Year of the Moose

For the Chinese, 2010 has been the year of the tiger. For me 2010 has been the year of the dog. It’s been one year since I brought our dog Moose home. As easy as it would be to say that 2010 has been a year I would never want to live through again, Moose joining our family would be well worth repeating.


When we moved into our house in Jacksonville around 2003 we had no idea that for the next 5 years we would be living in a genuine Animal House! No, not the John Belushi 1978 Animal House. More like Discovery Channel’s Animal Hoarders animal house. We had birds flying down the fireplace flue and zooming around the house, possums in the garage, rabid bats in the attic, squirrels running on the roof all hours of the day and night and a fox that liked to hid in our front bushes. The first night in our home should have been an omen of what we would be in for. Exhausted after a long day of moving boxes and furniture, my husband Scott and I plopped down on the couch in the den for a much needed break. We sat looking at the fireplace and talked about how cool it was that it was a ‘see-through’ fireplace for both the den and the living room. After a few moments Scott noticed that you really couldn’t see into the living room – something was blocking our view. He got up and moved closer to the fireplace to see what the impediment was when all of a sudden he jumped backwards. “What is it?” I yelled. “Something is in the fireplace” he said quietly. Slowly he opened the metal screen and there smack dab in the middle of the grate was a very dead and severely bloated squirrel. Later that night we awoke to the sound of tapping on the sliding glass door in our bedroom that led outside to the back screened patio. After turning on the outside light, two very large raccoons were sitting on the other side of the glass peering into our room. They were not at all affected by my blood-curdling scream and just sat there knocking their creepy black paw-hands on the glass somewhat annoyed that we weren’t letting them in.

Another animal adventure happened when my daughters Kelsey and Casey’s guinea pigs died. We had had Mary Kate and Ashley for several months when suddenly they both just up and died within hours of each other. Of course this happened when Scott was traveling for work and, bonus, I was newly pregnant with Sydney. During the first few months of that pregnancy I was so nauseous I literally spent all my waking hours either throwing up or feeling like I had to throw up and having to deal with 2 dead guinea pigs did not help soothe my stomach at all. After sorting through everyone’s closet in order to find a shoe box big enough for both the deceased (I figured since they died together they would want to spend eternity together) I grabbed a shovel from the garage and dug a hole in the backyard near the fence. I put on two pairs of yellow Playtex gloves and gingerly lifted first Mary Kate and then Ashley and gently placed their piggy bodies into the shoe box. After I dropped the box into my freshly dug grave, I covered it up best as I could because and that point I kept gagging and throwing up. With the deed done, I went back into the house concentrating on how I was going to break the news to my girls that they would never see there furry friends again. Oh, but Mary Kate and Ashley had other plans. Because just two weeks later during Thanksgiving dinner on our patio my husband paused before carving the turkey, glanced up and noticed remnants of what looked like a Sketchers shoe box and some mounds of fur scattered around the fence. Realizing what he was looking at he desperately tried to get my attention but I was too busy trying not to barf because the smell from the bowl of green beans that was placed in front of me was making me sick. Luckily none of our guests noticed that anything was amiss and after everyone stuffed themselves and went home, Scott went outside and stuffed what remained of our domesticated rodents into a much deeper hole and this time covered it properly.

When Sydney was about 2 years old, we decided to get a dog. We had had a dog previously, but after she died Scott was adamant about no more dogs. He took Lucy’s death harder than all of us and didn’t want to go through it again. When someone in his office sent an email about needing to find a new home for his dog, Scott thought maybe it was time to forgo his No-Dog Policy and give it a shot. We met Max the following Saturday and all three girls went crazy for him. Remember Tiger from the Brady Bunch? Well Max looked exactly like that only way cuter. He was adorable with one ear sticking up and the other folded over. His shaggy blonde coat was shiny and soft and his tail never stopped wagging. So of course he came home with us. That Monday, Max’s owner quit his job and was never heard from again. It only took us a few days to realize why. As cute as Max was, he was really the canine Anti-Christ. If there was anything, anything on the floor, Max would eat it. Not chew it – eat it. He ate Kelsey’s socks, the wooden food from Sydney’s play kitchen, Casey’s Polly Pockets. We would find Barbie dolls with no heads and shoes with no laces. The girls hated taking him for a walk because if he went poop there was always a ‘surprise’ sticking out of the steaming pile that they would have to scoop up. But Max’s favorite cuisine was my underwear. He would settle for the girl’s underwear if he had to, but he loved mine. No matter how cleverly I would hide my hamper he somehow always found a way to satisfy his palette. One morning I woke up and literally had no underwear to put on – not one pair. But what finally sealed Max’s fate was when I woke up one night to a very strange sensation. Scott was of course out of town so I was extremely confused until I realize that it was Max – eating my underwear – off of me! Bright and early the next morning I called my husband and told him “this dog is gone the second you get back”. So Max went away to live with some other unsuspecting family (they thought he was adorable too) and a more stringent No-Pets Of Any Kind policy went into effect.

Flash forward two years. New city, new house. Sydney was in pre-k and obsessed with getting a pet. Any pet. Her favorite thing to ask for was a turtle and a fish. Anytime anyone would ask her what she wanted for her birthday or for Christmas or for anything she would answer, “I want a turtle and a fish”. Every time her Uncle would call she would beg him to please, please send her a turtle and a fish. After picking her up from her class one afternoon I noticed that she was grumpy and a little angry. “What’s wrong sweets?” I asked her on the car ride home. “How come Ethan can bring his pet to school and I don’t even have any pet?” she whined. My mind raced to the weekly calendar her teacher sends home on Mondays. I didn’t remember that today was supposed to have been Pet Day. I asked her what kind of pet Ethan had. “A caterpillar” she said sulkily. A caterpillar. I thought a caterpillar was kind of strange for a pet. At home I looked on the class calendar and couldn’t find any reference to pets for any of the days. So I asked what some of the other kids brought in. “It was just Ethan”, she told me. “I didn’t know he was in the bathroom and I had to go so I opened the door and I saw his caterpillar.” Trying very hard not to fall on the floor laughing I told her that the calendar didn’t say to bring in a pet so she shouldn’t worry about it. Later that night, after telling my husband we both laughed until our stomachs ached. “I guess, maybe we should think about getting her that turtle and fish she wants so much” he said finally.

But instead, we ended up going to a dog adoption event in our neighborhood. Scott and I went without the kids to avoid any drama. As soon as we got out of the car Scott spotted a man with a big, beautiful Rottweiler at the end of his leash. “If that dog is available, we’re getting him” he said and he hurriedly walked that way. Scott loves Rottweilers. By the time I caught up, Scott was already talking to the human on the other end of the leash. Unfortunately Jenny the Rottweiler had been promised to someone else, but if that person didn’t show up in a couple of hours the dog was ours. We took a half-hearted look at the other dogs available but I already knew Scott had made up his mind. We left agreeing that I would stop back by before picking Casey up from play practice to bring Jenny to her forever home. A couple hours later I went back only to find out that the Jenny was gone. One of the organization’s volunteers told me she thought there was a Basset Hound available. Our beloved Lucy had been a Basset Hound. I went in search of Lucy II and instead my eyes fell upon a little white dog cowering under a table. I went over to where the dog was and talked to the foster mom. As I sat down on the grass, the dog came out from under the table and crawled up on my lap. He laid there while the foster mom and I talked and I knew that I wasn’t leaving without him. He was ugly –shaved bald because he had been found with a matted coat full of fleas. They didn’t know his background but the foster mom believed he had lived in a home at one time because he was completely potty trained and knew some basic commands like sit and stay. No one was sure of his breed but the vet that had initially checked him out believed him to be about 2 years old. “What’s his name?” I asked. “Moose” she said. I signed the necessary papers and Moose was now ours.

When I returned home, Scott met me in the kitchen fully expecting Jenny the Rottweiler but seeing Moose the Bald Wonder stopped him in his tracks. “Is that a dog?” he asked me. “Yes and his name is Moose” I told him confidentially. “Did they not have any uglier dogs?” he joked. “He’s going to be beautiful once his hair grows back” I declared with more confidence than I truly felt. And his hair did grow back and then some. Moose ended up being identified as a Miniature American Eskimo and his thick fuzzy white coat makes him look like the Michelin Man’s lesser know brother. Moose is beautiful and well-behaved and much better than a fish or a turtle or even a caterpillar! He loves going to the bus stop in the mornings and afternoons and lays very still so all the elementary kids can pet him. He is a total house dog and follows me around all day to the point that by mid-afternoon he is exhausted and has to take a nap in his bed. Going in the car is his most favorite thing in the world which is good because during school I spend almost every afternoon picking up someone or taking someone somewhere. As far as watch dogs go, he stinks. But he always knows when someone isn’t feeling well and needs some gently licks to cheer them up.

We had his coat cut super short because the vacuum kept getting clogged, but Moose is still adorable and sweet and gentle and even a little goofy. That day in September 2009 when I went to the adoption event I had no idea what the rest of the year would be like for me. But someone sure did. And I will be forever thankfully that Jenny went where she was supposed to go and Moose came home to me.

The Last Time

I have a friend who is obsessed with scrapbooking. She is constantly working on scrapbooks for everything her family does; every school event, every trip, every soccer game, every party. She believes it is so important to capture each moment and each memory. It irks her to no end that I literally have thousands of photos of my kids, thanks to a photographer father-in-law, which are just sitting in boxes. Her big beef with me is that I don’t keep track of ‘firsts’. She has scrapbooks for each of her kid’s firsts; the first step, the first tooth, the first day of school, the first goal, and the first time to Disney World. Firsts are great, but have you ever stopped to think about the very last time you did something? Had you’d know it would be your last time, would you have enjoyed it more or paid more attention? Would you have done things a little different? Really lived in that moment? Firsts are great and worthy of celebration. But don’t discount lasts – they are the memories that really stick. Lasts can haunt you, make you feel glorious, or make you cry. Firsts are a one-time deal; it’s the lasts that last.


Do you know the last time you truly forgave someone? I mean really let go of the hurt and anger as if it was never there. You wiped the slate clean and started fresh without prejudice; without regret or condition. Maybe you decided not to forgive someone and held onto the hurt; kept it fresh so it would sting your feelings and poison your thoughts. When was the last time you asked another for forgiveness? When did you realize that you made a mistake and owned up to it? Even when the other person may not have been aware of your bad choice. When was the last time you knew it was your last chance to show the one that hurt you or the one you hurt that you were a person of integrity and honor? When was the last time you knew it was too late to go back and say those most important words – “I’m sorry” or “I forgive you”? A life lived without forgiveness is a life full of regret – whether you are the one who needs forgiveness or whether you are the one who needs to forgive. A hurt like that will last –but only if you let it.

We all remember the first time someone told us they loved us in a romantic way, but when was the last time you told the one you love the most how much you really do love them? Remember when your heart was so full of love that you felt if you didn’t express your emotions right away you knew it would just explode! You felt such a need of urgency to make your feelings known – you didn’t’ care who heard your sincere declaration! Just hearing their voice made you love them more and being away from them was physical agony! You would absentmindedly doodle their name or daydream about moments spent together. When was the last time nothing could wipe the smile from your face, when you hummed to yourself because you were perfectly content with your life; when you looked forward to every day simply because that meant one more day with your true love? The Bible tells us that “love never fails” so why do we let it? Why do we let go; get comfortable; stop trying? A relationship is a job – if you don’t show up and work hard you will not find success. You may even get fired! Taking your lover for granted may lead to the last time they tell you how they feel.

When was the last time you held your baby’s chubby hand? When his fingers would curl around yours and his face was full of comfort and security. Your words could soothe him and make him smile, even though he didn’t understand them. When was the last time your child ran into your arms? She was so happy just at the sight of you. Her little arms wrapped around your neck as you picked her up and held her close. You balanced her on one hip while giving her a kiss on the cheek; smoothing her hair and listening to her sweet voice telling you how much she missed you. “I was gone for two hours” you laughed as you tickled her tummy. When was the last time you felt like you held rock star status in your kid’s eyes? In a flash they grow up, move on. The go from telling everyone “That’s my mom” to being embarrassed at the sight of you. We spend way too much time as parents trying to get to the next step. We can’t wait for them to sleep through the night, to be completely potty trained, to tie their own shoes because we are tired of stooping down twenty times a day. We strive to make them independent as early as possible because we think they need they need to be first; the first to walk, the first to talk, the first to read, the first to write – as if the earlier they achieve these milestones the more successful they will be. But all too soon you realize that instead of rushing to be first, you would give anything to go back and make more of those moments last.

I’ve had a lot of wonderful firsts. Many of them were life changing. All of them memorable. But what has truly made me the person I am are the lasts. I can tell you exactly the last time I decided to hold onto hate and the last time I knew I needed to let it go. I know the exact date of the last time I was positive that I was the last person that my lover would ever need and the last time I knew I would never be able to love anyone without caution ever again. I can tell you that the last time I was sure my parents were perfect and I could never do as good a job as they did and the last time I realized that they were just people trying to do their best - just like me. I can tell you the last words I spoke to someone who spent my entire life loving me without conditions just before she died. So celebrate the firsts but really savor the lasts. And although you don’t get a second chance at a first, sometimes the last time doesn’t have to be the last time. Sometimes the last time can be the start of something. Sometimes a last time is really a first time in disguise.

Happy New School Year!

Shhh – do you hear what I hear? Are those bells? Why yes – yes they are! They are pealing in the distance; beckoning our kids to join them with their siren song. I’m not about talking sleigh bells. That wonderful sound is the sound of school bells! Their ringing is calling our kids back to class in a most beautiful tone that fills the heart with joy. Yes, it is that time of year again. A most wonderful time of year! After a long, very hot summer it is time again to set that alarm clock, pack lunches, stuff folders into backpacks and start a brand new school year! Wherever you are in the chain of you kids’ education; just starting out, practically a school pro, or been there-done that, the first day of school brings back memories of our past and gives us a chance to create new memories for our kids.


Admit it – you were always excited about the first day of a new school year. Remember how it was impossible to sleep the night before? The older you got, the more your school priorities changed. In elementary school your concerns were mostly about your teacher (Would she be mean or nice?) if you had any former classmates in your new class (Who will I eat lunch with?) and uncertainty about your scholastic abilities (What if everyone knows how to write in cursive but me?). During the turbulent tween years it didn’t matter as much what you knew but who you knew. And clothes started to become a major focus. It was important to look ‘in’ but in an effortless way. Academics were most definitely not cool, so if you made good grades you did whatever you could to hide it from your peers. High school became a major turning point – suddenly everything mattered in every way. The clique you were pigeon-holed into would help shape your personality and become the basis of all memories that would follow. You felt a little more comfortable dressing more to your style – as long as the brands were teen approved. You realized grades and classes not only counted, but they could determine your future. There really isn’t much in adulthood that can recreate that ‘first day of school ‘feeling. If only we would have known then how much we would miss that experience when we were all grown up, maybe we would have cherished it a little bit more.

I’m not sure who is more nervous on the first day of school; the kids or their parents. In this age of constant connection, some parents are filled with terror at the thought of letting their child out of their sight and out of their control for 6 or more hours, 5 days a week. Here’s a little advice from someone who has gone through many first days – let your kid go. They will be okay. They won’t need you. Remember that school is your child’s ‘workplace’ – they don’t go to work with you so you don’t need to go to school with them. Noticing how my kids have progressed through their school careers, not much has changed from the days we were in school. The elementary years are still a wonderful time for learning the building blocks of academics, developing a sense of self and honing social skills. Middle school is rocky – there are so many adult situations tossed out there for our tweens to deal with even though they are technically still a kid. They want to be independent but they still need lots of limits and guidance. High school hasn’t changed either – there are still the same personalities and the same unfair teachers; the same snobby girls and the same ego maniac boys. The cliques, the drama, the fears about the future and the sadness that childhood is at an end are all still waiting for our teens to experience. As a parent, it does no good to let your kids know you understand; that you have walked that mile already. Instead we need to just wait in the wings and know when it is time to step in and help and when it is time to just watch and let them learn. Our school memories are already made – now is their time to craft their own school stories.

Watching our kids hit certain school firsts is a lot like déjà vu. You have already been through it as a child so you understand what your child is feeling but at the same time you are experiencing it as a parent for the first time and understand what your mom and dad must have felt. School days are timeless and fleeting all at once. Your child may not appreciate his experience now, but he too will one day look back and reminisce about his many school firsts. So, ring in this new school season with joy and lots of sharpened pencils. It’s going to be a great new year!

A Must-Do For All Moms - And It's Easier Than Choking Down Broccoli!

As a parent, a mother especially, we have the responsibility of setting an example for our kids – even when we don’t want to. So, yes, we eat the broccoli on our plate even though we think it’s like eating tiny trees. We patiently go over math facts and check homework even when we are so exhausted we think we might collapse. We watch our language when we really want to let the driver who cut us off know where he can go and exactly how he can get there. We do a lot of things that we really don’t want to do simply because we know that we are always under surveillance. Some of the sacrifices mothers have made for their children fill me with awe. But one small, simple act – no - a right, which was fought hard to obtain, is rarely passed on from mother to child. Why that is I have never quite understood. As important as teaching nutrition, education and manners, our kids are missing out on something that could literally change their futures. And we as moms have only ourselves to blame. Women went to jail, suffered humiliation and prejudice and even had their very lives threatened for us to be able to claim this one simple and very American right. So moms – have you shown your children and the rest of the country that you are grateful for the sacrifices of the moms who came before you? When was the last time you exercised your right to vote?


I am not a very political person. I don’t listen to talk radio, read the op-eds in newspapers or magazines or pay attention to the billion political television ads that are rude and annoying. When there was announcement my senior year of high school about signing up for a voter’s registration card I went only because you got out of class to do so. But while I was there, the man that took my form said something to me that really made an impression and made me think about the importance of voting. He was an elderly gentleman, with a VFW hat perched on his balding head. He looked me straight in the eyes and very seriously informed me that by becoming a registered voter I had the right to vote in every election and the responsibility as a citizen to do so, especially as a woman. This was a privilege that many people around the world do not have. Many Americans died in order for me to walk into a polling place and cast my vote without fear. If I were to sign the form to gain a voter’s registration card I was saying that I would not take voting for granted. I signed my form and I have voted in almost every election ever since.

I have noticed in the 23 plus years that I have had the privilege to vote, that I am usually one of the very few, especially during primaries. Most of the time I am the youngest and even though I have gotten older, I still seem to trial my fellow voters by a couple of decades. I usually try to bring at least one of my kids to show them that voting is a big deal and hopefully they will take their right to be heard seriously when it is their time. Before I go, I do a little research on the candidates on independent web sites and look at their voting records. Then I bring my list of the candidates that I want to vote for and let my child help me find the names on the ballot. I tell them why I am voting for the particular person. It is shameful for me to think that the group of moms that were gathered at the bus stop that morning most likely had no idea who was even running to represent them and probably have no idea where they need to go to vote.

So moms (and dads) I challenge you to re-think your duty as an American and vote next Tuesday or whenever your next election is. Whether it’s local or statewide – get to know the people who want to be your voice. Decide on who is the best person that shares your views and values and know exactly why you want to vote for them. Share your thoughts with your kids and ask them their opinion as well. Bring them with you when you vote and explain why it is such an important part of our history and freedoms. Take the time to honor those who literally gave their lives for you to be able to have the right to choose.

The 19th Amendment states “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.” Teach your daughters and your sons to not take for granted the privilege that many around the world would die to have. After all, if you can choke broccoli down with a smile on your face, you can most surely show your children (and your spouse and your neighbors) that you are a responsible American willing to set the example for others to follow. Sometimes we have to do things we really don’t want to do. Don’t let voting be one of them.

Sandy + Spinning Class = Suffering & Shame

Last Saturday I decided to ride my bike to the book mobile which visits my neighborhood Publix each week. This is quite a ride for me since my house is 6 miles from the front gate and even though the Publix plaza is across from my development, the crosswalk is another quarter mile. Luckily the weather wasn’t too horrible. There was a nice breeze thanks to Tropical Storm Bonnie and it was slightly overcast so the sun wasn’t beating down on me. I took my time and reminisced about why I got a bike in the first place.


About 4 years ago, a bunch of ladies from my church were singing the praises of our brand new YMCA. The exercise equipment was state-of-the-art complete with televisions and IPod docks. They offered yoga, Pilates and Zumba classes. There were high tech weight machines to get you buff and even a personal trainer assigned to you to help design your very own exercise regiment and counsel you on your nutritional needs. But what sold me was the child care. You could go dump, I mean, drop off, your child under 6 and have 90 minutes to yourself. Just like the songs says-sing it with me now-“It’s fun to be at the YMCA!” I was ready for a little fun, 90 whole minutes without a child and hopefully loose a few pounds in the process so people would stop asking me when my baby was due.

Even though I gravitated towards the treadmill, my personal trainer introduced me to the awesomeness of the elliptical. I fell in love. It was easy, it was fun and since I’m practically a senior citizen, my trainer pointed out it would be much easier on my knees and hips than walking on a treadmill. I ended up getting into an elliptical rut. I’d throw on some sweats and one of my husband’s t-shirts, drive to the Super Y, bring my toddler to her “class”, get on the elliptical and loose myself jamming to my IPod for 30 to 45 minutes depending on the way the shuffle shuffled, go in the woman’s locker room and spend the rest of my allotted 90 minutes reading a book in peace and quiet. Of course, what I was doing was better than nothing but my results were slow. Then my friend Michele told me about spinning.

“You’ve got to go to the spinning class” she touted. “The pounds will literally fall of in no time.” That got my attention, but I had no idea what spinning was. I tried the Zumba class – once – and just embarrassed myself since I have the coordination of a stroke victim. “It’s just riding a bike that is bolted to the floor” she explained. I could do that, I thought. I could ride a bike bolted to the floor. So, I checked the schedule for the beginner’s spinning class and decided to give it a go.

I showed up to class about 5 minutes early. There was already someone peddling the road to nowhere on a bike in the first row. He looked like Wilford Brimley’s father so I felt a little more relaxed. A woman in her 20’s easily 6 months pregnant waddled in, smiled at me and began adjusting the bike she chose. Now I was really confident. Others came in, smiling and nodding. I observed how the others were adjusting their bikes and tried to copy their moves. A 20ish boy/man came in wearing a JFRD t-shirt picked the bike next to mine. “Do you need help?” he kindly asked. It’s nice to live in a city were the youth respect their elders. “Thanks, this is my first class.” I explained. He got the bike to the right height and explained how to adjust the tension of the wheels. Our instructor marched in and spotted me right away. “A newbie – great” she slapped me on the back joyfully. She was probably about one inch taller than the requirement to deem someone as an official little person and weighed about as much as my 2 year old. “Let me get you a pad. Since this is your first time we want you to be comfortable, but you won’t be sitting much!” she laughed hysterically. Then she reached down and strapped my Merrell’s onto the peddles and strode to the front of the room. “Okay, she shouted, “George requested Techno Dance last week so I have put together an AWESOME mix of the best DJ’s in the country.” George, aka Wilford Brimley’s father, began yowling like a wet cat. Then the female version of Richard Simmons clipped a microphone to the front of her shirt, turned a switch that started the fans which bordered the ceiling. She turned off the lights, an actual disco ball began twirling and she blasted the thumping music at ear bleeding volume. While standing she began to peddling so I followed. This wasn’t too bad. “Remember your tension” she said in a somewhat serious tone and then started peddling faster. Tension. Tension is the key to spinning. Logically you would think that the more tension you have the easier it would be to go slow and the less tension the easier to go fast, like on a real bike. But I wasn’t on a real bike. I was on a spinning bike. And when you are spinning, the less tension the better. But I didn’t know that. Oh, how I wish I had!

Our little instructor had a big voice and started shouting directions like “incline, 20 seconds at 45” and began peddling like a mad woman. I followed, adjusting the tension knob to make the wheels harder to turn. My legs felt shaky, but when I would sit down, my nether regions felt like I was sitting on one big skinny board with nails sticking out of it, so I’d quickly stand back up. I was beginning to feel more and more unstable so I kept turning the tension knob tighter hoping to gain more balance. Then she yelled “downhill at 60!” and the room went wild! Everyone began screaming and peddling like they were biking from the devil himself. I glanced at the pregnant chick and she was right in there with the rest of the group so I started to try and match everyone’s speed. And then I did what most people would think would be impossible. I actually flipped over the handle bars of my spinning machine of death. But since my sneakers were strapped to the peddles, my feet stopped me from completing my Olympic worthy gymnastic move and I flopped to the side and landed on the floor.

My one saving grace was that the room was dark and the music loud, so my spectacular slip went unnoticed. As I lay on the wood floor I tried to figure out how to unstrap myself from the peddles and the crawl out of the class without none the wiser. And then I realized I was looking at the face of my firefighter neighbor. “Are you alright? I didn’t even know that could happen.” he said in a tone mixed with both awe and humor. Dang, I’d been seen. “Oh, I’m fine” I reassured him, waving my hand as if to say that this was an everyday occurrence for me. “Here, I’ll unstrapped you and help you up”. He began unhooking the braces that held me in and offered his hand to help me stand. Suddenly Madame Spinner was at my side demanding to know what happened. After the firefighter gave her an abbreviated version of my flight to freedom she actually gasped. “I’m fine; I just got confused with the whole tension thing I think.” I was hoping to come off sounding blasé. “Well, okay,” she said anxiously “you’ll know next class.” Noticing that all eyes were now on me, I tried to be cool. “Is the class over?” I asked hopefully. “Um, no we still have another 15 minutes” she said and then yelled “start cooling down- go to 20.” “Do you need help?” she asked still concerned. “No, I’ll just finish the class and keep my tension light” I said brightly although my knees, ribs and ego were bruised. “Wow, you are incredible” she yelled. “The newbie is INCREDIBLE” she screamed into her microphone. The class began clapping and George began yowling. My now best friend firefighter strapped my shoes back on the peddles, turned off the bike’s tension entirely, and gave me a thumbs up. When class was over I walked out with my head held high, a smile plastered on my face, grabbed my kid and went home.

Needless to say I never went back to spinning. I kept to my nice, safe elliptical. But childhood memories of how riding a bike was my first real taste of what freedom felt like I asked Santa for a bike that Christmas. I had learned that you had to be very specific when requesting presents from Santa or else he would go hog wild. So I asked for a simple bike, with a basket and a bell. I even emailed a picture of the exact bike I wanted to Santa so there would be no confusion. And although it practically killed Santa to not get me the latest in bicycle technology he gave me exactly what I asked for. I began riding the bike trail at our neighborhood park on the weekends and when my 2 year old turned 3 she began Pre-pre K so I started biking while she was in school. The weight I wanted to loose didn’t exactly fall off, but I did loose enough to stop people from trying to plan my baby shower. I still have my bike and even though I don’t ride it every day, I love to take it for a “spin” now and then. And I haven’t flipped over my handle bars once!

Christmas In July

As I turned the key to start my Expedition, I glanced at its digital dash message display. It was telling me that the exterior temperature was 96 degrees but I knew it was actually much higher. I don’t know how meteorologists factor heat index but in the 4.2 seconds it took me to walk through my laundry room door, around the back of my SUV, open the driver’s door, toss my purse on the front passenger seat, shut the car door and turn the key in the ignition I was already sticky with sweat. My legs burned on the car’s leather seat and touching the steering wheel was like taking a batch of brownies out of the oven without using oven mitts.


If there is one thing you understand deep down in your bone marrow when you grow up in Florida it is heat. I’ve been places when it’s been hot but the heat in Florida is so specific -so distinctive-that it is easy to tell the difference between an 85 degree day in ,say, Cleveland and an 85 degree day in Ft. Lauderdale. Florida’s heat is a soupy mixture of hotness and humidity. Breathing in the summer months of June, July and especially August is like breathing through a snorkel – you can actually feel the weight of the air with every breath. True Floridians can do heat - no problem. But when I reached my destination, Hobby Lobby, and walked through its sliding doors I immediately became chilled. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I needed yarn for a baby kimono I wanted to knit for a friend that just found out she was pregnant. I thought I’d try knitting matching cardigans for both mommy and baby too. I never get the chance to knit baby stuff so I was really excited. The mom-to-be favorite color is yellow and of course, even though I have drawers full of all kinds of yarn – wools, cottons, and nylons in just about every color you can think of I had no yellow. So my mind was on the softest, buttery yellow yarn I could find which is why when I walked in the doors of the Hobby Lobby and found myself staring at dozens of beautifully decorated Christmas trees I literally stopped in my tracks and forgot what I was there for in the first place. And was that Muzak really playing O Holy Night? I knew it was July, but Christmas had arrived in all its sparkling, glittery glory. I have spent my entire life in Florida and even though I never have had the Currier and Ives white Christmas experience there is one thing I was sure of. No matter where you live in the world and no matter what the temperature is outside Christmas is in December and not July.

A Hobby Lobby employee noticed my perplexed expression and asked if I needed any help. “Are these Christmas trees?” I muttered. She gave me a strange glance and said, “Yes” very slowly as if I would have trouble understanding the word. “We’re a little late getting everything done. If you are looking for Fall Décor it’s all 80% off.” She smiled at me but I could tell she really wanted to get back to the 9ft pre-lit pine decorated with glittered birds and garland that looked like bird nests strung together. I walked past the trees and the boxes of ornaments, what seemed like hundreds of decorated wreaths and garlands by the mile. Even though I have somewhat been aware that Christmas seems to show up earlier and earlier each year this was the first time I consciously noticed. Why? School hasn’t even started; there was still Halloween and Thanksgiving to get through. We were still in the middle of summer for Pete’s sake! Are other people so super organized and well prepared and I’m just a Winter Holiday slacker because I don’t even think about Christmas or decorate anything until after Thanksgiving?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. But I’d begun to feel each year more and more stressed out about December 25th. I think it started around the year of Tickle Me Elmo – 1996. That particular toy had been deemed as the must have gift. If your child didn’t have a Tickle Me Elmo to open on Christmas morning their lives would be ruined according to every news reporter, talk show host, magazine and newspaper article. People were standing in line for days just on the whisper of a rumor that their local Toys R Us might be getting a shipment of the elusive Elmo. Others turned to EBay and literally paid hundreds of dollars for a toy that retailed for $28.99. I began calling everyone I knew all over the country and put out the ‘Get My Kids A Tickle Me Elmo’ SOS. There was no Elmo to be found anywhere. And then my husband asked me a very simple question – “Do they even want one?” “Of course” I replied baffled at the thought. “It’s the must have toy, honey”. Needless to say, Elmo was not under our tree that year. But two months later in February when my then 2 year-old opened her Tickle Me Elmo that was now a bit dusty from sitting idle on the store shelf and was even on clearance, she barely gave it a glance.

All working moms feel the pressure of keeping every single Christmas tradition or else they believe their kids will grow up feeling like they missed out, once again according to the “experts”. We must have dozens of Christmas cookies, homemade of course. I would stay up late into the night baking ginger snaps and snicker doodles, snowballs and of course sugar cookies cut out into the required Christmas shapes such as stars and stockings, bells and trees. These my girls decorated with gobs of colored sugars and tinted frosting. “We’re making Christmas memories” I kept telling myself when my girls would whine – “How many more do we have to do?” Then while decorating the tree, the kids would hang a half dozen or so ornaments and then be done. “Hey” I’d tell them “this is fun!” And the gifts – well each gift had to not only be perfect but it must be perfectly wrapped. Once again, I’d remind myself that these Christmas memories would stay with my kids for the rest of their lives and if I’d have to stay up until 2 am to make sure their gifts were wrapped to Martha Stewarts standards, well it was worth it right?

As a full-time stay-at-home mom the pressure for the perfect Christmas is even worse. Now there was no excuse of why you didn’t make handmade gifts for all your neighbors, the mailman, and your kids’ teachers. Since I now had “so much more time” (ha ha ) because I no longer worked there was no reason why I couldn’t gather branches from the Christmas tree lot and wire them into wreaths for the front and side doors. And of course, one tree no longer cut it. You need a “theme” tree each year. Plus a “family tree” and a kitchen tree decorated with all your Christmas cookie cutters – after you’ve made all those beautifully decorated sour cream cut-out cookies with homemade royal icing delicately piped around the edges of course. Each year I began to look less forward to Christmas. It was becoming expensive and exhausting and quite frankly annoying! Then it happened. The Christmas of 2008. I got sick. Very, very sick.

As I was driving home from my husband’s office Christmas party I started to feel a slight tinge in my ear. I ignored it and continued on with my day, a Friday, and although the pain in my ear kept getting worse and I noticed that I felt a little feverish. I just did what all us moms do – just keep on going. I did turn in for the night earlier than normal hoping that a good night’s sleep and a couple of Tylenol would make for a brand new girl in the morning. Instead I awoke around 2am screaming at the top of my lungs. The pain and pressure in now both of my ears was unbearable. It felt as though my entire head was going to explode. My husband, who can usually sleep through anything, woke up and was ready to take me to the emergency room. And then I felt a pop. And another. White goo started gushing from both my ears, matting my hair to the sides of my head. The pain receded but my husband and I knew what had happed. Both of my ear drums had burst. I waited until the morning and went to an urgent care center. After looking in my ears and giving me prescriptions of antibiotics and pain killers the physician’s assistant told me to see my doctor first thing Monday morning. It was 11 days before Christmas. The family tree, the tree where my beautifully wrapped presents (none of which were wrapped as of yet) hadn’t been decorated yet. Only about 3 kinds of Christmas cookies had been baked and sorted into freezer bags. Heck, most of the gift shopping still needed to be done. Plus the menu for the Christmas dinner needed to be finalized and the groceries bought. But I really didn’t care about any of it. My ears were still oozing, I was in pain, I had a fever and felt terrible. I went to bed. And instead of getting better, I just got worse. My husband needed to do some traveling for work before the holidays so instead of making gingerbread houses and cutting out snowflakes and other Christmas-ish activities my girls spent the beginning of their Winter Break left to their own devices and choose to either stare at the television or a computer screen while texting their friends until the middle of the night. They ate whatever they could find in the kitchen and didn’t even mind that we had missed watching It’s A Wonderful Life – my favorite movie of all time. “Don’t worry, it will all get done” my husband would tell me each time he would call from wherever he was – D.C., New York, Texas or Miami. I had to put my trust in him that somehow that would happen, because just getting out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom took all my energy. The antibiotics weren’t helping, I still had a fever, my throat was now infected and I was literally sleeping all the time. So I put my trust in my husband and my bachelor brother (who didn’t even own any Christmas decorations) to finish our perfect Christmas. After all, we were making memories.

The tree did get decorated and no, it would not have made the cover of Martha Stewart’s Living. The gifts got bought and wrapped in a variety of Christmas papers and any gift bags that my husband and brother could find. We had a pre-cooked ham for dinner and my mother and mother-in-law took care of all the sides. The desserts were from the Publix bakery. My neighbors received nothing from the Carns family that year and all the Christmas cards delivered after my ears exploded never even got opened. And guess what – it was still Christmas! We still had fun opening our badly wrapped gifts with no ribbons, we drank hot chocolate from a mix, we stayed in our unmatched pj’s the entire day and just had fun being together. And even though I still felt horrible physically I have to say it was one of my favorite Christmas’s ever. Memories were made that year. And they had nothing to do with what was under the tree or what the tree even looked like. We were together, we were family, we were merry and bright and all the other things that we sing about in all those ageless carols.

With my Christmas lesson learned, I have become much more casual about Christmas. Not that I don’t think it is important, I just don’t think that if my tree doesn’t look like it took a professional decorator hours to get it just right, my families’ Christmas won’t be ruined. And even though I love to bake, if things are hectic, I just buy the pre-made cookie dough. And since ribbons just end up frustrating everyone, I no longer bother with them. We even skipped putting up lights on the house last year simply because my husband was traveling so much there just wasn’t time. And it was okay. I don’t pay attention to what the experts say are the must have gifts of the season, I don’t shop on Black Friday and I don’t look for bargains on Christmas Eve. I do love to walk through my neighborhood at night and look at all their beautiful decorations, drink hot chocolate while staring into a blazing fire, watch Charlie Brown’s Christmas with a bowl of popcorn that I now eat instead of trying to string into garland. My kids pick a different Christmas book to read before bed every night during the month of December and we put out cookies and milk for Santa on Christmas Eve after attending Candlelight Service. Instead of worrying about making memories, I try and show my kids how to soak Christmas in, to feel it in their hearts and to keep it with them throughout the year.

So even though Toy R Us is running a big Christmas in July campaign, Sears has it’s Summer Snowstorm Sale and the big discount stores already have cleared away their patio and garden sections and have replaced them with decorated trees and all the trimmings, remember it’s July. It’s summer. Enjoy this season while it’s here. Even though it isn’t Christmas, you are still making family memories every day – holiday or not.

Merry July Christmas!

Summertime and the Livin's Easy

Remember summer? Just take a moment and close your eyes and remember what it felt like to wake up that first morning after the last day of school during your elementary years. It was almost magical, wasn’t it? Not a Christmas morning magical, but you could definitely feel a difference. It was a little taste of freedom mixed with mysterious possibilities of the day ahead. Why, you could do anything. There were no arranged play dates, day camps that taught you how to become the next Picasso, educational workbooks with daily exercises to keep you from forgetting all that you had learned that school year. There was an entire day ahead just waiting for you to do what you did best – be a kid. Summer has changed a lot since the Dinosaur Age – otherwise known as the 1970’s and 1980’s. But looking back, I wonder – have we stolen a little of that wonderment from our kids in this fast-paced, multi-tasking, fiercely competitive society we all dwell? Maybe turning back the clock and slowing down a bit might not only help our kids but us bigger kids as well.


If Norman Rockwell and Frank Capra had collaborated on creating the perfect childhood summertime experience, the summers my brother and I had would have been their model. We were lucky to grow up in a neighborhood full of kids at a time where you could play outside freely without fear. Not that bad things didn’t happen, but our parents didn’t hoover over us at every moment which gave us the freedom to explore, do really stupid stuff, and learn a little about personal responsibility. We lived across the street from a park with swings, a butt-scorching metal slide and monkey bars. The city’s baseball field and football field were across from our home too. At the end of our block was the city’s marina and boat dock. We spent our days on the playground or playing out our favorite TV shows; Land of the Lost, Dark Shadows, and H.R.Pufnstuf. Mr. Seymour, our neighbor, built a tree house one year and it was the most wonderful thing that could have happened. It was on stilts so you had to climb a ladder to get in. The roof was thatched with palm fronds so it wasn’t an ideal place to be when it rained, but the entire neighborhood spent lots of time playing card games like Go Fish and War, board games like Sorry and just plain hanging out and talking. If we bothered to take a lunch break it would be quick and then right back outside to either run through someone’s sprinklers, beg one of our moms to set up the Slip and Slide (which never really quite worked like on TV) ride our bikes or swim in someone’s pool. There was no checking in with our parents, asking permission to swim or ride our bikes or go to the marina. My mom’s rule was once you’re in, you’re in – so my brother and I usually stayed outside until the unwritten parental rule of once the football and baseball lights turned on you came home. No one’s mom seemed to worry about our nutritional needs – when we were hungry we went home and ate. And there wasn’t the worry about applying sunscreen every 20 minutes or drinking enough water. If we were thirsty, we’d just drink from someone’s hose. I learned how to fish, ride a skateboard, catch tadpoles, do a round-off and front handspring, ride my bike without holding onto the handle bars, do a flip into the pool off our porch roof, and I even jumped off the marina’s bridge into the disgusting C-14 canal a few times. We would walk to Galaxy Skateway for afternoon roller skating and to the Farm Store for bubble gum and candy bars. Eddie the Ice Cream Man’s truck came down our street every afternoon around four so there was always a rush to get to your house and dig up some quarters for a screwball or ice cream sandwich.

Summers during the middle school and high school years were a lot different. It was all about the beach, the movies and the mall. Way back then parents weren’t so inclined to take on the role of chauffeur so when we wanted to go to any of those three must be seen at places we had to – get ready to gasp- ride the city bus! Today if a parent let their 12 year old daughter ride the bus to go to a movie or the mall or the beach without any parental supervision I’m sure they would be arrested and their mug shot would be shown nightly on Nancy’s Grace’s show as an example of a negligent parent. But that is how we got around back in the Little House on the Prairie days. And even though we were living in South Florida, the place to be seen on Saturday nights was Sunrise Ice Skating rink. Sleepovers were a weekly occurrence. And a little pizza place called Domino’s opened up and delivered the required sleepover pizza for only $5 each! And if the delivery driver took longer than 30 minutes, it was free! Guaranteed! My friends and I used to stand outside in the driveway and pray he would be late so we wouldn’t have to waste our well-earned babysitting money. Cable television was the latest and greatest and if you had both HBO and MTV – well you were living large! Once in high school you knew older students who drove so instead of the scary bus you just crammed yourself in with 7 other kids into their hand-me-down 1973 Volvo station wagon and you were off! Having a job was crucial because the realization that everything you wanted to do cost money suddenly hits you out of left field. Your once generous parents for some reason stop handing out cash like it was candy. And then that dark cloud – college – starts to hover lower and lower as each high school year went by and saving money suddenly became extremely important. And then you graduate and all of a sudden – poof – summer disappears.

I was terrified that first summer when I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Until then I had the adult equivalent of a fairy godmother when it came to summer time. My in-laws would literally pick up my kids on the last day of school during their elementary years, take them to their house in South Florida, entertain them each day, take care of all their school shopping, then return them the weekend before the new school year would begin. When I would tell people this they would literally stare at me, mouth wide open in both awe and horror. How could I be away from my kids for so long? How could they get in-laws like mine? I missed my kids like crazy, but I wanted their summers to be as special as the summers I had and not just another day at their daycare center. So I did what I do best – I planned the perfect summer. I researched free and low cost activities in our area. I called other moms and made arrangements for picnics at parks and play dates at each other’s homes. I bought workbooks for the grades ahead so they wouldn’t be behind come the new school year. Each day had its own itinerary and I must say I was quite pleased with myself. On that first official summer day I woke my sleepy darlings and explained that we had exactly 25 minutes for breakfast because we were going to go on a guided nature walk at a local nature preserve. We’d have our lunch there in the picnic area and then come home and work on the first page of our school workbooks. I had put vocabulary flash cards for them to review in a zip lock bag in the backseat between their booster seats so as we drove not one moment was wasted. Day 2 we went to a puppet show at our library. Day 3 was free movie day at the theater near the mall. Day 4 we met some friends at our local YMCA splash park. Day 5 – nothing. I couldn’t even get them out of bed. “Are you feeling okay” I asked concerned. The Slimy Critter exhibit at the zoo was at 10:30 and if we didn’t get a move on we would miss the beginning. “Mom”, my oldest at the time asked, “can’t we just stay home and maybe play with our Barbies or something?” I looked into her 7 year old face and saw exactly the opposite of what I had tried to do. Instead of making summer magical I had turned it into something to be endured. My mom had never planned our summers. My brother and I did. If we complained about being bored there was always that standard mom answer “If you’re bored, I’ll give you something to do” so we just kept ourselves entertained. And on rainy days a little boredom wasn’t such a bad thing. It was the perfect time to daydream or read a book or just look out of the window and watch a South Florida summer storm complete with dramatic lighting bolts and booming thunder. So I smiled and said, “Sure, whatever you want. It’s your summer.” “Really?” she asked. “Can we have a pajama day?” “Absolutely!”

So the perfect summer plan got tossed and I have never planned another summer since. There are days we don’t do anything and there are days it seems like we have done everything and then some. Some nights we don’t eat dinner until 9pm and some mornings we don’t eat breakfast until noon. As my kids have gotten older our summers have changed with them. Last year my kid’s wanted to go on an old-fashioned road trip – planning everything themselves. There always seems to be a friend over for a night or the weekend. Each kid has their own activities that require them to attend summer camps and they now visit their grandparents one at a time for a week each. Some days we swim and stay in our swimsuits all day. And there are lots of pajama days of course! On rainy days we might play dozens of hands of the card game my kids are obsessed with, Dutch Blitz. We have a Wii and a PlayStation 3 so some nights we have a family bowling tournament that lasts well after midnight or our own version of Rock Band-Polooza! And as far as keeping up with school stuff – they know what’s on their required reading lists- it’s their choice to either read or not. So far their brains haven’t become too mushy!

No, my kids will never have a summer quite like I did. But even though it seems that the summers of my youth and the summers of theirs are vastly different the basics are still the same. Take each day and enjoy it. Feel free to accomplish something or to do absolutely nothing. Because the dark cloud of adulthood is looming. And before they know it, poof, their summers will have disappeared into wonderful memories. And hopefully they will get to pass on the wonderment of summer to their kids someday.

Texting - 1980's Style

A couple of months ago I got really industrious and decided to organize my closet. Luckily I have a huge closet since in goes way back under the stairs. So I have lots of room for lots of junk! I started at the very back and found a large plastic container big enough for Tony Soprano to put to good use. I dragged it out into my bedroom, took a deep breath and pried open the top. Inside was my childhood – finger paintings and report cards, a scrap book dedicated to Donny Osmond, my baby book, a pair of Sassoon jeans, my old tap shoes, countless photo albums, yearbooks from middle and high school, graded book reports, and several large manila envelopes. It was the envelopes that caught my eye. Curious about the contents I gathered them up and flopped down on my bed. Each envelope had a hand written label – Middle School, High School, Birthday Cards, Pen Pals and Boys with lots of red hearts drawn on the front of that one. Each envelope was full of notes; notes that my friends and I would pass to each other during classes or stick in each others lockers. There were love notes from boys that I barely remembered. Letters from a young sailor friend of my next door neighbor because getting mail was supposed to help his morale and letters from another neighbor’s nephew in India who wanted to correspond with someone from America so he could understand what our culture was like. Back in the day notes were our texts. But making the transition from writing to texting is something I have had a hard time with. There are so many confusing abbreviations, too many symbols. How can anyone get their point across with a bunch of letters strung together that don't even form an actual word? During my time we would never had communicated like that!


When I first got my ‘smart phone' I felt incredibly stupid. I had just gotten used to my old fashioned cell phone and even started to remember to put it in my purse instead of leaving it on the kitchen counter or in the console of my SUV. But the new ‘can do it all' gismo was a whole new technological ballgame. As the cell phone representative explained how my smarter-than-me phone would change my life all I could think of was how it would make my life more complicated then it already was. My two teens were already setting up their contact lists and down-loading apps while my very patience cell phone master was showing me how to turn the phone on. Once he was sure I got the hang of making calls he moved on to texting. “Oh, I won’t need that” I told him confidently. “Look, you have unlimited monthly texts and that’s mostly how you will be communicating. Hardly anyone calls anymore.” He gestured toward the seats my girls were slumped in and I noticed both had their thumbs flying over their mini-keyboards like they were in some type of Olympic thumb duel.

Mr. Cell Phone was right about going with the unlimited text because that is all my kids do-they text. They text the second they wake up until I finally have to pry their phone out of their clutched fists after they have fallen asleep. They will even text each other while they are both in their bedrooms or even while they are sitting next to one another in the backseat of our SUV. It was starting to annoy me. Why can’t people just talk to people? I just didn’t understand the need to constantly write about everyday mundane, unimportant things.

With English being my native tongue, that is how I communicate. I write in sentences made up of entire words complete with punctuation. So when one of my kids would send me a text that looked something like WRU@ when I would be on my way to pick them up from school or ZUP when I would be relaxing in my bedroom after a very long day I felt like I was reading a WWII Enigma code. Every one of my texts to my girls would be answered either with an OMG or K. I felt like I was reading Klingon and didn't understand most of what they were trying to tell me. Finally my thirteen year old (volunteered by the rest of the family) was brave enough to tell me “Mom, everyone hates your texts.” “Why?” I asked a little hurt. “Because they are just way too long. It’s like reading a letter.” A few days later I was on the phone with a very good male friend and was explaining my bruised ego over the whole texting dilemma. He just laughed and said, “You are my favorite MILF.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Ask a teen age boy – he’ll know.” I don’t know any teen age boys so I kind of put that question aside and figured the next time I ran into a young boy I ask him.

Moments after that conversation I pulled into my neighbor Walgreens to pick up some odds and ends. At that time Walgreens was the closest store to my neighborhood since our development is surrounded by cow pastures. So you become familiar with the employees that work there and they become familiar with you. When it was my turn to check out I placed my purchases on the counter; a box of Benadryl, a bottle of Aussie hair conditioner, a bag of peanut M&M’s and a get well card for a friend who was feeling under the weather. I noticed that my customer service representative was an older teen boy who lived in my neighborhood. “You probably know all about texting” I said pleasantly. He smiled innocently at me while he was scanning my products. “Yes ma'am.” “Could you tell me what a MILF is?” I asked naively. I noticed his polite smile quickly disappeared and his face started to turn crimson. The gentlemen behind me started to cough. It must be something bad I thought. Was it some kind of racial slur or a horrible insult? “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s just...” I didn’t get to finish my apology because that sweet boy shoved my bag of items towards me while he kept his eyes glued to the floor. I took the plastic bag and power walked out of the store and to my car. I couldn’t even remember if I had actually paid for anything. While sitting in my Expedition, I used my smarty pants phone and Goggled the offensive abbreviation. After reading the meaning I mentally yelled to my soon to be former friend ”Hey buddy this is UFB! From now on I’ll have to drive all the way to CVS!”

Back to the envelopes I had now spread all over my bedspread. I opened the one that I had labeled High School. The contents of each folded wide-ruled piece of notebook paper were filled with important teen dilemmas, gossip, and injustices. What if Keith finds out I like him, I’ll die! Can you believe that so-and-so wore that skirt- again? Mr. Stevens is such a jerk to give homework over the weekend. Can I borrow your geometry proofs index cards? Warning – pop quiz in American History! Meet me at the front of the gym for lunch. Do you have an extra pair of shorts for P.E.? I yelled to my teens to come and check them out. “What are these” they wondered. “They’re texts” I explained. “Old school style”. We laughed as we took turns reading. “Oh, my gosh mom!” my thirteen year old exclaimed. “You were like a real teenager!” And the more I read the more I realized that being a teen way back in the 1980’s wasn’t that much different than being a teen in the twenty-first century. The worries about looks, clothes, boys, popularity, parties and grades were still the same. The gripes about parents and teachers, homework, curfews and the horror of being deprived of a coveted item that everyone else in the universe had but you hasn’t changed either. The only difference is the method of delivery. I was now on the other side of the looking glass understanding what my girls were feeling and the revelation of what my parents had gone through.

My friends and I also had abbreviations sprinkled throughout our notes – TTFN, FYI, LYLAS, BFF, TLF, SWAK, AKA, and MYOB just to name a few. Not that much different than the texts my kids send, I realized. “Why did you keep all these Mom?” my high schooler asked. “Oh, I guess because there just a little piece of who I was way back then.” “You were almost like a little cool mom.” she exclaimed looking slightly impressed. “So, can we look in the Boys envelope?” she asked with a sly smirk. “NWNH” I replied as I began to gather up the papers and put them back into the envelope. “NWNH – what’s that?” “No way, no how" I said with my own sly smirk. There are just some pieces of yourself you shouldn’t share with your kids!

Declare Your Independence

I love the 4th of July because it is a no-stress holiday. You don’t have to worry about buying presents, decorating the house, baking dozens of cookies and pies, or offending your in-laws because you want to spend the day at home. There is no getting up at the butt crack of dawn to prepare a very large dead bird and there is no gravy to fuss over because Aunt June always complains about lumps. It is most definitely a stay-at home mom’s kind of celebration. You go to the store and get some paper plates, plastic cups, chips, hot dogs, hamburgers, a gallon of ice cream and a jug of sweet tea. Your husband gets to stand outside and cook in the sweltering heat while you stay inside and relax on the couch. It is also the only day of the year that you can let your kids hold an object engulfed in flames and nobody can call child services!


This past July 4th my family did what a zillion other families all across the nation did – we started the day attending a patriotic church service, had a cookout with some neighbors and family and we watched our neighborhood firework show while being eaten alive by mosquitos. As the day was coming to a close a thought hit me. Why do we wait for New Year’s Day to resolve to change something in our lives? Doesn’t Independence Day make more sense? After all, aren’t’ we supposed to be celebrating our freedom to be who we want to be, to live how we want to live, to say whatever we want to say, to worship how we want to worship, to think want we want to think and to love whomever we want to love?

So on July 5th I decided to declare my independence and do something worthy of the lives given in order for me to have the life I have. I declared to – are you ready – live my life. I mean really live it. Not just get through the day. So I bought a pair of roller skates. What do roller skates have to do with freedom? A lot actually.

Close your eyes and think way back to the last time you roller skated? Was it in 5th grade at the Galaxy Skateway? Was the DJ blaring your favorite songs like Boogie Wonderland? Did you couple skate to How Deep is Your Love; hands sweaty and heart pounding? Did you wonder how Tootie on Facts of Life got away with wearing her skates everywhere? At first I felt like a fool going to Sports Authority and buying the skates. They had about 14 different choices of in line skates but only 2 of the oldie but goodie four wheeled skates. When I got home I grabbed a pair of socks and laced them up. Standing up slowly from the living room sofa I was only a little wobbly. I gingerly scooted around on the living room carpet until I felt like I wasn’t going to keel over. Then I was ready for the true test – outside.

As my two teenagers fled to their rooms and my husband suddenly became very busy with some last minute spreadsheets, I half skated/half marched out the laundry room door onto the driveway. With my six-year old as my only spectator, I started slowly down the drive; hands spread wide to help me balance. I was doing great, much better than I had expected. But then I started to go faster and faster. It wasn’t the most convenient time to find out that my driveway had a decent downward slope but off I flew towards the street, my six year old yelling encouraging words the whole time. “You’re doing it mom! Good job!” I heard screaming and realized it was me. My driveway was most definitely not Galaxy Skateway. Praying that I would at least fall on my rear and not break a hip, something in my brain clicked back on. Instinctively I bent my knees and slowly dragged my right skate stopper on the ground. I stopped just at the edge before the street and my driveway meet. I was still standing and my 6 year-old was cheering! It took another 10 minutes before I was zipping down the street like my former 10 year old self. I was shuffling, turning backwards and had more fun than I have had in a long time. I felt free.

It doesn’t matter that my driver’s license says I’m 41, that my teens think I have no clue about life, my kindergartner thinks my favorite show is Wonderpets or my husband gets annoyed because I don’t wash the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher. Those are just small pieces of who I am. Flying down the street with my IPod blaring Donna Summer’s Bad Girls I felt young and free and full of life. I declared my right to put my life’s puzzle together one piece at a time and create my own finished picture. I’ll add pieces and put aside those pieces that no longer fit. And I'll even rediscover some pieces that I thought I’d lost. Like roller skating. Let freedom ring!