Man on the Run

Our trip to Grandma's house in Greensboro last weekend ended with a bang. Literally.

As we packed up the car to head home, LJ streaked down the front hallway like a bat out of hell. If it had been the NFL combine, his draft stock would have sky rocketed.

Instead, with the storm door securely closed, LJ's face met the plexiglass with a sound that my husband described as an "explosion."

There was a fair amount of blood after impact, and he had a bruised ego, a headache and a sore nose for a few days. But considering the collision, we were lucky that nothing was broken -- either the door or LJ's nose.

LJ handled the blood, the pain, and the shock of the accident exceptionally well (although he did ask to "wear a mask like Psycho T because I'm a boy on the go"). 

Never one to miss a sunshine moment, Julianna dished up a positive spin on things -- even as we were in the midst of assessing the damage.

"Well, look on the bright side, Jack," she said. "At least you've added some red to your green and white shirt. That's the way to get into the Christmas spirit!"

Surrounded by bloody carnage, and my daughter offers fashion tips.

On the drive home, I glanced back at a resilient LJ, who was fully engrossed in his Nintendo DS while sporting a small piece of tissue stuffed up each nostril. I reflected on the potential catastrophes the kids had averted earlier in the day before LJ clocked in with the thud heard around the Triad.

While at Grandma's, the kids took full advantage of the snow that had fallen a few days before, using a small inner tube to sled down the tiny hills that line the property.

Although we were able to keep an eye on the kids by watching them through the windows, I must have gone outside a dozen times to issue various warnings.

"Not that hill -- it's too steep."


"Watch out for the ditch."


"Don't sled too close to the house."


"Don't push each other -- it makes you go too fast!"

Based on the Department of Homeland Security's Advisory System, my mommy radar was definitely somewhere between yellow and orange on the terror alert chart.

I held my breath with every trip the kids took down the hills, and I sensed catastrophe at every turn.

I was prepared for any number of disasters involving my children and the inner tube -- a hurricane, a landslide, perhaps even a tsunami. But I never sensed what was as plain as the daylight shining through a perfectly clean plexiglass storm door.

No matter you much you hover, nag, and plead, it just goes to show that, for even the most overprotective parent like me, danger lurks around every corner.

Or in this case, at the end of Grandma's hallway.

Who Asked You?

Less than 24 hours after I wrote about the kids still believing in Santa, LJ made me a liar.

On Saturday morning, he came downstairs for breakfast and said: "I'm confused. I went to ask.com and typed in 'Is Santa real?' and I got a bunch of different answers. And one of them said that it's just a character that parents made up to make their kids happy."

Here's the link if you want to see the response he got. (Of interest, note the "related searches" on the right-hand side that say "Is the tooth fairy real?" and "Is the world going to end in 2012?")

The ambiguity of the answers on ask.com only added to LJ's ever-increasing anxiety about whether to believe.

After talking him down from the ledge, I said: "If you think Santa is real, that's all the matters isn't it? Why do you need to know for sure?"

"I just need to know if I SHOULD believe or not," he said.

And he couldn't let it go. The rest of the day he peppered us with questions until we finally caved.

When we told him the truth, a look of relief washed over him -- and his smile was enormous. He seemed genuinely happy that he no longer had to wrestle with the answer to one of life's great mysteries.

Of course, finding out about Santa is like tipping the first domino in a long chain -- LJ then fired away with a litany of other questions:

Easter Bunny? - Of course, that's us too.

Tooth Fairy? - Yep, Mom & Dad. (and sorry about that time I forgot to leave the money)

Elves? Guilty as charged.

Leprechauns? Fake.

Reindeer? Real, but they don't fly.

Man on the moon? - Government hoax.

Elvis? - Still dead.

"But wait," LJ said. "Does that mean YOU are the ones who eat Santa's cookies?"

Suddenly, LJ saw an opportunity. And after swearing up, down, and sideways that he would not tell Julianna or his still-believing friends about Santa, we agreed to let him help us play elf.

At our house, there is no Elf on a Shelf. But there is a rogue band of sneaky little elves that come about once a week during December and leave goodies and make mischief around the house.

Julianna made an intricate little house for the elves complete with table settings, a Christmas tree, and stockings. Unfortunately, the shoe box she used for the elf house was from a pair of shoes I had intended to return to the store.

I can only imagine the look on the cashier's face at Kohl's when I ask for a refund and hand her the unworn shoes nestled inside an elf house.

Last night, LJ got his first chance to be Santa's helper. He had a blast taking tiny bites out of each of the marshmallows Julianna had left inside the elf house for the guests.

This morning, it was heart-warming to see LJ play along as Julianna discovered what the elves had done. It seems like he's taking a lot of pride in playing the role of big brother and he's relishing the chance to contribute to the magic of Christmas. I think, at least in LJ's case, the time was right for him to learn the truth.

And one other good thing has come out of this whole "ask.com" Santa fiasco.

When it comes time to tell LJ where babies come from, I know right where I'm sending him.

Lazy Claus is Coming to Town

LJ is in third grade, which means he's at the age where some of his friends have started questioning Santa's existence. I don't know the exact numbers, but I'm guessing at least 1/3 of his classmates are no longer "believers."

For Julianna, who is 6, Santa is still an absolute. There's no doubt in her mind that the big man will not only be visiting our house, but will also bring her a new American Girl doll, furniture for the American Girl doll, and a full wardrobe for the American Girl doll (who has already been named Kelly).

Hopefully, Julianna will not be too disappointed to learn, that, in these tough economic times, Santa may have to substitute some knock-off dresses from eBay and a doll-sized bunk bed from Wal-Mart. (Hey, Santa likes low prices too).

LJ, on the other hand, has been trying to rationalize whether Santa is, in fact, real.

The kid is nothing if not practical, so I think that deep down, he knows the truth. But he wants to believe, and so he's trying to convince himself.

LJ has noted a number of reasons why Santa must be real, the most recent of which -- if not for my Jewish guilt -- might have made me spill the elves' dirty little secret.

"Mom," he said, "Santa must be real because parents are too lazy to do all that stuff. And same with the Easter Bunny. You guys wouldn't get up in the middle of the night and hide eggs and get all those presents out. Parents are too lazy to do all that stuff just to make their kids happy."

"Besides, that would just be RUDE for parents to buy themselves all those gifts."

My reaction?

First I choked on my eggnog-flavored coffee.

Then I cursed in Yiddish.

But, finally, I let it pass. Santa and those creepy little elves would win this round.

As parents, we all know that, no matter how much we try to protect our children, they are still exposed to an inordinate amount of bad stuff via their friends, the Internet, and television.

Santa is one of the few pieces of innocence they have left.

Santa is all about goodness, magic, and giving to others. He may not be the true reason for the season, but he still represents a very important part of childhood.

So, at least for now, I'll keep Santa's identity all to myself. I think it's better that way.

Besides, I don't want to risk finding a lump of coal in my stocking on Christmas morning.

Standardized Testing for Parents

Yesterday's mail brought some standardized testing results for Julianna, who's now in first grade.

Like all good, neurotic parents who live vicariously through their children, I was curious to see where she stacked up among her peers.

This particular test was completed on a computer and gauged language arts and math skills. It gave feedback like: "Exceeding expectations," "Meeting expectations," and "Approaching expectations."

Not a whole lot for parents to sink their teeth into.

Nevertheless, it got me thinking ... if I were being evaluated by a standardized test for parents, how would I rate?

I tried to put myself in my kids' shoes to answer the questions ... how would my own kids score my mommy skillz?

My assessment was divided into six critical areas, each of which is expected of mothers -- like it or not.

Here are the results of my self-administered test:

The MOmmy Aptitude Norm (MOAN)

1) Laundry assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Successfully completed 18 loads of laundry in one week. This included correctly matching and neatly balling up 83 pairs of white socks in four different sizes. Slightly impaired in sheet folding, but made up for it by using two kinds of fabric softener. Unable to assess Mommy in the ironing portion of this section because she flatly stated, "If Daddy wants unwrinkled clothes, he can iron them himself."

2) Carpooling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is particularly patient in this area considering that she spends approximately 75 minutes in the car each day while traveling only 12 total miles. Extra points given for tying shoes, distributing snacks and band-aids, and changing music CDs multiple times while navigating bumper-to-bumper traffic. Room for improvement in the area of "SUV peacekeeper."

3) Cooking assessment: Approaching expectations. Note: Loses points because Daddy is the primary dinnertime and breakfast cook. If it were up to Mommy, the family would subsist on pizza, mac & cheese, and Chick-fil-a. However, points were awarded because Mommy packs 10 snacks and six healthy lunches per week. Extra credit was awarded for cookies and marshmallows.

4) First aid assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Excellent at providing ice packs, gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, hugs, ace bandages, anti-itch cream, tissues, and Tylenol for bruises, cuts, aches, pains, and other mysterious boo-boos that appear mysteriously throughout the day and suddenly at bedtime. Also passed the "clean up the puke without puking" portion of this section. Loses points for making Julianna say "ow" when using an ear thermometer.

5) Sewing assessment: Frighteningly below expectations. Note: Mommy is completely incompetent in this area. When asked to sew a button onto a shirt, she was unable to proceed past "threading the needle." Also answered "How do you fix a hem?" portion of the test by snarling: "What do you mean? You just take it to a tailor." Remediation strongly recommended.

6) Snuggling/Cuddling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is in the 100th percentile in this category. Perfect score.

Back in the Saddle ... Courtesy a Dead Sea Animal

It's been a month since I last blogged, but it's not for lack of material. I've just been lazy about getting it all down on paper (or on screen as the case may be).

But since it's spring break, I have a little extra free time ... so I'm attempting to get back in the saddle.

We just returned from a few days at Myrtle Beach. Not surprisingly, spending so many hours with the kids wielded a bevy of memorable moments.

Yesterday, Julianna insisted on a last visit to the beach to search for seashells. And as I walked with her toward the water, a small sea urchin washed up with the tide.

The urchin (or "sea urgent" as she calls it) was dead, and with LJ's empty bucket, Jack scooped it up and rinsed it off so we could take a closer look.

I would have been happy to launch it back into the sea, but Julianna had grander plans. She immediately bonded with the urgent, named it "Spikey" and carried it back to the hotel room.

Once there, she lined her bucket with tissues and gently placed Spikey in his new bed. Then, she surrounded Spikey with three of her favorite shells ... to keep him company.

Julianna requested (and was denied) permission to take Spikey out to dinner with us, but this morning, she was more committed than ever to her new buddy.

After being reminded that Spikey was now in urchin/urgent heaven, Julianna told me that "dead things have feelings too ... Spikey is my friend and I just want to treat him the way I would want to be treated."

Apparently, the golden rule includes making "Spikey and me" signs for everyone in the family and then forcing us to take pictures with the rotting ball of thorns. (LJ refused to pose).

Spikey made the trip back to Raleigh with us and now has a permanent home in a Tupperware container. Julianna has placed the container on display on the console table in our foyer so that "everyone can see him as soon as they come into our house."

She also plans on bringing Spikey to show and tell at school as soon as possible.

Spikey would not have been my first choice for a spring break souvenir. But at least I didn't give in and get her one of those t-shirts ... the one that says:

My mom went to Myrtle Beach and all she got me was this lousy dead urchin.

Luck of the Irish

For the past two weeks, Julianna has been talking in an "Irish" accent.

But as LJ put it, "She actually sounds more like a German cowboy."

Julianna's fascination with all things green and Irish stems from a book someone read her at school about St. Patrick's Day.

Most recently, her focus has turned to catching a Leprechaun. Tonight, she spent about an hour turning an old shoe box into a trap (pictured). She baited the trap with a miniature chocolate bar wrapped in gold foil.

I asked her what she will do with a Leprechaun if she catches it, and she told me: "I would never hurt it. I just want to say hello and release it."

According to Julianna, the legend says, "If you harm a Leprechaun, you will never get to see another one."

Julianna also says she "made that legend up."

To be certain the Leprechaun knows she means no harm, she made a sign and place it next to her trap (pictured here).

I've warned Julianna how sneaky and tricky those Leprechauns can be. And LJ -- who has made his own unsuccessful traps in the past -- also knows the difficulties of catching one.

But maybe this year, just this once, Julianna will be able to catch one.

All it takes is a little luck of the Irish.

Or in her case, the luck of a German cowboy.

Thomas Jefferson Ate My Homework

LJ and I spent the better (or worse) part of this morning working on his biography of Thomas Jefferson. The goal? To hand-write a four-paragraph report about Jefferson complete with a colorful cover.

When this report was assigned at least a month ago I swore up, down, and sideways that we would not, under any circumstances, wait until the final week to finish the report.

Now here we are, five days out, just starting it. And I am feeling the pressure.

Yes, me. Not him. Because let's be real here. Given that LJ is only in second grade, ultimately, this is my report -- a reflection of my Mommy skills.

At age 8, kids are essentially still puppets on a string. If he is late to school, it's my fault. If he loses his library book, that's on me. And if his biography on Thomas Jefferson stinks, well ... the blame lies here.

I'm not saying that LJ doesn't share some responsibility in any of this. On the contrary, I think reports like this help teach valuable lessons about planning (procrastinating), research (shortcuts), and taking pride in one's work (getting it done).

This report is particularly trying because it combines LJ's two least favorite things -- handwriting and drawing. If it was a vegetable, it would be Brussels sprouts.

But I know we will get through this together -- me with the cattle prodder and LJ with the eraser. Somehow, some way, before Friday, LJ will write those 412 words about Jefferson. And he will craft a beautiful drawing of our third President to go along with it.

I even have confidence that we will complete the accompanying project due just 10 days later. LJ is actually pretty excited about turning a huge piece of foam board into a $2 bill with Jefferson's likeness. Go figure.

Yes, we'll gt it done. Both the paper and the project.

Now, the Thomas Jefferson costume he needs for the class play? That's a whole other matter. Where is Betsy Ross when you need her?

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

Put a boy and a girl in front of a camera and ask them to smile: it's a great study of nature vs. nurture and the inherent differences between males and females.

If the boy is anything like LJ, he will groan, contort his face, and make some sort of awkward hand gesture just to add "character" to the picture. If the girl is anything like Julianna, she will fluff her hair, angle her face to her "best side," and then pose like she's a model.

My good friend Angie Brement is a talented child photographer based in the Charlottesville area. While she was visiting us last weekend, she spent some time taking pictures of LJ and Julianna.

I knew going into the photo session that LJ would be less than pleased because he would have to stand still and follow instructions. I also knew that Julianna would be thrilled because she could wear a dress and be the center of attention.

I warned Angie that it might be a difficult session, but with two daughters of her own, she was unfazed.

To convince LJ to participate, we agreed to let him wear his Tyler Hansbrough and Peyton Manning jerseys ... and bring a basketball and football along as "props."

True to form, when Angie started taking pictures, LJ ran in the opposite direction and insisted he only wanted "action" shots of him playing basketball. He also demanded a series of "in-motion" football and track pictures.

Julianna, on the other hand, did not want to lean against or sit on anything that appeared to be even the slightest bit dirty. She was happy to have her picture taken, but she had her own artistic ideas, including posing in front of a garden full of dead flowers.

About mid-way through the session, Angie asked LJ for a "big favor" ... could he please, just for a moment, hold Julianna's hand a walk slowly through a rose arbor.

It was, without a doubt, one of the most painful moments of LJ's existence.

First, he refused.

Then, I threatened him.

Next, he grabbed Julianna's hand and dragged her through the arbor nearly pulling her down.

Then, I threatened him again.

He obliged, but bent over with his head hanging near the ground as if he was thinking, "If any of my friends see me, I will never live this down."

Then, Angie yelled, "Look, an airplane!"

That got his attention for a just a moment -- and that was all Angie needed.

Given LJ's lack of cooperation, it is testament to Angie's photography skills that she got such an adorable picture ... and it's a good thing you couldn't actually see the expression on his face.


http://angiebrementphotography.com/

Hero to Zero?

When I picked Julianna up from art class today, the first thing she said to me was, "Mom, I told Ms. Erin the bad news." (Erin is her art teacher).

"Really?" I said. "What's the bad news?"

"Michael Phillips used mara-lana." (Translation: Michael Phelps used marijuana).

Not exactly what I expected her to say.

But to give some background ... on the way to school this morning, we were talking about the bad decisions some athletes make. Some of the names that came up were Alex Rodriguez (steroids), Barry Bonds (steroids), and Michael Phelps (pot).

The conversation prompted some pretty big questions, but with my kids, that comes with the territory.

Julianna and LJ asked questions about the what, when, where, why and how of Phelps' lapse in judgment. And we also talked about the three-month suspension handed down by USA Swimming.

I asked the kids if they thought it was a fair penalty.

Julianna: "Yes. Because he didn't think before he did it."

LJ: "No. It's not fair because A-Rod used steroids and didn't get punished at all."

Interesting point.

I didn't want to get into all the details of how, when A-Rod was using steroids, they were illegal in the U.S. but not in baseball. And I didn't want to delve into the finer points of recreational drugs vs. performance enhancers.

But I did tell the kids that this wasn't the first time Phelps had blundered. I told them about how he also "made a mistake" back in 2004 and was arrested for DUI.

That new piece of information changed LJ's perspective on Phelps' most recent offense.

"If you use an excuse more than once, it's not a mistake," said LJ.

That is some serious insight from a a second grader. Falls under the "fool me once" category.

I am hoping that in the near future, I can flip that logic on LJ and throw it right back at him.

In the end, both LJ and Julianna admitted to being "bummed" by Phelps' behavior. While everyone is entitled to make mistakes, it's disappointing when the person is a very public figure who is respected by so many young kids.

Fortunately, I can always count on LJ to put everything in perspective.

To him, Phelps' failures out of the pool don't tarnish a single one of the 14 Olympic gold medals he has earned. In LJ's opinion, Phelps just has a little trouble respecting authority.

"You know, Mom," LJ said. "Michael Phelps may be good at swimming, but he is NOT good at following the law!"

In One Ear and Out the Other

As Julianna was getting ready for her shower a few nights ago, I repeatedly told her that she needed to make sure to wash her hair. But not once did she acknowledge me ... it didn't even seem like she had heard me. Finally, I said: "Julianna, did you hear what I said? Please answer me!"

Without glancing at me, she said: "Yes, I heard you. You said 'blah blah blah.'"

If nothing else, she gets credit for honesty.

It's a frustration all parents share. It often seems that the things we say to our children go in one ear and out the other.

When Julianna said that, I immediately thought about the classic Gary Larson Farside cartoon depicting the dog who only hears her own name ... the rest sounds like "blah blah blah."

As much as it pains me to admit it, this is probably what I sound like most of the time to LJ and Julianna (and perhaps my husband too).

The kids hear words like ice cream ... Pokemon ... and allowance.

Everything else is filtered as "x-rated" content ... particularly phrases like clean up your mess ... time for homework ... and eat your vegetables (at least in Julianna's case).

Incredibly, it seems more often than not that I get that blank stare from LJ and Julianna. The one that says, "the lights are on but nobody's home."

With that in mind, I decided to conduct yet another very, very unscientific experiment.

I began counting the number of times I had to repeat myself to the kids.

Word to the wise: do not try this at home. It is downright depressing.

Between pickup from school yesterday (4:30 p.m.) and bedtime last night (8 p.m.), the following occurred:

• I repeated instructions to Julianna 14 times in 3 1/2 hours.
  
  
• I repeated instructions to LJ 12 times in 2 1/2 hours. (Note: he was in basketball practice for one hour).

That means, on average, I am repeating myself once every 13.8 minutes.

Which translates to approximately 56 times in the 13 hours my kids are awake each day.

Equating to 395 times per week.

Totaling a whopping 20,540 nags in the span of one year.

Taking those staggering numbers into account, perhaps it's not so bad when Julianna claims that all she hears me say is "blah blah blah."

At least I know she is listening.

Mind Your Manners

There was just one letter in the mailbox yesterday, and oddly enough, it was from the National League of Junior Cotillions. If you are not familiar with the organization, it is a group that teaches children how not to behave like mine.

My children aren't exactly heathens. It's just that they don't know a charger from soup bowl, a cha cha from a fox trot, or whether belching in public is rude ... or a compliment to the chef.

The mail we received included invitations for LJ and Julianna to attend cotillion classes -- at a price of $130 per child.

According to the literature, Julianna would "leave the program with the beginnings of confidence and poise that come from knowing the proper things to do."

I assume it would not qualify as "proper" that my daughter likes to say: "Mommy, I just pooted! Did you hear it?"

The invitation also promised to offer LJ instruction "in the areas of introductions, sports manners and basic table manners ... and students will learn dining in a nice restaurant -- complete with reservation, maitre d', menus and tipping."

Seriously? Does my 8-year-old really need to know how to pay the bill and tip the cashier at Chick-fil-a?

It's actually ironic that we just received this invitation, because the very topic of etiquette classes came up just a few weeks ago.

In one of my less-than-stellar parenting moments, I used etiquette classes as a threat. As in, "If you don't start being more polite to me and other adults, you will go to manners camp this summer."

It is another one of those hollow threats that I am not prepared to follow through with, but I'll be damned if it doesn't work. Since I started threatening both LJ and Julianna with manners camp, I have never heard so many pleases, thank yous, and I'm sorrys.

After receiving the invitation today, I decided to see if the National League of Junior Cotillions has a Web site. In fact, I wondered if it is even proper to have a Web site.

Apparently, it is.

Most of the site is filled with information on classes and schedules, but it also includes such juicy tidbits as: "The proper way to introduce a younger person to an older person is to remember that a young person is always introduced to the older person, unless the younger person is more important."

That infers that LJ's method of hiding behind my legs and ignoring the older person is not correct.

It also mentions that: "As a courtesy to your host, never add salt or pepper until you have tasted the food. If you need some, use it sparingly. Make it a rule to never ask for a special sauce to place on the meat."

That also implies that Julianna is exhibiting poor etiquette when she announces at a friend's house: "Can I have something else? I don't like ANY of this food -- it tastes bad."

Although I know that LJ and Julianna could stand some fine tuning in the manners department, I decided -- while browsing the National League of Junior Cotillions Web site -- that their organization was not, in fact, the way to improve my kids' habits.

On the site is a list of "10 Best Mannered People." Among those featured are:

Mark McGwire, baseball player -- alleged steroid abuser
Martha Stewart, entertaining diva -- served five-month prison sentence for lying to the government
Mel Gibson, actor -- arrested on suspicion of drunk driving, and then went on anti-Semitic tirade
Jennifer Capriati, tennis player -- arrested for marijuana possession
Whitney Houston, singer -- arrested for marijuana possession

LJ and Julianna aren't perfect ... especially when it comes to etiquette. But if those are the kinds of role models my kids will learn about with $260 worth of cotillion classes, I think I'm better off spending my money elsewhere ...

Even if they do miss out on learning "the proper way to squeeze a lemon slice and a lemon wedge."

Dropping the S*Bomb

UNC basketball coach Roy Williams made big news last week after dropping the dreaded f*bomb on live radio. Fortunately, it was after 10 p.m. and my kids were sound asleep. But earlier tonight, I wasn't so lucky.

As the Ravenscroft girls' basketball team played in the state semifinals, LJ and I were following the game on Twitter. I was also texting a friend frequent updates at her request. Late in the game, the Ravens' lead slowly slipped away ... but I kept sending my friend updates.

And as LJ carefully monitored the Twitter feed on my iPhone, I suddenly got buzzed with a new text message, which popped up on my screen in plain view.

It was just one word, but it was a doozy: SH*T.

(And just to be clear, it didn't say SHUT. Or SHOT).

I let out a shriek and quickly covered the text message with my hand. But my reaction piqued LJ's curiosity.

"Mom, what was that buzz? Why did your phone do that and what are you hiding?"

"It's a bad word," I said. "A really bad one I don't want you to see."

He forgot about it momentarily and we went back to following the game on Twitter. But as I switched to text my friend another update, the message thread was still visible ... and so was SH*T.

"Oh, I know that word," said LJ.

"You do? Where did you learn it? That's a pretty bad one," I said.

"I heard it in the movie Marley & Me," he said.

"Yes, I guess it was in there," I said. "I forgot about that."

"Mom, can I just say it once?"

"No."

"Please, I'll just whisper it to you to see if I'm right."

"Okay, whisper it."

And he did -- correct pronunciation and all.

"Now don't ever say that word again. If you ever said that at school, you would get in so much trouble!" I said.

"Don't worry, I won't," he reassured me. "But, Mom, I thought that word was spelled with two Ts."

"No," I said, "It's just one T."

It's ironic because grammarians insist that texting and instant messaging is terrible for our youth from an educational standpoint ... all those abbreviations and misspelled words are causing an erosion of the English language.

Well, that may be true to some extent. But when it comes to teaching kids the correct spelling of SH*T, I for one think texting is the bomb.

At Fever Pitch

Last night I faced a classic parenting dilemma. When is the sniffly-nosed, dreary-eyed, almost-feverish kid too sick to send to school?

After Julianna stayed home from school for two days with a fever and cold, she was still running a 99.9 temperature yesterday afternoon. Her congestion had improved, but it still lingered -- as did her runny nose.

With Jack out of town on business, I worked at home both Monday and Tuesday. Those couple of days spent inside the house -- combined with a lack of physical activity -- had us both bouncing off the walls with pent-up energy. By bedtime last night, Julianna was like a wicked little Energizer bunny who was tormenting LJ just for sport.

So how does a parent, eager to return to normalcy and even more desperate for the light of day, take an unbiased view of the school handbook line that reads, "child should be fever free for 24 hours before returning to school?"

What parent hasn't considered giving their less than healthy child a dose of Tylenol just before school drop-off and saying, "Shhh ... don't tell your teacher, honey!"

(For the record, I have only done that once, and I am NOT proud of it).

Besides, who's to say that my thermometer isn't a degree or two high? Maybe that sweatshirt was making her a little overheated? Isn't it possible all that coughing is just from spring allergies? (Never mind it's still February).

Last night, as I once again faced the no-win decision of whether to send Julianna back to school, I opted to make the most informed and objective choice I possibly could.

I left it in the hands of my hyped-up-on-cold medicine 6-year-old daughter.

"So, how do you feel?"

"I feel great!" Julianna said. And to my relief, she sounded like she really meant it.

With new found confidence, I prodded further. "Really? So you feel better than you did yesterday?"

"Yes, definitely!" she said.

I continued on. "So how bad did you feel yesterday?"

"Well," Julianna said, "I felt like I was going to explode and die!"

Not the answer I was looking for.

If she actually thought she was on the verge of spontaneous combustion just 24 hours earlier, then "feeling better than yesterday" was not a very good measuring stick.

It may not be directly referenced in the school handbook, but I assume that if a teacher suspects a child is about to implode, they will probably send that kid home early -- fever or not.

I quickly changed course and determined that the choice of "school or no school" should be made by a responsible adult. Since none were available, that left the decision up to me. And because she wasn't running a fever at bedtime last night or this morning, I sent Julianna back to school.

Today passed without incident -- no calls from the teachers or school nurse.

When I picked Julianna up this afternoon I asked her how her day was.

"Terrific!" she said as she bounded to the car.

"So you feel a lot better?" I asked. "You don't feel like you're going to explode and die?"

"No way," she said. "I think I'm gonna live."

And no Tylenol required.

If the Shoe Fits

I can think of nothing more frustrating than shopping for shoes with my children.

Julianna insists that they must have shoelaces (not Velcro). They should also be as shiny, sparkly, and tacky as possible. There is no such thing as "too pink" when it comes to shoes. And if possible, they should also be adorned with ribbons, dangling charms, and fur. (I know, it sounds more like lingerie than shoes).

LJ usually complains that shoes are too tight, not the right color, or don't fasten the way he wants (he still doesn't like to be bothered with shoelaces).

Regardless of which child I'm with, shoe shopping is painful.

Shoe shopping is so miserable that the last time LJ needed a new pair of sneakers, I avoided it for so long that the the plastic frame of the shoe actually wore through the material and was digging into his foot. He was limping around in class, so I had to leave work to run home and get him an old pair to wear at school for the rest of the day. (There goes my Mother of the Year Award).

I can understand why it is difficult for LJ to find a pair of shoes he likes. He has wide feet and most of the shoes he tries on are just too narrow. But I can still recall spending more than an hour in a Stride Rite store at the mall when LJ was 4 years old, fighting tears and tantrums (mine, not his), and trying desperately to find anything he would wear.

We finally did find some, but I think he outgrew that $50 pair of shoes within three weeks. I never went back to that store for fear they would refuse to serve me.

When it comes to Julianna, she is all about beauty before comfort. I have bought at least half a dozen pairs that she insists feel great at the store, only to find out later that they never felt good at all. She just thought they were fancy and had to have them.

And of course, by the time she tells me they don't really fit, we've already cut off the tags and scuffed them up just enough so they can't be returned.

Last weekend, Jack and I spent at least 30 minutes picking out a pair of new soccer cleats with LJ. We even made him run laps in the store to make sure he was comfortable. He had vehemently insisted that he needed new cleats because his old ones were so agonizingly small that he couldn't even get them on.

Tonight, after I laced up LJ's new cleats for his first practice of the season, he stood up and said, "Mom, these are too big, they are slipping in the heel."

Well, you would have thought that LJ had just told me he'd cut his sister's curls off with garden shears. I completely lost it. All my years of shoe shopping frustration came to the boiling point.

It's all a bit of a blur now, but think I was stomping through the house, mumbling words under my breath that would make Roy Williams blush, and shooting LJ a look like, "If you even come near me I will burn lasers through you with my eyes."

I was furious.

But, since I was expecting his coach to pick him up for practice at any moment, I composed myself long enough to find the old cleats in the garage.

When LJ got home from practice, I asked him how his old cleats felt, and he just looked at me like a deer in headlights.

It's kind of like when a wife asks her husband, "Which one of my friends do you think is the prettiest?"

There is no right way to answer that question.

After our little episode tonight, I have decided that Jack is doing all of the shoe shopping for the kids -- without me.

I know it may seem like I'm blowing this whole shoe thing out of proportion. But, let me just ask you this. Please, please try not to judge me for my shopping insanity.

At least not until you've walked a mile in my shoes.

Dresser Monsters and Other Bumps in the Night

I had a hard time getting the kids to sleep last night. Both of them repeatedly got out of bed with the same complaint: "I'm scared!"

LJ heard a mysterious thump somewhere in his room, and decided he could not possibly get back in bed until our dog came to sleep on his floor. Thankfully, at age 10, Viking is happy to oblige any time there is snoozing involved.

Julianna wanted to get a blanket out of her dresser, and when I asked her why she couldn't get it herself, she said, "You know I have a fear of that."

"That" apparently is a fear of opening her dresser in the dark ... just in case a bureau monster is lurking within.

To ease LJ and Julianna to sleep at night, Jack and I acquiesce to a series of bedtime rituals for each child.

The checklist includes things like night lights, hugs, kisses, special stuffed animals, noise machines, and closing drawers and doors.

LJ's list is a little more intricate and often involves multiples of 8 -- his "lucky" number. (It really is quite an impressive mathematical system he's developed).

If their demands are not met precisely, LJ and Julianna hold us for mental ransom by whining until, in a fit of exhaustion, we cave like an avalanche.

I feel confident that at least one, if not both of my children, will have a successful career in the field of hostage negotiations.

And although I know in my head that the whole routine is ridiculous and could probably be stopped by putting down my big, bad Mommy foot ... my heart has a soft spot.

I remember what those fears felt like. I was terrified of the dark and slept with both a night light and my closet light on. I too needed a stuffed animal, and "bumps in the night" made my heart skip a beat.

There is something sweet about Julianna believing that Mommy is a like a superhero who is powerful enough to keep the monsters away with just a quick peek under the bed.

And there is something touching about LJ thinking that a half-blind, arthritic yellow Lab is mean enough to protect him with his tail-wagging toughness and wretched doggy breath.

To adults, these fears (and salves) may seem irrational. But to children, they are as real as the Tooth Fairy and Leprechauns.

It won't be long before LJ and Julianna outgrow their nighttime fears, and I'm sure I'll be glad the drama is behind us. But in the meantime, I'll suck it up and make a few extra trips up and down the stairs when they need reassurance.

I know that the teenage years are just around the corner, and when we reach that point, the tables will turn. They won't need me to save them anymore from their imagined monsters, noises, or ghosts.

Instead I'll have to summon my superhero powers to fight off sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

The Dangers of Blogging

I started blogging just over a month ago, and while I have really enjoyed it thus far, I recently discovered its inherent dangers. LJ and Julianna now insist on "helping" me write my posts.

As I was working on my most recent post, Julianna climbed into my lap and said: "Mama, I'm going to help you write your blog!"

I tried to write as she sat with me, but when she started reading aloud every word I typed, my mind started to go blank. And then, when she began to finish my sentences for me, I'd had enough.

We compromised. I let Julianna choose the photos for the post, but I told her she cannot watch me while I write.

LJ has also provided his own brand of assistance. He quickly caught on to the fact that I usually blog based on something he or Julianna says. Keeping that in mind, he is now trying to feed me material for my posts.

LJ and I attended a Ravenscroft vs. North Raleigh Christian Academy basketball game a couple of nights ago. NRCA has one kid who is a terrific shooter and averages around 27 points per game. I told LJ before the game to keep an eye on #2 ... that he can really score.

After #2 drained a couple of jumpers early in the second half, LJ said, completely deadpan: "I see why you were talking about that guy, Mom. I think he's good enough to be the worst player in the NBA."

After I stopped laughing, I told LJ how funny that was. To which he replied: "You need to write about what I said in your blog."

And he wasn't kidding.

He told me the same thing a couple of more times during the second half of the game.

Then, when we got in the car to head home, he told me to use my iPhone to blog about it.

And during the last 36 hours, he has reminded me of it at least a dozen more times.

One positive and unintended consequence of blogging is that I do find myself listening more closely to the kids. I don't want to miss any of their witticisms ... or bombshells for that matter.

When we were fixing Julianna's hair earlier this week, it was full of static and standing on end.

"Mama, I don't know why my curls are so ecstatic this morning!" she said.

In the past, I might have just smiled at her mistake and quickly forgotten it.

But instead, I asked her if I had heard her correctly.

"Yes, Mama! My hair is all ecstatic and crazy -- just look at it!"

So I did. On Julianna's advice, I paused a moment to look at her "ecstatic" hair. But more importantly, I took a moment to listen too.

While blogging with my kids nearby is at times a bit risky, the perils are easily outweighed by the benefits.

All those cute, funny, and memorable moments I've never put down in a scrapbook before? Blogging gives me the perfect place to file them away for safe keeping.

And, besides, it's a lot easier than using scalloped-edge scissors, craft glue, and decorative stickers.

Sibling Rivalry, Sumo Style

It seems that long breaks from school bring out the best and worst in LJ and Julianna's relationship. I spent most of this morning running interference and trying to stop them from playing games like "King of the Bed," "Kiddy Sumo Wrestling," and "Dragging Each Other Around by the Legs."

After four days of winter break, they quickly moved from playing board games to playing bored games. The kind that inevitably end in finger pointing and name calling.

Most of the time the kids get along really well. Of course there are moments when they tease and provoke each other, but I do believe that LJ and Julianna love each other very much (even if LJ would never admit it).

One hallmark of their relationship is how much Julianna looks up to her big brother. And she truly relishes the opportunity to be LJ's wingman.

She is the Teller to his Penn ... the Minnie to his Mickey ... the Pippin to his Jordan.

No doubt there is a healthy dose of sibling rivalry between the two. But no matter how many wedgies or wet willies LJ delivers, Julianna grins and bears it with undying devotion.

Today, during a game of Sorry!, LJ tackled Julianna when she knocked his piece back to start. No lie ... he actually clocked her with the full weight of his 76 pounds and left her lying prone and stunned on the carpet.

Her reaction? She popped up and started laughing. And she didn't flinch when, on LJ's next move, he sent her piece right back to start too. She just smiled and said, "Good move, Jack!"

I had the same kind of "need to please" my brother, TJ, who is four years older than me. TJ and I had (and still have) a great relationship, but that doesn't mean that he didn't pick on me from time to time.

LJ and Julianna love to hear the story about when TJ tricked me into eating canned dog food by telling me it was sausage from the pizza our mom was making.

I share that story (and others) with them because I think it's important for them to know that even the most loving brothers and sisters are going to get on each other's nerves.

It's okay that they get frustrated with each other on occasion. What matters is that they weather the storm and settle their differences ... however that may be.

And if settling it for LJ and Julianna means a little more Kiddy Sumo Wrestling, that's just fine by me.

I'm just getting the heck out of the way before they throw down.

College Counseling for Kindergarteners

Today I was in the car with LJ, Julianna, and their friend, Julianna. (I'll refer to her hereafter as Jules to avoid any confusion).

I could hear the girls in the third row of my SUV whispering and giggling (about boys I presume). And then, in a change of topic that was completely random, Julianna announced, "I may or may not go to college when I grow up."

Jules replied: "What are you talking about? You have to go to college or you can't get a job."

"I don't have to go if I don't want to," said Julianna.

"But how are you going to make any money if you don't get a job?" asked Jules.

And then LJ piped in, "DUH!"

LJ's comment quickly squelched the conversation. But why were a 6-year-old and two 8-year-olds even discussing their college plans? And how is it possible that the two second-graders have already determined that college is not a choice, but a requirement?

Well, it's actually not that shocking if you consider the environment in which most of our kids grow up.

We start looking for that competitive edge the moment our kids are conceived.

I remember reading to LJ months before he was born. I took Julianna to Kindermusik classes when she couldn't even crawl. LJ started playing YMCA soccer and basketball when he was 3 years old. And Julianna was on the fast track to being an Olympic gymnast until she broke her collarbone shortly before her fourth birthday.

Seriously. I put my kids through all those things. And while I'm sure it was enriching for them on some level (except for maybe the in utero bedtime stories), it was more about me than it was about them.

Given that I (and many other parents) have programmed my children from an early age to give it their all ... shoot for the stars ... take no prisoners ... it comes as no surprise that pre-teens are now plotting their paths to job security.

And maybe that's okay. It has become so difficult to get into the nation's top colleges that any edge we can give our kids may benefit them in the long run.

If my children need that extra little push to get them to the front of the line, then I'm happy to be the Mom who shoves the kid in front of them out of the way.

But all kidding aside ... let's not fool ourselves. It might be cute right now that Julianna doesn't want to go to college because she "never wants to leave Mommy and Daddy," but it won't be nearly as adorable when she turns 18.

Part of my job as a parent is to guide my children toward that next step ... whether it's college or something else. It's in their best interests - and mine - to encourage them however I can.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to help LJ finish editing his college essays. You wouldn't believe the grammatical errors that kid is making.

Planes, Trains, and Night Lights

As I was scrubbing some pots and pans today, Julianna said (with awe in her voice), "Mama, a long time ago they didn't have dishwashers!"

Her observation prompted a long conversation about all of the modern conveniences we take for granted ... all those our ancestors lived without.

I answered her questions about airplanes, trains, microwaves, cars, refrigerators, televisions, magic markers, light bulbs, CD players, and even tee pees.

Then I asked Julianna to choose just ONE thing she absolutely, positively could not live without.

I thought she would say the computer, her mp3 player, or maybe even the toaster (because you can never underestimate the importance of Daddy's famous cinnamon sugar bread every morning).

But she didn't choose any of those things, and her answer surprised me.

She said: "I would choose my night light. Because I can't fall asleep without it."

The childlike simplicity of Julianna's answer caught me off guard and got me thinking about which one creature comfort I would choose above all others.

And I quickly narrowed it down ... to around 10 things (hey, YOU try choosing just one).

Two of the highest-ranking items on my top 10 list were indoor plumbing (no explanation needed) and a clothes dryer ... because I once went a week without one and my clothes felt like cardboard.

Why is it that my 6-year-old daughter is so much easier to please than I am? Why is a night light all she really needs to make her happy?

Is it that I'm getting old?
Julianna would say yes.

Maybe I'm just high-maintenance?
My parents would say yes.

Could it be I'm just plain spoiled?
My husband would take the fifth.

So how can I help Julianna and LJ avoid the same fate? How do I help my children stay relatively easy-to-please -- so much so that all they really need is a metaphorical night light?

Well, my hunch is that it may already be too late to save them.

As LJ and I were watching the NBA Slam Dunk contest on our DVR tonight (another thing that made my top 10 list of "must haves,"), he saw one of the basketball stars flash his expensive-looking cell phone at the TV camera.

LJ stood up, pointed at the screen and screamed: "So what! Who cares? Why would I be jealous of that? My Mom has an iPhone!"

Did I mention that made my list too?

Forever in Blue Jeans

Julianna's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Rodruan, pulled me aside this morning - big smile on her face - and said the words every parent dreads: "I just have to tell you what your daughter said about you!"

My heart went into my throat and my mind began racing. What had I done? How bad was it? Had my sweet little girl sold me down the river?

I instantly flashed back to when LJ was 3 years old and his pre-school teacher said the exact same thing to me.

In LJ's case, he had declared to both of his teachers: "My mom is lazy!"

There was a perfectly good explanation why he said that ... it had to do with a conversation he and I had about the way I made grilled cheese sandwiches. (Strange but true). I don't think his teachers bought my excuse. They had a great laugh over it and I was mortified.

I realize that teachers hear gems like that all the time. They spend as many hours with our children as we do. They probably know all sorts of "secrets" about our families and undoubtedly hear daily tales of our bad habits and ill-tempered outbursts.

Kids are pretty transparent with their emotions and in a safe haven like school, those feelings and experiences often bubble to the surface. I'm guessing that show-and-tell in Kindergarten can quickly become an impromptu therapy session.

So, today, when I heard those frightening words again from Julianna's teacher, I couldn't help but be nervous.

According to Mrs. Rodruan, the kids were drawing pictures of what they would look like when they turned 100 years old.

As Julianna created her likeness, she explained to Mrs. Rodruan that, when she turns 100, she will wear only wear blue jeans because "when I get old that's all I will want to wear -- like my Mommy."

Pfffffffftttt...

That's the sound of the wind being taken out of my sails.

It wasn't the blue jeans part that stung. That part is absolutely true. But old?

I needed clarity. Does she really see me as old?

I know I'm not the coolest mom in the world, but I like to think that at the very least, my kids see me as "young at heart."

Tonight, I gave Julianna a chance to redeem herself ... or at least give my ego a little boost.

"Tell me about the picture you drew at school, Julianna. What did your picture of you at 100 years old look like?"

"Well," she said, "I had gray hair. And I was wearing pants. Actually they were jeans."

I am a glutton for punishment, so I poked the stick at the hornet's nest and asked her, "Why jeans?"

"Because old people like you wear blue jeans all the time."

Pfffffffftttt...

Whatever little bit of air was left in my sails was now gone.

My daughter does indeed see me as old. Her perception is my reality.

But instead of focusing on the negative, I should really look on the bright side. I suppose it could have been much, much worse.

She could have called me old and lazy.