2015 19:32:09 GMT

I admit, since giving birth the shape of my lower end has...changed. It has not been drastic but has made certain articles a bit more uncomfortable. I experience more creeping and riding than ever before but am not willing to go out and buy new panties in the next larger size. Yes, I am stubborn. For comfort, sometimes I just skip wearing them altogether and without me being aware, my secret little stalker has picked up on the new trend.

We were visiting Uncle Terry and Aunt Vickie the other day and Senia Mae wanted to stay in her footie pajamas. It was damp and dreary day, dull, dismal, and gray. Pajamas seemed perfect, I would just carry her in. Her cousin was playing dress up and brought out a fluffy white leotard/tutu combination for Senia Mae to change into. You should have seen those eyes light up. She was ready to shed the jammies.

"My zipper is stuck," Senia Mae said. "Will someone help me?"

We were all sitting around the kitchen table playing Mexican Train Dominoes as I helped her with the zipper on her sleeper. As it dropped to the floor she stood completely naked in the middle of the room.

"Looks like someone's going commando," Terry laughed out loud.

"Senia Mae, why aren't you wearing underpants?" I asked as my face turned beet red.

"I just didn't feel like it," she said. "and you don't wear any." I felt myself wanting to hide under the table as everyone burst out laughing over my embarrassment from the innocent exposure.

"I don't know what she's talking about," I lied, not doing a very good job at convincing the crowd as they rolled their eyes. "This leotard has underpants in it, you should be fine. Let's get you dressed." I tried to revert the attention back to her and within moments she ran off with the other gowned gals, forgetting the whole incident.

Since Senia Mae is four and attending the Methodist preschool in town, I felt like the issue was something Kim and I needed to address to prevent future embarrassment for all parties. Kim had a great idea. This morning all three of us chanted "Underwear is fun to wear... Underwear is fun to wear," as Senia Mae skipped around the house getting dressed. The tactic was successful today, but as every parent knows, everyday is a new adventure. We'll see how tomorrow goes!

The game of twenty questions

Sun, 04 Jan 2015 19:35:22 GMT

Driving in the car always seems to stimulate Senia Mae's inquisitive thinking. Even if we are only taking a five minute trip the conversational slew of questions can range from "How many months have Kelly and Steph lived in their house?" to "Why are the green colors on the traffic light round?" There is no telling what kind of question may arise as her little mind explores new concepts.

Today we were meeting our friends Kelly and Stephanie with their daughter, Stella, at the Fajita Grill for dinner. It was a little past dusk and the full moon was hiding behind a layer of clouds the shape of thinly shaved ice, looking seductive and eerie as it cast a whitish pink hue on the dark sky. I had just finished answering a question about why fingernails grow and was thinking about my next response if the next question happened to be an anatomical one. In the backseat I heard a few exasperated sighs then a nervous little voice piped up.

"So what if someone got gum stuck in their eyebrow?" Senia Mae asked theoretically.

"What?" Kim said as she turned around. She couldn't see anything because it was pitch dark in the car. At first the seriousness of the question didn't dawn on either of us. It seemed like another trivia quiz from Spin the Rolodex of Randomness.

"If someone had gum stuck in their eyebrow what would you do?" Senia Mae asked again, her voice squeaking this time. "Would they have to go to the hosibal?" Even though she claimed to want to be a neurosurgeon, Senia Mae was petrified of having to go to any doctor, even the eye doctor. I could hear the panic in her voice as she squirmed in the back seat.

"Well," Kim said, "If someone gets gum stuck in their hair you usually have to cut it out with scissors. Sometimes they will have to walk around with a funny haircut for a while but it does eventually grow back." I could tell she was processing something huge by the sudden silence in the rear. Until then, the reasoning behind all of the questions still had not occurred to us but then suddenly appeared. Senia Mae had gum stuck in her eyebrow.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Senia Mae grumbled.

"Why are you asking about all of this?" I said as I burst out laughing. "Do you have gum stuck in your eyebrow?" Just then Kim turned on the light and saw Senia Mae's thumb and forefinger nervously playing with her right eyebrow.

Apparently our hysterical laughter made Senia Mae more upset because she started whimpering in the back seat.

"Will you have to cut my eyebrow off?" she asked.

"Hmmm," I said. "There's probably not enough hair to cut it off. We could shave it off so you'd have only one eyebrow for a while or maybe cover it with some duct tape? Mommy Kim what do you think?" I knew we were taking it a little too far, but it was just so funny. There was a fire truck and ambulance already parked when we pulled into the restaurant.

"Oh, no," Senia Mae whined. "I don't want those firemen pulling the gum out of my eyebrow." I am certain that Kim and I could have been more empathetic if the whole scene was not so hysterical. We had just watched The Christmas Story and Senia Mae thought the firemen were going to treat her eyebrow like they did when Schlick's tongue was stuck to the frozen flagpole. After a moment of having to catch her breath, Kim finally took over the good parent role while trying to stifle the giggles.

"I think we can probably get it out with some peanut butter when we get home. Does that sound better than using the firemen to get it out?" Senia Mae nodded with relief.

"How about..." Senia Mae cut me off mid sentence.

"Mommy, this is too much. I don't want to talk about it anymore," she said as we walked inside the restaurant and met the girls. There were so many more things I wanted to add...we could get the gum out with the toy Pet Palace brush, but I could see that she was really upset and decided to just let it go before the poor kid needed therapy.

Out of the mouths of Babes!

Wed, 31 Dec 2014 19:38:18 GMT

If you are a Christmas baby like me, you know that the merriment of the season also means its time to pay all your taxes. Since my birthday fell on a Sunday this year I was able to make it to the tag office the following Monday and file without a late fee. Because it was a holiday week, little miss was out of school and was tagging along.

Pulling open the heavy glass door, I was slightly disheartened seeing the fifty plus people already waiting and seated.

"Looks like all of these people have birthdays on December 29th!" I said to Senia Mae as she led me through multiple aisles to find the best seat. After changing her mind several times, she decided that the second row on the left gave us the perfect view of the shiny Plexiglas payment windows. Within seconds she was engaged in conversation with the woman seated in the row in front of us.

"Are you getting a new license plate?" Senia Mae asked the woman, who was jolly and plump, looking to be in her early sixties. She turned around smiling, appearing surprised at the openness of the inquiry.

"No," she said. "I need to pay other taxes today. How old are you?"

"Four and a half," Senia Mae said.

"Well, I have a granddaughter who is just about your age. Do you like the movie Frozen?" she asked.

"Yes. Santa Claus brought me the Frozen Castle and Ice Palace," Senia Mae said. "And I have a new kitty named Tulip."

"Did Santa bring you the kitty?"

"No. There is a man at the office named Chris Gober and he brought a cage," Senia mae said. "When the kitten went into the cage I named her Tulip and we brought her home." The woman nodded, listening intently to Senia Mae's captivating story.

"Then the toilet started overflowing right before the people came on Christmas," Senia Mae added. I instantly felt my face reddening as I looked at the floor. Please stop talking, I thought to myself as the woman put her hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh. I piped in trying to push off more embarrassment.

"Mae Mae, remember we thought it was the toilet but it ended up being the gutter outside," I said, trying to make it appear like I was not that person who lets their septic system overflow right before the holiday guests arrive.

"Well, yes," Senia Mae said. "It did end up being the gutter and nobody had to go pee in the bucket for Christmas." Fortunately the announcer called number forty two, the woman's number, before Senia Mae rattled off any other family secrets to a complete stranger!

"Out of the mouths of babes!" the woman said as she walked off and I was thankful that the conversation had ended.

Everybody take your positions!

Mon, 15 Dec 2014 19:47:49 GMT

Senia Mae has begun her home directorial debut, mimicking the rehearsals of her preschool's Christmas nativity re-enactment. Even though the real performance isn't until Wednesday, everyone who visits our house has gotten a humorous dose of what is to come. In today's living room rendition, it was decided by the director that I was to play Mary and Momma Kim was going to be Joseph. Savannah was playing the parts of all three wise men, Darrell became the twinkling star, and Katie was chosen for the angel.

"Why do I have to be Joseph?" Momma Kim asked Senia Mae. "I want to be a girl."

The stern director looked at Momma Kim, pointed her index finger and made only a sound, "Eh," indicating she wanted silence.

" If Darrell's here and he's the only boy why can't he play Joseph?" I asked next.

"Eh," she said firmly. "You are Mary and Momma Kim is Joseph. Now everybody take your positions."

"Senia Mae, how about if we eat dinner first and afterwards we will all do the play?" I asked. "We are all starving and will be better actors if we are not hungry." Out of empathy, the director granted us lenience and we loaded our plates with meatloaf, heading for the dinner table. Not wanting to give up her control of the group, Senia Mae led us in several extensive prayers and acknowledgements, until we finally had to cut her off. You could tell by the high pitched excitement in her tone that she was enjoying the spotlight.

After a few minutes of eating dinner Senia Mae said, "Kim, can I have another roll, please?" She was kneeling on the dining room chair, standing as tall as she could so she could tower over the table.

"What did you call me?" Kim asked, a little offended that the director was bypassing her title of momma.

"I said please," Senia Mae said. She couldn't understand why Kim was questioning her.

"What did you call me?" Kim asked again.

You could almost see the circuits spinning inside of Senia Mae's head as she scrunched her eyebrows, appearing to be in deep thought. Then her face relaxed and she got it, understanding what all of the fuss was about.

"Okay, Joseph...can I have another roll please?" I laughed so hard I actually peed a little.

She's growing up so fast...

Sat, 13 Dec 2014 19:51:43 GMT

To you or me, five years goes by in a blink. Memories that I remember as if they just happened are now a half a decade old, that's how fast time moves in my life. To Senia Mae, five years is an eternity. We were driving home from a Santa train ride and to pacify the backseat jitters during the hour long trip I let Senia Mae play with my phone. I would never have imagined that flipping through my iTunes playlist would be so captivating.

After jumping through a few quick introductions to several different tunes she finally stopped at the beginning of the list of B song titles. I heard the synthesizer first. Da...Da da, "Wo ooh wo ooh wo ooh wo," Justin Bieber belted out in that innocent, sixteen year old high pitched voice. Kim and I immediately started moving our heads to the beat, left to right in unison, remembering the million times we had to sing his song Baby to Senia Mae as an infant.

"What song is this?" Senia Mae asked from the backseat.

"You don't remember this song?" Kim asked her.

"I have never heard this," Senia Mae said.

"Mae Mae, this was your favorite song when you were a baby. Mommy and I memorized every single word, even the rap parts, because we had to sing it to you so many times. You loved it," I said. "We would hold you under the arms as you stood on the desk and your knees would bounce to the music. You laughed and laughed to this song, and when you cried in the car we either had to sing it or play it on the radio. You would instantly stop crying. That's how much you loved it." She looked back at me with big eyes, believing what I said but obviously had no connection to the memory.

"We always had to make sure we had the CD in the car and Mama even learned how to play it on her guitar," Kim said.

"Oh," she said, sounding surprised. "I don't remember that but I do like it," and for once she let an entire song play from start to finish. Kim and I sat in the front seat flabbergasted. It was hard to imagine that she could not remember something so significant, even though we do realize that she was not even one years old. To Kim and I those memories are fresh, like they happened only yesterday, but to her it was a lifetime ago.

Momma, Princesses do not wear blue jeans!

Tue, 09 Dec 2014 19:55:33 GMT

The fashion wars have begun. In our home, the four year old is already voicing her opinion on what she will and will not wear. As much as I hate to admit it, we have started using threats as our primary negotiation tactic. The most efficacious trick is threatening to give her a boy haircut. This was especially effective since Kim and Senia Mae got a trim today. There is no worse punishment than the thought of cutting off her golden mane princess-like hair. We would never actually do it, but it is useful to get teeth brushed, to finish vegetables on a dinner plate, or to get her out the door on time. What makes it even more funny is that Kim and I were both tomboys as kids. I remember begging my dad to take me to his barber so I could get the same haircut as him. My mother had a total fit when I came home looking like a cute little boy. At the time I loved looking like a boy, but to my daughter that kind of haircut would be the worst suffering imaginable. It is a complete riot.

Today's wardrobe argument was over denim. I had picked out a long sleeved pink Frozen shirt with some medium colored boot-cut blue jeans. Senia Mae looked over the outfit and cried out, "I just can't wear this," tossing the ensemble on the couch and storming into the other room.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Mama, princesses do not wear blue jeans," she said passionately. "They wear fancy dresses. I have to put on something else."

"It is five minutes until eight and you are going to be late for school," I said. "You are wearing the blue jeans."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

This went on for a few more rounds until I had to threaten the boy haircut and of course, I got my way. She pouted all the way up the stairs and into the car. Just to prove my point I looked up some princess facts as Mommy Kim drove us to the school.

"Okay, Senia Mae, I am going to Google if princesses really wear blue jeans."

"Are you kidding?" she said.

"No, it's coming up right now." My finger flicked the screen as several kids books like "Do Princesses Kiss Frogs?" came up. Then at the bottom of the page was a story on Princess Kate visiting New York City this week. The article was about how she wore her favorite jeans three days in a row. Poor woman, I thought, can't even wear jeans without the paparazzi noticing.

"Here it is," I said. "A real live princess. Her name is Kate and she lives in London, England." Senia Mae's eyes became as large as bowling balls. She couldn't believe it. "Says here that she is visiting New York City and she wore her favorite jeans three days in a row."

"Can I see it?" Senia Mae asked as I handed her the phone. She looked at the casually dressed princess in astonishment. "Can you show me a fancy picture of her?" I pulled up the royal wedding photo from a few years ago and seeing the same princess in the flowing white bridal gown was all the evidence I needed to close the case. Yes, princesses wear blue jeans. It was confirmed by the internet and everyone knows that everything you read on the internet is true.

Now for my princess? I won the blue jean battle today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring!

What I'm really trying to say is...step it up with the lights already!

Sun, 07 Dec 2014 19:57:04 GMT

A few days after my lesson on the true meaning of Christmas, my little walking book of wisdom came with me to the car dealership. In the service office Senia Mae helped herself to a seat on the large stool while the woman was sifting through her files trying to find our paperwork.

"Do you have any pink cars in here?" Senia Mae asks. The woman continued looking through her drawer, unaware that she was the one being questioned. Senia Mae decided to ask again, a little bit louder this time.

"Are there any pink cars?" The woman rose up slightly from her squatting position behind the desk. Only her nose and eyeglasses showed over the surface, but you could tell she was smiling by the way her cheeks were pushing her eyes into a crescent shapes.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Four and a half," Senia Mae said.

"Well, we don't have any pink cars right now but there was one yesterday," the woman said.

"Are you kidding?" Senia Mae asked. It was her new line.

"Nope. It was here just yesterday, a Mary Kay car."

"You have to sell a lot of lipstick to get one of those pink cars," I said to Senia Mae. "Mary Kay is a kind of fancy makeup. You would love it...just might earn a pink car someday."

Before the end of the sentence finished crossing my lips Senia Mae was already onto her next thought. I could see her eyes scanning the walls, giving the whole office the once over. There was not much to the area, four cubicles, each with a desk, two chairs, a filling cabinet, and a computer. There were a few hand drawn pictures taped onto the glass window of the next cubicle mixed in with a few shoddy sprigs of plastic pine garland adorned with a cheap looking red bow. The woman ran my credit card and handed me the keys just as Senia Mae hops off the stool and says, "You really need some decorations in here." Laughter erupted out of all four cubicles as I led Senia Mae out the door, slightly embarrassed but humored by her blunt honesty.

"Out of the mouths of babes," the woman said, laughing as we walked towards the parking lot. Senia Mae was right, why waste your time decorating of it doesn't even look good? It was a sentiment I could completely understand. That must be my kid!

This old house sure is looking good. I'm so glad its Christmas vacation....

Fri, 05 Dec 2014 20:00:03 GMT

As the pre-holiday stress hits alarming levels, I find myself buried with tasks I am trying to cram into three short weeks: ordering Christmas cards, organizing the staff party, decorating the house, all while forgetting the relaxation of Thanksgiving at the beach just five days ago. "Where does the time go," I say silently as I drag Senia Mae shopping at 10 am on Thursday morning, squeezing in some power shopping before I have to leave for work at 2:45. My favorite CD is belting out Christmas Wrappings as the words drill into my cerebellum like brainwashing: "friends of mine already mad rush just cause its tis the season." Laughing out loud I realize that is exactly what I am doing, heading to Target for tinsel and pre-lit garland, Home Goods for a table runner and a sleek, sophisticated version of a 1970's themed Christmas tree, and Walmart for more extension cords and an outside timer.

Senia Mae and I have made it in an out of the first store in an amazing 40 minutes and I am checking my watch to see if we are keeping the right pace. Just as I am tugging at her seat belt for the third time, checking to make sure it is secure, then racing to the front seat to sprint to our next shopping destination, Senia Mae says, "Mommy, you do know that Christmas is not about lights."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, even though the lights are pretty, Christmas is not about lights. It is not about decorations and it is not even about presents. Christmas is a time when we celebrate the birth of Jesus." Senia Mae sits in the back seat chatting as if she was talking to me about what we were going to have for lunch, completely matter of fact. Those were the exact words I should have to say to her, the four year old, when she complains that she didn't get enough for Christmas. But instead, she is having to give me, the forty year old, the "let me tell you the true meaning of Christmas" lecture. I was absolutely flabbergasted.

"You are so right," I said to her. "Sometimes it is easy to get forget what we are celebrating. The lights remind us of the Northern star and that is why I love to decorate, but thank you for reminding me that Christmas is really about Jesus and not just getting everything done in time." I rolled my eyes, embarrassed at my behavior in front of my impressionable child.

"It's okay, Mommy," she says innocently, turning her attention back to the singing cactus on her lap that continuously plays "Tequila." We got the rest of our errands run, but as I sat at the stoplight thinking of the profound wisdom resonating from the backseat, it made me wonder exactly who is the teacher and who is the student!

The day we met Rapunzel's prince

Tue, 18 Nov 2014 20:02:50 GMT

We were sitting in one of those back to back booths having lunch with Bob and Melissa when I noticed Senia Mae peeking around me. As I helped myself to another spoonful of homemade creamed corn, I realized she was trying to catch a glimpse of the man sitting in the booth behind us.

"Mommy," she said quietly, but with enough strength in her voice to get my attention, "that man look's like Rapunzel's prince!"

"What?" Kim and I said in unison.

"That man behind you, he looks like Rapunzel's prince, Flynn Rider!" Senia Mae said again.

I tried to nonchalantly rotate my shoulders so that I could view him out of the corner of my eye. Kim just whipped her head around and said with an approving nod, "Yep, he does look like Rapunzel's prince."

Because the prince's seat was only a few feet away from ours, their whole table heard all of our chit chat.

The prince's wife understood the importance a proper introduction. She nudged him and said, "She thinks you are a prince. You should let her come meet you." Senia Mae overheard this and immediately started blushing.

"Do you want to go say hello to the Rapunzel's prince?" I asked Senia Mae as she tried to slither under the table, laying herself on the bench seat.

"Yes," she peeped.

Melissa grabbed her hand, leading her over to the prince. Senia Mae hesitated, becoming more bashful. Then the prince got down on one knee with his arms extended out to her. I could see Senia Mae's eyes glazing over, star struck and so in awe that her feet were practically glued to the floor. She was completely smitten, so much that we had to coerce her to pose for a picture with him. She looked as if she might pass out.

Afterwards we thanked him for being such a good sport. He smiled and said,"It was really nothing," but I think he really loved being some little girl's prince for a day.

Life's Love Notes

Tue, 04 Nov 2014 20:05:35 GMT

Yesterday was Kim and my 9th anniversary. It is a special day; we like to celebrate it with a romantic dinner while talking about the details of our first date. This year Kim left me a cute message on Senia Mae's chalkboard as well. It was covered with the letters KIM...KIM...KIM because these are three letters our little one has been working on at school. Underneath Senia Mae's writing Kim wrote 'LOVES KARA'.

Senia Mae stared at the chalkboard all day. She thought it was so cool that is actually said KIM LOVES KARA and could not stop talking about it. That was the cutest thing I had ever seen until she took it up a notch today.

As I was sitting at my computer desk she pulled out a little note pad and started writing. This is what it said: Senia Mae Kara Loves (supposed to be Senia Mae loves Kara, but we get the idea). She wanted me to know that she loves me, too!

I felt my heart instantly seize up as I looked over at my daughter, wanting to keep her in this phase forever. L.O.V.E...there's no better words to describe it.

Communicating with my 4 year old

Mon, 03 Nov 2014 20:10:36 GMT

Senia Mae slept late the other morning. It was cool, crisp, and inviting outside...all I wanted to do was have my coffee in the hot tub, enjoying the fall foliage as I watched the squirrels hurry up the tree trunks storing their supplies for the winter.

Since Senia Mae can't completely read yet I left her a picture note which I thought had a very clear message that I was in the hot tub drinking my coffee. After about ten minutes I heard the front door swing open.

"Mama, Mama?" she said, slightly panicked, thinking she had been left all alone.

"I'm right here in the hot tub," I shouted from around the corner. She ran up to me with little wells of tears held back in her eyes, throwing her arms around my neck with a sigh of relief. "Didn't you get my note? The picture said I was in the hot tub."

"Oh," Senia Mae said, "I thought that was a cake!"

The Cold Never Bothered Me Anyway

Sat, 01 Nov 2014 21:49:59 GMT

Aunt Jenny helped me decorate for the Trunk or Treat at Senia Mae's school last week. She hadn't seen Senia Mae's costume and apparently does not follow the four year old Frozen fanatics because she tugged on my arm and said, "Hey, look at that cool aqua dress with the snowflakes on it," when another Ice Queen walked by.

"Oh, just wait," I said through my laughter, "That is Senia Mae's costume and probably every other girl in this school." We saw 9 more Elsas within the next thirty minutes.

Yesterday as we were trick or treating the temperature dropped to 46 degrees and I asked Senia Mae if she wanted to put on her fleece jacket over her blue gown. Her reply?

"The cold never bothered me anyway!"

Getting my mind out of the gutter

Thu, 30 Oct 2014 19:12:13 GMT

This is a scene from my living room, naked Barbies, bodies as well as clothing askew, looking as if they had a exceptionally good time last night. My four year old asks me, "Well, Mama, do you know HOW to play Barbies?" "What about little dolls? Do you know how to play little dolls?"

"Of course I know how to play Barbies!" I said. "This 1975 Dreamhouse with the awesome yellow elevator used to be mine when I was a little girl!" I squatted down and found a dazzling blue dress to shove Cinderella's skinny thigh down into.

"Here, Mama," Senia Mae says as she hands me this tiny beige part.

"What is that?" I ask her, my mind immediately blaming those Barbie sluts. "Where did you find that?" Certainly Mattel and Disney did not attach any protruding parts...I glanced over at Kristoff. He was completely flat in the front and the only one fully clothed, winter boots and everything.

"I don't know what it is...I just found it on the floor," Senia Mae said.

"You really have NO idea where this came from?" I asked one more time, trying not to become completely aghast that my innocent four year old picked a phallic symbol off of a Barbie.

"Oh, wait...I remember, that is the piece of the paddle that broke off Prince Eric's boat," she says as she plucks the piece out of my hand and walks into the other room.

Of course...it was Eric's paddle not a peter. Mama, get your mind out of the gutter!

I Just Want To Be With My Family...

Tue, 28 Oct 2014 19:16:27 GMT

Aunt Jenny has been in town visiting from Illinois. Since her arrival Senia Mae has spent a significant amount of time with her: going to and from school, playing dollhouse, and hanging out at Sonic eating cheese toasties. Aunt Jenny is just the type of gal Senia Mae likes to keep in her right hand pocket because she's enthusiastic, fun loving, and most importantly, available. The two have practically been inseparable over the last few weeks.

Last night after dinner Aunt Jenny and Savannah said goodnight and were heading back to Grandma's house for the evening when someone said to Senia Mae, "Unless you want to come with us and have a sleepover..." We have had some issues with sleepovers in the past and have tried to not pressure her into something she is not emotionally ready for, but suddenly she was enthralled with the idea. Her eyes lit up with excitement as she and Savannah ran back to her room to grab the essentials: bunny, her favorite book The Paper Bag Princess, pajamas, and of course, clothes for school tomorrow.

Nervously I looked at Kim and asked, "You think we should just go with it, even though it's a school night?" We were both thrilled that she was taking it into consideration.

"Maybe having Aunt Jenny there will be what makes her feel comfortable enough to want to stay." Kim said. "My mom will so excited. Lets just see how it goes." And it was agreed, she would have the sleepover and they would take her to school the next day. Kim and I crossed our fingers and waited.

We were just settling into an episode of Orange is the New Black when we got the first text that said the bath was successful and everything was looking good, with the thumbs up sign. "That's really good," I said to Kim as I snuggled up to her under the blanket on the couch. Maybe this time it was really going to happen. I looked at my watch, it was nine o'clock.

In a few minutes the next text came. It said she was just going to call and say goodnight. Ok. I wondered if talking to her wouldn't shift the momentum.

"Mommies?" Senia Mae asked as as if we really weren't on the other line. I put her on speakerphone.

"Hi, Baby!" Kim said enthusiastically. "Are you ready for bed?"

"Me and Aunt Jenny are in bed," Senia Mae said as her voice cracked just a little.

In the background I heard Jenny say, "We are just fine. We're having a great time," as she tried to convince Senia Mae.

"That is so great. You are such a big girl!" I said. There was silence. Then shuffling, followed by a loud swallow. I could tell she was fighting back tears.

"Will you come over for breakfast?" she asked, in a soft, innocent voice that sounded so pitiful I wanted to reach through the phone and wrap her up in my arms.

"Of, course," Kim and I said in unison. You can do it, Senia Mae, I thought silently, hoping she could muster up some courage.

"We will come over and have waffles then we will all bring you to school." Kim said. There was more silence. Then a whimper and some muted tears.

"Senia Mae, you are going to have so much fun at your sleepover," I said trying to change the tone as I started to feel that motherly pull in my heart.

"Mommy, I don't want to sleepover. I want to come home," Senia Mae said as she broke out crying.

"Are you sure?" Kim asked. "We'll be there as soon as you wake up?"

"No, I want to sleep at home," she said. "I just want to be with my family." I wrapped my arms around my own chest and smiled. What parent wouldn't melt with those words?

"It's OK, Senia Mae," Aunt Jenny said. "I will take you home right now."

Hearing those words made my heart stop for a second as I felt the slight tingle and squeeze in my chest. Even though I want her to flourish and be independent, that little part of me, the part that remembers her being so close in my belly for nine months, so close I could feel her fingers tickling my insides...that part of me was celebrating. I held my fist high above my head and pulled it quickly towards my face with a triumphant cheerleader's thrust. Yes, she still needs us. I breathed a sigh of relief.

In thirty minutes I was carrying her to bed. I tucked her in and gave her a kiss goodnight.

"Mommy, I love you so much," Senia Mae said as I pulled my lips away from her forehead.

"I love you too, kiddo. We'll see you in the morning," and I turned off the light.

The Flies Like Us

Sat, 18 Oct 2014 19:19:38 GMT

Several days ago our happy home was taken over by a swarm of fruit flies. Being the tenderhearted, creature loving person that I am, instead of instantly bombing the house with chemicals, I decided to rid them with logic. My first idea was simple: If there are fruit flies then check the fruit bowl. There was a ripe, softening pear that had been picked at the apple orchards three weeks before. I stepped on the lid of the trashcan and tossed the fruit away, wiping my hands and thinking the problem was solved. Certainly the two or three remaining flies would just die off.

Several hours later as I walked into the bathroom, I saw several fruit flies resting on the mirrored cabinet and two on my toothbrush. Disgusted, I grabbed my toothbrush and ran it under hot water, not understanding why fruit flies would be in the bathroom. I checked the trashcan to see if there was anything sticky or unusual hiding in the shadows. There was nothing except a few pieces of crumpled up tissue paper. I then took the wastebasket and kitchen trash and put them outside just in case they were the source of the problem. When I left for work I opened all of the windows hoping that fresh air would help cleanse the house.

I came back home to a peculiar smell in the kitchen, it wasn't foul or rancid, just unusual and noticeable. There were several more fruit flies resting on the breadbox, two on the microwave door, and a couple hanging out on the paper towel roll. "Why are there more?" I thought to myself as I frantically scanned the kitchen. I had already stuck the rest of the apples and bananas in the refrigerator, made sure there was no sugar on the counter from my morning coffee, and wiped down all of the appliances with a wet rag. I went over to my iPad and looked up how to get rid of fruit flies on Wiki:how. The website showed several ways to make at home fruit fly traps made from plastic bottles, filled with sugary vinegar syrup. It also suggested rinsing out all of the drains in the house. The remainder of the afternoon I spent pouring hot water down the drains and crafting two home made fly traps filled with apple cider vinegar. I left one on the stove top and one on the back of the toilet but had to lure myself out of the house so I wouldn't sit and wait for the flies to be trapped. I was starting to feel obsessed, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. When I returned home I had caught nine flies. I went to bed feeling satisfied, like I had conquered the fruit fly problem.

When I woke up the next morning, I walked to the bathroom a felt a fruit fly brush past my mouth. I blew it out of the way and went to check my bathroom trap. I had caught several more flies overnight but there were at least twenty or thirty still spread throughout the bathroom. I was starting to get mad. Even though I am by no means the homemaker of the year, our house is clean and I couldn't figure out why there were more flies.

Kim let me know that at lunchtime she was going to do a thorough overhaul of the house. This included sweeping, mopping, De-cluttering, and trying to come to the bottom of the fruit fly issue. "Check and make sure nothing is dead up in the chimney," I said, thinking the secret smell may be lurking up there. When I got home later on that night, the number of flies in my traps had doubled, but the same amount seemed to be flying around the house. Kim had done a great job with the house; even though it smelled and looked clean and fresh, our fruit fly problem remained.

When picking up the remainder of Senia Mae's toys, I heard Kim yell out, "OOOOH," as she ran outside quickly. "I found the cause of the fruit flies," she said. "Guess what was hiding in one of Senia Mae's purses?"

"What?" I asked.

"A banana! It was so black and so decomposed that the only way I could tell it was a banana was the shape! I have no idea how long it had been in there , but it was stinky and covered with flies."

"That is so disgusting," I said. "No wonder we couldn't trap them all. Does Senia Mae know about it?"

"Hey, Senia Mae," Kim said. "Did you know you left a banana in your pocketbook?"

"No," she said, looking up from her game pad.

"You can't hide fruit in your toys, ok?" Kim asked.

"Oh, OK." Senia Mae said, without a second thought. We had been running around all week like mad women trying to fix the fly problem, yet the creator of the fly problem let it pass like yesterday's news.

The moral of the story is: you can have the cleanest house with the best fruit fly traps, but if the source of the flies is hidden in a toy box you are wasting your time chasing flies.

Genetic RE-disposition

Tue, 14 Oct 2014 19:22:36 GMT

Since having this "family" photo shot two days ago, every person who has looked at it has said..."she looks nothing like you!" as they walk away laughing. I realize that the Paceley/Kelly genes are strong, beautiful, and obviously dominant. When I had gestational diabetes the nurse did tell me my DNA was somewhat antiquated...but in a good way...??? Hahaha. There must be some of me in her. The picture on the bottom is Aunt Betty, me(in the red ribbons), and my new sister in 1979.

Make-out Mayhem

Sun, 05 Oct 2014 19:24:45 GMT

I can see the look of heartbreak in Senia Mae's eyes when I say, "You can't wear a pink dress with your new sparkling red pumps... it doesn't go together." With utter devastation she pivots around, frowning with her hands on her hips, plodding back to her room as she wallows in her unimaginable misfortune. "How about a red dress? Or a black dress? Or even a white dress?" I suggest with empathy as I try not to let her see me giggling. Yes, we are raising a Diva, a Diva that watches and mimics our every move. Sometimes it is so overwhelmingly hilarious that I have to stop and write about it.

Lately our little one has been very affectionate and amorous, unexpectedly walking up to Kim or I and laying a long, wet smooch directly on our lips. At home we wriggle away while laughing, trying without words to get her to act a little more "appropriate". I definitely don't want to stifle her passion or break her spirit, but it can get embarrassing when she does this in public. The other day she was sitting on my lap in the waiting room at the car dealership. Out of nowhere she turned around, grabbed the back of my head and pulled me in for a long one.

"Senia Mae!" My words come out muffled because I was laughing hysterically AND she was holding my head in place with her other hand. My eyes dart back and forth in the waiting room, hoping that no one else was giving me a funny look, thinking I was some kind of pervert. After a few thwarted attempts she was puckered out, her mind wandering onto something else. Later on that night she laid a big one on Momma Kim.

"Are you kissing us because you've seen us kiss like that?" Kim and I both asked hesitantly. Senia Mae looks up at us as if she can't believe we are asking such a ridiculous question.

"No," she said, "I am kissing you like Prince Eric kisses Ariel..." and she turned around and walked off.

"All right then," I said to Kim sarcastically. How dare we assume that she's gathering all of her good and bad habits from us!

This morning Senia Mae let herself into the bathroom as I was taking my shower. "Mommy, I'm right here," she says as she slaps her hand into the shower curtain, laughing as it sticks to my leg. "Do you want to take a shower with Emma?" Emma is her waterproof baby doll that spends a lot of time in our hot tub.

"No, that's o.k," I say, "she really likes taking a bath with you." Thinking that this was the end of our conversation I turned back around and began lathering my body with soap. I felt the curtain pull back and heard a slight thud; Emma had been dropped on my soapy feet. "I thought she was going to take a bath with you?" I said to Senia Mae as she stood on the other side of the steamy curtain.

"Mommy, you've hardly spent any time with her," she said as she walked out and shut the door. I couldn't argue...she was right. I hadn't spent any time with Emma in days...but those words sounded like they should have come out of my mouth!

This Trip Is a Gas!

Tue, 02 Sep 2014 19:28:09 GMT

Adding Aunt Katie to your road trip is like putting extra hot fudge on your sundae: her presence ensures the right amount of sweetness and she's always funny, so you are guaranteed to have a good time.

On the drive from Delaware to the wedding in Western Massachusetts, we were so engrossed in the captivating story of Katie's new boyfriend that we went West instead of East on the New York Thruway. Before we new it we were commenting on the beautiful mountains and trout streams as Katie described her and Darrell's first date and how they have already discussed future plans. Like squawking chickens commenting on all of the positive signs Darrell possesses, we didn't even notice that we were not nearing our exit 21A, as exit 185 passed, then 160, all we wanted was more "juice". Three hours had gone by before I insisted that we stop and check our GPS...we had gone 150 miles the wrong way and drove almost completely around the Catskill Mountains! Even though we totally missed the rehearsal the wedding party fortunately still fed us dinner.

Although we had better direction on the trip back home, there were other obstacles to overcome. We had been packed in the car for several hours after eating a very large breakfast at the local diner when Katie mentioned from the backseat "You better roll down the windows and air out the car for a second." Kim quickly rolled down all four windows as we laughed in the front.

Senia Mae, who was sitting in the rear third row seat, felt as if she was going to get sucked out of the window with all of the sudden force coming from the wind gusts as we drove 70 miles an hour down the highway.

"Shut the windows...shut the windows..." Senia Mae yelled from the backseat in a panic.

"We just needed to open them for a minute because Aunt Katie farted" I said through fits of laughter. The humor was coming from a place so deep inside of me that I felt the seat vibrating each time my body went into a hysterical episode.

"Shut the windows..." Senia Mae said said again then the last statement dawned on her. "Aunt Katie farted?" she said. "She's a farter? I thought we drove by the chicken farm."

"No, we just needed some fresh air for a moment" Kim said. "Everything should smell fine now.

Senia Mae's four year old brain must have been thinking about every little comment we have ever made to her about farting because she said, "Well Aunt Katie I guess you have to do a poop."

If the scenario was funny before, the level of funniness went up ten notches. Everyone was laughing, but I was laughing so hard that I was struggling not to pee in between breaths.

"No, I don't have to poop" Katie responded, trying to sound serious and looking out the window so Senia Mae wouldn't see her smiling.

"Well I think you should at least try" Senia Mae said, the exact words we tell her when she says she doesn't have to go to the bathroom. After that the car shook with laughter for the next fifteen minutes even though Senia Mae had no idea what was so funny.

By the end of the drive it was hard to tell if we had more fun at the wedding or during our many hours of car travels. One thing I know for sure is that the trip is always more fun when Aunt Katie tags along.

What a difference a year makes!

Mon, 01 Sep 2014 19:59:49 GMT

For me, the difference between two consecutive years is hardly noticeable (although I do admit I stumbled reluctantly from thirty nine into forty). My daughter, on the other hand, has blossomed into a mini person over the last year, complete with her own independent thoughts, opinions, and ideas about exactly how things should be, sometimes regardless of her momma's opposition. The difference between the ages of three and four is absolutely astounding.

She is at the age where she is mimicking sentences she hears us say, broadening her love of the verse, as we like to put it, although the verses are not always repeated appropriately. The other morning she climbed into bed with me, her arms laden with stuffed animals and her nighttime sippie cup, tossing Bunny onto my resting head as she wiggled her body under the covers. Although I was sound asleep at the time, she was just too awake to rest. Turning to me excitedly she exclaims, "Momma, I've got a great idea! We can set up my tent ON the bed!" Before I had time to open an eye or even think about a response she was dragging her pink fold able fairy tent from its secret hideaway behind the door and tossing it over my head and onto the bed. In seconds I had it opened up with our heads tucked away inside the tent as we laid snugly under the covers.

At that moment I was still under the illusion that if I kept my eyes closed I may possibly get some more sleep, while she was running back and forth between our bedrooms collecting more stuffed animals and shoving them into the tent. After several trips, our tent was overflowing and several tricked out the loosened velcro of the side flap. Shocked by the tent's sudden demise she turned to me and passionately pleaded, "Momma, zip up your tits!" although I think she meant to say zip up your tent!

This morning she came into my room deep in thought. Anyone who knows me knows that I can hardly function before my first cup of coffee, so when she crossed the threshold babbling in her pitched prose, my virtually deaf ears paid little attention, secretly yearning for five more minutes of solitude. Since it was becoming apparent that my wish was going to remain just that, merely a wish, I sat up and peered over at my daughter as she crossed her arms over her chest matter-of-factly.

"Mommy, today my little sister is going to be born..we have to get to the hospital." Sometimes she speaks with such authority and assurance that her words are very believable and it took me a moment to process exactly what she was saying. "What?" was the only word I could mutter out as I rubbed my head, squinting my eyes as I struggled to understand. "My little sister is in your belly" she said as she pointed to my midriff "and she is going to be born today at the hospital. Come on we have got to get out of here." Grabbing my hand she attempted to pull me out of the bed.

"What is this all about?" I said as I helped her onto my lap. "Did someone at school get a little sister lately?" She shook her head up and down with a huge grin. "Yep, Madison got one yesterday. So we are going to have one today. We're going to have to hurry up..."

A beautiful saaaa, we're happy to naaaa

Mon, 01 Sep 2014 18:43:42 GMT

Several times this season I had shown Senia Mae a video clip of the Del Rubio Triplets singing "Winter Wonderland" from Pee Wee's Playhouse Christmas Special. Their version of the classic, performed in their campy, tasseled mini dresses and white go go boots, has always been my favorite. Three blond sixty-somethings, strumming guitars and singing in harmony, " A beautiful sight...we're happy tonight..." It was now becoming one of my daughter's favorites as well.

Driving through Life College, Senia Mae started humming Winter Wonderland as we passed the Lasting Purpose lawn filled with colorful trees and stars. But she had apparently misunderstood the lyrics. Her version went like this: "A beautiful saaaaa, we're happy to naaaaa, walking in a winter wonderland." After we all stopped laughing, we tried to correct her and tell her the words were sight and tonight, but in her head we were just a bunch of jokers trying to mess up her song. To her it was very clear that the high pitched sopranos were saying saaaa and naaaa. Her "you obviously have no idea what you are talking about" look said it all.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly a winter wonderland. It was Tuesday night, we were running ourselves ragged trying to recreate Christmas memories, and it was fifty five degrees and pouring outside. My parents were in town for the holiday and we decided to drive down to Marietta and see the Christmas lights at my Alma Mater, Life Chiropractic College.

Back then, I remember loathing the light lookers as they blocked the access to the library. Now I was visiting with my own family, drinking lip scorching mint hot chocolate from Dunkin' Donuts, and excited to see the look of amazement on my four year old's face as we drove through the twinkling campus of low lit bedazzlement.

What seemed most thrilling to Senia Mae was that we allowed her to stand up in the car, her lips fogging up the glass as she smashed her little face against the backseat window trying to get closer to the outdoor led brilliance. We turned out our headlamps and followed the merry glow of blue icicle lights hung vertically against the wall of hardwoods lining Barclay Circle.

She kept on singing it her way and by the end of the night we were all singing, "A beautiful saaaaa, we're happy to naaaaa, walking in a winter wonderland!"

What It Means to be Momma

Mon, 25 Aug 2014 19:30:27 GMT

It was sometime in the middle of the night when I got up to use the bathroom. As I always do, I looked over towards Senia Mae's room and noticed her door wide open. I decided to investigate and peeked in the room, straining my eyes as I struggled with the darkness to see any movement in the shadows. When it was obvious to me that she was still there and sleeping soundly in her bed, I turned around and pulled the door almost shut, leaving about an inch gap open.

Apparently she noticed the rousting in her room because as soon as I got to the bathroom I heard "Momma" coming from her room in that fearful, panic-stricken child's shriek. Everyone knows the only remedy for scariness like that is...Momma. I was not sure if she was crying out in her sleep so I walked back to her room and stooped over her bed for a minute, studying the lump of covers and pillows breathing in a gentle, steady rhythm.

Just when I thought I was going to make my way back to my own bed a small hand, like one of those long, sticky rubber hands that you throw against a wall, came out of the darkness and up to my face. It felt around my cheekbones and eye sockets. It patted softly at my hairline, feeling the springing curls, wild from the nights sleep and then moved over to my lips, pressing over the divot in my upper lip, making sure those lips were the familiar ones.

When she was completely sure it was me in her room and not some stranger lurking over her bed she pursed her lips out big, wanting a kiss. She was so adorable that my cheeks ached from my large grin. I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the lips. She sighed a sigh of utter relief, grabbed her beat up, white bunny and rolled over on her side, completely asleep within seconds. I stood there a moment longer, gazing at her with love, as my heart filled with a joy almost unimaginable. All of a sudden I wondered if this is where the Southern phrase "Well Bless Her Heart" came from. I thought maybe so.

The Words Got In The Way

Thu, 21 Aug 2014 19:33:38 GMT

t is long before my eyes naturally open when I hear the thudding sound of little footsteps coming towards me. I try to clear the dense fog convincing my brain that this actually is not happening and I should definitely stay asleep. Within seconds a little person is at my side and bunny has been tossed by the ears onto my bed, landing right next to my cheek as Senia Mae stands up close to the edge next to me.

"Where is Mommy Kim?" she asks directly. Not Hi, good morning, or how are you.

"Mommy Kim had to work this morning. She left very early" I said.

"Aaaaaah" she sighs, totally disgruntled as she flops her head down on the bed hiding her disappointment. "I hate it when she's not here when I get up it's so..." she frantically searches for the word that describes her feeling of frustration "it's so boring."

"Boring?" I said laughing. "Do you even know what boring means? I don't think boring is the word you are looking for. Maybe you should try a different word" She had been picking up some cool words from our thirteen year old niece, Savannah.

"It's so...natural" Senia Mae says as she flips through her mental Rolodex of big and important sounding words, randomly picking one and inserting it into the sentence.

"I don't think natural is the word you are looking for either. How about when I wake up in the morning and Mommy Kim is not here I feel sad because I miss her" I looked into Senia Mae's eyes to see if there was a connection. "Does that explain the way you are feeling?"

"Yes Momma" she said happily "those are the right words." Before I could even sit up and laugh to myself about what had just happened she was already onto something else. "How does a chicken lay an egg...?" she said as she skipped out of the room...

You're Breaking My Feelings!

Wed, 06 Aug 2014 19:37:01 GMT

We are getting to the point with Senia Mae where we are realizing that we have to set limitations, with food, with television, with gifts, because with one child it is very easy to spoil them without even being aware it is happening. There is an unlimited amount of everything and we feel it is important for her to understand that you can not get what you want all of the time.

T he other day we were heading home from a packed day that had already been filled with shopping, then bowling, as well as a couple of hours at the arcade. It was a day filled with fun and excitement, and even though we had a great time, by the time we left I had had my fill of lights, whistles,and dinging bells.

As we were driving home Senia Mae said "I want to stop at the big M". I try to divert her from fast food and hoped her idea would pass as quickly as it appeared. I decided to just ignore the comment.

"Momma, I want to stop at the big M and get some meat and cheese...on bread!" She apparently hadn't forgotten. At least she didn't ask for french fries, I thought, but we had already had a very indulgent day and I thought we should settle for a relaxing lunch at home.

"I don't think we are going to stop at the big M today" I said. "Maybe another time." Usually this approach works and she happily agrees. Not this time.

With more zest she said, "I want to eat meat and cheese at the big M" thinking I obviously hadn't heard her. She was not used to me saying no.

" No, we are going to have lunch at home today" I said. "We are all very tired and need to rest."

After a couple of minutes of silence I thought that the issue had been dropped, but as I pulled into our driveway and looked into the rear view mirror, I saw that she was fuming mad. Fortunately when she is mad she doesn't cry or scream, she merely pouts with her eyebrows frowned down and her lower lip stuck way out in front of her upper lip. Trying no to laugh because she looks so cute when she's mad, I had to ask, "Senia Mae what's wrong with you?"

She looked appalled that I didn't know why she was upset. Walking out of the car with her hands on her hips she spouted off, "I wanted to go to the big M and now you're breaking my feelings." I held in my laughter as I had to explain that we can't get everything that we want all of the time, sometimes we have to compromise. Compromising to a four year old can be a big task, but after we talked she took it with stride.

I love having these conversations with her where she uses the wrong words in sentences. Something about the innocence of it makes my heart bubble over with joy. She is trying to copy our phrases and sound more grown up, even though she doesn't understand all the words and the way they should be arranged.

When I think of how soon this phase will all be over, the one where she says adorable things like "are you still working on your beputer?" and how one day she'll be all grown up and talking to me like an adult...I feel like she'll be breaking my feelings sooner than she even realizes.

And oh...those summer ni-heights

Wed, 02 Jul 2014 19:39:29 GMT

The Einstein string lights lit up the walkway just enough so we didn't trip on a root as we ran down to the dock for some night swimming. We already had our bathing suits on and our towels waved behind us like flags as we hurried to the waters edge. It was a sticky, summer night in Georgia, the kind only made better by a body of water and some ice cold sweet tea. Hearing the frogs hum their croaky tune reminded me of summer nights long ago at Girl Scout Camp Reynolds.

The water seemed chilly at first, dunking your toe in, but as soon as your body was completely submerged the warmth wrapped you up like a soothing bath. Looking west you could see the last pink glow of the sunset ducking behind the trees as Senia Mae talked us into catching her flying off the dock mid-air. Her squeals were silenced by the sound of a loud thunk.

"What's that?" Melissa asked, slightly concerned that we were being followed by a turtle. Night swimming allowed your mind to wander because you couldn't actually see what was in the dark water.

"Oh, it's just a big nut that splashed." I said, looking at the buckeye tree that leaned lazily over the shore.

"I love big nuts!" Senia Mae exclaimed as she threw her hands in the air and jumped off the dock, splashing us with her wake.

When the goose bumps finally set in we toweled off and got out the spotlight, casting our beam on frogs as their throats swelled, singing their summer tunes. We got down close and touched a couple. I tried to contain their leap as I placed the wiggly body into Senia Mae's tiny cupped palms. She screamed as it jumped up and over her head, and we laughed as we walked hand in hand back to the house to get ready for bed.

I think one of the best parts of being a parent is getting to relive some of your favorite childhood memories, the awesome moments that we sometimes take for granted as adults. John Travolta's falsetto voice sung in my head "and oh...those summer ni-heights" as I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. It reminded me that there is still wonder in the simple things if we just take the time to enjoy them.

Thank You Awfully

Thu, 01 May 2014 19:43:07 GMT

Like all good parents, we are trying to teach our fine Southern Belle good manners. This starts, of course, with saying please and thank you, Yes, Ma'am, No, sir and always declining any good offer with a polite no thank you. We are trying to be firm and direct without sounding as if we are barking out orders.

Senia Mae has picked up on this behavior and has begun sharing some of her favorite items with us: Easter candy, Craisins, and other four year old essentials. Her new thing is proudly offering "real" water that she got out of the bathroom sink in one of her porcelain tea cups. She thinks this new independence is where it's at! When the tea cup looks as if it has been sitting in her toy chest covered with dust and dog hair, I politely decline by saying,"I don't want any but thank you for offering!"

Today I was at the stove making some hot wheat cereal like Gram used to make on a daily basis. The secret to its goodness is adding a dollup of butter, salt, cream, and the secret ingredient, pure maple syrup. Mixing it slowly over low heat I was offering a spoonful to Senia Mae. "You know, this is the kind Gram used to eat every day...don't you want to try it?" I said hopefully.

"Do we have to eat this every day?" she asks wide eyed with horror.

"No," I laughed "but you haven't even tried any." She then goes to the cabinet and fishes out a better option for breakfast.

Senia Mae looks at me with pity in her eyes, realizing that she has won this one, and wraps up the conversation with: "No, Mama, I don't want any, but thank you awfully!"

The Story of Birdie

Sat, 29 Mar 2014 19:47:39 GMT

One day, almost five years ago, Kim came up to me and said, "I'm ready". Not knowing exactly what she was talking about, I looked at her with a questioning expression. "For a new dog" she said "I think my heart is ready for that kind of love again." When we had gotten together four years ago, we each had "our" dogs, the loyal companions that had chosen us, independently through our own trials and tribulations, still loving and accepting us after all of our youthful mistakes.

A year before we had said our tearful goodbye to Georgia Bean, Kim's eleven year old golden colored mix, who had been suffering with an oral malignant melanoma. The loss was tough on Kim because Bean dog was not only her loyal side kick, but also her work companion, running the length of the tennis courts as she made her rounds. Kim needed time to grieve the loss.

"I've had this vision that our next puppy is waiting for us at the new Dawson County Humane Society" she said joyfully. I was willing to go along with her whim but was not very eagerly anticipating having to train a puppy, especially because there was a good possibility that I was pregnant. We scoured the the pound and I wept as we passed every crate with those sad eyes staring at us saying "Am I the one?". I couldn't take it...I had to have a break...I was ready to take all of them.

Kim wanted to look through the puppies once again and that was when we spotted the one, a kind of meek, 12 week old floppy eared mutt in the rear corner. We took her out and Kim was instantly in love, it was obviously meant to be and her name was going to be Birdie. The very next morning I got a positive reading on the EPT stick, we were pregnant with Senia Mae.

Although I was initially not very excited about dealing with a puppy and having morning sickness at the same time, Birdie has become a very important member of our family. If it was not for her, I probably would not be alive today.

After having a Cesarian section delivery, I was laid up in bed feeling feverish. Birdie jumped on the bed and landed on my painful incision...it immediately ruptured. The ER doctor said I would have been dead in another hour from sepsis if that dog had not made us aware. An antibiotic resistant MRSA infection, obtained during the C-section surgery, was secretly taking over my body. Thankfully, Birdie had smelled the infection brewing inside of me. I can never praise her enough.

Today our sweet dog is turning 5 years old. This morning Senia Mae and I were mixing together her special doggie birthday cake, shredding the carrots and scatterings half of them over the kitchen counter. "The good news is that Mommy Kim is a cleaning lady!" I said with pleasure. "What's the bad news, then?" Senia Mae asked innocently. "There's no bad news...it's Birdie's birthday...we are supposed to make a mess."

Birdie loved having her own cake after she got over the fear of the burning candles! Happy Birthday to a great family dog, we love you!

True Love's Kiss

Sat, 22 Mar 2014 21:47:07 GMT

I could see the hurt in Savannah's eyes as Senia Mae pushed away from her and closer to me on the couch. She snuggled in on my lap, wrapped her tiny little hand around mine, and focused her attention on the premiere home viewing of "Frozen" on Grandma's big screen television. "Don't get your feelings hurt, Savannah,it is only because today is Mommy Day" I said apologetically. We had spent the whole day doing extra fun things, just the two of us, and apparently she didn't want any one else to break into our bubble. Inside I soared, because I usually have to share her attention with a lot of other people, including her cool teenage cousin, and sometimes feel like I place last on the list. Today was our day, her and me, and my insides skipped with glee when she wanted to keep it as just that.

We sat mesmerized as Hans easily tugged at Anna's heart strings, charming and handsome, it seemed as though they fell instantly in love, much like in any fairy tale. This must have moved Senia Mae, for she reached over and grabbed something from the coffee table. Just then she took my left hand and slipped a pink plastic heart shaped ring on my index finger (it was too small to fit on any of the others). I could see the pride she was feeling after "placing a ring on my finger" like Hans was going to give to Anna, it was my secret present. We snuggled a little bit tighter and I kept the special ring on for the rest of the night. She lit up every time she saw it.

A little while later I asked her if she was going to kiss my ring. "No Momma" she said, "Only True Love's Kiss!"

"Well a Momma's love IS true love..." I said. "You may find more love or a different kind of love later, but no love will ever be more true than the love a Momma has for her child." and with that she gently reached over, grabbed my hand very daintily, and kissed my ring. We did this several more times the rest of the night end every time she just squealed with delight, as if we had our own little secret code.

It was fabulous as I thought, this is the stuff. I hoped that I would always remember to take the time to appreciate "the stuff" as it was happening, because as we all know, it goes away fast.

The next morning I overheard Kim waking up Senia Mae in the other room. "Is today Mommy Day?" she asked innocently, how I wished that it could be like this forever.

Momma, who put the diarrhea on Savannah's face? You or Mommy Kim?

Tue, 18 Mar 2014 19:49:56 GMT

Last summer we had the pleasure of having our nieces stay at the lake house with us for several weeks. Both girls were in their early teenage years and had the usual interests...beauty, hair, nails, & fashion, all of which Senia Mae just ate up, because she was and still is, the ultimate diva. If it was shiny and spectacular, then the answer was yes, she loved it, and watching her stare at them with awe and amazement was absolutely adorable.

It was a rainy afternoon and we had stopped at Walmart on the way back from a bowling trip, trying to ease the blahs of not being able to be out in the boat (rainy days in the summer can be absolute torture to our guests, especially kids). Senia Mae was wanting to hang lazily from my arms, in hopes that I would drag her like a corpse through the aisles of the store. I am sure that every parent knows when their child gets to this point of tiredness that you have about a forty five minute window before the walls start crumbling down. Letting the girls know that our time was running out, they picked out some individually packaged chocolate facial masks and decided to make it a spa, popcorn, and movie night.

As soon as we got into the house Kim and I started on Senia Mae's bedtime routine as the girls went to the downstairs bathroom to apply their facial masks. About fifteen minutes later Savannah was standing in the living room letting her face dry. Senia Mae spotted her from a distance and stopped dead in her tracks, petrified of the sight of Savannah. Apparently she had no idea what was going on and assumed we were doing something harmful to our niece. We hadn't thought to explain it to her, it never even crossed my mind that it would look frightening, and it was all I could do to peel her out from behind the sofa.

As I picked her up in my arms she looked at me with this expression of disgust and horror and shouted, "Momma, who put the diarrhea on Savannah's face, you or Mommy Kim?"

While I don't necessarily want my daughter to need extensive therapy for traumatic childhood events, it was hard to be empathetic and hold back the tears of laughter that immediately followed her crazy, yet ever so serious accusation. The house practically shook with all of us in stitches. When we finally got her calmed down enough to go to bed, she was still so appalled that she didn't want Savannah to come in her room or even read her a book (which means it is VERY serious). The following day it took Senia Mae all day before she would stop giving poor Savannah the stink eye! Who knew? :)

Just when you think you are winning the battle...

Tue, 04 Mar 2014 20:53:53 GMT

Sometimes I have this internal yearn to be mother of the year, chiropractor of the year, wife of the year, friend of the year, volunteer of the year...you get the picture, meanwhile I run myself ragged trying to reach this unrealistic plateau in which I scrutinize myself heavily if I under perform or come up a little bit short. It may be the Capricorn in me or just pure psychosis that has yet to be resolved in therapy, either way I plow forward in my strife, continuously trying to meet this unobtainable expectation.

One of the areas of discord are my child's eating habits. Please stop laughing I haven't even gotten to the funny part yet. As a health care practitioner and promoter of the theory of proper nutrition being the foundation of good health, I am very concerned over the possible side effects of a four year old diet that consists primarily of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. This is what she wants every day...or a grilled cheese...or if I am lucky cottage cheese. While I am certain that my child is not going to be suffering from early onset osteoporosis, I do feel as if her body needs more than enriched bleached flour and processed cheeses to achieve proper growth and development. Since I am a fairly advanced chef, I thought I would whip up some homemade mac and cheese, Lima beans, and fried catfish in hopes that we could almost complete one full balanced nutrition pyramid. This is how it went down.

"Okay, Momma made your favorite...Mac and cheese, coming at you warm and bubbly straight out of the oven." With a hopeful smile I slid the plastic princess plate across the counter as she sat opposite me on her stool. Her head dropped, eyeballs quickly scanning the plate, her long, light brown hair flopping forward like Cousin It, covering her face so that I could not see her expression. A second later I see the face: brows slightly frowned, eyes straight and direct, lower lip out.

"I don't like this mac and cheese" she says matter of fact, as if this is the end of the conversation and I should just turn around and pull something else out of my sleeve. I take a deep breath in, calming the internal fire rising from within that wants to just scream "why is mine not good enough?". Knowing full well that I am the bigger person, I thought it to be a good time to reason with her.

"Oh, no," I said. "You love mac and cheese. You used to eat this all of the time when you were a baby. In fact you didn't even like the other stuff, you would only eat my homemade macaroni and cheese." OK it was a slight fib, but I was really trying. Parenting tip # 1 : sometimes it is possible to sway their opinion if they really believe they used to like it as a baby. Again this is just a tip, not accurate one hundred percent of the time.

"Well I don't like this mac and cheese anymore." she replies directly as my point flies right out the window.

"It's the same as the other stuff except that I made it with real milk, butter, and cheese and cooked it in the oven. You haven't even tried it. Just take one bite." Reluctantly she pries her lips open ever so slightly, enough to force one piece of elbow macaroni through the tight space.

"I still don't like it" she hops down from her stool and runs around the counter to the food pantry, opening the cabinet and pulling out a box of the processed garbage I am so adamantly trying to overrule. "This is the kind I like right here." She hands me the box as if it is not apparent enough already. Sting, sting, sting...I can feel my heart burning directly under my chest. Suddenly I changed directions with my thought process.

"See this nice Valentine you made me this morning? Remember how you were so proud and happy to give it to me and all you really wanted was for me to like it?" she nodded in understanding. "How would you feel if I said that I didn't like it...it should be purple instead of red?" Her eyes got serious in deep thought, as if I was really hitting home with her emotions. This is it, I thought, I am getting there, round two goes to Momma. "Don't you think that would hurt your feelings when you made me that special Valentine and I said I didn't like it? That's how I feel when I make you something special and you won't even try it."

I looked up at her to see if I was getting anywhere. She nodded in understanding and got a look of slight empathy in her eye, feeling where I was going with the conversation. Just as I thought I had finally got through, she changed her tactic as well. She reached across the counter and grabbed my hand, ever so gently. Looking me directly in the eye with the utmost innocence she says, "Mommy, I do not like Green Eggs and Ham!" It was all I could do to contain my hysterics and keep my composure, trying desperately to hold on to some minute thread of the point I was making, but it was useless. Round three goes to the child!

Finding the right words

Sun, 02 Mar 2014 20:56:44 GMT

I am sure that it is not easy being the kid of a chiropractor. There is no way you are going to prop yourself up on the couch all cockamamied and get away with it, having a dinner plate with only starchy foods on it will occur only over my dead body, and of course you get adjusted not only when you are feeling bad, but to stay healthy. Otherwise it looks really bad.

Senia Mae is not that different from most four year-olds, when I say it is time to get adjusted she shrieks, runs around the table for me to catch her, and says, "No, I don't want to!". I think she really just enjoys being able to voice her own opinion. The other day I was trying to explain to her how important it is to get adjusted regularly. My first attempt was "If you don't get adjusted regularly your body will get sick...you don't want that, do you?" Silence. I looked in the rear view mirror to see her face staring blankly out the window. I imagined the droning voice of Charlie Brown's teacher....blah blah blah blah blah blah. I racked my brain for another alternative, apparently the strive for ultimate health was not of concern at her age.

My second attempt involved something more serious. Since she is constantly asking me to tell her stories about when I got hurt as a child, I thought I'd reach deep and pull out the "H" word. Yes, that means hospital.

"You know when you get adjusted your body heals from the inside out. Do you know what happens if your body stops working right?"

"What?"

"You have to go to the hospital to get fixed. Is that what you want?"

"No, I just don't want to get adjusted."

It's not as if I do not have to deal with this same issue with patients every day, but they sway a little easier and the sting in my epicenter isn't quite as sharp when its not coming from my own flesh and blood.

"Why don't you like to get adjusted?" I asked.

"I just don't"

"We do it in a way so you don't even feel it." I said, "You like it if you can't feel it, right?"

"I still don't like it!" she said without budging.

Suddenly a voice from the heavens whispered in my ear. "You know why we give adjustments? So that there is no interference in your body. If there is no interference then Jesus can talk to you all the time without getting the wrong message." I peered in the rear view mirror.

"Jesus can talk to me better?" she asked, apparently interested in being able to receive direct communication with the MAIN man. I had gotten her attention.

"Yes"

"Then I like getting adjusted," as if saying, Duh, Mom, of course I want to talk with Jesus! Apparently all those Sunday mornings coloring during the preacher's sermon are having their effect!

And the elephant goes "toot"

Tue, 14 Jan 2014 21:01:46 GMT

As with any three year old, daily life includes many routines, one of the most important being singing songs...lots of songs. For the past few months Senia Mae's favorite has been the Scandinavian International sensation, "What Does The Fox Say?", a ditty which many adults find catchy yet annoying in the "I can't get it out of my head and have been singing it since seven this morning" kind of way. Mommy Kim happens to be one of those adults, while I pull it up on YouTube every time someone I know has not heard it yet.

The video is a dreamlike scene in which a Grandfather is reading a book to his grandson, who sits on his lap asking questions about the story. A man lurks in the forest behind, prancing out of the fog to a techno beat, while singing "the dog goes woof, the cat goes meow, the bird goes tweet, and the mouse goes squeak" in the most sultry, sexy voice. If you weren't listening to the words you would think it was a new dance club hit, until he continues with "the cow goes moo, frog goes croak, and the elephant goes toot", leading up to the chorus indicating that no one really knows the sound of the fox, hence "What Does the Fox say?" He then belts "Ring ding ding ding dingeringeding, gering ding ding ding dingeringleding" jumping around, up and down as everyone yells "What the Fox say?". In reality it is one of the funniest videos I have seen in years and I happily skip around the house humming "and the seal goes ow, ow, ow...".

A few days ago we had all eaten a heavy, late dinner at Grandma's house. It was a dark and crisp night, so we moved quickly to our cars even though our bellies were engorged and full. The plan was that Kim and I were going in one car and Grammy was going to drive Senia Mae home in the truck. Thinking that we were all previously engaged in something else, Grammy hung back a little bit and relieved herself of some gas as we strapped Senia Mae into her car seat. Instead of pretending like she didn't hear it, like any good Southern woman would, our little Einstein sings..."and the elephant goes Toot!"

Mama, I just can't handle it!

Fri, 08 Nov 2013 21:10:21 GMT

I am so proud when I think of how outgoing our little social butterfly is. This week we have been on vacation in south Florida, just the three of us, enjoying a few days of fun in the sun. On the third day of solitude with mommies, Senia Mae ran up to the edge of the pool, waving at a group of swimming girls (actually a mom and her two daughters, but you couldn't tell). "Hey Girls" she yells to them clearly out of the blue. They turn around expecting to see someone a little bit older and of course are taken with Senia Mae and her "no frills" approach to introductions, thinking she is cute as pie. We are invited to join them in the pool and there you have it...instant friends! Meeting their family has been the best part of this trip, for we have spent the next several days together and are all getting along amazingly well, and it would not have happened without our bold little daughter just being who she naturally is.

Thursday night our families decided to have dinner at the marina. The table was fairly full with Chris, Beth, Keeley (12), Cienna (10), Senia Mae, me, and Kim. The kids sat on one side and the adults on the opposite, as the restaurant buzzed with live music, seagulls squawking, tides splashing, and the chatter of hungry folks. Because the girls are older than Senia Mae she just adores them, looking up to them as if they are older sisters and practically taking in every word they say. It had been a long day in the sun as we waited on our main course, staying in her seat was almost a little to much to ask of a three year old at that time.

Running around the table collecting napkins Senia Mae was buzzing with delight, trying to impress her new friends as she leaped into the aisle, causing a waiter to get off balance and drop an oyster on the floor. Mortified I quickly reprimanded Senia Mae, telling her in a very firm voice that she must remain in her chair and that her behavior was unacceptable. Instantaneously her eyes welled up with tears and that little lower lip stuck out (the way that little cartoon penguin used to when he cried out ice cubes) and I knew I had really embarrassed her in front her new friends. I knelt down by her chair and apologized, saying that I was sorry for embarrassing her, but how important it was to stay still in such a busy restaurant. We hugged and I could tell she felt better. Looking into her eyes I said, "Can you promise me you are going to be still and stay in your chair?"

She peered back at me with all of the honesty in the world and said "Mama, I just can't handle it!" I about lost it right there, trying hard not to bust out laughing as I was having a teaching moment. Sometimes kids are just so darned funny, coming out with things that we all feel but would never actually say and how could anyone stay mad at that face?

That's my Mommy!

Wed, 30 Oct 2013 20:11:58 GMT

What happened today is the hook that at pulls your heartstrings, the exact sentiment that makes parents wish that their little ones would never grow up. Until I had my own child I never knew what they were talking about because you just can't fathom love on that level. That particular type of adoration did not exist before and now it suddenly does. Oh how you want to savor it for eternity, store it away in a bottle for when you need just a little reminder of its sweetness. Yes, today was that day.

The event was the annual Trunk or Treat in Senia Mae's preschool parking lot. I had dropped her off in her costume earlier that morning and the parents were to set up their trunks by ten thirty, so the students could trick or treat while school was is session. I had talked about decorating the trunk and handing out treats, assuming that Senia Mae understood the plan but left out that I was dressing as a witch, thinking nothing of it.

Ten thirty came, I decorated the back of the SUV with pumpkins and hanging ghosts,impressed by the amount of creativity and effort that all of the parents had put forth. Looking down the long row of cars I saw the three year old class come through the double glass doors. They stopped first at a car close to the entrance and began making their way to my end of the car line, on the farthest side of the parking lot.

Senia Mae, in her frilly Ariel mermaid/princess costume pivoted on her set of blue high heels and spotted me off in the distance. I saw her face light up as she ran towards me shouting "That's my mommy! That's my mommy!" "Ms. Wendy, that's my mommy...it's her right there" as she waved her index finger frantically in my direction. My heart melted instantly. She squealed with delight repeating the line several more times after posing with me for a few quick photos. I felt like a celebrity. At that single moment I was what mattered most to that child, not candy, not television, but me, her mommy, the true apple of her eye, and all because I showed up and wore a costume. It was hard to believe that something so simple brought her so much joy and pleasure. I wanted to bask in the glory, allow myself to feel the pride of that moment because just then I was at the top, but like the wind rolling off the mountainside,those moments pass quickly.

I now know why people never want their kids to grow up. You can not get that feeling anywhere else and I know I will crave it for the rest of my life. The sweet, purity of unfiltered hearts...it is as good as it gets.

She's a good girl...you know she wants it..attention, that is!

Sun, 01 Sep 2013 20:14:34 GMT

Picture it...we are having lunch at an upscale, organic, farm harvest restaurant in Downtown Chattanooga, TN. The tables are adorned with cloth napkins and fresh floral arrangements decorated with sprigs of fresh dill. The servers are dressed in all cotton, probably organically grown and fair traded, loose fitting blouses and skirts. Surrounding us are tables of socialite ladies, meeting for luncheons, talking about committees and chairs, as they nibble on field greens and a half sandwich while sipping a glass of chardonnay.

For a moment it felt so good to do something adult-like, in the sense that macaroni and cheese wasn't offered on their menu. We dined on fresh hummus, artichoke hearts, and an organic mixed green salad with a balsamic vinaigrette reduction. The taste was divine as we washed it down with a pomegranate infused citron martini (to take the edge of the sweltering hot mugginess of the outside weather). Senia Mae sat happily across the table coloring as the seafood bisque was delivered with a plate of local farmed grilled root vegetables. She took several bites of her french fries and left her grilled cheese on multi-grain untouched as Mommy and I divulged our senses, enjoying every morsel of what was being placed in front of us. The flavors were heavenly and my mouth was happy, happy, very happy.

About this time our little three year old decides that she no longer wants to sit at the table. She proceeds to get out of her chair and walk around the side of the table standing in the aisle in between Kim and I. Our taste buds were still reveling in the glory of the delightful dinner we were having and apparently we were not offering her enough attention so she started singing. At first I was singing with her "I love you, a bushel and a peck, bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck", but that was not what Senia Mae wanted to sing.

"How does that song go?" she whispers quietly. Scratching her head thinking, she started swaying her bottom sideways in the aisle, her form of rhythmic dancing, as she starts sputtering "shorty had the apple bottom jeans, the boots with the fur...and the whole club was looking at her..." I laughed so hard I almost spit out my bread as Kim was trying to stifle her own laughter. Of all the places to sing that song!

Anyone knows that once the child realizes that the behavior is funny, even though it may be severely inappropriate, there is absolutely no turning back. She started in on Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines muttering "Your a good girl...I know you want it" as I led her quickly by the socialite women to finish her song in the parking lot. It was hard to contain my laughter, so of course she kept on, going into the full blown version on the sidewalk. At this point I knew our fancy lunch was over.

Kim paid the bill while I tried unsuccessfully to stifle the sounds coming out of our young little performer. The waitress smiled apologetically as we got the heck out of there, dodging the disapproving looks from the other diners who apparently thought toddlers should be singing nursery rhymes. I wanted to stop and mention that we do teach her good things but figured the damage was already done and we should just exit as gracefully as we could, before we started to look like worse parents to the whole restaurant.

The good news is that when you are dining out of town you will never see those people again, and that folks is why at home we only visit family friendly restaurants!

I don't care...I love it! Senia Mae the three year old sings the hits!

Sun, 01 Sep 2013 20:07:26 GMT

The story of Jes-was

Tue, 13 Aug 2013 20:18:36 GMT

Several weeks ago , on a beautiful Tuesday morning, Senia Mae and I decided to have our coffees in the hot tub, enjoying the misty sun touched trees as the birds chirped happily together. At that moment, all was right with the world. As I lifted off the cover to the tub, out of the blue Senia Mae blurts out..."Oh, Jesus".

The timing and delivery of her statement was completely off, like many comments she repeats without knowing exactly where and when they should be used, and I quickly tried to offer a proper reply to hide my amused astonishment.

"I know you have heard me say the words Oh Jesus," I said, "and I want you to know that Mommy is wrong when she talks like that. When we talk to Jesus we should thank him for all of our blessings and speak to him like a friend."

"Like Mr. Orin does at church?" she asked innocently.

"Yes. That is the proper way to talk to Jesus. Mommy is going to try harder not to say his name that way anymore. O.k?" She nodded in agreement. I thought the topic was dropped.

Multiple times since then she has caught either one of us mistakenly taking the lord's name in vain, quickly letting us know that we are not supposed to talk to Jesus that way. We agree and thank her for the correction.

Yesterday Senia Mae came up to me and said "I am just going to say Jes-was." I looked at her with a questioned expression, completely unaware of what exactly she was talking about.

"What do you mean, Jes-was?"

"Well if we can't say Jes-is than we can just say Jes-was, right?" It was all I could do to keep it together! What was I supposed to say to that? :)

OMG...my little one kills me...not literally!!

Thu, 25 Jul 2013 20:19:57 GMT

We climbed a parental mountaintop the other day...having a successful overnight stay at Aunt Miss's house. There had been one previous attempt that ended up unsuccessful with a panic filled call at ten forty-five p.m. It started with whimpering, then "Where's Mommy?", then a couple of soothing attempts, and then finally the call. But this time...right through the night..what a big girl she is. So much so that she totally blew me off when I went to pick her up the next day at lunch; sunglasses on, rolling luggage packed, she looked as if she were headed to LAX for her first shopping spree on Melrose. I left there depressed, thinking how quickly my little girl was growing up and how she didn't need me anymore.

Fortunately the next night all became well again. Senia Mae and I were tossing the ball around together after I got home from work, chumming up before she goes to bed and I felt that warmness that fills my heart when we have those special moments. A few minutes later she comes into our bedroom with an armful of stuffed animals (the whole slew of bedtime buddies required for a full night's sleep) and her nighttime sip-pie cup. I knew what this routine was but wanted to ask anyway.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Bringing my animals in so we can all go to bed.", she said matter of factly, as if I should already know.

"Well there's not enough room in here for me, you, all of your animals, and mommy Kim. The bed is just not big enough for all of us." I said my words thinking that my rationale would coerce her back into her own room for the night. No.

"That's o.k, Mama. Mommy Kim can just sleep on the couch!"

I nearly died with laughter and suddenly all was right with the world again.

A speech therapist...I don't think so!

Tue, 09 Jul 2013 20:21:56 GMT

The Paceleys have a unique glitch in their recessive gene pool: many of them are blessed with extend-a-tongues. Most often this gene is limited to frogs and cows, somehow it has cross pollenated into the Paceley DNA. This allows them to be able to touch their noses with their tongues, entertaining the young and old with their uncanny capabilities. One of the drawbacks, though, is that the long tongue has little place to go when making the “s” sound and often the toddlers are a little lispy in their beginning trials of communication. One of the aunts even had to have her tongue trimmed because it didn’t fit all the way into her mouth.

Senia Mae has the Paceley extend-a-tongue and proudly touches her nose as she burrows her brows making sure the whole moment is being properly captured by her audience. She must have recently overheard us talking about lispy vocabulary, because as of late she has turned her “s” sounds into more of a “sch” sound in front of words like “schwing” or “schwim” or “schweet”. We don’t correct her because it is just so darn cute.

Yesterday at lunch we got back to the house and Senia Mae says, “Mommy my belly hurts”. She is at the phase right now where she says things she hears on television even though she does not necessarily understand exactly what they mean. The previous statement is a perfect example of this.

I replied, “Why does your belly hurt?”

“It just does” she said.

“What do you think would make it feel better?”

“Schwimming in the lake, right now!”

Night Swimming

Thu, 20 Jun 2013 20:24:55 GMT

Tonight is the type of night that reminds me why I fell in love with this place. The summer air is sticky and sweet, the moon is almost full, and the sounds of frogs and crickets singing their early evening anthem fills my ears with sweet solitude. Yes, indeed it is hard to beat.

Night swimming in the lake, we step in carefully, worried that the water will be too cold, but of course it is perfect after collecting the heat of the day. The critters peer from the thickets, watching in wonder as we splash delightfully, our eyes to the sky as we follow the clouds rolling delicately over the moon. My inner person is reminded of late nights at Girl Scout camp, as we take a night hike down the country dirt road, kicking stones and watching shadows as the moon lights our way.

It's late now...after eleven...and everyone else has retired for the evening. I am still savoring the loveliness of my surroundings, trying to breathe in all I can possibly ingest. Swinging on the back porch, I savor the stillness, for this feels like heaven to me.

The doctor is IN

Fri, 17 May 2013 20:26:05 GMT

I am not sure if it is because I am a doctor or because of watching her favorite show, Doc McStuffins, but suddenly all Senia Mae wants to talk about are people who need go in for a check up due to serious injuries. What makes it more humorous is that we don't really discuss going to the doctor or the need to see a physician, but suddenly it has become her obsession. At the dinner table today she repeatedly asked Kim to tell her about a time that she got stitches after cutting her hand on a broken door panel. You could watch the amazement in Senia Mae's eyes the third time she heard Mommy Kim tell the story of flying down the hill on the bike that was so big her feet didn't even touch the ground. Her blinkless stare gazed at Kim in awe, mesmerized by the thought, her mouth dropped open as if it was the most remarkable story she had ever heard.

She then wanted to hear one of my childhood injury stories. My injuries, of course, were not as serious as Kim's so to add some zest to the punchline I emphasized the heroes that saved the day, rescuing the damsel in distress (me). I looked into her eyes as I told of myself running down the grassy hill to be with Gram, because I always wanted to be where she was. She was at the bottom of the hill pulling weeds and I ran as fast as I could through the high grass stepping on a rusted out pipe that was hidden in the thatches. Gram came to my rescue as I lay bleeding and crying in the grass, sweeping me up in her arms and delivering me to the safety of the kitchen, where she soaked my foot in warm soap and water, then dressed it with what she considered the cure all, Campho-Phenique. I was bandaged up with some gauze and an ace wrap, limping around for the next whole week.

Mae Mae could not believe that there was a hidden pipe waiting to be stepped on by bare feet running through the grass! What a catastrophe...and it happened to her Mommy! Watching her intrigue and fascination was quite amusing. I had to subdue several fits of laughter as she asked again about the cut on my foot that was a complete circle. She looked at her own hand and drew an imaginary circle with her finger, lost in deep thought.

A few moments later she spouted off that one time she had a bruise on her hand and it needed five stitches...one, two, three, four, five...right here in a circle (she traced the circle on her hand). And Grammy came over...I had one dirty toe and one clean toe...she washed my toes in warm soap and water and they got better! She looked up in delight, turning the palms of her hands to the sky as she grinned, completely satisfied with herself. Even though the story was obviously a fabrication of our stories, her rendition was absolutely adorable and heartwarming. All she wanted was to be part of our storytelling, to be included in the conversation. Suddenly I was glad we took the time to sit at the dinner table, turning off the t.v so we can actually have conversations because this is the stuff you want to remember.

In memory of Senia I. Doldt, my Gram

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 20:27:53 GMT

Five years ago today marks the worst day of my life, the day my grandmother tragically died after a fall down the stairs. Even though that day pinnacled my life's biggest fear, how to live the rest of mine without her, I am proud to say that in the time between then and now there have been hundreds of the best days of my life. That fateful day changed my life and my attitude forever. Our beautiful daughter, Senia Mae, rightfully named in honor of her great grandmother, Senia I. Doldt, was born in 2010 and has brought so much joy and happiness into our lives. Every day I feel as if a piece of Gram is within her and thus with me, from her love of apple pie, raisin toast, and the color purple, to her insistence to stay outside just a little bit longer to smell the flowers. I can't imagine receiving a more precious gift than the one that came in the form of that little girl.

Early this morning Senia Mae and I were out walking around the yard in our pajamas. I thought about this day and how it has affected my life and felt as if I should do something that would make Gram feel present. Of course the first thing that came to mind was filling the trench in the driveway with large stones. The Savonens (Gram, as well as her father, David) were all about redirecting water flow with trenching, boulders, and ditching, why it was what he did for a living as well as build bridges. I remember countless conversations between Gram and I about how to get a gully working just right or how to address water issues. It was what she loved. The least I could do was work on the unsightly cavernous rivets forming in our gravel driveway.

We walked up and down the driveway together, Senia Mae and I, toting stones from here to there, digging a little and basically just keeping whats ours in the family. I don't think I could have honored her in a more appropriate way. I smiled looking over our accomplishment wondering if Senia Mae could feel it too. It was happiness radiating from my heart, she was with us.

I think of you and miss you every day, Gram, but I always feel that you are with me in everything I do. Love, Kara

Momma don't have a meltdown, someone's watching!

Fri, 05 Apr 2013 20:30:30 GMT

Even though this picture is over a year old it is still one of my favorites and I have it proudly displayed in my chiropractic office. I love the way Senia Mae is looking at me and it reminds me that even when I am not paying attention...she is.

The other day a fairly new patient came in for an adjustment and saw this photo on the counter. She asked if that was my daughter. I concurred as she picked up the photo, staring at it for an uncomfortably long time. She analyzed the contents, the colors, the expressions on both of our faces, how we were holding each other, paying attention to the minute details of the photograph. I remembered how Gram used to do the exact same thing, sitting at the kitchen table with her magnifying glass, taking in the aspects of a photo that could be easily missed if you gave it only a quick glance.

"See this here?" she said pointing to Senia Mae's smirked expression, her eyes captivated by what I was doing, "She might not be listening to everything you are saying, but she's watching you. Kid's learn by example, she's going to mimic everything you do, and this here is direct proof she's watching!" I gasped at the thought. It is easy to get distracted in life and forget that my thoughts, my actions, my responses, my persona basically is being copied and formatted by my daughter. Yikes! Well, that's my first response, but it is a helpful reminder that I must be a positive influence in her life because she is indeed following my example. Next time I almost lose my temper or don't think what she is saying has much value I am going to reconsider my actions because how I act is equally as important as what I say.

It is amazing how little kids see their parents as larger than life sometimes. I have a memory of being in the first grade when I used to ride the bus to school. My mom didn't happen to view me catching the bus that particular morning and worried about my safety. My dad was working and we only owned one car at the time, so my mother decided to jog two miles to the elementary school to check on me. When I gazed out the window that overlooked the playground there she was peeking in! I remember my body instantly beaming with pride! That was my mom...and she ran here! I instantly stood up in front of the class and announced that my mom could run faster than the school bus! I wasn't exactly lying, in my mind she really could do anything. I was so proud and excited I just wanted to shout from the rooftops "That's my mom!"

When we become parents rarely do we realize the enormous responsibility we are taking on, not just caring for someone else, but being the role model they need to become good functioning members of society one day. I get nervous just thinking about the fact that I could be screwing up right now and not even be aware of the microscopic damage happening in my poor child's psyche! Fortunately a therapist friend of mine calmed me down one day by stating "if you are already worried about your child's mental health and well being you are far above average and probably on the right path!" That was somewhat settling. I know I am going to and already have made mistakes. I just hope that she absorbs more of the good stuff and has the ability to forgive all of the bad stuff! I love you, kiddo!

Taking time to smell the....hollyhocks

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 20:32:40 GMT

Even though at this particular moment snow flakes are drifting delicately through the brisk, March air, spring has fully bloomed in Georgia. Blossoming buds on the Bradford pear trees line the roads and most daffodils have already come and gone several weeks ago. Since we had a very mild winter, the forecast is calling for a severe allergy season, one of which Senia Mae and I are currently victims!! All weekend she has been broadcasting the news, "Mommy and I don't feel good" absolutely proud as a peacock that we are lucky enough to share the same miserable symptoms of swollen sinuses and itchy eyes! Then she'll continue on..."I just had to smell the flowers...I love them",as she walks off bantering to herself in a continuous ramble. I must admit, she is absolutely adorable as she looks to the bright side of suffering with allergies! The season sent me to Walmart for several boxes of tissues, causing me to pass the aisle of springtime flowering bulbs. I suddenly reverted to a child Senia Mae's age following my grandmother down the grassy hill to a row a beautiful, tall flowers that lined several neighboring Evergreen trees. It was my lesson of the day.

The warm hand led me down the hill to see the most magnificent and bountiful blooms I had ever seen. They were purple mostly, mixed in with some white, pink, and yellow blossoms that grew tall on these long, thick stems, higher than my own head! "You can touch them, see?" she said, "But very gently or they will fall off their stems. These are called gladiolas...one of my favorites. And over here we have hollyhocks." She pulled me to the side where more flowers blossomed. I had to listen carefully because she spoke very fast, as if she were in such a hurry to get all of the words out. With her thick Boston accent it almost sounded as if she were saying Hollyhucks, as she showed me the delightful bell shaped flowers that donned its bountiful stems. I thought that I had never seen anything quite so pretty and exhilarating, as I deeply inhaled next to the purple and gold bells. She could make anything grow anywhere. We always had cut up milk cartons and glass jars hall full of water rooting sprouts of this or buds of that. I try to have similar talents, but they don't come as natural to me as they did to her. I still try anyway.

Last fall I decided to transplant some irises that had been given to me as a gift from a patients established garden. I thought I would wait until Senia Mae went down for her nap, giving me at least an hour to clear the hill, prepare the soil, and cover the roots so they would be ready for the upcoming spring. After about twenty minutes I was knee deep in a fresh mix of bark mulch, rotting leaves, and potting soil as I glanced down the hill at the glass door in front of Senia Mae's bedroom. I instantly became aware that she was not sleeping, but rather sitting contently by the threshold, gazing up at me while I worked with the irises. Chuckling to myself, I leaped off the hill to see why she was so awake and interested in what was going on outside. Her reply, "Mommy I love helping you dig holes, can't I just help?" I supposed there would be time for napping later, this event was obviously one that was being guided by a higher spirit, with intentions of being completed together at that particular moment. Who could deny the divine? And so it was. We dug our holes for the next forty five minutes, laughing, playing, and enjoying each others company as we became one with mother earth. It felt good to feel so connected; to my daughter, to my grandmother, to myself, and to God.

Senia Mae doesn't exactly understand how connected she is to this whole story, but slowly I see the map unfolding in her mind as her own little wheels formulate their own ideas. She picked up a photo of Gram the other day and asked "Where is she?". I let my daughter know that she was named Senia after my grandmother and that Gram was in heaven right now watching over us all of the time. "Oh, my little angel?", she smiled as she looked up at me with this knowing look of pure understanding. "Yes!" I said, "How did you know that?" She then stated, "Mommy, I just know" reassuring me as she lay on my lap, patting my hand and looking up to the sky. I sat there dumbfounded, realizing that my daughter is already very closely connected, without any outside efforts from me, without force, and possibly without recognition. I begin to feel myself smile on the inside as I slowly come to terms with the order of the universe, one that my three year old is completely and absolutely in touch with!

Who could be mad at that face?

Thu, 28 Feb 2013 21:34:52 GMT

Many times I am questioned by folks who ponder "How do you know what to blog about?" My answer is always "I just know what will translate well, certain aspects make it a good story". Sometimes it is suggested that I blog about a specific event and I choose not to...an example being the time we were sitting down to dinner with friends (the first time we have left Senia Mae overnight with Grammy babysitting at our house) and the phone rings just as our friends are asking why we don't do this more often. I pick up my cell to hear a frantic, panic stricken Grammy shouting "Senia Mae is locked in the car....." Reason number one why we don't do this more often. I don't want to blog about it because I am still traumatized over it as a mother, even though I do now admit that the story is funny. But this next one is funnier.

It's a Thursday night, we are all exhausted from a busy day and eventful potluck dinner, returning home and trying to quickly get the toddler to bed. Many people have children who will fall asleep in the car and can be easily and effortlessly transported right into bed. Not us. Our kid seems to have her batteries recharged as soon as she crosses the threshold into the kitchen! We normally give her a minute or two to wind down and do her "stuff". Lately this has been sitting on her potty while trying to do poopie as she sings loudly and bosses around some imaginary friends lurking around in the bathroom. Today was no different, she was doing her "stuff" and Kim and I thought we could take a quick moment to move the stacked washer and dryer out of the way for the contractor who was arriving in the morning to work in the utility closet.

Picture this: Kim behind the 6 foot high unit with a dolly tugging to get the heavy set balanced and positioned correctly on the wheels. I am on the other side pushing the uneven washer with one hand while holding the drain hose the other hand, trying in vain to keep it in a yellow pail catching the leaking drips so they do not get on the floor. Kim is getting frustrated with me because I am not carrying out the task that is expected of me even though I think that I am...there is grunting and groaning and agitation, you get the picture. Just as we get the unit properly balanced on the dolly and actually have it rolling a couple of inches Senia Mae walks out of the bathroom half naked holding up her hand. "What's this?" she asks innocently as she holds up the plastic inserter of a tampon that had already been used and placed in the trash. Kim's eyes flash open in horror as her germ-o-phobe brain kicks into its fight or flight defense mode, dropping the washer mid stroke and chasing Senia Mae into the bathroom screeching "That's trash, it's dirty, we don't touch it, trash stays in the trash can, We don't take it out!!!!", dragging our child to the sink scrubbing her hands as if she had touched some type of skin burning acid.

I follow the commotion, slowly entering the bathroom as Senia Mae bursts into tears, REAL tears..."Am I in trouble?" The tears pour down her reddening face as her lower lip sticks out in that way only toddlers can do. She is devastated at the fact that something that she did was unacceptable to us. I grab her into my arms caressing her head, soothing her with gentle words saying we were not mad at her and that Mommy just got overly excited about her rummaging through the trash...I am saying all this with her head resting in my bosom so that she cannot see that I am making every effort not to pee because I am laughing so hard and holding it in so she will not be aware of my mixed emotions. This is when you need hidden video cameras! The whole thing was absolutely hilarious...us moving the washer...enter kid holding tampon...exit fanatical germ focused mother...kid busts into tears...You just can't write this stuff, you have to live it.

Fortunately she did calm down after ten minutes of consoling and repeating that we were indeed not mad at her. We all agreed that it is a good idea to stay clear of any type of trash, even if it does look interesting. You never really know what you are going to find!

Keeping Up With Tender Moments

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 21:38:08 GMT

Someone recently said to me "Cherish these times with Senia Mae, they go away almost like a whirlwind." The thought saddened me, for I tend to be the type who wants to freeze each moment in time, keeping it it a constant still shot for the rest of forever. I know, however, that freezing time is not possible and I am actively trying to take these words of infinite wisdom and apply them to my crazy, hectic everyday life. Sometimes its hard to keep all of my jobs in balance..I want to make sure I remember the most important job of all.

The other morning Kim had to leave before five a.m to get down to the airport, meaning that I had to take Senia Mae into work with me at eight thirty. It has been said that I have two speeds in the morning....slow and stop. This particular morning I was doing better than

average at my slow pace, peering away from the alarm clock and out the window, knowing that I had exactly one hour to rise, shower, get myself dressed and primped, as well as dressing and primping Senia Mae, getting her fed breakfast, and actually getting both of us out the door and into the car. One hour. Seemed plenty long enough as my slow blinks got a little slower, feeling the new velvety flannel sheet grazing my cheek. Something deep inside me said.."don't move, stay here" My responsible self began throwing one leg outside of the covers into the startling cold morning air as I heard the sound of light thudding footsteps entering the room. Before I saw anything I felt her stuffed bunny bounce off of my head, as she tossed several other stuffed animals(goat, baby seal, and a purple fish with big lips)as well as a naked baby into the empty side of the bed. Crawling into bed, her sleepy little puffed eyes looked at me as if she were surprised that I was actually getting up.

"Where are you going, Momma?" she questioned innocently. I gently brushed the hair out of her face and pulled her close to me. "We have to hurry up and get to work this morning." She looked at me with disappointment. "But I wanted to snuggle..." I exhaled deeply as I struggled with the dilemma. In my world very few things take precedence over snuggling in the morning. But this was already going to be a hectic morning, we'd never get there in time, patients would be waiting on me, we really don't have time for this today...she wants to spend more quality time with me, do you really want to blow off your child when she needs you, it would feel so good to just lay here a few more minutes, snug, warm, cozy...what difference would a few more minutes make? The struggle was over. She crawled into the crook of my arm and we snuggled loosely, gazing out the window at the winter morning, enjoying each others company on a morning that thankfully I was not too busy to pass up.

I realized then that those kind of moments are the ones to remember, so much more than the picture perfect posed moments that are expected and deliberate. You never know how many moments there will be and how many opportunities you may pass up because you are too busy to take that extra time. My hair and makeup may not have looked as good as it could have, but it was good enough, and the tender moment spent with my daughter made rushing to the office worth every frenzied second. That advice was well taken and I hope that I will continue to remember.

It's more than a feeling....

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 21:42:04 GMT

You never know when the moment is going to happen, it is just one of those seconds in time that you dream about, waiting for that particular day that everything just seems to fall in line. Yesterday was that day. It was my first day back to work after Thanksgiving break, I had just picked Senia Mae up from preschool and we were heading back to the house for lunch. Typical day, nothing unusual about it.

As I pulled into the driveway "the song" came on the radio. Every parent has certain rites of passage they want to pass down to their kids, things that really make the difference, allowing you to view life from another perspective. As a die hard rocker and lifelong musician, certain songs set the tone in my life, creating mile markers on the blueprint of my particular story, shaping who I am today. A good song is one that everyone can relate to at some point in their life, really get it, feel it, know it. This was one of those songs...power chords ...rhythm...timing...emotion...yes! Just picture someone standing in the dust watching the taillights slowly fade into the distance as they realize the car they are chasing contains "the one that got away". You know what I am talking about...

I quickly turned my head to look at her sitting patiently in her car seat, as if she were waiting for my cue. Her eyes caught mine instantly with that certain look of understanding that said without words, "Yes, Mom, I get it..." and the pre-chorus started playing. I raised my hands above my head clapping with vigor in the rhythm of 1,2,3,4 as my head bowed in synch with each beat. It was not Wayne and Garth, it was us, me and my kid, and at this moment we were livin' the dream! Out of the corner of my eye I saw her raise her hands over her head in the same fashion, trying to mimic the intensity of my clapping, but not really sure of herself just yet but willing enough to be a noble apprentice.

I took in a deep breath steadying my diaphragm, letting the smooth muscles relax so the tone would be released with perfection. Grabbing her left knee with my right hand I squeeze to the rhythm gently as I belt out "Its more than a feeling....(more than a feelen)...when I hear that old song they used to play...I think its really..(more than a feelen)...till I see Mary Ann walk away...I see that Mary Ann walkin' away.." (Just so that you know, every other girl in Massachusetts is named Mary Ann or Anne Marie, so it gives the song that much more importance!)

Peering into the eyes of my child I notice her eyes are glistening with absolute glee as she is bobbing her head, trying to hit the two high notes that follow Mary Ann walking away right before the guitar solo. YES! This is it! The moment has happened and she gets it!! This, Senia Mae, is one of the most important guitar riffs in rock and roll history, and we just shared that moment together...passing down the knowledge of the sacred trust right here in the confines of our family automobile. We clapped loudly and sang high notes together, bobbing our heads in unison, completely together in that moment. Will she remember it twenty years from know.. I don't know. Will I remember this life changing moment of truth until the day that I leave this earth? Most definitely...YES!!! You passed the test, kid, and I am proud of ya'!

Our little princess re-peat!

Thu, 20 Sep 2012 20:45:38 GMT

Kim and I are feminine, but not exactly what you would call "girly" girls, although I can step it up when I really want to get a point across. That being said, somehow we have created this little darling who was obviously birthed directly from the princess patch, gracefully gliding over rose petals as she sachets through life wearing her ruby red sparkling slippers and I absolutely love it. Sometimes she is so cute I could just eat her right up!

Just to fill you in, she's growing up at an astronomical pace, much too fast for my psyche to be able to handle it with complete rationale. I see now why certain women want to have 19 kids....you never have to give up the goody! Several weeks ago she was still standing at my knees with her arms extended in my direction asking "Hold you", because I would always ask "Do you want me to hold you?". I wanted to freeze her in time, never correcting her grammar because it was just so preciously endearing.

Every time she would say it like that I could feel my heart fill with a love that is like no other and anything else that happened to be in my world at that particular time came to an absolute stop. Little did she know that at those moments she could have anything her little heart desired, not just comfort in my arms. Since then she has begun two mornings of preschool and suddenly has learned the different phraseology between hold me and hold you. Darn it. It is still sweet and I am thankful every day that she still is finding comfort with her Mommy, but its not quite as gripping.

With her new found sense of maturity, she is becoming quite taken with bags, purses, satchels, you name it, anything that will help her tote more stuff from here to there. Recently she had been given a little yellow purse, similar to a tot's version of a Vera Bradley, a zipper topped petite quilted mini duffel with matching ring hand grips and a stripe of red daisies vertically around the midriff. She thinks it is actually better than sliced bread and shoves everything she can into it: keys, scarfs, toy food, even those little 2"x 2" cardboard princess books...you know...everything she's going to need for the day.

The other day we went on a short walk after work pushing her in the jogging stroller down our usual route on the dirt road. Of course she came equipped with her purse, a blanket, one naked baby, and the ruby red slippers. Everything you need for a walk on a dirt road. If we let her walk too soon, we don't get much exercise, therefore we have a rule that she can get out of the carriage at the stop sign, because she likes to "run"...it's more like this heavenly prancing...similar to a deer gliding over a fence...very funny. So we get to the stop sign and let her out to do her thing. This time we decided to park the stroller because we were going to check out another route and double around, grabbing it on the way back.

We hadn't gone more than thirty steps before Senia Mae was screeching "Wait, wait, my purse!" sprinting back to the stroller and snatching her bag from the seat. She skipped happily back to us and went no more than twenty feet before she said, "Mommy, hold this", handing the pocketbook to Kim in her Reebok basketball shorts, T shirt, and running shoes, as she runs off to play with Birdie the dog. This is what is so hilarious, Kim who wouldn't be caught dead with a purse, is strolling happily down the road in her full sporting gear toting a mini Vera Bradley. Priceless!

On the way back the purse made it back into the stroller as I pushed and the two girls walked aside of me. Kim eventually got ahead of us as we were reaching the final stretch. Suddenly Senia Mae shouts "Mommy stop!". With honest concern, I bring the stroller to an abrupt stop, skidding in the gravel, wondering if I had accidentally run over her toe. She runs to the front of the stroller, grabs her purse and hurriedly unzips it, pulling out the scarf and the pretend bottle of soda, spouting off, "I need a coke!" I almost died with laughter, trying to hold it in so she would not become self conscious about her current task at hand. We would start up again and she forced me to stop several more times, about every five feet to repeat the same procedure. It was absolutely hilarious!!!

Apparently she is mimicking someone, possibly us, possibly someone else, but it makes me realize that our every word and action is being stored in her little Rolodex of memorized words and actions, things that adults do, things we are completely unaware that we say and do! YIKES!! Just when you think you are getting away with something sneaky....something as simple as eating a few M&M's while hiding behind the refrigerator...little eyes are watching!! Watch out!!!!

The REAL meaning of dos equis!

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 20:49:56 GMT

For those of you that don't know, we live on lovely Lake Lanier. Lovely, that is, when they are not draining the lake to send water down south to the Apalachicola River Basin so that the oysters can have enough brackish water to thrive. I am an animal lover, heck I've got seven rescue cats, but enough is enough. My dock has been on the ground four out of the last seven summers...aarg!

Since there is basically nothing I can do to change the water situation or my frustration levels, I decided that this year we would take our family vacation to the beach near Apalachicola, so that we could at least enjoy some of the world's best oysters living lavishly off of the excess of my backyard!

It was mid afternoon on a Sunday, the temperature was in the nineties with humidity so high that you could almost taste the salt in the moist air. It was the perfect atmosphere for beer and oysters. Driving along a side road we came across a raw bar that looked as if it was a weathered old wooden shack that someone had forgotten about several hurricanes ago. It donned three 8x20 foot shutters that clipped to the ceiling, providing bar seating as well as exposing an inner bar made of an old surfboard where the headlining selection was Pabst Blue Ribbon on draft. If you felt satisfied you were more than welcome to write your comments on the graffiti covered walls. Picnic tables were scattered under a rusted tin covered porch area that was graveled with crushed oyster shells. It was perfect.

We grabbed a picnic table and placed our order with the waitress, waiting patiently for our treasures to arrive. That particular morning I had eaten extra sparingly, knowing full well that we would be finding fresh ocean vittles for lunch and I wanted to make sure that I was good and hungry. The beer came cold and fast, going down easy in the sticky, salt air. Anxious, hungry, and now a little bit buzzed I started fiddling with the hot sauce bottles on the table, wishing our food would come quicker. Hmmm, there was a bottle I didn't recognize. I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers noticing that the label read that it was made by a local named Ed Creamer out of Port St. Joe, FL. "Hot Damn!" I laughed to myself as I whipped out my phone snapping a picture of the bottle and quickly sending it via instant message to my old friend Amanda, who happens to have a father with the same name, Ed Creamer.

I was completely tickled, reveling in the strange coincidence, enjoying the island atmosphere, drinking beer with my family and friends, texting back and forth to Amanda "It says it's an oyster's best friend!" as I fed yet another packet of saltines to my two year old. The one thing I wasn't doing was noticing the two red XX symbols underneath Ed Creamer's signature on the label.

The oysters arrived and we dove into them, spreading their sweet, raw flesh on crackers, topping them off with horseradish, Tabasco, and lemon. Of course I opted for Ed Creamer's sauce...for it proclaimed right on the label that it was an oyster's best friend and at this particular time, so was I. I smiled readily as I doused my cracker creation with the hot sauce and shoved it in my mouth eagerly. What happened next I will remember for the rest of my life.

My mouth was closed because the oyster and cracker together was a rather large bite. I was chewing and suddenly felt my eyes begin to water as they blinked rapidly. Looking around the porch I spotted the old black and white sketch of an oyster eating pirate with smoke coming out of his ears as he rose from the sea. Yes, that was exactly what was happening! This had to stop! I was sure my head was about to blow off. I scanned the table for some sort of relief as I tapped my hand nervously wishing I could locate a fire extinguisher to put a damper on the flames that were rapidly scorching my lips. My close friends were unable to offer any consolation because they were too busy falling off their seats with explosive laughter as they pointed their fingers in my direction, covering their mouths with their other hands to muffle their obnoxious, unsupportive noises.

Suddenly my little two year old angel reached across the table, handing me her cup of ice water, spouting, "Here you go, Mommy". My heart stopped. I am not sure if it was my tears that got her or the smoke coming out of my ears, but she empathized with me, and I grabbed hold of that water cup, sticking my tongue deep down into the ice cubes quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. My lips, tongue, and entire gastro intestinal tract ached deeply for the next twenty minutes and although the ice water probably acted more as a placebo effect, it was the most sweet, thoughtful, and appreciated offering and I loved her for it. I suddenly realized that in one brief second she had just made up for the fifteen hours of un-medicated labor. That's my kid!

So the moral of the story is that the REAL meaning of dos equis, XX, is PROCEED WITH CAUTION! There are Habaneros in that sucker!!!!

Precious Moments

Wed, 15 Aug 2012 20:52:32 GMT

This morning, my cute little angel pulled on my shirt, looking up at me asking if I could tell her again what happened this morning. "Of course" I said squatting down to her level, allowing her to perch on my left knee. I began to whisper softly...

"This morning you ran into our bed while you were having a bad dream. I wrapped you up in my arms but you were still squirming and making noise, so I whispered softly in your ear, "Mommy's here", and your body relaxed, forgetting about the bad dream and turning into a good rest."

She looked up at me as she wrapped her arms around my neck and nuzzled her nose into my left ear, sighing with that sound of relief that led me to believe that the words "Mommy's here" could fix even the worst dilemmas in her world. How I treasure those kind of precious moments, wishing I could be that to her forever. I grab my heart and hold it, knowing this too is for a limited time only. I am going to soak it all up while I still can:)

Eating my own words!!!

Sun, 22 Jul 2012 20:58:24 GMT

This morning is a great Sunday morning. We sat in the hot tub, I'm drinking my morning coffee, the air outside is still cool before it gets sweltering, and I have a rare chance to pick up my guitar and just let it rip.

In my head, I'm reliving the glory days as I feel the old familiar burning sensation in the tips of my fingers. I am thinking that I am sounding really good as I harmoniously wail Michael Penn's "No Myth". The feeling builds and I stand up automatically taking on the guitar stance, as if the music itself is coming from the inner depths of my soul.

I'm going through my old list of favorites, ending up on Melissa Etheridge's "No Souveniers". There is a really powerful bridge in the middle inundated with slow, meaningful power chords where she belts out, "No shirt...no shoes...no jacket...no blues...your car's for sale...you forward your mail...your cutting your hair... you don't wanna know where I'm calling you from...or how come..." I am really feeling it, in the moment, livin' the dream for that one second ...until Senia Mae walks up to me and says "OK, Mommy, that's enough," as she turns and walks away, completely unimpressed.

My own words were used against me in the meanest, cruelest way! I pick up my poor, deflated ego as I retreat back onto the couch to watch another episode of Max and Ruby with my two year old, who sits happy and content at my side. I know your not cool when your kids are teenagers but I thought at this stage I could still be a little bit cool...next she'll probably blurt out..."Not today, Mommy!" AARG!! Yes this IS what my life has come to!! How funny is that? :)

Time to eat the Donuts

Sun, 15 Jul 2012 20:59:16 GMT

My memory has been jarred lately with dreams of funny stories from long ago. This one took place probably fifteen years ago when we took Gram on a trip to visit Tennessee. I vowed to stop at as many Dunkin' Donuts as it took to find her favorite morning vittles, lemon filled crullers, along the three and a half hour drive from Atlanta to Knoxville.

Just outside of Knoxville on a small side road we spotted an old fashioned Dunkin' Donuts (you cold tell because they had the old curvy counter and the sign was the old brown logo). They didn't carry her exact choice but did have lemon filled donut holes and since this discovery was so rare we ordered about 50 of them to go.

We drove happily for the next couple of miles, munching on a donut hole or two, chatting easily and enjoying our time together. Later on we decided to stop in at Dillard's to check the sales, not even considering that we had my 7 year old Pomeranian, Russell, in the car who was also a lover of donuts (or any type of food for that matter, you would think we never fed him by the way he scarfed things down).

Upon returning to the car, before we even opened the door, Russell sat up on the armrest between the two front seats with his ears back. This was always an instant giveaway that he felt remorse over something he had done. Opening the door we saw a thick layer of powdered sugar masking his whiskers and realized that he had eaten about forty five donut holes! We laughed heartily as we reprimanded, "Russell, bad dog", but it was hard to be mad because we knew that they were hard to resist! The ride home was slow without any donut holes, but our hurt feelings were not anything compared to Russell's upset tummy!

Dancing Queens

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 21:01:42 GMT

Before we decided to get pregnant I told Kim I wanted to go dancing one last time, a final hurrah, so to speak. I love to dance and at one time I lived to dance....one more night of pounding music and spinning glamour wasn't too much to wish for.

The last night of carefree club hopping never became a reality, but lately our living room has become the family dance floor where we mingle together shaking our groove thangs!

Tonight I arrived home from work and Kim had the iPod plugged into the surround sound. Senia Mae was prancing around like a proud peacock in nothing but her pink, polka dotted big girl panties and red glitter ballerina shoes as Katy Perry wailed "In another life...I would be your girl..." at the exact time I walked over the threshold. Club Paradise was apparently calling my name.

Smiling, my girls led me by hand to the dance floor and we swayed and swirled to the thunderous rhythms, until Senia Mae was so dizzy she almost fell over. We all held hands and moved in a circle together, watching as our little girl just beamed with pride and joy, she was in her element. It seemed so amazing that something so simple and spur of the moment could make her so happy and I remembered how it also made me so happy, realizing that it doesn't matter where you receive your joy, as long as you still allow yourself to feel it. This nightclub was just as entertaining as any I had ever paid to get into and it was also close to my heart!

No shoes, No pants, No Problem!!

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 21:03:30 GMT

Many of you probably know this, but if you do not, having a two year old means lots of singing, not that it matters here because we would sing anyway. Our home echoes with melodies from the soundtrack to Annie, happy theme songs to the Wonder Pets, an occasional hip hop hit, and of course, the boots on the table feel of Kenney Chesney.

It is not uncommon for me to break out the six string as the three of us sit on the porch singing our hearts out to anything played in the key of G, and just when we think the little one isn't listening, she comes out with a zinger! It was all I could do to keep it together!

We were walking up the stairs to the driveway on our way to a play date and I hear Senia Mae humming something softly to herself. She's just at the age where she is starting to speak in full sentences, but they don't always make sense and sometimes she adds her own words in as well. Her high pitched voice was cute I listened a little harder trying to make out the melody of what she was singing. It was Kenney Chesney's "No shoes, no shirt, No problem", but instead of the humming the correct lyrics she was singing...no shoes, no pants, no problem! I contained my laughter so I would not embarrass her, but could not stop thinking that her version of the song is what we all secretly wish we could do! If Gram were still around she would have smiled, shaking her head spouting, "From the mouths of Babes..."

Guess Who's Coming To the Reuinion???

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 21:10:19 GMT

We had a fantastic family reunion over the fourth of July weekend. Kim's father's side of the family gathered at the Lake Lanier, between our home and Uncle Terry's, from almost every corner of the country. Some folks hadn't been seen in ten years, some folks just found the family on Facebook after almost a lifetime of searching, some came distances without their daddy, some came distances to reconnect with their daddy and meet their cousins, and some decided to let bygones be bygones, loving us all anyway! The truth of the matter is that family creates connections that cannot be found elsewhere.

When everyone makes an effort to get together, it brings forth memories that last a lifetime, and also making life MATTER. We all gathered for a the most spectacular fireworks display, Sparks at the Park, in Dawsonville, then on Sunday night met up for a complete family reunion at the Mellow Mushroom's upstairs function hall. Terry and Vicki made a very special effort by dragging out the old photo albums and making place settings with age old, some forgotten photographs of all who attended. It was loads of fun travelling around the enormous table, viewing each other's cards while learning little tidbits about each other we may never have known. A piece of paper was laid at each person's seat, intended for writing an unknown and anonymous fact about yourself to be read aloud later. We would have to guess who each fact belonged to. The fun began and comments were made, faces got red, people laughed, and smiles got wider. I didn't realize that Kim had submitted one for the newest and youngest member of the family, Senia Mae, and was totally surprised when Terry read aloud, "Right before I came here I escaped from the tub naked, streaked through the house, peed on the floor, and then slipped in it!" The crowd exploded with laughter as we each looked at each other secretly questioning, "Was that you?" suddenly realizing that it had to be Senia Mae! We were probably all secret streakers, but of course none of us would slip in our own mess! As the night wound down, the last digital images were taken, making this event a visibly permanent part of family history. The vast, motley crew gave hugs goodbye, well wishes, and better promises to keep in touch. I couldn't help but think of the song "Merry Christmas From the Family" by David Earl Keene. If you have never heard it look up the lyrics on Google. Everyone who has a family can relate to at least one of the crazy lyrics such as, "Hallelujah, everybody say cheese, Merry Christmas from the Family". Merry Christmas, Happy Fourth of July, ...whatever it is your celebrating, have a great one.... and we'll see ya' next time!!

As we live the life of ease...

Mon, 27 Jun 2011 21:15:01 GMT

It was pouring down rain when we left the party last night. Kim, Senia Mae, and I had to scramble, trying to keep as dry as possible while getting into the car. We were all loaded up, strapped in, belts on, cargo in place, I turn and look at Kim asking, "You've got the keys, right?" For the record, this is an almost daily conversation we have that continuously follows the same endless pattern of forgetfulness. "No. You had the keys. Remember they were in your pocket?" Kim replied slightly annoyed that we were having this conversation again. "Yeah. You grabbed them out of my pocket as we were crossing the street. I loaded Senia Mae in the back and you packed up the bags." I said with complete certainty. So there we sat, belted up in the car for a couple of minutes, going back and forth over who should have the keys as it continuously rained outside. Obviously someone must have had them we were IN the car. Sitting there dumbfounded, the car suddenly locked itself then unlocked, locked then unlocked, beeped, beeped, locked, and just as it was about to autostart, we both realized exactly who had the keys....Senia Mae!

She must have grabbed them as I was strapping her in...oops! Laughing at our craziness, we headed north out of the city. There was a time when we listened to the original White Album from the Beatles...now replaced by Disney Kids Sing the Beatles....which, when you sit down and think about it, is also a little crazy realizing how life suddenly turns around. Senia Mae has a fit over "Yellow Submarine" and as we listened to it for the seventeenth time in a row I thought, the lyrics are actually create a pretty good mantra. "As we live...the life of ease...every one of us...has all we need...skies of blue...and sea of green...in a yellow....submarine..." And on life goes!

Are you there Gram? It's me, Kara!

Thu, 16 Jun 2011 21:16:05 GMT

There are some days I really wonder if my mother's craziness may actually be true. She is almost absolutely certain that Senia Mae is in fact a reincarnation of my grandmother which, on most days, I think is utter insanity. I usually follow the school of thought that agrees "What harm can it do?" letting her believe what she will and simply moving on with my life. What occurred the other day may indeed be blowing my whole theory out of the water. Months ago my mother was cleaning out some of Gram's belongings, in an attempt to get ready for the "big move" to Georgia. What actually occurs during this process is that she makes piles of Gram's stuff for myself and my sister, so that she doesn't have deal with it all herself. This particular time my pile contained a retro, burnt avocado colored ironing board cover splattered with large bright flowers indicative of that era. It was still sealed in it's original packaging with the intact price tag of $1.69.

When I came across the package I questioned my mother about it, her reply was simply "Well your house is fifties style...I thought it would go nicely!" What this really meant was.."Now you have the guilt if you decide to throw it away", which, of course, I didn't have the heart to, so it got tossed aside in my closet. Senia Mae seems to be very obsessed with the closet itself and anything inside of it's heavenly doors. Now that she is walking she has almost full access to anything she wants as long as I am not looking. The other day she poked her head out of the closet gripping something tightly in her chubby, little hand. As she waddled over she held her hand up showing me the old ironing board cover and her expression was unmistakable, almost as if she was saying to me "Now why would you want to hide this in the closet...I've been holding onto this for years!" I sat there absolutely stunned, as if Gram herself was speaking to me, and thought...could Mom actually be right? :)

Are my thumbs large or are these letters just really small?

Tue, 07 Jun 2011 21:17:37 GMT

I can hardly stop laughing long enough to write this. My friend Amy is just learning how to text. We had been chatting on the phone earlier this morning about a particularly stubborn situation and ended it with "We'll continue later". Completely forgetting about our earlier conversation, I sent her a very darling picture mail of Senia Mae sitting on the porch. Her response was "Just called hoecake and said come now." I read this statement with a puzzled expression, desperately trying to figure out who hoecake may be and why it was such an emergency. Come to find out Amy is just learning to text and her thumbs hit the letters NEXT to the ones she had originally intended...thus the name Jorgene resulting in HOECAKE. I was on the floor laughing, hardly able to take a breath. I mean really....I'm married with children....wouldn't we all want to be a Hoecake once again....if only for a day or two??? :)

Grammy on the Go

Mon, 09 May 2011 21:21:01 GMT

In the age of technology, living far away doesn't mean that you can't be involved with the ins and outs of daily life. We have found this out lately when we are talking to our parents on the phone. Because we have been using Skype, Senia Mae is used to being able to see them as well as hear them. Yesterday I was talking to my mom on the phone while we were outside playing on the deck. Senia Mae had a fit when she grabbed the phone and only saw a still shot of Grammy. This was completely unacceptable and we had to pull the laptop outside to solve the incompatability problem. Of course, Grammy loved this. Today in my office, Senia Mae was a little bit crabby, for she chooses not to nap during work hours. You know how it is...too much going on.

Sometimes it is difficult to work on patients when she is whining and clawing at my leg and just as I was about to give in I thought of a fantastic idea. I pulled out the laptop and connected with Grammy on Skype while Senia Mae relaxed in her stroller. I set up the computer so they could see each other and Grammy started singing the age old bedtime hit "Way down upon a Suwannee River". I don't know why I hadn't thought of it weeks ago...it was a total win win situation...and Grammy only had to sing for about twenty minutes and the little one was a gonner! If anyone else is in need of a Grammy on the go...I'm sure she wouldn't mind me handing out her number!!!! Thanks, Grammy!

That CAN'T be MY kid!!

Sun, 01 May 2011 21:23:36 GMT

Senia Mae is at the stage of almost talking. Because she is a girl, and girls supposedly are more verbal at an early age, the sound escaping her lips is expansive jibberish in high and low tones, ok more high than low, that ends up becoming complete conversations with herself or incomprehensive, frustrated conversations with us. Most of the time I find it absolutely hilarious, until today when I frantically searched for the mute button on the child as I stood in the grocery isle, contemplating how to stop up the foghorn better know as my daughter, whose pitch was about to break the glass on the store shelves. Let me regress. It had been an off day, we were aware that she was not completely herself, and a certain level of crankiness was semi-present, but of tolerable adequacy. The downward spiral began in the car when cookie monster's hard plastic eye bumped into her face as I tossed it playfully at her. Her look said "How could you do this to me?" as her jaw quivered in the calm before the eruptive storm of tears that followed a split second later. Anyone who has been around young children knows this routine, the magnitude is such that the tears take a moment or two to actually rise to the surface. I stifled my laughter as I drowned her with my sincerest apologies, knowing that her reaction was mostly dramatics and tiredness.

After a full day of half finished tasks and what seemed like driving around in circles, Kim and I decided that we needed some "Cheese therapy" and headed to our favorite Mexican restaurant. The outside seating seemed appropriate for our piping little fledgling, since the patio was empty. We thought we could get in and out virtually unscathed, until the group of twelve baseball kids arrived at the table across from us. Our little one could not fathom why all of those kids were not stumbling all over her with affections and she was going to let them know it! She was letting them have it, waving her hands while spouting her thoughts, as they sat with their backs to her digging into their individual bowls of cheese dip. Finally one of the mothers laughed, observing her emotional display, asking the children to turn around and acknowledge the little girl across the way who desperately wanted to be part of the team. They all cooed and smiled, waving at Senia Mae, as she soaked up every last morsel of juvenile attention available. Eventually we broke away from the excitement of the restaurant, deciding to walk over to the neighboring grocery store to pick up a few items. As we entered the baby needs aisle, Kim mentioned that she needed to visit the restroom and would be back in a moment.

During that time Senia Mae and I could breeze down the aisle, grab what we needed and be ready to go when Kim got back. Well this was a new store and there many new options including organics, some with essential oils as well as zinc oxide, a few brands from California which had to be superior because they are just so aware on that side of the country....needless to say I was not as decisive as I could have been and Senia Mae started letting me have it. At first I appeased her by lettting her hold the Burt's Bee's box. That lasted for a total of three seconds as she dropped it, flailing her arms and talking loudly in angry jibberish, enjoying the loud echo that followed her squeals. I tried to hush her as another mother walked by holding her toddler's hand, thankful that her's was much better behaved in a public place, as I thought to myself, "What is taking Kim so long?". We paced the aisle a few more times, grabbing a few toys as we went, my brain completely denying my obvious embarassment as I read ingredient labels, determined to purchase only the best for my firstborn.

After what seemed like fifteen minutes of trying to contain an erupting verbal volcano strapped to the front of my body while repeatedly scanning a very small, specific section of the baby aisle, Kim finally returned from what seemed like the other side of the earth. I looked at her in desperation. "While we are here do you want to pick out a few Mother's Day cards?", she happily asked. I was ready to toss over the kid and hide somewhere in a close by trashbarrel. No, this was not a not a good time to skim over the greeting cards for that perfect little something. Senia Mae's outburst had three mothers leaving the aisle talking under their breath. I was frazzled and somewhat mortified, she was usually an exemplary example of good behavior. After you've been together a while words aren't as necessary to get your point across. Obviously my expression said that I was ready to get the heck out of the store as we quickly headed to the checkout.

Once we got back in the car and drowned out Senia Mae's noises with Justin Bieber, I asked Kim what took her so long. She explained that she had to use the restroom, but it was one of those times that you had to be completely relaxed. The task was hard to accomplish with the sound of that kid's scream resonating all the way behind the closed door of the restroom. "It almost sounded like Senia Mae" she commented. "It was Senia Mae. That's why I was so embarrassed! There was nothing I could do to get her to stop screaming. As you were in there dealing with yourself I examined every ingredient in ALL of the butt pastes. Sounds like you could have used some!" "That's why you were apologizing to the checkout lady", Kim commented with a smile. We drove home in complete hysterics, knowing full well that this episode was just the very beginning of what awaits us during the crazy journey of life called parenthood!

Change is happening... as I see her walking away

Sun, 17 Apr 2011 21:25:56 GMT

This past week the world's oldest man died at the noble age of one hundred and fourteen. During a press conference a few months back he was asked the secret of his longevity. He replied frankly "Being able to accept change." They were wise words from someone who had endured over a century of tremendous industrial, technical, civil, and personal change, taking each step with stride while accepting life's cyclical pattern of continual evolution, renewal, and recycling. With that being the case, I realize the emotional struggle I am inevitably going to wrestle over the next eighteen years. I am generally very open to change after I have a few months to marinate my feelings on the subject. There is no time to follow this schedule with children, for they change quicker than the blink of an eye, and if you are not paying attention, you may even miss it. Senia Mae started walking last week.

We had been busy, immersed in our own pastimes while she scooted around on the floor, as an innate voice told us to pay more attention to her. After sitting on the floor for a moment, I noticed a very different confidence in her gait, quickly deciding to get the video camera in case this was the moment we had all been waiting for. As soon as I turned on the camera, as if she knew this moment should be caught on film, Senia Mae went from a squat to a stand and walked all the way into the living room, like there was absolutely nothing to it. We hollered, clapped, and roared with delight as she trotted around the house with pride, completely enjoying the praise. I can honestly say that two minute time slot was one of the proudest moments of my life. My heart was so full, brimming with emotions so much more than love alone, I wanted to shout the exciting news from the rooftop, so that everyone could share the joy of this baby turning into a toddler. It was then that I realized that there was no turning back from this point, the days of holding onto my baby were over.

Although this week has been truly amazing, for it is absolutely awesome watching her blossom into her own little person, proud as a peacock as she struts around showing off her new found freedom, the feeling itself is bittersweet. There is some sadness surrounding the finality of her no longer being completely dependent on me. It is difficult to put into words, but there is a certain primal energy that miraculously appears with the birth of a child, fragments of your heart, soul, and infrastructure that you were completely unaware even existed. A sense of completeness permeated my being, knowing that her complete survival was dependent on my thoughts, actions, and nurturing ability. Of course she still needs me, but its intensity is changing, which, I must admit, is equally as cool. This morning as the three of us snuggled under the covers, I held onto her a little closer, savoring the blessings in my life. For even though she's catapulted herself gracefully into toddler hood, she's always going to be my baby.

What things go together!

Tue, 12 Apr 2011 21:27:50 GMT

My nephew, Austin, is at the tender age of three and a half; a time in his life when he is intuitively figuring out what things go together: peanut butter and jelly, toothbrush and toothpaste, mommy and daddy, cereal and milk, Aunt Kara and Aunt Kim. While he was visiting our home last month, we noticed something very strange involving how the photos and magnets were arranged on the front of the refrigerator.

There has always been a photograph of Kim posing with her brother Joey at the family reunion a few years ago. Austin has never met him because he is on the other side of the family. Apparently when he saw a picture of Aunt Kim with a man...he knew the match was NOT right...Aunt Kim goes with Aunt Kara.

His solution was to stick a magnet over Joey's side of the picture. At first we thought it was just random and removed the magnet, but it happened three or four more times! We laughed and laughed when we realized what he was doing...he was protecting our relationship! Aunt Kim goes with Aunt Kara..that's right Austin! All of my fears about how to explain situations to kids went completely out the window...he gets it...it's the adults that have the issues with it! What a hoot!

I'm finding that my own wisdom IS BabyWise

Sat, 09 Apr 2011 21:29:49 GMT

One of the most significant parenting lessons I have learned surrounds the age old saying "Fake it until you make it". I have found that method to be successful in all areas of life. Parenting takes up a lot of your time, seriously, I wonder why we weren't yachting through Europe for the last five years, for we had all of the time and money in the world (compared to now at least LOL)! But alas, LIFE happens while you are trying to catch up and get it together, hence the statement of faking it. I have joined this fantastic Mom's group in my town. The group has get togethers a few times a month and includes busy, working Moms that also want to have socially integrated, balanced, happy children. Perfect. When I found out the details it worked for me because I didn't really have time for coffee and gossip, but still wanted to make time to ensure that my child is thriving, as well as being able to pick other brains about specific parenting issues. We met Thursday morning at a petting zoo and all of the kids were thrilled, running around with brushes petting the sheep, ponies, donkeys, and random chickens that blazed through the barnyard. Senia Mae is not actually walking yet, so I had her in the front facing Snugli carrier, which happens to be her favorite place close to me, so it almost guarantees that she will just chill out, having a good time without any extra ruckus. After a hayride, we got dropped off at picnic tables for a quick lunch. Unfortunately there were some very hungry chickens that jumped on the table, plucking a succulent piece of sandwich out of a particularly sensitive toddler's hands, resulting in a complete meltdown.

Her mom soothed her, but to no avail; she was upset and was not going to rest until those chickens got theirs. The chaos died down eventually, after the farmer supplied us with some squirt bottles to swat away the aggressive chickens, but you could tell this mom was still a little embarrassed at her child's over-reaction to a what should have been a fairly mild situation. By this time I had Senia Mae standing on the grass, holding on to the front of her stroller, playing with the straps. She was giggling away and appeared to be in hog's heaven. You know, whatever works, if the kid is happy I'm going to let her be. The mom came up to me commenting on how "well adjusted" Senia Mae appears to be, asking if I follow the suggestions of the book BabyWise. I let out a deep laugh stating that I would love to follow that protocol and am hoping the information is being transferred via osmosis, for all of my best parenting books have been left to collect dust on the dresser, sitting there ready for whenever I have a spare moment to learn a few "tools of the trade"! I did and still do have the best intentions, being able to accept the fact that my parenting skills are mostly coming from instinct and what I feel is right. I don't know if I just have a great kid, or she just has very cool parents, or maybe she's just too young to have got to the troublesome age yet...but for now things are going fine....naturally. Of course a chiropractor's kid is going to be WELL adjusted...it's just what we do!

THEY were right - it IS different when it's your own kid!

Fri, 08 Apr 2011 21:35:29 GMT

Anyone who really knows me is acutely aware that I am the biggest vomit phobe on the planet, so extremely phobic that most of my life I wouldn't have even considered getting pregnant due to the remote possibility that it might be accompanied by morning sickness. Crazy, yes, I know. I never said that I don't have issues. There is a certain critical parental role that has played over and over in my head, like a lost Brady Bunch re-run, because the time would eventually come, leaving me to wonder if I was going to be able to pull through during my child's moment of need. Would I be able to see beyond the barf and actually be a supportive, nurturing parent or would I flee the scene praying that everything would turn out o.k?

They always say, "Don't worry....it's different when it's your kid." I never believed them, thinking of how I would explain my lack of compassion when Senia Mae was old enough to confront me about it, for in the back of my mind I really did not know if I would pass that unbelievable test of strength. Well today was the day. We were driving around a curvy road and the car slowly began to smell of gastric juices. Thinking nothing of it I kept driving until I heard these strange gurgling sounds followed by the most pitiful, scared cries I have ever heard. I immediately KNEW what was going on. I had imagined that my reaction in this situation would be complete panic followed by meltdown (me, not the kid)in which during time the child would get lost somewhere on the side of the road. I know, awful parenting.

Well that is NOT what happened!!!! I pulled the car over, got her out of her seat, changed her clothes, wiped her down while soothing her and everything was FINE. I made it, she made it. Yes, we were a little smelly, but I am a good parent!!! All of that worrying for nothing. When it's your own child your protective instinct kicks in and you don't even realize that you are delving in a pile of warm, juicy vomit! Like I said, I never claimed to NOT have issues

Little Miracles

Tue, 05 Apr 2011 21:37:26 GMT

Spring has sprung in Georgia, which means dust, pollen, and allergens are blossoming in every crack and crevice available to any loose particle. It was quickly becoming a hectic morning...you know how it is...trying to get one last thing done before leaving for work. This particular morning we decided to wash the dust ruffle under the mattress to remove any unwanted "extras". We both were hefting the massive pallet in an upright position toward the ceiling, grunting as we tried to avoid an accidental crash landing on the baby who thought the whole scene was absolutely fascinating. Her little angel's face said it all. "What's under there?" was the question her expression translated, even though she is still unable to actually speak in formulated words.

Just then Kim commented, "What is that wooden spoon doing between the mattresses?" I smiled remembering the old Italian wives tale that had said a wooden spoon under the mattress would make a little girl, I had secretly placed it there when we were trying to get pregnant and completely forgotten about it. Now our little girl was observing and enjoying our re-discovery of the "little miracle" that happened when we weren't even paying attention! Who ever said don't believe everything you hear?

First birthday, first BLOWOUT!

Sun, 13 Feb 2011 22:40:38 GMT

Anyone who is not yet a parent probably does not completely understand the undertone of this particular title. I know I certainly could not have comprehended it's embarrassingly intense magnitude just a little over a year ago. Here's how it all went down. We had just celebrated Senia Mae's first birthday with handfuls of our family and friends at our side. Hats, balloons, cake, and the color pink exploded everywhere - it was fantastic - and Senia Mae had a ball being handed off to all of her adoring fans. We got so caught up in the moment that we forgot to take a cousins photo with my sister's two boys. This morning we rose, ate breakfast, and got re-dressed for the un-birthday photo. Senia Mae was looking like a doll in her new denim miniskirt, silver metallic leggings, and long sleeved rock n' roll pullover, topped with ringlet pigtails.

The family gathered in the living room while Momma worked with the tripod, setting up the angle, dimensions, and lighting perfectly. We all took our places, squeezing in closely as Momma set the red blinking light, hurriedly running to her place at the rear of the family lineup. That's when my Mom heard the sound. "I heard like a rumble" she said, "but thought nothing of it." Famous last words.

The first photo needed to be retaken due to a conflict of poses. During the quick break I instructed my mother to readjust her positioning of Senia Mae, requesting that she face her forward in order to show off her adorable ensemble. I reached behind my daughter, helping my mother rotate her on her forearm. My hand plunged into something warm, soft, and fluffy. Pulling my hand back quickly I stared at my fingers, covered with this yellow-brown substance, in shock, confused about just how one of the cats could have thrown up all down Senia Mae's back without any of us knowing.

After another few moments, with laughter shaking the walls of the living room, I realized that no cat had thrown up on my daughter, she had just given us her first blowout, meaning the explosion is so intense that it blows right out of the diaper, and this warm, fluffy substance all over my hands was indeed POOP! It had come up the back of her diaper, all over my hand, all over my mother's red sweater, up the back of her shirt, and was currently dripping down my mom's elbow. That perfect, petite little package of cuteness secretly exploded with a silent "rumble" and looked away as the damage was uncovered. Here's how the photo ended up. Enjoy!

How I remember Christmas Trees

Thu, 16 Dec 2010 23:42:13 GMT

I was born in the early seventies, just a touch after the fifties and sixties when everything was magnificently electrified, while the common thread was the gaudier the better. You remember...gold....flashing...shiny. That is how I remember Christmas trees; flashing colored lights with huge bulbs and the tinsel....oh how I love tinsel. Part of me never understood why my mother switched from wanting a regular tree to suddenly being swept up with Victorian trees, sporting white lights and lace bows. Everyone knew that's NOT what Christmas was about...it's clearly about tinsel.

And now, ladies and gentlemen.......

Tue, 30 Nov 2010 23:59:01 GMT

I was driving down the road today in cold, gray, wet, and dreary weather. Tornado warnings, pouring rain, sinus headache, it wasn't starting out well. Normally this would be enough to set the dismal mood for the day until I turned around to see Senia Mae smiling away while slurping on her passie, pleased as all get out to be forward facing in her new "big girl" car seat. She sat there looking very similar to Ralphie in "The Christmas Story" wearing her puffy, pink outersuit, shoved into the safety restraints, that gave her the appearance of a very happy exploding marshmallow. I laughed out loud and she laughed with me, knowing that if something funny was happening she sure didn't want to miss it, and I decided to redirect my lack of enthusiasm and enjoy the day by listening to Christmas music in the car with my new daughter. The Judd's version of Winter Wonderland played softly in the background as I thought of how Gram would have appreciated the humor of this day, as well as the music, and how not a single day goes by that I don't think of her or how she would have handled the ins and outs of my daily life. Hearing the music made me think of how proud she was when my three year old little sister opted to sing "Silver Bells" rather than "Jingle Bells" at her preschool Christmas program. You would have thought we had our own version of Pavaratti, (Kristy, I'm not saying you were not good but...) Gram would put on her mock voice of the announcer of Radio City Music Hall and spout off "And now, ladies and gentlemen, Kristy Zajac will sing Silver Bells....." with so much pride in her eyes and love in her heart. Her girls were the very best singers!

I'm really getting organized this time!

Sun, 14 Nov 2010 00:06:56 GMT

What ever did I do with all of my time beforehand? Before kids, that is! The novel is still a work in progress...the progress has been a little slower than I anticipated...but my life is a little bit more hectic than anticipated. Senia Mae is now crawling, laughing, and almost walking and time seems to slip away before I even realize that a moment has passed. Parenthood is completely awesome and I would highly suggest it to anyone who at anytime has contemplated, "Is my life worth sharing?" My answer is a big "YES", because there is no better gift you can give back to the world than creating a well balanced, loving little person who will carry on where you leave off. It is truly amazing to think....my body made that whole little person!!! Thank you for hanging in there with me!

From Pg 213 The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 21:42:13 GMT

In that moment I had a deeper understanding of what was meant when it was said that life is ever changing. Nothing alive stays the same, it is impossible because there is a beginning, middle, and an end. Weaving throughout those stages we grow and thrive, learn and surrender, teach and praise, and eventually shrivel and waste away, completing the cycle so that it can be passed on to future generations. We are taken care of and then become the care taker, returning the favor with love and admiration, as we accept our limitations and move forward in faith, knowing that our path has been presented. Holding on forever doesn’t necessarily mean you love more and coming to terms with letting go doesn’t mean that your love was or is any less. It just is. Love is love in any stage of the cycle. Change is merely inevitable.

Losing sleep

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 23:04:26 GMT

Last night was, by far, the toughest night of my life. Like nothing I had ever imagined, my heart ached so deeply as my left eye just slightly opened about every five minutes to check....yes...the baby monitor! We placed Senia Mae in her own room for the first full night and I thought I was absolutely going to die! As if birth wasn't hard enough, that little person being so much farther away then my womb, then having her in the bassinet feeling similar to reaching down a mile stretch of road, and now this??? I just don't know that I can handle any more separation! The worst part, she didn't even notice, which by most opinions would be a very good , healthy sign. To me was the beginning of the rest of my life's many heartbreaks of motherhood. And I was one of those people who secretly made fun of women who got so completely consumed in their children! It is a mean, cruel world!!

Back in Time

Thu, 13 May 2010 23:10:22 GMT

Senia Mae was born on February 10th, 2010 and as you can see from the three month gap in my post, I'm just starting to get it together. Indeed, life will never be the same. I realize that this life is not all mine anymore and I am slowly learning how to balance its many different avenues. But, alas, it feels great to be back to being just plain old me, thanks for hanging on!

Prego on the Go

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 00:17:34 GMT

It's gotten to the point now where my patients, even though it is said with love, address me "You're still here?" on a daily basis. I was certain that I would already be on maternity leave and have discovered that telling a first time mother that she is ONE centimeter dilated is as mean and cruel as telling a child that Santa skipped over their house. Thank God I'm still working, it's the only activity that allows me to actually think about something else and not obsess about my over-ripening bundle that is not too eager to enter the New World! I've heard a thousand times in the last week, enjoy the last of your alone time, and while I am totally convinced that this IS true, I can't possibly enjoy this time because I have turned into a crazed, phsychotic, hormonal lunatic who feels like Prissy just sitting on the egg. Certainly you remember her, she was the skinny, nerdy chicken in Foghorn Leghorn's roost that all of the other hens made fun of because she couldn't produce! I have now decided that I am going to become Prego on the Go, a task oriented severely pregnant woman who completes tasks without obsessing about uncontrollable circumstance! If you have any tasks for Prego on the Go, please let her know, I don't want to say we are desperate....but we could be!

Am I a porsche or a VW Beetle?

Sat, 06 Feb 2010 00:15:46 GMT

Yesterday at the ob/gyn they explained that my dilation process can go two ways - and to them either is fine, you can either be a Porsche and get there fast or you can be a VW Beetle and get there at a slow steady rate. I think it is very apparent that I am not the Porsche, and the million calls we keep receiving saying "No baby?" - we have not forgotten announce the birth it just has not happened yet!! :) The good news is that they told me at the office yesterday that they had never heard of a baby staying in utero permanently. I'm sure I'll sleep better now!

Ready, Aim...ok, Ready, Aim...No, Really,I'm Ready

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 00:20:15 GMT

Even though I advise people on a daily basis that the body has it's own time frame and healing does come from the inside out, this can't possibly apply to me! This baby is supposed to be here by now! By the way I am as big as a house, waddling with every step, and can hardly sit due to the enormous watermelon that is sitting on my pelvis, and while I am saying these things out loud, I hope that I am not giving my unborn child some kind of complex that will require therapy later, I really am excited and ready to meet the new addition to the family! Please, just come on! I have tried everything from Evening primrose oil, to spicy foods, eggplant Parmesan, herbal teas of Organic raspberry leaf, and yes, even nipple stimulation. If anyone knows anything that I have possibly missed that might help induce this labor (except Castor oil, please) let me know I am willing to give anything a shot!

When "We" Were Kids

Sat, 30 Jan 2010 00:22:22 GMT

In later years, when I had grown up, Gram would get that loving twinkle in her eyes, commenting on how much fun we had when "we" were kids. The funny thing was that she indeed felt as if she were one of us, somehow keeping alive her childish spirit. This was actually one of the most charming things about her because this type of spirit does not have the barriers and exclusions that adults somehow inherit when they cross over that line. She was never confined to that mature box labeled: must act, must have, must do. There were always endless possibilities, solving what seemed to be the largest obstacles in life. I don't know that I can ever remember her saying the words no, I can't, or I won't. In my adult life I struggle from time to time with those phrases, becoming engulfed in the negativity of the outside world. If I listen long enough, I can hear her voice whispering in my ear and it reminds me that your own will can carry you as far and as high as you'll ever want to go. Exerpt taken from: The Significance of Having Curly Hair; A Loving Memoir of the Life and Loss of My Grandmother by Kara L. Zajac

One of my favorite photos of Gram

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 00:24:09 GMT

This is one of my favorite photos of Gram, taken in the car with her 90th birthday balloons on October 11Th, 2003. The family threw a surprise party in which many of our Quincy relatives attended. I always found it unfortunate that Gram didn't connect more closely with her own brothers and sisters, even though they lived no more than thirty minutes south of Tewksbury. Although one of her major personality traits was to stay a little below the radar at all times, she really enjoyed being the center of attention when it was her time!

Waiting, waiting, waiting

Mon, 25 Jan 2010 00:26:01 GMT

The baby is on its way. It could be in five minutes or five days and I can not believe the emotional rollercoaster that is happening to me as I judge every movement, every pressure, every possible inkiling that this might be it! But, alas, the last 72 hours it has NOT been it and I can't seem to think about anything else. I guess this is normal anxiety/anticipation. Is it time to start counting, no just more waiting. Is that a real one or just another faker.....this may just be my first real taste of what parenting is all about!

Is it time yet?

Wed, 20 Jan 2010 00:30:58 GMT

Many of you may or may not know that I am desperately trying to get this manuscript completed before the arrival of the baby, which now, at 37 weeks, could be anytime. All of you that are already parents have given me fair warning that free time after children becomes a thing of the past! Ok, so I'll just type faster! Whenever I get to a deep emotional section of the book, usually when I am crying, the baby kicks and moves, letting me feel its presence (I say its because the gender is going to be a surprise, but if it's a girl, it will be named Senia after Gram). I wonder if there is part of her growing inside of me, and of course, I hope there is. Her death was the reason we decided to get pregnant in the first place. Lately I've put plenty of thought into exactly when a spirit enters the body. Is it at conception? Or at birth? And does birth gender really matter if your spirit has been here before? I'd love any feedback if anyone has an opinion on this. Whatever it is, it's pretty amazing to feel that connection already; the mixture of new life, old life, and whatever life is left in the middle!

Dad's birthday

Mon, 18 Jan 2010 00:32:25 GMT

This photo shows happy times in our old house on California Road. Gram is onlooking from the left, as I help Dad blow out his birthday candles, circa 1976.

Getting started!

Sun, 17 Jan 2010 00:36:29 GMT

I initially thought this book was going to be about loss and grieving, which it is, somewhat, for it takes place during the five days my family gathered together during Gram's funeral services. During the writing process, I have laughed so hard that I almost fell off of my chair, cried at the wonderful memories, and tried to honor her life in a way that she would appreciate. I will post little excerpts from the manuscript and you can tell me what you think! Enjoy!

Curly Hair

Sun, 17 Jan 2010 00:34:32 GMT

Many times I wondered if my father represented the type of man she had wished her husband had been, a true family man, a good, supportive husband, a loving father, funny, dependable, and most importantly, the one trait with outweighed precedence over all others, more significant than fine china, all of the money in the world, or striking it rich with black gold, he had curly hair. Not a day passed that Gram didn't gripe or complain about the condition of her own hair; how it was too thin, too flat, too fine, and too straight. In her day having curly hair was not only the current trend, but absolutely every woman seemed to wear it that way, be it forced with pin curls, hot rollers, or a permanent wave, if you weren't one of the blessed few having it occur naturally. And how she admired those blessed with the waves. Gram exerted a life-long, tremendous effort trying to get her hair to stay curly. It would curl easily enough, but even the slightest mixture of wind, rain, or humidity would make her waves fall right out, leaving her disgruntled as she tramped away with her limp, unraveled strands. If we ever had an outside engagement, she immediately became an atmospheric conditions monitor inside and outside of the car, making sure that the windows were opened no more than a crack, to insure the safety and survival of her coiffure. It was one of the few natural defnses she held over the living horrors of having her type of hair.

The issue was so significant that for years she mercilessly contemplated how to change the DNA of her offspring, so they would not be burdened with her self-proclaimed albatross. The answer was clear: marry a man with curly hair, to insure that her children would be blessed with the same. Much to her chagrin, all four of her girls ended up with stick straight hair, and the same nearly manic obsession of wanting what you will never naturally have. Apparently, in our family, curly hair is a recessive gene. Kristy and I ended up with the family treasure, but not until our early twenties. Most of our childhood it was just thick and wavy, which was still, in Gram's mind, better than what she could ever dream of, making sure we appreciated God's precious gift to us. I would later tease her about choosing a life partner based on that specific criteria. Shouldn't hair texture be at least fourth or fifth on the list of must haves? But what did I know about love anyway? taken from page 44: The Significance of Having Curly Hair; A Loving Memoir of the Life and Loss of My Grandmother

Wednesday, April 30

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 00:28:46 GMT

I knew the message would come one day, in a call, because I wasn't around to receive it firsthand, I dreaded it, although I knew it was somewhat inevitable, and tried to slowly prepare myself over the last couple of years for what was going to have to become my truth at some time. Yes, she was aging; the stroke the previous year had definitely left its mark. Her proprioception was not the same, balance had become a major issue, but still she seemed like she'd be around forever. We could just catch her when she fell. The short-term memory loss was more cute than a sign of life slipping away. All of our recent history got shifted to a lobe that could no longer be accessed. It's not that it wasn't there; it was just no longer accessible, which was fine, because we got to know the part of Gram that was her without us, before us, when she was all her; not a wife, not a mother, not a grandmother, just Senia. Hearing stories of her childhood in Quincy, swimming in the rock quarry, jumping over fire hydrants with her brother, became a monumental record, except that at times the record would play three times in five minutes. That was the cute part, and although she was aging both physically and mentally, at 94 she still looked young and seemed like she would be around forever. taken from page 2: The Significance of Having Curly Hair; A Loving Memoir of the Life and Loss of My Grandmother

An Excerpt from The Significance of Curly Hair: A Loving Memoir of Life and Loss

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 22:40:02 GMT

If we ever had an outside engagement, she immediately became an atmospheric conditions monitor inside and outside of the car, making sure that the windows were opened no more than a crack, to insure the safety and survival of her coiffure. It was one of the few natural defnses she held over the living horrors of having her type of hair. The issue was so significant that for years she mercilessly contemplated how to change the DNA of her offspring, so they would not be burdened with her self-proclaimed albatross. The answer was clear: marry a man with curly hair, to insure that her children would be blessed with the same. Much to her chagrin, all four of her girls ended up with stick straight hair, and the same nearly manic obsession of wanting what you will never naturally have. Apparently, in our family, curly hair is a recessive gene. Kristy and I ended up with the family treasure, but not until our early twenties.

Most of our childhood it was just thick and wavy, which was still, in Gram's mind, better than what she could ever dream of, making sure we appreciated God's precious gift to us. I would later tease her about choosing a life partner based on that specific criteria. Shouldn't hair texture be at least fourth or fifth on the list of must haves? But what did I know about love anyway? taken from page 44: The Significance of Having Curly Hair; A Loving Memoir of the Life and Loss of My Grandmother