Category Archives: Everyday Life

I Admit It: Sometimes I’m Wrong

My daughter has a finicky palate, downright picky if you want to know the truth. Oh, she covers all the food groups, but each meal sits in plain, depressing piles on her plate. In my gut I know things will eventually be all right. I also know our battles are just that, battles.

Left free to graze in the open spaces of someone else’s pantry, she’s a bit less stubborn. I’ve stolen glances from the corner of my eye as she nibbled a hard-boiled egg at a Brownie troop meeting. “Are they eating hard-boiled eggs?” I asked another mom in bewilderment. I swore my eyes deceived me. Another time she held sushi to her lips while I waited for pigs with wings to burst into the room and buzz around our heads.

If you ask my opinion about my daughter’s menu selections, I will often tell you, “She won’t eat that” because I know she’ll scrunch up her nose, supersize her frown, and turn her head in disgust like a disapproving toddler. But I’ll tell you to try her anyway, just in case. Sometimes, though rarely, I’m flabbergasted when my daughter eats a plateful of rice at a friend’s house just because she wanted to have dinner there.

Sometimes I only think I know my kids.

I’ve dreaded soccer games because I didn’t want to see my kid skipping and hopping all over the field only to be surprised with a goal. I’ve skimmed math homework and felt my stomach sink with the weight of a concrete pill only to have my daughter’s mental math work five times more quickly than my own. I’ve taken chances on clothes for my kids that I didn’t think they’d wear once I cut the tags off. Now I can’t get those same clothes off them long enough for a spin in the wash.

Sometimes it feels good to be wrong.

My son wanted to try out for Elementary Battle of the Books this year. The team reads twelve assigned books and then competes in a Jeopardy-like competition against other schools. When he expressed his interest, I was doubtful and, to be honest, not very supportive. He likes to pick his own fantasy-based books. Some of the books on this list deal with real-life issues, not wizards and hobbits. Some of the main characters are girls for Pete’s sake. And he struggles with reading comprehension. Against the group of kids competing for a team spot, I wasn’t sure he could do it.

Book after book, my son fussed and complained. He didn’t like it. It was boring after the first chapter. “Give it time,” I said. “You have to get into the story.” The next thing I knew, he couldn’t put the book down and he proclaimed it the best book ever, even some with girls as the stars.

My son talked about quitting, but after reading five books he had dedicated so much time. He couldn’t walk away. He wanted to see whether he made the team. I was proud of him for making the effort. I saw such transformation: He went from a boy who would only read fantasy to a boy who could appreciate a good story, who no longer judged a book by its cover.

He made the team.

Just when I think I know my kids, they prove how much they change and grow every day. So being wrong sometimes feels like a victory. And it feels good to admit it.

summer reading

Some of my son’s summer reading selections. Will a battle of the books change that?

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Anatomy Lessons While Driving

Sometimes the car is not the place for an anatomy lesson. Sure, if you’re 16 and in love, maybe it’s the place where you learn what getting to second base is all about. But if you’re a mom, anatomy lessons while driving can be dangerous.

Questions don’t quite jar me like they used to. I’ve learned to expect anything from my kids on the open road, or on the ten-minute trek home from school. Either one. Oh, my kids have thrown some doozies at me just as I was trying to maneuver a busy intersection with the stealth skill of a Frogger champ. They somehow break through that tough barrier of concentration. It’s like someone’s in the backseat yelling, “Hey, driver, driver! Hey, driver, driver, hey!” I try to block them out, but those pesky kids are determined to chip through my focus. An innocent question hangs over my head and I hem and haw and brake and steer and hyperventilate all at once while my mind screams, “Get me out of this tiny box with these kids!” and “How come they never ask my husband these things on the way to school?”

Through the years, my kids have found the stained gray velour seats of our van a safe haven for asking the tough questions, a therapy bench if you will. I’m convinced it’s the no eye contact thing. That or the questions have been brewing in their minds at school all day, and their brains finally explode like steam from a kettle as soon as they get me alone.

“But what I don’t get is, how does the baby get in there?”

“Where does the baby come out of?”

“Parker told me on the playground that his mom is Santa. Is that true?”

“Mom, is s-e-x-y a bad word?”

And recently my kids were talking about crotches, which led to this: “What I want to know is what a girl’s private parts are called.”

Now I know I’ve mentioned that to them before, but I told them again to a response of giggles. And then a song about it. And then “a va-what?”

Just once I’d like for my husband to get those questions and I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he squirms and tells them the answer—and then I’d like to sing a song about it. Because I think I am finally over the discomfort and the hemming and hawing and the surprises from the backseat.

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After 15 Years, He Still Likes Me

At 22, I arrived at my first job fresh out of college with a degree, cheap clothes, big dreams, and little else. Happy to have work as a feature writer at a small daily newspaper, I settled into what I thought real-world living was. I found my own apartment in a dingy area of town, made my own meals, paid my bills, and still had a taste for fun and freedom. I figured if I got married, I’d be 30.

The serious dark-haired reporter who covered the cops and courts beat changed that. His deep voice carried across the newsroom. He didn’t have time to goof off. He was always on deadline or rushing to crime scenes or court.

Four months after I started my job, we were engaged. We had become fast friends. It wasn’t a storybook romance. It was more like we saw each other at a party from across the room and thought, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you all my life. Let’s get out of here.”

We just knew. It wasn’t that I couldn’t imagine the rest of my life without him; it was that I could only imagine the rest of my life with him.

Fifteen years later, here we are, a boring couple with two kids living in the suburbs. He works. I stay home. We live the American dream. We’ve had little drama. Frankly, I think it’s a good life. We laugh, we wrestle, we get on each other’s nerves, we ignore each other, we taunt each other, we get each other.

For fifteen winters he has put up with two pairs of socks on my feet, ugly flannel pajamas, and a sticky plastic strip across my stuffy nose to help me breathe. Nostrils flared, I look like a proud pig coming to bed but he doesn’t say anything, though he does roll the other way.

He puts up with the used tissues I leave all over the house year-round and the fact that I make him clean the unidentifiable objects from the back of the fridge. I suffer with the fact that he refuses to throw certain clothing away when it is so riddled with holes a moth wouldn’t touch it. I made a pact with him early in our marriage that I would never throw his things out without asking. And I don’t. I did not, however, say I wouldn’t nag about those items—or his box collection in the garage.

We’ve been through times when I wondered if we’d ever be the same happy couple again. Nights when our young son wouldn’t sleep, my word, there were hundreds of nights. But somehow when the sun came up, we always saw things differently.

When you’re young and stupid and you’re mumbling those wedding vows in utter fear, you know you mean them, but after fifteen years you understand them with all your heart. The honeymoon ended long ago, awkwardness replaced with being too comfortable in human skin. If something itches, you scratch it. My husband has held my hair for me while I puked, put ice packs on my head to ease migraines. He’s helped me through stomach disorders that I never wanted him to witness. He probably saw things during childbirth that I don’t want to know about.

That’s when you know you’ve got it good. Between all of that and those sticky nose strips, he loves me anyway.

We’ve been married fifteen years this month and he’s still that young reporter who invited me to his house to do my laundry and cook dinner for me sixteen years ago. And he still does my laundry and cooks dinner for me.

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When Dining Out Becomes a Workout

We often dine out one weekend night with the kids. With four of us, it’s difficult to find the one restaurant that makes all of us happy. You would think we would learn our lesson….

Where do y’all want to eat tonight?

Pizza!

How about Mexican?

Blah, I hate Mexican.

I don’t really want Mexican.

We just had pizza Wednesday.

So?

We could go to Elizabeth’s.

No, we always eat there.

What about Mellow Mushroom?

I don’t like their pizza.

It’s pizza. What don’t you like about it?

It’s too saucy.

What about the deli?

No, Daddy won’t eat there.

Mimi’s?

We ate there last weekend.

Pastabilities? They have macaroni and cheese.

It’s too cheesy.

There’s no such thing.

Well, if we can’t agree on anything, let’s just eat at home.

Ugh, you are so picky! You ruin everything!

Fine! I’ll go to Mexican.

I don’t want a taco!

Well, neither of you wants Mexican. Don’t yell at her for being picky if you are being picky too.

Let’s just eat at home.

(Tears. Kids run away. Sigh.)

(Quiet.)

What do you want to do?

We could go someplace new.

Where?

I don’t know.

(Quiet.)

How about Mario’s Pizza? Everyone likes that.

We can see what the kids say.

If everyone agrees on Mario’s, we can go out.

Yay!

(Everyone smiles and gets into the car.)

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Teaching My Kids the Value of a Thank-You Note

I’m a modern gal but sometimes I find certain parenting principles a bit overrated. For instance, I cringe when other people’s kids call me Mrs. Grossman. I get that they need to learn manners and respect and all that, but I feel like I’m missing my strand of pearls and bouffant hairdo.

I am still old-fashioned when it comes to some values, and my kids are the ones cringing when they hear the words, “You need to write your thank-you notes.”

Though we’ve embraced the electronic age in this house, a quick thank-you email just won’t do, even though the kids always ask. Schools may be leaning away from cursive, and maybe away from handwriting in my kids’ future, but I think my kids should know the value of a handwritten note sent through the post. They experience the thought put into a letter that was held by their grandmother, written in her unique penmanship on a card she picked out just for them to make them smile. She told them about her hermit crab or about the wildlife in her backyard. She took a minute to connect. She tucked in a swatch of fabric to show what the new doll bedspread will look like or maybe a few dollars to spend. My kids know this joy because someone put the time in to do it for them. Why shouldn’t they return the thoughtfulness? Not all of that can be done through an email.

When my kids sit at the table to write a thank-you note, they get out their colored pens and make every word a rainbow or they draw a picture of a roller coaster they rode together over the summer. Handwritten notes come from the heart. They’re personalized and sometimes a little too honest. They can be kept forever, the handwriting a testament to a child’s age at the time.thank-you notes

Reading what my kids write in them can definitely be a laughing matter. When my son received a dictionary from his grandparents for Christmas, his thank-you note stated, “Thank you for the dictionary. It makes a good ramp for my Matchbox cars.”

My daughter recently had a birthday. Seven seems so grown-up. I realized just how much when I read my daughter’s note. “Thank you for the gel pens. They work just perfectly.” To the giver of two Lego sets she wrote, “I put both sets together and they both look great.”

The giver doesn’t need to know that my kid stomped around for an hour in a sour mood before sitting down and letting that syrupy sweet prose flow from her pen. Givers don’t need to know that I eventually hound my kids for days to write their thank-yous and make idle threats in extreme cases. It’s like lighting a fire to damp wood, not impossible if you know what you’re doing.

The fact is, my kids learn by example. They try to write something meaningful by imitating the thoughts they’ve received in notes. It may come off as cute and a bit amusing now, but down the road I know my kids’ writing skills will be more heartfelt, spot-on, and exactly what the recipient wants to hear: that my kids appreciated being thought of. I know my kids are learning. They say their thank-yous in person to me. No fumbling, no fuss, just straight from the heart.

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Reasons I’m Glad Summer Is Ending

We had a great summer. Carefree days with endless possibilities ended up filled with trips to the beach and Hersheypark, dozens of books, swimming, a seventeen-mile bike ride, and lots of great food and friends. But every good thing has to come to an end. For every wonderful part about summer, plenty of frustrations kept me on edge.

1. I have to say I am ready to pack away my swimsuit and let my gut do its thing. I’ve been tired of sucking it in all summer. Now that Labor Day has passed and pools are closed, it’s time to hang loose.

2. I’m ready to not have to be so consistent with my shaving, so things might get a little hairy. Don’t worry. I don’t let it get out of control to the point that my husband thinks he’s married to a yeti.

3. Bugs will die soon. They will not die soon enough as far as I’m concerned. Mosquito bites in out-of-reach or forbidden places can be unbearable. One can only resist the urge to scratch an unfortunate boob bite for so long while standing in line at the grocery store. As I tell my kids, once you give in, you can’t stop the scratching. Really, it scares away the customers.

4. What’s the point of showering every day to then walk out the door and immediately sweat, stink up your entire self, and become stickier than a bug trap strip? During summer, you’re clean for a daily total of about five minutes.

5. My son lost his goggles this summer. He borrowed my daughter’s because she never wears them. Guess who decided she suddenly wants to wear goggles? Guess who has a second pair of perfectly fine goggles, which are pink but supposedly too tight? The kids have fussed over that one pair of goggles all summer. I am over goggles.

swim goggles

Dad caved and bought new goggles. He is a nice daddy. I am a mean mommy.

6. Humidity gives me migraines. It’s humid a lot in the south.

7. Humidity makes my hair poof up to about four times its normal size, a giant mass of frizz. I’ll be glad to regain some control over this eighth Wonder of the World.

8. I will not miss having to load up snacks, a pool bag, and the car. I won’t miss chasing the kids as I slather sunscreen on them, telling them I’m not finished yet, and still trying to rub goo all over their faces as they inch away from me and turn their heads in fifty directions. I won’t miss finally jumping into the pool only to see a black cloud close in and hear, “Thunder! Everyone out of the pool!”

Now I can settle back, look forward to cooler fall weather, and listen to my husband sing every week, “Are you ready for some FOOTBALL?” Only seventeen-plus more weeks of that, but who’s counting?

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The Tough Job of Being an Olympics Spectator

I find it ironic that I sit in front of the TV every night for hours, much longer than normal, indulging in a fattening treat and watching athletes give it their best. As I veg, muscular swimmers propel lean bodies through a pool ten times the length I have the energy to cross. As I stuff my face with evening snacks, flexible gymnasts contort themselves in more ways on a balance beam than I can getting comfortable in my corner of the cushy couch. Just seeing the fluid pace of the rowers makes my thighs ache. They deserve a good rubbing for the stiffness they get from long periods of sitting in one position on the sofa.

Meanwhile, my daughter tries to nail a perfect toe to head combination on her belly every night before bed, nearly landing in tears when she doesn’t make the cut. Her daddy gently coaches, “Practice.”

And the kids have found inspiration in a pile of beanbags and our couch, which is off-limits for mid-air flips. Though my son seems to be getting pretty good at a single tuck when he thinks I’m not looking.

Frankly, my behind is sore. I’m tired from staying up so late. These amazing athletes put me to shame. I need to get up and do something. I get too emotional watching these young people’s dreams soar or crash. And my kids keep getting too many crazy ideas. I think they’re trying to get new sports into the Olympic Games. Today they tried to walk a tightrope—lengths of yarn tied from doorknob to doorknob. I didn’t stick around to see the outcome, which just proves I’m too stinking tired to do my mothering job properly.

I’m starting to fade. The Olympics exhaust me. I don’t have the stamina to even be a spectator. Looks like I better start training for Rio. My kids already are.

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My Case Against Bug Catchers

I’ve seen it all too often: a curious child with good intentions, a creature imprisoned for being interesting, different.

The terrified bug or worm hovers in a corner, unmoving as two pairs of giant eyes inspect its every breath and quiver. Crunchy dead leaves get tossed in, a few blades of grass, nothing in this animal’s diet. The putrid smell of death hangs from every surface of this place. Fear overwhelms the creature as it begins to climb the screen that surrounds it, desperately looking for an escape.

“It’s moving! Look, it’s moving!” the captors squeal. “Let’s get him some water.”

“You need to let that thing go in an hour,” I holler.

I’ve learned a thing or two about these bug catchers. The kids beg to keep their catch for just one night only to discover in the morning a crust of a being that Dad or I eventually dump or scrape out into a shallow, grassy grave.

We set rules: The kids can put something in the bug catcher to observe for a little while and then release it. It’s not fair to kill even a tiny creature for their amusement.

NC cicada

This guy was big.

Then the cicada came. My son stepped on it in the yard. What a find. It had just molted, leaving behind its intact brown shell. He put it in his bug catcher to show his dad an hour later, and then he was supposed to release it.

The cicada—a giant compared to other bugs in our yard—is a sight to behold, nothing like the roly-polies and earthworms the kids normally toss in this dirty bug graveyard. What we didn’t know is it takes awhile for a freshly hatched cicada’s exoskeleton to dry. So it sat, trapped, in our open bug catcher for a few days, shell hardening and darkening as we waited for it to fly away. Three days later it was finally gone. Sure, it was a process that was cool to watch, but we likely kept it from food during its short life above ground.

cicada shell

This is what we usually find.

Then the lizard came: a skink in my dining room. I’m OK with them outside darting lightning fast among my shrubs, but not between the legs of my dining room table. My son grabbed a cup and patiently tried to get the speedy baby. It camouflaged itself on a chair leg for a while, hid under a basket, and tried to make a getaway up a wall. My son told me to stop screaming because I was scaring it.

We finally got it outside and again my son wanted to put it in the bug catcher so his dad could see it, which meant I had to transfer a wiggling skink from a cup into the catcher. I agreed but said he had to let it go at lunch. When his dad came home, the bug catcher was empty. The skink had escaped.

skink

Escape artist.

I think our family has learned enough lessons here. I’m done with bug catchers and trying to get anything in them and dead shells out of them. If my kids want to watch nature in action, they’re going to have to do it the hard way: with no barriers.

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A Mom’s-Eye View of Home

I spy with a mother’s eye…

Notes that say simply “Mom” left in unexpected places

Half-full trick-or-treat bags on the pantry floor in July

A paper cup catapult ready to launch

Books about fish that fill my son’s head with more facts than Jacques Cousteau knew himself

A cluttered art table no one can seem to keep clean…ever

My red metal crab constantly repositioned on the bathroom counter to look like it’s hiding, walking, or a hermit crab

Metal hermit crab: "I'll rust if you put me in water."

Every time I went in the bathroom, this guy was in a different place.

A rocking chair where my daughter reads aloud in her room at night

Small fingerprints on our dirty storm door

Dolls ready for school

Toys scattered on the floor after a day of loud, in-your-face pretending

Tear stains on a pillow when one sibling decided playtime was over

An indentation in the pile of beanbags and pillows where the kids snuggled together

A drawing of a bird that looks more lifelike than stick figure, penciled by my son

Play people lined up along a table in the playroom

Pink barrettes on the kitchen counter that I’ve asked one million times to be put away

Purple plastic heels, size six-year-old

A desk in a boy’s room littered with lists of state names, book characters, city names, and types of fish

Drawings of rainbows in all sizes

A pink rubber ring with a 12-carat “diamond” that will hopefully be one’s wedding ring someday

A cardboard robot that appeared on my nightstand out of nowhere

A beaded pink tiara

Ugly Lego men painstakingly placed above my son’s bed

When will they come for us?

My son says these guys sometimes fall on his head at night. I think they are just escaping.

Paper bits under my daughter’s chair from an hour of just cutting

Sheets and blankets spread over every inch of the playroom floor

Drawings on a closet door of mushroom people named Snillwill and Lenny and Grent

…and two busy kids behind it all.

Some fun guys, mushroom men.

Some of these guys have peg legs and walking sticks. Coming to a forest near you.

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It’s Summertime and the Reading Is Easy

Five weeks of summer have been dawdled away on quiet afternoons with books in hand, feet up, and minds lost in stories too good to interrupt. During the hectic rush of the school year, these are the days we long for: lazy summer days when there are more chapters than hours to read them.

But that hasn’t always been the case. Last summer was quite a different story. I had to beg my kids to do any summer reading. My husband and I read to our kids every night at bedtime. They love books, but they can be picky. Bookstores can be overwhelming. With a lot of patience, persistence, and the determination of a youthful heroine, I made sure this summer the kids found some hits. I’m glad because I just love happy endings.

Here are the books we haven’t been able to put down this summer, including a few simple ways I got my picky readers to try something new (in italics).

Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan. My son didn’t want to try anything new when he finally finished Harry Potter. He wanted to read that lengthy series again! I picked up The Lightning Thief and read the first few pages to him one night before bed. He was hooked. Riordan does a great job of getting straight to the action. We’ve had to rush to the library for the next book each time my son finishes one. Thanks, Mr. Riordan.

summer reading

A little summer reading. What series should follow Percy Jackson?

Darth Paper Strikes Back: An Origami Yoda Book by Tom Angleberger. While Origami Yoda knew how to solve problems, Darth Paper causes a bit of trouble at the middle school. When my son found out this author plans a book signing in our town, he couldn’t wait to finish this book and has his sights set on the next one due in August.

Just Grace series by Charise Mericle Harper. My daughter was skeptical until I enticed her with the idea that these books were a tiny bit like Diary of a Wimpy Kid for girls, only because it’s broken up into really short bits like a diary and has cute child-like drawings so the narrator can show the reader what she’s talking about. But that’s where the similarities end. The books are cute, age appropriate, and well written. I love Harper’s style. Grace is a cool kid I don’t mind my daughter reading about.

Just Grace

Just Grace is a good series about a girl in a class with other Graces. She gets the nickname “Just Grace,” though she’s anything but ordinary.

The Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. When my daughter read the American Girl series about Julie, the girl from 1974, she became interested in the Little House books because Julie was. I took advantage of the connection to another book and read them to her. We’re on the fourth book and love Laura’s antics and Pa’s wisdom. These are a great change of pace from modern life.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. I’ve had this book for a while and put off reading it. I wish I hadn’t. I loved it and can’t wait to read the sequels. It’s a great summer read and more girly than I expected. My son wants to read it and I questioned the violence. When I finished, I told him what it was about. He said, “You lost me when you said it was about a girl.” Problem solved.

The Messy Quest for Meaning by Stephen Martin. Martin is a good friend of mine and this book tells about his struggle to find purpose in his life, what he learned from Trappist monks, and how readers can discover their own calling in the world. What, I have purpose other than wiping rears and messes?

Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) by Jenny Lawson. Funny. Books that make everyone else laugh don’t usually make me laugh. Parts of this made me cry. My husband read this too and every time he laughed, I’d say, “What part are you on?”

A Tale Dark and Grimm by Adam Gidwitz. I’m not very familiar with Grimm’s fairy tales. Evidently they’re pretty violent and gory. This book follows the formula. I don’t like that kind of stuff but I loved this well-written book. Clever plot twists move the story along and the characters really do deserve what they get. My son previously started this book and lost interest. When he saw me reading it, he immediately wanted to read it. But he was already into Percy Jackson, which is fine with me.

Even though we’re out of this stage, here are some summer picture books we have loved.

A Couple of Boys Have the Best Week Ever by Marla FrazeeEvery now and then my son still likes to read this book about two boys who spend a week with one of boys’ grandparents doing what they want to do instead of the fun nature things the grandpa has planned. The boys in it are funny and real and in the end, they really do get the point.

Manfish: A Story of Jacques Cousteau by Jennifer Berne. This story tells the life of Jacques Cousteau, including his early years and his contributions to scuba diving and early marine conservation. To a kid, it’s a cool book about a boy, an ocean, and a passion.

Rattletrap Car by Phyllis Root. In this heat, a day at the lake is in order. Can Poppa get the family’s rattletrap car to work long enough to make it to the lake? Maybe if the whole family pitches in. Some days I feel like this in our rattletrap van. “Son, hand me your razzleberry, dazzleberry, snazzleberry gum. I need it to fix the door.”

So tell me, what have you been reading this summer? Five weeks left. There’s plenty time for more in our house. 

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