David Goes To College

Two years ago I began sharing my life every week with all of you on the eve of my older son’s departure for college. It only seems fitting that I end this journey on the eve of my younger son’s departure for the same. I have once again begun a summer of buying sheets for twin beds, desktop lamps, little bitty refrigerators, and laundry bags for dirty clothes that will hopefully bring him home to be washed.

Now I face my second little boy leaving my nice, safe nest. The little one that followed big brother around the house and back yard from the time he took his first steps. That same one that hid behind the couch while watching Jurassic Park just one more time. The one with the skinny little three year old shoulders that wriggled at me to scratch his back just a little while more. And the one whose pitiful calls echoed in a big empty house when big brother started his first year of school. "Charrrrr-leeeee! Where are you???"

He has grown tall and strong and smart, and I am so proud of the man he has become. As I watched another round of blue robed, young people walk across the stage for Airline High, I cried in the stands remembering the sweet little people they had once been. I heard echoes of soccer games, and tee ball, and field days gone by. I smelled remnants of popcorn I had popped and candy I had sold while all those young children jostled and pushed to get first in line every Friday. I remembered field trips of herding kids around the Fair, and hours of sitting through lessons while he made his first attempts at being part of a band.

Now he is heading way down south and it seems so far away. I began once again losing sleep fretting how he would adjust to a new place and new life. Late at night I woke up worrying about him playing hockey so far away. What if he got hurt? My older boy had gotten hurt once during Rugby and I had to rush to his side. But Ruston was much closer than Lafayette. Could they take care of him until I got there?

The next morning I called the school and asked if they had a doctor on campus in case he got hurt or maybe came down with the flu. The kind freshmen counselor assured me they had a clinic on campus and they would take care of him just fine. Then that night I worried that maybe a clinic wouldn’t be enough. Suppose he got hit by a speeding puck or misplaced skate? Lafayette was swampy and had alligators on campus and probably had mosquitoes biting worse than we ever even imagined up here. Suppose he got West Nile Virus or Malaria or Swine Flu, or suppose he tripped and fell down?

The next morning after another call, the ever patient freshmen counselor assured me that Lafayette was well equipped for anything that may happen. She said they had doctors and hospitals just like every place else, and they had not yet lost a student to a wild alligator running rampage on campus. She assured me he was a fine young man that I had raised to be smart and strong, and he would handle anything that came his way with the confidence and skills he had gained from the home I had given.

But this did nothing to stop my tossing at night. And as I lie in the dark, quiet house and think of my little boy turning into a man, I wonder. Would I do it all again? Would I spend hundreds of hours chasing little people around Chuck E Cheese, and spend thousands of dollars eating only Happy Meals every time we went out? Would I spend years again going only to G rated movies, and end every evening falling asleep in a chair with Harry Potter on my lap? Would I lose months of sleep tending sick little boys and go through 13 more years of getting up before first light? Would I spend years once again reading Mercer Mayer and have the TV forever tuned to Nick? Would I spend hours waiting outside of hockey practice, and spend eternities next to a bed waiting for a temperature to drop? Would that mean I would go through eons of holding little sticky hands as I crossed streets, and get food stained kisses whenever I walked outside?

Would I lose that much more sleep? Would I do it all over again? Oh, yes. Without a doubt. In a heartbeat.

An Appropriate Time To Talk

After trying to explain to my husband why I had gone to the warehouse club that morning and bought more stuff than could fit in my car, my husband rather curtly told me that it was not a wise person that needed to put her convertible top down to stuff the last 48 packs of Ramen noodles in the car. He was rather insistent on my limiting shopping trips to only the amount that would fit through the doors, and very insistent on me not buying another pack of Ramen noodles or can of tuna until the year 2010. No matter how good a bargain they seemed.

I was still grumbling about his obvious lack of bargain sense when my son came into the kitchen and asked why I was grumbling. After I explained the situation, my son tried to explain why his father was perfectly justified in his reprimanding of me and that I really should be more reasonable and understanding. And maybe not shop as much. Holding up my hand to silence his third party explanations, I told him he really needed a lesson on the appropriate times to talk. And this was not one of them. Silence was golden when not agreeing with his mother.

Seeing an opportune moment to give a life’s lesson to my firstborn, I went on with illustrations of when to talk and when to be quiet. I started with the obvious. When in church, it is not appropriate to talk. However, you may whisper. Or give an exaggerated wave when spotting a friend across the aisle.

Movie theaters are a place where one should not talk. They even display warnings before the movie that silence is golden. However, everyone knows this is just a suggestion because you absolutely have to talk when guessing the ending of the movie or feel the need to guess every actor’s name and what previous movie they played in.

My daughter was standing nearby and already knowing the talking rules because, as a woman, it is programmed in her DNA, she went on to explain to her brother other situations where talking was appropriate. She explained that in her history class it was inappropriate to talk sitting down. So since she had a daily problem with this, her teacher often made her stand up. Usually at the back of the class. Once she was standing, it was then appropriate to talk. Although the teacher did not necessarily agree with this rule. Also, the boy sitting near her had a problem with listening. As she constantly chattered in his direction he made the mistake of listening and thus be made to stand against the wall also.

But, an appropriate time to listen would have to be saved for another lesson on another day.
She went on to explain that in her other class, she had a problem knowing exactly when the teacher did not want her to talk. So the teacher would kindly send her into the hallway. Every single day. According to my daughter, this was an appropriate place to talk. Especially with the other students in the hall. Out here they did not have to worry about disrupting the class. They just had to worry about the principal passing.

I patted my daughters head at her socialization prowess. After all, not everyone was born with such fine social skills. I had recently run into one of her teachers at church, and the teacher had told me that my daughter was.....um.....very "social." I was so very proud that the teacher had taken notice.

I also explained to my son, that being very social myself, I loved walking with my dear friend in the mornings. But, a truly skilled socializer knows that this may appear an appropriate time, but is actually not. My friend is much taller than me and walks very, very fast. This makes me trot at a very brisk pace and run very short of oxygen by the first quarter mile. Lack of breathing and risk of passing out and turning blue, makes it an inappropriate time to talk. However, it is perfectly fine for her to talk. And I do forget my prowess and attempt conversation periodically. Luckily my friend keeps a portable defibrillator in her fanny pack.

My son’s girlfriend walked in during our lesson, and we explained to her what we were explaining to him. Not necessarily agreeing with the three women in his life, he began to argue the soundness of some of our lessons. Once again, I held up my hand and silenced him. Explaining that when outnumbered three to one by very social women, he should have now learned that this was an extremely inappropriate time to talk.

Farm Town

All my teenagers have Facebook accounts. For months I have heard them talk about what was on Facebook, what Facebook quizzes they took, what pictures they posted. After giving them the responsible mom speech of watch out for creeps and predators and freaky stalkers, I then gave the speech that they spent way too much time on an internet program and how much did they really need to connect with people they saw all the time. I would never do something so silly.

Then several of my friends told me they had Facebook pages because that’s what good moms do. That way they can oversee their children and what is on their pages to make sure no creepy predators will see too much. They said I should have one too. So one day I signed on and created my own Facebook account.

Well, I needed some friends, or it really didn’t work. My daughter was my first friend, still young enough to want her mom as her internet friend. Then a few of her friends became my friend, too. I asked my son to be my friend and he, and even his girlfriend, became my friend. This made me very happy. My other son blocked me. He wasn’t friendly. I told myself it was his loss that I was not his friend. After all, I am very friendly.

For awhile I signed on once in awhile and checked out my friends. Then one day, my son’s girlfriend posted a very nice photo and I left a comment. My son told me that was just too creepy to have a mom comment on a photo. I could remain their friend, but had to be a very silent one. I did not want to be creepy.

Then I started getting more friends. It was such fun. I reconnected with friends that had moved far away. I could now hear about when they drank their coffee and see pictures of what they cooked for dinner. This wasn’t particularly interesting, but it was nice to think about my far away friends.

Then I got some friends from high school. This was fun too. I hadn’t seen many of them in 25 years and now I could read about what movies they liked and see pictures of their kids I had never met. Since I posted a photo of myself from about 20 years ago, just so no one would know I am now middle aged, I was surprised to see that so many of my high school friends hadn’t aged either. It was amazing. But it made me feel very old. And wrinkly.

Then I got friends from when I was about only ten years old. And even ones from when I was five! And I hadn’t even thought of them since then. Of course we have nothing to talk about since we don’t really play Barbies or jump rope anymore. But it was nice to see when they stepped out for coffee and what Facebook games they were playing.

Then they started sending me quizzes. I could find if I was stressed, or what Star Wars character I was, or what superhero was most like me. Quizzes to find if I was normal or a potential serial killer, and I could even grow my own virtual farm.

This was the worst. I spent hours each day tending my virtual farm. I would plant my crops, and check back often to see them grow. I could harvest them and sell them, and build fences for my horses and pigs. I could go to my friends’ farms to help them harvest their crops and we could all be neighbors and send each other horses and pigs. I thought maybe I had been on a bit too much when driving down the highway I passed a barn. I thought only 50,000 more coins and I could own one too. When passing a beautiful garden, I wondered if the owner would let me harvest it and we would both get more coins. My children worried about my problem with farming and how I was ignoring my own too-much-internet advice.

Realizing my problem, I let my virtual farm finally go fallow and let my obsessions calm down. Then one morning I get an email from my mother asking to be my Facebook friend. She had her own account now and was gathering friends. She would take her own tests probably want to comment on my photos. I wasn’t too sure about having my mom comment on my photos. But, then again, if she had her own farm, would she let me help harvest her crops?

Pool Party

After nine long months of waking up at 5:55 to get everyone dressed and out the door for school by seven, and passing out on the couch by nine, the last day had finally arrived. I made the last lunch, handed out the last backpack, and waited the last time for that teeny, tiny break in traffic where I could zoom into the busy street of other parents heading for school. I was looking forward to sleeping a bit later, taking life a bit slower, and having a less regimented schedule. And it all would begin today.

Well, it would almost begin today. It would begin right after my daughter had her End Of The Year Pizza and Swimming Blow Out. After 15 screaming girls piled into my car and then into my yard for some serious fun, then the slow lazy days of summer would hopefully begin.
My husband left that afternoon, as he had been told by my daughter that morning, to cart home many young ladies that were ready to swim. I stayed behind to start baking pizzas that I had been told were on the menu for the afternoon. The pool had been cleaned, the grass mowed, and the picnic table polished for the big day.

I was still pouring chips in a bowl when the car doors opened and a bunch of chattering, screeching, giggling young girls ran through the yard and my daughter led the noisy bunch upstairs to change clothes. They all crammed in her room while trying out her perfume and investigating her latest purchases from Belk’s. They hurriedly changed and wasted no time hurrying back down the stairs to head for the pool. But they did take a detour to yell names at her brother and tell the girl that her clothes were outdated and she seemed thinner last time they had met. Nothing like trying to knock out the competition while still several years too young.

Very pleased at the angry looks from the girl and dodging the swats from the brother, the gang of teen girls hurried out to the yard. I was amazed at how a pan of pizza could disappear in mere seconds. And also how pizza seemed just as edible after being dropped in the pool. And how 15 girls could all be talking at once, and yet insisting that the radio needed to be louder, and how cell phones didn’t seem to work as well when they got wet. And how pepperonis can float.

I brought out pizza after pizza, while trying to pick up glasses and cell phones from puddles of water and place them in dry, safe places. I would hurry back out when shrieks went up that glasses were missing and pizza ran out. Then right when I thought they were going to all die of starvation, one mom showed up with a pan full of brownies. A cry of glee went up in the air and they attacked the poor mom and left her damp and frazzled and holding a tray of nothing but crumbs.

After sitting the post-brownie mauled woman in a chair to recover, I hurried inside and outside, retrieving drinks and answering yells. It did make me wonder how after an afternoon of dozens of juice bottles, I had very few requests for directions to my bathroom. As I wiped my sweaty hair back from my face and plopped next to the brownie victim, I pondered the price of extra chlorine for the pool. And wondered if the person that named the lazy, crazy, summer days had ever thrown a pool party for teenage girls.

But after hundreds of jumps from the diving board and thousands of squirts with the hose, the moms began to parade in like the calvary coming over the hill. The screams began to quiet and no one hollered when I turned the volume on the radio down. I walked through the yard picking up scattered Sunny D bottles and skimming the last of the floating pepperonis out of the pool.

The lazy, crazy, days of summer had begun. Young people having fun and partying til they dropped. But even though I wouldn’t need to set my alarm for 5:55 in the morning, I had a feeling that if I made it until nine o’clock on this evening it would be my own high note of middle aged mom partying til she dropped. Those long summer days of no early mornings, afternoons of swimming, and watching TV until late at night would just have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow after I had removed all the pizza from the skimmers and dumped extra chlorine in the pool.

Houdini's Disappearing Pants

Harry Houdini was a great magician. Performing all kinds of magic tricks, he could make all kinds of things appear out of nowhere. He could make a rabbit appear out of somebody’s hat. The Ace of Hearts would appear amazingly in the pocket of his coat. Or he could make a bird appear fluttering frantically right out of thin air.

Every mom knows that Houdini wasn’t unique in his magical abilities. When my daughter is scrambling frantically about for where she left her clarinet, I magically go look in the spot where it should be and magically make it appear. When my son is insisting that I have not washed his favorite, navy blue school shirt, I patiently ask him if he has looked in his closet. I then get that condescending look that only irate teenagers can give to parents that seem to be asking the world’s most stupid question. Of course, he has looked in his closet.

So I then go on to look in my ironing pile for the disappearing shirt. Then in the dryer. Then I dump out the bucket of dirty clothes to see if, just perhaps, when washing 90 loads of clothes each day, I happened to miss washing his favorite blue shirt for the last seven days. Then as he is frantically pulling at his hair, and pointing at the clock, and wailing that I have lost his blue shirt, his brother must have stolen it, I got it mixed up in the Goodwill bag, I patiently walk up to his room and look in his closet. And....Abracadabra!!!! It magically appears.

Well, it must be magic, because he insisted it wasn’t there.

A few weeks ago we had a family event where my son needed a new suit. Leaving the shopping to my husband while I handled things with the family, they naturally went to the store and paid no attention to price. Men tend to do that. He came home with a really nice new jacket with a matching, dapper, new pair of pants. After wearing them for a few hours, I found them a few days later crumpled up in his room.

Realizing that many men not only buy pants not on sale, but also leave them crumpled on the floor, I patiently picked them up and patiently had them cleaned. And then I hung them back in his closet. A few days later he had to wear them again. I told my son to take very good care of them, I just had them cleaned and they would be excellent pants to wear to graduation in a few days.

But then the pants disappeared. Almost as if by magic. Wanting to get them clean and pressed for the upcoming big day, I began to search around for the magically disappearing pair of pants. I searched high and I searched low, and no pants could be found. So I asked my son to please find them.

A few days went by. I asked him again. I got a huff and a puff, and a "Mom, quit nagging."
More days went by. I asked him again. This time with a bit more volume. And a bit more nagging. And a threat that we were running out of time. And a reminder that they had cost too much money. And another reminder that they had cost so much to be cleaned. And then I nagged some more.

Finally, after that last and best nag, my son went to retrieve the pants. Grumbling the whole time, because he knew just where they were. But then he searched in his room. He searched in his car. He searched in the garage, in the driveway, in the pool. He searched in the attic, and the back yard, and the mailbox. He couldn’t seem to find his pants.

Crossing my arms I asked where did he last see them. He told me in the garage. He knew they were there. His brother must have taken them. His brother must have lost his own pants, so was now wearing his.

Knowing that his brother was not wearing the pants, I searched couch cushions and under beds and behind doors. I made him call his friends and their friends and their friends, but still no pants were to be found.

Finally, I realized, that not only would be the one wearing nothing but boxers on that Saturday afternoon. But, just like Houdini couldn’t perform that one final trick, this magician of a mom would never find that one disappearing pair of pants.

The Last One Is Sweetest

As a kid, one of my favorite candies was M&Ms. I loved sorting out the colors and eating all of, say, the yellow ones first. They were great fun to pelt that skinny freckled boy at recess who was always hanging around. And although they weren’t supposed to melt in your hand, they always did, and made a great multi-colored tattoo on your palm when holding it upright to give Mr. Spocks Vulcan greeting to your science geeky friends.

The only thing is, that in that little brown bag, there never seemed to be enough. After sharing them, and throwing them, and watching ants swarm them, I would get down to the last few and always wished I had enjoyed the others more. Eaten them slower. Thrown less at the freckled boy. Not agitated the ant piles. The last one was always the sweetest, I would take the most time before eating it, and I held it on my tongue the longest. And when finally the bag was empty, I really wished I had just one more. Because, after all, that final M&M was the very last one.

Last week my second son finished his last day of school as a senior. He is my second little boy to finish 13 years of getting up obscenely early in the morning to get dressed, eat breakfast, and grab lunches as I stood in the driveway to see three little people off on the big yellow bus. I would wave until it made the corner in the beginning, trying not to droop too badly as my tired body wanted to go collapse in the grass. And as they got older, I was no longer allowed to wave in the driveway, so I would watch the yellow bus make the corner from my kitchen window. And even later, I would clandestinely watch that blue truck pull out of the drive.

Now for the second time, it was over. No more arguments in the morning about where was his favorite shirt. No more complaints about how I had burned his eggs and used the wrong bread for his toast. He will be heading away down the highway to find his own clothes and toast his own bread, not needing Mom anymore.

No longer will I hear the arguments in the hallway of how his sister is hogging the bathroom, or getting makeup all over his stuff. I will never again have that scramble to find the essay he wrote last week or the Algebra homework he left on the couch. He has come over the crest of the mountain and done it so well, but 13 years seemed to fly by far too quickly just like those summer days flew by of vacations at the beach.

As he grabbed his last white collared shirt and khaki Hollister pants, and he ate his last scrambled eggs before dashing out the door, I stared at the young man that had once been my little boy. That same little boy who I had called out word after word on each Thursday morning while he was learning to spell. The same one who had counted the days until he could catch that bus with his big brother for the very first time. That same one who I had taken off work to attend field days and field trips, and dashed up to the school to bring forgotten backpacks and trumpets, had sold millions of candies and mountains of popcorn to fund 13 years of PTOs at three different schools. He came home that last day with a mortarboard and tassels and ran off with his friends.

I remember when they first started school, I thought I faced an eternity of those early, dark mornings where I would never sleep until the sun rose again. I thought I had forever of early nights for bedtime and countless hours of homework. I looked forward to the end of those many colorful days of regimented lifestyles and only buying white shirts.

And that last day in my kitchen I carefully cooked his eggs. I ironed his white shirt and handed him his last few dollars for lunch. This morning was so different than the thousands before. This morning I tried to make last just that few minutes longer, and hold each minute that much more dear. Because I knew this one was different. This one laden with regret of all the mornings I wasted. If only I had just a few mornings more. And as I watched that young man dash away I knew this morning was sweetest. Because, after all, it was the very last one.

A Mouse In The House

In the south deer hunting is still a popular sport. Some people love it, anxiously waiting for deer season to open and regularly cruise Bass’s Pro Shop for every new gadget ever invented for hunters. They keep pictures of Charlton Heston on their walls, and have bumper stickers about prying guns out of cold, dead fingers. Others hate deer hunting and cringe at killing Bambi. Growing up loving Bambi, I understand how they think of the little speckled guy every time a shotgun blasts. I understand their feelings. I also love venison.

The sweet cartoon character came to mind the other night while lying in bed I hear a scratching in the ceiling. I froze while the scratching get louder and moved across my bedroom ceiling. I thought it could be a cute little squirrel like Rocky or it could be a kitty like Garfield. But it didn’t take long lying their in late night terror to realize it was a rat.

Hearing it move across the ceiling, I bolted upstairs to my daughters room to see if it was attacking her while I had been frozen in fear down below, and opened her door to find her sleeping peacefully, unaware of the monstrous beast. Finding her alive, I ran downstairs to retrieve our cats to slay the beast. I picked up the bigger of the two cats, who weighs about 25 pounds and prefers to not move if he doesn’t have to. I opened the attic door and told him to go kill the rat. He looked at me with heavy lidded eyes and yawned.

Pushing him with my foot, I tried to get him to run into the attic. Cats are supposed to love chasing rats. Maybe he didn’t know that. So I told him. He meowed again and headed back downstairs and sat down near his bowl. He didn’t appear overly enthusiastic at saving my life. The other cat ran away.

In spite of my late night wanderings, nobody else woke up with the monster running around our attic. I cautiously went back to bed and, after a very long time, fell back asleep. The next day I told my husband what happened. He patted my sleepy head and told me I had been dreaming. Seeing my face, he amended that with the suggestion that he would put some traps in the attic just in case I hadn’t been dreaming. But that I had.

After sprinkling the attic with several types of rat traps and sticky traps, the next few nights we all went to bed with only me awakened repeatedly to the scratching and clawing over my head. The last night I lay frozen in my spot for hours, waiting for the monster rat to make it into the attic to certain death, or ready to spring if he fell through the ceiling and landed on my bed. The rat took his time and didn’t head to the attic. Unwilling to remain in mortal peril, I went to sleep on the couch.

After finally drifting off to sleep, I was awakened again to a deafening clamor from the upstairs hall. Realizing the rat must have been caught in the sticky tape, he was pounding back and forth on the attic door. I waited for someone to wake up. The pounding got louder. I was not about to go finish him myself. No one woke up and after forever the pounding stopped.

The next morning I dragged myself into the kitchen after a week of sleepless, rat filled nights. I told my husband and kids that I thought he was caught. How had they slept through it all? They opened the attic door in awe that their really was a rat and he really was dead. And sticky. And that I really hadn’t been dreaming.

I asked what would have happened if it had been a burglar pounding on the door and they had remained asleep? What if he had been stabbing me and they hadn’t even known. They smiled and said, surely as he had been stabbing me on the couch, my screams would have wakened them and they could have all run to safety. Surely the rat wasn’t as loud as I claimed.

But that night as I dragged myself into my nice comfy bed to finally get a quiet nights sleep, one thought crossed my mind. Maybe some people’s hearts break when they think of all deer as Bambi. But, although I was a Disney fan too, not once in the past sleepless week had I wanted mercy for Mickey.

The Most Perfect Fit

Back in the Eighties, which was probably way before I was born, it was absolutely necessary for all the most stylish people to only wear certain brands of jeans. If you showed up at school with jeans that did not say Lee, or Calvin, or Brittania, then you were outcast to the group that shopped wrong. The problem with many of these brands, however, was that most stylish clothes are modeled by women who have never eaten a cheeseburger in ten years and top out at about 92 pounds.

Now I did know several girls that topped out at 92 pounds, and they wore the stylish brands very well. And then some of them didn’t. They were so very skinny that the jeans were just saggy and baggy and didn’t fit. And then I had another friend that was absolutely beautiful, but very curvy. She loved Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and would rush to the store every payday to buy a new pair of those perfect jeans. Lucky for her they were one of the preferred brands on that teenage list, but most of all she loved them because they were the perfect fit. And that made her even more beautiful.

When I was about 8 years old, which was probably somewhere back around ten or twelve years ago, I would dream of having the perfect wedding dress. Of course, at age eight my dream of the perfect dress was this fur trimmed, diamond glistening dress with a 30 foot train that caused all the wedding guests to gasp at its beauty as I walked by. When I actually did shop for my wedding dress, I searched all places and prices. Being an only child, I knew my mother would be willing to pay whatever price for my perfect dress.

After trying on beautiful dress after beautiful dress, and having sketch after sketch of special orders offered to me, I stopped in one small store in Bossier and glanced through the ones hanging on the rack. And there I found it. Right off the rack, less than a quarter of the price of my next favorite one. And I thought it was the most beautiful dress I had seen, and it made me the most beautiful bride I could be. It was the perfect fit.

So now my son is choosing a college. And he happens to have a very, very big brain. And happens to be quite athletic, too. So we get letter after letter from school after school offering him wonderful things and wonderful places to go. Gathering up all these wonderful offers, we began to tour those that seemed best.

We toured a school of extremely big brained young people. They all walked around with special made hats for their extremely large heads. And they showed us inventions they had invented and new planets they had discovered. The professors had extra snazzy suits and wore extra shiny glasses to aid in teaching these extra smart kids. But my son just didn’t feel comfortable in a place where he would need that extra large hat.

So then we went to another school that offered all kinds of sports. The swimming pool was extra long and wide. The workout room would computer program your muscles. The athletes were extra tall and their faces glowed with the very best health. The football team threw extra long passes and the basketballs had that much more bounce. But with so many people teaming around this giant place, my son just didn’t feel like he was anything more than just another one of the extra strong guys. And the price of vitamins would have been far too much.

So we toured one more school before giving up on the rest. This one was just the right size, not too big or too small. This one was not very far away, so it wouldn’t take too much gas. The athletes were strong, but still friendly, their teachers glasses not too thick. And it was right here in Louisiana, had been right here all the time. It had mosquitoes and alligators, but had no bears or sharks.

And it proved just once again, although some people may rate things high, while others rate them low, that whether too big or too small, too pricey or too cheap, the most important thing of all is look very close at everything. Because hiding right on that rack, or right in your back yard, is the very thing that may be the most wonderful of all, and that very best and most perfect fit.

Mowing the Grass

The days are getting long again and sunshine fills the air. Birds sing sweet songs again, bees buzz around fragrant flowers, and the grass, once again, has grown lush and thick. Time to wash off the grill, clean the pool, and, of course, take out the lawnmower.

As I heaved the dirt encrusted clunker across the yard, I remembered that the self-propelling mechanism had broken last year. But in a great brainstorm of economics, I had decided to not fix it. Having to push it myself would be great aerobic activity and supreme muscle building for my arms. I had decided to use old fashioned strength and determination to mow my yard. My giant yard. With lots of grass. More grass than I remembered it having.

So as my daughter reclined on the swing in the fresh spring air, I heaved and sweated and pushed that monster machine around the yard. Since my daughter regularly confuses herself with the Queen of England, I knew I would receive no help there. And having decided over the winter to accept my post-forty year old body, I knew this old mower was no longer the turbo-muscle machine that I had dreamed it to be. I seriously needed a new mower.

It was actually exciting to be the one to pick out the brand new lawnmower. I never had that privilege before. So trying to be the best lawnmower chooser ever, I went from store to store and observed many makes and models, and asked many mechanical questions of men that wore aprons and had pencils behind their ears.

I opted for a shiny black mower that propelled itself and came with a two year warranty. My son helped me pick it up in his truck and then put it together. It was nice to know that several years at Louisiana Tech and thousands of dollars had come to use by him being very proficient at assembling the handle bar of the mower. But all that shopping had left me very tired, so I waited several days before taking it for its first run.

Sunday morning I got up bright and early, and didn’t decide to mow. I waited until later. Then when no one else looked like they were going to mow, I ran outside and fired up my new machine. It was very fast, and very easy, and I buzzed right down the yard. And then it broke. I had a beautifully mowed half yard and a broken mower. My husband patted my back and told me he would take it back to the store.

When he got there they wanted to repair it. After all, I had bought the extended warranty. He patiently explained that it was brand new and he just wanted another one. The guy with the pencil behind his ear wasn’t very happy. He had coffee waiting and two donuts on a napkin. Telling my husband he couldn’t return it without the bags and papers it came with, he sent him back home while he went back to his donuts.

My husband remained calm and went back for the bags, of which, luckily, we still had. He then returned to the store where the man had finished his first donut. At this point my husband said he didn’t really want a new one anymore, he would prefer his money back. The man said he needed the credit card it had been purchased with. Which happened to be my mom’s. She had kindly used it that day when shopping with me, because my son had talked me out of all the cash in my wallet. And my one and only credit card, also.

So my husband had to retrieve my mother, which was not that easy a task. Prying a woman off a quarter slot machine, when she was just ready to hit three 7s, is very difficult. Especially when she hadn’t eaten her free buffet yet. But with much hard work, and promise of dinner at Captain Ds, he got her back to the store and they refunded our money.

4 hours later, 1 dinner at Captain Ds, 3 rolls of quarters, and much frustration later, my husband returned home having completed returning the mower. He smiled tightly and told me although I had done a very good job at choosing the last one, and was very good at tending the grass, he knew I wouldn’t mind if he bought our next mower. He just didn’t have any energy left for more returns. And not nearly enough quarters left to ask any more help from my mom.

A Long Trip to Dallas

Vacations when the kids were little were never the days of rest and relaxation that we envisioned every time we packed up the car. From the moment we began to be seated it was a battle over who could get in the front seat, what we needed to listen to on the radio, where we would eat lunch, who would get the pull-out bed in the hotel. By the time the few days were over, my husband an I felt like battle weary soldiers who welcomed the return home to some peace and quiet. But that never came either.

Now they are all teenagers, much older than those trips from long ago. For some reason I once again beckoned them into the car for a weekend trip to Dallas, thinking that with MP3 players and Nintendos that now we would have the few days of relaxation that would feel so good.
Before we left the driveway my son bodily ejected his sister from the front seat and plants himself permanently in her place. My husband sighs, knowing it’s a battle not worth fighting and climbs into the back seat while I take the first turn at the wheel. My daughter loudly protests from the back seat, as my mom stares wide-eyed at the scene before her. It is her first overnight trip with the family and she has a lot to learn as far as teenage brawling across state lines.

Then my son claims he gets to choose the station on the radio because he is in the command seat of the vehicle. I told him actually I was in the command seat, since I was driving, so that should allow me to pick the radio station. He smugly offered to drive, and I readily turned him down. I had no desire to die before age 42, so since I had turned down his offer, he told me he got to command the radio by default. And the decibal level. Which was many decibals. And then some. I asked why he didn’t simply listen to his headphones with his MP3 player and he told me there was no need for that, the radio worked fine. And my daughter bellowed from the back seat that the songs were no good. My mother stared out the window, obviously reconsidering her decision to come along.

We then stopped to fill up and get some sodas and snacks. Which then lead to another battle of prying people out of the front seat. My husband, frustrated, retreats to the back seat again. I, by obvious default, got back behind the wheel. My daughter continues to scream the unfairness of it all from the back and how we have always favored her brothers over her. Multiple shopping trips, manicures, and every electronic horse game ever made did not count. We had always favored them more. My mother looked ready to apply for a job at the gas station just to prevent having to get back in the car.

And now we had to listen to the 15 minute dissertation from my son on the unhealthy qualities of chips, donuts, and Mountain Dew. That, he, the temple of healthy eating and masculine perfection, would never put such garbage in his body. And after deflating our egos, drinking his water, eating his organic beef jerky, proceeded to eat all our leftover donuts, chips, and Mountain Dew. We were not allowed to comment.

What seemed like 15 hours later, we had traveled the 200 miles to Dallas and reached our hotel. We entered the room to a new battle of who gets the extra bed, who gets the sofa bed, who commands the thermostat. Of course, the adults were not in the equation. My battle weary husband left to pick up pizzas while I dug through my luggage for Tylenol. And Advil. And Aspirin. My mom went down to the pool where about 35 kids were splashing and hollering. After the eternal car ride, she appreciated the poolside peace and quiet.

My husband returned with the pizzas where brother and sister than argued over what kind had been ordered, what kind should have been ordered, and who mom and dad had obviously favored the most. I lay on the bed and closed my eyes remembering the days when they were little and how I would miss those chaotic times of both fighting and love. Smiling to myself, I knew in my heart I was glad they were still traveling with us, and that those precious times were not over quite yet.

Which College To Choose

Being a senior in high school isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Visions of being the top dogs in the building, throwing hats up at graduation, and partying all night when its over are dampened by the stress of the decisions in the next few months ahead and the stress of entering a new phase in life after being comfortably set in the routines of the last thirteen years. It’s not as much fun as it looks.

Once again, I have now entered that phase with my second child. And thought I would be much better and much wiser at handling the tough decisions. My oldest son dithered and dithered on which college to choose, when I thought it was quite simple. Wyoming had bears. Louisiana Tech had no bears. A very simple decision to me. I didn’t know why he was so stressed about it, and waited until June to decide. Even though I spent months having nightmares of my oldest baby being eaten by wild, western bears, I had discovered upon visiting Wyoming that I loved to ski. So even though I felt disappointment at my son choosing the south, I also felt relief that Ruston was a bear-free environment.

Now Child #2 began the college search. This seemed it would be quite easy. He likes to play hockey, so I showed him a variety of brochures of schools in the north. I eagerly awaited his choices, looking forward to taking up my skiing career again in multiple visits to my baby boy’s new turf. Shrugging his shoulders he said he really didn’t like the cold. Maybe someplace with heated ice. Like maybe Miami. I searched very hard, but colleges with ice in Florida and Hawaii seemed few and far between.

I found a few places in Texas, and showed him what I had found. Texas was southern, it was nice and warm, and it didn’t have bears. Although I was a bit worried about cowboys. Cowboys carried guns. And Texas also had cactus plants, which were very sharp. He frowned at my concerns and shrugged again at the choices I showed him. He didn’t seem to be too interested in even Texas. I didn’t know what to do.

Calling my close friend who always had answers to my life challenging questions, I discovered she was not at home. But her 17 year old son answered the phone and I chatted with him a bit. Smiling at how I would gain secret information from him as to how to choose colleges with a 17 year old boy, I questioned him to where he was going. He said he really didn’t know. I asked what he preferred? When he would choose? Sighing he said maybe Shreveport, maybe Tennessee, he didn’t really know which or when.

I said Shreveport was very nice. It was very close to home, it had a mom and a dad that loved him very much. It had no bears. And no very sharp plants that could stab him and cause a life threatening infection. But then Tennessee was very nice, too. It had Rock City and Dollywood, of which I had been to both places and had bunches of fun. People strolled around playing banjos and guitars on the sidewalks and music filled the air all day. I knew that from commercials I had seen on TV.

He didn’t seem very happy with my great knowledge of both places and telling me he would have his mom call me, he hung up the phone. Now I was no better off than I had been before, and time was running short. Hanging my head, I slumped into all my college brochures and didn’t know how to make my son choose where I needed to start sending loads of my money.

My daughter came up and patted my back. She told me to be strong, when she was 17 I wouldn’t have these same problems. She already had made her choice. Feeling much better, that I wouldn’t have to fret for months yet one more time, I asked where she was going.
She had chosen Pennsylvania, it was all set in stone. Happily I thought of Pennsylvania mountains, and once again I could dream of swishing down sparkling slopes. Shaking her head, she told me, no, this was near the coast, not a mountain around. I guess I had to finally realize that no matter where each child would go, skiing was just not in my cards, and although we had searched from Montana to Miami, we would just never find heated ice.

Visiting Friends

This weekend I am getting some company. I don’t get company very often, they are coming from really far away. Well, one friend is from New Orleans, but my other friend is coming from France. France is very far away.

So now that I know they are coming, and am very excited, I have to plan a perfect itinerary of displaying North Louisiana culture and finding them a place to stay. The problem is my house is not very big, and it is also full of messy teenagers. They offered their rooms, but nobody has been able to actually navigate into their rooms in so many years that it has ceased to be an option.

But my mom has been very lonely and she has lots of not-messy rooms, so she wants them with her. One could sleep in my old room with her daughter and the other could sleep in the spare room. Now my friend will very much enjoy sleeping in my old room because it still has all my toys and has remained intact since my departure all those years ago. In fact, it is referred to as "The Shrine" since I left. People claim when they stay in it that wonderful things happen. Arthritis is cured, broken bones are healed, and all other sorts of things that should happen when one sleeps in a very special place.

Now that problem is solved, but knowing that someone is sleeping in my old room tends to bother me just a bit. Maybe she will play with all my old toys when I am not looking and maybe even break some. I used to have friends that did that. Or maybe she might change all my old Barbies clothes, and they will no longer be dressed with the superior fashion sense that I had when I was eight. But I am looking forward to seeing my friends, so I will have to leave my Barbies to their own devices.

The next problem is how to entertain people in North Louisiana when they are used to hanging around Paris. These friends will probably want a bit more culture than my usual pals who I take down to the rodeo and have a rip roaring evening of chili-cheese-nachos and watching cowboys get trampled by bulls. A bit too violent for people that enjoy the evening air of the Champs D'Elysee over a fine glass of burgundy. Maybe I’ll tone it down a bit and take them to the Alligator farm, and if we are lucky tourist might get eaten and we can make the evening news.

Or I considered a museum to look at some fine art. Then, again, they spend their days roaming the marble halls of the Louvre, and I don’t know if they would enjoy some paintings of horses when they spent the last weekend gazing at the Mona Lisa. But I really like paintings of horses. We could spend the afternoon at a local museum with horses and then maybe rent the DaVinci Code to watch back at home in the night. Or maybe I could take them by my other friend’s farm and let them pet some real live cows. Petting a real live Louisiana cow has to be more fun than spending so many afternoons gazing at a painting of a lady that no one really even knows.

And then I was thinking of someplace authentic to take them for dinner. Someplace that really represents my home. I envisioned a sunshine drenched lake, draped in moss covered trees while we all sat around and dined on cornmeal battered catfish. A trip to Lake Bistineau would be the perfect place. It would be as authentic and as beautiful as any European bistro, and the fish would be as delicate and delicious as any world famous chef’s.

But I still had a problem. Thinking of taking my friends to eat a delicious fish dinner, already had me thinking of why drive all the way to Lake Bistineau, when my very favorite fish restaurant was right here in town. And a view of Airline Drive wasn’t all that unpleasant. Maybe they were used to the wonders of France, but nothing would beat dinner at Captain Ds right here in Bossier City, right here in my wonderful Louisiana, right here in the good old USA. It was America they were after, and America they would get. And if they had a few extra minutes, it would be funnel cakes for dessert. They make great munching at the rodeo when the cowboys are getting trampled by bulls.