I was lying on the couch last Friday night, sipping on a glass of wine and pondering what to give Jimmy for his birthday.  I have a recurring issue with the fact that my husband’s birthday falls exactly one week after mine every single year.  Like most girls, I love my :

a. Birthday

b. Wine

c. Husband

d. All of the above

Nonetheless, by the time his birthday rolls around, I am all birthdayed out. A person can only take so much celebration before they crave calm, quiet normalcy. I happen to know for a fact that Jimmy agrees with me, because I asked him that very morning what he wanted as a present and he said,

“A relaxing, peaceful weekend!”

What a Jinxer!

When my son interrupted his X-box playing to come downstairs and inform me that a river of water was flowing into the playroom upstairs, I immediately sprung into action. With an armful of towels, barking out orders to the boys, dialing numbers on my cell phone for all I was worth, I took the stairs two at a time. Sure enough, water was pouring out of a bathroom faucet I had turned on earlier in the day, and forgotten to turn off. It gushed into my son’s bedroom, creating a river down the hall and into the playroom.

Fortunately, I have tons of experience with UN-NATURAL DISASTERS, due to a life-long association with myself. Turning my back on burning flames and running water has led to my burning down a handful of kitchens (’74 & ’92) and flooding more than my fair share of domiciles (’89, ’91, ’96, ’05, ’16). So, I know just what to do and who to call. In fact, when I got the Water Restoration company on the line, the dispatcher rattled off my name and address. We were actually “in their system!”   I looked at it as being “Regular Customers,” but Jimmy saw it more as being “Repeat Offenders.”

There is a new movement these days against “Mother Judging,” which I wholly endorse, for obvious reasons.  With that said, I think when I was a kid, my own mother might’ve focused too much on making lemonade out of lemons and failed to establish appropriate consequences for my high level of absent-mindedness. I think she actually was the person who initially invented the concept those insurance companies are constantly touting on their commercials called, “Accident Forgiveness!”

One day, when I was 11, I decided to make nectar for our hummingbird feeder. This involved boiling red food-colored sugar water. I put the concoction on a flame on our stove, set on high (I did then, and still do, cook EVERYTHING on HIGH) and then promptly left the house for a few hours. When I returned, there were 3 fire trucks lining the curb of our peaceful street. My mother’s state-of-the-art, Ultra-modern 1970s Avocado Green and Harvest Gold kitchen was now a smoky black hue. No one, including the local hummingbird population, was getting a meal out of that kitchen for a long while. Doris’ solution was to pack all 3 of her kids up in the station wagon and drive us 14 hours south to Orlando, Florida for a fabulous Disney World Dream Vacation, leaving our dad at home to deal with the aftermath and the contractors.

I think that’s why I never can seem to reconcile the way Jimmy overreacts when things things go a little awry like this. He persists in wading around in the muck and mire of finger-pointing and blame assignation instead of focusing on the fact that it’s raining in the kitchen – again.

No matter!  I didn’t really need much help from him by then anyway, I had everything pretty much under control. There was really nothing much left to do, except say, “Happy Birthday! I’m still a RAINMAKER!” He wasn’t suitably amused, but people like me can be useful here in Oklahoma during our severe drought conditions.

When my mom heard what happened, she was speechless for a minute or two. But then after she thought about it for a second, she suggested we plan a trip to Florida, as our house will be teeming with pesky contractors for quite a while.

Anyway, I’m sorry I made it rain on my man’s birthday parade – but still, it’s not like we had anything else planned…

Today’s modern marriage is challenging enough without the added stress of a complete and total clash in musical tastes, and yet that’s exactly what Jimmy and I have managed to endure in our union for over 32 years.

Jimmy is and has been a Die Hard Rock Fan since long before I met him. He thrills to the musical stylings of AC/DC, Ted Nugent and Judas Priest, just to name a few. He favors music that is banned on entire continents and revered by devil worshippers the world over. Music that has hurt my feelings and assaulted my soul for years. I gravitate to more serene sounds – The Barry Essentials of Music – Barry White, Barry Gibb and Barry Manilow.

Given this inhospitable musical climate, I think my initial reaction was quite understandable when Jimmy emailed me the other day to inform me he had purchased Barry Manilow tickets for my birthday. I was instantly touched, immediately ecstatic and entirely suspicious. It was one thing for him to purchase the tickets incognito online, but quite another for him to suggest he accompany me to the concert, where he risked being seen by any other live human being.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I thanked him sincerely for the tickets, but added that if I caught so much as a whiff of him mocking me or Mr. Manilow during the concert, I would uber myself home, so fervent was my devotion to Barry, the soundtrack of my youth, and, if you want to get right down to it, the entire decade of the 70s.

Before we left that night, as I gussied up for the event, Jimmy informed me that, contrary to whatever lies I tell myself, I don’t “own the 70s.”  He, too, was raised during that decade, was weaned on Manilow and knew EVERY word to EVERY song.

To prove his point and perhaps to set the overall mood of the evening, he chose to demonstrate this fact as we drove down the interstate, headed for the concert.

Jimmy: (at the top of his lungs)
“Now it’s a disco, but not for Copa!”

Me: “It’s – Now it’s a disco, but not for LOLA!  Copa is the name of the club…”

Every married person in the world knows that it’s a slippery slope and a double-edged sword to correct your spouse when they sing the lyrics to a song incorrectly. On the one hand – your spouse is singing… they’re happy and that’s a good thing, right? On the other hand, it’s super irritating when they’re butchering YOUR music. Other than an occasional reference to knocking others out with american thighs, you don’t hear me going around trilling AC/DC.  So, what was I supposed to do?  Correct him or just let it go?

Jimmy: (even louder – really going for it now)
“But that was 20 years ago when they used to have a show!”

It was 30 years ago. They used to have a show 30 years ago.  And that was 40 years ago, so it’s actually been 70 years now.  He’s off by almost 3/4 of a century.  And – Copacabana isn’t even one of my favorite Barry Manilow songs.  I have to stop him before he gets to “Mandy.”

Me: “I thought you said you knew all the words?”

Jimmy:  “I do! But I like to sing the songs exactly the way I sang them when I was a little kid!”

I reached over and discreetly turned on the radio.

I was starting to get an inkling that he wasn’t taking this concert seriously; not according it the proper reverence. But, still, we did have dinner reservations before the concert and we do get more tolerable and tolerant after our blood sugar is leveled out, so I soldiered on.

After dinner, we walked across the street to the arena, found our seats right up front, popped our glow sticks and waited for Barry. When he took the stage, I took to my feet and that’s right where I stayed for the next 2 hours, without taking a single solitary break. I don’t know why Barry Manilow even pays back-up singers. I helped him sing every song, while tears of the purest form of unadulterated, post-adolescent, peri-menopausal joy streamed down my face.

I do feel a little sorry for the gentleman seated to my right, who probably thought he was purchasing expensive tickets right up front to actually hear Barry Manilow sing, SOLO, without the assistance of some random redhead over-dubbing the songs. But, I do not feel sorry for the gentleman seated to my left, who gazed up indulgently, lovingly and adoringly at me throughout the evening…

…a man so inspired by love for his woman, that he continued to belt out the full catalog of hits as we drove home.  That’s when the righting was on the wall. I knew that, at least in this relationship, I did actually own the 70s.

I right the wrongs, I right the wrongs. It’s MY music, and I right the wrongs.

“100+ poses!” Where have all the Great Guys gone?

We’ve been so busy around here with trips, weddings and blogs, that I almost let James’ Graduation get away from me. I’m so glad I still have some time time. There’s a lot to do, if we want to ensure that the entire event proceeds with all the Pomp and Circumstance that accompanied his sisters’…

I started by broaching the topic with James the other day.

“It’s about time for us to schedule a photography session!” I announced.

“A photography session?” he repeated with utter disdain.

“Yes, for your Senior Portraits,” I responded ever-so-delicately.

“I’m not getting Portraited. You have enough of pictures of me,” he said dismissively.

Matter settled, boy-style.

I anticipated this response. Not my first time in the trenches with a teenaged boy. I was locked and loaded, with ammo to spare.

“We have to have Official Senior portraits taken of you, so that we can order Graduation Announcements. When our various friends and relatives receive these announcements in the mail and gaze lovingly upon your likeness, they will become randomly inspired to send you graduation money.”

“Money?”

“Yes, you remember your sisters’ Graduations, don’t you?”

“I think so…Weren’t they sort’ve like fundraisers?”

“Yes, in a way…”

Matter settled, mom-style.

But, just between us, I still have my work cut out for me. This won’t be the same as it was with my girls. They met their photographers joyfully armed with baskets of make-up, trunks of jewelry, wardrobe changes and positive attitudes. This will be different.

This unsuspecting photographer is going to be met with resistance and negativity, at best. A little pre-planning is in order.

I can admit when I need help. It was time to bring out the big guns. Senior Staff Stylist, Gracie, is out of commission for this project, so I logged onto Pinterest.

Search Terms: Guy, Pictures, Senior, Poses, Backgrounds

So many handsome young men posed like little plastic dolls. I couldn’t wait to start a Pinterest Board of all the shots that I thought we might attempt to emulate with my own little Posable Ken.

I went into my next conversation with my son, armed with over 70 pictures of young men posing cooperatively in their Senior Pictures. Boys who clearly love their mothers and weren’t afraid to show it, by donning a crisp new outfit and striking a clever pose for her to capture and cherish for the rest of her natural life.

James sat patiently beside me and looked over my shoulder as I scrolled through my menagerie of boys, starting with my first three favorites. If I could get him to agree to one of these, this could be quick and painless. Unfortunately, James took visceral exception to every photo.

“He looks like a tool!”

“What a dork!”

“He needs to turn in his Man-card!”

(I felt like James was focusing too much on the ACTUAL KID in the picture.)

“Quit worrying about the kid in the picture; it’s not going to be this guy. I just want you to focus on their outfit, the background location and the way they’re posing to give me and the photographer an idea of what you think would look nice for your Senior Portrait. The actual guy in the picture is going to be you, not them !” We scrolled back through the first three. He pointed at each one and tried to be more specific this time around.

“If you dress me like that, I’ll look like a tool!”

If you pose me like that, I’ll look like a dork!”

If we attempt to recreate this picture in any way, I will have to relinquish my Man-card!”
Okay, so this wasn’t going to be easy. I tried to go at it from a different direction:
I asked James what exactly “His Vision” was.

“Somewhere in between this douche and that douche,” he pointed at two more pictures, adding, “Their mothers obviously don’t love them.”

Eventually he admitted that, just as I suspected, he didn’t, in fact, have his own vision. Like his dad, his goal in life is to quell and quash MY vision. He accomplished that effectively with a few simple rules:

-No hay bales.
-No train tracks.
-No bridges.
-No sports paraphanelia or props of any sort, no matter how relevant they may seem to my past or some future you have imagined.
-No tree hugging.
-No country roads leading to places I’ve never been and don’t plan to go.
-No graffiti background, unless you buy me a can of paint and let me spray my own words.

And, sure, he likes his truck just fine, but doesn’t want his picture made with it.
Ditto his dogs. He refuses to pose with a Chihuahua and it’d be just plain rude to pose with only one of your dogs.

As far as his clothes go, he doesn’t want to look like he’s going to a sporting event, nor a job interview, so, “aim for somewhere in between.”

I finally asked him if there were any pictures from my Pinterest board that he didn’t absolutely loathe. He patiently scrolled through the remainder of my pins. I became somewhat encouraged when he paused at one. “This guy’s cool. I guess I don’t really object to anything about his picture.”

I think we have a plan in place. I understand my role in this. I can run to the mall, procure a similar ensemble, schedule the photographer and then scour the area until I find some rusty stairs.

The rest of the pomp and all of the circumstance must be supplied in full by my Poseable Ken...

It’s PROM SEASON y’all!   This is that time of year when mothers all over the country will go out and purchase dresses for their daughters that cost more than their own wedding gowns, rent tuxes for their sons that cost more than Dad’s and all his Groomsmen combined, and then top it off by spending more money on food, flowers and limousines than was spent on their own wedding in its entirety.

Face it folks, anymore prom is like a little dry-run-practice-wedding you throw for your teen.

Like all blessed events, it begins with the “PROMPOSAL.”     We actually had TWO at our house yesterday.    The first one was a prom-posal James made to ME, and the second was the PROM-POSAL he made to his girlfriend. They were both propositions, but that’s where the similarities end…

The First PROMPOSAL:

No sooner had my son walked out of his 7th hour class at       Hoity-Toity Catholic High School, than I received this phone call:

“On behalf of the entire Senior graduating class of HTCHS, I’m formally requesting the use of our home and surrounding property for this year’s After-Prom Party.”

When I told him, “No way – Not happening,” he seemed almost flummoxed, as if he couldn’t fathom why not. I patiently start to help my boy connect the little dots, leading with the two most obvious deterents, “liability issues” and “property damage.” Waving off my concerns, he assured me that, “Nothing bad is going to happen!” Ahhh… the optimism of youth (and of people who’ve never actually owned anything). When I informed him that we simply couldn’t afford the risk,  he countered with, “Why do you and Dad always go straight to, “worst case scenario?” I don’t really have an answer for that. I guess we are the Landed Gentry around here and we don’t much trust The Peasantry.

As he began to concede defeat, he opted for one last persuasive point,

“I think you and Dad are full of crap, constantly citing ‘liability issues!’ In my entire life I’ve never heard about one of these tragic incidences that you two are constantly referencing!”

Just to re-cap: In my son’s vast 18 years  of interviewing  folks about matters such as this, he’s “never heard of one tragic incident,” as though he’s been out collecting relevant data on Homeowners’ Liability his entire life.  He sees himself as  “Jake-From-State-Farm,”  I see him more as “Mayhem.”

The Second PROMPOSAL:

Fortunately, the second prom-posal James tendered had a more positive outcome. After quite a bit of effort, he got a “yes!” My friends and I have been simply astonished at the sheer amount of ingenuity our sons put into asking their girlfriends to The Prom these days. So much has changed since 1981 when Jimmy said to me,

“You don’t wanna go to that do you?”

James enlisted the help of several close friends who collaborated with him on an elaborate scavenger hunt. It started with a clue in his girlfriend’s room and after several more clever clues placed at key locations throughout Edmond, it culminated with him standing in the drive-through window at Braum’s holding a glittered sign that said, “Will You Go To Prom With Me?” It was just adorable – as if anyone could say no to him.

In fact, the whole thing got me to thinking…maybe if he’d gone to a little more effort with his Mama earlier, I might’ve agreed  to the bash he wants to host at my house for 100-200 of his nearest and dearest. Perhaps instead of a stream of marginally persuasive rhetoric, James could’ve coordinated a Scavenger Hunt for me that ended with him holding a sign up with sweet pics of the two of us, that said,

DO YOU WANT TO HOST AFTER-PROM WITH ME?

Moms love glitter and effort too.  I might’ve said, “I Do!”

I’ll have a milkshake and a prom date!

Chris Allen’s prom-posal

Alec Minielly re-enacts “The Bachelor” Rose Ceremony Promposal for Tori Lynn

Griffin Reen & Sophie Romano put together a prom-posal

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So much to like about my Mom in NYC

There’s really nothing quite so illuminating as trying to share a small, tight, confined space with your own daughter. Honestly, I should know; I just spent Spring Break traveling with my 20 year-old daughter, Gracie. I know you’re thinking our hotel room was probably too small, and you are correct. It certainly was. But, by “small, tight, confined space,” I really meant that all of Manhattan wasn’t big enough for both of us.

Spending 4 days together on that crowded little island off the coast of New York, prompted Gracie to shed some light on a few personality flaws I could really stand to work on, if I want to be a better person – and who among us doesn’t strive every day to be a better person?

Mom has a Selfish Streak:
Apparently, I should try to be more willing to share my blessings with others, particularly my children, and most specifically Gracie. This was revealed to me on the very first morning of our trip. I finished my coffee, applied a smattering of make-up and decided to brush my teeth. I noticed a toothbrush that resembled mine was on the counter sopping wet. I asked her, “Did you use my toothbrush?” She promptly answered, “No!” Since all toothbrushes look alike to me, I believed her and launched a search for MY toothbrush. Taking pity on me, or more likely – in the interest of time – she confessed, “Okayyyyyy I used your toothbrush!” That wasn’t the only thing I shared with her on the trip. In addition to forgetting her toothbrush and her phone charger, she obviously forgot all her money, too.  If she brought money with her, she kept it well out of sight…

Mom has Boundary Issues:
The only thing worse than a selfish mother, is one who doesn’t want to share her things, but wantonly helps herself to your things, without your express permission, as though she paid for them herself.    You know – a Mother like me.

We had gone to a fabulous restaurant for dinner, but had been told by several native New Yorkers that we simply must swing by Magnolia Bakery for some Banana Pudding. The place is famous for it. We purchased a pint container to take back to our hotel room, but failed to get a fork or spoon. Nonplussed and satiated from dinner, Gracie promptly fell asleep. I stared despondently at that pudding for way too long. A combination of creativity and desperation inspired me to create an eating utensil out of Gracie’s criminally expensive makeup brush I bought her at MAC (Picture chopsticks). It worked like a charm! All up until the following morning, when Gracie started applying makeup. I deftly explained my dilemma from the night before, fully expecting her to be as impressed with me and the resultant solution as I was.  It was a stroke of genius, a brush-stroke of genius…

A Brush-stroke of Genius!

Mom Sucks at Photography:
Millennials take a jarring amount of pictures. Not of landmark historical buildings, fountains or statues, mind you. They take pictures of themselves. Lots and lots of them. When Gracie’s arm wasn’t long enough to include both herself AND a particular background she liked, she reluctantly enlisted my services to take the photo with her cell phone.

That’s when I was confronted by this ugly truth: I am a TOTAL FAIL at picture taking. My hands shake, I don’t hold the camera at a flattering angle and I don’t know when to use the flash. Try as she may, Gracie could not help but express disappointment in my ineptitude. At one point, entirely exasperated by a candid I took of her, she remonstrated, “When you look through the lens, the trick is just to ask yourself:  “Is this how I would want to look in a photo?”  Too bad her “tip” wasn’t particularly helpful. It’s not going to help me to be a better photographer, because the way she looked was, in fact, exactly how I wish I looked in a photo. Not to mention, at my age, we love a little blur to our pictures. We pay extra for that…

And, that is by no means an exhaustive list. There’s an entire category of general garden-variety annoyances:

– When Gracie told me I looked cute in hats, I bought 7 more. Clogged up our suitcase. Moms who over-do things are annoying.

-When I tried to adopt the vernacular of the millennials, it was as irritating as listening to a person who learned English-as-a-second-language attempt to curse. Apparently, I used the word, “LIT” totally out of context. I just couldn’t pull it off.

-When I talked indiscriminately to strangers on the subway, I was informed that I, “had plenty of friends back home and didn’t really need any more friends, especially in NYC.” (I happen to know for a fact that my new friend from the Subway does not agree, because I talked to her this morning on Facebook.)

On a positive note, it’s downright invigorating to know there’s so much growth potential and room for improvement in my personality! I’m not the least bit daunted; I’ve got nothing but time on my hands to enroll in Charm School and maybe even take a Cell Phone Photography Course.

I guess the only thing I’m still a little baffled by, in light of all this recent self-insight, is how in the world do I actually have “enough friends?” You’d think they’d be pretty sparse.

It just doesn’t seem like I’m all that “LIT.

I was lying in my bathtub this morning when Jimmy came flying in with his usual sense of urgency.

“Do we own a net?”

“A net?”

“Yes! A Net!”

“No, but put it on the list and I’ll be sure and pick one up next time I’m at Walmart,” I said dismissively, with my characteristic lack of urgency, (most pronounced in all matters of household maintenance, of which I’ve grown decidedly weary and largely unmotivated.)

“Get out, of the tub! I need your help! We have birds in the house!”

I wasn’t sure at first that I heard him correctly. We have had NERDS in the house. We have, on occasion, even had TURDS in the house, but I think he just said we have BIRDS in the house. Which, I supposed, would explain why he’s asking for a net. Sometimes, I just need a minute to process things.

And, then I really put it all together –  I realized that we had literally jinxed ourselves with a conversation we had earlier today…

Jimmy and I had Emilie and Mollie in our early 20s. At the time that we had these little girls, we were friends with several couples, approximately the same age as us, that also had two children.  The difference being, these couples stopped reproducing themselves after two children. About 6 years after we had our first two, we caught what is often referred to as a “second wind” and had 3 more children. Suffice it to say, our second wind blew harder and more powerful than our first wind. The irony, however, is that many of our closest friends are now, “Empty Nesters,” while we are still deep in the throes of childrearing.

We see these Empty Nesters everywhere. We can not seem to escape them. They mock us on social media with their newfound freedom. Still young, beautiful and full-of-spunk, they frolic about, flaunting their utter lack of responsibility. They wander about Europe, attend wine tastings in Napa and dine in hoity-toity restaurants.   We can’t verify this, but we are pretty convinced, with all that privacy, they make love right smack in the middle of the day, while they still have the energy…

Jimmy and I were sharing our morning coffee today, wistfully gazing at pictures of our college friends, Mike and Kay, prancing all over Facebook. There were pictures of them smiling merrily in a Gondola in Venice  (clearly laughing at us) and shooting Limoncello in Rome (probably toasting their Reproductive Wisdom and Foresight.) Naturally, our conversation turned to wondering if we, too, might one day become actual “ENs.”

And, that’s when I’m pretty sure we jinxed ourselves. Instead of getting birds out of our nest, we actually let a few more in today!

Back to the bird situation: In the absence of a household net, Jimmy asked me to grab two towels. I was further instructed to hold one towel up vertically, “Like a Bullfighter in Spain!” I made an on-the-spot decision that this might not be the ideal time to mention to my Beloved that I’ve never seen a Bullfight, never been to Spain, and at the rate we are going, probably never will. (This is also probably not the time to bring this up, but Mike and Kay went last year…They invited us to join them, but we had a basketball tournament.)

Jimmy then impressed me with his proficient use of Towel #2. He tossed it over the first bird and released her tenderly into The Great Outdoors. The remaining bird, he pointed out, was the male. “This is going to be trickier,” Jimmy explained, as if he were a card-carrying member of The Audubon Society, adding that, “The male bird’s lack of focus and direction is probably what got them into this situation to begin with!” (It seriously took this man a full 32 years to admit the obvious?)

We had quite a battle on our hands with that male. Eventually, Jimmy managed to capture him and carried him flapping like crazy to our backdoor. Trying to be of assistance, I said frantically, “I’ll crack open the door, you thrust him high up in the air, with some force, and then when he starts flapping, jump back in the house and we’ll slam the door quickly behind you, before he has a chance to change his mind!”

It was infinitely harder to rid our home of the male-of-the-species, which we sincerely hoped wasn’t some kind of FORESHADOWING of our future…That little guy dug in and resisted his own emancipation.  But, no matter! We now feel confident that we have a pretty merciless exit strategy planned for when the time comes to show James and Tommy the door.

There’s no question that parents raise their youngest kid differently from their oldest. A few of the more meaningless “standards” are apt to fall by the wayside. Anyone who denies this truth, is either lying to you or to themselves. And, without a doubt, the further apart your children are spaced, and the more kids you have – the greater the disparity. With a 14 year chasm between our oldest and youngest, our Childrearing Metamorphosis is shockingly pronounced.   There are some moments when we are barely recognizable as the same set of parents…

Case in point, when our oldest was 6, I was standing outside her first grade classroom with a group of mothers. The topic of discussion was an upcoming field trip to the zoo and which mothers would be willing to drive. My hand shot right up. I couldn’t volunteer fast enough. My immediate impulse  was, “Pick me! Pick me!” One of Emilie’s classmate’s mother was a battle-hardened veteran Mom, whose first grader was her 5th and youngest child. She responded, quite emphatically, “You couldn’t pay me to drive that field trip!” I was horrified by her cynicism and lack of enthusiasm. Sharing my observation with Jimmy the second he got home, I lamented in despair, “Why would a person even have children, if that’s their attitude?”

Fast forward 23 years and here’s what I know:

When a young girl/woman has children, she optimistically believes that her duties are going to be 90% shaping and molding character, with approximately 10% tedious administrative-style parenting responsibilities sprinkled in.   That’s exactly backwards. As a parent, you spend 90% of your time driving your children around. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the rare opportunity to influence your youngsters in any meaningful way. (Conservatively – LESS THAN 10% of the time.)

I would suggest to you that you’re a “Glorified Chauffeur,” but I think “Glorified,” is overstating things a bit…

One recent Saturday night, Tommy (the youngest of our 5) went to a local “Teen Hangout,” with a group of friends. One of his friends’ parents volunteered to drive them there. Since they were all spending the night at our house later, we let the other parents know that we would be responsible for getting the boys home. We figured it would be around midnight. Saturday Night Live would be over, and we knew we would, at best, be trying to hold our eyes open.  So,  Jimmy suggested that Tommy download the Uber app to his phone.

My hurdle was to sell our plan to the other “First-Time-Teen-Parents.” These folks are just now entering the Teen Scene from the parenting side of things, and are not yet jaded, or sufficiently burned out.   I feel uniquely qualified to reason with these parents, because I was them just a few short years ago.

I went at it from this direction: “This is the ideal time for the boys to Uber! No one is desperate right now, so we can always go fetch them if there’s a problem. But this way, in the future, they’ll have the app on their phones, and they’ll know the ropes. If they ever DO NEED to Uber, (for whatever reason) they’ll be confidently familiar with how it works!”
For further persuasion, I added, “Take it from me, don’t blink, the day they NEED an Uber will be here sooner than you think!”

My friend, Leslie, (mother to one of Tommy’s buddies – her firstborn son) listened to my logic and said, “Give me a minute to marinate on that…”

I responded, “Take all the time you need!” I wasn’t too concerned, Jimmy and I had already agreed that whomsoever nixeth our Uber plan, was driving the midnight pick-up shift themselves.

Leslie saw the light; the group of boys übered home and were safely in my den, killing villains on our Xbox, by midnight.

What I didn’t see coming, was the following weekend: Late on a Saturday night, while dining out with friends, we received a text from Tommy asking if he could uber over to his friend Max’s house. We looked at one another and shrugged. Other than Max’s parents thinking we sucked, we could find no legitimate reason to say no. For $5 he übered over and a few hours later, $5 got him right back home.

$5!!!!

Now, I find myself reminiscing over my entire 29 years of parenting and wondering where the hell Uber has been all these years. I could just cry thinking about how many tennis lessons, dance classes and football practices, I dragged a breastfeeding infant or a screaming toddler into my mini-van, in order to transport their older sibling somewhere. Uber could’ve been right up there with Sonic, Fruit Snacks and Disney Videos on my list of Approved Parenting Tools.

I mean, they thoroughly vet those Uber drivers, right? I see no reason why Mollie couldn’t have been übered around town the year she sold a record number of Girl Scout Cookies. No amount of money would’ve been too much to pay for that service.

Suffice it to say, I’m uber into ubering. It’s rapidly gone from being an adjective and a noun in my home, to a verb. And, I’ll even go a step further – in the course of driving my kid around, if that Uber Driver chances to notice a character issue in any one of my kids, that they think needs a little tweak, they are encouraged to address it.  At this stage of the game, I’m obviously not above a little assistance.

Today kicks off yet another Spring Break Week at our house. I admit, Jimmy and I take a sliver of pride in our reputation for providing ZERO amusement for our offspring over Spring Break. But this year, through some momentary lapse of judgement or faltered sense of family tradition, James talked us in to letting him fly down to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico with a group of kids and their parents from his Senior class…

Ever since we gave him the green light for the trip, I have been filled with maternal dread and worry. I’m just not a big fan of a bunch of American high school students running around the beaches of Mexico. I’m not even a fan of Mexican students running around the beaches of Mexico.   But, I do feel secure that James is in good hands down there. His “official chaperones” are the parents of one of his buddies, but I always favor a strong back-up plan.   Included in the entourage is one of my closest friends, who is accompanying her daughter Sarah (a classmate of James’) on the trip.

Kathleen texted me yesterday to get James’ cell phone number so she could save him to her contacts. That went a long way towards reassuring me that she fully intends to keep excellent tabs on my boy. After I gave her his number, it seemed only appropriate to inquire, what, if anything, I could do for her here in Oklahoma while she was away. I’m sure I was just overwhelmed with gratitude and got swept up in the moment.

I barely got this semi-sincere offer out of my mouth, before she started rattling off a list of instructions. And what an extensive list it was!  My head started swimming. I finally said, “Wow, that sounds like a lot. Can you just email that to me?”

And she did.

The good news is that I don’t have to do anything unless she dies down there this week. She hasn’t asked me to water her house plants, feed her cat or bring in her mail. I don’t have to run over and let her dogs out, or even pick the newspaper up off the driveway. But, the bad news is that, should she meet an untimely demise and perish in Mexico this week, I’m going to be busier than a one legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

She is dead set on these instructions:

I suppose I really don’t mind writing her eulogy. That’s fine.  I have actually written a fair amount of eulogies for a woman as young as I am.  It’s like everything else, there’s a formula.

Assuming I can easily locate that “red lock box,” (if it was my house, it will have mysteriously disappeared from the place where I told you it would be…) it will be pretty effortless to run that song list up to the church.

No problem splicing in some pall bearers, either. I would think anyone could tote this particular friend down the aisle. Even in a wooden box, she won’t weigh much. Trust me, I happen to know exactly how much she weighs, because she went on a diet 3 weeks ago for this trip and has texted me her weight every day. Her pall will be easy to bear.

And, I guess I really don’t even mind throwing this party she wants, but at some point I feel like she is starting to get a tad high maintenance. Is it just me, or is she asking a lot that I have to burn a CD?  Why can’t I just take requests and suggestions from her grieving friends and family throughout the evening and play them on my iPad? It’s like she has me confused with her friend Pandora.

And, then putting ME, of all people in charge of her appearance in the casket?  If I’m truly the one running the show, I’m apt to just ignore that open casket nonsense. Those pall bearers work for me now, right?  When I slam that puppy shut and and tell MY PALL BEARERS, “Let’s Roll!” it won’t much matter which direction her little head is tilted.

On a positive note, I am  starting to worry way less about James on this trip. He’s a good boy and we’ve done our best to raise him to make good choices.  My primary concern has shifted to the safety and wellbeing of Kathleen down there.  I’m really not thrilled that MY Spring Break might get bogged down in all these funeral-related tasks.  There’s a reason we don’t plan anything over Spring Break – it’s because we are trying to relax…

All that notwithstanding, I do enjoy selecting music, so I thought I may as well knock that chore out this morning.  Kathleen happened to call just now to “check-in” on their layover in Atlanta. I asked if she liked the song, “Come on Eileen,”from the early 80s.

When she answered, “Not really,” her 18 year old was as astonished as I was. “Oh my God Mom! Are you dead inside?” (Obviously Sarah agrees with me about this catchy tune…)

But honestly, at this point, I literally just have my fingers crossed.  Not to be callous or anything, but if Kathleen is dead on the inside, that’s Sarah’s problem this week in Playa, if she’s dead on the outside, it just became mine.

Come On Kathleen!  At this moment, you mean everything!

People always seem to want to criticize today’s parents for “living vicariously” through their children, but sometimes, perfectly innocent parents are thrust into that role through absolutely no fault of their own. Sometimes, the real culprit is actually their child…

When our daughter was home from college recently she uploaded (or is it downloaded? I literally have no idea) her Instagram account onto my iPad. I’m not 100% sure why she did this, but I can speculate. I’m betting it’s not because her eyesight is failing and she can’t see her friends’ pictures without the benefit of a larger screen; I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that her phone was dead and my iPad was the only device that was charged-up at the moment, so she simply helped herself. After she performed this download/upload task, she cyber-socialized a bit and then drove herself back to the university and the Mansion where she lives down there; they call it “The House.” That was on a Sunday afternoon.

Things were quiet for a few days. (For those of you not blessed with college students, these kids are super dedicated to their studies, and your investment, 3 days out of 7, so there’s not a lot of traffic on the social interstate Monday – Wednesday.) It was a few days later, the following Thursday night, when I was lying in my ibed reading my ibook, minding my ibusiness, when all Hell broke loose. “Notifications” start dinging away across the top of my screen, as though The Transylvanian Orchestra had set up right there inside my ipad to play me my own personal lullaby. I fell asleep long before I had a chance to become annoyed, but it appears as though the dinging continued merrily throughout the night.

The next morning was a little like waking up to that first snowfall of the season. When I poured my coffee and attempted to check my email, my screen saver had been blanketed overnight with a flurry of “LIKES.” Around 300! I didn’t even know what I had done, much less who I had done it with, or more importantly, how I looked doing it. But, what I did know, was that my daughter, Gracie was buried somewhere under this avalanche of social validation…

I waited a very polite 5 hours before I texted her. (We have different time schedules.) When I asked her about it, SHE actually had the audacity to fuss at ME.

“Whatever you do, Mom, DO NOT HIT THE “LIKE” BUTTON ON THOSE PICTURES! You have no idea how Instagram even works! You’ve actually done that before, and since that’s MY account on your IPad, it’d be the equivalent to Me liking my own pictures! I’m really not trying to hurt your feelings, but it’d probably be best if you just steered clear of my Instagram account for now.”

That was on Friday morning.

That night, around the same time, maybe a tad later, the same thing happened. It seemed as though I was just as popular as I was the night before, with even more people dinging my praises! Ever curious, I couldn’t help myself, I closed out my book app and tapped on that camera-looking-thingy, devoting the rest of the evening to “steering” my way around her Instagram. I’m a firm believer in, “learning by doing,” “trial and error,” and, if all else fails, I’m not above a short YouTube tutorial.

Jimmy and I had such an entertaining weekend getting to know our daughter’s friends over Instagram. It was like Parents Weekend, without all the unnecessary travel and costly hotel and restaurant charges.

And those kids had the cutest names! They reminded me of those old CB Handles from the 1970s.

They were semi-incognito – like “maddieboddie.” Pretty sure that’s my niece. Hey Madeline – Aunt Sessie loves you!

and

“Imbringingsexyjack!” He’s bringing clever back is what he’s doing.

What about, “thrillyjilly?” I bet that gal can really bring the party.

I had a CB name when I was a kid – it was “Brillo Pad!” I’ll give you one guess why…

With Jimmy’s demanding career and our family being as large as it is, he really relies on me to keep tabs on all of our children. (That’s one of the reasons I’m so keen on updating my social media skills. It’s imperative that I stay sharp and current.) This morning, he asked me if I’d heard anything from Gracie yet this weekend, I answered, “Not so far, but I can show you a cute picture of her from last night on Instagram!”

Just as he reached out for my ipad, I started to admonish him, “Don’t touch the screen…” But it was too late. A red heart emoticon popped up right over the fluffy blonde head of “bythegracieofgod.”

As you might imagine, she got an immediate notification on her smart phone that the good folks back home had not just liked her own picture on HER OWN INSTAGRAM account, But, actually maybe even just LOVED IT! She’s none too pleased and mentioned deleting her Instagram account off my IPad as first order of business when she gets home next week for Spring Break.

Problem is, Daddy and I are so enamored with Instagram now, that I’m going to be forced to revive my old CB HANDLE and start my own Instagram account…

“brillopad” didn’t just LIKE your picture, she freaking LOVED it!

That’s a big 10-4 Good Buddy!

Checkout this video on YouTube:

to

Every year, for as long as any of our children can remember, Jimmy and I have taken a “business trip” with his company. And every single year, my mother, may she rest in peace, (she’s fine, she’s just staying home and literally resting in peace) has faithfully and lovingly driven across the country, to babysit our 5 kids for the extended weekend.

This started way back in the 1990s, when our daughters were toddlers and has continued ever since.

We are now down to the last two kids in the nest – our boys – who launched a protest this year, maintaining that they are sufficiently mature enough to look after themselves when we travel.

Their mutiny happened to coincide with some minor health concerns of Grandma’s, so after lengthy discourse and fractious debate,  we decided to take our sons up on their offer.   After all, James IS 18 and LEGALLY an adult, (he can go to war if necessary and plans to vote in November) and Tommy is…well, he’s Tommy.

I did, nonetheless, exercise due diligence by sending a series of TEXT ALERTS to my next-door neighbors, a friend who happens to be the President of our Homeowner’s Association, 9 of my sons’ friends’ parents, as well as Our Girlfriend’s Mother – all because I genuinely embrace the Utopian-esque concept of ‘It Takes A Village To Raise A Child.’

But, my Ace-in-the-Hole was my reliance upon The Ultimate Village, the roadblock of all roadblocks, a fail-proof infrastructure that was established long before we ever had boys tarnishing the family name; dating all the way back to when our Little Tykes toys were exclusively pink.

The plan was in place, if necessary, to activate THE SISTERHOOD…

It is simply an inescapable and universal truth that no one is going to rat you out with more passion and fervor than your own flesh-and-blood sisters. Rather than call this tattle-telling, we choose to refer to this additional layer of security as “PROTECTING THE BRAND.”

…And, that’s exactly what went down at our house this past Saturday night, when our 3 daughters converged upon their unsuspecting brothers with more femme-fatale force than an episode of Charlie’s Angels.

It was Boots-On-The-Ground in Oklahoma; with technical and on-line support streaming directly out of Manhattan and Fayetteville.

And, what an impressive well-oiled machine…The Command Center at NASA conducting a Full Scale Space Mission has nothing on these ladies.

The Trinity of Angels communicating via group text:

Edmond – “There are unauthorized vehicles in the drive-way. We’re going in.”

Manhattan- “Copy that. Are you there Fayetteville?”

Fayetteville- “Standing-By Manhattan”.

Manhattan – “Godspeed Edmond. Text pictures ASAP!

Fortunately, or unfortunately, (depending on how badly you wanted to make a “bust”) each of our 5 teenaged guests that evening had been “Pre-Approved” prior to my departure. All Emilie actually had to do was verify their wristbands, check their names off the ‘Authorized Guests’ list, poke around a bit, issue an empty threat or two, text Mamasita a few candids and retreat.

As you can see by the time stamp on the following screenshot, the marvels of modern technology available in Mexico delayed news of The Raid by several hours.  I too, was resting in peace; apparently by the time I was ‘in the loop,’ the delinquents were tucked in bed, lights out and rosaries prayed. Unnecessary force and legal action averted.

Viva La Village! Viva La Sisterhood!