Age Is Just A Number

Charlie has been quite interested in numbers lately.

As a kindergartner, he is learning something new each day and with that comes beginning the basics of mathematics; 1+1, 2+2, etc. He likes to count how many cars he has or how many times he has watched Spiderman (which is always never enough with him) and how many times he has had to stop Lewie from getting into his Legos. "No, Lewie, I have told you a majillion times to get out of my blocks!" He is also very aware that the days are growing closer to the 100th day of school in which special things will happen in his class in celebration of it. He counts them down to me every morning. "Mom, didcha know dis is the ninety-furd day?" (I don't have the heart to tell him yet that there will be 80 more days after that one and that his mornings of getting up early for school will not be over on day 101.)

In his enthusiasm over numbers, he has also expressed interest in ages. Ages like: how old will he be when he will go to high school, or be able to watch "The Dark Knight" or not have to do his chores or not have to live in my house. (Poor miserable kid!) He's asked me how old he was when Ross was born ("You weren't born yet, Charlie. You were still in heaven.") and how old he was when Lewie was born ("Four."). "How old is Daddy, Mom?" "47." "And how old are you?" "37." "So, you are older than Dad?" "No, Charlie. I just look it." (groan)

So, last night we are eating dinner at the table, chewing and talking as we usually do during this "quality family time" and I remembered that this is my month to plan mine and Eric's date night. Now, just for the record, I gotta say here that this is really a new thing; the monthly trade off of planning, I mean. For years we have put aside a little money each month for the two of us to go out and kinda get reacquainted with each other; the "Eric and Cher" before the details of almost 19 years of wedded home ownership and the busy schedules of four kids took over our youthful impulses. It just seemed though that despite the allowance toward a nice evening away from the kiddos, at the end of each month we would realize that we did not take that time for ourselves. So, trying to remedy that, Eric and I decided to take turns planning the dates through 2009 in hopes that neither one of us will fail to make it happen. So...

We are at the table and I say "Hey, Schmitty, you wanna go out with me this weekend?" As soon as I said it, I noticed Charlie out of the corner of my eye. In mid bite he kinda gets this little half smile on his face. Eric's positive answer leads Charlie to coyly ask him, "Are you goin' out like on a... date?" Grinning, Eric says, "Yep!" "You're too old", Charlie says "Old people don't go out, not like that." "What? Charlie, they are not old", Erica interjects. (Interesting, coming from the all knowing 14 year old who usually thinks every word from her father's mouth was originally found written on cave walls.) "Well, I mean, they are kinda old. I'm very new and they are very not." Charlie explains. "Well, if you are very new then what is Lewie?", Erica snaps. "He's very, very new and he is more fragile den me". "But I'm more fragile den you". Charlie says.

After a chuckle, we all go on about our business eating and talking. Later, Charlie says to me, "Can I come on your date with Dad?" "No Buddy, this is a grown-up thing that just moms and dads do." Frowning a bit, Charlie says "Well, when I'm a grown-up, I'll take my kids on my date 'cause they will be sad if they aren't having fun with me." "That's very nice, Charlie, but sometimes we just need to do some things without our kids with us." "OK", Charlie shrugged. "I just hope you and Dad can find some fun without me there."

As he walked out of the room, I smiled to myself and thought about how much fun I do have with that little man and with all my kids. We are truly blessed to have such a house full of love and happy times. Thinking ahead to those kids of Charlie's, well all I can say about that is, my grandchildren are going to be loved immensely and are destined to have the most interesting and fun life with him as their dad. That is something I can definitely count on.

Licking Christmas

We are Santa people.

Now certainly and absolutely without question, the glorious birth of Jesus Christ and what that one event in history ultimately led to for all mankind is the real "reason for the season" and we acknowledge that and hold that sacred in our home and hearts; but we really enjoy partaking in some of the fun of imagining a big, kindly old guy bringing gifts for good little boys and girls. We love this time of year: Christmas songs and movies, holiday baking and decorating with an array of Christmas do-dads, everything from traditional nativities to colored lights to snowmen to Santa, himself. (Quite honestly, Christmas looks like it sorta threw up in our house. It's everywhere and in every room but we wouldn't have it any other way.)

Through the years, as our family has grown, Eric and I have developed little traditions that help make the season even more festive. We all sing together whatever song is played as we reveal another day closer to Christmas on our carols advent calendar. The kids get a special "holiday date" with us when we take them to dinner downtown and listen to beautiful music at the Athens Symphony's seasonal concert. On Christmas Eve, we like riding around looking for fun light displays and then coming home to let the kids open their gifts to each other. For fun, we also leave cookies and milk with a note for Santa before bed that night.

Since we are "Santa people" and we always encouraged that youthful belief in our kids, when Ross and Erica were really little we also had the tradition of taking them to see him . They would get so excited anticipating their time upon Santa's knee. However, as they began to age, sitting on some hairy guy's lap wasn't as thrilling for them. By about 10 years old, they also realized it wasn't very profitable either since somehow they had figured out Mom and Dad were the ones who really got the gifts. (At times, I think they would've sat on our laps if they thought it would get them what they wanted.)

Anyway, recently I was thinking about all of that and it dawned on me that since Ross and Erica were older when we had Charlie we had never really continued that tradition with him. Maybe once when he was a baby, we had propped him up in his lap for a photo op while visiting the mall, but not since the boy has been talking and developing his own opinions and thoughts (and whew, does he have them!) have we taken him to meet and visit with the "big guy". So...

Monday night was the annual "Christmas in Oglethorpe" event. This is the night when they light the big tree in front of the courthouse in Lexington and local talent warbles over the mic while people visit vendors selling coffee and funnel cakes, books, jewelry and other holiday paraphernalia. Santa and Mrs. Claus come riding through downtown on a float escorted by ridiculously loud siren shrills from firetrucks and police cars and are then seated in comfy chairs for the lines of children that want to share their Christmas lists with ol' Kris Kringle. After I'd walked the circle of vendors and pretty much had the"been there, done that" attitude but Ross was still playing with the jazz band (which of course, is the best thing about the whole event) and we couldn't leave yet, I decided to let Charlie experience the wonder of meeting Santa. I just knew this would be exciting for him, a real memory maker!

As I took his hand in mine he looked up and asked where we were going. I said, "Hey, don't you want to go see Santa?" With the twinkle of innocence in his big blue eyes, he answered "Sure, okay, yeah!" We found our place in line with other excited children. After a few minutes of waiting, Charlie turned to me and said, "Why do I need to see Santa Claus? He already knows what I want. If he knows if I've been good or bad then he definitely knows what I want for Christmas." "Well yeah, but wouldn't it be fun to see him and be able to talk to him yourself?", I encouraged. Saying nothing more, Charlie and I waited a few minutes more. With kids milling everywhere and parents scoping out the best place to take their precious "Santa with child" photo, we finally inched close enough to the action that Charlie could actually see Santa and his wife seated in front of us. This is when he turned to me with a very serious tone and said, "Mom, this is not Santa Claus." "What? Sure it is. What makes you say that?" Now, granted even I was wondering why it was that this guy's red suit looked like it had come off the salvation army's backroom floor and why, oh why, did his beard and hair have to look so horrifically fake, but alas perhaps Charlie would look beyond all that and chalk it up to how hurried and busy Santa was this time of year. Well...NOT!

Charlie again declared to me (in a not so quiet voice) "Mom, this is really not Santa. That man has glasses and his hair is so crazy and I don't think he is even going to know my name." Not sure what to say, I gently patted his back and tried feebly to assure him that if he isn't Santa then he must be one of his elves. Looking up at me like I had a booger on the end of my nose, Charlie shook his head. With only one more child ahead of us, Charlie, who had really been studying the scene with a great deal of interest, sighed and decided out loud that he was not going to talk to this strange man in a bad costume and that he was only going up there because I wanted to take his picture. I pleaded with him to be nice and to not act shy. Then I noticed that as each child slid off Santa's lap they got a little bag of candy. I pointed this out to Charlie and he replied with "What if I don't like the candy in the bag?" "Well, then you say thank you anyway.", I said. "Thanks but no thanks?" Charlie asked. "No, just say thanks and take the bag offered to you.", I corrected. "But what if it has crap in it I don't want." "Charlie, don't say crap! Look, just take the bag of candy and say thank you, ok?", I snapped. Growling a little, Charlie kicked the dirt. About that time, a lady walked over and told Charlie that he could now go visit with Mrs. Claus while he waited for the little girl in front of him to finish talking to Santa. Charlie turned to me and said, "I don't want to see her." Smiling nervously at the lady who was trying to move us on, I pushed Charlie forward and I took my place over to the side. With head down and moving as though he really had all year to get there, Charlie climbed the stairs and walked up to Mrs. Claus (who incidentally, had a better costume than her husband). As she smiled and extended her arms to welcome him to her lap, he looked back at me then reached past her for a bag of candy and trudged forward with not so much as a word to Santa's better half. Embarrassed, I said "Hey, Charlie come talk to Mrs. Claus." It is at this point that Charlie suddenly lost his ability to hear my voice. He started looking around as though he was searching for something important in the air.

Finally, the girl was done regaling her many High School Musical and Hannah Montana needs to jolly ol' St. Nick and he laughed a hearty "Ho, Ho, Ho" as Charlie literally leaned up against him. Pulling Charlie up onto his lap, I roll my eyes as he completely ignored all questions from Santa about his name and age. Feeling like eternity was passing during the awkward silence, Charlie finally looked at this so-called "Santa" character and said, "I want drums. Drums. Okay?" "Ho, Ho, Ho, well, should I bring your mom there some earplugs too then? Ho, Ho, Ho!", Santa quipped. I smile but Charlie, not amused and now completely "over it", began to get off his lap as I tried to quickly snap a photo. Practically running to get away from the madness, Charlie headed back over to me and proclaimed, "OK, I did it. Can you open my candy bag?" "Yep, you did it, alright." I said, laughing at the whole crazy thing. When Eric asked later what Charlie thought about meeting Santa, all he could say was he "got a sucker and it was cherry flavored." Wow, what a memory maker!

I heard the Santa at the mall is a very good one with a real beard and nice suit and I've thought about taking Charlie to see him but what is really nice to know is that, he doesn't have to talk to him in person to feel confident that there is a Santa. He's got his own definite ideas about him. He likes speculating about how Santa is going to get into our house since we removed the chimneys last summer and he loves leaving those cookies for him and seeing the crumbs left behind on the plate the next morning. And it has really become a fun tradition in its own rite for Ross and Erica to help me and Eric perpetuate the belief for Charlie (and soon Lewie).

So, thinking about all of it again today, I say this... Christmas is wonderful, family traditions are terrific, children are hilarious and make-shift Santa wannabes are only good if they offer cherry flavored suckers.

Merry Christmas to you and yours!

The First Thanksgiving by Charlie, Age 5

In an attempt to be accurate to the telling of this remarkably historic tale, I have written it exactly as it was said to me at the dinner table the other night. As with most stories told by 5 year olds, this is indeed the very essence of "stream of consciousness". Enjoy!

"Um, the pilgrims had a boat called the Mayflower and they travelled to some udder country, I don't know which one. Anyway, they had to build dare own houses 'cause dare weren't any when they got dare. And they met some Indians and they taught the Pilgrims how to grow food. like Indian corn. And they were friends, yeah, they were always friends. Den they ate a feast and the Indians ate the Pilgrims' food and the Pilgrims ate the Indians' food, like Indian corn, you know? They also ate beans, deer, potatoes, gravy, pumpkin pie and some turkey. Oh yeah, they also said a prayer, you know... Thanksgiving, uh yeah. Den they all went to d' houses and turned on some music. Oh yeah, they had to build dare own radios when they built d' houses. And Pilgrims' had long hair 'cause dare was no one to cut it! But den d' Indians told 'em how to so den d' gil Pilgrims cut d' boys' hair and den d' boy Pilgrims cut d' gil's hair. Den they all had a big dance on the grass, d' Indians told d' Pilgrims how to grow grass, too. Den after they danced and sang, they went to the woods, on a walk. And they went to a wishing well where they got living water. Living water is when you drink it, you never first again. So, they got some den they went back to d' houses and just...lived dare. Oh, and you know, they did not have any stores so they had to build dem, too. That's it!"

Betcha didn't know it really happened like dat (uh, I mean that), did you? Learn something new everyday, eh?

Hope your Thanksgiving is as momentous and joyful as that very first one. May God bless you and yours!

I Need New Place Cards

So, that's been my problem, huh? I just need to move Satan somewhere else. Hmmm. Interesting. Evidently, the good people of Crawford, GA know how to do it. They even gave this handy advice on both sides of their sign. Nice!

When you don't know the answer, just "fudge" it.

I watched in amusement as Lewie practically threw his bowl of mixed veggies across the room after glimpsing a Little Debbie cake sitting on the table in front of him. He was all but screaming "I need that" when I finally pinched him off a bite. It put me in mind to a particular day, when I was nine years old and my mother said that my sister and I could pick out a treat from the rows of confectioneries that lined the grocery store check out. It felt like we'd just won the lottery. Those kind of surprises just didn't come along too often when I was a kid. My parents have always been so loving and accommodating but back then money was tight and spending it on every little whim my sister and I thought we needed was just not something we were indulged in very much. As I stood there perusing all the many choices laid out in neat rows on the shelves, I let my eager fingers brush along the slick, brightly colored wrappers of candy dreams. While my little sister picked something of the hard, fruity candy variety I set my mind on better things like...chocolate. I picked up each bar and carefully held it in my hand checking for the size and general "heaviness" of it, as this would surely give me more to enjoy. With my mom telling me to hurry and make my selection, I finally decided on a classic Hershey's bar and since I was getting this "un-ordinary" chance to splurge I picked out the one with almonds. Boy, I was really living!

My sister opened hers up in the parking lot on the way to the car but I was going to make myself wait. Yes, I was going to enjoy mine in the peace and solitude of my own room where I could savor every morsel without being bothered. Once we got home I quickly made my way to my room, which had been newly renovated from a storage area in our house into my personal haven of bliss. I closed the door, tuned the radio to Casey Kasem's Top 40 Countdown (a Saturday afternoon favorite) and stretched out on my bed with my treasured candy bar in hand. I slowly peeled back the familiar brown wrapper to reveal the shiny silver that enveloped the chocolate. Since Hershey bars are perforated into small bite-sized squares I broke off one piece, anticipating the sweetness, and placed it in my mouth. Oh, what joy as I slowly chewed and swallowed that first piece! I took another block, being careful to only break off one at a time. Mmm, never had there been such a perfect day! Never had a candy bar tasted so sweet! With the sun steaming in through the big picture window that overlooked my elementary school and humming along to the "long distance request" that good ol' sainted Casey had just granted, I glanced down at the deep brown rectangle in my hand and started counting the almond pieces peeking through. One, two, three, ooh look...that one looks like it's moving...four, five, ooh...what? It is moving! I sat up on the side of the bed, staring at the candy in my hand and trying to decide if I should touch the tiny foreign object squirming around. I decided I better go show my mom who was straightening up the kitchen. As she took the candy from my hand, she squinted her eyes and drew it closer to her face so she could really get a good look at the odd looking "nut". Suddenly she said, "Yuck, gross! It's a worm. You can't eat anymore of that. Throw it away." I stood frozen for a moment. What? What did she just say? You mean throw my sacred candy prize away? All of it? Can't I just tear off that block and eat the rest? Mom shook her head "no" and complained that it must have been on the shelf awhile for it to be like that. Now, I wasn't so much concerned that I had just eaten potentially expired chocolate or that, heaven forbid, I might even get sick from it- I was really ticked off. Great, so I get two measly bites out of it and it's over? What was that? How fair is that? I didn't care if I grew two heads and a humpback from tainted chocolate I wanted my mother to be upset about this situation with me. I thought the least she could do was to immediately jump up, drive back to that two-bit grocery store and demand that I be given a new candy bar (and for more vindication, just go ahead and throw another bar in for good measure) But Mom was calm. She apologized for it, not that it was her fault, but said she was not going to go back out just for one little candy bar. But it was my candy bar, my once-in-a-blue-moon candy bar, my special treat. She just looked at me and kinda rolled her eyes at my dramatics (which I was already honing even at the age of nine) and basically told me to "get over it" and offered me a banana as a substitute. A banana? You have got to be kidding! So, with slumped shoulders I lumbered over to the garbage can and sort of hovered the bar over it, not wanting to let it slip into the abyss. That wretched worm! What was it doing in my chocolate? Finally, I closed my eyes, let out a big sigh (so Mom could hear, of course) and dropped the candy in, opening my eyes just in time to see it land with a thud amidst old papers and food rubbish.

Just then my little sister came be-bopping into the kitchen with a sticky smile and the last remaining bits of her sugar choice in her sweaty little hand. Glaring at her and without a another word, I stormed into my room and closed the door behind me. Casey was rambling on about some one's long lost love...blah, blah, blah. Who cares, just play a blasted song already, Casey Blabbermouth! I plopped on my bed and laid there in the sun spot on my bedspread. It was warm and bright and I closed my eyes in irritation and utter disappointment. What an absolutely horrible day! Eventually, I fell asleep there on top of my covers with the radio playing the hits of the day and only awoke when Dad came in to tell me dinner was ready.


Well, life moved on and I got over the whole "candy bar fiasco". There were other "special treat" days. As finances improved and I grew older, my "treats" turned from candy to records (yes, vinyl records - Those were the days!) to an afternoon movie to a surprise shopping trip to the mall. But I never did choose another Hershey's bar with almonds though, not that I suspected them all to be wormy, I just lost my appetite for them after experiencing the other various forms of chocolate; like those with coconut or toffee in them or the richness of dark chocolate, but I digress.

It's funny to think that I once got so worked up over a silly piece of candy. I realize now, that it was really less about the candy and more about the unusualness of the particular day and gift. Those kind of unexpected treats are what make great childhood memories. I see so often with my own kids; like with Lewie today drooling over, what he has already learned in one year of life is something yummy that he doesn't get often, or with my five year old, Charlie, how exciting it is for him when I let him pick out something special at the store; even if it's just a piece of 25 cent gum from a little machine. I know that nowadays I would never get so worked up over a simple candy bar. . .Pa-leeze, never. I'm an adult with adult tastes and I can take or leave those little "Willy Wonka fantasies". Or... can I? I'm really craving a Mounds bar right about now. Hey, where are my car keys?

Dinner Quandary

Mmm...choices!

I found the top menu delight in Athens, GA and I practically had a wreck trying to turn around on Broad Street to get this picture. By the end of the day it had been removed from the sign. Guess they had a run on those bowels. Running bowels, ha ha , that's funny!


I almost missed seeing the bottom offering. I just happened to look up and there it was next door to ol' Mickey D's in Commerce, GA. Never had a sand witch but I hear they are "spellbinding". Ok, ok, enough already!



By the way, both are evidently available at Dairy Queen. I think you might find yourself doing a little "DQ" after you eat these things like asking Dumb Questions about the Delicacies Queer you just ate and finding yourself Doubting Quality of your local eatery.

I know, I know, somebody stop me!

I Guess Babs Needed a Bath

"No!"

Lewie has only been up a few hours and he's heard me say that to him at least 50 times this morning. Over and over I have had to remove my small one from the center of havoc. He's thrown down his cup full of milk about half a dozen times (spill-proof, my foot!), yanked all the covers off of Charlie's bed, haphazardly removed all the articles of clothing from his, evidently not hard to open, drawers and played with antique knick knacks that, unfortunately, are on a shelf that is perfect height for chubby little fingers to get at. He's knocked over the kitchen trash can and eaten bits of dried oatmeal before I can turn around to grab the broom and the damp, white flecks of something all over my bedroom floor is not a strange indoor snowstorm but an indication that Lew has sampled Kleenex this morning, as well. While I took a necessary bathroom break (heaven forbid mother's have to go), he pulled every single, blasted cd off of the very full, blasted cd tower. (Can you tell I am writing this with clenched teeth?) When I arrived on the scene he had broken a DC Talk case, thrown ol' Blue Eyes across the room and was chewing on a Barbra Streisand cd. (Eric would tell me to wash his mouth out, immediately.) Again, I furrowed my brow, shook my head and said sternly, "No, Lewie!". He looked up at me with a kind of "what's the big deal, Mom" look and sort of giggled as he crawled on top of a pile of cds to get to his toybox. Cleaning up this latest mess, I couldn't help but chuckle when I realized what song was on the radio I had playing in my room. It was the 80's tune "I Think I'm in Trouble" by Lindsey Buckingham. Was it Lewie's theme or mine? Funny, very funny!

Over the more than 16 years I've been a "mommy"," mom", "mother", "hey you" to my kids they have certainly heard me say "no" to them. I mean, they have always gotten my utmost love and devotion, as well as, the material things they've needed (and even some they didn't need but just really, really, really wanted) but I have never been afraid to use the "n word". "No, do not throw food. ", "No, do not play with the toilet plunger.", "No, you cannot run away to Chicago." "No, you are not going to have a cell phone, Ipod, plasma screen tv, Wii, indoor pool in your room or an allowance of $50.00 a week." (They really never asked me for those things but just in case they read this, I want to clear the air now.)

I truly believe that children need to know where we draw the line. It is sad when I see parents be bullied by their kids. You can see that they live on the edge all the time. They are afraid to say no to their children either because of" the scene" it may cause or because they don't want their kids to "not be their friend". I figure my children have lots of friends but only one mother. They need my guidance not another "peep" to hang out with.

I think Eric and I have a terrific relationship with our kids and they do ultimately consider us their "friends"; not because we tried hard to be cool but I really think it is because we started setting the bounderies when they were little. From teaching them not to go near the street or put batteries in their mouths to not letting them go to a friend's house because their chores aren't done; "No" means "I love you and want to protect you and help build you into a responsible adult" (sounds sappy, doesn't it?) Sure, it would often be easier to let things slide, no effort, no arguments but my "no" means that I love them too much to let them grow into selfish, prideful, demanding, destructive, lazy people. No one, not even selfish, prideful, demanding, destructive, lazy people like those kind of people.

So...that is why Lewie, even at the tender age of 1, has heard "no" and will continue to hear "no". Now notice, I said he will continue to hear it, not heed it. It is interesting to observe the sinful nature in small children. It's almost comical when Lewie rares back and pitches a fit when I tell him no and remove him from whatever upheaval has occurred. Sometimes I just have to laugh but in the end, I'd rather have him upset with me and safe than delighting in wrongdoing.

Anyway, I've straightened up the trail he left behind and just put him down with his blanket bear and a kiss. He is napping peacefully and I am breathing in the sweet air of calm for the moment. Hmm...I better go to the bathroom while I've got the chance.