BlissMom

Red, red wine

2010-04-12T17:23:00.000-07:00

I spent my 13^th wedding anniversary wiping blood of my child’s hands. We were playing bocce ball and Truman had thrown himself on Rick’s back, full spread eagle in the air, after I proclaimed war – us against Daddy – in what was shaping up to be an impossible battle. Upon coming down, my precious son landed on Rick’s rear and, swinging his arm around his waist, made contact with Rick’s glass of red wine. The glass bowl shattered on contact, sending a splash of red wine over Rick’s pressed, white shirt, and an icing sprinkle of glass over the green grass. My son melted in tears as a faint red line appeared on his hand. It grew into a drip and then a line that flowed ever so gently over his other hand, into the creases of his knuckle. I wiped it off with the tail of my 30-A T-shirt. If it stained, it wouldn’t matter. Rick threw the box of Band-aids down from upstairs, and I set off to mend a broken spirit with stretchy beige bandage.

He said, “But there is blood all around me,” and it mixed with the rich, red wine that covered his hands. I said blood was good. It is what binds us together. Makes him ours and only ours. Had it not been for that night 13 years ago, when I gave my life to his father’s, there would be no Truman bleeding here, in my arms, in the soft patch green of our backyard. At 6, this is still so strange for him to understand.

We walked to the house to clean the blood, now dried in brown streaks on his hand. Rick stopped him on the deck steps, and there Truman stopped to settle on his father’s knee. I rubbed the wet cloth over my son’s dirty hands, then pressed it against the fresh blood on my husband’s. “He was happy when he did it, you know?” I said. Rick nodded, “Yeah, I know. I know.” And there, with blood and red wine flowing over us, I kneeled down to kiss my husband. “What a glorious anniversary, my love,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “It really is.”

How do you write?

2010-03-09T07:47:00.000-08:00

A Pulitzer Prize winner once told me that he hates writing. He does, however, love having written. I’m trying to tell this to 25 Kindergarteners. An hour earlier, while driving my son to school, he tells me writing stories is not what Community Helpers do. Community Helpers, like the ones lined up to speak to all the Kindergarteners at his school this week, do things like put out fires and make sick children feel better and, you know, talk on TV.

I say, “People pay me to write stories for them. This gives us money to buy your lunches and your HotWheels.” He says, “Oh.”

But I am here, with a short stack of books and magazines under my arm, staring at 25 pairs of impatient eyes who would rather I read to them than talk about what I do. I hold up Kate McMullan's book, “I Stink.” She was at the school last week and the kids adored her. Truman says, “She looks like Grandma, but she’s only 29!” Only 29, and already a popular author. What have I done with my life?

I don’t write stories 6-year-olds would find entertaining. I write about sudden and unintentional acceleration. I tell stories about people who had reactions to medications that left them jerking out of control. I write about women who sue birth control pill makers for blood clots and strokes.

And sometimes I write about my son.

“How do you write?” This question comes after a lengthy pause from one of my son’s favorite friends, who had his arm waving in the air from the moment I started speaking. I want to tell him that sometimes it’s easy. That the words spill out of me when I’m trying to sleep or make breakfast for my son. That sometimes I have to run to the computer to get it all out before the words fall on the floor and disappear forever. And this is when writing is a joy.

But sometimes my mind is silent, and I have to listen for the whispers. I have to coax the words to come, like I did when Coco was a scared kitten, hiding in the bushes where she was tossed by someone who didn’t want her. Sometimes they stay hidden, and I have to leave them be until they are ready to be heard.

But instead I look across the room at the little heads before me, futures of promise brimming just underneath their soft hair. “How do I write?" I say. "Why, I type on the computer.”

But, I love him too much

2010-02-24T06:36:00.000-08:00

My sister told me it would get easier to handle – that painful, pathetic love I have for my child that debilitates me sometimes. I think I love my son too much, and I am told it is not possible. My sister’s girls are grown now – or close to it. The teenager is old enough to fend for herself and badgers her mother for money and more privileges. (A typical teen?) My sister rolls her eyes at her, fusses sometimes. I said, “Does it stop feeling painful, that love you have for them?” She said, “Yeah. It’ll stop hurting someday. When they get older, more independent.”

I think that’s when I’ll worry about him more. Will he make the right choices? Will he hang out with the right crowd? Will he stay safe for me?

I didn’t always make the right choices when I was a teenager or even a young adult. I’m not sure my choices now are the best, but everything I do has new life because of him. I breathe because of him.

Last night my son had dinner at his grandparents’ house while Rick and I caught a quick bite at Gianmarco’s before Rick went to soccer coach training and I went to a reception to get roped into PTO obligations I both want to and don’t want to jump into. We sat at the bar next to three people, one of whom we were already acquainted. Like conversations at bars often do, our words tangled together and it wasn’t long before we were talking artichokes and brunch and Natalee Holloway. I had watched the rerun of the TLC special about Natalee on TV the other night and, coincidentally, there are new reports that the primary suspect in the case may have confessed on German TV. I shared the same empathy for Natalee’s mother as the woman next to me. I said, “I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t.” And she said she couldn’t either. Not even now that her son – an only child – is in his 30s. She said they talk on the phone or text each other everyday. They always say, “I love you.”

“I thought it got easier,” I said. “I thought that painful, pathetic love for your child got easier when they grew up.”

“No,” she said. “It gets worse.”

Benefits of Entering Writing Contests

2010-01-27T10:36:00.000-08:00

Three years before my midlife crisis swelled up and pushed me out of my torturous day job writing press releases for a nonprofit, I sat in my office with a girl I helped hire to raise money for our organization. We were throwing out crazy dreams we had failed to accomplish in our 30-something years. It was mostly she who was doing the talking, telling me how her “old money” upbringing was to have landed her at The Club every day playing tennis and lunching, but she felt compelled to stoop down and lift up those of us who had to work for a living. I leaned back in my office chair, there in the windowless office I affectionately called “the cave,” and admitted that my long lost dream was to write again.

Perhaps it was naive of me to think she would be impressed or even slightly supportive. Instead she perked up and yelped, “Me too! And I know the book I would write. It would be about growing up in Mountain Brook and how I thought we were poor because we had to go to The Club to go swimming.”

That was the very moment I realized that in order to be a writer again (I had written for newspapers for 10 years before getting sucked into PR), I would have to write again. And as long as I remained closed in an office tracking media impressions, I would be just the same kind of writer as my shallow coworker – a writer wannabe.

I have a lot of resentment for writer wannabes. Writing seems easy. We all have ideas and dialogs that float through our minds while showering or trying to sleep. We think one day we’ll get around to recording those thoughts. But it is not until we actually sit down to compose a story that we realize just how difficult it is to capture that voice, that nuance, that feeling you got when that story floated freely through your thoughts.

To make a long story short, I quit my job in August 2007. (It took another 6 months for me to leave the joint, but mentally, I was already gone. And in that time, my freelance business was slowly beginning to take off.) What I quickly realized is that though I had worked as a writer for 10 years, the following 10 years stuffed in an office writing drab press releases about the walk-a-thon-du-jour sucked the creative writing juices out of me. It was like riding a bike, though. Those first few pedals felt clumsy and I wavered a bit, but the basics gradually came back. What I realized then was that my writing had been pigeonholed by the same newspaper editors who hammered traditional newspaper writing style into my brain. Magazine writing required a more gentle hand, and to learn how to broaden my style I sought out the master of beautiful writing, Pulitizer Prize winning author (and visiting professor in creative narrative nonfiction at the University of Alabama) Rick Bragg. As a student in that class, I was able to sit next to Bragg and have my stories critiqued line-by-line. I also welcomed other editors’ comments of my work whenever they were willing to offer it. And I submitted my published magazines stories (there was only one in the calendar year 2007) to a local writing contest. I entered one of the most populated categories, knowing I likely wouldn’t win or even place. What I craved was the comments from the judges. Sounds strange, I know, but I was – and in many ways, still am – hungry for any opportunity to become the writer I always dreamed of becoming. After all, I had lost 10 years on my writing goal by swimming in the sea of public relations. (And Lord knows, I am still far from obtaining that goal.)

Needless to say, I didn’t place in that competition. And when I got my entry back, the only comment the lone judge offered was, “this sucks.” OK, maybe not that exactly. More like “doesn’t make sense.” It left me both baffled and frustrated. What part didn’t make sense? The lead? The same lead that Rick Bragg had called “beautiful”? (I had rewritten that story as one of my papers in his class, but kept the lead.)

This is the second year I have been saddled with heading up a writing competition for the group I’m affiliated with, Alabama Media Professionals (AMP). First-place winners from this local competition move up to compete in the National Federation of Professional Women (NFPW) contest. Last year I floundered trying to figure out the process. This year I have a better idea what I’m doing and I’ve initiated some changes.

The first was convincing our president to look at the competition as a professional development opportunity. Our members are all writers – most of them freelancers. Just as doctors are required to take continuing education credits, we should be, too. Lord knows the media business has changed tremendously over the years. And with that, so has writing styles to conform to different audiences and new platforms, like the Internet.

With our president’s blessing on changing the perception of the contest, I went to work on the judges. First, more than one judge will review each entry. It makes no sense for one judge to be the sole voice in deciding whether an entry is or is not qualified to compete in the national competition. Secondly, the judges are strongly urged to offer a written critique of every piece they read. Meager comments like “this sucks” just won’t suffice.

I realize by doing this I may be scaring away some participants. Constructive criticism isn’t easy, but how can we be expected to grow as writers – or in any field – if we don’t open ourselves up to other opinions and perspectives?

The contest deadlines February 11, 2010, and so far I’ve received no entries. Surely members are saving them up for our next meeting, which coincides with the contest deadline. We’ll see.

Whether or not you are a member of AMP, or even if you don’t live within the great state of Alabama, you are welcome to enter our writing competition. The more entries, the more opportunity for us writers to learn from others. For more information about the 2010 Alabama Media Professionals Communications Contest, visit the official Web site at AlabamaMediaProfessionals.com.

She married at the courthouse!

2010-01-08T15:55:00.000-08:00

My sister got married today. There was no white wedding dress or gauzy veil. No overdone bridesmaids or hung-over groomsmen. No lavish rings or candlelit church. Just the two of them – my new brother-in-law and my sister – with the justice of the peace. She wore my mother’s wedding band, but otherwise, none of us were there. Not our father. Not me. Not her two daughters or his son. They even drove separate cars to the courthouse.

And I believe it was perhaps one of the most beautiful ceremonies.

My father called it “lovely.” This, the nuptials he didn’t see. I had to agree. It was a second wedding for them both. They had each married the wrong person before. Those unions gave them darling children. There is nothing to regret with that. And because Craig is the father of my nieces, I will always have a special bond with my sister’s ex-husband even though we almost never speak.

But my new brother-in-law, Dave, is the “meant to be,” that missing piece that completes lives. I know this; I married mine. My friends know this about me, about us. That Rick closed a drafty window in my heart. It has sheltered me from cold and wind and has been my shield against the intermittent pains that have rained down on me through the years. My father knows this completeness, too. My parents had this bond, and when my mother died, my Dad floundered until he found Anni. She grounded him again.

I had sensed it a million times since that year my sister admitted trouble in her first marriage and through all the inadequate men that blew into our Christmas gatherings and Easter dinners since. She still hadn’t found it, her “meant to be.” That’s the thing; You know when you have it.

The month before she met Dave, Heather sat on my couch and said she was giving up. She was taking her profile off the Internet dating site. She was going to take a break from men, heal her heart, find her soul, be her own missing piece, because sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking we can make that fit. And then came Dave. It seems love always happens when you least expect it.

I used to think all good weddings deserved big church productions and extravagant parties. I now know better. Love surpasses crinoline and lace and cases of champagne. It lasts longer than something old and something blue. It grows in hearts and minds and souls, and when it is right, it fills all the in-betweens.

And that, well, that is just meant to be.

Calgon, Take me away!

2010-01-05T06:52:00.000-08:00

We had barely cleared the house of pine needles and fake cranberries that my cat had bitten off the garland when Rick says he wants to buy me something. He has just set the iPod to play some sexy jazz, made a fire, and is sauntering up to me with dreamy eyes and a low-ball of three cubes of ice and a splash of Christmas-gift, single barrel, aged appropriately bourbon. He looks like one of those old-time actors who’d wear smoking jackets and grip cocktails and sit in rooms with cozy fires and flanked with bookcases. Well, three out of four isn’t bad – Rick’s wearing a Gap hoodie. I am saddled up to the kitchen counter making a dinner of I-don’t-remember-what and trying to keep Truman away from raw meat juices and sharp utensils. He says he wants to make dessert and he is pulling my largest pot out of the cabinet, lid and all. He sets it on the cooktop and then opens the pantry, stands in front of it like I often do, wondering what he can use for his masterpiece. This is when Rick glides up to the kitchen island. He says he wants to buy me something and I have to put him on pause or else Truman would try to rappel the pantry shelving and grab the sugar, and we all know what a disaster sugar on the floor makes. I pull out some jumbo marshmallows and some sugar sprinkles, and that satisfies him enough. He pulls the stepstool over to the (unlit) stovetop and starts dumping. Rick starts to speak again and Truman interrupts that by banging through the ultra messy spoon-and-spatula drawer and pulling out three items to stir his mixture.

“I want to do something nice for you for Valentine’s Day,” my romantic of a husband says.

“But you got me everything on my list,” I say, which is true. Everything, except for the bike, which he, understandably, said I’d have to go to the bike store and select on my own, and maybe I should wait until spring and he’d get one, too.

“No, I..,” he says, and as I try to tell him that between Christmas overindulgences and the unexpected four-figure car repair and the six-month car insurance premium that's come due, we need to engage in some financial recovery, but Truman is grabbing my arm now. Seems he’s been trying to get a word in edgewise (imagine!) but Rick and I just keep talking. He needs something for the dessert he’s making. He’s pulling my arm, wailing at the top of his lungs, “I need something from the oil group, Mommy. From the oil group! I need something!”

And Rick says, “… want to get you something…,” and Truman is pulling and I drag him to the pantry, and Rick pivots as we pass, and I pull out the olive oil bottle which is almost empty. I hand that to Truman and turn to Rick and Truman is pulling my arm again. “Not olive oil!” and I say, “but it’s from the oil group,” and Rick is saying, “…indulgent,” and just then it hits me like a ton of bricks. What I want. No, what I need.

“Spa,” I manage to say above the John Coltrane coming through the speakers and the 6-year-old tap-tap-tapping on the edge of the pot and the simmering veggies that need sautéing and the ice clicking in Rick’s low-ball and the wine glass next to me that must be refilled. “Spa gift certificate, please, and at least two hours to sit in the quiet room and eat that almond-and-cranberry mixture and drink sparkling water and sip that herbal tea that tastes better there than at my home and read a book and be away from everything. Like, ‘Calgon, take me away.’”

And Rick nods. I think he understands.

Finding a reason for the season

2009-12-28T06:46:00.000-08:00

In the days just before the birthday-Thanksgiving-Christmas chaos we like to call the Celebration Season, I got a most touching letter that helped put the spirit of these holidays into perspective for me. The story of the letter dates six months earlier, when I was trying to decide how to recognize the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s death. For some reason I felt it should be marked by my doing something that kept her memory here on earth. I mentioned this to a friend whose mother had died a few years ago. She said she called the anniversary of her mother’s death Dead Moms Day and did things her mother loved – like eat ice cream and drink her mother’s favorite wine.

I couldn’t think of a favorite food of my mother’s, and wasn’t in the mood to sip Beafeaters. I think it was Rick who suggested making a donation to a nonprofit in her memory. But which one? My mother was a juvenile defender in Memphis. That means, she defended kids whose families could not afford a lawyer. She assisted with custody battles and misdemeanors. She even defended kids against murder. She called the ones she defended, “my kids,” and she truly cared about them. She mentioned several times wanting to invite some over for Thanksgiving dinner, and my sister and I in our ignorance would simply roll our eyes. She never got the opportunity to make that dinner for “her kids.”

I did some research and learned that in Birmingham the Department of Youth Services has a campus dedicated to rehabilitating young men who have gotten into trouble. I called and talked with several people there, explaining that I wanted to make a small donation, and finally reached Kennedy, who was almost speechless at my offer. Vacca Campus isn’t a “charity” in the true sense of the word and its funds are greatly restricted. But donations, while rare, were accepted and appreciated. He said he would find a way to put mine to use. I mailed the check on June 18, 2009, the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s death, and while Kennedy said he would let me know how the money was put to use, I didn’t expect to hear from him. I knew his work and that of the others at Vacca Campus was hard and often under appreciated. He owed me nothing but a promise that he would make my donation mean something special for the boys. That was all I needed I needed to know.

Just days after Thanksgiving, at the height of our Celebration Season, in the midst of Christmas parties at my son’s school and in our home, I received a letter from Kennedy. I expected it to be an acknowledgement of my donation, but it was so much more.

On behalf of the students and staff at Vacca Campus, we would like to express our appreciation for your generous contribution in honor of your mother. We would like to apologize for our delay in sending you a letter of appreciation. Man people outside of this line of work will never know who challenging, dangerous, and frustrating a career with youth can be with oftentimes limited results. With resources stretched thin and prorated budgets, your donation could not have come at a better time.

We immediately began debating the best use of the funds you provided. One thought was an outside volleyball court but we already have a gym where we can play volleyball. There were other discussions as to the best use of the funds. Finally we decided to use the money to help fund our yearly Fall Festival held in our school gym on October 30, 2009. I regret that we were unable to invite you due to legal restraints but I can assure you that all the students enjoyed the festival. Your donation went toward an eventful day including a basketball tournament between dorms, which the winning dorm received a pizza party. Also we were able to buy popcorn for our popcorn maker and provide the students with barbecue chicken and all the fixings. Our students rarely get charcoal grilled chicken. Also, the dormitory with the best decorations won a pizza party.

The festival was a big success and the students were very grateful. On behalf of the Department of Youth Services and especially the 80-plus students on our campus, we want to thank you again for the monetary donation you gave in honor of your mother.

I read the letter out loud to my husband, breaking up a bit because I’m pathetic that way. My mother never got to host a handful of “her boys” at the house for Thanksgiving, but in a way she was able to give those 80-plus boys at Vacca Campus some holiday joy. And that was worth every penny of my small donation.

The raw truth about cookie dough

2009-12-23T06:30:00.000-08:00

We made the Original Nestle Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookies last night because that’s what my family did during the holidays when I was a girl. In years past since growing up I’ve tried to replicate the tradition but there was always some wrench that would get thrown into the plan, like my son’s hands. So I’d settle for some of those slice-and-bake Nestle chocolate chip cookies, which looked better and tasted just as good but weren’t based on principal, just because no one in the house had actually labored over each and every ingredient and made a mess of the counter in the process.

So this year I laid out all the ingredients and I even set out two separate bowls - one for the dry ingredients and one for the wet, though when I was a kid we just started combining the wet and then threw in the dry ingredients without regard to mixing them first. This year, before the wet ingredients were thoroughly combined, Truman asked if he could lick the “spinners” He said, “Ashley and Mollie (my sister’s older girls) let me eat the batter when I made cookies with them last year.” Rick and I answered at the same time. “Yes/No.” It was I who said yes. Rick looked over his shoulder. “You sure?” Well, yeah. I mean, this is the man who eats carpaccio and ceviche and sushi and raw oysters and who orders his meat and fish medium rare and his eggs with runny yokes. (What’s that called? Over easy? Sunnyside up? I never learned that.) He even laps up the Old-Fashioned Walker Family Egg Nog, which is nothing but raw eggs and booze. I said, “Haven’t you ever eaten cookie dough?” He said, “Uh huh. I guess so.” You guess so? Guess so? If you have to guess, you obviously haven’t because any cookie-dough-eater knows that the dough actually tastes better than the actual cookies. (Maybe that’s why they were named “cookies,” so that those who made the confection would carry through to the last step and “cook” them.)

Rick raised his lone Jack Nicholson eyebrow at me and shook his head as Truman lapped up the batter that contained raw egg. That was his warning that if Truman spent the entire night hugging the porcelain god, it was my job to sit by and manage it since it was I who got him into that mess. Fine. I’ve been consuming cookie dough probably yearly since I was old enough to walk. Never once did I get salmonella poisoning. What, exactly, changed in eggs to make them more lethal than when I was a little girl?

A risk? Sure, but to even the playing field I swallowed down a few wads of dough. I figured if Truman spent the next morning throwing chunks, rather than sitting by feeling bad about it, I could join in on the misery.

Fast forward to this morning. I’m not sick and neither is Truman. We’re going to make gingerbread men today. Not sure that batter is any good, but we’ll taste-test it to be sure. Rick? Well, he can just stand by and wiggle that Jack Nicholson brow.

Cookbooks make the best gifts!

2009-12-20T14:49:00.001-08:00

We picked Truman up early from school Friday and headed to Memphis for the annual Walker-Warren Christmas dinner. We had much cause to celebrate – my sister got engaged. “The missing piece,” my father said. Translation: we don’t have to worry about her anymore. Well, I suppose we’ll always worry about each other, but you know … So we load Truman in the car with his backpack and his rest towel (home for washing) and his Spiderman lunchbox and he is talking nonstop, like he does when he is truly excited. He is thrilled about seeing the family and the presents he will receive later in the evening, but most of all he is excited because he has made us a gift and, he says, “It’s Ok, I decided you can open it now.” Meaning right now, because he cannot even wait for me to get buckled, so I reach around to the backseat and grab the package that’s wrapped in paper he decorated himself. I’ve seen my share of daycare-made gifts before so I was expecting to gush at whatever adorable painting or photo or ornament it was, but by God, his teacher flat-out floored me with this one. It was a cookbook made up or recipes thought up by each child. The kids wrote out their recipes, then typed them into the computer and then drew a picture to accompany it. The teachers did some minor translation. It was just about the cutest and most heart warming thing I believe I’ve ever laid eyes on. Honest.

Some recipes were for Froot Loops (which, thankfully, the teacher had translated to be spelled correctly rather than by the name on the box) or Lucky Charms. Some had hamburgers or spaghetti. My darling son’s recipe was for Marshmallow Mash.

We were told during Kindergarten orientation that they would be teaching the kids to spell phonetically and that we may not understand what our children have written, but this phonetic spelling helps them become better writers and readers. Considering I never learned phonics as a child and I am a severely poor speller, I thought the practice ingenious.

My son was so truly proud of the cookbook that he had me read the entire book – recipes and all – to him right then and there in the car. He also pored through it a few dozen times before we made it to our destination. Then he took it straight to Grandma and showed off his fine work, and later showed the book off to the rest of the family. He had us read it to him as a bedtime story, and the minute we got home he wanted to make a recipe from the book. “It will either be my recipe or someone else’s,” he said. And, big surprise, he landed on Marshmallow Mash. Amazingly, we had all ingredients on hand and I let Truman prepare his super sweet concoction. He devoured proudly.

We’re going to tape him on the Flip the next time he makes it because it’s just about the cutest damn thing you’ll ever see. And yes, I’m being frightfully biased, but it’s a mother’s license to gloat and your right to ignore it.

Happy cooking.

Victoria's Secret for kids

2009-12-11T02:00:00.000-08:00

Rick got a call from a former co-worker. She said one of her new co-workers had seen him in Victoria’s Secret with a little boy. The woman was mortified. As if my husband, who, by the way, is somewhat recognizable in the community, is some pedophile. By taking him into a popular lingerie store would taint him. (Never mind that a former and now re-elected councilman in my town once tried to get VS to take those naughty panties out of its display windows!) Truth be told, Truman wants every Christmas, for whatever reason, to buy me fuzzy, furry pajamas and Rick always takes him through VS. I always end up with sweat/PJs outfits with PINK on the leg or bum. Love them. I don’t see how my son wading through VS is an issue.

Rick asked if I had a problem with it. If it was a bad thing to do with a 6-year-old. He said they stayed in the PJ area and at one point Truman trotted off to another table where he leaned over the rainbow of thongs and pulled the blue ones – because blue is his favorite color – and yelped loudly through the intimate apparel store, “Daddy! Let’s get this for Mommy! This is so awesome!” He had a blue thong stretched out across two thumbs and was eyeing them with incredible wonder, and my husband, that recognizable figure I mentioned earlier, demanded he drop the thongs and march right back to the PJs. No amount of “but Daddy”’s swayed my husband, and ultimately they moved on. Or I think they did. There is a rather large box under the tree from Truman and I suspect my husband is smart enough not to gift a pair of panties to me from our darling son. Only time will tell.

So he is wondering if it was so bad for a 40-something man to take his 6-year-old son into VS for a shopping trip for Mommy. I say no. What say you?

Why you should stop bitching and be thankful

2009-12-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

I have another reason for feeling good about life in general right now. (See previous post.) I’m healthy. I may not look healthy, as I’ve got plenty of pounds to shed and stuffing my face with holiday confections and gallons of wine isn’t helping matters. But I have no major health concerns. I suppose I was taking it for granted when my friend Robin, on the way back from Target to pick up one of her prescriptions last week, said, “You’re not fat. You’re healthy. And you’re so lucky for that.” God, did I feel like a pig or what? Robin has pancreatic cancer. The “good kind,” if that even makes sense. She’s at the three-years-post-diagnosis mark and while she has remained cancer-free since surgery to remove half her pancreas (and some other assorted, somewhat unnecessary organs), the past three years have been littered with various health complications. When I was driving her around last week she was one-day post some sort of freaky down-the-esophagus procedure to drain fluid buildup in her liver-pancreas area. The fluid was making what was left of her pancreas miserable (she says, “you would be pissed, too, if you had been sitting in a bath for three years,”) and was pushing against her stomach causing a kind of gastric bypass effect. Essentially, she couldn’t keep much food down. While good for the diet, it was not so good for overall health. She’s lost what I’ve gained these past 10 years I’ve known her. Anyway, she couldn’t drive for 24 hours, and I was ahead on my weekly workload, so I chauffeured her around to two different Targets to fill a prescription while she wobbled a bit and carried a plastic shopping bag just in case she needed to puke what little she had eaten that day.

I suppose being around Robin somehow reminded me of Melisa Waller. I had found her blog while Googling recent news on the blood thinner heparin and cancer for the blogs I write for Beasley Allen Law Firm. Her blog is hosted by EmpowHer and the picture of her shows her lying in a hospital bed. I would read one or two of her posts before heading back to my heparin searches. Melissa started writing in February 2009, just weeks after she was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. She was 31. Since I had moved on to other subjects from researching heparin for the law firm I hadn’t encountered her blog lately. Last weekend, after my Target excursion with Robin, I thought of Melissa and started to worry about her. Freaky to worry about someone you never met. Anyway, she had said in her blog that the average lifespan for someone with her type of cancer at stage 4 is 14 months. So I think my concern was with merit. When I finally located her on EmpowHer, I saw she had a recent post, so that was a relief. Then I started reading her blog, beginning with the first one she wrote in February. I’ve been reading it these past few days on my iPhone at night when I can’t sleep, in carpool line, and when I have fragments of time during my day that I need to occupy. For someone who’s facing a life sentence, Melissa sure doesn’t seem very oppressed by it. I swear I think I’d cry everyday and then try to blame everyone and everything. I’m not sure what fascinates me so much about her blog (and I went so far as to visit her personal Web site, theMellisaWaller.com), but this girl is in quite a fight.

I’m about halfway through her blog and when I catch up to current time, I’m going to send her a message. Not sure what I’ll say. What do you say to someone you’ve been stalking simply because you find her personal story so compelling? Hope she doesn’t think I’m a freak, but since I have stalked her, I feel like I need to, you know, fess up. But also let her know I’m thinking about her, pulling for her. And, frankly, hope never to experience what she is going through. Since February, she has been in the hospital more than a month, maybe more. Had several visits to the emergency room. Been doubled-over in pain, daily. Had two blood clots. Three surgeries to “cement” her spine back together. Fluid drained from her lung. And numerous setbacks in her chemotherapy sessions, treatments that could extend her life but yet are postponed because her life keeps getting kicked in the ass by cancer.

Last night I read several of Melissa’s postings on my iPhone as Rick slept quietly next to me. In the May 26^th post, titled “Staying Strong,” Melissa finally expressed what I was feeling for her. “I was talking with Wes today and I was just telling him how I miss my old life. I miss the fast-paced lifestyle that I used to live. I miss planning for the future. I miss being intimate. I REALLY MISS driving! I miss eating a meal without having to give myself a shot in my stomach or taking a cupful of pills. I miss working out and doing pilates and yoga at the Village. I miss being able to go to Postino's and having a couple of glasses of wine without worrying if I am going to wake up the next day. There are many, many things that I miss about my life prior to lung cancer.”

And then she said, “That’s why I hope you as you read this don’t take for granted all the wonderful, daily things that seem simple.”

There. It hit me right at that moment. Reading those words and feeling guilty for bitching about being fat and having to do laundry again and that we have too many Christmas parties to attend this year and not enough time to just sit in a lump of leaves in our backyard. God, I’m so selfish.

I read a few more posts last night before turning off the iPhone. But first, I checked the date, just in case my iPhone cache blanks out and I need to locate my place on her blog. The last post I read was published on June 18,2009, the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s death. I’m not sure that’s significant. Maybe just coincidental. But whatever. It meant something to me.

The Celebration Season

2009-12-09T05:25:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since I posted – my first since leaving BlissTree. It’s been crazy around here. We launched the holiday season as we have for the past six years – with Truman’s birthday party (or birthday, whichever comes first). This celebration of sorts continues for a month … longer, really. Until New Year’s Day. And I am so eager at that point to tear down this messy garland and pick the ornaments off the floor. (I can thank my cats for that this year. Previous years it was partially Truman’s fault.) But we’re halfway through the celebration season and other than suffering a financial blow due to an unexpected four-figure car repair, I’m in great spirits.

I kicked off the celebration season by wallowing in a little pathetic self-pity. My Memphis family was enjoying Thanksgiving together, no doubt spending the evening eating a lavish meal, drinking bottomless glasses of wine, talking loudly about current events and how there is some hope for the miserable economy. Instead, I spent the holiday hosting my husband’s family. They are dear, refined people, and while I love them deeply, we’re just a small group and our midday meal isn’t littered with off-color jokes and talks about how the Republicans are ruining our great country.

And my mother is gone. Dead 10 years now, and I like to throw in some jabs to my already bruised ego by kicking around thoughts of what the holidays would be like if she were still around. I can’t call Anni, my father’s wife, a stepmother. She entered my life when I was too old to need a surrogate one. But she has been a lifesaver to my father, my family. And loves my son as if he were her own. That’s priceless.

So, it was Thanksgiving day and I was wallowing around in that self-pity crap and I had this epiphany. I realized one day Truman would be in college or beyond, and he will call (or text?) and say he will be spending the holidays with his girlfriend or whatever. I’m telling this to my mother-in-law as the turkey I undercooked was back in the oven. I said, “And you know what? It’ll be OK.” She said, “No, it won’t.” I said, “Yes, it will. Because, you know what Rick and I will do? We’ll go to New Orleans. We’ll spend the holiday there. And we’ll look back on days like this when Truman was a kid and we were all together and we’ll remember how special this time is.” And I meant it with such a fever that I swear I almost ran to Google “Thanksgiving in New Orleans” to find the best places to dine and stay. But that can wait. Thing is, I don’t want to spend my entire holidays wishing for what is gone and will no longer be. I want to appreciate the here and now.

And so, this Thanksgiving day the six of us – my family and my husband’s – lined up at the table, and I wasn’t sad for what I was missing out on up in Memphis. (OK, maybe a little jealous.) And I sent a little message to my Mom, sort of a “Thanks for teaching me to love the holidays,” because I must have gotten it from someone. And when everyone went to bed, I grabbed my laptop and Googled “New Orleans.”

Birthday cake tragedy finds happy ending

2009-11-30T12:12:00.001-08:00

You should have seen the birthday cake Rick’s friend made our son for his sixth birthday. We held the party at an indoor soccer field and centered the party on a sports theme with game ticket invitations and goodie bags with miniature soccer balls, footballs, baseballs and basketballs. Rick’s friend made a ball-shaped cake decorated with black and white icing to look exactly like a soccer ball. Way cool. My husband brought the cake home Friday and we left it on the kitchen counter, since he said we didn’t need to refrigerate the cake. We should have known the fate of that cool cake was in jeopardy, as we are prone to mini-disasters whenever we entertain – like dumping the entire bowl of the main dish pasta on the floor or covering guests with fresh-made buttermilk dressing. True to form, when we woke up Saturday morning, that cake was completely covered in ants.

I still didn't get a picture of the cake, but I did capture the chaos of present-opening!

My husband is far more of a germ phobe than I, but he desperately tried blowing on the cake to get the ants off. “Can we save it? Oh, please say we can save it,” he said. I just put my hand on his shoulder and shook my head. Even I knew that we could not win back the cake from 12 dozen tiny ants. So we waged our war by shoving that beautiful and aromatic chocolate fudge cake down the garbage disposal as my son wailed in the background, “Is my soccer ball cake OK?”

This is where my husband and I looked at each other and found a freaky calm. Not to sound preachy, but we have so much to be thankful for, like jobs to pay for a replacement cake. And a happy, healthy little soon-to-be-six-year-old. That’s more than I can say for a lot of people we know.

We were not about to call Rick’s friend to remake that cake. It is our plan for him to never find out. (Wise putting it up on this Web site, eh?) Instead I gave in and called a couple bakeries. I say “gave in” because I’ve been boycotting the first bakery, let’s call it “E’s,” because they fired some longtime baker (who I did not know) because customers had found out he was gay. Yeah, the lawsuit’s pending. Since there are three “E” bakeries in town, my call was routed to a central number to place my order. I gave up on the 3D cake, hoping just to get a round cake with a black-and-white soccer ball pattern colored on the top with buttercream frosting. But this was too high a demand for “E’s,” as I would have had to pick it up that afternoon. Besides, the woman said, those little octagon shapes are too difficult to do in icing? Really? I thought bakers could do anything. At least those wedding cake artists you see on TV can! She said I was welcome to walk into any of the “E” locations and they would be happy to write “Happy Birthday Truman” on a cake already decorated with flowers or balloons. Nah.

I called a second bakery. This one, “S’s,” is actually in a more convenient location for us but parking there is a bear and the sales staff act as if you are annoying them whenever you dare speak to them. But the lady on the phone was nice enough and said they would be happy to do the soccer ball cake, no problem. She said, just so I knew, that the soccer ball design was a rounded pop up. A rounded what? What’s a pop top? A pop top is a plastic top that sits on the cake. You remove it before serving. Not that it really mattered at this point, but the thought of some big plastic pop top on my son’s cake didn’t sound too appetizing to me, so I told her I’d get back to her.

And then my husband suggested I call Publix. I’m not a fan of that whipped icing they put on their pre-made cakes, but my friend Rhoda told me just last week that you can request buttercream when you order a cake there. So I called our local Publix bakery and sure enough the woman who took my order said it was perfectly fine for them to make the top of a 10-inch round cake look like a soccer ball with black-and-white buttercream icing. The only thing is that the cake had to be vanilla, which was fine, but they did put a glob of chocolate fudge filling in the middle, which sufficiently sufficed. The best part is that the bakery is open on Sundays so we arranged for the cake to be picked up on Sunday (unlike the two other bakeries I called, who are not open on Sundays) on the way to the soccer field. That way, cake number 2 wouldn’t even see our house before the party and the ants couldn’t exact revenge on us.

When we unveiled the cake at the birthday party, my son glowed with pride. The cake was devoured. The party went off without (another) hitch. All was well. Still, I can’t help but wonder how truly good that 3D soccer ball cake must have been. I hope the ants enjoyed it. It was, after all, their last supper.

Photo, JWJourney, BlissMom.com

Best Egg Nog Recipe in the World!

2009-11-29T15:41:00.000-08:00

When my mom died and my sister and I divvied up her belongings that my father did not need, I ended up with the coveted “The New Fannie Farmer Boston Cooking-School Cook Book.” It was profoundly sentimental to me because it was the duct-taped book that my parents had used to prepare our world famous Holiday Egg Nog. While the fabulous Walker Family Christmas Eve Party dated back to the early 1970s, the addition of the Holiday Egg Nog did not come to be part of the tradition until I was in high school or college. I’m going to take full credit for adding it to our lineup of Midnight Rum Balls and the Green family’s peanut butter chocolate thingies. I simply said what a great idea it would be to make our own egg nog than buy that nonalcoholic stuff they sell with the milk at the grocery store. And thus the tradition began.

This old Fannie Farmer cookbook was actually my father’s mother’s book. She died, ironically, on Christmas Day when I was a wee kid, but judging from the photos I’ve seen of her, I’m sure she would have enjoyed having a cup or two of the Walker family nog.

There is a science to this egg nog recipe. For starters, it uses raw eggs. I remember when I was a kid and it was OK to lick the cake batter out of the bowl without someone freaking out about salmonella poisoning. I’m not sure what happened to eggs between now and then. But my father, the immunologist, says that the alcohol in our egg nog is enough to kill just about anything in its path. Honestly, this recipe uses enough booze that even my family would warn guests not to smoke near it.

The other odd thing is that this recipe is to be made a week before it is consumed and “store in cool cellar.” We live in Alabama. Our cellar holds wine and is climate controlled, otherwise it would be about 75 degrees this time of year. But, the refrigerator is a fair substitute. And we make room.

I have had two different excellent chefs taste the Walker Family Egg Nog and they both agreed with anyone else who has ever been brave enough to try it. It is excellent. And for those skittish few out there – not a single person has come down with salmonella or any other illness from consuming the raw eggs in this nog. (Think Rocky Balboa in Rocky, the first one.) As for alcohol poisoning, well, I can’t vouch for that.

I’m going to share this recipe, and you’ll thank me if you try it. (I’m not going to type it in because that’s probably a copyright issue. So I’ll just shoot the page.) But if you really want to thank me, then you can visitBlissMom.com after Dec. 1, because at the end of the month I’ll be moving on from the glorious BlissTree. Bittersweet. Meantime, let’s toast to this, the best egg nog recipe you will ever try.

Can You Influence Your Child's Choice in Teams?

2009-11-20T17:22:00.000-08:00

Last weekend we hit another milestone. Truman went to his first Alabama football game. We were offered some posh seats in a skybox with a steady line of tasty snacks and a bottomless cooler of beverages. I suspect our son has been spoiled senseless. Wonder how he’ll react next time when he is forced to sit in the bleachers.

Alabama is my husband’s team. He grew up during the glory days of Bear Bryant, and he still remembers seeing the mighty coach standing on the sidelines or watching him eat Golden Flake potato chips on TV. If you think Alabama fans have put the Bear years behind them, you haven’t met my husband.

My son is an LSU fan. We’re not sure how it happened. Truman pledged his allegiance to the purple-and-gold a few weeks before the 2007 football season. That was the year they took home the national championship. This was when my son was his most clairvoyant. He almost always picked the winning baseball team or Nascar driver. When he predicted Obama would be president long before the Democratic primary, well, it was just freaky.

Here’s how much my husband loves our son – he bought Truman an LSU jersey. Truman wears it from time to time, especially when he and Daddy play football in the yard. Rick is willing to be most any team Truman makes him be, except Tennessee and Auburn. Last week Rick was Iowa. (Truman pronounces it eye-OH-uh.)

Sure, we bought Truman Alabama caps and jerseys even before he was born. We assumed we would raise an Alabama fan simply through osmosis. But for some reason, our son preferred choosing his own favorites. As much as it pains Rick, he is willing to let Truman be his own man when it comes to choosing sports teams. Rick is an avid New York Yankees fan; Truman prefers the Red Sox. Rick loves the Lakers; Truman likes the Celtics.

When we told Truman last week that we were going to see Alabama play LSU, Rick told our darling son that he could wear any jersey he wanted, including his LSU jersey. Truman said, “That’s OK, Daddy. I’m going to wear my Alabama jersey just for you.” My husband gushed with pride.

Those words alone from my psychic son led me to believe that Alabama would continue its winning streak. But at times it was hard to keep the faith. Thankfully, Alabama pulled off the win. Roll Tide!

We drove home that evening with our son strapped in the backseat. He was wearing his Alabama jersey and ROLL TIDE eye blacks, holding a crimson-and-white shaker and a paper hounds tooth hat fan, and shouting “Roll Tide” to passing cars. My husband turned to me, a proud papa, and said, “I think we’ve finally made him a Bama fan.”

Truman suddenly paused from his Bama chants. “You know, Daddy,” he chimed in. “I like Alabama, but I still like LSU more.”

Photo, JWJourney

When to tell Kids about Santa

2009-11-04T17:24:00.000-08:00

When I was 7, I learned the truth about Santa. Sort of.
My friend Emily said Santa was not some jolly old elf who appeared in the night and left presents under the tree, but was really my father who would crawl out of bed and pull toys from the closet. I suppose I knew Emily was telling the truth, but inside I wanted to believe Santa was real.
It was back when my family and I used to eat dinner around the dining room table that I made the announcement to my parents. “I know the truth about Santa. It’s you, Dad. You’re Santa.” My father put his fork down, placed his hands on the table and sighed. “You’re right, kiddo. I am Santa. And it is extremely exhausting getting up late at night, calling together the reindeer, and hitting every house in the world before daylight. But know that you know, perhaps you’ll go to bed a little faster on Christmas Eve so I can leave the house on time.”
It was not the answer I was expecting, but it was a welcome one. I wasn’t ready to let the mystery of Santa fade so quickly. And while I knew deep down that my father wasn’t Santa to the entire planet, it was nice to know that the magic wasn’t gone.
At some point, all kids whose families practice Santa Claus will question the tradition. So, when is the best time to let your kids in on the big secret?
“There’s really no one right time to tell kids that there’s no Santa Claus,” says Glen Elliott, Ph.D. Elliott is an associate professor and the director of the department of child and adolescent psychology at the University of California, San Francisco, in an interview with CNN. “The important thing is to take your cues from the child, and not try to prolong the fantasy for your own enjoyment when they may be ready to give it up.”
Yeah, maybe so. My son will be 6 this Christmas. He hasn’t questioned Santa, but I’m sure that will change now that he is in school. And when he does begin to question the whole idea, I think I’ll go my father’s route and choose the non-denial denial method.

Tips on how to de-stress your holidays

2009-11-03T17:26:00.000-08:00

I used to roll my eyes at people who would get depressed during holidays. Seriously, what was there to be depressed about? And then my mother died. It’s not her absence that upsets me the most. It’s been 10 years since she died and I have learned to live with that void. It’s how our family tradition and togetherness died with her.

I don’t blame my father for that. He has a new life now with a wonderful, beautiful wife. And she has her family there. I’m a grownup now. I have husband and a child. And if anything, I should be grateful for my in-laws, who have readily filled that emptiness. But still, it depresses me. This is my problem, obviously. Each year I get upset about it and each year I eventually realize that just because my family no longer sees each other on the actual holidays doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. It means I need to focus on what I have here. It just drives me nuts that every holiday season I have to process the same old bullshit again and again.

Well, enough about my rant. I probably should check into therapy, but for now I did find comfort in these tips on How to Handle Holiday Stress, offered by speaker, author and coach Karen Susman. And, now I’ll offer them to you, too:

Lower expectations. Have a realistic view of what is really important. Your kids want your time. They are not going to remember the Martha Stewart decorations – unless you involve them in the making of the decorations.
Don’t over schedule yourself or your family. Pick and choose the holiday functions.
Take care of yourself. You can’t give what you don’t have. So, eat healthfully, avoid the sweets as much as possible. Exercise routines are sacrificed when we’re overwhelmed, but exercise is the best investment of your time.
Get plenty of sleep. Most of us are suffering from sleep deprivation as it is. Nothing is worth your getting sick.
Ask for help. Involve your kids, spouse, family and friends.
Ask yourself, “If I only had half the time, what would I do?” This will help you prioritize.
Pick names for gifts instead of buying a gift for everyone. This will save you money and time.
Shop online or from catalogues.
Buy stamps online. Why stand in line at the post office?
Make gifts with your kids. They’ll love the time spent together and they’ll be proud of their creations.
Read holiday stories to your children. This allows you to sit down, relax and connect. (We had a holiday tradition of everyone climbing on to the big bed and reading together.)
Start new holiday traditions that are less stressful for you but just as meaningful.
Ask yourself why you’re really working this hard on the holidays. Many times our egos get in the way, or we’re in competition with a friend or family member. Martyrdom has lots of payoffs. Give it up!
Take a minute in the tub, or waiting in line to write down all your stressors. Include your everyday stressors as well as holiday stressors. Which ones can you face head on, take care of and get off your list? For instance, if paying bills is hanging over your head, sit down and get that done. Get the snow tires on instead of praying it doesn’t snow. If money’s short, spend less, cut up credit cards or call a financial advisor.
Look at your list of stressors and determine which ones you have no control over. Your parents areaging. The economy is like sludge. If you live in Minnesota, it will snow.
Do a mental makeover. Reframe what the holidays are all about for you. Is this a religious holiday? Then forget the fluff and focus on the real meaning. If your kids are pressuring you to buy, buy, buy, this is a wonderful opportunity to help them learn the value of giving to others. Have them go through their toys and pick some to take to a homeless shelter.
Remember how you felt on December 26 of January 2 last go ’round. What did you say you’d never do again? What did your kids enjoy most? How would you like to feel this year after the holidays? How can you achieve this?
Don’t get caught up in the hoopla. Just because the media, family, friends, etc. say we should be doing something doesn’t mean we have to.
When a “should” runs through your mind, you don’t have to act on it.
Embrace your imperfection. It’s one of the nicest things you can do for your kids and your mate. Being imperfect takes the pressure off of you and off of them.
Limit your TV watching – especially the news.
Don’t do anything in December you’re going to regret in January. Why be stuck with huge bills and 10extra pounds?
One last de-stresser: the holidays will pass and you’ll survive. You always do.

Photo, Flickr, Greg Westfall

Blog books make great scrapbook substitutes

2009-11-02T17:27:00.000-08:00

So, you’re best friend is making you feel guilty because you don’t scrap. She’s preserving her family’s memories in pink-and-blue borders with ballooned quotes with catchy subtitles for candid photos taken at every juncture of her children’s lives. Her camera costs more than your car, and her bookcases are filled with scrapbooks categorized by each child’s birth year, vacation destinations, and first-day-of-school photo comparisons.

You, on the other hand, are lucky to print out the photos you take. You lost that cheap digital camera (though it is probably in one of those heaps in the closet and one day you’ll dig in there to find out but it doesn’t matter anyway because it’s probably outdated by now). Hell, if memory serves, that thing is bigger than your head! Summoning up enough creativity to crop those photos (the ones you didn’t print out) and paste them on a page with colorful captions and fringe is enough to make you wince.

No, your mode of preserving family memories is less showy. You just pull out your iPhone and snap your kid playing in that fountain in the park –the one the security guards say you should stay out of. Then you e-mail it to yourself and, when you get home, post it on your personal blog, the one whose address you share with family who are less apt to visit it than some complete strangers who are nice enough to sympathize and comment.

Don’t fret. Those family blogs are just as precious a keepsake as your best friend’s Creative Memories books. And now you can preserve your blog in book form, too! The folks at Blurb.com can pull your blog posts from WordPress, TypePad and a number of other blogging platforms and turn them into a book. Your book can have its own hard cover, dust jacket and even paper choice. And your book can be delivered to your door in just seven to 10 business days for as little as $12.95. You can even place your blog book in Blurb’s bookstore for fans to purchase.

So there, no more feeling less-than-adequate because you don’t scrap. Your blogs can be keepsakes, too.

Photos, www.Blurb.com (lower right) and JWJourney, (upper left)

Tips for keeping the family car clean

2009-10-31T17:29:00.000-07:00

At this very moment I am sitting in one of those car detailing places. It’s odd because it is pouring outside, the kind of gray, endlessly rainy days that we’ve had here for the past month. Not surprisingly, there is no line. I even got a discount on the service. My reason for being here? I’m headed out tomorrow for my first chaperoning-at-a-field-trip experience at my son’s Kindergarten. And I’m terrified, so I’m going to be as prepared as possible.

Another messy car culprit - the morning sugar-and-cream coffee!

First, we mothers are to meet at the front of the school at 8:20 a.m., where we will caravan together behind the school busses transporting our kids to the pumpkin patch 45 minutes away. We’re not allowed on the bus, nor are we parents allowed to transport kids to the school function. Both make sense to me.

My first bout of intimidation comes in that I’m sure we parents will double or triple up for the drive up. No sense in each of us taking separate cars. So I’m having the car cleaned just in case someone I barely – if at all – know happens to get in my car.

I used to keep my car clean. Granted, I rarely got the oil changed or took the car in for regular maintenance. This was in the days before Rick, when I was single and money was better spent on clothes than car repairs. But the inside of my car was clean. No trash piled up on the floor, no food crammed in the built-in cigarette/trash thingies, no wads of gum rubbed into the floor mats. My car was clean enough to eat in, though I rarely did.

And then came Truman, my darling almost-6-year-old. Now my car is a trashcan on wheels. Today I handled all that crap – which was pretty repulsive in some parts – and tossed it in the real trashcan. What was left over was billions of bitsy bits of trash parts too small for my fingers to effective snatch, bottle tops, and juice pouch straws literally stuck to the seat. (The trade off here is that my car is regularly maintained now with new tires every whatever miles and fresh oil too often than I think it needs.) Regardless of its pristine maintenance record, I knew I had to pony up the cash and see a professional about the mess inside my car.

I have an obsessively clean and organized friend whom I don’t fault for that. She has two kids – one older and one younger than mine. And yet, her car is never a mess. I asked her for some tips on how she does it, and she offered me some pointers, which I’ll share below. But just as sure as it’s raining outside, I know in my heart of hearts I will now follow them. But maybe you will, so here they are:

- Put a trash bag or a console-sized trashcan in your car and actually use it for trash. Then remember to empty it often.

- Every time you get out of the car – at home, walking into a store, stopping to get gas – remove the trash and throw it away in the closest receptacle.

- Once a week or so, remove toys and books from the car and return them to the house. You know as well as I that kids are only interested in toys when they first appear in the car, rather than those that have sat in there for months on end.

- Invest in some of those car organizer things. You know, those over-the-seat things with pockets and pouches where, ideally, your kid can store books and toys and coloring supplies. The problem is getting your child to return the toy to the pouch after he’s finished playing with it. Other storage jewels include those that can fit under the seat, or on the floorboard under little ones’ feet, or in the trunk but hold valuables like wet wipes and maps and band-aids.

- Have an emergency clean-up kit. This can fit into one of those organizing containers you invested in, above. Stock it with wet wipes, a bottle of water, soap, all-purpose cleaner … stuff like that. Then remember you have it when big messes occur, hence cleaning them up before they become sticky, gooey, gross gobs of goo.

Photo, JWJourney

tips for guilt-free childless vacations

2009-10-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

My husband and I just returned from a night out of town away from the stresses of our jobs and the wails of our little boy. I’m pathetic when it comes to leaving my little boy, even for one night. Yet, the minute I pull out of the driveway with my packed bags in tow, I feel the weight of responsibility lift. It takes no time to fall into the pattern of sleeping late and find a little peace.

U2 from the nosebleed seats

It’s been years since my husband and I have vacationed, just the two of us. But we’ve been planning this trip for months – since my husband heard U2 would be performing in Atlanta. We purchased our nosebleed section tickets (that’s what we get for waiting two days to decide to go), booked a luxurious suite at an amazing B&B, and made reservations at perhaps the best restaurant in town, where, by the way, we dined with a celebrity. (OK, so he was at the table next to us, does that count?)

It seemed a little easier to leave this time. I’ll credit some tips I picked up these past few weeks:

Leave the guilt behind.
There are countless benefits to vacationing without kids. Relationship experts say that marriages get stronger when spouses slip away together. “You get to focus on each other without interruption,” Charlotte Shoup Olsen, Ph.D., an associate professor with the School of Family Studies and Human Services at Kansas State University, said in an interview with MomsToday. “To keep really connected to each other, couples need to know what is happening to the other person.”

Experts agree that getting away from the daily stresses, like laundry and lunch packing and dinner making and job deadlines, makes us adults more pleasant to be around when we do come back to town, which in turn benefits the children who have to deal with us. So, why carry around guilt for taking some much needed time off from the kids?

Disrupt your child’s life as little as possible.
When my son was 3, we left for a week to care for my dying grandfather. Leaving my son was torture. I worried that he couldn’t understand why Mommy and Daddy left, and communicating it to him seemed impossible. But we prepared the best we could, arranging for his grandparents (with the help of his sitter) to keep him on a schedule he was familiar with. That included regular naps and snack times as well as visits to his part-time preschool.

Now that he’s older – nearly 6 – he understands what we mean when we say we’ll be home Wednesday. We can talk to him on the phone and tell him how much we miss him. We also encouraged his grandparents to keep to his schedule, which included introducing the grandparents to that machine known as “carpool line” and transporting their grandson to his weekly soccer game.

Take Precautions.
Sure, you don’t want to think about you children getting sick or hurt while you’re gone. But just in case, it’s best to be prepared. Set out your children’s insurance cards, leave the number to their doctors offices, and leave contact information for relatives or friends who can step in the event of an emergency or if assistance is needed. You may also want to have an Emergency Medical Authorization Form prepared so as not to delay any necessary medical treatment and to help cut through any “red tape” at the hospital.

Chill out.
Sure, the grandparents may feed your child those vile chicken nuggets, forget to toss him in the shower, or send him to bed two hours late. But this is why your child loves to be with them! Think of it as a vacation for your child. Instead, focus on spoiling yourself by eating well, taking long baths, and sleeping in. Those grown-up vacation luxuries will be mere pleasant memories soon enough.

Photo, JWJourney

Tips for packing with kids in tow

2009-10-30T17:28:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time it was easy to travel. My husband and I would wake up, shower, pack our bags and leave. I think we could pull the whole thing off in under an hour.

And then came Truman.

I can’t say we weren’t warned. Our friends with kids told that packing a baby justified buying enormous SUVs. You had to make room for the Pack’n’Play, bouncy seat, portable high chair, enough for three changes of clothes per day, loads of diapers, baby wipes, bottles, formula, dissolving-in-the-mouth baby snacks, blankets, toys he had little interest in, and so on. I am a list-maker so packing consisted mainly of checking off items. And that was Rick’s job. He does most of the heavy lifting.

In some ways, my job was more tiring. I handled the child. Depending on my son’s age and abilities, I was either changing diapers or feeding or chasing my son around the house or keeping him away fro Rick so Rick could do his packing chores. Since my son was born with energy, this was never an easy job. To complicate matters, once my darling son started talking, he never stopped.

He’s almost 6 now, and we decided to use the long weekend (afforded us by a school district-appointed parent-teacher conference day with no classes) to head to the beach before the winter months forced us indoors. You’d think packing for the trip would be easier. We’re taking far fewer things than we did when Truman was a baby. We did load up his bike, though, and a cooler full of juice pouches and wine. Truman, however, continues to challenge us in this endeavor.

Here’s our conversation this morning while Rick and I tried desperately to pack:
“Mommy.” Yes, love.
“Mommy, guess what, Mommy.” What?
“I’m making a candy corn man.” That’s great, honey.
“Look Mommy.” I see, love. That’s a great candy corn man.
“Mommy?” Yes.
“I need the tape.” OK
“Can you give me the tape, Mommy.” Can I what?
“I mean, please. Can you please give me the tape please?” In a minute, honey. I’m up to my elbows in clothes.
“But Mommy.” But what?
“Guess what Mommy?” What.
“Mommy, guess what? Guess what I did.” Oh….what?
“I got glitter glue on the table. Can you clean it up for me?”

Ok, so know you know why we pack the cooler with wine.

Planning on a trip with the kids soon? Here are some packing trips to help reduce your stress level. Feel free to add any of your own secrets. I could always use more!

Make a list of every thing you need to bring. It’s easy to forget even the most obvious things when you pack under stress.
Do as much in advance as possible, such as while the kids are asleep. No kidding.
Tag team. I usually pack while Rick chases Truman around the house. I take over Truman duty while Rick loads the car. However, lately Truman wants to help Daddy put things in the car, which can be stressful for someone like Rick who has a car-packing plan he’s working.
Give your child a small back or backpack to fill with his own things – toys, books, markers and paper, etc. This can occupy a curious kid for several minutes. But you’ll want to be sure he hasn’t left anything out, such as markers to go with the drawing pads or the coveted track for his Hotwheels.
If traveling by car, have him arrange the area around him. Rick oversees this part, but he does give Truman some say. This way our son knows where to find what he needs when he needs it.
When all else fails, turn to Spongebob. I’m not sure what it is about that show that mesmorizes my child so. But sometimes it’s just what the doctor ordered.

Photo, Flickr, melinal

Tips on how to finish those antibiotics

2009-10-27T17:56:00.000-07:00

My son and I are on yet another round of antibiotics, this time for strep throat. I’ve always been a bit cautious with antibiotics, I suppose because my father is an immunologist and rarely drugged us as kids. He sort laughed off that notion it seemed everyone else had that if your nose runs, all you need to do is call the doc and load up on some antibiotics. My father argued that antibiotics did nothing for viruses, the cause of the flu, most sore throats, bronchitis and the common cold. If anything, he said, taking them unnecessarily could arm the body with a resistance to antibiotic treatment in the future.

But there were those many occasions when my sister and I fell ill with strep throat and my father (who personally swabbed our throats, much to our dismay) brought home a bottle of antibiotics. Even though we started to feel better, he insisted we finish our course. I didn’t realize then why doing so was so important.

Antibiotics are prescribed for bacterial infections, such as strep throat or ear infections. And those infections tend to respond quickly to antibiotic treatment. Finishing your full prescription is vitally important for several reasons.

First, the dose of medication prescribed to you is designed to be enough to kill all the disease-causing bacteria in your system. If you stop taking your antibiotics when you start to feel better, the bacteria may still be in your body and could come back in the same place or in another location. And who wants a relapse?

Secondly, if you under treat bacteria with a less-than-appropriate dosage of antibiotics, the bacteria can become resistant to antibiotics. Bacteria multiply quickly and can mutate and become pretty bad ass. Stopping your treatment early can give those little germs the ability to build back up and potentially get stronger and more dangerous. Knocking bacteria out with a full dose of antibiotics ensures a rapid and efficient recovery.

But remember to take (or give) any medication twice a day for 10 days can be easy to forget, especially when the sick party looks and feels completely healthy. Here are some tips to help you stay on course:

1. Write yourself a note. If you walk into my kitchen you’ll see a big note on the breakfast room table that reads, “Rx.” It reminds me to dole out our antibiotics every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinnertime. Without it I would completely forget.

2. Make a drug calendar that clearly shows when the medication should be discontinued. Mark off each dose each time you dole out the medicine. This is particularly helpful with liquids that may not necessarily empty completely when the protocol is complete. Luckily, my 20-tablet pill bottle (which I started the same day and time as my son started his liquid) helps me know when our cycle of drugs is complete. When my pill bottle is empty, my son’s course is finished, too.

3. Ask if the medicine has to be refrigerated. The label on my son’s first round of antibiotics clearly stated that the medicine had to be kept in the refrigerator. For whatever reason, after the fifth day, I stuck the bottle in the medicine cabinet. When I realized this in time for the next dose, I assumed it was bad and tossed it out. When I called the nurse to see if it was OK to just stop taking it all together, the nurse said to just continue with the un-refrigerated medicine. For no reason, she said, was I to stop the medicine in mid-treatment. So, I fished it out of the trash. Yeah, I know. Gross.

4. As your doctor to prescribe a medicine with more convenient doses. For example, ask if he can prescribe the antibiotic to be given two times or less a day. The fewer the doses a day, the fewer times you have to forget.

Sources: CDC, iVillage.com
Photo, Flickr, lu_lu

Is this kids' book sending the wrong message?

2009-10-26T17:57:00.000-07:00

When my son was still a newborn blob of tiny bones wrapped in a blanket of warm skin, my husband rushed out and bought a Curious George book. We had decorated our son’s room in monkeys (which was cuter than it sounds) and my husband’s idea was to take pages from that book, frame them and hang them around our son’s room. This was during what I call the “nonproductive years,” because we had great ideas but were either too physically worn out to do them or could not seem to find the time between formula bottle shakings and projectile vomit cleanups.

We did get as far as to read the book and initial pages with pictures we most wanted to mount. Sure, I knew about Curious George as a kid. Somehow, I didn’t realize how terrible the story was.

Now, I don’t mean to sound extreme. Lord knows my views are extreme enough for this small town I call home. And my husband says some of my liberal views are a bit over the top even for those in the distant state from which I was born, the land of fruit and nuts. But still, as much as I love animals, I’m not giving up red meat, which I think evens me out a bit, right? But have you read Curious George lately? I’m talking about this one, the one I presume is one of the first, which tells the story of how The Man in the Yellow Hat meets George. It goes like this: Yellow hat man is in the jungle and sees George and says, “What a nice little monkey.” He throws down his hat and when George comes down off his nice tree in the jungle he calls home where, presumably, his mother and father monkey parents live and have raised him, yellow hat man grabs George and throws him in a bag. He then whisks George on to a ship and they sail to the big city and George wreaks havoc on the town because he is curious. I’m thinking The Man in the Yellow Hat gets everything he deserves for snatching George out of his happy jungle home and moving him across the pond to a”better place.”

Because I don’t believe in banning books, and the PBS show is cute and entertains my son, I am willing to oblige when my boy pulls that book from his bookshelf and asks me to read it. But I do point out as we read that although George seems happy with yellow hat man now, it sure isn’t nice to snatch animals – or people – up from where they happily live just because you want to play with them.

I also point out that even though George smokes a cigar to relax in that book, my son might not want to light up one himself. My, how stories have changed over the years …

What do you think? Do you have a problem with the origin of that cute little monkey story, or am I just being a bit too extreme?

Photo, my Curious George book

How to remove dirt stains

2009-10-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

If my son excels in anything, it’s filth. I fully expect his T-ball and soccer T-shirts to need a good soaking when we get home after a game, and for the most part I can get most of his stains out. By the end of the season, though, Truman’s sports Tees have been marked by faint reminders of slides into home plate and downtime digging holes to China at third base.

I know my son is not alone in his filth, though I suspect he exceeds all others in collecting it on his clothes. Thus, it boggles my mind why T-ball organizers will select WHITE T-shirts for these kids. Do they even know what they put us mothers through?

Last weekend, even though it looked likely that, like the first game of the fall ball season, the second game would be called because of rain, we still drove out to the field for the official word. While waiting for the commissioner to make the call, we received Truman’s new T-ball jersey. Big shocker here – it was white. As the rain poured down, my son joined a handful of other boys and ran the bases, sliding into home and pretty much rolling in the red mud. The boys were having so much fun they were surprised when the officials finally decided it was raining too hard to play the game. My son walked off the field and in front of me, and I was speechless. How would I ever get that T-shirt cleaned?

I’m not known for my impeccable housekeeping nor my stain removal ability, but I took that shirt as a challenge. I headed home and began working on it. It was only after the shirt was fully engaged in the washer that I took time to research the topic. Here’s what I learned about how to remove mud stains from white T-shirts:

Read the tag first. Those tags can provide helpful information, such as what temperature the shirt should be washed in and whether bleach will hurt the shirt or its design.
Experts say a stain that has been given a chance to settle in is more difficult to remove than one that is tended to quickly. That said, experts also say wet mud should dry before being washed as washing it while wet can make the stain worse.
Brush off all excess dirt. Use a plastic knife and scrape, if necessary. And follow up with a vacuum to be sure all the hard, flakey mud is gone as much as possible.
Tackle that stain with a mixture of water and liquid laundry detergent or liquid dish detergent. Work with a brush in circular motions and continue until the stain is gone. You may also use a pre-treatment, such as Spray n’ Wash.
If the label says it is OK, try soaking the shirt in bleach or Oxy Clean. Some experts claim vinegar will do the trick.
Wash in cold water. Hot water will supposedly cause the stain to soak into the fibers.

I’ll have you know that I followed none of that advice. It was too late, as by the time I began reading up on the subject I was already halfway into the laundry cycle. My plan was to throw that caked-on muddy T-shirt into the laundry. I poured in a generous amount of Tide with Bleach alternative and liquid Oxy Clean into the washer and set the temp at HOT. My plan was to get that soggy mud off and then pre-treat and soak in Oxy Clean and Tide with Bleach alternative in hot water overnight. As you see, this was not what the experts recommended.

But when I went to the washer to get my what-I-expected-to-be-badly-soiled wet T-shirt out of the washer after that first hot-water run, it was completely free of stains! No kidding! Just in case my eyes were playing tricks on me, I went ahead and pretreated the shirt and let it soak in Tide and Oxy Clean for a few hours before moving it on to the dryer. The result, a like-new white T-shirt!

The moral of this story? Just do you best to work out that stain, and if it works, count yourself lucky!

Sources: Fibers.com, EHow.com, Cleaning.tips.net
Photo, JWJourney

Cute puke bags make morning sickness fun

2009-09-29T11:58:00.000-07:00

I was never nauseous when I was pregnant. Not one day. Not even before Truman, when that blighted ovum sat in my uterus fooling me by placing a plus-sign on my pee stick. But I thought about it. I thought once while opening the fridge that I might feel a little queasy. I was so excited I called my husband. But that feeling passed even before my husband picked up the other line. I was fine.

If I had a wave of anything remotely like nausea it would be when I thought about or walked into Italian restaurants. I kept this secret from my husband because one of our favorite places, Gianmarco, is Italian. Practically once a week while my bean-shaped son grew in my belly we dined at Gianmarco as I nibbled on pasta and quietly wondered if this would be the day I would finally find my pregnant self bottomed-up to the ceramic can in the ladies room. If I knew now what I didn’t know then, I would not have feared having to even leave the table, because one company has made morning sickness bags chic. They call them Morning Chicness Bags.

I swear to god this product is true! I am totally buying a pack so that when I have a friend who announces she is pregnant (because thanks to medical technology, it should not happen to me again) I can just gift her some of the colorful and lovingly decorated bags (with names like “Labor of Love” and “Bambooboo”). I suppose, if she manages not to use them they can double as gift bags for Easter treats. The bags, measuring 5 inches by 3 inches by 9.5 inches, are made of sturdy paper with leak-proof polyethylene lining and horizontal closure clip. A pack of 10 is only $7.50 plus shipping! (I wonder if they have an odor shield…) They’re also available at some retail locations, far, far from my state.

The bags are intended to replace airline vomit bags, plastic shopping bags, or whatever you women who suffered from morning sickness carried around to puke in. As I said, I wouldn’t know because I never threw up during pregnancy. And I’m glad for that, except it sure would be fun to walk around with those groovy puke purses! Who says I can’t do it anyway? Never know when I’ll catch a stomach bug from my glorious son!

Photos, Model heaving into Bambooboo, above, and Morning Chicness Bags design options, right, courtesy of www.morningchicknessbags.com

Keeping mom healthy when baby is sick

2009-09-28T12:02:00.000-07:00

It has been five weeks since my son came home from school with strep throat. But somehow the virus must have lingered maybe on his backpack or his toothbrush or his delicate skin because this weekend the same virus leveled me. When my son comes down with a cold or fever, I expect to catch his ailment. I usually don’t, which I credit to a healthy immune system that built up strength when as a kid I tangled with a variety of mud, germs and lake water. Besides, people are most contagious up to two to three days before they start exhibiting symptoms. I figure, by the time my son’s fever spikes or his nose starts to drip, the damage has been done.

And when my most precious little boy is miserable sick, I have to love on him. I have to cradle his hot body in my arms and hold the tissue when he blows and press my cheek to his blazing forehead and rub his back when his small tummy turns concave and rejects everything in its grasp.

According to a University of Arizona study, this is one of the many reasons why a woman’s chances of getting sick double when she becomes a mother. And since it is almost impossible for mothers – and fathers, too – to be sick when we have young kids, we must get our germ-fighting game on. Here are some pointers:

Be the Hand-Washing Nazi. Most infections spread through hand-to-hand contact. The Centers for DiseaseControl recommends that you scrub your hands with soap for 20 seconds. If you want to be extra safe, try following up with a moisturizing alcohol-based hand sanitizer.

Use Hot Water for Laundry. This goes against the green movement, but when your child is sick, hot water will kill more germs than cold. Some studies show that people who launder their clothes in hot water miss fewer days of work and their children register fewer sick days at school. Oh yeah, and after you handle those dirty clothes, be sure to wash your hands again.

Beware the Favorite Toys. My son’s stuffed kitty and his race cars get sneezed and snotted on more than any other object in the house … besides me. Best to avoid touching those things until my son is on the mend. Once your sick one starts feeling better, be sure to wash and sanitize those toys in a solution of 1 tablespoon bleach to one gallon of water. Drain, rinse and then allow toys to air dry overnight.

Do the Disinfectant Dance. Back when I used to work in an office, I would laugh at people who walked around with Lysol cans spraying their computer keyboards and telephones. But apparently, they are the ones with the last laugh. Those sprays and wipes can kill germs on commonly touched surfaces around the house, too, such as the telephone, remote control and countertops. The most effective disinfectants are those with an EPA registration number and the word “disinfectant” on the label.

Teach Your Family How to Cough and Sneeze. Back in the olden days when I was a kid we were taught it was polite to cover our mouths with our hands when we coughed or sneezed. Turns out, hand-to-hand contact spreads the most germs. The Centers for Disease Control suggests, if you don’t have a tissue handy, to sneeze into your elbow or on your sleeve. If that freaks you out, consider sending your child off with aGermy Wormy disposable sleeve.

Get Plenty of Rest. Sleep is key to a healthy immune system. Be sure your kids are getting adequate sleep so that their little bodies have the energy to fight any germs that latch on them during the day.

Sources:
About.com
Parents.com
CoughIntoElbow.com

Photo, JWJourney

Great gift idea for overworked school nurse

2009-09-27T12:04:00.000-07:00

Three times in the past six days (that includes the weekend) the school nurse at my son’s elementary school has called me, and three times I’ve had to pick up my little boy from school. He’s not sick. If anything, he was a little stuffy. The first two check-outs were due to him spitting up mucus – a ritual he does every time he cries heartily or wakes up stuffy from a cold or allergies. The last time was from the scabby crust that formed on the end of his nose – just in time for school picture day. The school nurse feared it was some sort of staph infection, which of course sent me into a tizzy. I rushed my son Truman straight to the doctor who told me he was fine. The doctor gave me a topical ointment and a note saying my son was OK to attend school the next day.

Truman didn’t want to miss school for those three days he was sent home, and that was pretty much all that made him feel miserable. Once home, he bounced off the walls and ran wild through the yard. He was fine.

This morning, I walked my son into school (I had to deliver Fall Festival donations anyway) and he handed his teachers (he has two) the note from the doctor. He said, “I hope I can stay the whole day today.” I said, “Me too.” I was overwhelmed with guilt that I had sent my son to school with germs to spread to other students. The teachers shook their heads. Apparently the school nurse has been on double-duty these days, being extra precautionary with most of the kids and sending them home for most any ailment in light of the swine flu epidemic. I recalled the two other kids in the nurse’s office when I was there last week, and the vomit spot I had to step over in the office when I checked Truman out Thursday. I began to feel sorry for that school nurse, no doubt more overwhelmed than usual. I thought I might send her a gift to show my appreciation, considering she had seen so much of my son these past two weeks.

Check out what I found! It’s a gift set especially for school nurses! This gift set from Educational Innovations/Teacher Source is adorable, funny, and outrageously expensive, but it includes several giant Microbes including Louse, Sore Throat, Stomach Ache, Common Cold, Cough, Ear Ache, Flu and Mono. Or, as the Web site says, “the germs most common in schools.” Now, what better way to show your appreciation to the school nurse than giving her germs? Awesome!

Photo, Educational Innovations, TeacherSource.com

How to survive school picture day

2009-09-26T12:06:00.000-07:00

It is picture day at my son’s elementary school. I found out about it two weeks ago, but because my memory sucks I completely forgot until my son came home from school with a “SMILE! Tomorrow is picture day!” sticker on his shirt.

He really needed a haircut, but it was nothing that a little product couldn’t tame. I laid out his most adorable outfit and even decided to put him in improper shoes but pack his light-up sneakers in his backpack for gym. (There would be no recess again, as the rain is never ending.)

The thought of school pictures makes me nervous, I suppose because I’ve never had a decent picture taken of myself. Thus, I’ve learned to hate the camera. My son seems to love it. (Must get it from his dad.) Images 4 Kids, a school portrait company, had some tips on how to prepare your child for picture day.

First, be sensitive to your child’s emotions and needs.Springing picture day on your child may “tax” the child. Images 4 Kids suggests talking about picture day as if it were a family tradition of sorts.

Bathe or shower your child the night before school picture day. As opposed to in the morning, so that the morning schedule isn’t disrupted and you’re not rushing to get ready in time for school.

Pick out what your child will wear the night before. Again, this speeds up the morning getting-ready-for-school process.

Get an early start on picture day. This buys you time for those little disasters that arise, like the “one missing shoe” or the “bed head tragedy.”

Try not to dress your child in all white. I have one of those all-boy kids. I buy him nothing white because my precious son is a stain magnet. Surely I’m not the only one who gets this tip!

Keep picture school day in perspective. Do you really think his school picture will be the be-all-to-end-all? So what if his smile is askew or his eyes are halfway closed. What you want the picture to capture is your child’s beautiful personality.

That said, my son woke this morning and announced he was not going to wear the outfit I laid out. “But it’s picture day,” I said. He shrugged. He wanted to wear his green T-shirt with the tiger playing basketball. “No, honey, you have to wear church clothes today for your picture. See?” I held up his adorable plaid shorts with pink-striped dress shirt and complimenting argyle vest. He said, “No. You said church clothes, then I want to wear the blue and black shirt that goes like this,” he drew a design on his chest with his finger. Yes, the collared shirt we got from the Gap. The casual one. Too casual for capturing a photo of my most precious. “But honey,” I said, pointing to the adorable ensemble I had picked out. My son laid on the floor and started crying. “But you said it had to be church clothes and I wore that blue and black shirt to church once.”

I looked at my little boy writhing on the floor. His hair was out of control and just the thought of fighing him to sneak a little product on it wore me out. His nose was red and crusty from the cold he has been harboring. I had just wiped the goo from it and more good immediately came to replace it. I doubted the photographer would take time to wipe his nose before the picture is taken.

I sighed defeat. “Ok, love. The we’ll do the blue-and-black shirt today.” So much for a clean-cut picture of my little boy. At least this photo will be a proper representative of his rough-and-tumble personality.

Photo, JWJourney

Comfort tips for that first loose tooth

2009-09-25T12:22:00.000-07:00

My son has his first loose tooth. I saw it last night and broke into tears. My husband said, “You didn’t even cry this much when he started Kindergarten.” But Kindergarten was different. We knew the start of school nearly a year in advanced. We registered in the late spring, bought his backpack and new Keens, met his teacher and even went to orientation. As much as we could be, we were prepared for Kindergarten. I was not prepared for the loose tooth.

Sure, I had read loose teeth usually happen around age 6. But Truman doesn’t turn 6 for another three months. I thought we had more time. And I’ve grown rather attached to those tiny pearls, those slivers of white that hid inside his gums at birth and didn’t break through until he was four months old. They caused him to drool and fuss and drool and fuss. Despite that, I welcomed those little teeth. And now they are beginning their great departure.

Some research into the subject has taught me this – that my son may already have two adult teeth breaking the surface of his mouth. His 6-year molars should sprout behind his baby teeth in the back of his mouth sometime around age 6. This is all relative, because the rate at which a child loses his baby teeth and grows adult teeth is related to how early or late he started getting his baby teeth. If he was late in getting his baby teeth, he likely will be late in getting his adult teeth.

Baby teeth fall out in about the same order as they came in. The two front teeth on the bottom of the mouth are usually the first to go, followed by the two front teeth at the top. Most kids will lose their last baby tooth around age 12. And those wisdom teeth? Yeah, they usually drop in around age 17 and again at age 21.

Now, back to that first loose tooth. Truman knew he would eventually lose his teeth, like some of his friends have. But the loose tooth sort of took him by surprise. And it’s a little sore at times. Losing a tooth is a new experience for kids, so it can cause kids some anxiety. The online magazine Professor’s House offers these tips on how to get your child through that first loose tooth:

Loose and permanent teeth just breaking the surface may be painful and may even bleed, which can be frightening for a young child. Reassure you child that the process is normal and a part of growing into a big boy or girl.
If your child is in pain, consult your doctor or dentist about the best way to manage it. Sometimes a cold compress can handle the trick. (Remember teethers or frozen peas?) Your doctor or dentist may also suggest Tylenol or Motrin to get him over particularly painful episodes.
Let your child wiggle that loose tooth, but encourage him not to pull a tooth (loose or otherwise) that isn’t ready to come out. Teeth that fall out on their own result in less bleeding and pain.
And don’t forget to mention the Tooth Fairy, if she visits your house. Knowing that the Tooth Fairy will leave a reward for that tooth when it falls out should take the sting out of a sore tooth.

Photo, Flickr, dL76

Can cold, wet weather make you sick?

2009-09-22T12:07:00.000-07:00

Day after day we have had rain and rain and more rain to the point I believe we may never have to suffer through another drought again. It is frustrating for my little boy whose season-opening T-ball and soccer games have been canceled due to too-soggy playing fields. The five-day forecast has no glimmer of sun, just gray clouds and lightning bolts. I fear this next week of ballgames will be canceled as well.

For entertainment Saturday my son burned some of his energy by dancing in a heavy downpour of rain. I watched from my in-law’s garage and laughed as he tumbled in the wet grass and spun around in the driveway like a dancer. My mother-in-law peeked out the back door and was mortified. “Come in from out of that rain! You will catch a cold!” she cried. I didn’t enforce that order. My rationale – if standing in streaming water made you sick, we would never take showers. I told my MIL that it simply was not true. She said, yes it was.

The old wives tales of getting soaked in the rain or going outside in cold weather without a coat will make you sick have been circulating for more than 500 years. In fact, the common sickness back then was called a “cold” because it was believed that cold weather was what caused the ailment. We now know that colds and flu are caused by viruses that invade the body and take over our defenses. More than 200 different viruses can cause the common cold.

It’s true that colds and flu are most prevalent in the colder months. Some experts say that it is because we spend more time indoors in close contact with other people. The low humidity of winter also helps viruses flourish, especially in noses, which are more apt to be dry and cracked during the colder months.

Here’s another interesting fact about illnesses. The flu tends to be more rampant when temperatures drop below 41 degrees.

Here’s where my MIL may have one up on me on this old wives tale. A UK study showed that volunteers who submerged their feet in 50-degree water for 20 minutes were more likely to develop cold symptoms over the following week than those whose feet stayed warm and dry. Researchers explain this by saying the body can keep a cold virus in check but when exposed to cold, wet feet, the immune system can weaken causing a full-fledge illness.

Coincidentally, my son has cold today. He started showing symptoms late last week, days before he wallowed in the rain. But I still hold firm to my belief that the rain did not cause his symptoms. As long as there is rain in the forecast and my son is hungry for entertainment (and it is not thundering and lightning outside), then he has my blessing to frolic in the rain and find some joy is this never-ending miserable weather.

Sources: About.com, How-come.net, VideoJug.com
Photo, Flickr, markomni

News Flash: Vigorous activity helps kids sleep

2009-09-21T12:08:00.000-07:00

To say my son is active is an understatement. He is constantly charged. I called him “rambunctious” this weekend – much to my MIL’s dismay. That was after a stack of pancakes with syrup, two doughnuts, and a slice of cinnamon roll cake. (We were at the grandparents.) He was confined to the house, somewhat, because of the constant rain we’ve been having, but he made due tossing packing peanuts about like snowflakes, tumbling over furniture, and dancing in the rain. When we packed up the car and left for home that evening, my son took his first nap in months.

I have always been a believer in wearing kids out for the benefit of a swift and peaceful bedtime. Now a University of Ackland, New Zealand, study shows that there is some truth to that belief. The study’s lead author, Dr. Ed A. Mitchell, looked at 591 seven-year-olds and found that kids who spent more time in sedentary activities took longer to fall asleep after they went to bed. The study also showed that one in six parents of school-aged kids say their children have trouble falling to sleep at night.

Most children take about 26 minutes to fall asleep once they hit the bed at night. If the child has been active during the day, the less time it takes for him to nod off. As much as one hour of vigorous activity can shave as much as 6 minutes off a kid’s fall-asleep time. The study also showed that children who fall asleep faster tend to stay asleep longer.

Ingenious? Maybe. But I’ve found if my son goes to bed too exhausted he tends to wake up more during the night and sometimes has frightening night terrors.

Source, ABC News
Photo, JWJourney

CDC: School-aged kids at high risk of complications with N1H1

2009-09-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

In the first three weeks of school, my son was home sick for four days. The second week of school he had strep throat. The following week he came home with a high fever, chills, and was lethargic and vomiting. Normally, I’d feed him Tylenol and baby him unless his symptoms got worse. But N1H1, the feared swine flu, is making its way through the Southeast. Virtually all flu cases at this time are considered to be the Swine flu by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC). I had heard too many stories of otherwise healthy people dying because of the disease, so I rushed my son to the doctor. He tested negative for both flu and a reoccurrence of strep, and within 24 hours he was feeling fine. I heaved a sigh of relief, but was hungry to learn more about this feared outbreak and who was at risk.

A detailed report released by the CDC, and reported today by theNorth County Times, puts the condition into perspective, but hardly puts my mind at ease. According to the report, unlike the usual seasonal flu that kills half or more of children age 4 and younger, the swine flu is taking a higher toll on school-age kids. At least 40 – or about one in 13 U.S. swine flu deaths – are in children between the ages of 5 and 17. Some epidemiologists say that may be because school-age kids are more apt to be around other kids at camps and school than younger children. That may also explain why the Southeast is seeing more cases of swine flu than other regions, because our schools tend to start earlier.

Other differences between the ordinary flu and N1H1 detailed in the CDC report include secondary conditions. For example, two-thirds of the children who died from swine flu had an underlying neurodevelopmental condition such as epilepsy or cerebral palsy, compared to one-third with ordinary flu. And, other germs, such as a bacterial infection, on top of the swine flu proves more deadly to otherwise healthy children. Of the 10 children who were healthy before they got N1H1 but died from the virus, eight had a bacterial infection, such as bacterial pneumonia, along with the flu.

The CDC doesn’t track the usual seasonal flu so it is hard to say whether the swine flu is more prevalent than the ordinary flu. But there is some good news. The virus doesn’t appear to be mutating to become more deadly than it is now, as some scientists have feared.

Photo, JWJourney

What triggers your midlife crisis?

2009-09-08T12:14:00.000-07:00

He was the editor of our small town college newspaper. I was the Lifestyles editor. He was all hard news, always searching for the story that would excite people and motivate change. I was all frills and features, more interested in telling a story than shaking the tree. But he challenged me. He encouraged me to step beyond my timid limits and look beyond the obvious. My stories became more flashy and brave. He was brilliant that way, his lanky form always head-butting the tiny Southern campus like a wedge going into a steel beam. He had media internships that made me sick with envy, and then turned away from journalism, a bit, to dive into the ivy-patched halls of law school. That was the last I heard of him.

Nearly two decades later, I was wallowing in my own insufficiencies. The writing career I was hell-bent on pursuing as a college grad – and did enjoy for a decade afterwards – was now tucked behind a wall of public relations bullshit. I was considering selling my soul to sales just to get away, a most gruesome thought, when I received a newsletter from my alma mater. My old college newspaper editor, it announced, had moved far beyond the halls of that small Tennessee school to found a human rights organization. He had become a well-known advocate for the environment and even published a book, becoming the only African-American to write a New York Timesbest seller on the topic. I turned to my husband and announced, “I am a failure.”

There was no contest. I was not racing toward any goal against any of my peers. My friend had gone beyond what probably any of us from that school could have, and I was riddled with jealously and guilt. Here he was charging toward that ambition and need to help others that always bloomed in his spirit. And then there was I, wallowing in a job I hated just to get a paycheck. What happened to my dream?

It is because of my old friend, who I have not talked with since senior year in college, that I quit my PR job and began writing again. I call that transition my midlife crisis.

THE MIDLIFE CRISIS
Gail Sheehy in her book New Passages, calls the midlife crisis the “second adulthood.” It is, essentially, a second chance at becoming the person we are meant to be. It happens, some say, when we wake up one day and realize we’re not the young person we used to be, and that the “when I grow up I will do THIS” mentality is suddenly replaced with the “I am grown up and I never did THAT” frame of mind. Thus, some of us find ourselves at a crossroads known often as the midlife crisis.

The Chinese word for crisis is “dangerous opportunity.” Like any crisis, the one that happens in midlife – many say between ages 35 and 45, but really, life-changing midlife crises can come at any age – provides an opportunity for change and growth. Sheehy says it is a time to “stop and recalculate. … Imagine the day you turn 45 as the infancy of another life.”

For some, that may mean a new sports car or a new spouse. For me, it meant redirecting the career path I was on. (Sheehy would call that my “new map of adult life,” something she says we need to plot our course so we don’t get off track and do anything crazy, like date our daughter’s boyfriends.)

AND WHAT OF MY MENTOR?
Last week I began hearing disturbing reports about my old friend, the former college newspaper editor who had recently been named a special advisor to the president. He was caught up in a flurry of controversy stirred by a conservative talk show host and old petitions and speeches on YouTube. In the wee hours Sunday morning, I read that he had resigned that high profile post. It broke my heart, not just for him, but for the advances he was making that would benefit not only the health of our planet but provide jobs our citizens so sorely need.

In my midlife revelation, I am grounded enough not to expect success on the level my friend was able to achieve. I suspect there are greater heights for him still. Because even now, so far away from those formidable college years, I still find myself learning from him.

Time.com
Photo, Flickr, MacAllenBrothers

How to humanely euthanize a pet fish

2009-09-03T12:15:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when I hoped time would make minds forget, I promised Rick that Truman could have a dog for his sixth birthday. The idea was that our then-baby would be old enough to participate in his puppy’s care and I would not be solely responsible for the pup. But I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I would be the one maintaining the dog, and so I hoped that the comment I made in a moment of weakness (there was likely some wine involved, too) would be forgotten.

Fast-forward two years, and here we are staring down the barrel of Truman’s sixth birthday. I was discussing party options with him and he said, “I want a puppy for my birthday.” I said, “ Wouldn’t you rather have asaltwater fish tank instead?” He responded, “Yes. I think I would. And I could get the puppy for my 13th birthday.” I said, “Deal!” so fast my husband actually looked up from the New York Times to see what the ruckus was about.

Coco Conundrum inspects our new fish, Picasso II.

Obviously, some research is in order since we have a particular talent for killing betas, goldfish and other freshwater fish. So over cocktails at our house the other day I asked my friend, who is also a veterinarian, if he treated fish and had any saltwater fish advise. He said, “No, but I did have someone ask me to euthanize their fish once.”

He said a client had made an appointment for a fish euthanasia, and he was surprised to see it on the books. The fish wasn’t sick or in pain, mind you. The woman, for whatever reason, just wasn’t able to care for the fish any more. She loved the fish. He would talk to her every morning and blow bubbles at her as she scatteredfood in his tank. Giving him away to another human just didn’t seem … humane. The only resolution that made sense was sending him on to the afterlife, humanely. And that’s when she turned to my friend, her vet.

Over emptying glasses of sauvignon blanc, the gathered group of friends and I joked about the many ways fish could meet their demise – the giant flush, the old don’t-clean-the-tank-for-a-month, sticking the guppy in the freezer, and forcing our Coco Conundrum on the little guy. But euthanasia, my veterinarian friend explained, is different. Euthanisa means giving someone (or something) an easy and painless death, and an appropriate technique should provide rapid unconsciousness followed by cardiac or respiratory arrest and ultimate loss of brain function. He was being paid to give this woman’s pet a humane death and he had to do it properly. After all, she would be witnessing the entire thing.

My friend admitted to his customer that he had never euthanized a fish before, but he did do his research. One suggested technique involved grasping the fish by the tail and whopping his head against a wall. We all agreed with him that witnessing such a death would have been a bit painful for the fish’s owner. My friend finally settled on a more humane-sounding practice. First, he added a smidgen or so of eugenol, also known as clove oil, to the fish’s water. That got the fish feeling no pain and maybe a little sleepy. Then he poured in a jigger of ethanol, also called pure grain alcohol, the same stuff that courses through the veins of most fraternity houses. The technique worked like a charm, killing the fish quickly, swiftly and humanely.

And now you know how to euthanize a pet fish. Rest in peace, little guppy.

Photo, JWJourney

How much do you pay the Tooth Fairy?

2009-09-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

It happened. My son pulled out his first baby tooth. We weren’t there to see the hallowed event – he was with his favorite sitter, Jessica. Truman was mindlessly wiggling his tooth while watching SpongeBob when his tooth just slipped out. He was a little shaken up about the little bit of blood that poured into his mouth, but by the time we arrived home he was proudly showing off his accomplishment, sealed tight in a snack-sized Ziploc bag.

This is not my son, but same expression!

Just a few hours earlier our friend Eric had told Truman that all he had to do was pull that tooth and the Tooth Fairy would leave $50 under his pillow. “Fifty dollars?” My son said, surprised. Rick and I started mumbling about the state of the economy and that likely the Fairy wouldn’t leave that much, but Eric winked at us and said, “Yes, that’s right. Fifty dollars!”

Well, the Tooth Fairy did not leave $50. But after the Truman went to bed, we debated what to actually put under our son’s pillow. I figured we’d leave a couple dollars. I got 50 cents as a child. Rick, who got 50-cent pieces for his lost teeth, suggested we leave $15. FIFTEEN DOLLARS? Eric was still pushing for the $50 bill, and that sure wasn’t going to happen. (We do have friends whose son lost his tooth unexpectedly late one night. The only cash they had on hand was $20, and reluctantly, they left that for their son. Needless to say, he was thrilled.)

I had done research, however, on what to pay the Tooth Fairy. I talked to some friends and searched the Internet. As it turns out, 52 percent of the more than 25,500 people surveyed by Baby Center leave just $1. Eleven percent are still putting coins totaling less than a buck under their kids’ pillows. And a smidgen – 3 percent – leave no money at all.

We ultimately decided to leave $5 under Truman’s pillow, and then had to raid his piggy bank for a new bill as ours looked a bit worse for wear. We weren’t alone. The second largest percentage of people surveyed – 19 percent – give more than $2.

But I’m going with the majority of the group when it comes to the Tooth Fairy in general. “Visits from the Tooth Fairy are a magical part of childhood,” (51 percent). And, I’m going to keep up her pretense “as long as I possibly can!” (54 percent)

Want to see how your thoughts on the Tooth Fairy rank? Take the Baby Center Tooth Fairy poll.

Photo, Flickr, srett

DYI kids

2009-08-29T12:18:00.000-07:00

One of my son’s last temper tantrums happened when he was outside and I was inside working on dinner. Just before walking out the door he said, “I’m going to make a hot tub,” and I said something like, “OK. Have fun.”

A few minutes passed and my son called out to me. “Mommy,” he said, “ where’s the shovel?” I said, “Why do you need a shovel?” He said, “I’m making a hot tub and I need a shovel to dig the hole where the water will go.” This got me out of the kitchen and I looked down on him from the deck. “What? You’re doing what?”

“A hot tub. I told you that a million times! I need a shovel. Please get me Daddy’s shovel.”

I said no, and that’s when he started to lose his cool, doing that wailing and whining thing and it was several minutes before I could sit him down and explain that hot tubs require a little more than a shovel to make. They require heavy equipment and, well, professionals who know what they’re doing. This didn’t sit well with him. He wanted to make it himself and though that hot tub tantrum was several months ago, my son still insists he will one day put a hot tub in our backyard.

Truman’s do-it-yourself attitude was the first thing I thought of when someone shared this funny New Zealand Do-It-Yourself video with me. Take look. It just may bring a smile to your face as well.

Video, YouTube, YepitsCharlie