Titanic Giveaway
Enter to win one of two random drawings of four tickets each (value $120 each) to see both the Titanic the Artifact Exhibition opening on April 5, as well as BODIES the Experience while the exhibits are on display in Atlanta. Choose your own day.

How to Enter
You must be a member at GeorgiaFamily.com to win. (We never share personal info. To be eligible for the drawing, you must enter your address as winners must reside in Middle Georgia.) Click on the Georgia Family's blog, The Mommy Scoop. Enter by commenting in one sentence what you like about Georgia Family Magazine.

Deadline to Enter
April 30, 2012. Learn more about eh show at titanicatlanta.com and bodiesatlanta.com

It’s 9:52, Sunday night. Andrew and Jack are finally in bed after ten rounds of full throttle, candy powered wrestling. I enjoy watching their horseplay so much that I hate reminding them like the mommy broken record “boys, it’s a school night. Do you see what time it is? You’re going to regret this in the morning.” On nights like this I wish I homeschooled them so that making it to school on time weren’t such an issue. (Okay, for the record, this is the ONLY time I wish I homeschooled my kids. I fear I’d do a terrible job with them.)

 

I’m a little restless tonight. It’s been over a month since I posted and writing is like exercise. If you don’t do it everyday, it’s easy to get out of practice, to feel rusty, and want to do it less and less. After a million mile an hour weekend, it’s much easier to zone out on Facebook than put together coherent phrases for others to read. I recently got loaded up with a new job and new freelance projects. Andrew and Jack are both in baseball, church activities. James is still traveling all the time. My computer broke. We had to put our beloved family dog to sleep. Excuses! Excuses! What matters is that I’m back at the computer hacking away at motherhood clarity, whatever that is.

 

As many of you know, we live in Dublin, a town that goes completely nuts the entire month of March in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. As a family, we love love love this time of year. I’m all about celebrating whatever local traditions our town offers. We put green bows on our porch, eat corned beef and cabbage and spend Super Saturday downtown at the parade and the arts and crafts fair.

 

Yesterday we donned our green and started the day volunteering at our church’s lemonade stand. Andrew wore 49 strands of green Mardi Gras beads he’d snagged at last weekend’s Tybee Island St. Pat’s parade. He looked like an Irish gang member. Jack wore his green soccer uniform. They took prime positions on Main Street to gather as much parade candy as possible. It was wonderful seeing the floats, but I wish there were more of them. Is it me, or are there wayyyyy more cars and golf carts than actual floats in parades these days?

 

Afterward we made our way to Stubbs Park. The kids challenged their equilibrium in about 10 different bouncy houses, while James and I visited with friends. If you’ve been watching the news, you’re probably wondering if we saw the shooting. No, thank God, we called it a day and went home about ten minutes before the event that ruined St. Pat’s for the entire town.

 

If you’re like me and try to avoid news media at all costs, I’ll fill you in. Two rival gangs planned to meet at the park among hundreds of families – husbands, wives and their precious children—and settle their gang differences right there, with no regard for anyone else. (like they ever have regard for others). A girls’ singing group from our church was performing on stage. Little ones were running around without a care in the world. In the blink of an eye a brawl ensued, shots were fired, the scene turned to pandemonium, a few people were trampled and police quickly evacuated everyone. There were no casualties, except the holiday spirit.

 

Whether Dublin will have a St. Patrick’s Day celebration again is up in the air. Maybe it’ll be scaled down. Maybe not at all. I don’t know. It makes me sad that innocent family fun, that so many people look forward to, can so quickly be derailed.

 

Before moving back to Dublin, we lived in Pleasant Hill, Ca. I hate to compare. I shouldn’t compare. But things like this NEVER happened there. There were towns around where shootings, gang violence and murders DID happen, but they had their boundaries. Richmond, Antioch, Pittsburg. Not Pleasant Hill. I wish Dublin were like that. But, hey. No place is safe. Even Amish communities.

 

When I think about violence like that happening in schools, I think “maybe homeschooling isn’t such a bad idea.” But, then, are we safe anywhere?

 

That’s all I have for now. I promise my next post will be more lively. I’ll look in the attic and find which box I stored my sense of humor in.

 

Until then, take it easy and let your kids know that you love them.

We Middle Georgians are fluent in the language of hot summers. We know what we’re talking about when we utter terms like humidity, heat index, gnats and frying eggs on sidewalks. As expert as we are on the season between spring and fall, most of us natives are complete strangers to the winter white stuff that falls out of the sky once every decade or so. Ya know, snow.

 

As a kid growing up in Wrightsville, I can remember two times that it snowed during the winter. On both occasions, you’d have thought that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy had all arrived unexpectedly and planned to stay the weekend. In 1982, the year I was 8, we got two inches overnight. My brother, sister and I were ecstatic to wake up to wintry bliss in our own backyard. We romped. We frolicked. We threw snowballs, made snow angels, snow forts and a humpbacked, popeyed snowman named Jim. Scamp, our Springer Spaniel did his own form of dog sledding down the sloped driveway. Though the snow was gone in just two days, I’ll never forget the memories brought by that unexpected frozen white stuff.

 

Just this weekend, as the school year dragged on and cold, rainy weather kept the kids indoors way too much, we all got a thrilling surprise (as I’m sure you did too, if you’re here in Middle Georgia) “Mom! It’s SNOWING!” shouted Andrew, my 8 year old. Even though the TV weather man had predicted it, I was tempted not to believe it. (We’d had a couple of forecast false alarms already this year and I didn’t want to get my hopes up) But a glance out the window verified that sure enough, the white stuff was falling…in abundance.

 

4 year old Jack and I walked out onto the porch to catch our first snowflakes. Andrew was mysteriously missing. Just as I reached my hand out into the falling stream, “THWACK!” a shockingly cold, icy fastball hit me in the back of the neck. “HA HA” shouted Andrew. “I got you good!” Let the games begin!

 

After running back inside to don necessary outerwear, we were back in action. First on the agenda, a full-on family snowball fight. As Andrew and Jack bunched up snowballs, I brought out an ice-cream scoop and gravy ladle. Great for quick making and flinging of snowballs. I’m not sure who won, but we had a great hour long battle.

 

Scamp (the second) Dudley and Hope, our three dogs had a fantastic time, running, sliding and frolicking in the snow. Neighbors we hadn’t seen in a couple of months came out to share in the festivities. Snowmen were built; sledding paths were forged and new memories were made. The whole day was spent outside enjoying a spontaneous, natural playground. My husband James and I put aside our chores and business to play with the kids, and act like kids ourselves. It was truly special.

 

As the day went on and the sun got hotter, the snow began to melt. James commented, “wouldn’t it be great if we got to have a day or two of snow every winter.” Yeah, it would be.

 

I love the fact that, as parents, we get to have two-fold types of memories. Ones from our childhoods and those from watching our own kids enjoy the same things that we did once upon a time. The snow reminded me of that this weekend. Thanks, Mother Nature, for giving us a little fun in our winter.

It’s 10 PM Sunday night. The Weight family is tucked safely into Room 221 at the Stone Mountain Hampton Inn. We’re wet, tired and happy, having just spent an incredibly intense few hours experiencing Snow Mountain, the closest man-made snow to Middle Georgia.

 

We tubed, sledded, made snow, angels, threw snow balls, built igloos and snow men and drank ridiculously expensive hot chocolate that was made with some of the worst tasting city water I’ve ever had. Overall it was a really fun family outing, a great way to spend a couple of days over the MLK holiday weekend.

 

If you’re thinking of taking your brood to experience Snow Mountain, I hope you find the following review to be helpful. I’m pretty level-headed, fair, travel a lot, am not on Stone Mountain’s payroll and feel no obligation to sugar coat things, although if the snow had been sugar coated, it may have been softer.

 

Snow Mountain, which is inside Stone Mountain Park, consists of 12 tubing slides, a snow play area and a fire pit for making $5.00 smores, which taste the same as 25 cent smores.

 

Upon entering the snow area, we got in line and waited for our start time of 7 PM with around 300 other excited moms, dads and kids. Promptly at seven, we each grabbed a tube and took our places on a long slow moving walkway on which everyone was told not to walk. The walkway ended at an even longer maze of non-moving walkways that eventually led to the top of the tubing slides. On the first go-round, the line was, as they say in the country "slow as molasses." I might have celebrated a birthday about midway. However, on subsequent runs, it got less crowded and faster. On our last run, there was no waiting, just the trek to get to the top.  

 

The tubing was EXCELLENT. Way Fast. Way Fun! Worth the wait. Even my fearful four year old was laughing his head off as he shot down the not-too-steep slope. In our two-hour allotted time, we were able to tube seven times. That was with a very short bathroom break.

 

The snow play area has everything you need to build fantastic snow people and igloos. It also has a great snowball target area for any major league pitchers in training.

 

Staff members were all very helpful and more courteous than I’ve seen in a family amusement park in a long time. I began to wonder if they were clones. I point this out because we all know just what a precious rarity it is to encounter really, sincerely nice employees in such a large setting.

 

Here are just a few things I’d want to know ahead of time if I were planning a trip to Snow Mountain.

 

 

1)      They call it Snow Mountain, but, let me tell ya, it’s NOT snow. It’s ice. And if it’s balled up and hurled at you at 50 mph, you could lose an eye. If you stand in the wrong spot while the snow machine is shooting projectiles through the air, you could withstand a severe head injury. Just a note of precaution, if anyone in your family enjoys snowball fighting, I’d recommend wearing armor and a helmet, and perhaps having your own shield.

 

2)      Wear water proof gloves. I’m serious. This is NOT an occasion to wear those cute little mittens that Aunt Mildred crocheted for you. Depending on the weather, you can skip the scarf, snow bibb pants, face mask and even long underwear, unless you plan to roll around in the snow, making a whole choir of angels. But don’t forego the gloves. Building snowmen with ice that’s normally used in slushies can be excruciating on the hands. Protect them well.

 

3)      Book your tubing time in the evening, or at night, not during the day. After 7PM, the lines get shorter, which allows for more time on the slopes. This is especially important to parents of children with little or no patience.

 

4)      As with any family attraction, the food is over the top expensive. A 16 oz Coke is $3.29. You already know how I feel about the s-mores and hot chocolate. Security didn’t check our bags on the way into the park, so I’m thinking next time, we might bring in our own refreshments. That may come back to bite us if Mr. Bag Checker was coincidentally off tonight.

 

5) They don't always have double tubes available. And tubing with a little one on your lap isn't allowed. This is very important to know ahead of time. If you have a timid youngster, who is afraid of going down alone, you might be sitting on the sidelines with him or her while the rest of the family zooms past. On second thought, you could probably get some really good photos from the viewing area, because it's nearly impossible to do when you're tubing.

 

6)      Check the weather forecast before buying your tickets. Don’t expect to take a leisurely drive to Stone Mountain and just waltz into Snow Mountain whenever you feel like it. It’s often sold out. Book your reservations online ahead of time at www.stonemountainpark.com. Make sure you know the weather forecast first. I almost got tickets for yesterday instead of today. After the Genesis-like flood we received all day, I’m glad my husband stepped in with his common sense in planning.

 

That’s all I can think of right now. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to the park to play a round of miniature golf, hike up the mountain, maybe do the ropes course and ride the steam train. That is, if the snowball induced swelling in my head goes down. Overall, I love Stone Mountain and all it includes. It's a great little low impact vacation that doesn't cost a fortune. (Year passes are $52 for adults $42 for kids...and they pay for themselves in less than two visits. Yes, I swear they don't pay me to write this stuff.)

The Christmas tree is down. Decorations packed away. And now the Weight Family is staring at a new year. 2010! That’s amazing. It seems like a just few weeks ago, rather than a decade, we were all panicking about the Y2K bug and the potential calamities it could bring.

 

Also, with the new year, comes January, my least favorite month. Sorry to all you Capricorns out there but, I’m not a fan of winter. It’s a brisk 21 degrees outside this morning. Even the penguins are plugged into electric blankets. Andrew, my eight year old son, even wore a coat. WOW!!! He’s normally allergic to anything that provides warmth, saying “it’s not cold out here, short sleeves are fine, mom,” as I slip on a patch of ice trying to chase him down with a hat and gloves.

 

What frustrates me about winter here in Middle Georgia is that the temps can plunge down into the teens (much to the chagrin of Al Gore) but we seldom get any of that glorious white stuff that puts the fun in freezing off your buns. By that I mean snow (in case your brain is also frozen). Nothing to sled in, no snowballs to hurl, no snowmen or angels. So we stay inside, getting a little more screen time than I’m comfortable with.  The dreaded words “I’m bored,” are coming a little too readily out of the mouths of my kids. So, what can we Middle Georgia families do this winter to beat the cold weather blues? Surely there’s something fun out there to get the kiddos away from their Wii’s and Spongebob marathons.

 

Here is a list of indoor and outdoor boredom proof activities for parents and kids in our area.

 

1)      ICE SKATING! It’s not just for Michelle Kwan and Brian Boitano. It’s for you and me as well! Get an official taste of winter fun this weekend, Jan 8, 9 and 10 at the Macon Centreplex. The Weights will be lacing up our skates and strapping on our kneepads. For a list of other ice skating weekends throughout the season, visit www.maconcentreplex.com.

 

2)      Creating Portraits and Self Portraits at the Macon Museum of Arts and Sciences. On Thursdays January 21, 28 and February 4, kids ages 7-11 can explore their inner Van Gogh’s (ears kept intact) by taking a class on how to make those sketches of friends and family come to life. And, of course, the Macon Museum of Arts and Sciences has tons of other fun and educational activities as well. Check them out at www.masmacon.com.

 

3)      Caribbean Sound – Pan by Storm at the Grand Opera House the mornings of January 26 and 27. Introduce your kids to the exotic music and history of the West Indies steel drum in this rhythmic experience. Visit www.thegrandmacon.com to see their calendar of events.

 

4)      Museum of Aviation, Warner Robins – Lots of people don’t bother visiting their area’s tourist attractions because they think “oh it’ll always be there for us to see.” That was my thought about Robins Air Force Base’s air museum, that is, until Andrew became fascinated with flying. We saw all kinds of iron birds and bombers at this completely cool, 100% impressive, interactive center for air travel history. If you haven’t been, it’s worth your time – and you’ll score major points with the kids. Want to learn more? Visit www.museumofaviation.org.

 

5)      Toddler Play Date – Georgia Children’s Museum. The stroller set who aren’t quite into painting portraits or sure footed on skates can get out of the house and spend time in a with other little ones having fun with age appropriate activities. There’s always a lot to see and do at this awesome inspiring museum. For more information, just click www.georgiachildrensmuseum.com.

 

Of course, this is just a small sampling of what’s going on in Middle Georgia to beat those freezing outside – housebound blues. For a more extensive listing, click on the events portions of this Web site.

I grew up in a family with the motto: “better to ruin a relationship by being brutally honest than to say nothing at all.” If this wisdom applied to anything, it applied to gift receiving. I never had to wonder what my dad, mom or sister thought of any one of the dozens of gifts I’ve painstakingly picked out for them over years of Birthdays and Christmases. Because they told me, be it good, bad or ugly.

 

“Angela, you really wasted your money on these.” –my mom said, upon opening the earrings I bought her with my babysitting money when I was 12.

 

“Snort, Laugh, Hoooo-eeeeee, I’d rather have a Big Mouth Billy Bass than a tie like this! Which dollar store’d you get it from? And more importantly, will they take it back?” – my dad, Christmas of 1994. I was 20 and tried to choose something sophisticated for him.

 

“Angela, please tell me you kept the receipt for these. You obviously didn’t read the labels because if you had you’d have seen that they were made in Korea. In a sweatshop, no doubt. Plus, I’d never wear this shade of red. The dye-mixing process is bad for the environment.” – My sister, Pamela, on the slippers I bought her for Christmas of 1987. I was 13.

 

It wasn’t just my family members displaying such bad manners. I acted that way too, a product of my upbringing. I recall a handful of Christmas mornings that ended with me storming off because I didn’t get the exact brand or color of boots, perfume or cd player I wanted. The words “thank you” were on permanent vacation from my vocabulary. I even made a boyfriend cry one year with my callous remarks about a necklace and earrings set he’d given me. Apparently he spent lots of time picking out the perfect one. Today, when thinking back, I cringe with embarrassment.

 

It wasn’t until my first Christmas with my husband that he set me straight with a little lesson in gift receiving etiquette. James is not a wimp who would roll over and take my rudeness. And he never yells either. He has that quiet, strong assertiveness of a Siberian Husky, a lead dog, no matter the journey. Anyway, he let me know right quickly that with my attitude, he’d never waste another minute of his time or dime of his money on me again. So, I straightened up. Looking back, I sincerely appreciate his taking the time to correct my behavior. 

 

Andrew and Jack, our two sons are pretty good about remembering to say “thank you” and being socially conscious when opening presents, because I've reminded them like a skipping record since they were old enough to talk. But it’s also important for them to see what’s involved in picking out and buying Christmas gifts.

 

In the past, I've always picked out gifts to be from my kids and shown them what they were giving their cousins, and grandparents. This year, I’ve given them each $20 to use for grandparent presents. Then we’ll head to Target so they can make their selections. Andrew and Jack are of the ages where they should take the responsibility of picking out, purchasing, and wrapping gifts. They’re also each making an ornament for Grandma and Grandad. I think it’s important for children to be able to empathize with the gift giver. This way, they’re less likely to pout if they receive a sweaters from Aunt Penny instead of Bakugans. They’ll know she spent her time, money and efforts to pick out something useful for them.

 

Now, let’s just hope that Grandma and Grandad use more tact in opening gifts from their grandsons, than they did when I was growing up.

I love watching my two boys when they’re sleeping. They’re so peaceful and perfect. I sit in the rocker next to their beds and marvel at these two creations on loan from God. When Andrew, my oldest, was a baby, I’d watch the rise and fall of his breathing with fascination while he napped in his crib. His chubby arms set in right angles framing his cherubic face.

 

He doesn’t do that anymore. Like the near pre-teen that he is, Andrew rests sprawled out in every direction, with the covers twisted like confused snakes around him. His feet nearly touch the end of the mattress. I can no longer manage to pick him up out of bed to rock him in my arms. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t be graceful. Andrew is growing up. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.

 

Jack is too. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him out, but, at age four, the reality hasn’t hit me with the force of Andrew’s rapid changes.

 

Just yesterday, I was pretending to be a T-Rex, chasing the boys around our house. We’re lucky. There is a perfect circle connecting the kitchen, living room and foyer. So the chasing never has to end until someone (always me) gives out in need of a rest. I roar and throw my arms in the air, while the boys scream and dart away in mock terror. At some point I change directions in the circle and meet them as they’re running. This always leads to the biggest screams and laughs.

 

While I was in mid-chase, just for a brief second, I wondered when Andrew would no longer be interested in playing with his mom. At what age will I throw my arms in the air, and let out a growl, expecting him to take flight – and he just rolls his eyes and tells me to go chase Jack. Never, I hope. Although, I can’t quite picture being in my eighties playing chase with a fifty year old.

 

While I’ve mostly been a stay-at-home mom with lots of time for my kids, there have been too many occasions when I was “too busy” or not interested in playing blocks, or watching their mattress gymnastics demonstrations. The reality that those times are gone for good hits me in the face as I discover yet another gray hair and that those circles under my eyes aren’t going anywhere, even with $52 dollar miracle eye cream. It really bugs me when we’re walking out in public and Andrew no longer reaches for my hand.

 

I can’t go back and put them in strollers again for a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. But we can all jump on our bikes and go exploring. Andrew and Jack don’t fit in high chairs anymore and there’s no need to buy those adorable jars of baby food. But we can get in the kitchen on a rainy Saturday and pretend we have our own cooking show (which we do with hilarious results). No amount of cramming would fit them in the baby backpack that I used to wear them in when we’d go shopping. But I’m still up for a few hundred piggyback rides.

 

While I could, and do, lament about the time that’s behind me in my motherhood journey, I won’t let it stop me from seizing every minute that I have with my boys today. I’ll savor every sloppy kiss, every art project, every “watch this, Mom” and every question that I know I’ve answered 952 times before.

 

Yes, I’m feeling sentimental. I’ll savor that too. Because tomorrow, Andrew and Jack might just be getting on my very last nerve. In fact, I’m sure they will. It’s all part of the journey called Motherhood.

It’s Wednesday morning, November 4^th. Today’s the day I’ll precariously sidle out onto the roof and take down the big, black, fuzzy spiders that grace our upstairs windows each Halloween. I’ll take the haunted house welcome sign off the backdoor and replace it with something more autumn generic. Oh, and that decaying carved pumpkin has to go. It should’ve been tossed out on Sunday—but life happens and things don’t always get done when they should.

 

All in all, my boys had a great Halloween this year. Andrew, age eight, was a Star Wars clone trooper. He didn’t want to wear his costume once he saw that his best friend Alex wasn’t wearing one. This might be the last year that WalMart super hero costumes had any appeal to him. I predict next year, he’ll either refuse to dress up at all or will go in something he concocts himself. That’s one of the things that can make a mom sadly reminisce over her child’s growing up too fast. From infant peapod costume, to three-year-old Bob the Builder, to five-year-old skeleton, I’ll savor each Halloween memory.

 

Jack, age four, has never been a fan of Halloween costumes, a strange anomaly because he loves playing dress up at home, often donning doctor scrubs or a Power Ranger mask, or both at the same time. This year, however, we made progress. He found his brother’s old ninja costume and ceremoniously proclaimed it as his own, wearing it everywhere in the week preceding Halloween. Of course I took pictures—lots of them. In these fleeting moments of my kids’ early days, my camera is a constant companion. (Sorry I’m feeling nostalgic this morning.)

 

Observing Andrew and Jack’s yearly Halloween activities often brings me back to my own—and then I notice the differences between today’s customs and those of my trick-or-treating days back in the 80’s. (Gosh, that seems so long ago.)

 

It seems to me that for today’s kids, candy has lost its appeal. No, I don’t mean that they now prefer broccoli to pixie sticks. It’s just that I often marvel at how much candy kids get. It’s everywhere! Andrew’s teacher hands out lollipops and tootsie rolls for good behavior and correct answers. It’s not uncommon for him to come home on an average Tuesday with four pieces of candy…. just for sitting in his seat and doing his work. In Jack’s preschool, there’s always a classroom mom clamoring to make goodie bags for any and every occasion—including Veterans’ Day and “just because she felt like it” day. In Andrew’s choir, the teacher gives out gum and Jolly Ranchers as a reward for good practice sessions. I’ve noticed twice in going over to friends’ houses that they’ll have a large candy bowl on the counter for kids to scoop out at will. It seems a little much to me.

 

When I was a kid (at risk of sounding like Grumpy Old Man “BACK IN MY DAY…WE DIDN’T HAVE….”). When I was a kid, the candy we got from trick-or-treating made up a good 75% of our candy earnings for the calendar year. After returning home on Halloween night, my brother and sister and I sat on the living room rug poring over our bounty like pirates with new found treasure. We counted and cataloged and thanked God for our good confectionary fortune. Also, trick-or-treating was one night. We may have gone to a church carnival also, but that was it. It didn’t spread out over days and weeks.

 

For today’s generation, the average Halloween observance can last two weeks. We attended three parties, two church carnivals, including hayrides, two classroom parties and trick-or-treating in two neighborhoods. Each event netted Andrew and Jack enough candy to provide a piece for every child in Bangladesh. By the time October 31^st rolled around, I was all Halloweened out, and so were they. Looking back, I could’ve said “no” to some of it. There was never an excited candy dumping and counting session like when I was a kid. I, being the responsible parent, looked through all their loot to make sure it wasn’t laden with razor blades or arsenic, but Andrew and Jack seemed quite ho-hum about the whole affair. Their friends did to. I know because I did research, an informal poll among moms, and then a more formal Facebook survey. It counts as official research.

 

Maybe Halloween is just another example of how spoiled today’s kids have gotten, society’s instant gratification approach to life. They don’t have to wait until the end of October to splurge on sugar highs because some classmate’s mom or a well-meaning teacher is doling candy out like brain food. Hmmm, is that one of the reasons why every other kid is on Ritalin or Adderall? I’ll save that for another blog entry…a controversial one, no doubt.

 

In the meantime, I must come up with a responsible way to ration my kids’ candy. One piece a day, perhaps? Or maybe we can send it all to Bangladesh. There are unfortunate kids over there who would love to get high on sugar and drive their parents crazy bouncing off the walls.

 

It's one of those gorgeous fall days outside, where the sky is blue and cloudless. There's a light wind showering the yard with golden leaves and I'd rather run barefoot through the grass instead of doing laundry and starting dinner. So, that's what I've done with my four year old Jack and our eight dogs. Yes, I said eight. No, I'm not one of those strange animal hoarder people you see on TLC.

Up until about a month ago, my family was complete with two parents, two kids, one dog and one cat. We had no plans to add other furry or feathered friends. However, things happen and plans change. I'm sure you can relate.

About four Sundays ago after church, we all loaded up in the car to drive to Macon for an afternoon of shopping. I packed a few granola bars and cheese sticks for cases of en route munchies.

About ten miles into our trip, while happily chatting away, I spotted her. A sight for a sore heart. Plodding slowly and awkwardly alongside the road was the saddest, most emaciated looking little black dog I've ever seen... in real life. I'm an animal lover at heart and can't bear to see the animal cruelty posters with the skin and bones dogs staring at you through hollow eyes. But there, in rural Laurens County was a barely hanging onto life poster dog for the ASPCA. Without the padding of extra flesh, every one of her ribs was showing; her hip bones jutted out sharply and her spine was a distinct rope down her back. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and there were sores and bite marks all across her muzzle and neck. She looked as if she'd had puppies sometime in the distant past, but couldn't possibly have enough milk to nourish them.

My husband shook his head, sighing "How pitiful!" I burst into tears, crying  "Honey, we have to go back and get her!" Now, aside from our cat, I've never rescued an animal before. I'm not the type who's always being followed home by the pet of the week. But, then and there, I felt like we had no choice.

In recent weeks, our newspaper had covered two different horrific stories of raids on dog fighting rings, where nearly 100 canines were discovered in deplorable conditions. The suffering of animals had been on everyone's minds. Could the little black dog with too big ears (like a donkey's) have been put out beside the road to fend for herself by heartless owners who no longer wanted her? She looked slightly like a pit bull. Could she have escaped her own dog fighting nightmare? I still don't know.

James pulled over and I hopped out of the car with the only form of dog food I had...a cheese stick. In my merriest sing-song voice, I chanted "Heeeeere, puppy." The little dog slunk closer timidly, with tail between her legs. She was too shy to bite the cheese, instead offering a meager lick.

After a few minutes of coaxing and cajoling, I picked up the sad canine and put her in the front seat with us. She didn't move the entire ride home. Andrew and Jack were beside themselves with excitement, each having chosen a dozen potential names for her. James was silent. He'd planned to return home with new golf clubs, not a starving stray dog that could have diseases. But, he's a good man. A man who occasionally doesn't mind going along with one of his wife's warm hearted, half brained schemes.

It had been raining on and off throughout the weekend. As we drove back into Dublin, drops began to fall again. Through his car window, Andrew spotted a brilliant rainbow in the gray sky. "Hey, Mom, LOOK! I think God's proud of us for rescuing one of his creatures. That's why he sent us that beautiful rainbow!" I couldn't help but smile. Maybe it was true. 

Being the nostalgic poet that he is, Andrew also provided the name for our new friend. "Hope" because that's what we were giving her. We all agreed it was perfect.

Hope Comes Home

Once we were at our house, Hope sniffed her surroundings and enjoyed a huge bowl of Alpo. I gave her a good bath and then introduced her to our cat Anakin and our other dog Kelly. They weren't as thrilled with having a new roommate as I'd expected. Next, we had a veterinarian friend give her a quick exam.

Aside from her facial wounds and malnourishment, Hope was pretty healthy. That was good news. But, there was more. Those puppies she'd probably given birth to in the distant past? Well...they were actually only a few days old, according to the doctor. Hope was a NEW mama.

Oh No! That meant there were babies somewhere out in the wilderness without their mother. Not Good.

"Okay, everybody back in the car. You too, Hope!" Quickly we drove to the same isolated spot we'd left hours earlier. James pulled the car over just like before, this time to let Hope out. She must've been confused.

After standing beside the road, staring at our vehicle for several minutes, our mama dog began to follow a barely noticeable trail through a field of high grass. I trudged behind her. Moccasins and poison ivy and who knows what else could lay waiting for me. We continued on for what seemed like miles. What if the puppies had starved to death, or been eaten by a predator? I didn't know what to expect. Was there a litter puppies in that field exposed to the rain and heat of late September? Finally, Hope stopped as we came to a little place where the grass had been flattened down. There in front of us were SIX furry lumps about the size of potatoes. They were lying very still. Too still. "Oh, no!" I thought "We're too late!"

That was when Hope let out a motherly whine. Recognizing her voice, all six little bundles began squirming to life. With a surge of relief and gratitude for what I'd found, I just stood there watching and marveling as she began nursing her puppies.

A few minutes later, we were loading our new little family into the car. "Six Puppies!" Jack cried. "We hit the jackpot!"  

That was four weeks ago today. Hope and her puppies (two girls and four boys) are happy, healthy and oh so playful. Andrew and Jack love to lie on their backs and let the puppies climb across them like they’re mountains. In case you’re wondering, we named them Roley (like the fat one in 101 Dalmations) Scamp (after my childhood family dog) Dudley (because we found them right outside the community of Dudley). The others are Beau, Spot and Rocky, just because they're were cool puppy names. Each day offers more tail wagging, face licking, puppy breath delights. They're a lot of work, but I'll NEVER regret giving my boys the experience of rescuing a dog in need and raising her furry little ones.

 

Eventually, we’ll find good homes for the puppies, but we’ll keep Hope. She's a good dog. She barks a little too much, but she's a good girl. She’ll never again have to roam the roadside desperately searching for a morsel of food. She’ll always have a home, a warm bed and a dish full of Alpo. We gave her Hope and that feels pretty good.

 

I have a husband. I swear I do. My tax returns and the ring on my finger are acceptable proof. However, those wanting further validation, like a real live, in the flesh spouse, would be disappointed to find only the remaining messes my husband leaves each week--like razor stubble in his bathroom sink, golf clubs and an empty six pack of Heineken in the garage. he also has a home office (used once a week) overflowing with papers that have the name James Weight in official type on them.

James is my husband, the only one I've got. The one that's almost always on a plane to somewhere, or on another plane returning from somewhere else. No, he's not a pilot. He's a financial planner. And in today's economy, it's a wonder he has a job at all. So, I'm not complaining. Well, okay, maybe just a teensy bit. I didn't plan to become a single mom. But that's what I am about 65% of the time. I cherish the remaining 35% (Hope that's right. Math was never my strongest subject). However, as a stay-at-home mom with two young boys to raise, this life of being their sole caretaker, taxi driver, chef, stain remover, homework tudor, spiritual leader, nurse, bike riding instructor and mixed martial arts referee can be down right exhausting. Okay, exhausted doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling when I fall in bed each night. How I'm feeling RIGHT NOW at 9:41pm with both boys snug and sound asleep and the house eerily quiet.

The mental and physical drainage is not necessarily the most difficult part of my solo parenting life. Let me be painfully honest and admit that I'm lonely. There's no hubby to share my day with at the dinner table, or cuddle on the couch and watch CSI with, no one to laugh at my lame jokes or be impressed that the Hostas I've planted haven't died yet. I've started talking to the cat as if he's my life companion, not a snotty feline who sharpens his claws on my silk robe.

Now that I've dragged you into my pity party, I have to be fair and say that life isn't exactly a picnic for James either. He's not a jet-setting playboy, just a husband and father doing what he has to do to support his family. I'm his biggest fan. But even fans have bad days. Rather than burn my pom-poms and boo him when he calls tonight, I think I'll consult an expert or two and get some advice for coping with this condition of Married-Single-Mommia, as I like to call it.

The Web site www.screamfree.com, gives a few suggestions for sane single-parenting that I'm darn willing to try.

1) Hire a babysitter once a week. A babysitter! That's someone who comes into the home and relieves me of my kid duties for a few hours. I'd forgotten about those. Jenny of screamfree says that getting out is essential. Think I'll call Lydia and see if she's free Saturday.

2) Find a hobby or sport (other than complaining and whining about my absent husband) ---something to take your mind off the mundane home tasks and tempermental tots. How about mixed martial arts? I hear it has some stress relieving qualities. I'd better check my health insurance and dental plans first.

3) Finally, put the kids to bed early and take time to decompress by watching reruns of Wife Swap (Okay, I added the last part). Can I hear a big AMEN to that one!?!

If you're suffering from Married-Single-Mommia, take a deep breath, know that I'm right there with you. And when Hubby does finally come home...run like the wind to the nearest shopping mall or sushi bar with some gal pals. You've earned it.

 

 

 

It's that time of year again! The one where little ones struggle to get their feet into shin guards and cleats, where parents pack coolers and collapsable chairs and they all head to the soccer fields in droves, like ants to a picnic. (yes, I know that sentence was too long, sorry)

For me, this season has been a mix of fun and frustration. First of all, I get way too into the game. I used to laugh at strung out soccer moms yelling at the unfair refs and shouting plays at their oblivious children. Now, I'm one of them. Between Andrew's winning team, "The Wizards" and Jack's bad news bearish team "The Wolf Pack," I have no fingernails or vocal chords left. I wish Excedrin would come out with a soccer tension strength pill, like they do for PMS and migraines.

Andrew, who is eight, somehow got lucky enough to land on a nearly professional team with most of the boys having the last name Beckham. Their record is 5-0 and they have no plans of allowing themselves to be defeated. I love watching the games because the kids are so darn good. Andrew, who would rather be playing PS-2 soccer has vastly improved his skills and has become a defensive player to be reckoned with.

Jack, on the other hand, poor Jack. He just turned four and has wanted to play sports like his brother since he was born. This year I was so excited that he was old enough to play and didn't have to sit on the sidelines once again. However, just because he wanted to play before the season, didn't mean that he wants to play now. Noooooooooo. Actually, none of the kids on his team want to play. They want to pick dandelions in the field and throw cups of water on each other's heads and sit in their moms' laps sucking their thumbs.

Their coach admits that he's never played or coached soccer before. I honestly don't think he's ever even attended a soccer game or seen one on TV or played PS-2 soccer. And once the season's over I don't think he'll ever coach or attend another game. Their record is now 0-6. They've only scored one goal in those six games and that was technically an accident by a kid on the other team. It's painful to watch, sort of like seeing a kitten being chased by a Rottweiler. 

When we signed Jack up, I naively believed that most of the other kids in his age group would be of the same mindset and experience level. Not the case!!! Every team the Wolfpack has played seems to have coaches from England and Brazil and have players who were dribbling, blocking and doing throw-ins in their mothers' wombs. The last game score was 27-0. I asked my husband if I could bring a book to read so I didn't have to watch the carnage.

The good news, though, is that Jack doesn't seem to care. He loves marching around in his cleats and soccer uniform more than playing the sport. So we let him. He wears them to school, to Kroger and even to church. I think the uniform is the most exciting part of playing organized sports when you're four. Winning is second and actually playing....well that's on down the list behind dandelion picking and water dumping.

In a couple of weeks, the games will be done, trophies will be handed out amid cake and ice cream and another soccer season will be behind us.

Should we dare sign up for Flag Football? I think I'll stick with Cherub Choir and let my vocal chords recover and my nails grow out.

My family recently returned from three weeks in California. While I was hoping for a little respite from my vacation to catch up on email, scale mountains of laundry, skate a Pledge sprayed cloth across my dust covered furniture and just generally chill out at home for a week, it didn't happen that way. We rushed right into the chaos of going back to school, soccer season and the start-up of multiple church activities. Plus, my cousin chose a fne time to have her baby :-)

The yearly family photo calendar from my sister-in-law on our kitchen wall went from being blissfully empty, except for a few playdates and lunch outings, to looking like the victim of an administrative graffiti artist. In fact, with my four year old now in organized sports and doing cherub choir, any my husband's travel schedule, a wall calendar simply will no longer do. I'm going to be one of those moms who carries her family organizer everywhere with a separate daily page for each child, complete with color coded markers and divider tabs. It'll be spilling over with receipts, business cards and little notes scrawled on scraps of paper. And then I'll be in charge, Queen of the Family Schedule. We'll never miss an activity or even be ten minutes late again...Yeah, like that'll happen.

Amid rushing around last week, from getting haircuts to buying new sneakers to taking the dog in for her annual physical, (funny how my husband and I don't have time to get physicals, but our dog has never missed one), I found myself sitting in traffic, becoming increasingly agitated at the car in front of me. We were running late to the vet's office already. It's amazing how the person in the car in front of you instantly becomes an idiot when they need to turn left on a busy street. Why left??? Why now? Can't they see I'm in a hurry? I have things to do that are more important than their trip to the paint store. As the parade of cars passed by us, as long and slowly as a funeral procession, I waited...and waited. The seconds ticked. I bit my lip. Andrew and Jack in the backseat were oblivious, reading and playing PSP. Kelly, our Anatolian Shepherd, hung her head happily out the passenger side window, high on life and getting to ride in the car.

Finally, a break in the traffic; the car in front of me went for it. I punched the accelerator to make up for lost time. After about 50 yards, I abruptly slammed on brakes, just in time to cause the Department of Transportation worker standing in the middle of the road holding a stop sign to soil his pants. (Sorry about that) CONSTRUCTION ZONE!!! Now, we were definitely late for Kelly's appointment. How could this happen? I'd planned everything so well, even left early so we'd be there on time.

As the construction foreman waved for three backhoes carrying loads-full of metal ducting to drive across the road, I sighed. This might take a while. I was clearly agitated. Kelly panted, breathing hot air on my face, as if to say "you're making me late, here."

Just then, four year old Jack looked up from his game and shouted "Mommy, Cool! Awesome! Look at THAT! Look at those backhoes, Mommy! Aren't they the coolest thing EVER!" Then Andrew looked up commenting on the heavy loads that were being precariously balanced in the metal, long armed buckets. Both my boys have always marveled at the sight of construction equipment to the point where we have a library of Caterpillar and NewHolland footage.

The three of us became engrossed watching the activity before us, discussing elementary physics, what was being built there and what it would be like to drive one of those machines. Then, as quickly as it had started, the traffic director flipped his sign to "slow" and motioned for us to proceed. "Aww, man" Jack said, hating for the show to end.

Until he'd pointed out that truly glorious sight in the mind of a preschooler, I'd focused only on the aggravating delay. I hadn't looked at it as an opportunity to stop and smell the roses, or marvel at the machines, in our case. Thanks, Jack for reminding me that there is wonder in EVERYTHING and to slow down and enjoy it once in a while.

By the way, when we got to the vet's office, the receptionist told me he was running about fifteen minutes behind, so we'd have to wait. Of course!  

Hi Everyone, sorry for my month-long summer absense. It's been a crazy kind of summer, with more running around than I can remember.

After my last post, we did indeed drive down to Tybee Island and star as extras in Miley Cyrus's latest film, The Last Song. We being myself, my two boys Andrew and Jack and my friend Amy and her two daughters, Hannah and Claire. And I use the word "star" completely humorously, because it was kind of gruelling work, a hurry up and wait atmosphere run by rude, snotty Hollywood director types. Yes, there is a reason they're stereo-typed that way.

We were each paid a tidy little sum of $60 for eight hours of playing frisbee, riding the waves and lounging in the sand. I'm glad I brought along a three months' supply of sunscreen because we used it all that day. Every time the volleyball scene began, they'd yell "rolling" and we'd have to assume our frisbee game again. I discovered that I'm really bad at playing frisbee and never want to again. The kids were having tons of fun, though.

Although we didn't get to meet Miley, (all extras were warned against so much as making eye contact with her) she is as cute in real life as she is on her show, Hannah Montana, and had three body doubles for the movie. Half the time, I couldn't tell if we were working with her or one of her Hollywood clones.

One thing that may interest those of you into movie production, is that extras working on crowd scenes are forbidden to wear the same colors as the real actors starring in the scene. For our particular shoot, Miley was supposed to be wearing a hot pink bikini lined in black. Anyone wearing red, pink or black was asked to change or excused from the shoot. I, in my conservative black tankini, was one of them. Luckily, my parents have a house down at Tybee, which I sprinted to in order to forage for another suit. What I found was a navy and white, early eighties sailor style one piece two sizes too small...not exactly what I wanted to wear for my movie debut, but beggars can't be choosers. When I returned to the set, my friend Amy burst out laughing at the bowtie that graced my cleavage. Lucky me. And the kicker....where was that hot pink bikini? Miley wore a green sundress the entire day.

At around 3 PM, I could tell my kids had had quite enough (and I had too), after starting the day at 5:30 AM. The crew was nowhere near finished, but we made the executive decision that we had indeed hit the end of our day and were ready for the credits to roll. Unable to get anyone's attention to excuse us, we finally just gave up and walked across the board walk, away from the shoot, and out of Miley's life, (as if she ever noticed us with 600 other extras and fawning production staff at her beck and call)

At the end of the board walk sat Spanky's, a funky Tybee barefoot cafe with the world's best chicken fingers. We at lots. My boys fell asleep at the table. Afterward, we all dragged ourselves back to my parents' place where the showers and naps were never better.

Yes, I've done the movie extra thing, not excited to do it again, unless I'm desperate for $60...and in this job market, that could be soon.

Until next time.

Angela 

It's 8:21 on Sunday night. Normally, my husband and I would be in the middle of the bath and bedtime ritual for our two sons. But these lazy summer days, with no reason to set the morning alarm, has our daily schedule in "whatever"mode. This would drive my "Type A" mom friends crazy, but I'm just fine with long days splashing at the pool, and being able to say "yes" to most any adventure that comes up.

My most recent "yes" response was to my friend Amy who called today asking if the boys and I would like to leave Dublin at 2 AM and drive down to Tybee Island with her and her girls. No, not your typical beach trip arriving before dawn. We're on a mission to be extras in Miley Cyrus's new movie "The Last Song" produced by Disney. According to Amy, they're filming the beach volleyball scene along with another scene down at the Tybee pier tomorrow. I was really excited at her invitation, while my boys, who are luke warm about Hannah Montana said "We're doing WHAT at WHAT TIME???

'The security guy told me that they need 600 extras for the shoot tomorrow at 6 AM. So we need to be there, standing in line two hours early," said Amy. With four sleep deprived children between the ages of nine and four, this ought to be a real picnic. I'm sure it'll be quite pleasant. 

Although I produced commercials for 13-WMAZ right after college, I've never been on a real live movie set. My first question to Amy, was "what should we wear?" We agreed on typical beachwear, no reason to pull out the old prom dress or any Halloween costumes.

Wow, it's already 8:31, really. I gotta get those kids to bed for a wakeup at 1:45 AM. Thank Goodness for roomy SUV's, plenty of pillows and built in DVD players.

In a few months, when you're watching the volleyball scene in 'The Last Song" be sure to look for a couple of sleep deprived moms and four cranky children. That might be us, or it could be another family group that's broken out with "Miley Fever."

The oft quoted adage, “I need a vacation from my vacation,” couldn’t be a more accurate description of what I’m feeling right now. After spending five days at a Tybee Island beach rental house with our favorite family to travel with, the Dyers, we’re now all strapped back into our vehicles ready for the second leg of 2009’s Summer adventure. With two minivans packed to the gills, four restless boys living out their star fighter dreams on PSP screens, a couple of directionally challenged husbands, a grandma with bladder control issues and me, trying to type while my husband weaves through traffic, we’re all headed down the area of Florida referred to as the Space Coast. We’ll spend the next four days there, touring the Kennedy Space Center and watching a space shuttle launch for the grand finale. I’m starting to wish that I could be on that shuttle.

 

I bet that in space there are no bickering siblings, no punches thrown over who gets the red light saber, no having to wait my turn for the bathroom, no sand in the bed sheets, and probably not a single seafood shack with snail paced service and blaring techno-funk music. Don’t get me wrong; I love these yearly jaunts with our best friends; long lazy days at the beach, leisurely fried shrimp dinners and watching our boys play under the palms. But right now, I’m craving solitude like a diabetic craves insulin. (I have no idea if that’s an accurate simile, since I’m not diabetic and have never asked one if he ever has insulin cravings. I’ll add that to the to-do list) I want to hide in the basement with a flashlight and a trashy novel. I want to sprawl out on the couch and become engrossed in a Lifetime Original Movie. I want….”SERENITY NOW!” as George Castanza’s father so aptly phrased it on Seinfeld.

 

Instead, I’m 30 minutes into an epic six hour journey to Cape Canaveral, and someone in the backseat has gas. While I’m not Catholic, I think I’ll send up a prayer to St. Christopher, the patron saint of traveling…especially punchy exhausted traveling parents who are sick of listening to Kidz Bob 13 over and over and over.

 

It’s time to plug in the earphones. Oh, that’s right. My husband is borrowing them. Aaarrgh.

Last Sunday, my family returned home from church and found ourselves in a situation that NEVER happens. We had nothing to do. The calendar was empty--as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. The to-do list on the refrigerator was blank. Even more shocking--our house was somewhat clean. No mountains of laundry; no sink full of dishes; there was even minimal pet hair to be vacuumed. For a control freak like me, whose mantra is "make every second productive" the feeling was strange--akin to being lost in space, or falling in a dream.

While cooking lunch, I pondered what in the world we'd spend our Sunday afternoon doing, until 5 pm when the boys had to be at choir. My husband would be perfectly content to watch a televised golf tournament sporadically while fading in and out of slumber. My boys would undoubtedly meet up with some neighborhood kids to play with. But I had something brewing in my own mind, something somewhat radical by today's "all too busy, technologically dependent standards." We'd go on a road trip, just the four of us, to a place we'd never been before--have sort of a mini Middle Georgia adventure. And I knew just the place, Little Ocmulgee State Park, just outside of McRae. I'd heard of it and I wanted to see it myself.

After a simple, yet four-food-group appropriate lunch, I announced the plan. "Boys, get your swim suits, towels, sunscreen, bug spray and some books for the car." My husband, slightly confused, glanced between me and the TV remote control several times before deciding that he'd better go along with his wife's spontaneous plan. Tiger Woods could wait. After ten minutes, everyone was downstairs, waiting by the door, while I packed a few snacks for the road.

The state of Georgia has something like 62 state parks, which are wonderlands of wildlife, hiking trails, swimming holes and outdoor sports. It simply amazes me that people, especially families, don't take the time to enjoy them. Little Ocmulgee, for those of you who haven't been, has canoeing, paddle boating, a splash pad, golf and a pool and lake for swimming and boating.

After half an hour of driving, we arrived at our destination, paid the $3 for a parking pass, and went directly to the sandy beach area that surrounded a vast lake. I was sort of put off by the "beware of alligator signs" but decided not to make a big deal about it. Surely, the motor boats zipping in and out would keep them scarce. Also, the parking attendant assured us that even though a few alligators lived in the area, they were very seldom seen. It wasn't quite Destin or Amelia Island quality, but the distance and the trip price more than made up for that fact. 

After setting out towels and spraying on sunscreen, Andrew and Jack had a fabulous time playing in the sandy brown water, catching tadpoles with makeshift nets, building mud casthles and pretending to be alligators. James and I worked on our tans and took turns chasing tadpoles toward the boys' nets.

When we'd had enough of the beach, we took the short, quarter mile drive over to the outdoor center and rented a family-size canoe. I hadn' t been canoeing since taking a class in college as one of my PE requirements. My sons had never been. James wouldn't reveal how long it'd been for him. We donned life jackets, each grabbed an oar and set the vessel in the water. Jack, who is only three, had to be coaxed into the canoe and assured constantly that we wouldn't flip out and be eaten. Andrew took the lead and captained our boat. I'd forgotten how much coordination and teamwork it takes to steer a canoe in a straight line. We spent much of the time going in circles, laughing and splashing each other with our oars.

When our hour of water sports was up, we headed to the outdoor center for Klondike bars and Cokes. While James and I finished our snack, the boys swung like monkeys on Little Ocmulgee's well-appointed play structure that would make the one at Burger King seem quite basic.

I'd just finished my last bite of Klondike Bar when I looked at my watch and saw that it was 4:15 Where had our free afternoon gone? It passed too quickly for me. On the way back to Dublin, our family decided to make it our mission to visit every single Georgia state park. A tall order. Andrew, who is still in the midst of learning multiplication tables, calculated that if we visit five a year, it'll take us 12 years. 12 a year will take us five years. We agreed on the reasonable number of eight a year. We also agreed that turning off the computer and video games and saying "yes" to some "just the four of us" family time is something we can all use more of.

Our next adventure will be High Falls and Indian Springs State Parks, near Jackson. Two in one trip! Not to worry, they're right next to each other. I don't know when it'll be, but I'm looking quite forward to our next blank calendar day. Maybe I'll even say "no" to a few obligations to make it happen sooner.

To learn more about Georgia's state parks, visit gastateparks.org.

I know as a parent I'm not alone in having to repeat myself a bazillion times just to get my kids to do the simplest things. "Andrew, come get your shoes out of the floor!" Five seconds later...I repeat the page. Ten seconds more go by. "Andrew, get your shoes out of the floor...NOW!" Still....no sign of Andrew, but his shoes lie there at my feet making bets with each other on whether he'll retrieve them or if I'll be the one, yet again, who puts them away.

Then there's dinner time. "Andrew, Jack, quit playing and eat the rest of your fish and peas and rice." They ignore me, pretending their forks are the Millennium Falcon and the Death Star battling for the safety of the universe. Andrew's fork shoots a garden pea and disables Jack's main tine gun. "Boys, I said eat your dinner or no dessert" (okay, like we never have dessert. Let’s try that again.) "Boys, eat your dinner or Mama's going to start yelling obscenities that'll cause the neighbors to shut their doors and windows in a BIG hurry."

These are just a couple of minor examples of my struggles to be heard by my sons who consider me somewhere on the scale of completely invisible to a mosquito buzzing in their ears when it comes to chores or meeting their obligations.

However, this weekend, quite by accident, I seem to have stumbled onto something that works like a charm in getting my boys to do what I ask. Warning: As we all know, just because it works today, doesn't mean it won't completely backfire tomorrow. So don't sue me if this doesn't turn your home life around.

Are you ready??? Here's the magic! I make chores into a race, not necessarily a race against each other, but a race against time. I pull out the old stop watch and lay down the challenge "Let’s see how much of your plate you can get clean in thirty seconds. Ready!....Set!...GO! The scene looks something like five year old Randy showing Mom how the little piggies eat in the movie, A Christmas Story. My husband James and I watch amazed and amused as our little slop monkeys clean every morsel of food off their plates, even licking the china to see their happy reflections. Kelly, our dog, sits below, envious and redundant because she won't be getting leftovers. My boys bask proudly in our approval. Andrew offers Jack a high five. They've done it. Met the challenge. Eaten the veggies.

***Before you decide to offer up this challenge to your tots at the table tonight, let me first hand out a few warnings and disclaimers.***
1) Base the time limit on how much food is left on their plates. You don't want to give your kids 30 seconds to eat a full rack of ribs. They're not piranhas, ya know. Use common sense (unless you’re my sister Pamela, who we all know has absolutely none)
2) Brush up on the Heimlich maneuver in case one of your kids begins to gag. We don't want anyone dying because of this silly little plate cleaning game.
3) Running to the bathroom to "chew" up their mouthfuls of food is a strict violation of the race and will result in disqualification. Don't fall for that plea. They're just going to spit their food out in the toilet.
4) End the race at the first sign of a food fight. When "Child A" starts shoving handfuls of food onto "Child B's plate is a good time to blow the whistle. Oh, yeah, you'll definitely need a whistle. Whistles are great for a number of reasons.

As for picking up random belongings (like shoes, Legos, K-nex, Mr. Potato Head body parts) which become strewn from one end of the house to the other and then to the mailbox, the car, the outside refrigerator, and ultimately the moon, here's a good race to put the clutter where it belongs. Set your trusty timer and say something like "whoever puts away the most shoes in 45 seconds gets a piece of candy." I did this last night. Andrew and Jack raced like shoe salesman after store hours, grabbing up random footwear items and tossing them into the shoe basket in our laundry room. Andrew, actually found nine pairs, two of which, had been missing for weeks and no longer fit. Jack put away three and then began using his Lightning McQueen sandals to shoot at Andrew as he worked. Funny, how any random thing can be used as a gun when you're a boy under 10. I rewarded Andrew with a mini Reese's cup, which provided him with super human energy and two hours of insomnia. Way to Go, Genius Mom!
Warning: I had to learn the hard way that it's a terrible idea to reward your already slightly hyperactive kid with candy 30 minutes before bedtime. BAD IDEA, ANGELA. I'll never do THAT again. Unless I give him the Reese's and then have him put a new roof on the house or straw the flower beds.

Racing against the clock also works with putting groceries away (or it did last night). We returned from Wal-Mart with 21 plastic bags of various and sundry items, most in brightly colored boxes containing the word "artificial" way too many times on the ingredient labels. Usually what happens after grocery shopping is Andrew and Jack go on their merry Nickelodeon way to see what Drake and Josh are doing and I'm left to sort the bounty. Last night, I corralled them in the kitchen with some warm, encouraging words like "nobody leave this room until all groceries are put away or I'll sit on you both." They tried to leave anyway. Then I pulled out the old timer and said "OH NO, BOYS! If we don't get all this put away in two minutes, our food will all explode...Lunchables...Fruit Snacks...Juice Boxes...Everything." I madly began sorting and stocking and they both followed suit. With just ten seconds to go, everything was in its place and I was a happy mom. However, in retrospect, some kids would really go for the idea of seeing a real live grocery explosion in their kitchen. So, if your kid has any pyromaniac leanings, I'd use another tactic.

Well, this is my lesson in child management for the week. Maybe next week, we'll tackle grocery store etiquette, or taking the parental trauma out of bath time.

Until I have it figured all out,
Angela

There's something so horrific about discovering that you're out of coffee. This morning as I desperately rummaged through my freezer, eyes half closed in a foggy dreamlike state, I was hit with that very crisis. If the situation were a movie, the music from the shower scene in Psycho would be playing in the background. Yes, it was that terrible and shocking. In the freezer, I found three boxes of uneaten corndogs, five petrified popsicles from a company that's long been out of business, a couple of Eggo waffles from long ago, a half gallon of birthday cake flavored ice cream and about four pounds of ground beef. But no coffee, not even a handful of grounds spilled on the freezer floor that I could try to work with. Nothing, nada, the caffeine cupboard was bare.

Now, if this were any regular old morning, I could probably cope. I'd make a cup of tea, perhaps pop open a Diet Pepsi and try to make do. But today was different. “Why?” you ask. Because, I got approximately two hours and nine minutes of sleep last night, that's why. I wound up sharing an inadequate queen sized bed with two of the most active sleepers in the known world. My sons, ages seven and three thought it’d be great fun to have a sleepover in Mommy’s room since Daddy’s traveling on business. And I'm a wimp at saying "no, you can't sleep with me now get back up to your rooms."

 

After completing two pillow fights, three bedtime stories and a round of prayers, Andrew and Jack, both sleepy-eyed and comfy, settled in and set off to dreamland, each taking up as much mattress space as he could cover. I finally turned in at 11:30.

The night progressed with Andrew sleeping soundly on the left, grinding his teeth rhythmically, kicking covers off at five minute intervals and taking up a good one-third of the bed's surface area. Jack was in the middle, arms and legs extended and flapping periodically as if he was trying to make a "bed angel.” He took up the other two-thirds. Every now and then, he would encroach upon my corner and attempt to use my head as a pillow, crashing his skull into my forehead just as I was nodding off. He mumbled something about granola bars once and flung his arm across my mouth. I was doing okay sleeping in 15 minute intervals until 3 a.m. It was then that Jack decided to try sleeping horizontally with his feet in my face. I think I was able to make this position work for me as long as at least one of my breathing passages remained unblocked. I probably got an hour of sleep that way.

At about 4 a.m., our cat Anakin jumped onto the bed and nuzzled my face with a constant purring in my ear that could've easily been mistaken for an idling motorcycle. He also began nudging me impatiently to pet him. I threw him off the bed. He landed with a thud and jumped right back up there. I threw him down again. Again, he returned. And so it went with the boomerang feline for a good ten minutes.

At 5 a.m., some random neighborhood dog began barking incessantly for an hour.
At 6 a.m., my alarm clock sprang into action. Ten minutes later, I made the grizzly discovery in my freezer.

Now, it's 9 a.m. Andrew and Jack are happily enjoying their mornings at school while I sit here in my own personal fog - too awake to sleep and too asleep to function. Forget functioning. I'm going to Starbucks. $4.00 for a coffee doesn’t seem so bad when you’re in this condition. Give me an extra venti quintuple shot latte with extra whipped cream. Maybe, just maybe this day can be salvaged after all.

Much has been written about the power of a smile. It’s just as infectious as the flu, but with much more pleasant results that don’t include vomiting, diarrhea, fever and chills. The well-known trainer and sales guru Dale Carnegie is quoted as saying "the expression one wears on one's face is far more important than the clothes one wears on one's back." I think there were too many “ones” in that quote, but I completely agree with his sentiment. As a motivational speaker and sales professional, I smile a good 75% of the time. My mom drilled it into me as a teenager. “Stop looking so sullen all the time and smile once in a while for goodness sake.” Smiling provides me with an instantaneous mood lift and works more effectively and dependably than psychotherapy and antidepressants combined. But that’s just my experience.

 

My almost eight year old son, Andrew, a second grader who’s into wrestling, baseball and Star Wars, doesn’t think it’s cool to smile. He’d rather portray the tough Jedi, Obi Wan Kenobi countenance than show his adorable dimples and slightly offset pearly whites. I guess Andrew is working on being a man’s man, choosing machismo over cheek pinchability. All his portraits and snapshots from the past year show an elementary school version of John Wayne rather than Timmy Turner.

 

Last Wednesday, during our ride home from school, I began musing over Andrew’s much practiced sulk visible from the rear view mirror. Being a total goofball mom, I made it my mission to use random acts of silliness and obnoxion to try to return the much loved grin to his face. After a battery of knock knock jokes, Veggie Tales songs and a failed tickling attempt, I decided to appeal to his competitive nature. Whether it’s who can run the fastest or gargle the loudest, Andrew simply can’t pass up an opportunity to win.

 

As we turned into the Wal-Mart parking lot to pick up a few things, I stated matter-of-factly, “Andrew, we’re going to play the smile game as we shop.” “What’s that?” he grunted.

 

“You and I are going to smile as we shop and whichever one of us can make eye contact and get five people to smile back at us wins the game.” I was creating all this completely on the fly and didn’t know if it would work or not, but it was worth a try. “Mom, that’s really lame,” he said, sounding way too much like a teenager for my comfort.

 

“It’ll be fun. Watch this,” I said pausing to smile at a grandfatherly gentleman pulling out a cart next to us. The man’s gaze met mine and he flashed a warm Santa Claus smile back at me and said “How y’all doin’ today?” I glanced over at Andrew who rolled his eyes at his silly mom, and tried to hide his ever so slightly upturned mouth corners. “That’s one point for me,” I mused.

 

As we carted over to the produce department, my smile caught the eye of a busy mom mentally ticking items off her grocery list. Her look of strain and concentration visibly softened as she returned the friendly gesture. ‘That’s another point for me,” I whispered.  

 

With the threat of actually losing a competition to his own mother becoming more and more real, Andrew began scanning the store to scout out a few smile recipients of his own. Next we strolled by a young mom with a baby in her cart. I immediately produced my most gracious smile, but to my surprise, the woman returned the smile not to me, but to Andrew. I turned to face him and caught sight of his long lost dimples and pearly whites on full display. “That’s a point for me,” he said in a low amused voice.

 

And so it went, for the next half hour as we gathered our groceries. Andrew and I became smile missionaries infectiously bringing bits and pieces of joy to stressed and hurried shoppers. The competition became heated once when we almost fell over each other trying to make eye contact with a shelf stocker. Maybe the guy thought we were sort of crazy, but he did return a smile – to Andrew.

 

As we wheeled our cart back to the car, the final score was six to three in favor of my formerly frowning son. I got to bask in the radiance of his adorable smile, while he got to learn about the power of a simple facial expression. We’ve agreed to play the smile game every time we go to Wal-Mart. Maybe it’ll become a tradition. Maybe we’ll even expand it to Kroger. Maybe he’ll start smiling again on a regular basis.

Maintaining my kids’ dental hygiene is not one of the jobs I particularly relish. Having to brush my three year old son Jack’s teeth is comparable to fighting an angry caffeinated octopus twice a day. When I reach into his mouth he spontaneously develops six more arms to use in combat. Afterward, I’m never sure how clean his teeth are since most of the tooth paste is in streaks down the bathroom mirror. If only we used tooth paste to clean mirrors. Maybe I’ll invent that one day and save people a lot of time.

Yesterday both my boys had their six month dental checkups. The appointment had been on the calendar for months creating the same angst in Andrew and Jack that April 15th  can cause for us parents. Would x-rays expose cavities and strip me yet again of my “Mother of the Year” award? Nope, it was a good visit with sticker rewards at the end for both kids. I would’ve rather received a Barbie sticker, but instead, my reward was a $45 bill.

While hanging out in the waiting room, sitting in a molar-shaped chair, I had a chance to chat with the office dental experts who gave me a few reminders that I’ll pass along.

Other than water, a tooth brush is the last thing that should be inside our kids’ mouths before bedtime. Anything that sits on the teeth for long (like overnight) causes plaque and bacteria to build up. Once the bacteria breaks through the enamel, it can eat away at the tooth causing pain, swelling, a cavity, or even worse, an abscess.” (abscess is tooth language for “root infection”) If the infection is bad enough, it can get into the blood stream requiring antibiotics or even a hospital stay. YIKES!

And what about flossing? I’ll be honest. I can’t stand to floss. But I do it everyday. And I have to say that some pretty incredible stuff can get wedged between teeth… stuff I no longer recognize as something I’d put in my mouth. According to the hygienist, 60% of tooth decay hides between our teeth where we can’t see it and tooth brushes can’t reach. That’s why we floss.

Public Enemy Number One for kids’ oral health is baby bottle decay.
For all you moms who nurse your babies to sleep or put them to bed with a bottle or sippy cup, stop it. Now. Yes, I know it’s the only way you can get little Johnny or Emily to stop fussing and let you get some shut eye of your own, but bottle decay wreaks havoc   that you can’t see unless you’re standing on your head, looking up into your child’s mouth. This is because the decay starts on the backs of their teeth. By the time you can see it on the fronts, it’s bad news.

It’s never too early to begin good dental hygiene, but waiting too late can cause all sorts of problems. Looking into my mouth today, you’ll see an array of silver amalgam fillings, and a few caps that I paid more for than my current vehicle. So, take care of those choppers and they’ll last a whole lot longer.