Life Before Kids

My favorite Halloween costume EVER! Tim and I went as Guns n' Roses, circa 1992. He's the one in the kilt.

Better Together!

Today I had my first blind date ever!

After weeks of hemming and hawing back and forth via e-mail, I finally met the famous Sista Smiff for lunch. And it was too cool.

We first spoke via the Internets when she e-mailed me about a column I wrote for The Tennessean a long time ago, telling me stuff I never knew about my husband and his brothers since she and her sister grew up in Brentwood. Hers is the only blog I still read from the old, better Nashville Is Talking. She recently found gainful employment in Cool Springs, so we hope to be rip-roaring around town during lunch hour more often.

Y'all go see her now, y'hear?

Code Kablooey

Last night was the first time my 12-year-old twins attended a Titans Monday Night Football game, and we still made them catch the school bus at 6:42 this morning. I'm guessing that the late night is hitting them right about now, as one sits in science and the other in English.

ZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz

Are you a peeker?

"I'll say the prayer," five-year-old Owen said as my other two boys and I slid into our chairs at the kitchen table before dinner recently. He makes this announcement at every meal, even though he almost always says grace at our table because he is a very bossy boy and does not delegate unless the task requires carrying something. We always let him say grace because, well, we're hungry and we want to eat.
If my husband is home from work by dinnertime, we hold hands in a circle around the table. This is also how I tell if Henry has washed his hands. If my husband is not home in time, we individually clasp our hands in the prayer position because the circle is not complete without him and because I can't reach Owen from my seat without getting my front in my plate.
"God is great, God is good...," Owen began, and I realized as he was almost finished that I had not closed my eyes but was watching him. Yes, I am a prayer peeker. More often than not, I watch my child as he is praying, but I can't make myself feel guilty about it because there is something divine in a child's face that is exquisitely concentrating on thanking God. I nearly tumbled out of the church balcony one Sunday when I peeked over to see my preschooler saying the Lord's Prayer with the rest of the congregation. I didn't know that his father, who is in charge of bedtime, had taught it to him.
Since then, I compulsively peek during group prayers, usually right at the beginning, and I'm thinking I shouldn't do it because no one else is looking, just me. I know I'm probably breaking the eleventh commandment, but it humbles me to see friends, relatives, elders and young'uns with their own heads bowed in relationship with their Lord.
"...Let us thank Him for our food, amen. MOM!!!!"
Oops, busted!
"Owen, you're not supposed to yell at people after the prayer," Henry said.
"Yeah, but Mom was watching me! I saw her peeking," he rebutted. That's when Mason introduced Mr. Bossypants to his first conundrum.
"The only way you would know Mom was peeking is if you were peeking, too."
Can I get an amen?

So close and yet so far

So this was the view from our backyard every day at the Wainwright House. If you look just above my head, you can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance.

Every now and then something great happens

A week ago I participated in an incredible experience. I spent a week at the Wainwright House in Rye, New York, with 14 other women from around the country (and Saskatchewan, eh!) at the Guideposts Writers Workshop. We all had to submit a story about an experience that changed us and how faith made a difference. The editors at Guideposts choose 15 of us from nearly 5,000 manuscripts, and I was one of the lucky 15. There are two really cool things about this contest. The first is that an alumna of the 1978 workshop is Sue Monk Kidd, a frequent Guideposts contributor and author of the book The Secret Life of Bees. The second is that I was an intern at Guideposts 20 years ago as part of the American Society of Magazine Editors program. We lived in a dorm at NYU and worked at the nation's top magazines. I've posted a photo of me on "graduation day" at the Waldorf Astoria (in my version of "New York" clothes) with my bosses, Rick Hamlin and Mary Ann O'Roark. The other girl who interned with me was Becca Allen, a Yale graduate and the granddaughter of Norman Vincent Peale, founder of Guideposts and author of The Power of Positive Thinking. Becca will always be one of the best people I have ever known. The other photo is me, 20 years and about as many pounds later, with Rick at the workshop last week. He said everybody in the office laughed at his Seinfeld hair in the old photo.

At the Wainwright House we lived dorm-style and shared a circa-1940s bathroom. It actually improved the experience, though, because by living together we got to know each other real quick and trusted each other with our precious manuscripts that we worked on that week.

I can't publish my story here because I'm submitting it for publication in Guideposts next year. But if it makes it past the rigorous eye of Rick Hamlin, I'll send you a copy.

Trash talk

Our town does not have trash pick-up, so everybody has to pay private haulers to carry their trash away. The company we use drives around to the back of our house twice a week and empties our big trash containers by hand into their modified pick-up trucks. It is so awesome that I never have to do that pajama-clad sprint to the end of the driveway because we forgot to take the trash can to the curb on garbage day.
It's so convenient that I almost forget it happens, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of our refuse man as he backs up to the trash cans. Lately, when he gets out of the truck to get our garbage, he's talking on a cell phone, and it just really makes me want to know who he's talking to at 7 in the morning while he's getting everybody's trash. I mean, I know the garbage man has a life, but he is on the phone while he goes next door to my neighbor's yard, too. Yes, I've dashed across the house to peep out the window and check.
So, anybody got any ideas who he's conversing with so intently?

Trip or treat

Costumes? Check. Jack-o-lantern? Check. Candy? Check. Proof of residency?
Huh?
Surely you’ve noticed that trick-or-treating has changed. Kids don’t just throw on their costumes and run up and down the block with their friends anymore.
I’ve noticed a tendency for trick-or-treaters to migrate. They don’t always stay near home but go where they can get the most candy for the least effort.
If you live in a neighborhood with ¼-acre yards or less, such as Forrest Crossing or Fieldstone Farms, you may only recognize half of your trick-or-treaters as neighbors. These areas are prime targets for migrating trick-or-treaters because all Mama has to do is keep the van idling on a corner in your neighborhood while the kids hit house after house.
One reason so many treat-seekers migrate to denser neighborhoods is that, with one-acre yards like in Brenthaven, River Oaks or Redwing Farms, trick-or-treating is just exhausting. Often, there are no sidewalks, so you just tromp through the grass. By the time a 6-year-old has dragged a dinosaur tail through four or five of these yards, he’s ready to be done.
A lack of sidewalks and fewer streetlights in older neighborhoods usually means no curbs or storm drains either, hence the yearly spike in ankle injuries from tripping over culverts or stepping in ditches.
The payoff when crossing bigger yards had better be worth it. Kids who had to walk an acre only to find that no one’s home invented the retaliatory flaming bag of poo. If you won’t be home, be sure to display the universal Halloween symbol for “not home,” which is to turn off anything in the house that emits light, including the microwave clock.
Most homeowners love seeing adorable princesses and tiny action figures on the porch. But there are always a few kids who are too old to trick or treat and old enough to know it. One Halloween I opened the door around 9:30 to see three towering boys wearing wigs and holding pillowcases. I wasn’t sure if I should give them the Snickers or my silver.
If you just don’t want to deal with the door-to-door process, there are alternatives. Children can trick or treat merchants at the mall, which to me should only be a last-minute rainout plan. Kids also can do what’s known as a “trunk or treat,” where a church or other community group gathers in the facility parking lot and lets kids go from car to car seeking treats out of car trunks.
Just keep an eye on your jumper cables.

The retail experience ain't what it used to be

I only shop when I NEED something. Recently I've asked to try on shoes at major department stores only to have them tell me my feet aren't petite enough. No, just kidding. On two separate occasions, when the sales clerks brought out the shoes, they were obviously worn. I'm talking creases on the upper and visible debris stuck in the soles! Too tacky. Don't they check this stuff? At Kroger I bought a Lean Cuisine Sesame Chicken entree that had one chicken bite in it instead of the usual five. The worst, though, is when I bought a coffeemaker at Best Buy, brought it home and found dried coffee in the bottom of the carafe. When I told the girl in charge of returns, she expressed immediate concern and dismay and was like, "OK."

I'd bet $50 it got restocked later that day.

I will always compliment good service, often in writing. And if something's not up to par, even snack foods without the requisite amount of cream filling, I will let the appropriate people know about it.

Midlife crisis, part deux

After dropping our sons off at cotillion Saturday, which is another story in itself, my friend Shelley and I decided to shop at Green Hills mall in the meantime. We were ambling through Dillards, minding our own business, when this old saleslady called us out and said, "OK, all this from here all the way over to that wall is 'petites.' 'Misses' is around the corner, if that's what you're looking for."

Now, I would not be classified as "petite" by anyone's standards. But we certainly didn't look like we were about to try out for "Biggest Loser: Friends Edition." I also didn't want to engage in any more unsolicited conversation with this woman, so at the time I just did the whole, "OK, thank you. Thank you very much," routine and kept walking.

As we made our way through handbags toward the perfume section, though, I said, "I think that heifer just kicked us out of the petite department." Our outrage grew. "We were just walking through! What if I were buying something for my petite friend? Yeah! How does she know what we were doing? I can look in any department I want!"

Needless to say, we didn't stop at Christie Cookie after that.

The dame can't help it

Just as my oldest sons are entering their awkward phase, I've hit an unexpected awkward stage in my life in which I feel self-conscious when I hear myself using the word "girl" to describe my friends. It just doesn't sound right to say, "This girl at Bible study said the funniest thing today," to my husband and then turn to my 12-year-old and ask, "Who was that girl you were talking to after football today?'
I mean, we're all around age 40, and I can't use the same word to describe my friends and my kids' friends, can I? I need a new word for everyday use, I guess, but I can't use "lady" for obvious reasons and I don't like "gal" because I hate how it sounds. "Girl" has been perfect for so long, and everything else is either too formal (woman, female, milady) or too loose (chick, babe, broad, etc.) I may have to make up my own word, unless you have suggestions...

In preparation for the Lord's Day

At our house, we save our most ungodly behavior for Sundays. We don’t do it on purpose, of course, because we begin the Sabbath as we do every day, with noble intentions.
But by the time we’ve coaxed every child out of bed, convinced them to wear “nice” clothes, sent two out of three back inside for Bibles and argued about the best way to drive the six miles to church, we’re all behaving like we’re traveling first class on the Hell Express.
Maybe you’ve committed some of the Seven Sunday Sins.
Pride: In my unenlightened high school days, I viewed the communion walk as a convenient fashion runway upon which people paraded so I could covertly rate their outfits. Now that I shop for my kids more than myself, I’m like Ma Walton with the one faded Sunday dress. And I’m not all thankful that I have it, either.
Greed: I’m stingiest with my time, which is especially evident when I’m so busy rushing to get to Mrs. Winners before the drive-thru line gets long that I blow right past the new joiners without even saying how-do.
Envy: Please. I’ve envied the Kennedy-coiffed couples who pull up to the sanctuary with their big black sunglasses and the spit-shined Lexuses. I’ve envied the folks who know all the words to the hymns and sing in tune. The list is everlasting.
Anger: Driving on Sunday morning at Concord and Franklin roads, hereafter known as the Saints Highway, summons up the Pharisee in all of us since there are three churches battling for the right of way. Now they've added two traffic lights to help Brentwood Baptist and Fellowhip Bible folks get out of my way. And yes, you are the bigger heathen if you honk at the guy who cuts you off in the church parking lot.
A friend confessed that she tuned out most of one Sunday’s sermon because she was angry that she was forced to stare at the bare back of the teenage girl in front of her through the entire service. Guess that teenager’s mom forgot that the 11th commandment forbids backless dresses at church.
Lust: See above.
Gluttony: Only you and the Lord keep track of how many free cups of church coffee you take. But those of us who homestead the good seats on the aisle are little Sunday morning piggies, too. One time our church lot was so full I parked in guest parking. I had three kids with me, so I rationalized that God would rather I park in guest parking than skip church altogether.
Sloth: Sleeping in? Check. Sunday morning golf game? That counts. Mouthing the words to the processional hymn? Check. Forgoing Sunday school for Starbucks? Hmmm.
At least I don’t make change in the collection plate.