A Change ... Will Do You Good

I had a rather interesting conversation with my teenage daughter recently. We were playing corn hole, and while my little bean bag's corner was tilting wildly close to the edge of the board's circular hole, it wasn't tipping in -- or scoring me points. Unacceptable. I expressed my frustration eloquently, I think something along the lines of "ARGGGHhhhhhhh," to which my daughter replied:

"Change something."

"But it's so close!" I said. "Every single time it is almost hitting the mark!"

"Almost, but it's not going in," she said. "So you need to change something."

This advice, while wise and useful, wasn't the clincher for me. That comes next, but here's what you need to know: I'm a planner. A strategist, a brainstormer, a maker of to-do lists. Give me a plan with a sound strategy to back it up and get out of my way, cause I'm about to make something happen. It may get messy, but it WILL get done. 

I also respect persistence, an ability to stay the course when the going gets tough and doubt sets in, making you question whether it's worth the trouble. Let's just say that if I played slot machines, which I do not because ewwww the germs on those coins and probably casinos in general, I would be one of those people who would hunker down at one machine and stay there all night, refusing to move lest some greasy, toothless n'er-do-well reap the rewards of my persistence. Or stubbornness. Whatever. Stay the course, I say.

So on to the part about this conversation that has stuck with me for more than a year. For a moment, my teen child and I traded roles, I becoming the somewhat sassy and argumentative teen, she the sage -- calm, sensible and comfortable in the wisdom she was to impart.

"This should be going in! I should be winning!" I said. "My stance is perfect, my toss sublime, the follow through supreme! What do I need to change?!"

I may have stamped my foot in frustration.

"I don't know what you need to change, but what you're doing right now is definitely not working, so try different things until you figure it out," she said. 

Record scratch and what the what?!

So you don't need an 12-point plan with spreadsheets, pie charts and market research to change course? Particularly if the consequences won't set you back any further than your current status?

Huh. Ha. Interesting.

I don't know about you, but lots of times if I don't know exactly what to change, I change nothing. I file lots of things under the "I'll eventually figure out what to do differently, but until then I shall continue to do exactly the same things that I know are not working, mostly out of habit. Please do not disturb." 

At least that was the case until that lovely autumn day when the child took her Mom back to school. And her Mom is still grateful, because now whenever I'm feeling stuck I ask myself "what have I been doing, and what's something different -- anything different -- I can try?"

I swear these words are magic, their magician a teenage girl.



XOXO--


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Is There Such a Thing as a Bad Compliment? (Correct Answer: Yes. Yes There Is.)

Ah, the well-paid compliment. Nothing adds a spot of sunshine to your day like a genuine effort of admiration given to you by someone you hold in high esteem. Or a well-dressed stranger with a nice haircut. Truly, it matters less who is delivering the compliment and more that it's sincere -- and that the person stops talking before accidentally undoing the compliment. Some real-life examples:

Good compliment:
"Mom! I'm so glad you wear cute clothes so we can share!"

Undoing compliment:
"Except for pants. I don't think we can share those."

The save:
"Only because your legs are longer than mine!"

Just this week:

Good compliment (by a teenage girl who probably wanted to go shopping or something, but whatever):
"Wait, Justin Timberlake is only 33? Dang, you have almost 10 years on him and you look waaaaay younger than him."

Undoing compliment (by another person after hearing said compliment):
"Yeah, Justin Timberlake looks OLD."

The save:
"Whoa, that came out totally wrong. What I meant was you definitely look younger than a 33-year-old!"

I'm trying to teach my girls to look for opportunities to pay genuine compliments to people. To notice their fellow human beings have made an effort and to give them a little love for it. Why? Because a sincere compliment leaves a person feeling warm, and appreciated, and better off for having encountered you that day. And they will generally remember those lovely compliments well after you've crossed paths. Which is nice, too. It does seem, however, we still have a little work to do on the "seizing opportunities" front, as evidenced in my recent Facebook post:



It's a work in progress, people. Also, I would like to genuinely compliment you each and every one for your outstanding taste in blog reading. Exquisite!

XO --


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Show and Tell

I know I've promised not to craft on this blog. Or pressure you into organizing anything, or painting anything, or planting anything. Please do not misconstrue this post as craft-like pressure.



Because heaven knows Back to School season (can we go ahead and call it a season? Because it is. And I swear it pretty much starts before I've gotten the kids home from the last day of the previous school year) is already uber stressful. There's registration, purchasing the right back pack, gathering school supplies, returning school supplies after meeting teachers and discovering they want completely different supplies, and of the utmost importance: procuring the perfect first-day-of-school outfit.



Also, you have to find the perfect lunch box. I suggested my husband might want to upgrade his mode of transportation for his midday meal a few years ago, as perhaps it could be misconstrued as unprofessional to tote one's sammy and banana in a torn Wal-Mart plastic bag to a Fortune 500 company. As a joke I purchased this lovely 1940s era lunch pail at Scott's Antique Market in Atlanta and offered to pack his lunch for him. He said he'd only take his lunch in this when he wanted to catch himself a little tetanus, so we have called this the Tetanus Lunchbox ever since.


The Tetanus Lunchbox is enjoying its day in the sun, y'all.



Anywho, my sister introduced me to this lovely blog called Talk of the House. There are a million kazillion blogs about lovely homes, but this one's my new fave. She does all this fun and creative decorating around the seasons, which inspired my little Back to School entry table. So thanks, Kelly, for the fabulous idea. And giving me the excuse to pull out the Tetanus Lunchbox, along with the girls' elementary school yearbooks and other school-themed books.

Which of course led to digging out pictures of the girls in preschool. Which made me sit in amazement at the many ways they have changed, and the many ways they have stayed the same. Which led to a bizarre mix of exaltation and melancholy, which may or may not have led to me eating some of those Smarties candies. (By the way, my sister suggested mixing in some Dum Dum lollipops to see if anyone caught it. Genius idea which I sadly never implemented.)

The best part is 95 percent of this stuff I had around the house. Which is good, because it left time for me to take care of other Back to School emergencies, like:




XOXO ---

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No-Asterisk Living

We've all heard the term "use your words." Usually aimed at a preschooler off-the-charts on the emotional scale and extremely low on the articulation scale. When I came to the unfortunate realization that it is quite likely the advice, life lessons, inspirational quotes and whatnot I pass along to my daughters was likely traveling in one ear and out the other, I decided to do what I love ... use my words and write stuff down. I'll have to pack a lot of punch into these little bursts, because let's face it ... if we want something to be memorable - no matter the audience - we better be quick. I'll address these directly to my kids so hopefully one day I can just say "boy problems? school problems? can't find anything to eat problems? Check blog post #102. It's your parent now!" Kidding, but I do hope this will become a sort of reference for them, and that maybe, just maybe, you'll find something interesting in here too. XO - Amy Mac

Ladies:

There are no asterisks in life.

That is to say, there's never a report card that says
*by the way, the teacher sucked

There's no adjusting the game score because
*the refs weren't fair

No one gets credit for an incomplete chore because
*I have an awful headache, I'm exhausted, I think I pulled a muscle, I'm allergic to clean things

Life is based on results. You get results because you figured out a way to work around the asterisks. You will have teachers that suck. You'll have refs that aren't fair. You will feel less than ideal anytime there's a task you'd like to procrastinate completing, especially if you allow yourself that empty luxury of a life built with asterisks.

Decide on the results you want (an A, a win, a clean room so I don't confiscate your phone because your room looks like several stores -- including but not limited to clothing boutiques, athletic supply stores, dirt factories, office supply centers and various food shops -- have exploded and the remnants have all settled like retail volcanic dust upon the floor in your room) ...

and decide to get those results no matter what it takes.

I find it helpful to write down the results for which I'm aiming. Because in your heart you'll know where those asterisks could have been, and the satisfaction of having succeeded anyways is sweet indeed.

Love, Mom*
*Saying "are you using an asterisk, Mom?" the next time I blame running late on the dogs could be hazardous to your health. Xoxo!

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Closing the Generation Gap, One Odd Odor at a Time

A conversation transcript from last evening with my 14-and-a-half-year-old daughter:

Setting: getting into the family SUV on a mild Southern spring evening, directly after a thunderstorm. 

In unison: "What's that smell?"

41 (that's me): "It's camp."

14 (the kid): "What?"

41: "It smells like camp. That mixture of sunscreen, bug spray and wet grass, with a faint whiff of damp wood and mildew."

14: "THAT'S SO WEIRD! I was just thinking it smelled like the church beach retreat!"

41: "Exactly. No matter what year, what country, whether the beach or mountains, a condo, a cabin or a tent ... whenever more than 5 people under the age of 25 gather away from home -- or really any place lacking a woman armed with bleach, hot water and a laundry room replete with a dryer with various settings -- this is the resulting smell."

14: "That's crazy! So your beach retreat smelled just like mine?!!"

41: "Yup."

14: "That doesn't explain why our car smells like camp."

41: "I was just thinking the same thing. Smelling camp on the way to Starbucks sorta ruins the experience."

14: "We have to stop this smell. How do we end this smell? Right now?!!!"

41: "Let's see if we can rustle up a woman with some hot water and bleach."

Per the usual, turns out that woman was me. I was able to isolate the various odors as follows:

Wet grass -- actual wet grass outside (see above: thunderstorm.) 
Sunscreen -- aerosol sunscreen accidentally sprayed independently while in my tennis bag, which was left in my car overnight. Good news is I have a can of tennis balls and various tennis accoutrements which are now completely safe from sunburn. 
Bug spray -- pretty sure that's a remnant from my husband's fishing trip this weekend. I'm just thankful it isn't the smell of dead and rotting fish. #blessed.
Mildew -- tiny leak in my sunroof. Cured with a pinch of aforementioned bleach.
Damp wood -- this one's a mystery. I suspect a popsicle stick or dowel rod from a science project is loose somewhere in my car. And it's apparently wet. 

If anyone needs a ride, y'all let me know. Because while my car now smells like a freshly scoured murder scene, it no longer smells like camp.

Xo---

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If You've Hot-Glued Anything in the Name of Easter, Please Don't Read This Post

This morning, while taking a break from catching up on the 976 things I didn't do while I was on Spring Break, I hopped (getting the Easter reference there?) onto Feedly to peruse some of my favorite blogs. I have an important takeaway to share:

In the blogosphere there is significant pressure to do a bunch of crafty, awesome stuff and then photograph it in soft lighting before posting with 18 simple steps so you, too, can do something crafty-awesome. 

Are these people for real?

Y'all, there are people right now making moss-covered eggs and attaching them to floral sprigs so their Sunday brunch will look appropriately spring-like and Easterish, and I'm just trying to decide if it's inappropriate to put concert tickets in my kids' baskets. (Last year we put bikinis in their baskets, so I'm not sure why I feel conflicted. I think once you've given lycra for Easter, you've passed the point of any respectable return.)

Don't get me wrong ... I love nicely arranged, tasty food. I love to sew, and enjoy whipping up throw pillows, or window treatments, and even occasionally a baby gift or some such. I have what could be considered a mildly obsessive connection to my label maker, and very much enjoy creating order from chaos in a closet or drawer, then gently bullying my family into following my newly labeled system for world domination. Or junk drawer domination. Whatever.

I'm just saying, if you're ever in a downhill spiral of "who the hell has time to DO all this cute crafty stuff?" and you're pressuring yourself to knit your dog a sweater because CHRISTMAS IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER I BETTER START FREEZING COOKIE MIX RIGHT NOW, I want you stop by right here at the Amy Mac blog where you can relax, knowing you may leave here confused ... but will never, ever leave feeling the need to organize anything, clean or paint anything. Or hot-glue moss to anything, heaven forbid.

So now the question becomes: if my daughters receive concert tickets for Easter, are they then required to wear bunny ears to said concert? I say yes, then I will post the photos here as my craft for the year 2014.

Whew -- I feel a sense of accomplishment already.

XO--

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Five Percent

I'm 100 percent certain that though this tree is only 5 percent of my yard, the blooms and the blue sky are excellent indicators spring is around the corner ... and that makes me 1000 percent happy.

You know how you have conversations that impart wisdom that sticks with you over time? A couple of years ago, one of my youngsters wanted to be moved down a level in one of her classes. She maintained the coursework was too difficult, I maintained she was capable and looking for a way to decrease homework time in order to increase social time. So I called in her teacher to act as a referee.

We shared our opposing viewpoints, the teacher agreed with me, therefore confirming I am always right. The end.

Kidding! No really, here's what he said:

"With just a tiny bit more effort, and I mean like 5 percent more, you can go from being a solid student to being the top student in all your classes."

{Sidebar: why is it educators tend to be so wise? Seriously, so many of the conversations that resonate with me come from teachers. Does having to wrangle a mass of children daily, plus deal with crazy parents, plus adhere to government-mandated educational standards put in place by non-educators make them smarter than the rest of us? Is it something they train them for in college, like "Educator Wisdom 101," or are they born with it?}

The reason this 5 percent more concept sticks with me is because so often we hear of a person's success as a result of doing something insane. You know, exercising for 12 hours a day while consuming only kale smoothies and BAM losing 30 pounds. Or of a former janitor becoming a best-selling author by getting up a 3 a.m. and writing every day before heading out to sweep floors. Or really anything where the vast majority of us would say "good for them, but that sounds like non-stop misery and I KNOW MY LIMITATIONS."

But 5 percent is tiny. It's doable. It's like half an hour or less per day. And statistically speaking, it's small changes made consistently that create a snowball effect for other, more significant changes. (If you haven't read the book The Power of Habit, I highly recommend it. It's where I found this tidbit of information, along with other fascinating insights on how habits -- good and bad -- impact our lives.)

Now whenever I catch myself checking my phone unnecessarily, or zoning out in front of the TV, or whining about being exhausted, I just think "5 percent." Because if I have to pick starting a big project at 8 p.m. or watching Downton Abbey, those crazy Crawleys win every time. But if I just need to spend 15 minutes on a task, I know the sense of accomplishment from disciplining myself to "do something" versus "watch something" will be huge. And that I will feel less guilty when I do finally sit down to see what's up with Lady Mary and the rest of that British bunch. (For those of you that watch, Bates is starting to really creep me out.)

Now, when one of my kids hits that wall -- whether it's with studying, practicing for their sport, or cleaning their room -- I try to remind them "c'mon -- 5 percent." Because it turns out doing 5 percent more is 100 percent rewarding.

Turns out the teacher is almost always right.

XO--

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When No One's Watching

Have you seen this Duracell commercial about Derrick Coleman, a fullback with the Seattle Seahawks? He's the first legally deaf player to be part of an NFL offense. Watch the commercial (this may be one of the finest advertisements I've ever seen -- well worth the watch) and you'll discover ultimately it's about perseverance. One of the best lines: "They told me it was over. But I've been deaf since I was three. So I didn't listen."

But the part that tugs my heartstrings is when he says "I was picked on, and picked last."

Doesn't that just make you want to go back in time and give a very stern talking-to to every child (and adult) who allowed their impatience, ignorance and fear to eclipse kindness, inclusion and love? (A category which, though I can't remember any specific incidents, I'm sure I squarely belong.) Since that sort of time-travel isn't possible (to my knowledge -- please advise if you've discovered otherwise), we will have to make do by teaching our children to look for people who stand out for not quite fitting in and make their day a little better.

This is a particularly tall order when you're in middle school, which I think we can all agree is the most ruthless time in one's academic career (if not life), when you're all braces and acne and social awkwardness and mood swings and hormones and whatnot. (On second thought, if you do know if time travel is possible, keep it to yourself. I'd hate to catch the wrong time-continuum train and wind up in 7th grade again.)

This is why when a teacher recognized my daughter for "going out of her way to be kind to a student who doesn't see a lot of kindness from others" I was happy for her. When I discovered this act was done when she had no idea anyone was watching, I was thrilled she'd already discovered one of the great secrets of life: being kind to others without expectation of recognition is balm for the soul.

Now before you get all "geez Amy Mac is so braggy about her kids," please allow me to assure you I have caught many an unkindness in progress and am certain there are many more that have been conducted under my finely tuned radar. Just yesterday I busted up a swiftly escalating verbal altercation over a missing pair of Uggs (I kid you not), where everything from stewardship of possessions to overall fashion sense was called (loudly) into question in a 10-second span of time. Kind it was not.

Here's the thing: we can teach our children acts that are kind. We can model for them what kindness looks like by being kind ourselves. We can correct them when they are unkind, give suggestions at times they can step in and be kind to another, and catch them when they are being kind and reward them richly with words of encouragement ... but we cannot enforce kindness when we aren't watching. That's all them, and it can't necessarily be taught.  Because in the end, the feeling you get when you have been kind is its own reward, and the feeling you get when you have been unkind is its own just punishment -- and each person has to figure that out for themselves.

Ultimately, the goal is to teach our children empathy for others, and that being observant and acting in situations where they can be kind is a fine habit to cultivate. That they can change someone's day with something as simple as a smile. That they can change someone's life with something as simple as a ride on a day when the bus pulls away without you.

That was the case when A.J. McCarron offered a ride to A.J. Starr, an Alabama football fan and student with cerebral palsy. If you've not watched the video, please do so right this instant, then show it to your kids when they get home from school. Say what you will about McCarron, about Alabama football (and I have said many an unkind thing about Alabama football), and about the ill-advised decision to bring Lane Kiffen back into the SEC Family (Kiffen strains my ability to be kind into very thin shreds) ... but McCarron was kind without expectation of recognition. He could have been done when they reached their destination, but he wasn't. McCarron knew deep down inside that at the end of the day, kindness toward someone who could really use some feels better than throwing the best winning touchdown of your life.

His act of kindness could almost make me pull for Alabama. Well, not quite. But I'll root for him in the NFL draft, and I'll definitely be rooting for Coleman and the Seahawks against the 49ers this weekend. I'll probably even buy some Duracell batteries next time I'm at the store.

Seems like the kind thing to do.


PS -- I think every child and adult should read the book Wonder by R.J. Palacio about a little boy with a facial deformity, and how friendship and kindness -- his and theirs -- make all the difference in his world. It's a shot of empathy we could all use.

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Sound Bites in my World

Sound bites (in the world of public relations) are carefully crafted statements used by an authoritative source to convey a memorable piece of information to an audience.

When your kids get to the ages of my kids (one is a teen, one is almost a teen, both think they are 25), you start to realize your days are limited to impart a world of knowledge ... with the hope they will permanently weave the most important ones into the fabric of their being.

As such, I've started creating sound bites (in the world of Amy Mac.) These are life lessons I hope to impart upon my daughters, and recognizing their lack of desire to listen to verbal dissertations on my life's philosophies, I have distilled them into relatively brief notions and layered them atop a chevron pattern -- which I have recently discovered captures the attention of nearly every teen girl alive today.

Here's hoping your weekend is adversity free (but if it isn't, that you remember you are bigger than any problem that comes your way. And that cute design cures most ills.)

XOXO--  


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Fudge, Fudge, Call the Judge

There are a handful of things in life that make me want to self-harm, but two stand out: massive group texts in which nearly all the responses are pointless ("way to go!" and "see you there!" and the like) and baking.

To be clear, there are some group texts in which I relish every single reply. These are mostly amongst my family members and/or college friends. They usually start out innocently enough, then within the fourth text or so devolve to a level that makes me thankful none of us plan to seek political office. I may or may not one day post excerpts of them here.

But anywho, back to the baking. I prefer to cook in a very slap-dash sort of way. Which means I look at a recipe once, get the ingredients, and wing it from there. Forever. I can't tell you the last time I looked at any of my standard recipes. And the meals usually turn out just dandy, if I do say so myself.

It isn't so with baking. It's just so precise with all the "1 cup brown sugar packed" and "mix the dry ingredients first" and "whisk to the left 74 times then to the right 67 times, with one swirl to the left every ninth turn of the slotted spoon." Frankly, it's irritating. Which, combined with my lack of sweet tooth, is why if you turn up at my house for dinner you should plan to bring your own dessert.

The one exception to this rule of "We Don't Bake Here" is fudge. Which isn't exactly baking per se, but since it's sweet I categorize it as such. I found a recipe some years back that is both incredibly easy AND I can remember off the top of my head AND my children can make it themselves which makes it the PERFECT DESSERT AND HOLIDAY TREAT. At least for us.

So yesterday while my children slaved over the stove, I busied myself making these little labels so we could deliver treats to their friends yesterday. (Well, we only made it to half of them because we ran out of a key ingredient, so we will be continuing to deliver over the next several days.)

So, the kids get to sugar up both themselves and their friends, while Mom gets to pretend to be a graphic designer while listening to the Elvis Christmas album, then we all pile into the car together to spread a little Christmas cheer.

Win-win, and .... win.

XOXO---

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The Flotsam List

I have two to-do lists. One is a focused list that captures steps I need to take to complete projects and accomplish goals. The other is what I call my "flotsam" list ... you know, all that other odds-and-ends stuff that somebody needs to remember to do, and heaven knows if I don't write it down it will dribble out of my head like melting ice cream from a cone on a hot summer's day.

Friday, the day before we were hosting about 40 teens for a birthday party, I had A LOT to get done. So naturally my doctor diagnosed me with a sinus infection (I had no idea I was even sick, so...) and gave me a dose of steroids, prescription drugs for allergies and sinuses, an inhaler (what?) and a dose of antibiotics. So now I am stressed, high on meds, have accidentally shot myself in the eye with the inhaler, and still have A LOT to get done.

I was baffled when I looked at my flotsam list and saw the word "relax." I mean surely to goodness I don't need to write that down? I know I get more accomplished when I'm not freaking out. I know I tend to get sick if I'm super stressed and running around like a crazy lady. So seeing that I'd written a note to myself to relax and then FORGOTTEN I HAD DONE THIS was wildly alarming. Also, who was this Melissa and why did she need to relax?

Then I looked again and realized it was actually a prompt to e-mail my friend Melissa regarding spring season lacrosse for my daughter. Melissa re: Lax. Very poor handwriting, I recognize. But a well-timed message nevertheless. Because as I sped around town gathering cupcakes and a helium tank and a PA system for music, I kept looking at that list and giggling. Which helped me keep things in perspective ... I mean, it's a party for a bunch of kids. Who are pretty delighted to just hang out with each other and aren't paying much attention to the decorations. And indeed, everything got done and the party was, according to my daughter, a success.

Which now allows us to focus on the bigger concern: the fact that I am now apparently subliminally messaging myself. This could not be good.

But I suppose if I'm going to subliminally message myself, at least it's to relax and not that it's okay to consume any and all Halloween candy in my house. Because that's not okay.

Right?


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I Once Was Lost, But Now Am Found

A recent conversation at my house during the breakfast hour:

Me: "Hello? Anybody here?"

(Sound of crickets.)

Me: "Heyyyyyy! Where did everyone go? Hadley? HADLEY?!!!"

Hadley: "Are you calling me?"

Me: "Oh, thank goodness! Is Callie still here too??"

Hadley: "Um, as far as I know ... yeah, I think I hear her drying her hair."

Me: "Whew. Because I was scared for a minute there."

Hadley: "Scared of what?"

Me: "That the actual rapture happened and I had been left behind! I was terrified there was a clerical error resulting in me being left on earth to deal with the headless horsemen and such, because WHY ELSE WOULD YOU LEAVE YOUR BREAKFAST DISHES ON THE TABLE LITERALLY MID-BITE? It makes no sense from a responsible, smart and loving girl like you. Also, there's that random sock on the chair right there. I thought your socks were literally knocked off your feet during the process. You have to agree, all physical indicators point toward the rapture." 

Hadley: "OMG. Sorry, I'll clear my dishes. You didn't have to bring Jesus into it."

Me: "Well, I thought about alien abduction, too, but I figured there would at least be some green goo on the chair or something if aliens had been in the kitchen." 

Are there any teens on earth that pick up after themselves without threats of the apocalypse? Please advise.

Hope y'all have a great weekend! XO --

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Pizza & Cupcakes, Wine & Cheese

This past weekend, we hosted a birthday celebration for my youngest daughter's 12th birthday with 30 of her nearest and dearest friends. She was permitted to invite 30 girls and boys because I assumed half of them wouldn't be able to come. I mean, it's a Friday evening in September. High school football. Soccer practice. Flu shots. Busy times.

So naturally, because I counted on around 20 kids actually attending, not one single person declined the invitation. Then, when my older daughter asked if she could have a few friends over, too, I figured ... hey, we'll already have pizza and cupcakes, what's 5 or 6 more teens gonna hurt? So grand total, when you mix in the preschool set already at the park, I think there were like 87 kids there. Not exactly, but you get my point.

(Side note: before our guests started arriving, a loud and boisterous scuffle broke out amongst a handful of preschool boys as to the rules and regulations around a vampire attack. Callie said "how funny would it be if I ran down there and screamed 'Bad news! Vampires aren't real!' and I said "Not nearly as funny if you ran down there and screamed 'I'm a vampire!!!' and started biting them." I really like to encourage my children to raise their game at every opportunity.)

The good news is the party was at the park, and it's a fabulous group of kids (the ones we know, not the preschool vampire hunters) ... well-behaved, lovely manners, and at this age they blessedly require no entertainment by adults, so Jake and I were able to stay in the pavillion swatting at bees and musing about the bizarre lack of humidity while the kids wore themselves out.

However, by 8 p.m., I was exhausted. And starving. I'd been up since 6 a.m. gathering supplies and baking cupcakes (lie. I totally bought pre-made cupcakes) and cleaning and such, and pizza that takes only 2 minutes to cook makes me nervous, and somehow ALL of the bottled water was consumed before I got any, so revision: I was exhausted, starving AND dehydrated.

So naturally the most sensible thing to do was head to the grocery store, because I always make terrific, sound decisions when I'm in virtually the same state I'd be in if I'd been on a 12-hour trek through the wilderness. Except with fewer abrasions and bear sightings, and much cuter shoes.

But the trip was a good reminder on why you should never go shopping when not entirely in control of your good senses. Because I'm pretty sure I've never in my entire life come home from the store with only two bottles of wine, cranberry cheddar cheese and citrus-mango-pineapple juice (I drink maybe one glass of wine a week, I had no crackers upon which to eat the delightful cheese, and I do not even like nor drink juice.)

When I returned with my four items in tow, Jake said "what did you get at the store?" I'm sure he was hoping I'd had the forethought to grab something for breakfast the next morning.

I just laughed maniacally and said "no talking, please!"

Then I ate my crackerless cheese and drank a glass of wine and appreciated the fact that my kids have the sense to ignore me when I suggest they bite other children.

XO--

On the Potential Legal Ramifications of Stunning One's Self with a Stun Gun

I would like to share, in no particular order, a few things that amused me over the weekend:

I accidentally sexted my 13-year-old daughter. I swear to you autocorrect changed the key word after I hit send. I have encouraged her to continue to say "no thank you" to any and all similar propositions, whether accidental or intentional, until she is 30 years of age.

I learned that showering and shaving under duress has the potential to cost time versus save time. Because as I stepped out of my speedy, have-to-pick-up-a-whole-mess-of-kids-in-20-minutes shower, I briefly thought I had been the victim of a drive-by shooting. Never mind that I was in the bathroom on the third story of my suburban home with the only window facing my backyard, I was COVERED UP in blood and I had no idea where it was coming from, and I am from Memphis so my go-to was drive-by. Turned out I had saved myself a cool $300 at my next dermatology appointment because I had hacked a mole off my armpit. I am now considering having all hair lasered off my body to save myself this sort of trouble in the future. Also, if you're with me and I go completely white and my eyes roll back in my head, you'll know the seam of my shirt just scraped the open, gaping wound beneath my arm.

I was reminded that just when you think you know what someone's going to say, they can say something so awesome you want to have a t-shirt made with the quote. My daughter's friend spent all afternoon with us Saturday while her mom was out of town. "S," I said to the cute little girl, from a very nice, buttoned-down family, "what's your mom doing this weekend that takes her out of town?" I was expecting "She's on a girls' trip with her college friends," so when instead I got "She's gambling with my grandmother" I was nearly struck down with the awesomeness of the response. She went on to say all of her grandmother's friends from her retirement community were there, too. Her mom then elevated the whole situation to a brand-new level of freaking amazingness by informing me that while she turned in a little after midnight, all the retirees gambled until dawn and stumbled back to their hotel rooms in the clothes they were wearing the night before. It's like the walk of shame for grandparents! Except I don't think they were remotely ashamed. I have a new admiration for all retirees.

I think a waitress at Mellow Mushroom thought briefly about calling a medic -- for me. Because I was laughing so hysterically at dinner it was a toss-up whether it was a happy noise or a medical emergency. Only because I happened upon two very amusing videos on my phone: one is of my husband doing "Just Dance" on the Wii. I wish I could share that with you here, but I would never sleep again for fear he would kill me in my sleep, so you'll just have to trust me: it is hysterical. I was hyperventilating with happiness at that video, and also a perennial favorite of my sweet, kind-hearted and loving niece talking my precious but occasionally lacking in the "making sensible decisions" category nephew into testing out a stun gun. On himself. As my sister said "I love how he sticks the landing!" Having people in my family willing to do nearly anything for the amusement of others is what makes life worth living. My nephew - the one boy out of 8 grandkids - rises to the challenge. Every. Single. Time. I will also be forced to withhold that video because ... I dunno, seems like a potential legal issue to me, encouraging a teenage boy (a willing one, but still) shock himself off his feet with a stun gun. But the next time I see you, remind me and I'll happily show you the footage.

That's all. There is no point at all to this post except to document how I am so easily entertained. Really, takes nearly nothing at all.

XO-

A Programming Note to Teens on Instagram and Twitter (mine in particular)

Otherwise, you know those awesome baby pics of you in the bathtub where you have more fat rolls than we can count? The ones I think are so precious and you shudder with horror every time they surface? I shall be so blinded by bearing witness to your repeated poor grammar on social media I will accidentally post them. All of them. And tag you. In every. Single. One.

Seriously.

Hugs & Kisses!!

Calling in the Cavalry

At the risk of sounding unsympathetic and harsh, I'd like to share a little story with you.

It's day 11 of the new school year, and I get a call from the clinic that my precious youngest is not feeling well.

"She has a very slight fever, not enough for us to have to send her home, but she says she's been coughing a bunch and doesn't feel well," says the clinic nurse.

Precious and I have a brief discussion about the possibilities of her sticking it out since there are only 2 hours left in the day. She assures me she simply cannot carry on. I fetch her, not because I think she can't make it through the day, but because a point needs to be made.

"I was coughing NON-STOP," says she. "I have a cold!"

"I am aware of the cold, and I know they are not fun," say I. "What did you do to stop the coughing?"

"I went to the clinic," says she.

"Well, it obviously worked BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T COUGHED ONCE SINCE I PICKED YOU UP."

Now, when my kids are sick, I am quite nurturing. I make homemade chicken noodle soup. I rent tons of movies. I fluff their pillows and give them decongestants and Dr. Pepper and candy and all that stuff. But seriously. It's a runny nose. Power through.

So then we had a discussion about first-line solutions, like drinking ice water, blowing your nose, and having a cough drop to see if that will shape things up. Also about how coughing so-very-rarely kills an otherwise healthy human being, and how if she calls me again for anything other than essentially bleeding from her ears ... well, you get the point.

I think many of the problems in our lives, whether at work or at home, could be solved (or avoided altogether) if we didn't hit the panic button quite so quickly. I believe we have become so accustomed to the immediacy of our 24-hour-social-media-and-Google-search world that when we can't fix a problem right that second we sound the alarm bells and call for backup.

I'm trying to teach my kids that a deep breath and 5 minutes of thinking time will give you the tools solve most issues without dialing 911. That many times problems are only problems because you make them so much more complex than they really are. And that the sense of accomplishment of figuring out things on your own is so much more satisfying than calling in the cavalry.

Especially if your particular cavalry helps you get better with extra rest and a ban on electronics for 24 hours.

I swear to you it's a miracle cure, people.

XO --

All Hail the Bus Driver

Obligatory First Day of School Photo. I feel these facial expressions aptly foretold coming events.

When my older daughter was in early elementary school, I drove her to and from school each day as opposed to putting her on the bus. By the time the younger one was entering kindergarten, the older one -- then in second grade -- was chaffing for the tiny shred of independence provided by riding the bus to school. So I acquiesced, and packed them off to school on that gargantuan piece of yellow machinery.

Little Hadley came home that afternoon flushed and furious.

"That was TERRIFYING. The bus driver is a BUMPY AND TERRIBLE DRIVER! There were NO SEATBELTS!! She was RUNNING STOP SIGNS AND DRIVING SO FAST I COULD BARELY STAY IN MY SEAT!!! I will not ride the bus again. EVER."

Though Callie assured me it had not been quite the roller coaster ride dramatically described by her sister, Hadley's decision was final. Any attempts to put her back on that bus would end in child abuse allegations and hundreds of hours of therapy. I graciously accepted that her tender sensibilities were in direct opposition to the hardships she would face while riding group transportation, and queued back up in the carpool line for the remaining 6 years.

But folks, middle school would be different. She'd been toughened up by school trips (on chartered buses replete with air conditioning and facilities, but still), hardened by wandering the Atlanta airport (busiest in the U.S., natch) parking lot with her dad searching for a lost car for about an hour, and battered by a variety of illnesses, stitches and broken bones. Plus, her sister had been riding the bus to middle school for 2 years and threatened to disassemble anyone bothering her little sister.

So last Monday, we arrive at the bus stop 10 minutes early per Fulton County instructions. And I swear to you, right as we pull up, there's the bus ... lights flashing, stop sign out and doors open. As the girls ran toward the bus I hollered "make sure that's actually your bus!!!"

Yeah, apparently they didn't hear that suggestion, because about 5 minutes later I get a phone call. Before I even say hello I hear Callie say to someone "actually this is kinda funny" then to me "Uh, Mom. We accidentally got on the high school bus."

Let's recap: My 11 and 13 year old daughters were in the very back seat of a bus FULL OF HIGH SCHOOLERS and they were en route to the HIGH SCHOOL.

Sweet Mary in the heavens.

Then Callie says that while the bus driver spoke very little English (awesome), he kept repeating that he would be going to the middle school. Which he did indeed do, but only after taking a very circuitous route to the school, thereby prompting Callie to threaten to call the cops if he didn't PULL THIS BUS OVER SO MY MOM CAN GET US.

I only found out later that Hadley was already preparing to dial 911 if he didn't meet Callie's demands immediately. Thank goodness he stopped and picked up some kids they knew, otherwise I am pretty sure you'd have heard about us on the national news and how some kid in Atlanta caused an Amber Alert because she didn't like the route the bus driver took to her suburban school.

In the end, they arrived safely at school, on time and with a pretty funny story to tell.

That night at dinner I asked if they wanted me to just drive them in the morning.

Callie said "Seriously? Are you seriously asking that question?" Hadley just shot her eyebrows up to meet her hairline.

So if you're looking for me around 8:15 in the mornings, you know where I'll be. And it won't be at the bus stop.

Learning About Laundry (and Other Fun Summer Activities)

When my girls were younger, there were many things they had to be taught to do versus just soaking it in from bearing witness.

For example, tying their shoes. I don't know about you, but my kids didn't learn to tie their shoes just by living in a house where shoes were being tied. We had to show them repeatedly, and patiently, giving them tricks to remember the exact steps and praising their success.

I would like very much to not talk about the fact my children -- both officially middle school students -- will wander around with their shoelaces flapping in the wind. (In fact, just the other day, I noticed the 13-year-old had shoe strings untied, so I stood on one of them while she wasn't paying attention. When she started to walk away and was abruptly snatched back to my side, do you know I didn't even have to say "TIE YOUR SHOES" ?!!  She instinctively understood the message. Parenting can be so rewarding.)

What's that phrase about leading a horse to water? Yeah.

So this may be a giant waste of my time, but this summer, I am spending a little extra time teaching them things that to me seem intuitive, but really aren't. Things like:

How to clean out and organize a junky drawer.
How to clean a bathroom.
How to dust and vacuum a living room.
How to organize your time so you get to the fun stuff ... while making sure you get chores done, too.
How to make a bet for maximum return without losing your pants. (The three of us played this game last night while Jake is out of town. We love it. I did a fantastic job teaching them, obviously, since one of them beat me handily. Look out Vegas, here we come.)

As evidenced by the photo above, there are some common-sensical items that are to be covered, too.

Anywho, if I'm not posting quite as often this summer, please do forgive me. I'm trying to teach the future generation that very often, that missing swimsuit can be located in the suitcase you forgot to unpack. It's very time consuming.

XO --

Margaritaville (or why my daughter almost tore her nose off with a pitcher)

I have a few stories to record for posterity. Mostly because my kids say "Mom, don't you remember??" about 1,000 times per day, so I assume I'm losing my memory and my mind. I figure here is as good a place as any to tell these stories. Please resist the urge to report us to family services.

My husband and I are not big drinkers. My husband mostly abstains because he is convinced every possible health ailment, including hearing loss and freckles, is the direct result of dehydration - and alcohol is dehydrating.  I bet the man hasn't had two beers this entire calendar year. I love the occasional glass of wine, but have to counteract my wine allergy with a Benadryl. Or two. So, wine + Benadryl = ...

I'll let you do the math on that one.

Anywho, we don't keep a lot of alcohol lying about the house. If you'd like a festive mixed drink at my house, we'll be forced to open a bottle of whiskey we received as a wedding shower gift 17 years ago. Also, we'd have nothing to mix it with. BYOB, people.

A few years ago, when the girls were about 5 and 7 years old, we were encouraging their increased independence. Little things like fixing their own waffles in the toaster and pouring their own juice out of a little plastic pitcher stored on a reachable shelf in the fridge. They were doing a bang-up job, slapping cereal onto the table and sloshing juice into their glasses like a couple of harried waitresses at a highway diner.

Around this time, my nieces were approaching legal drinking age. Which explains (I hope) why there were lots of questions from my kids about alcohol. "Why can't you drink alcohol before you're 21?" was the favorite query. I answered them as follows:

"First, it's the law. If you are caught drinking before you're 21, you can be arrested and put in jail. Second, if you drink before you're 21, your body isn't ready and you vomit. Usually rather violently. Messy stuff." 

Which, if you think about it, is mostly true. How many underage drinkers do you know who practice steady restraint? We were hammering (haha - pun!) this information into their impressionable minds in the hopes that when the girls were a little older (like the ages they are currently approaching), we would have set a firm foundation that alcohol is to be treated with the same respect afforded a sleeping cobra: best left alone, if not feared outright.

On Memorial Day that year, we had a group of friends over for a cookout. It was a lovely day. We milled about, chatting into the evening hours, the kids playing in the backyard doing lovely things like catching fireflies (I can't remember for sure, so let's assume the fireflies thing. It sounds right.) There were hamburgers, and beverages, lots of great conversations and tired kiddos by the end of the night. It was one of those rare occasions we actually had alcoholic beverages on hand and were forcibly feeding them to our guests.

Fast-forward to the next evening. I'm fixing the girls something to drink with their dinner. I pour some juice out of the pitcher front and center in the fridge, only to immediately realize the juice was actually some leftover margarita we'd served the evening before. I said "whoops! That's not apple juice, that's margarita!" and poured the remainder down the sink.

When I turn around, the 7-year-old is doing the silent horror cry. You know the one: face red, shoulders heaving, tears streaming, no sound. "Baby, what's wrong?" I asked.

"Momma, I DRANK THAT MARGARITA THIS MORNING FOR BREAKFAST. I THOUGHT IT WAS JUICE!"

To recap: my second-grade daughter kicked off summer with TEQUILA -- for breakfast.

As you can imagine, I was horror-stricken. Images of my sweet baby stumbling around at 7 a.m. like a height-challenged drunk at a frat party pop into my head. I think I hear sirens, most likely carrying Drug Enforcement Agency officials and Mrs. Hannigan, who will take my children to an orphanage for children whose parents let them consume hard liquor in the morning in lieu of milk and cereal.

"How much did you drink?" I asked, starting to hyperventilate. She was crying like she was coming off a ten-day drunk, so I assumed the worst and prayed she hadn't drunk-dialed her grandmothers before I was even out of bed.

"I took one drink and thought it was rotten, so I poured it down the sink," she replied, dropping her face into her hands and sobbing louder.

"So you only had one sip?"

"Yes ma'am, and it tasted so bad I spit it right out!"

"Oh! Wait, if you didn't really drink any, why are you still crying?"

"Are the police going to arrest me for drinking alcohol before I turn 21??!!" she shrieks.

Now she is genuinely hysterical, a wild look in her eye like she might try to outrun the law if I reach for the phone. I paused for effect, as though considering what path I should take.

"Sweetheart, not this time," I said, giving her a benevolent look. She was quite relieved I wasn't going to have her thrown her in jail. I was able to explain away the "why didn't I vomit?" since she didn't really drink any, but warned her that was awful close. And that I'd make sure I didn't store alcoholic beverages in the same pitchers daddy mixed apple juice in anymore. Ahem.

She remained traumatized for some time, so we'd have to sneak off if we were going to snicker about the situation. The story could only be told in hushed tones. It was a while before she thought it was funny when my sister would call and sing "wasted away again in Margaritaville! Searchin' for my lost shaker of salt!"

So a few weeks ago, when the same child, now 13-years-old, was holding her nose and seeing stars because she'd pummeled herself in the face with a pitcher, I should have probably expected the "what happened?!?" answer:

"I hit myself in the nose because I had to smell the juice to make sure I wasn't about to ACCIDENTALLY SERVE MYSELF A MARGARITA."

Touché.

Source: thinkgarnish.com via Leslie on Pinterest

The Last Day of Elementary School

After Spring Break I came to the equally delightful and horrifying realization that my baby was in her last few weeks of elementary school. I started sneakily snapping pictures as she was leaving for school in an attempt to chronicle the mundane, everyday task that was leading to this momentous event. The task that would cease forever, morphing into leaving for middle school each morning in August.

But all I turned out were these blurry images of her whisking away into her day. (This has nothing to do with the fact these images were taken pre-coffee, I am certain.) Grainy, unfocused, ghostly images chronicling the passage of time.

The images are a little like a fall day ... the ones where first thing in the morning when you step outside you can see your breath, just a little, but later in the day, you've long ago shed your sweater and you realize you're getting a little sunburn and  it seems like another lifetime when you proclaimed with slight shock "I can see my breath!"

I feel the same way about this week, about this child. Her last week of elementary school. My last child in elementary school. I feel 1,000 years old.

She's a ghost of the girl who when I took her to the kindergarten placement tests proudly proclaimed "I can read chapter books!" (She could, and I promise I did nothing to provoke this.)

A shadow of the kid whose kindergarten assistant teacher relayed (with much amusement) Hadley's story at share time, while the other kids talked about new shoes and soccer games, "this weekend my family is going to Knoxville for a football game ... but we really just go for the tailgating!"

Or when the same teacher found my child in the cafeteria having stabbed a Salisbury steak through the center and gnawing it around the edges like a gravy and meat popsicle. A phantom of the one who would burst with pride when she was the line leader, or had a speaking part in the play, or received a compliment from her teacher on excellent classwork.

But was it really that long ago? Seems like yesterday. Seems like forever.

Her older sister says "you're famous at middle school! Everyone knows you, even the teachers, even the boys, and they all LOVE you!" (I have a love/hate relationship with this comment.)

But then, somewhere inside the young lady who is now nearly as tall as me, resides that little kindergarten girl. Bursting with pride while doing the fifth-grade version of being the line leader as a member of Safety Patrol and student council. Performing on that same stage with 20 memorized lines in a Shakespeare production, or singing and dancing with her friends in the talent show.

And would you believe, that same kindergarten teacher ... the one who recorded her reading aloud and posted it online ... is one of her fifth grade teachers? And nearly caused that young lady to burst with pride and excitement just last week by complimenting her writing ability and encouraging her to grow this talent? Talk about full circle.

She may be taller. She may pack her own lunch to avoid cafeteria food requiring spearing. Now we share books, passing them back and forth and dissecting them later like a book club for two. I like to believe we're both older ... and wiser.

Let this be known: she can grow to be 6 feet tall and be the leader of the free world if she so chooses. Matters not. She will always be my baby, that little birdie with the bob haircut and big bow, the tiny Chiclets-size teeth and backpack full of well-worn Magic Treehouse books, saying "you know whaaaattttttt?" anytime she needed to buy a little time to fill the silence. (She still does this sometimes.)

It's the nice thing about being a mom. We may forget where we put the car keys, or to pick up the dry cleaning, but we never, ever forget our babies from when they were babies. Even when they do us the wild disservice of growing into lovely, independent young adults heading off to middle school.

Get ready world ... here she comes.