Last-minute Santa

Apparently, there are three different kinds of Christmas shoppers.

There’s a group who have their shopping done somewhere around Memorial Day, if not sooner.

Years ago, I tried this tactic. I ended up buying stuff and putting it in a ‘secret’ place that apparently was so secret I forgot where it was.

There’s the competitive shopper, the ones who live for the crowds and chaos of Black Friday and enjoy being caught up in the frenzy.

And there’s the few like myself.

People, who even though Christmas has been the same day for hundreds of years, are somehow caught off guard by the event and finds themselves frantically shopping on Christmas Eve.

The whole hustle and bustle has somehow made me lose my Christmas spirit the last few years.

You’d think having a child would make me more excited about this holiday, but it hasn’t.

When my son was younger, I tried. I did.

Beginning the week after Thanksgiving, I would start getting a few of the gifts Cole had on his list.

This was when he was much smaller and his list would consist of him handing me the Toys ‘R Us catalog and saying he wanted everything except Barbies or Monster High stuff.

Trying to hide his gifts became an increasing challenge each year.

He had quickly figured out I used my office as a primary hiding place and would snoop through everything, looking in and under everything he could.

He found quite a few, too, dragging them from their hiding spots with squeals of glee.

“We’ve got to get a better hiding spot,” Lamar whispered.

So, we started putting them in the trunk of the car and covering them with something.

That worked for a while but was not foolproof by any means.

Homeschooling presented even more of a challenge with hiding the presents.

It’s one thing when you are trying to hide your Amazon purchases from your husband; have you ever tried hiding boxes from a highly inquisitive child when UPS delivers?

“What’s in the box? What did you order? Open it! I’m opening it now!”

There’s been times I have messed up and waited too late to order, too, and the things he wanted got sold out.

And I don’t know if y’all knew this or not but printing off a picture of the item and putting it in a box with a handwritten note from Santa, stating the elves got behind but as soon as it was back in stock, one would be on its way does not cut it with any child, regardless of age.

After that happening two years in a row, I learned my lesson.

Kind of.

“Mama, have you ordered my gifts yet?”

“Not yet.”

Silence as he gives a level stare. “Don’t you think you should maybe look into it? Remember Christmas 2011? And 2012?”

I remember, I tell him.

And then there was the Christmas of 2014. That was the morning I woke in the ungodly early hours to venture to the store, with a list of items I was hoping they would still have in stock.

Of course, most of the items were gone but somehow, I managed to get a few of the main things on the list.
“Why do I do this to myself every year?” I thought to myself as I was shoved through the crowd towards the line.

“It’s a magical time of the year, isn’t it?” a voice said behind me.

I wanted to bah humbug. Looking at the crowd, it didn’t feel magical. It felt like we were all a bunch of ill-prepared people rushing around when should be home having coffee in our flannel pj’s.

“You must have a son,” the voice commented behind me. “He likes Legos and building things, eh? Very good with his hands. I bet he’s smart, too. I bet he’s been a good boy this year, hasn’t he?”

“He has,” I agreed.

“He’s a good boy every year. He will be excited about that Lego set.”

I turned around to see who this presumptuous man was.

Not much taller than myself, maybe around 5’4, and wearing a soft, red sweater, with a little red beret set jauntily on his head, the man looked like an old-fashioned Santa Claus from a Normal Rockwell painting. His smile reached his eyes as he looked amused at my expression of shock and bewilderment.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Santa?” I asked.

He winked. “I get it all the time.”
“That’s got to be a hoot coming in here on Christmas Day. I bet you are freaking some of the kids out,” I nodded towards some kids a few registers over, oblivious to the man who looked like the jolly old elf.

The man chuckled. “Those kids don’t even notice me. They are past the age of Santa. Besides,” he smiled, “they know sometimes I get behind and have to do some last-minute shopping myself.”

What? Did he?….Was he for real?

“Take my card if you ever need help making someone believe again,” he said as he pressed his business card into my hand. “Your son. Or yourself, perhaps.”

“Merry Christmas,” he called after me as I grabbed my bags and headed towards the doors.

An hour later, Cole woke to presents scattered around the tree.

“Santa,” I said.
He eyed the packages. “This looks like your wrapping though,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I had to meet him at the store to get them. How else do you think I got this Lego set? It was sold out everywhere else.”

Cole nodded. “Santa was at the store?”

“Yes. See?” I pulled his card out from my pocket.

“Whoa,” Cole said. “So cool! You met Santa!”

Off he ran to play with his toys. I picked up the card and turned it over.

Just one word was on the shiny card: Believe.

And for that moment suspended in time, I did.


Mama’s Infinite Wisdom

Much like my Granny, at times I have been known to hold a grudge.

Not so much a grudge perhaps; maybe more of a spite.

It is not exactly one of our finer, most upstanding traits.

Mama, being the nice, civilized one, usually has a different take on things.

With the exception of my first-grade teacher and maybe one or two others, Mama is one of those people who truly does try to live and let live.

“It ain’t natural!” Granny would declare when ever Mama would try to correct her wicked ways.

“Mama, you are sitting there delighting in someone’s anguish!” Mama cried.

Granny snorted. “Let me tell you something, Jean; these people would not be in this a-fix if they hadn’t sown some pretty bad seeds. They reaped the harvest they deserved.”

Now, Mama has never been a fan of karma.

She doesn’t like the idea of ‘what goes around comes around’ and has always tried to convince me that grace kind of covers our mistakes.

“There but by the grace of God we go,” Mama has said frequently throughout my life.

A phrase that would make Granny roll her eyes.

“Mama, why do you do that? You know very well that if it wasn’t for grace, we’d be in a heap of a fix most of the time.”

“I know, Jean, I know,” Granny began. “But you wanna know what tans my hide? Those people who are always, always doing something they shouldn’t be and ain’t good people. And every cussed thing goes their way. That ain’t right and it makes me madder than a wet hen.”
I wasn’t sure how mad a wet hen could get but if it as bad as Granny – the scariest person I have ever met – I didn’t want to come across one.

Granny may not have been exactly righteous in her indignation and complaint, but she had a point.

It can be tough to see people that maybe aren’t the best kind of folks in the world getting their way all the time, catching the good breaks, and having everything they want come to pass.

Granny dealt with this with one of her sisters – the one she didn’t really care for and it used to send Granny into a fit of fury.

“You really don’t know anything about the situation and she may not be that bad of a person,” Mama admonished.

Granny snorted her disdain. “I’ve known her all of my life; trust me.”

Mama accused Granny of being judgmental; Granny declared her opinions were factual.

I watched them disagree about this numerous time, neither finding victory in their argument.

It was impossible to pick a side in this debate, namely because I found both had valid arguments.

Mama has always felt like people would be happier if they just focused on their life and didn’t get preoccupied with what other people had going on. “Someone getting pie doesn’t mean you can’t have cake,” she has said.

Food metaphors normally drove her lessons home with me. I was glad to know I could still have cake, even if someone else had pie.

“What if I want pie?” I asked.

More specifically, what if I wanted their pie? And what if my cake hadn’t arrived yet?

“That’s their pie. Don’t worry about their table. Worry about yours. And if you are waiting on your cake to be served, maybe they had to bake it for you. Extra special. When it comes you will be even happier to get it because it was made just for you and worth the wait.”

I had been wrestling with some of those very demons not that long ago and brought them up to Mama.

She was probably wondering why the lesson has not sunk in yet.

“Lord, help. You get more and more like Mama every day,” she said under her breath.

“Kitten, are you really fussing about this?”

I assured her I was. I was beginning to think my cake order had been cancelled.

“You know, Granny always cussed the person she thought was getting what she wanted. It didn’t work either; it somehow seemed to create the opposite effect. It seemed to make things get worse for her and better for them.

“You can’t throw stones and expect good things to be thrown back at you. You need to try throwing some blessings and love into the situation if you want it to change.”

I didn’t want to throw love and blessings on the situation; the crazy redhead had set me up wanting cake years ago and gosh darnit, I wanted a corner piece with the most icing.

“Not gonna happen until you stop throwing those stones,” she said as she hung up.

Perhaps she is right.
Being bitter and angry did not serve Granny well; it did keep her going for over 90 years though.

But maybe, if I wanted the situation to change, the first thing I needed to focus on, was changing my attitude. Beginning with a shift towards putting love and blessings on the situation instead of anger.

All said, I still want my cake.

Heart attacks in football

There’s no crying in baseball – that’s what Tom Hanks’ Jimmy Dugan told one of the Rockford Peaches in a “League of Their Own.”

I don’t know that there’s crying in any sport unless there’s an injury, but football seems to bring about the most angst.

At least growing up in my house it did.

My grandfather was a die-hard Georgia fan and by die-hard, I mean that man nearly died at a dang Georgia game.

Granny and I had dropped him and my uncle Bobby off at the game and commenced to spend the afternoon in Athens, shopping at the shoe store and Rose’s, and the old gal even took me to lunch.

It was a big, big day for us and she was in a fairly good mood.

Until we went to pick up Pop and Bobby.

My uncle was helping my grandfather, who was hobbling, towards the car.

“What is wrong?” my grandmother demanded.

My uncle shook his head at her. He has always been the one who tried to make all these hot-tempered people he was surrounded by calm down; walking on water would probably be easier.

“Robert! What is wrong with you?” Granny’s reaction for anything was increasing her verbal volume. I am sure someone named Robert in South Carolina heard her.

“Mama, he got so upset when Georgia lost, I think he choked on his hot dog and it went down the wrong way. Just let him get easy, I think it’s stuck in his windpipe.”

Granny didn’t have a lot of sympathy for anyone. She looked at my grandfather’s ashen face and said, “I can’t believe you ‘bout choked to death on a dang hot dog because Georgia lost. It’s a game, Bob. A game. And what are you doing eat a hot dog? I thought the doctor told you to lay off them things.”

Granny continued her tirade all the way home as I sat in the backseat bouncing with my red and black paper pom-poms they always faithfully got me. There was no way my chubby and uncoordinated self would ever be a cheer leader, but they still gave me hope with those paper poms.

But Pop didn’t choke on a hot dog.

Pop had a heart attack.

A pretty massive heart attack.

But, he was also so stubborn he refused to go to the hospital until my Mama got home from work that night around midnight, stating firmly he was not leaving until he knew she was safe.

“You are as stubborn as a mule,” Granny said to him. Remember – she lacked sympathy at times.

“You need to get to the hospital before you die.”
“I ain’t gonna die,” he said. “I still got to get some roofs done before Christmas.”

Pop didn’t get those roofs done. He spent about a week in the hospital before he came home and when his doctor finally released him, he had stern orders: no more Georgia games.

My uncle called and cancelled their annual tickets for the next season before Pop got home.

“I haven’t smoked in years, I quit drinking decades ago and now this? No more football? What’s left for me to live for?” my grandfather wanted to know.

“Me?” I asked, sheepishly. “Granny? Mama? Bobby? Aren’t we more important than a football game?”

The thought of just having us did not comfort him. Heck, it may have made him feel worse – we’re a curious bunch of folks.

But he had been forbidden to darken Sanford stadium ever again. Doctors orders.

“Was it because it was Tech?” I whispered to my uncle.

He nodded. “That rivalry always gets him riled up. But he would have gotten pretty upset if it had been another team he hated.”

I was fascinated.

How can you hate a football team, especially when you don’t even know the people?
It was a bunch of grown men wearing tight britches while running after a ball. My son would later declare at the ripe old age of 5 that those people did not know how to share and say it was a pointless game.

“Like who?”

“Well, he doesn’t seem to mind Alabama. If anything, he seems to respect them. He mainly hates Tech when they play UGA; the rest of the time, he will pull for Tech because they are a state team.

“Florida is a big one. He is not a Florida fan. But maybe after Tech, his next big one is Auburn. He is not an Auburn fan at all.”

“Why?” I asked.

My uncle shrugged.
“Why does anyone get all worked up about a football game? It’s just something we like to do.”

My grandfather never went to another live football game again, but I saw him having grown up big man hissy fits over games in the den. The kind of fits that made the house shake and scared the cat.

And in case you didn’t know, the top ranked Georgia fell to Auburn this Saturday.

I was on the edge of my seat during the game – a game, mind you, I don’t really care about.

I may have even had a grown up big girl hissy fit, complete with the loud swearing. I did scare the pittie though, but she’s scared of her own shadow.

“Mama, are you OK?” Cole asked.

I nodded.

“You don’t look like it.”

I was fine.

But somewhere, outside of Athens, I am sure my grandfather was rolling over in his grave.

Of mothers & sons – and sometimes, daughters

“Mama, can I tell you something?”

This question is asked several times a day.

Usually, it is about one of his favorite shows.

He updates me on the latest episode or shows me clips of it.

Or he tells me about the latest gaming system he’s come across, or a new game.

Sometimes, he shows me what he is doing in his game and how it works.
He loves the graphics and it is common for him to ask me to watch him as he plays so I can see his progress.

Or, he wants to tell me about a song he just heard and ask what I think about it.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“I liked this song a lot,” I tell him and point out which one and why.

I try not to be critical or negative because even though he’s a teenager now, he’s still in such a highly formative time. And kids get enough criticism and negativity without us bashing stuff when they are eager to share it with us.

“Wanna listen to another one?” he asks.


He ends up playing me the whole CD.

Heavy metal was my way of rebelling just as rap and punk are his – a soft rebellion but a rebellion nonetheless. I know more about his music than I do mine.

Sometimes, he wants to see the video so we watch it on YouTube.

He always asks me first, knowing that YouTube may have stuff on there that’s not exactly appropriate.

“Do you want to know why I like this?” he asks.

“Tell me,” I say.

And you know what?

I sit and listen.

I watch.

I pay attention to what he’s sharing with me.

There were times I was growing up that Mama didn’t listen to me.

Or, she rolled her eyes and thought my interests were silly.

“You don’t need a new Mouse album,” she said.
“Ratt,” I corrected.

“Same difference.”

“How do you call this music? All the men you like are wearing makeup and have bigger hair than you!”

“You may love Prince but Elvis was and will always be King.”

“Are you watching another movie with Canoe Reeves?”

I spent 90 percent of my teenage years rolling my eyes and wishing my Mama would stop being so critical of everything I liked.

It got to the point I didn’t want to tell her anything I liked because she would make fun of it or be just downright snarky.

She still does it, to a degree.

“Why do you color your hair? I think that is so ridiculous. God gave you a perfectly fine color of hair and you should leave it alone.”

I say nothing. Arguing about why I like something is pointless.

Just like a few weeks ago, my son decided to cut his hair.

His hair, that he had grown out for a year because he wanted it to be like Joey Ramone’s.

When he decided he wanted to grow it out, he asked me what I thought.
“It’s your hair,” was my response.

When he wanted to cut it, I admit, I was sad to see it go. I loved it and thought it was pretty but as my son told me, a boy’s hair is not supposed to be pretty.

After he got it cut, he asked me what I thought.
“I like it,” I said.


“Honest.” And I do.

It was his choice, his preference, his likes – not mine.

“Did you want to watch The Simpsons?” I ask.


I nod.

He sits next to me on the couch.
“Thank you for always taking an interest in what I like,” he says. “I know you don’t really like The Simpsons.”

“But you do, and that means I have an interest in it.”

As long as he is eager and excited to share what he is interested in with me, I am going to listen.

I am going to watch it or watch him play.

I am going to Google it to make sure it is appropriate and find out everything I can.

I will always listen to his music and allow him to have that freedom of expression with what he likes.

If he wants to share and tell me what’s important in his world, I am going to gladly be a part of it.

“You don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to,” he says.

Nope, I will. I know when my Mama was snarky about things, I quit sharing those details with her. It’s no fun having someone you love rip your stuff apart.

As long as it is important to him, it will be important to me.

“Always?” he asks.


Ordinary Gratitude

Even before Halloween was over, Christmas was right beside it.

On the shelves in the grocery store, Halloween candy was stacked beside Claxton fruit cakes.

It was kind of premature, I thought, but that’s how many things are now.

We are being rushed through the motions of life without being able to enjoy each holiday as it occurs before we are thrust into the next one.

Not just the holidays, either. We are rushed through every day – hurry up and wait.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
You must always be busy.

The minute you accomplish this One Big Thing, you should be ready to start your Next Bigger Thing.

It is exhausting.

I don’t even know if we enjoy what we achieve or take time to appreciate what it took to get there.

We are just so busy rushing full steam ahead after the next thing.
I try to write in a gratitude journal every morning.

‘Try’ being the operative word here.

Some mornings, I end up not having time or I don’t make the time.

It helps me when my attitude gets crummy, and boy, let me tell you, sometimes my attitude is pretty lousy.

There’s some mornings, I just write, ‘thank you’ several times to get my mind and heart in the spirit of being thankful – I can be in such a funk that is it hard to think about everything I have been blessed with.

It’s funny how even when you try to be present and focused on practicing daily gratitude, it easily slips out of your habit.

And it’s funny how random conversations can sometimes occur to bring us back into that spirit of gratitude again.

While speaking with another parent last week, she mentioned how she enjoyed being able to spend so much time with her kids. “I am grateful for every moment I get to spend with them; not every mom gets that, especially if their work makes them work late. I may not be a professional career woman, but I am happy, and they are happy.”

Another conversation reminded me of the slower paced life we have here, which is something to be grateful for.

“I couldn’t imagine living in downtown Atlanta,” the lady commented. “I am grateful for our slower, dirt-road life.”

Right there within 24 hours I had two moments put in front of me to be reflect on things that I am thankful for – being able to spend so much time with my son and having a very quiet, peaceful life.


Don’t get me wrong; I never, not ever, take these for granted. But there may be moments I don’t focus on being as grateful as I should.

As we enter the month of November, we may start thinking more in terms of the bigger, grander things – those big miracles that are status makers on social media.

The moments that we think are life changing…sure, these are worthy of our gratitude.

But sometimes, it’s those ordinary, everyday things that can yield the longer-term effects of gratitude.

So, what if, just for today we were just thankful for the little, the tiny things that we take for granted, the things that we think are just kind of ordinary and maybe because of their simplicity, we think they aren’t worthy of our gratitude?

What if we were just thankful for those things?

And what if, that was all we ever needed to do?


The Spirit of Halloween

I think our little cabin is haunted.

There. I said it.

In fact, I am pretty sure we have ghosts. Maybe more than one.

Cole has found an apparition in a photo.

And, we have had some pretty dang strange things happen here.

“I just saw someone on the porch,” I said one day.

I did – it looked like someone was walking across the porch and then walked through the wall into our bedroom.

I tell Lamar about this with no response.

He thinks a lot of things that he doesn’t mention outright: I need to wear my glasses more than I should; I was tired; my eyes played tricks on me; I have watched too many reruns of The Ghost Whisperer.

I don’t care what he thinks or says.

We have ghosts.

Mama saw one once.

She was staying with us to keep Cole and called me at work.
“Will you go by the store on your way home and get me some bologna? I don’t like being here with all this healthy stuff you people have.”

I sighed but told her I would.

“And some white bread – I can’t have this stuff with all these nuts and seeds in it.”

I told her I would get her some white bread and saved my speech about how bad it was for her until later.

“Oh, yeah, one more thing. Why didn’t you tell me you had a ghost here?”

I was silent.

She saw it too? I had thought perhaps I had a moment of imagination gone wild.

“What did you see?” I asked.

“A ghost. Or a reflection of it, rather. I had turned the TV off, so the baby could sleep and saw it in the screen. It looked like he was wearing a long coat with a hat – kind of like a Quaker or someone from the Tombstone time. You know, Wyatt Earp.”


“I’m not scared, but I think you need to tell him to go to the light. That’s what Sylvia Browne would suggest.”

Now, Mama also thinks that my child is Elvis reincarnated because Sylvia Browne said he would come back in the year 2004. The woman doesn’t even believe in reincarnation but she heard Sylvia say it on an episode of Montel Williams so it must be true.

I told her I would and promised to get her some bologna and Sunbeam.

That was just one of the ghosts.

We have had quite a few.

Since the entry to my study does not have a door, I have curtains that reach the floor to hide my space.

One night, the curtains parted and moved.

Doodle saw it, too. The little pittie ran in there to investigate and promptly ran back out.

Being ferocious, she ran behind my chair and peeked out, shaking the whole time.

That’s the least of it though.

We have had things moved around with no explanation.

Cole once borrowed my tweezers to get a splinter out of his hand.

They have never been found after he put them back in my room.

“I put them right here,” he showed me.

We scoured the counter, the floor – no sign of them.

Maybe the ghost had a splinter too?

Just a few weeks ago, my car keys were missing.

They were not in the two usual spots I put them.

We looked everywhere.

I checked the table. They were not there.

They weren’t hanging by the fridge, either.

Cole went out to make sure they weren’t left in the car or I had sat them down outside somewhere.

I was dumping my purse on the couch when Cole came back in.

“Mom, look.”

There in the middle of the table were my keys.

“Did you find them?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Did you?”

He shook his head as well.

Speechless, we left.

One morning, I found Cole sleeping on the couch.

“Why are you out here?” I asked as I woke him.

“My light was too bright.”

“Your light? Why didn’t you turn it off?” I asked.

“I did. It kept coming back on.”

When I went in his room to check the lamp, it was off.

That evening, I asked him if he wanted to sleep on the couch again.

As he said, “No, Mom, it’s fine,” the lamp in his room came on.

Needless to say, he slept in the living room that night.

And here we are, getting closer to the night where the veil is supposed to be the thinnest.

In the spirit of Halloween, someone asked me the other day if we got a lot of trick-or-treaters.

“No, not really,” I replied. “Worse.”
“Eggers? Toilet paper rollers?”

Gosh, I hadn’t heard of that happening in years. Kids still do that?
“No, ghosts,” I said to their surprise.
“Are you serious?”

I think my expression showed I was.

It’s OK though.

I’d think I was a little wack-a-doodle too, if I hadn’t seen it for myself.

I just wish if they were going to mess with stuff, they would at least clean.

The Way to my Heart

It’s no secret that I am not one who believes in the whole fairy tale version of love and romance.

It’s great in a novel – heck, I was even a guest author in a romance collection recently.

But in real life, it just never happens the way we expect it to.

Maybe, just maybe it is because my husband is not romantic at all.

His idea of a birthday gift once was “not riding his bike” so he could spend the day with me.

I rolled my eyes so hard I am surprised they aren’t still in the back of my head.

He has always struggled with getting cards that were meaningful until our child was able to read. Cole has been picking out cards for years now.

Someone complimented me on my anniversary gift – a necklace — recently and I told them it was a vast improvement over the years.

“He has bought me some really bad jewelry in the past,” I said.

“Is there such a thing?” the lady asked half-joking.

“Oh, trust me. There is.”

In addition to not being one of those puffy heart romantic girls, I am also not one who is enamored with diamonds or expensive jewels.
Nope. Give me silver and turquoise or costume jewelry any day over diamond. Or some rocks that were just mined out of a bucket – even better.

And definitely not any pawn shop jewelry, like Lamar tried when he was looking for my engagement ring.

“I can get you more diamond for less money in here,” he said as he was leading me in the store.

“You think you are going to get me some used borrowed love? Seriously?”

I didn’t care about his logic. He tried to justify he could get me a bigger ring at a pawn store. I argued I did not care about carats or clarity; I would rather have something I could use than a piece of jewelry. But he thought he needed to get me a “big hunk of diamond,” as he called it.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” the lady said. “You must have known he was the one when he said that!”

Not exactly.

“No, I tried to break up with him not long after that,” I said.

“What? Why?”
Well, remember the whole “I didn’t go bike riding” gift he gave me? That was after we were married.

When we were dating, he spent one whole Sunday riding his bike.

And it was a rare Sunday I had off.

I usually worked every Sunday and had looked forward to a day when we both were off and could spend time together.

After I had dressed for the day, I had called him and got his voice mail.
“Hey…just giving you a call. Wanted to see what you wanted to do today. Didn’t know if you wanted me to cook or if you wanted to go out to eat. Call me when you get this.”

I left that at around 10 a.m.

A few hours went by. He had not called. Maybe he was taking care of the dogs.

I left another message around 2:30.
“Just wanted to check in and see what we were going to do today. Call me.”

I had food thawing I could cook but hadn’t ate all day because I wasn’t sure what he wanted to do.

A few more hours passed with no call.
“I am worried about you…please call me.”

This is why I come across as someone who doesn’t care; my anxiety and worry can make me look like I need a Lifetime movie based on my actions.  I immediately thought the worst-case scenario and started panicking.

Then, I realized, he was probably riding his bike.

His bike. On the rare day we both had a day off.

My last message was, “Hey. I don’t think is going to work. At all. So don’t worry about calling me back. In fact, just delete my number out of your phone. I don’t want to hear from you ever again.”

An hour later, he called. “What?”

“I have nothing to say!” I said and hung up the phone.
I’m telling y’all; the drama was so thick, I needed my own Lifetime movie.

Fifteen minutes later, he showed up at my apartment.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“We’re going to talk this out. I don’t want us to break up so we are going to work through this.”
This is probably the most this man has ever said in one-time frame in 14 years.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

He walked in my office and sat down on the couch. To make it even worse, Pepper, my evil beagle, hopped up beside him as if taking sides. Little traitor.

“I just don’t think this is going to work out. I think we want different things in life; we have different goals, we don’t see things the same way…” I rattled off a lengthy list of proof as to why we needed to go ahead and pull the relationship plug.

He looked at me for a second before asking, “Are you hungry?”


“Are you hungry? What have you eaten today?”

I frowned. “I had coffee this morning but didn’t eat because I was waiting on you.”
“So all you have had is coffee?”

I nodded.

“How about we go get some food and then you can break up with me.”
“What kind of food….”

“You want Pizza Hut? They have that cheese stuffed crust now. I will even take you to Dairy Queen for dessert.”
Over Blizzards sitting on the tailgate of his truck, he asked me if I was still going to break up with him.

I told him I had tabled the idea for the time being.

I mean, it was Pizza Hut and Dairy Queen. How could anyone turn that down?
More importantly, how was I skinny back then if that is what I ate?

Jewelry and diamonds do not win me over. Apparently, the best way to my heart is to feed me.

The randomly missing remote

I spent probably six hours one Saturday watching something I didn’t really to watch.

“Can I turn it?” my husband asked.

“Sure,” I said. “If you can find the remote.”


“Can’t find the remote. That’s why I have sat here and watched 12 episodes of The Golden Girls back to back.”

Don’t get me wrong; I love me some Blanche Deveraux but six hours is a lot for one gal to take.

But not being able to find one – just one – remote in this house can lead to a host of television horrors.

“Which one?” he asked.

“All of ‘em.”

If one can create an issue, all four can be even more problematic.

And this one TV has at least four various remotes.

There is the Dish remote, which can also turn on the TV and of course, change the channel.

It actually has a really neat little feature where you can push a button on the receiver and it will locate the missing remote.

Unless it is buried in the depths of a chair or couch which apparently has the strength to block the signal. Or, had somehow been lost in a pile of laundry in the basket and then said basket is scooted into another room.

Then there is the remote that goes with the television.

To be kind of blah compared to the Dish one, this little remote is kind of the grand poobah of remotes.

This single remote allows us to switch between the satellite, the Roku, the DVD player and even the antiquated VHS player that desperately needs to be cleaned.

However, this remote will no longer change the channel on the TV. Without it, we can’t watch anything but TV.

And I am not a big fan of TV.

The remote for the Roku was dropped one too many times and no longer works, so we have to use the app on my phone.

The DVD player has a separate remote. In fact, I think we have two since we had saved the one from the previous DVD player when it died.

I have no idea where the VHS remote is; it may not have even had one since it is 18 years old. It was made back in the days of big buttons clearly labeled with their function of “rewind” or “fast-forward.”

How we lose them is beyond me.

I have tried to corral them all in one little wooden tray on the coffee table.

That lasts about five minutes.

I have found remotes besides cereal boxes, in the freezer, in the bathroom.

I desperately want to know why this happens.

How does one pick up the remote and leave it in another room? More importantly, why does one take the remote with them when they leave the room?

“You are just so scared I am going to turn it from whatever you’re watching that you are a remote wanderer,” I accuse.

This is denied.

It’s the truth though; he turns the channel on me if I turn my back so he naturally thinks I will turn it from his “Ancient Aliens” marathon. And I would, too.

My child has never lived in a remote-less world. Even the air conditioner has a remote.

He finds it hard to believe that I grew up in a world of rabbit ears wrapped in tin foil and having to actually get up and change the channel.

“And you had to stand there and continuing turning it until you found something everyone wanted to watch,” I told him.

I am not sure he believed me. He was more fascinated by the foil wrapped antennae.

“Once, the knob fell off and the only way we could get it to turn the channel was to stick a knife in it,” I told him. “It was hillbilly engineering at its best.”

“A knife? Who came up with that idea?” he asked.

“Me, of course,” I said. Nennie suggested tweezers; for some reason, that woman thinks tweezers can do everything that Murphy’s Oil can’t do.

My child was not impressed. He was busy looking for the grand poobah remote and of course, it was nowhere to be found.

We looked for 20 minutes.

We watched Netflix for four days.

“I think we accidentally threw it away,” Cole pondered.

“It’s here somewhere,” I said. “We just haven’t opened the right drawer yet or found the right laundry basket.”

I had even searched the dryer. It was often a treasure trove of stuff I hadn’t seen in a while.

“Are we sure it is not in the chair?”

Cole said he had checked. But, I know that chair – that chair was able to hide things in its vast innards.

I reached my hand in between the cushions all the way to the bones of the chair and there, perched on the metal workings was the remote.

“Yay!” Cole exclaimed. “Now I can watch my show!”

He looked around.

“Where’s the Dish remote?” he asked.

And it never fails: the one that’s missing is the one we need.

With age comes wisdom

A recent conversation about tomatoes made me think of some of the things I wanted to share with my son now that he was at the ripe old age of 13.

It started with him asking if tomatoes were indeed a fruit. He was puzzled by this.

“You wouldn’t put them in a fruit salad, would you?” he asked. “That would be gross.”

Not all wisdom is so easy to figure out, is it?

Sometimes it comes after a hard-learned and often life-changing lesson.

I thought of the areas of life where it may be helpful to have a bit of preparation and then realized, life in general needed a Clif Notes version to help navigate it. And I thought maybe a cheat sheet would be nice.

So, I started writing some personal wisdoms that I hoped would help my son as he continued to traverse life and all of its lessons.

Make sure you marry someone you like.

Notice I didn’t say love. We use “love” for too many things and there will be times you don’t love your spouse – at all. But make sure you like them. You don’t have to have the same hobbies; you don’t have to like the same things. It could be boring if you did. But make sure you have the same morals and ethics, or you will need more than like and love to make up for a lack of character.

I knew I liked my husband when we were dating and I called to cancel our dinner plans because my beagle, Pepper, had got in the cabinet and binged on her dry food until she was sick. Instead of letting me deal with a sick pup alone, he showed up with a pizza for us and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol for the dog. Every time I am not really loving him that much, I think of him sitting on my kitchen floor giving Pep medicine.

Which leads me to the next piece of wisdom.

You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat animals.

My grandfather used to tell me he could tell everything he needed to know about a person by how they treated animals. My Pop, as hot-tempered and gruff as he could be, was a softie when it came to anything with four legs and fur. And if someone was not kind to animals, he said it often reflected a lot of their character. I have found he is usually right.

Don’t judge someone based on what they drive or what they wear.

Those superficial trappings often don’t give a very accurate picture about the success or character of a person. I have witnessed people being treated differently when they were in work clothes versus a suit or when they climbed out of a more expensive vehicle. None of those things matter and we don’t know the situation. Even better, don’t judge someone ever. Period.

Don’t judge anyone.

You don’t have any right to pass judgement on anyone’s life. Not everyone has the same opportunities or comes from the same environment that prepares them for certain things. Sometimes, people may make the wrong choice but it was the best one they could make at the time. They shouldn’t have it thrown in their faces the rest of their life; it is counter-productive and doesn’t allow them to grow.

It’s OK to not have a huge circle of friends if you have the right ones.

I have learned over my lifetime I have a very, very small group of friends. I may know a lot of people, but there are very few that really, truly care about me. Make sure in that circle you have one that will give you the hard truths with love. I am thankful I have at least one that I know will tell me when I am being a grand dork. And I know out of my friends who will hear the unspoken pain behind my words. The beauty? It’s the same friend.

And make sure those friends are truly rooting for you. If you don’t know who is, watch who doesn’t cheer for your success. They aren’t there for you, only to see you struggle.

Don’t discuss religion or politics with anyone.

It’s no one’s business what you believe. Let your actions reflect your beliefs rather than having to argue your opinion. People often can’t be swayed and will only dig in deeper to prove their point.

And remember, your character and actions always speaks louder than an opinion.

Always let people you care about know.

You never know when the last time you speak to someone will be the last. The pain and guilt you feel if you have unsaid things is torturous. Trust me.

Avocadoes are fruit, too.

And like tomatoes would be horrible in a fruit salad. But, if you smash them with some tomatoes, onions, lime, salt, you may have a good dip for chips. Just don’t put them with cantaloupe or honeydew.

As I wrote the list, I found more and more things that I needed to add. The list may, in fact, be endless. But knowing not to put tomatoes in a fruit salad is a pretty good start.


Growing up quickly and surely

He turns 13 this weekend.


The age he becomes a man, he tells me.

I tell him he’s not a man yet.

He disagrees and tells me he is.

He’s at that age where he is teetering between precious childhood and stepping into a world that feels a bit more grown up.

I feel him growing up and it makes me sad.

I miss the small child who eagerly grabbed my hand as we would walk across a parking lot, his smile beaming up at me.

The little boy that used to crawl into his mother’s lap constantly now says he’s too big.

No more cuddling him until he falls asleep.

No more special little rituals that we once did.

As I cleaned out my office this weekend, a task long overdue, I came across so many little mementos of just a few years ago that made me pause.

Drawings, some just scribbles, but full of hearts that he had made for me.

Notes we had passed back and forth on days I would be at work and he would be home, that I hid around the house for him to find were tucked into the nooks and crannies of my space for safe keeping.

I sat in the floor and carefully looked at each of them as I softly cried.

It seemed like it had just been yesterday he had been this small tot, and I was his “sweet girl” and his “heart.”

Now, it felt like he was trying to pull away little by little.

He keeps trying to assert his independence in dozens of little ways.
“I can make my own food, you know. I know how to use the stove.”
“I don’t like you using the gas,” I reply.

He sighs as he puts the food back up. “I am capable of using it. I know how. You just won’t let me. Why?”

Because, cooking for him is the one thing I have left.

The one thing no one else could do like Mama; Daddy has never been able to make his food, not even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Cole even preferred my cooking to Granny’s, saying when right past his toddler stage that Granny’s food was good, but it wasn’t Mama’s.

And now, he wants to make his own food.

“Can you take me somewhere and I will buy us lunch?” he asks. “My treat.”
“No,” I say.

He sighs again. “Then just let me cook. I can do it.”

I stop and look at him – really look at him.
He’s my height now, but tall and lean. His face that once had cute cherubic features is now getting angular and showing the shadow of a moustache.

His voice cracked a little the other day and it made me tear up again.

His hair that he has spent the last year growing out in aspirations of Keanu Reeves’ style in “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” is now getting on his nerves and he wants it cut.

We argue over the style he can get. “It’s my hair,” he tells me. “That’s what you said when I asked if I could grow it out.”
But I know the shorter cut will make him look older and that pains me.

“Are you going to get his hair cut?” Mama asks me.

The best ally for any child is the grandmother. Even if the grandmother may not have let her own child do the same thing the grandchild wants to do.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I don’t want it short. I like it long.”

“Well, he said he wants it short and he knows how he wants it.”

“I still am his mother and I still have some say in how he gets his hair cut,” I said.

“Why don’t you want him to get it cut?”

“Because…” I searched for the words. “I just feel like he is growing up too fast and the short hair will make him look older.”

Mama was quiet for a few moments before she softly said, “It’s OK to let him grow up, you know. If anything, it will be pretty amazing to see the incredible person he is destined to be.”

I know he will be an amazing adult. What I have wanted for him is to have a compassionate heart, to have his own opinion that he expresses respectfully, and to always treat everyone equally with love and kindness.
He does that now. He always has, without me having to teach him.

I ran into his former kindergarten teacher a few weeks ago, and Cole sat, talking to her about “when he had been a child.” She lovingly told me after he bounced away for a few moments, “He’s growing up, you know.”
I nodded. She squeezed me. “It’s OK, honey. He’s a great kid and will be a great man.

He will be fine. And you will be, too.”

As I tucked all my memories into a file box labeled “Sentimental,” Cole peeked in my office.
“Can I please use the stove? I am so hungry and didn’t want to bother you.”

He expected me to say no, I know. But instead, I urged him to be careful.
“Really? I can use the stove? For real?”

I nodded.
“Thank you! I will be careful, I promise. I promise. Can I make you something?”
I shook my head no.
He was growing up. Rapidly and slowly at the same time, in front of my very eyes, as he teeters that line. But, forever my baby, he always will be.

No matter what.