Little Lightbulbs

You shall therefore impress these words of mine on your heart and on your soul; and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and they shall be as frontals on your forehead.  “You shall teach them to your sons, talking of them when you sit in your house and when you walk along the road and when you lie down and when you rise up. I have spent six years in a blissful Norman Rockwell-esque existence with my two boys. But yesterday, the bubble popped around my fragile world. That's right. My oldest son is now an official middle-schooler. He graduated, despite the fact that I was all but shackling his ankles to his desk in an effort to keep him in his safe little cocoon. You see, I live in a sweet front-porch community where the elementary school sits smack dab in the middle of my neighborhood. Every temperate morning, I walk my kids to school and then back again at the end of the day. We literally stop and smell the roses growing alongside my neighbor's picket fence a...

I used to be an equal opportunity thinker. As a Southern quasi-feminist, I always thought the only real difference between boys and girls was strictly anatomy. I mean, we're all human, right? That was before I had to RAISE boys. They have a tribal instict that is not nearly as prevalent in girls, making them part human and part animal. I say this with love, of course. Because, while, keeping them clean and clothed presents a challenge, they are the greatest huggers ever, and those are well worth the effort. Need evidence that boys are part animal? Here are seven things I never thought I'd say before I had these little lovable critters:  1) Yes, you have to wear underwear. Always.  I actually spoke these words to my 6-year-old when he insisted this was an option. I'm convinced he will grow up to be a nudist someday. You see, boys think that most clothing is not so much a necessity as it is a consideration. And, if you can actually wrestle them into something pa...

"You can do it," he said, as he unfolded the ladder from the attic. "It's just an attic. And I'm right here."  Immediately, my heart palpitated. My pulse quickened. Sweat began beading on my forehead, and I had yet to step foot on the wooden contraption. As my kids watched on, I took one shaky step toward the gaping darkness. Now, I was breathing faster, wondering if there was an escape hatch somewhere close at hand. There wasn't. For most of my life, I've been afraid of attics. And for good reason. As a young girl, my step brother had molested me over a span of about three years when I would visit my father for his court-ordered weekends. During one of these visits, my step brother, who was also a sadist, locked me in a dark attic, knowing the light didn't work. I was petrified. I'm still unclear as to how I escaped, as much of that part of my life is blocked out. What I do know is that the fear stayed with me. My husband of nearl...

I'm not a "cool" mom. I don't know whose tops on the Pop charts. I don't have cable (by choice), so I don't really get the whole zombie phenomenon sweeping the nation. I'm not a fashion plate, and not really interested in my kids being one either.  I see no reason for my pre-teen to have a cell phone, so he's not facetiming, texting or tweeting anyone or anything.  Nope. Not a cool mom. And I'm totally fine with that. Here's why:  First, I'm more and more aware of the evils (and I use that word intentionally) of too much too soon.  Our kids are being bombarded like never before with half-naked models peddling everything from perfume to pajamas. People are churning out smartphone apps that make it easy to commit crimes and get away with it (yes, I mean you, Snapchat). And, apparently, TV shows have gone the way of soft porn in many cases.  I simply don't want my young sons growing up thinking that this is the moral standar...

I tried my hand at refinishing a book case this weekend. It was my first time using Chalk Paint, the latest no-sanding, no-priming favorite pastime of do-it-yourselfers. Basically, it's the paint equivalent to the Bedazzler: it's a fool-proof method of making any old thing look new again, provided it's made of wood. As I was painting, I made a few bobbles, dripping paint where it didn't belong. As I was sanding off the drips, I started looking at the finished product. There were places where the paint wasn't quite even, the old finish shown through in certain areas and the places where I sanded off the drips was rustic-looking. To some, it may have looked like I had really botched the job. But, to me, the imperfections made the piece, well, perfect. Personally, I like the shabby chic look, probably because it's a lot like me: a lovely piece with plenty of visible dents and dings that give it ... er... personality. As I was admiring my handiwork, I realize...

When my husband and I were awaiting the ultrasound for our second pregnancy, I was, as most moms, excited. I couldn't wait to tell everyone I was having a girl! I even wore pink that day to commemorate, what I assumed would be, the outcome. I grew up a girly girl. My mother entered me in my first pageant at age 4, and I continued on through the Miss America system until I aged out at 25. So, my life was pretty much make up, high heels, glittery dresses and spotlights from the time I could walk a straight line. I couldn't wait to doll up my little girl with frilly things and pretty bows. I was so ready for that! What I wasn't ready for, however, was the bitter disappointment I felt when I was told we were having boy number two. My spirits plunged. I had the ultrasound tech check again. Yep, she said. She was certain. I smiled, of course, thankful that our baby was healthy and that we were blessed by another little person to raise. But I couldn't shake the disappo...

This week marks my 38th birthday. How can this be possible? I mean, I remember knocking on 18 thinking I was old. Now, 40 is breathing down my neck, and I still feel like I'm, well, 18. Except a little creakier, a little fluffier and, I hope at least, a little wiser with wear. As with most birthdays, I've become a little reflective this week. You know, pondering things like,"What have I accomplished?", "What have I done?", "Where is my future headed?" In these times of thoughtfulness, I realize that each decade has brought its own transforming moment. And with those moments have come certain lessons that, I hope, I'm passing on to my children. My Youth:  My childhood was one of, let's just say, transition. Mom and Dad divorced. He pretty much disappeared from our lives, and then remarried quickly thereafter. I plunged into an uncontrollable depression at age 7, where I couldn't stop crying. Mom tried everything from counseling t...