2011 Psych Grad works at a home improvement company and fits the definition of under-employed: holding a job that doesn’t require a Bachelor’s degree. Recently promoted to customer service management, it’s perfect training for his goal to be a pastor. He took my job-search advice.

2012 Marketing Grad remains unemployed. He has somewhat listened to my advice.

For what it’s worth, I share: Careers 101, by Mom.

1. Believe: There is room in the workforce for you.

If you’re willing to learn, if you’re a hard worker, you’ll find a job. Yes, it’s a pain to job hunt. It’s exhausting, depressing and no fun. Keep the faith; do the work. Something will materialize. Count on that.

2. Your job is to get a job.

• Treat the search as a “real job”. Wake up by 7am; don’t stay up (or out!) all night. No beer until the weekend.
• Leave the house. Act like an employed person. Take your laptop to “an office”. (ie: Starbucks, the library or Barnes & Noble)
• Work part-time. People hire people who are working; you need experience and money. Apply everywhere – Home Depot, UPS, Quick Trip, restaurants. They understand they’re fortunate to hire someone of your caliber – if only for a few      weeks. Temp with an agency. Volunteer. Intern. It is not beneath you. Who knows where it could lead?

3. Follow the Basics.

• Resumes & cover letters? If unsure, search Google or call professionals.
• Keep an appropriate hair cut & interview attire clean, hanging up, always.
• Track resume activity with a spreadsheet. Contact hiring managers for follow-up. You are the product. Sell yourself – it’s your job to reach out.
• Open accounts with Indeed, Monster & CareerBuilder. Apply-apply-apply.
• Use LinkedIn. Update your profile with a well-lit, professional-looking photo (No beard, t-shirt or photos with your PC/MacBook) LINK! Start with your parents. Do they have decades of experience in the work place? Trust them.
• Edit your Facebook page. We’re not in college anymore – a keg stand photo does not help employability.
• Set goals: 2-3 interviews per week – even if you do not want the job. Practice presenting yourself. Become fearless.
• Invest 4-8 hours, daily, looking for a job. This can be done on weekends and evenings. You’ll find one faster, promise.
• Nurture personal networks. Contact former employers, instructors, friends, family and neighbors.
• Attend events – Local chambers/colleges/churches offer them. It keeps you engaged and current. Sharpen those people-skills – shake hands, make eye contact. Truly, it’s not so much what you know, it’s who you know.
• Job Fairs – yes, they are depressing. Attend anyway. Observe other seekers. How can you set yourself apart? Pretend you’re a hiring manager – who catches your eye? Would you hire yourself? Why?

4. Keep the plates spinning.

Continue searching, even if you think you have something locked down. What’s the worst that can happen? You negotiate a higher salary with Company A, once they know Company B is in the game?

5. Be flexible.

Everyone begins somewhere. Don’t want to move to Texas or North Dakota? Six months in and you might be glad you took that chance. You’re young and the world is at your fingertips. Adventure while you can.

The day of doing what you want 24/7 is gone. Welcome to adulthood! Here’s my promise: making decisions for yourself is the best part about becoming an adult.

6. Dive in.

Xoxo, Mom

Next week’s course: Parenting 603

I was helping Flower Child move. (Loves college SO much; she’ll stay for an internship and summer classes.) She’d prepared a beautiful gift basket and note; I cried upon reading. (“Mom, you always say not to be like me. Your reverse psychology worked; I want to be JUST like you.) She gives me entirely too much credit (reverse psych??? I meant that).

Party Child returned from Florida, where he visited Grandma and bio-mom – immediately said “Hey! Happy Mother’s Day!” and went to dinner with me and King. They toasted Modella Beer. They toasted the late Mr. Shelby. (Father of the Mustang/Cobra) Me? I contemplated life and a fine Texas Margarita.

Hmmm– Why should they toast me? 11 years of co-parenting for this? Then…

I am not their mother. 12 years after losing my mother – I’m finally glad for where she is – pain-free, with her Heavenly Father.

Why so calm? I am officially ScreamFree Certified.

Screaming? We think of shrill, loud noise.

I took a 3-Day hiatus from corporate America to attend ScreamFree Leadership Training with Hal Runkel and Co.

I learned screaming can be as quiet as an eye roll, the silent treatment, a blog. Screaming can be sarcasm. What does your scream look like? WOW. Ouch. Seriously?

The ScreamFree mission: Calm down the world, one relationship at a time.

I was skeptical; I emerged a calmer person as a result of this training. The founder is a regular on The Today Show. (Check out: http://www.screamfree.com/site/PageServer)

Here’s a kicker: Parenting is more about the parent than the child/children.

Think about it.

My mother said: You think you’re raising your children – they end up raising you.

Did you know? Chances are – the more you figure out yourself, the better parent you become?

It’s a paradox. Not: leave the kids at home to fend for themselves while you run off to Tahiti, or the day spa, or to your neighbor’s house… Rather: if you think the kids make you crazy – it’s possible you give them too much credit/power for making you crazy.

Step Back. Pause. Color outside the lines, Mom.

Breathe.

Might I say it? Take charge of yourself. Think about yourself. Take care of yourself. Celebrate yourself.

A wise woman offered advice after Preacher Child was born: “You cannot give what you do not have – take a nap when your baby naps – don’t wear yourself out or you won’t be any good to that baby.”

I am thick on the front end. But! Once I get it; I get it. 23 years later I finally understand. Take care of your own emotional, physical and spiritual health. Then and only then can you take care of those around you. It’s okay to celebrate you!

Yay, Mom!

I thought my 46^th birthday was the demarcation of middle age; King said I crossed over in 2005. I cloaked myself in denial. Until now.

Time to admit: I am middle-aged.

Given recent complaints (From Party, Scholar, Flower Child and King) about my night driving, I bravely gave full disclosure to our optician. Actually, the doctor was the brave one, since I went ballistic during last year’s eye exam when he mentioned the B-word. (Apologetically claiming it was “a legal thing to inform me of options, he’d make a little note in my file”.) That B-word haunted me a full year, at least when driving at night or trying to name a face from 20 feet away.

Last week, I picked up a lovely pair of Cole Haan frames. Having worn reading glasses since high school – this shouldn’t be a blog-worthy event. However!

They call them Progressive lenses. As a marketing person, I like this re-branding of mature people’s eyewear. It makes the journey easier to stomach. (Progressive, as in gradual - not a political view)

I called my 89-year old Grandma. After we discussed the S.C. GOP primary and other world events, I told her about my progressive lenses. She scoffed: “They’re the same BI-FOCALS I wear and YOU know it!”

Thanks, Ma-maw. I love the way you’ve taught me to face my fears. Yes m‘am, I understand: we come from a long line of independent, pioneering, high-spirited women. Yes, I am a little vain. I will grow old gracefully – with eye creams, hair colorings, and my new progressive lenses.

So here I am – older and wiser. The best part?

I can SEE! Dark, shiny-rainy and even foggy roads! The words on signage are crisp and clear – at night! I can see skin and eye lash quality of people I interact with each day. I can see King’s individual greys on his fine head of hair.

It’s a mixed blessing, as I’ve also seen the eye cream isn’t working quite as well as I’d thought … progressives reveal signs of my over-developed character. (A well-lived life will do that to a gal, no?)

I spoke to a friend (since high school). Ironically, she picked up her progressives the very same day that I did! We agreed: it’s a trade-off, but worth the benefits. At least the world doesn’t see the actual Coke-bottle-like squares etched in the lenses to announce to the world we’re, um, our eyes are… growing up.

We decided it’s preferable to be older and wiser – we deserve to see our best. How else will we monitor the eye cream? We’re ready to take on our new hi-def world.

Happy 2012!

I don’t do resolutions; however, Preacher Child (first-born) and Preacher’s Wife, (new daughter-in-law) hosted an intriguing gathering today.

Flower Child calls it the burning-lies-you-believe party. How it works: Record a lie on paper. Ex: God is mean; only has rules. Next: Burn lie; move on.

Resolve to believe truth; it will set you free: you don’t have the power to change, but God wants good things for you and He can change you. (I copied this from Preacher Child’s Facebook page today – good kid.)

I’ve pondered lies-I-believe and decided: how do I sort out lies? If I (currently) believe it- it’s true, right? Time to drudge the past.

10 ‘Lies’ I Once Believed:

1. I’ll have lots of money when I grow up, just like my parents did.

2. I’ll always be in good physical shape.

3. I will find the perfect man.

4. I control whom my children play/hang out/text with, talk to, date/love/marry…

5. By age 40, I’ll be old and wise.

6. I won’t worry about the kids once they’re 18 years old.

7. My parents will always be there.

8. I should tell everyone like it is.

9. I can talk my way into/out of anything.

10. Tomorrow, next week/month/year I will (fill in the bank).

Things I know to be true – thanks to the Village for helping over the years!

1. I was 6 – my uncle & mom laughed how they thought their parents were rich when they were kids. I noted that conversation, yet believed we had what we needed so my parents were rich. Now that I pay for college, mortgage, insurance, taxes… I understand the concept of budget. (Thanks, Dave Ramsey!)
2. How often did older, rounder women claim to my young, size 2 self? “I was tiny, just like you!” I’d smile, yet vow silently: I’ll die if my Scarlett waist exceeds 18”. Thanks, Mimi! She settled it years ago: “Honey, you can have a body or a face, but you can’t have both when you’re old.” I like food; I choose face.
3. Thank you, my Jewish Mom, who revealed: Mr./Mrs. Right doesn’t exist. “We all have baggage. YOU have baggage, Bubala. Ask yourself: Can you work with the baggage?”
4. Speaking of Mr. Right-for-me… he says:“Control is an illusion.” Amen, King, amen.
5. Sheesh – the older I get, the less I know. Mensa friend mused: The wise seek wisdom; the fool has found it. Thanks, Miss Winda!!
6. In 1988, the Lamaze teacher said: it’s not one day of labor & delivery we should worry about, it’s the next 25 years. I say 87. They marry, have kids, it’s more family & households to worry about, I mean love.
7. Nov, 2000: Kids were with Buzz; I almost flew to Miami to hang out with a friend, who wisely reminded: Be with your parents, enjoy them yourself – they won’t always be there. It was the last Thanksgiving dinner mom cooked.
8. In youth, my motto was say it loud; say it clear. #1 Sis-in-law, big sis I always needed instructed: Everybody doesn’t need to know everything.
9. Talking. I do it less now. A manager debriefed after a sales call: “Girl! Hand the guy an order and SHUT YO’ MOUTH”. He and his wife are best friends to this day. Gracias, Glenn! (Now, stop playing and go sell your cigars!)
10. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow!! You’re only a day away. Grandma shared:  tomorrow never comes. It took decades to understand the concept.

A favorite reminder from Tim Paskert, former colleague; now friend who’s created a faith-based movie (http://theglasswindow.com/) & book.

No more wishing my life away. He teaches: It’s about now. Every day is another step forward.

Thank you, Lord.

In honor of November’s National Family Caregiver Month, they’re recognizing caregivers by sharing stories, available online to read, share, and vote on. Link: http://www.seniorhomes.com/p/family-caregiver-stories-anna-brown/

My Story

I expected to be a caregiver. Though it happened 40 years sooner than “planned”; longevity runs in our family’s women.  My grandmother looks toward her 90th birthday; lives alone in Nowhere, S.C. Great-grandmother lived ‘caregiver-free’ until age 97! Mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor at 57.

Dad deserves credit – the hospice staff was astounded he took care of mom 10 years. I lived 3 hours away, and was busy with full time jobs, marrying King & his kids, raising our 4 kids. I visited every few weeks.

The most memorable trip was when dad took off for his 50^th class reunion. I was glad to help because dad insisted upon staying home and this rare trip was much-needed. I missed Preacher Child’s senior prom; however, Mimi and sister in-law stood in, reported, took beautiful pictures. (Mimi wanted to spank one of those girls for her slinky red dress!)

Mom’s diagnosis was brain cancer; doctors claimed “good treatment” (chemo/surgery/radiation) left memory loss, a form of dementia. I implemented training as a preschool teacher to take care of mom – who resembled 4-year-olds I’d taught or raised at home.

Questions – she asked constant, repetitive questions, years after “good treatment”. I reminded myself: she took care of me. It’s payback for childhood questions she patiently answered – poor lady couldn’t take a bath or enjoy a moment of peace without me plopping down to chat.

I prayed – Heavenly Father, grant grace to take care of this precious woman. Oh Lord, I miss my mother. Sweet Jesus, how on the planet does dad do this every day?

We left sticky notes for her. She wrote notes on a pad. She forgot to read her notes. When she read, she argued. We’d plead: it was her writing for peats’ sake; the words were true. Dad pondered: why the part of her brain controlling stubbornness wasn’t removed, along with the memory and tumor.

Our best strategy was laughter, or we’d lose our collective sanity. I begged dad to try Zoloft; wouldn’t hear of it. He’d laugh; relay stories about mom: “Can’t make this stuff up; hell – some days I think she’s right and I’m losing it.”

That weekend with mom was memorable. Between mantras for long suffering, (and calls to the local florist, begging a same-day corsage for Preacher Child’s prom date) I cooked her favorite meals, planted spring flowers, watched hummingbirds, enjoyed taking care of her so dad could enjoy a well-deserved break.

Oh! And there was breakfast. I sat her down with fruit and a crossword puzzle (believe it or not, she could work them even after “good treatment”. I asked if scrambled eggs would be acceptable. (After a lifetime of being glad someone else cooked so she could simply eat – post brain cancer, mom became quite opinionated about things.)

She confirmed eggs were fine and asked my name. “It’s Anna, mom. Anna.” (Prayed under my breath; returned to kitchen.) I checked again – she asked, “Did you meet that girl, Anna? She’s a real keeper”.

“Sure, mom – I’m Anna”; left to fix her plate.

I set down breakfast and she began eating, raving it was delish. She asked my name – AGAIN.  “It’s Anna, mom. Anna”. Her response: “Oh goody, now we have 2 Annas.”

I wonder why this tickles me. After thinking about it 6 years – maybe I’m glad to know she chose me as her daughter, again and again, and again… I know I’d choose her.

Throughout my life – if Sweet Home Alabama or Spirit in the Sky played on the radio, if a family member struggled with cancer or passed away …

Mom instructed: Don’t resuscitate, don’t hook me to a machine or feed me with a tube. Let me go. Bury me in the cheapest pine box you can find – wear a red dress to my funeral.

Play music, serve good food, have a party ‘cause I’ll be with Jesus.

I imagined wearing that red dress as an old lady myself. Longevity runs deep. Great-grandma lived to 103; Grandma’s pushing 90 and runs circles around us with her new knee – stubborn as ever and game for adventure.

But there I was in church – dressed in red; barely in my 40’s.

Mom was my best friend. We spoke on the phone most every day, before cell phones. I learned to make gravy over the phone, received parenting advice – heard what was up in Alabama with the birds, flowers, weather, cats, her 5^th graders, ladies in her Sunday School class, what dad made for dinner…. I miss those calls.

She was tiny: 4’ 11”and feisty, even through the last few days of her life this side of heaven -  having battled brain cancer for 10 years.

3 days after initial diagnosis and surgery: I received a phone call from mom, thrilling! I‘d expected our calling days to be gone.

She was incensed: “Did you know I had brain surgery? Does your father know about this?  Who’s this O’Malley character?” 

“He’s the neurosurgeon, Mama – he pretty much saved your life.”

Mom was not impressed: “Well he’s a BRICK.”

I reminded her how miraculous she was – working crossword puzzles in the hospital, reading books, scheduled to go home soon, exceeding expectations. She rebuked: “I’m NOT miraculous, people are PRAYING for me!”

(Note: She later changed her mind about the surgeon, named him “The Sainted Dr. O’Malley”.)

A couple of weeks later, at home on Christmas Day – during a lucid moment before I ‘became the parent’…

Mom issued her best advice: “I’ve had a great life. I’m so proud of my children and wonderful grandchildren. I’m not angry with God – or questioning why this happened to me.  So Honey! Stop worrying about fat grams, drink more red wine and enjoy your life. “

I’ll try, promise.

Happy Birthday, Mom. We toast you.

There was doubt as to whether Buzz’s toddler is his biological child. Dominant physical features caused even my recluse father to ask if little tyke was “Spawn of Putin”, (young mother is beautiful; Russian).

Post wedding, I’m certain the child is Buzz’s very own.

Let’s go back to Buzz’s first born… Preacher Child.

8 weeks old; Baptism Sunday. I should have known in the nursery; taken him home after the 21-wipe diaper that ruined an appliquéd heirloom. I changed him into blue corduroy. (If only Mommy had a back-up outfit!) He screamed the entire way down the aisle; took a breath; threw up on me; cried through the first half of the ceremony; fell asleep in my arms.

8 years old; Sunday lunch. Preacher Child announced: “I love God and Jesus is in my heart, but I HATE CHURCH!”

Fast forward thru 15 years of tears at teacher conferences, teen rebellion, brushes with law, trials by college and spiritual awakening to his wedding weekend …

The church was busy with rehearsal activity, impossible to hear on account of Buzz’s baby yelling, running around like it was a McDonald’s Playground.

Chaos! I almost blew a gasket, along with the parents-of-the-bride.

I tried to reason with Buzz: “Please, it’s distracting. The kids can’t hear directions”. (Confession: I hissed, quietly.)

Wedding day, mother-of-the-bride pulled me aside: ”My husband (trained medical professional) has decided: if baby disrupts the ceremony, he’ll escort baby out of the church.”

Snap! We’re going to get along just fine.

“That was my final thought before falling asleep last night. I (trained pre-school professional) will help with this first act of family unity!” We shared a hug and laugh.

The acoustic group sang and a blended family procession began… my friends swear I looked happy and serene. They are good friends. I tried to enjoy the moment, prayed baby would be quiet for an hour. 

God had it covered – if you’ve ever doubted His existence, please read on.

Buzz Trio walked along the front row. Baby let out a heart-stopping scream; Buzz exited. That was the first tear shed on Preacher’s wedding day. Despite his oblivious ways, Buzz deserved to see our son get married.

However! Baby’s exit made for stress-free, glorious ceremony. Our first act of family unity wouldn’t be public-baby-removal, but post-wedding pictures, shared birthdays, house-warmings, and our first grandchild in 10 years…

Preacher Couple was so happy. The message inspired a wonderful word picture of acorns to oaks. They planted and watered a small tree together! The pastor was Australian. Forget I’m the mother – it was storybook/film-worthy.

Preacher’s bride repeated vows, tears streamed down her face – Preacher smiled, lovingly brushed them off with both hands. It was the most authentic, pure wedding ceremony kiss I’ve ever witnessed – as if they invented the tradition.

Bliss!

If ever a doubt – this moment assured: The pair is meant to be. (Many tears; sadly, a couple of quiet nose blows – it was that sweet.)

Yes, there is a God, a very good God. 

And! There’s more! God heard our prayers. He had a plan for this wedding, peace for the congregation so we could bear witness to (and hear!) this sacred event.

Although I couldn’t see it, I heard of it later from my father, favorite cousin (best storyteller on the planet), and confirmed with several friends with a view. Remember Buzz’s departure? Here’s what caused the speedy exit:

Baby screamed; yanked lollipop from his mouth; lobbed it; struck his mother head-on. Poor little tyke, just like his half-brother – yes half-brother, I’m sure of it… 22 years prior; now preparing to tie the knot, spewed vomit on mom and Buzz. They left to clean up (I hear Buzz witnessed vows from back row).

Yep – projectile vomit, aversion to “big church” at an early age, running around wildly – I bet the family farm it’s Buzz’s baby.

Lord, help Buzz and the Russian for the next 20 years.

This Oscar flashback is brought to you by … King and my 72-year-old dad – whom ask daily when I’m going to write again.

The August hiatus was self-imposed for the sake of personal survival and getting things done. In a nutshell:

-       Preacher Child’s wedding/rehearsal

-     Constant management of The Great Blended Family Sandbox.

(You have NO idea)

-       Launched Flower Child – moved into co-ed (help!) dorm; suffered through (all-girl) Rush. She handled better than mom.

-      2011 business trips #2 and #3 fell in August! (I typically travel once a year)

-       Caught a cold on the first trip.

-       Got food poisoning on the next trip.

-       Adapted to corporate America’s micromanagement tool-of-the day.

-       Settled Scholar Child & Party Child in their schools.

-       Kept King from divorcing me so we can enjoy our Empty Nest.

I suffer from the opposite of Writer’s Block – TOO much to share. So full of rich material; I simply don’t know where to begin.

I’m retaining an attorney to determine what I can get away with – she recommends “Wordless”.

The beginning with my babies

Not proud of the Helicopter Mom flash, but I know when to be fiery.

No one said it was easy. I’m just glad they’re in a real dorm – smack in the middle of campus where freshmen belong.

Time for dorm shopping!

Shopping with Preacher & Party Child?

Piece of cake: they didn’t go.

We (King & myself) went to Target & Ikea; bought stuff; stored; unloaded into dorm rooms.

Color scheme of comforters?

Party Child: “That’s STUPID! Who cares?”

Preacher Child: “Cute, Mom. Towels match the blanket and the rug!”

(Note: Preacher/graduate! still uses the goods; has theories about spirituality & personal organization. Yes, Virginia: Time wins!)

College shopping with Flower Child?

Not so much. A time warp back to…

•6th grade – when we graduated from Limited Too/Justice. (Thank you, God, for Rue 21 & Papaya)
•Jeans shopping after Limited Too era. (King took her shopping; I love him forever.)
•Intermediate Bathing suit shopping: Find 1-piece for church/drama camp; fabric & style appealing to a 13-yr old, pain!
•Advanced Bathing suit shopping: Your baby fills a bikini better than you’ve dreamed of in years. Revelation: She’s blooming. You’re wiser, yet fading a bit on the outside. PAIN!
•8th grade dance semi-formal dress shopping.

Excluding Prom 2010 – we had a great run: Age 15 to a few hours ago.

Preacher Child gets married soon; met us at the mall for a tux fitting.

They argued in early years. He & Flower Child are best of friends now.

I warned Preacher, via text: Baby sis – in a mood.

I cornered him at Old Navy, discreetly asked: “Seriously, is it her, or me?”

This seems innocent enough. However, I’m learning otherwise.

Women over the age of 40 shouldn’t ask such questions, ever.

Ages 13-39? Ask away! Blame perfectly, socially acceptable PMS.

After 40? You don’t stand a chance, sister!

It’s “The Change”, regardless of which organs are still in your body.

I need hope.

Is there another universal “explanation” for behavior that follows “The Change”?

Are we finally wise and happy all the time, as God intended? Anyone?

I consulted Preacher: “Seriously, is it HER or me?”

“Oh, Mom, you know it’s probably a little of both.”

Ugh – I asked for that.

You didn’t know that you could find a romantic retreat on a Mom blog, did you?
Welcome to Battle of The Leading Men!
Your Romantic Getaway
Would you like to play?

First meet our special hosts, Clint Eastwood & Timothy Olyphant
Thank you Gentlemen…

Now, meet our co-hosts, Mommy LaDy Club and
Hot Air Balloon Mom.

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1: Please follow, visit and comment for both of our co-hosts, Mommy LaDy Club and Hot Air Balloon Mom
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The Battle voting will remain open through the week, even if you missed linking up. Get all of the details at your Romantic Getaway central and see previous match- ups.

Now…Battle On!

Battle 1:
John Hamm
Battle Cry: Don Draper

vs. Clive Owen
Battle Cry: Just Clive

Battle 2:
Bruce Willis
Battle Cry: Die Hard

vs. Richard Gere Battle Cry: The Waltz

Fiancé Child pointed out: Flower Child visiting a Geek Tech Frat house wasn’t a threat; they don’t know what to do with a girl on campus. We should concern ourselves with her college of choice, aka: 2011 Princeton Review’s #1 Party School in America. (Google it!) She added: Flower Child has a great head on her shoulders and will be fine. (Thanks, Fiancé!)

As destiny would have it, based on grades, rigor and activities, neither Party nor Preacher Child were accepted at UGA, we figured the standards were higher than ever; no way it’s the same wild place I attended in the 80’s.

A mom can dream.

The Movie Scene:

Rumor has it – in the late 1970’s, UGA denied permission to film the legendary John Belushi Movie, Animal House, on its campus – on grounds that an association with a brazen party movie ensured their (already) questionable academic reputation of the day.

The Music Scene:

Check out revolutionary bands, hailing from Athens:

Ø  R.E.M.

Ø  John Mayer (Note: he was discovered at the annual music festival, thankfully! Otherwise, he’d still pump gas at Chevron)

The Bar scene:

 Wikipedia notes: 96 bars dwell in this little town.

The Visitors:

Because of the legendary music scene and 96 bars, young people from a 250-mile radius voyage into Athens to enjoy its culture. Our thought, based on Party Child’s numerous road trips? Outsiders sustain the vibrant reputation, not matriculating students of the university.

Wishful thought! At orientation UGA actually acknowledged its latest honor and documented with statistics – via PowerPoint – to support how co-ed party habits are generally established before they set foot on campus. One must admire the willingness to meet issues head-on.

I survived Athens, along with many others who now lead responsible adult lives. Time wins, right? Surely, Flower Child will burn midnight oil at the library, rather than contribute to Princeton Review’s 2012 Party School ranks?

We know this: Regardless of how our 2011 football season turns out, THIS fine SEC school will always win the party!

We attended college orientation; dorm assignment is messed up. Combine with her campers’ drama extreme (at Performing Arts Camp); add BFF & boy issue, a throat culture …

Time for more wisdom from Mimi. Flower Child at the frat house caused a stir. I almost felt like a bad mom since I wasn’t THAT upset. Why not?

Preacher/Party Child have broken me in?

I sport Rose-colored glasses for Flower Child?

BOOM! Revelation as I prepared for a morning with sweet babies at church, whose only you-know-what you deal with clearly appears in their diapers.

***Mimi’s Return-Policy Prayer***

Yes, that’s return policy on kids, not retail items. Some young mommies will never read this page again. Older mommies laugh, click, thank God theirs are responsible citizens despite themselves.

If you’ve had a fleeting moment, understanding child abuse – you wouldn’t abuse yours, just know how it could happen. This is for you! Leading by example, here’s my moment:

Preacher Child was my first; how could I know it was colic? (Sorry, kids, no Internet back then!) I knew: hadn’t washed my hair, enjoyed a hot meal in weeks. Baby flab drooped on a once-flat tummy. Worn out, I fantasized … driving him to mom’s; crossing the state line for a Waffle House and good night’s sleep.

Mimi is Buzz’s mom. Imagine a fancy lady. Others buy her groceries, walk her dog, and wash her car… 24/7 Mary Kay make-up and large hair, blonde, never out of place. She doesn’t own jeans or a t-shirt. A teetotaler who says a lot without a word.

(It’s a Southern art; I’ll never know.)

Mimi offered comfort when Preacher Child wouldn’t sleep… (She refers to Buzz’s older brother, circa ‘74)

“You know how horrible (my first born) was? He had car wrecks, partied, wouldn’t call, came home drunk, whatever time he felt like, made me crazy. One night I was so SICK of losing sleep, I prayed: “Lord, you gave me this child 17 years ago and he’s a little ($#!+)! I’m giving him right back to you!”

“I haven’t lost a wink of sleep since!”

There you have it – you don’t physically return kids; you claim to whom they belong. You’ll repeat the process throughout their lives, to relieve parenting pressure and promote a little more sleep.

Give it a try – beats a road trip to Alabama, promise.

Truth: They still need you – even after they go to College.

Hauling their stuff back & forth

Finding books on Amazon.com

Money

Health Insurance

Dental Cleanings

Car Issues, their friends’ car issues

Finding football tickets at their fine SEC schools

Taking them and their friends to dinner.

Keeping them on track

Apparently, King never received the parental guidance he deserved; learned everything the hard way. He admits to over-compensating with our children because he wants them to avoid pain.

Sometimes they avoid King, like this summer.

Preacher Child is in summer school, preparing for real life (taxation, marriage, graduation…). Scholar child resides in another state. Flower Child works at as many drama camps as she can pack into her schedule (Paid & unpaid!).

Party Child wishes he’d stayed at the fine SEC institution in Alabama for summer school like he did last year.

It was lecture time in the house.

King decided: Party Child wasn’t properly learning work ethic with his summer job.

“This is the worst recession of recent history – unemployment is 9.2% – the market is down – no end in site!”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY idea how lucky you are to have a job?!?!”

“You’re working on RACE cars, not mini-vans!”

King: “I worked on beat up old cars in Miami – before shops had air conditioning! This is Georgia, how bad can it be?”

(Current weather conditions: North Georgia: 101 degrees; Miami: 98 degrees – I’m just saying.)

Party Child was not happy, but he’s smart and will have a brilliant career in sales. He listened, drank King’s (good) beer, bid his time, let King vent to his big ole heart’s content.

Then he won King over: “DAD! I don’t (gripe) like this when I’m at work; I do whatever they tell me to do. Can’t I just be myself at home and tell you what I really think about my day?”

He learned this communication technique from me. Wish I could take full credit for it – but I learned it from Preacher Child.

Funny thing… so far … 3 of 4 children report: King is the one they really miss when they leave home.

Maybe I should start yelling.

Mimi’s advice: “See that sweet little baby boy? He’ll teach you the balance of life. Daddy throws him up into the air; Mommy clasps her hands on her heart and says “Oh NO!” It’s the balance of life – helps kids grow up.”

That was almost 23 years ago and Mimi was right. (Note: She’s Buzz’s mom; not King’s – proves her observation all-the-more universal.)

Here’s how her nugget of wisdom works when they’re too big to toss into the air:

(Dispelling Myth #2 – College is a very rude awakening)

King: In COLLEGE you’ll live on $3 a week and Ramen Noodles, like I did.

(Was Ramen even invented in the 70’s? Anyone?)

Me: Honey – should we sign up for the 5 or 7-day meal plan?

…………………………………..

King: In COLLEGE, you’ll stay up studying all night long. Did I tell you about the calculus class I took at U of F?

Me: Not all majors require calculus, only class I ever dropped. Don’t take it – not like you want to be a mechanical engineer.   (Note: Party/marketing & Preacher/psych took calculus, I tried.)

……………………………..

King: In COLLEGE, you’ll have to do everything by yourself! You’ll be on your own!!

Me: It will be so much fun in your dorm. You’ll make forever-friends from all over, while you pursue your dreams. ……………………………..

King: You need to LEARN these things – what if your car breaks down in COLLEGE? I won’t be able to help you out.

Me: Look what just came in the mail – your AAA card! Let’s pray you never have to use it.

The Truth –everyone works on their cars around our house, I mean…

Your kids likely won’t miss your cooking, even if you’re fairly reputable. (Bless Pioneer Woman’s heart and her Au Gratin Potatoes that saved my Christmas last year, but she can take me on in a few years if I’m wrong: the kids are too busy having fun and studying to miss your cooking.)

The Meal plan is usually excellent, if not – student cards work at local Domino’s, Chick-fil-A, Subway… on or near campus.

They have access to gyms, (Student Wellness Centers). There are programs such as traveling Frisbee teams they can do for practically free.
(Advice: funded by student activity fees that you pay – be sure your student gets your money’s worth!) They make loads of new friends.

We’re pretty sure they don’t even miss us!

Could I go back to college?

Learn from us…

Myth #1 about Kids going to College: You’ll mope sadly around – forever.

Truth:

Yes, you are sad at first.

Yes, it is quiet

It is eerily strange to see real carpet, not towels on the bedroom floor.

The bed is always made.

There is less laundry.

Milk sours, ice cream lives long enough to crystalize.

You learn to cut back on recipes & use more freezer zip-loc bags.

You have to take the recycling & garbage out.

You’ll set an extra place at the dinner table subconsciously.

All true – but trust me on this – You won’t be sad forever!

My very wise sister-in-law took her oldest child to camp for an entire summer. He was 1^st born, Golden Child of the eventual 8 grandchildren – envy of the family. I said, “But he’s your easy child. Wouldn’t it be better if the Hellion Baby was gone?” (I love Hellion Baby, cut from the same cloth as Preacher Child – blog material for 100’s in the future)

She claimed, “(Heck) no! It doesn’t matter which of the 3 kids leave, life is easier when you’re down one. Doesn’t matter which one.”

I never forgot this wisdom. I’ve embraced peace whenever we’ve been down one child.

Flower Child is the baby; I was very young when Preacher Child was born, so most of my friends are embarking upon their first college-launching experience.

This is what I’m hearing:

Oh, I’m going to be so sad!

Don’t know what I’m going to do!

The kids are lobbying for her room when she leaves!

I’ll hold it together until I drop him off and sob home!

Mark my words – this lasts 72 hours and you begin to realize…

Big shoes don’t trip you by the door.

You can have whatever you want for dinner, whatever time you feel like having it.

Ice cream stays in the freezer for more than 48 hours.

It’s so quiet.

You can back out of your driveway without hitting another vehicle.

They’ll still text you.

Reality Check… Could y’all remind me of all this on July 8^th (college orientation) and again on August 9^th  (rush begins)?

Everyone thinks Flower Child will be my un-doing – so I need to be held accountable on the Truth.

Baby Yellow Dog

It was King’s Birthday; I had to top a flat screen TV & surround sound from the “big 5-0”.

There were other things … King had a hard time when Scholar Child moved to Florida. Next year, Preacher child left for college (Surprisingly, I handled it better than step-dad, or special-dad as he prefers). Next year, Party Child would leave for college; King’s arthritic dog was not long for this world. 3 kids gone and old dog in heaven? I was worried.

So, I ‘reincarnated’ dog of King’s youth, Boozer with the Big Paws – hoping they’d bond before old dog passed and Party Child left the state. Bond they did.

AKA registers: Jackson Patron Crash Rascal Brown

It was collaborative:

Patron – (Party Child) It’s King’s favorite.

Crash – (Scholar Child) We’d described little puppy tearing up our home.

Rascal – (AKA) family name.

Preacher child missed out, fraternity beach weekend won – I called him about our new addition (and to remind, send a Happy Birthday wish/text/call)…

“Mom, what is that noise?”

King’s birthday gift whining in my car.

“A DOG? WHAT are you thinking?”

I love Preacher Child; always good for a reality check.

3 years later, I still hear yellow dog is the best present King’s ever received.

Neighbors who wished we and our big, loud vehicles would move, allowed their children to play with yellow dog. We think it swayed the HOA to let us stay.

Happy to report! Old dog has miraculously survived. She dug deep; found youth.

Once, we knew kids were home when the kitchen door slammed – now a tennis ball flies by the window; yellow dog retrieves. We know one’s back.

When King & I got married, insightful friends gave us a terrific set of ice cream bowls – I wrote a thank you, noting “ice cream was one thing we could all agree on”.

Now, there are at least two things, ice cream and the best dog on the planet.

1. Posted your angst on their Facebook page.
2. Publicly appearanced inside the venue of question
3. Opened letter; glued back together.
4. Knocked on door, asked with whom they’re having fun
5. Banged on window, waiving as they come/go
6. Called/texted more than 4 contacts if you haven’t heard from child recently.
7. Demonstrated happy dance for child.
8. Inquired why they spent $11.92 at Subway or Starbucks
9. Attempted to coerce information while they’re asleep
10. Googled “Screamer” and would have ordered – if it could be YOU screaming.

“Trouble?” I laughed, “How old are they?”

“They’re 10, 8 and 4.” After an extreme outburst of laughter, I gingerly advised: Real trouble would not surface until they carried driver’s licenses.

This made me think about our family’s definition of trouble. Wow. There’s trouble I will never be able to write about – still cry about it, occasionally.

The Epic Car Crash. Party Child returned from college and cut off by a truck on a 47-lane highway in Atlanta. His car flipped; crashed into the cement barrier wall. Thank God he was okay (benefits of a car with a roll cage – scares me I can use a term like Roll Cage, but it saved his life). A witness (angel!) stopped and verified previous events for the police report, so our insurance company called it a hit & run. This financed a big unflip-able truck. Party Child was livid about his car – I tried to offer perspective: “Honey – we could all be at the Spinal Clinic instead of here at Taco Mac right now!” Classic Party Child quote “My body could heal, but my car is GONE.”   Ahhh for youth.

The Golf Cart. Scholar child went off-road with a golf cart. Golf cart had to be professionally towed out of a swamp in Florida.
We only laugh about this one because we learned about it long after it happened and we did not have to deal with the situation. (ie: pay for the collateral damage.)

I set off Saturday morning, in search of a liquor store. Alabama has a law mandating 500-mile radii between liquor stores. I finally found an ABC and a small container of Gentleman’s Jack. (Dad’s worth it; it will last until 2019, so I got the best) While waiting in check out – a harmless old geezer lingered, tried his best stand-up: “Do y’all watch that show, LINGO? I heard a funny joke, can I tell it to y’all?” We nodded, hoping to encourage a speedy exit.

“What’s a 5-letter word that makes women more attractive to men?” We collectively gave up. “BEERS!” He announced, and thankfully, after a few more pleas to watch LINGO, left us to ponder.

Old guy in front of me: “Okay then.”

Cashier: “Yea” (shaking head apologetically)

Me: Public nod – to myself: “Please, God, just get me out of here, I promise to get an Amazon gift card next year, no more Jack Daniels for dad, unless King personally buys it.”

Woman, behind me (who could have taken out the geezer with a single blow): “Well, I know a 5 letter word that makes men more attractive to women: BLIND.”

I love Alabama.

We, the ABC audience, shared chuckles and I began thinking of 5 letter words in relation to men. It hit me – hours later driving back to Georgia: HEART. That’s what I appreciate about the men in my life.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad – you put up with us, provided debt-free educations, loved mom since 1961 and the last 9 1/2 years she was with us were TOUGH by any standard, but you never failed and that’s HEART.

Happy Father’s Day, Brother – what a wonderful, stable, capable man you’ve become. You’ve got a fantastic job, my favorite niece and who knew what an amazing father you’d be? Not only braving science experiments, but Easy-bake oven, then fake eye lashes and make-up for the dance recital? That’s HEART.

Happy Father’s Day, King – First you deal with your own two, and then found room in your heart for 2 more. You adventured in dirt bikes, fishing trips, mechanics, race tracks, junk yards, jailbreaks and near incarcerations with the boys, and then learned to live with the girls – all the while bestowing your little gifts of wisdom. That’s HEART.

And I love y’all!!

She’s earned the right to impose a little guilt. She’s part of his village and tells countless stories of things Preacher child said since his first word (4 months). To his credit, he’s happy to add my friends and those who raised him (including parents) to the flock.
As you can imagine, Party child ‘Unfriended’ the entire family on FB, once word of his keg stand record became a dinner table topic.
We, the parents, do not take stalking rights for granted -maintaining official FB friendship with 3 of 4 children (psst – if you want a clue as to what your child does once he/she obtains a driver’s license or moves to college, FB is an effective parenting tool – but you have to be smart.)

Surprisingly, Preacher child responded it was “hipster” I had a blog. (Hipster, sweet. I’m sure he hasn’t read it yet)
Flower child heard me laughing with friend-who-blew-my-cover. Reaction: “Aww cute, mommy.” See? Time wins. They grow and mature, her reaction was a far cry from her opinion of my foray into Social Media, (circa: 2007): “Actually, mom, you are (sic: too old for Facebook) I mean that in the way that it was designed for high school & college students.”

*According to a seminar by a young man with ad agency, Ogilvie & Mather, the fastest growing demographic of Facebook users? Females ages 55 – 65, so there.
Fiancé child, betrothed to Preacher child, commented how she loves Pioneer Women, whose poppy seed chicken recipe is the very same she posted a picture of on her FB recently. Social media, breaking down cultural barriers every day. (hmm … Hot Air Balloon Mother-in-law? I cringed too – we won’t go there)

*Disclaimer: Only family is fair game. This is a safe environment for friends. I hereby promise not to nickname and add you to Who’s Who. Remember that brief Multi-level-marketing experiment? Lesson learned: never again join the NFL Club (that’s: No Friends Left). Y’all stuck with me and I love you, even if you didn’t buy the eye cream.

Back to Mother’s Day & The Score …
Flower child arose before we woke for church (I heard noises in the hall, thought it was Party child returning home). She returned with an apple fritter from Dutch Monkey Donuts– delightful! She made it a great day; half her friends texted me ‘Happy Mother’s Day’. For this, she (and friends) score a 9.1

Party child texted Saturday, asked if it was Mother’s Day (not unlike King, who never remembers Easter is always on Sunday) He scored for pre-remembering. The first thing he did when returning from work? Said: Happy Mother’s Day! Gave me a big hug. (He also remembered to call his ‘real’ mom, before speaking to me) For this he scores an 8.7

If you’ve had boys, girls, more than 1 child … you know I grade on a scale.
“Different rules for different kids” Live by it.

Scholar Child did not acknowledge Mother’s Day; however, I did not birth him and haven’t had ample opportunity to raise him as the others. (This is a scratch)

Preacher Child –
(That’s right, nothing.)
6pm, Mother’s Day (after steaming to myself most of the day) – I stalked his Facebook to ensure he was alive. Indeed. I stalked Fiance Child to confirm she believed in Mother’s Day – affirmative.

Preacher child posted a mini-sermon about what he’d learned in life. I went public with my angst, Facebook style: “I have found in 46 years: it is a good thing to remember ‘she who carried you in her womb’ on Mother’s Day.” I felt better. He responded at 11:39pm, listing me as his official mom on Facebook. (Point of family contention, he’d listed Buzz, Flower child and a few from the flock, but not me) He sent a nice email at 12:01am on how he kept meaning to call, yet didn’t – that my voice haunts him about hospital corners whenever he makes the bed. For this he scores a 3.5, let’s make it a 3

I am still simmering and you’d better bet – stealth-ly dripping a little guilt here & there to ensure he’s more thoughtful going forward. It’s important to remember your Mama and you know how long your Mama’s going to be around.

Thankfully, several friends and beloved King have suggested I blog for years.

I birthed 2 children and “married into” 2 more. We’ve bailed them out of jail, gone to traffic court, towed their cars, “adopted” their friends, laughed, cried, prayed, celebrated, and learned a LOT. They’ve avoided repeating each others’ mistakes, finding their own brands of trouble and joy.

Knock on wood; all four seem to be maturing nicely and on their way to enjoying responsible lives. (I am not holding my hot breath… yet!)

What’s unique about me? Why blog? I’ve never understood Helicopter Mom. Helicopters roar and hover. People cover their ears and hunker down beneath them.

Helicopter Mom?

Sounds like M-I-C-R-O-M-A-N-A-G-E-R mom.

That’s a 4-letter word, cubed.

No one wants to be micromanaged.

Because our kids don’t respond to hover and roar, I made up Hot Air Balloon Mom. (My husband claims I’m stealth, which sounds like another military air craft – hot air balloons are happy – I like happy.) I prefer to float gently, working with the ebb and flow of our lives, intervening if they’re headed for danger – or forget Mother’s Day.