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“Siblings share everything – even Santa Claus…”

Slowly, but surely, we’ve emptied out our home, as one kid after another flees the scene. But, when our second-to-last child packed up and left home in August, there was cause for immediate concern. Our thoughts turned instantly to our youngest child. How ever would our little red caboose survive?

After-all, all Tommy has ever known is a full house. What would life be like for him with no siblings? Who would help him absorb the daily excesses of our signature over-zealous parenting style?

Our fears were unfounded. Our worry was in vain. It seems that after 5 months of life as an “Only Child,” Tommy seems to quite embrace his living situation. In fact, he may even be flourishing.

We haven’t had an “Only Child” since those halcyon days when Emilie was a toddler.  At the tender age of 2, she was too young to truly exploit all the inherent advantages; but you can bet after 16 frustrating years of being the youngest of 5, Tommy is keenly aware and appreciative of the perks available to him as a “Lonely Only.”

– VIP PARKING:    Park wherever you want. There are several open garage bays available.  Who are you blocking in?  Um – nobody!  And if dad is traveling, feel free to pull right up under the Porte-cochere. It simply doesn’t get more convenient.

– FACE TIME: Since there’s only one kid left, and no one else vying for our attention, when Tommy walks in the room we immediately put our books face-down and/or mute the TV. We are all-ears. Ready, willing and able to give a damn.

–TOP NOTCH HOME SECURITY: Gone is the angst-ridden concern over where to hide restaurant leftovers, Halloween candy or that last bottle of Gatorade so it will be safe from your siblings. Mom’s on a diet and dad’s not home – your crap is completely yours.

–APPLIANCE KING: When you need to throw a shirt or a coveted pair of jeans in the wash, no one else’s pesky stuff is cluttering up the machines. Gone are the long lines. No need to take a number. You are Numero Uno around here; from the toaster to the microwave to the washing machine, you rule all the appliances in your kingdom.

Ditto all television sets and gaming systems.

What’s more, without all the sibs around sucking the literal life out of YOUR MOTHER, she’s more likely to tap into her dormant nurturing instincts and do your laundry for you.

The other day Jimmy asked Tommy about his lavish new lifstyle. He was quite frank and unapologetic, remarking, “It’s payback for all the years of disrespect I endured as the runt of the litter!”

He went on to tell his dad that he might even be dreading the holidays a little. His siblings will be home next week disturbing the peace and asserting their domestic dominance once again.

Or maybe they’ll behave like the “Houseguests” they arguably are, deferring to him as their Gracious Host?

Tommy isn’t exactly sitting around waiting for Santa Claus to drop off a Magic 8 ball for the answer to that question…it’s “Highly Doubtful.”

It might be their “First Rodeo” but it sure isn’t their Mum’s…

My hubby was on a business trip earlier this week when he called me from his hotel room to check in. I asked him why he sounded so groggy…

“After the World Series game, right as I was drifting off to sleep, my phone rang -our oldest son was just calling to shoot the breeze.”

Our college Freshman thought nothing of casually phoning his Dad around midnight, as there were pressing matters to discuss.  Top of the agenda was a blow-by-blow recap of the World Series, followed by an overview of the next few Oklahoma City Thunder match-ups along with predictions about the upcoming LSU/Alabama game.

Throughout the conversation, Dad assumed his boy didn’t realize he woke him.  But, just as they were about to hang up, our son quipped,

“Well, I’ll let you get back to sleep now!”

I couldn’t help but sympathize with my husband yesterday morning, when I had trouble rousting myself after being “on-call” at 1 am for our 21-year-old daughter. When it comes to tapping into some highly-sought-after-much-needed-mom-advice, apparently any time is the right time!

This behavior isn’t limited to just the college set either. It’s standard for high schoolers too. We were sound asleep one night last week, when our 16 year old walked in our room with a few pointed questions about the political landscape in this country. While we certainly respect his election-confusion, we couldn’t help but mutter to each other, as we struggled to fall back asleep, “Why wasn’t he confused earlier, like maybe around dinner time?”

Rest assured we dispense a lot more than sports/political analysis and free dating advice in the middle of the night. We also provide 24 hour banking. That’s right – we will service all of your banking needs at any hour. Cash advance? Balance inquiry? Money transfers? No problem. Text or call us anytime.

Need round-the-clock fashion consultations? Can’t decide which boots to wear with a particular outfit?  Just text your mother a selfie. She’ll opine. No matter that it’s 10:45 and she can barely keep her eyes open past the 10 o’clock news; you know she wants you looking your best every minute of the day.

In the world of our teenagers and 20-somethings, AM and PM are entirely reversed. They may as well live in Australia. Like baby raccoons, their lives don’t even get interesting until around the time the rest of us are winding down for the day. Maybe God did that to help us share the planet more efficiently. I don’t know. But, they definitely operate in a different time zone.

I was asked recently to write an article about what it was like to be sleep-deprived during the challenging infant and toddler years. I had to laugh. The infant and toddler years? Is there some crazy notion out there that, at some point during parenting, you get to sleep all night? Not in my experience.

Earlier this morning, at the incredibly considerate grown-adult hour of 10 am, I called my son down in College Town to confirm some plans for later today.

“Hhhhhhello?????” came his hoarse, barely audible greeting.

“Hi honey!” I chirped in my chirpiest mom-voice, “Did I wake you?”

“Uhhhhh-huhhhhh,” he responded.

“Okay, well go back to sleep, but call me when you wake up!”

That was 3 hours ago. I’m still waiting…

But no worries Mate! This isn’t my first rodeo. If I get really bored waiting for my kids to call, I just log on to my banking app and move some money around in reverse. That’s always guaranteed to generate some texts and a phone call or two.

Making Blue Cupcakes With Mommy

I’ll never forget the day one of my closest friends marched her son over to my house to apologize to my son for some minor transgression.

While I don’t recall what her son had done to offend, I remember it was a Sunday morning and mine was wearing plaid madras shorts and a Polo shirt. The reason that particular detail is etched so vividly in my brain is because my girlfriend took one look at my son and gasped in surprise.

“Oh Honey…you’re dressed?!”

My 4 year old son gazed back at her, innocently oblivious to the fact that he – well technically his mother – had just been dissed.  In a way.

This would be a good time to admit that my boys ran around without clothing quite a bit when they were little. (If you’re trying to conjure a visual, you might want to go with the character Mowgli from Disney’s The Jungle Book.)

The reason I know it was a Sunday is because that’s the only day I actually forced my boys to wear clothes. My standards were still somewhat intact at that point and even I knew they had to wear more than Spider Man underpants to Mass.

My boys are my 4th and 5th children. My first three children were girls. They were not only dressed, they were dressed in outfits Paris Hilton would kill for. (Maybe an argument for not producing more offspring than you are willing and able to adequately attire…)

We moved around a lot due to my husband’s career and I often found myself wistfully wishing that each new group of neighborhood moms I associated with in those latter days, had known me back when I first started raising kids. They might’ve even been impressed.

Mostly because I gave a damn what other mothers thought about me.

Like most women, I entered the Motherhood Arena swingin’.  I was pregnant with my first child my last semester of college, so naturally I wrote my Senior Thesis on The Benefits of Breastfeeding.  I designed and sewed my babies’ nursery bedding. I made my own baby food.  I had my babies’ pictures made at Olan Mills once a month to capture each and every developmental milestone.

I was out to win motherhood.

And what’s all this malarkey I’m hearing lately about “napping while the baby naps?”  While my girls napped, I made hair bows. I made 232 hair bows in 1991 alone. I was diligent about keeping those bows clipped in my little girls’ hair. If my toddler reached up and tried to pull her hair bow out, I gave her a sharp little pop on the hand. I wasn’t going to have other mothers thinking I didn’t love my baby girls enough to keep coordinated hair bows on their heads.

One Christmas, my oldest daughter and I were invited to a Mother/Daughter Cookie Decorating Party. I dressed my firstborn in an adorable new Christmas frock, snapped in a matching hair bow and off we went.

At the party, our hostess provided sugar cookies baked in various holiday shapes, with an assortment of colored frostings, sprinkles etc. A little kid’s dream! My daughter daintily selected a Christmas tree from the tray and proceeded to make a godawful mess decorating the thing. I was mortified.

But when she selected a tube of blue for the star on top, when a perfectly fine tube of yellow was available, I snapped. I’d had enough of her 5 year old shenanigans. I snatched the cookie from her hands and finished decorating it my-damn-self.

I was 27, I had two kids and I had motherhood by the giblets.

That is, until I birthed another kid or two and ran out of steam and standards. That’s when the tail started wagging the dog, as they say.

I just didn’t give a darn anymore. Because I couldn’t. Don’t get me wrong. I gave a great big darn about my kids. The naked ones AND the Fashion Plates.   I just couldn’t care what other mothers thought.   It was just me and the kids in the trenches – all day, every day.

Eventually I whittled parenting down to the heart of the matter…

It finally dawned on me that my legacy as a mother would not be defined by how other mothers remembered me. It would be defined by how my kids remembered me. So I made a commitment (as much out of necessity as anything) to focus only on what mattered to them and to me.

The new philosophy liberated me and opened up a world of blue food coloring, wild hair and apparently clothing optional freedom-of-expression for my younger kids.

At the time of this writing, all 5 of my kids seem to be turning out fine. However, my oldest two daughters are both attorneys who, I’m pretty sure, are preparing to file a joint class action suit against me.

As a mother of five, I think it’s only fitting that I plead the fifth.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe…   She had so many children she didn’t know what to do…    She gave them some broth without any bread…   She whipped them all soundly and put them to bed…   (Mother Goose – A Pioneer in the War against Mom Judging)

2nd Birthday Bash with Winnie-the-Pooh (now age 90) and Emilie (almost 30)

I remember feeling so sorry for my mother-in-law back in 1989 when her oldest child turned 30. It wasn’t my husband. He was still in his 20s. It was his older brother. I remember thinking, ‘Mimi must feel so wretched and ancient to have a child turning 30!’

And now that same wretched thing is happening to me. Now I have a kid turning 30.

So I’m employing our go-to coping mechanism.  I’m throwing a party.

As with all things Emilie-related, there’s a modicum of pressure for this to be a lavish break-the-bank affair that aptly showcases my considerable talents as a mother and a hostess, all-the-while emphasizing the endless and vast amount of love and irrational exuberance we feel for any occasion involving our eldest.

I thought of a darling theme: A Roaring 20s Party!
As in, “Emilie bids farewell to her roaring 20s and hello to her 30s”
And then I immediately became concerned that she might interpret that to mean her 30s are going to resemble a great depressive era. I know – I’m overthinking this.

But, that’s what mothers do. We overthink and over-do everything – especially when it comes to our first born.

Starting with Baby’s first milestone, we tend to over-celebrate them. From Birthdays to Bar Mitzvahs, Graduations to Quincenearas, you can bet if it’s your firstborn’s event, it’ll be a ticker tape affair. Which is all fine and good until you run out of steam and realize you can’t possibly sustain that pace for all of your subsequent offspring.

Pinterest had nothing on me in the late 80s and early 90s.  I went overboard selecting Emilie’s party themes months in advance. I handcrafted invitations. Characters were hired. Tablescapes were designed. Petting Zoos were installed. Jumpy Castles were inflated. Grandparents were flown in. Party favors were handmade.

That’s simply the way it was for Numero Uno.  I managed to keep pace for #2 and #3 for a bit, before I finally threw in the towel.

I recall a party where everyone including me and Grandma dressed up as Mermaids. (yes, it was hard to walk.) There was a Pocohontas party with a life-sized teepee and a real bonfire for S’mores. One Birthday Party Eve found me in the garage at 3 am furiously hack-sawing Barbie’s body in 1/2 so I could jam her inside the pink Ball Gown I baked that failed to rise sufficiently.

As I sawed through that plastic waistline (it’s thicker than you think), I remember wondering exactly what kind of Slacker-Parents actually threw their kids’ parties at Chuck E. Cheese and McDonalds? I found out a few burnt-out years later when we hosted
Every.
Single.
One.
Of my boys’ birthday parties at those incredible venues.   (See what I did there? They’re “Venues” now.)

-My boys’ birthday party themes were “Happy Birthday!” (They were Happy)

-I texted invites the day before the party. (Everyone came)

-The grandparents sent a card and a check. (They love their grandparents AND their checks)

-And, if you happen to run into my 4th child and oldest son, please don’t mention this well-guarded family secret: there were a couple of years, from the time James was about 3 until he was 5 or so, that I got his birthday confused with Veteran’s Day. When I finally found a few minutes to dig out his birth certificate, I woefully discovered that we’d celebrated his birthday one day off for several years in a row. And while James has never been in the military, I still feel it was an honest mistake anyone could make.* Nonetheless, he turned a year older in spite of my error and his lack of military service.

When our older kids complain that the younger kids are spoiled, all I can do is agree wholeheartedly. And then I remind them that, while the younger kids have possibly had more material possessions, the older ones had the BEST OF OUR LOVE when it came to sheer interest, energy and enthusiasm for all of their accomplishments and milestones.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and wager that in November 2027, when James turns 30, I won’t be throwing a huge bash over here at my house to honor him, but we might meet you at McDonalds for a cheeseburger on the 10th.

Or the 11th.

I think this is James’ 4th birthday.  If not, it’s a very happy Veterans Day at Chuck E. Cheese…

*In my own defense, I only slept a total of 47 hours from 2000-2003.

I just hung up from a phone conversation with with my daughter, the college co-ed. She needed a little pep talk. She’s upset because we are poor. Well, WE aren’t actually poor. My husband and I do just fine.  SHE’s the one that’s poor.

The poor struggling college student. It’s a rite of passage and a tad cliche, but to some extent we orchestrated it and we kind of like it.

Now, I know what you might be thinking. We are mean, heartless and cruel parents. And by today’s standards, I guess maybe we are. But lest you judge us too harshly, let me explain…

Our daughter has absolutely everything and even more than she needs. We are paying her tuition, her rent is covered by us and she has a vehicle (albeit nothing flashy) that starts right up when she turns the key.

The problem, as I see it, is entirely relative. Like most people, our daughter’s plumb-line for normal is derived from her peers. Through no real fault of their own, some of her peers are the uber-indulged offspring of my generation; the generation that was hell-bent-for-leather to give our children more than our parents gave us.

I’m not sure why one-upping our parents was the calling card for so many of us as we waltzed into our own parenting roles, but it often was.

And, my how we succeeded.

By and large, we’ve raised a new generation that is accustomed to fine dining, has traveled the world over, swipes credit cards with reckless abandon, drives luxury cars and views many privileges, such as higher education, as absolute entitlements.

If I had a dollar for every time I heard a peer of mine sigh and lament, “I just want my kids to have more than I had growing up…” I could’ve spoiled my kids even more than I already did.

And there’s no doubt I would’ve indulged mine way more, but my rather determined husband got in my way. From the very first sonogram, he was a man on a mission, “We aren’t going to spoil these kids, they need to grow up feeling-the-yearn, like we did. It creates motivation, and builds character and self-sufficiency.”

Despite our eventual joint resolve, we still managed to spoil the little buggers more than we intended. But, not as thoroughly as we might have if we hadn’t committed to a ongoing system of checks and balances.

So what do I say to my kids when I dust off my “I’m So Sorry I’m Not Sorry You’re Poor” speech? I tell them how glad I am that we’ve left so much for them to anticipate and savor in their adult years. I say I’m happy the best is yet to come and they have so much to look forward to in life. I tell them I’m delighted that they haven’t already experienced, “the best years of their lives” courtesy of their Mom and Dad.

Granted, there’s always so much to thank one’s parents for. Mine gave me life, my faith, my value system, my education. We had fabulous birthday parties, glorious Christmas mornings, many awesome memories on our boat and long lazy weekends camping at the lake. It was grand.

Grand times on my Dad’s boat – I’m the kid with my arms in the air (it’s hard to believe, surrounded by all that luxury, I longed for more in life…)

But, the first time I ever clambered onto a ski lift and witnessed the panorama of majestic mountain peaks, I was already an adult. I was married and with my husband the first time I ever stepped foot on a beach in Hawaii or boarded a cruise ship. We bought our very first brand new car together and then sat in it all afternoon getting high on that intoxicating new car smell mingled with self-satisfaction and pride.

Don’t get me wrong here — I’m not saying you’ll ruin your kids’ lives inexorably if you take them snow skiing or, God forbid on a Disney Cruise.   I’m merely suggesting that, moving forward, future generations might be wise to re-examine a few of our #Parenting Goals and rein it in a bit. There’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting more for our kids; let’s just trust and inspire them to go get some of it for themselves.

Productive, happy and well-adjusted young adults are working towards their own established goals and ambitions. The common denominator seems to be that they have something to strive for.

As that Great American Philosopher, Jane Fonda, taught us in the 1980s, you’ve got to “Feel the yearn!” Never mind, that was, “Feel the burn!”  Oh well – you get the gist.

Maybe I’ll drive over to College Town, take my girl out to a chic restaurant and tell her just how lucky she is.

My treat, of course.

When the moon is in the seventh house…
And Jupiter aligns with Mars…
Then peace will guide the planets…
And love will steer the stars!

Well, I think it goes without saying that NASA has just rocked everyone’s worlds.

But, probably for the better, right? I mean, it’s not like things were really working all that smoothly before. Now maybe everyone can just Google their new astrological sign, take copious notes, tweak out some personality adjustments and get on down the road. Things should just fall nicely into place.

I know that’s what I’m counting on…

It’s pretty liberating to think such a minor astrological glitch was the reason the entire world has been completely off-kilter for thousands of years.   All of humankind was just super confused about who we really are.  Metaphysically speaking, that is.

The first thing that’s going to improve in my life as a result of this new reality shift, is my marriage. All this time — over 30 years — we’ve been under the false impression that my husband and I are BOTH Aries.

How in the world can two people be as different as we are in almost every possible way and yet both be the same astrological sign? (It’s almost enough to make one skeptical of Astrology as a guiding life principle.)

Well…. The answer is simple. We can’t! That’s been the problem all along.

I’m really a Pisces. It makes perfect sense. I’m actually just a confused fish swimming in two different directions. Sensitive, creative and soulful. No wonder I don’t eat seafood and I can’t get out of the bathtub. I’m a fish. And now I’m totally off the hook, no pun intended. To think that I’ve spent over 50 years thinking I was a damn Ram. All because of those stinkin’ Babylonians.

Qualities such as leadership, organization and willful determination are off the table as of today. No more pressure. Being headstrong, open to challenges, and standing firm are a part of my past. Everyone knows fish don’t stand firm. We are floppy.

I’ve been reading all about my new self online and I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty stoked. I certainly can’t be expected to lead anyone when I’m swimming in two different directions. I just read that my “intuitiveness ” holds me “in good stead when it comes to prosperity.”  I don’t know what that means exactly, but probably that I would find a good Aries Man to marry.

I actually was so excited about my new sign that I looked up everyone in my family’s new signs. This isn’t just going to benefit humanity and my marriage, it’s going to change the very essence of inter-familial relationships.

Our oldest daughter and son just went from Scorpio to Libra. Our second daughter shifts from Virgo to Leo. Our third daughter from Gemini to Taurus (that figures) and our baby stays right on the cusp of Gemini and Cancer. But wait a minute… according to this chart my husband is actually a Pisces with me now? He’s very close to Aries, but technically a Pisces also?

That can’t be right. My family needs leadership.

I think I’m going to have to put together my own hybrid-style chart. This is serious stuff. They’re messing with people’s marriages and families now.

This could be a marital game-changer.   I’m glad we never got those matching tattoos!

Cabernet, chocolate and touches of Autumn…what more did we need?

I’m so busy grousing about my children, that I never noticed until the other day what a bunch of spoiled Prima Donnas my girlfriends are.

I invited a few ladies over on Friday afternoon for some Cab and Gab. I was pretty impressed with myself because I had gone out earlier in the day and bought some giant mums, pumpkins and acorns, so the house was looking rather festive. Another friend brought chocolate – between that, the fall flourishes and the wine we had everything we needed…or so I thought.

Predictably, 20 minutes or 20 sips in, whichever came first, one of the gals needed to potty. We are all old friends, so she just held up her hands in our official “hold the story” hand signal and bolted off for the bathroom.  She was back in a flash.

“Are you out of toilet paper again?”

As I said, we are really old friends, so many of the perfunctory steps that one might expect to see in more  fledgling relationships were skipped right over – steps such as:

1. Inquiring where I kept the spare rolls (she knows) and
2. Did I mind if she searched the cabinets? (she already did) or
3. Did I keep back-up supplies elsewhere in the home?  (Snort – she knew better).

Like any excellent hostess I re-directed her to a perfectly good box of Kleenex and sent her tinkling away merrily.

But, OMG, I had to hear about it all afternoon – each and every time one of my friends felt the urge (frequently).

It wasn’t long before this led to a conversation about Walmart’s new grocery purchasing solution for busy, lazy and/or agoraphobic homemakers. This was all news to me. In fact, if I hadn’t initiated this little soirée myself, I would swear it was some type of a planned intervention.

As most of you know, I’m a tragically inept grocery shopper. For over 30 years now, I have wandered up and down the aisles list-less and listless seeking inspiration from the shelves. It’s been a source of unresolved marital disharmony for over 3 decades. Jimmy has tried to help by patiently explaining professional restaurant methods such as “build to’s” and “par levels,” but I find his suggestions demeaning and condescending and tend to dig my heels in even harder.

Lo and behold, who would’ve ever believed Walmart would step in with the solution?  Apparently, they’ve come up with one more thing in the world I can do from the bathtub – Grocery shop. That’s right – I just did all of next week’s grocery shopping at Walmart online from the comfort and convenience of my tub.

http://grocery.walmart.com/usd-estore/m/home.jsp

Instead of meandering down the aisles sans list, I scrolled down the columns of pretty pictures of foods that I buy – on my iPad. And no more standing around in the aisles, holding up traffic while I try to remember if I already have an item on hand. At one point I got out of the tub, wrapped a towel around myself and dripped into the utility room to see if we had clothes washing pods (we actually did).

When I was done, I entered my credit card information and selected my pick up time. All I have to do now is show up at the designated time tomorrow and pick up the goods. I selected a time that corresponded with Tommy’s arrival home from school so he can unload everything from my car.

If this all plays out the way it’s supposed to, I may barely be involved at all.

What’s even more exciting – I forgot the toilet paper again and didn’t even realize it until I was writing this piece. Fortunately, they have an editing feature. There’s an allotted amount of time after you place your order to make changes and corrections. You can add anything you forgot or even delete your spontaneous and regrettable impulses.

Do-overs? Edits? Self-censorship? Now it’s just starting to sound like productive and responsible Journalism – that I can definitely get behind. From my bathtub.

They say, “Into every life, a little rain must fall…”

“Rain” being metaphorical for “life’s troubles,” except in Louisiana, where rain means…well, water.

More than 31″ in 15 hours.

6,900,000,000,000 gallons of rain in one week.

Enough to wash your life away right before your very eyes.

When my mother-in-law drove home last Friday evening, from the local art gallery, where she happily whiles away her retirement years painting with her varied assortment of colorful artist friends, it was indeed raining heavily outside. But, not enough to alarm or concern this 80 year old native of The Bayou State, whose extended family survived Hurricane Katrina almost 11 years ago.

Trust me, people in Louisiana are not skittish about a little moisture.

Yet, by the time she awoke early Saturday morning, a nearby river (a lazy young tributary that ordinarily meanders it’s way peacefully down to the Gulf of Mexico, many miles downstream) had overrun it’s banks and rudely entered her home without so much as an invite or an RSVP.

Like a gang of unruly juvenile delinquents, it vandalized her entire life – snatching up framed family photographs and violently smashing them against walls, rearranging her decor by hurling large pieces of furniture into different rooms and toppling her refrigerator as though it were made of cardboard.

Ironically, many of these homes, including my mother-in-law’s, provided haven for refugees of the disastrous Hurricane Katrina that devastated New Orleans in 2005. These very walls that offered succor to displaced friends, neighbors and relatives (in many cases outright strangers) were washed away in a matter of hours.

The true extent of the damage wasn’t realized by our family until several days later when “Mimi’s” children and grandchildren were able to get back into the home to survey the chaotic remnants of their collective childhoods.

The more immediate and pressing problem on Saturday morning was getting their mother safely out of the house and into a boat – Mimi and 30,000 of her closest friends and neighbors.  (20/20 Hindsight: don’t forget Papa Joe – he’s in the urn!)

Initially, residents unaffected by the flood were urged by authorities to stay in their homes, but it wasn’t long before the scope and magnitude of the situation became evident and every “Thibodeaux with a pirogue” (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pirogue) was out rescuing distressed flood victims – many of whom were texting their addresses on Facebook and other social media channels to any available Good Samaritan in the area. (Shameless plug for social media.)

http://www.theadvocate.com/louisiana_flood_2016/article_bbf5263e-6646-11e6-a775-ebda9d5c17ae.html

After several panicked hours of watching floodwaters rise around her, Mimi was rescued by a boat that, for better or worse, was able to glide right up to her doorstep. She was eventually taken to a shelter, where she says she has never been more touched by the depths of humanity and human compassion, as volunteers responded to and anticipated her every need.

With the grace of God and a large dose of “can-do Cajun spirit,” almost everyone was saved over the course of the next two days, although 40,000 homes were destroyed in Livingston Parish alone.

On Monday morning as the water went down and the sun came up, the journey to reclaim and re-tame Louisiana began. Local residents feel optimistic that, just as in post-Katrina, the fierce Acadian determination, combined with sheer American grit will prevail and South Louisiana will flourish once again.

As for our Steel Magnolia, she’s grateful her children were able to salvage a few tangible memories of her past. She will start her new life with a few cherished photographs and her indomitable spirit intact. She has a long road ahead, but we know this thing hasn’t beaten her.

In the words of the nationally acclaimed Cajun Chef and Louisiana Humorist, Justin Wilson,
“I Gay-Ron-tee!”

(Back-to-School shopping from home this year!)

Approximately 87,600…

Admittedly, this is a bit of a rough estimate and I took the liberty of rounding the number off, but I am trying to figure out how many times I have driven my 5 kids places over the past 30 years, since my oldest child was born.

From the day after we brought Emilie home, when I strapped her into her car seat for her first Baby Well-Check, until I ran Tommy to soccer practice a few nights ago, I arrived at roughly 87,600 car rides – give or take the 7 or 8 times their dad actually shuttled them anywhere.

Which might explain the rather unorthodox reaction I am having to Tommy getting his driver’s license.

I am letting him drive.

Yesterday, when two of my daughters happened to be home, chatting in the kitchen, one of them looked up and asked,

“Where’s Tommy?”

When I answered, “He’s at soccer practice!” they kindly offered to pick him up later, on their way back home from running an errand. This left me no option but to ‘fess up-

“He drove himself there!”

“He drove?” They exclaimed, in unison and surprise. Apparently, according to the girls, getting one’s license around here was certainly a laudable milestone, but it didn’t translate into the level of personal freedom and autonomy their younger brothers enjoy.

Okay, I admit I might’ve put some rather stringent restrictions on my daughters when they were new drivers, freshly sprung from the loins of the DMV,  with their little plastic cards in their little plastic hands, but things were different then.

We had more rules and standards.   In fact, we may have had so many standards there appears to be a double-standard.

–No listening to the radio while driving….No Backstreet Boys, No N’Sync, No Brittany Spears or Destiny’s Child. The boys, however, managed to convince us that they would drive better with the steady thrum of a savage rap beat.

–No interstate driving. I mapped out elaborately circuitous routes for the girls in order to keep them off the interstate. This, apparently, took them through some sketchy parts of town. At one point, Mollie complained  that she thinks a stray bullet grazed her car. So, we allowed the boys to take more direct routes via the highways and byways of this great land.

–No leopard print plushy steering wheel cover or pink rabbit’s foot rearview-mirror decor. Sorry, I know teenaged girls love to prettify their rides, but this is all just too distracting. I needed their hands on the actual steering wheel at 10 and 2, with nothing dangling and obstructing their view. Fortunately, the boys never wanted to trick out their vehicles with crap from Claire’s or Limited Too. Fast-food bags clutter the floorboards posing no safety threat.

The older kids can criticize me all they want.  They can call it a double-standard if they must, but I prefer to think of it as ‘evolving as a parent.’

Don’t get me wrong, I still worry up a blue streak.  It’s not as though utter lawlessness abounds;  we still have a few rules.  Tommy is required to text me when he arrives at his destination and when he leaves to return home, etc.  We haven’t gone so far as to embed a chip in him, but we do track his movements…

That’s how I came to notice, that as the 5th child of burned-out  parents, he’s kind’ve like your Visa Card – he’s everywhere he wants to be.

(metaphorically, Mom points her camera down at the ground in despair…)