Suburban Turmoil

I've Moved!

2011-06-28T17:32:00.002-05:00

And soon you'll be moving, too. In a few seconds, you'll be redirected to my new site at:

www.suburbanturmoil.com.

You can subscribe to my new feed here: http://feeds.feedburner.com/suburbanturmoil/aaIB

See you soon!

This is The End

2011-06-27T07:30:00.001-05:00

Well, sort of.

I've had this blog design for quite a while now, and over the last couple of years, I've felt like the whole format was sort of limiting when it came to what I wanted to do, and where I wanted to go with it.

I solved the problem by starting a number of different blogs. The style blog (now at CafeMom) addressed my fashion and beauty addiction. A separate food blog gave me a place to share some of my favorite recipes. For a while, I wrote a blog for Parents.com and there, I could share more of the photographs I love taking of my children, as well as ideas for fun activities that the kids and I have enjoyed doing together. And my review blogs provided a place for me to tell you all about the cool products that I get to try out.

But there were problems with these solutions. While a separate style blog has been a great decision (thanks, @MandyHornbuckle!), the recipe blog was self-designed, ugly, and eventually abandoned. And then Parents.com opted to get rid of its blogs. And then there were other topics I had been wanting to write far more about, like faith and spirituality, that just seemed a little weird to get into on a regular basis on this blog, even though I know there are a lot of you out there that would love to mull it over with me.

Plus, I'm not the same person I was when I started this blog. I like to think that I've evolved at least a little bit. And while I still make lots and lots (and LOTS) of mistakes, I've been at this parenting thing now for ten years. TEN YEARS, PEOPLE. Can you believe I've now handled every age except second grade? Yeah, so can all my new wrinkles and gray hairs. Bah dum CHHHH!

In other words, it has become clear that it was time for a change.

And if all goes well, at some point ~~today~~ Tomorrow? Maybe? You're going to see it.

The new and improved Suburban Turmoil will allow you to access all the things I like to share with the Internets, all in one place. To help you figure out where to go, there will be shiny, new CHANNELS!

LIVE will be the place where most of the posts I normally write here go.

PLAY will be filled with inspiration and ideas on spending quality time with your kids, helping them learn, and keeping them from (gasp!) getting bored.

EAT will contain all my favorite recipes.

PRAY will be a place where I can write about faith and spirituality to my heart's content, and not worry about freaking people out in the process!

TRY will hold my reviews, but I'm solemnly promising before God and everybody that it will ONLY contain reviews of things that I think you really should see for yourself...

And WIN will have my giveaways-- As many of you know, giveaways are kind of a pain to host, so I only do the really good ones, like those that will score you a $100 VISA gift card or $100 in Mary Kay makeup, for example (These two are going on now, by the way).

A handy dandy slide show at the top of the screen will feature the five latest stories I've published, recent posts will be listed under that, and you can always click on the channel tabs at the top of the page if there are particular types of stories you like to read most. My site designer and I have tried to make everything pretty obvious.

More channels could crop up over time- I've intentionally kept things fairly basic so that my site can change as I change. I'm a work in progress and always will be. I want a website that has the ability to be that way, too.

Oh, and I'll also have a new tagline! But you'll have to come back to see it.

Expect things to be a bit wonky for a few days as we get everything in place. And then? KAPOW.

The new and improved Suburban Turmoil!

I hope you like it.

Sweet Dreams are Made of This

2011-06-24T08:20:00.006-05:00

Last night, I read the kids a story before bed. It came from a book of children's literature from the turn of the century and was full of big words and outdated phrases. While my 7-year-old, Punky, was riveted (it was about fairies, after all, and written by one of her favorite authors, Frances Hodgson Burnett), 4-year-old Bruiser quickly dropped off to sleep.

When I was finished, I looked down at him and smiled. He'd had a rough day, complete with not one but two public meltdowns, but in sleep he looked like a rosy little angel. It was hard to imagine that the dear cherub face I gazed down on was the same one that had proclaimed, "I don't even like you!" in the grocery when I wouldn't buy him a Hot Wheels car. I leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

"Can I kiss him, too?" Punky asked from her bed. I smiled and nodded.

"Isn't he cute when he's asleep?" she said after kissing him on his other cheek.

"He really is," I agreed.

"Sometimes when he's asleep and I'm awake," she continued, "I whisper things in his ear that will make him have good dreams."

"Like what?" I asked. I'd never known that she did this.

"Like, 'Vroom vroooooom. Bruiser Ferrier, you've won the race!'" she said softly.

My heart swelled.

I write a lot about the unconditional love parents have for their children, but I hadn't really thought about the fact that siblings feel the same way. Bruiser is very often the most difficult part of his sister's day. He's prone to hitting her when they fight. He follows her around, insists on playing with her friends, breaks her toys, and cries when she won't give him his way.

But at the end of the day, she's still there, whispering sweet dreams into her little brother's ear.

And I'm wiping away tears just thinking about it.

Flash Mob Rage

2011-06-22T10:00:00.006-05:00

Oh you crazy, crazy flash mobbers!

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a total sucker for a good flash mob.

It all started about a year ago, when I saw this famous flash mob video from the Oprah show. Twenty thousand people surprised O by doing a choreographed dance while the Black Eyed Peas performed. I'm not a huge Oprah fan or anything, but I may have cried a little watching it.

Such is the power of the flash mob...

Ever since then, I've been hooked, completely hooked by great flash mob performances.

There was the unforgettable Hallelujah chorus in a shopping mall food court (might have teared up at this one, too)...

And then there was that truly awesome Hammer Time flash mob in an LA clothing store...

Before I knew it, I was scouring YouTube for more flash mob magic.

But there was a problem. The truth was that most flash mobs were kinda... sucky. Like this one in Minneapolis:

I don't mean to go all Debbie Allen in Fame, but come on, people. Your choreography was sooooo sloppy, and as for that guy in the blue t-shirt? He had absolutely no business being there.

A word of advice to flash mobbers: If you can't bring it, you're just blocking the sidewalk.

But that was nothing compared to this flash mob monstrosity:

Okay, so maybe that really was a bad hotel.

But that was also FIVE MINUTES I'LL NEVER GET BACK.

"Gah, Lindsay, you're so cranky today," I can just imagine you thinking to yourself as you scroll through this post. "If you don't like it, don't watch it."

Well, I had that attitude, too, once. Live and let flash mob, I told myself grimly whenever I was tricked into watching a bad one. I have too much on my plate to worry about whether those prisoners stayed true to the spirit of Beyonce's Single Ladies.

Unfortunately, though, I can't keep my angst confined to the Internet. Because as the flash mob mentality infiltrates mainstream America, I'm starting to see flash mobs in real life. A lot. That would be great if they were all wearing gold Hammer pants. But mainstream flash mobbers are too busy for costumes or choreography. They simply want to get their flash mob on as quickly and easily as possible. And where's the fun in that?

I mean, seriously. Do ten people standing frozen in my Kroger for five minutes really constitute a flash mob, or are they simply preventing me from getting to the organic romaine? I'm gonna go with the latter.

This all came to a head at the downtown library a few weeks ago. I was in the library's courtyard during a puppet festival when I heard a loud throat-clearing from a nearby bench. I looked down and saw two hipsterish twenty-somethings, sitting as if they had been turned to stone mid-conversation. The girl hipster's eyes darted to me to make sure I was watching, then returned to the frozen boy across from her.

"Oh, I get it," I said. "A flash mob." I looked around, but there were no more frozen figures dotting the courtyard. Everyone else was moving about normally.

"Wait," I said. "There are only two of you? Really? No one else showed up?" The hipster boy's hands, spread as though he had been about to make a point to his partner, began shaking.

"This isn't even a mob," I told them. "It's just a flash duet. And that's... lame." Sweat beads began to appear on the girl's forehead. Clearly, they were committed to seeing it through, which was sort of impressive. But that meant that I, in my role as flash mob heckler, had to stay committed to my role as well. So I sighed loudly. "Well, this was certainly worth the price of admission," I said. "Bravo." And I walked away.

But not really. At the end of my diatribe, I was still standing there, silently staring at a supremely lame flash duet on a library bench. If the truth be known, I hadn't actually said anything to them.

I'd just thought it. Because that is how I roll.

"Heh," I said instead. I chuckled weakly and walked away from them, fists clenched. I had been forced, forced to view what was very possibly the worst flash mob of all time. And I wasn't one bit happy about it.

Flash mob rage. It's real and it's ugly.

And so now, I am appealing to you, America. We already have to deal with bad drivers. Rude convenience store cashiers. Parents who let their kids run wild. Double parkers. Loud gum chewers. Sufferers of simple chronic halitosis. Out of shape streakers.

What I'm trying to say is that the market on annoying people is already saturated.

So please. Keep your bad flash mobs to yourselves.

Photo credit: Michael Dolan/Flickr

Pssssst.... Wanna win something cool? I'm giving away a $100 VISA gift card here and $100 in makeup here. Go enter- It's soooo easy!

So Many Sandcastles

2011-06-20T07:30:00.002-05:00

Before I had children, the beach was a place for pure, mindless relaxation. During visits to the seaside, I’d spend hours lazing on a towel in the hot sand. I’d walk along the shore for miles, picking up shells along the way. I’d read frothy novels from under a fluttering blue beach umbrella, pausing to gaze out over the blue horizon and empty my mind of every last worrying thought. I’d paddle on a cheap raft out beyond the surf and lie on it with my eyes closed, rocked gently by the waves, one leg dangling in the water.

In my mind, the beach is still a place to relax and unwind… but with a 4 and 7 year-old now accompanying me there, relaxation is the last thing on my mind... and the only thing unwinding is my fraying sanity.

We had planned all kinds of activities both on the water and off during our week on Hilton Head Island, but my little ones were really only interested in spending as much time on the beach as possible. Unfortunately, their idea of a good time on the sand was very different from mine.

There would be no reading or long walks, and I could forget about lying on a towel and soaking up the sun. Instead, my children had a set of beach games they’d invented, which their father and I were expected to supervise each and every time we put on our swimsuits and headed down to the saltwater.

First, my 4-year-old son would drag me out into the ocean, just to the point where the waves tumbled and broke at his waistline. There, his rules required us to point at each wave as it approached, shouting “Dude!” When an especially massive wave came along, we’d turn and run screaming back to shore. Then, after congratulating each other for our bravery, we'd wade out again, and repeat the game.

For hours.

As the week progressed, Bruiser grew bolder, constantly attempting to go deeper in the water and giving me brash assurances that he could swim. “See?” he’d say when challenged, swinging his arms in a caveman’s approximation of the butterfly, “You just go like this!”

“You can’t swim yet, Bruiser,” I’d insist, stopping him from going any deeper by hooking my arms under his armpits and around his chest. He’d counter by going limp and I’d drag him like a potato sack back to shore.

Good times.

Seven-year-old Punky was more interested in planting herself in the sand at the shore and digging for razor clams. Once she tired of that, she’d put Hubs or me in charge of the impossible job of using a net to catch the tiny fish that darted here and there in the surf. Or she’d demand that one of us sit beside her on the shoreline and let the waves crash over our laps. After that, she’d enlist the entire family to take part in a few (dozen) rounds of Ring Around the Rosie. There's nothing quite like playing Ring Around the Rosie in a bathing suit in front of dozens of parents sitting smugly in their beach chairs and gazing at you over their Pat Conroy novel, you know?

But before any of the made-up beach games began, I was expected to build my children a sandcastle, surrounded by a small pool of water. In that water, we’d store all of the treasures we found in the ocean, from starfish to sea snails to the disgusting lone crab claws that occasionally washed ashore. A lounging Barbie in a skimpy bathing suit gave our moat a Jersey Shore vibe, and an assortment of cheap plastic ocean creatures we had picked up at a marina fishing shop made the scene especially festive. No one could say I didn't give it my all.

Building the castle and moat was time-consuming, and it could also be frustrating. The kids wanted it to be as close as possible to the water, which meant that more than once all my hard work was destroyed minutes after its creation in the wake of a miscalculated tide.

Surprisingly, though, I found that I enjoyed building the castle for my kids. I learned to smooth the sand walls with a flat plastic shovel, and to decorate them with the tiny clamshells that dotted the sand. I drizzled wet sand in loopy designs over the top, and painstakingly made a ramp so that my son’s treasured plastic monster truck could roll up and circle the moat’s walls. I found myself becoming completely absorbed in the job, carefully shaping and molding and refining and decorating my sand structure long after my children had moved on to other attractions along the water.

And as I worked, it occurred to me that ten years ago, I would never have had the patience to carefully build and rebuild sand walls that would only be knocked down again by the surf. Just as the waves slowly change the shoreline over time, though, being a wife and mother has gradually reshaped me.

Molding the sand wasn’t so different from my duties at home. I spend hours each week washing and drying and folding clothes, scrubbing pots, mopping floors, brushing tiny teeth, washing hair, making breakfasts, lunches and dinners and doing a hundred other household duties, only to repeat it all over again just as soon as I’ve finished. I spent a few years there at the beginning railing at the indignity and unfairness of the fact that so much of my work was unnoticed, undervalued, and ineffective but over time, I have learned to take satisfaction in the act of simply doing it. I have learned that, whether or not any of my family members ever notice or recognize it, making sure their house and clothes are clean, their food is tasty and their lives are comfortable is a wordless, age-old act of caring.

Of love.

And it goes far beyond household duties. What mother hasn't put in endless hours molding and shaping her children’s lives, creating as much joy and beauty for them as as she can? Experience and time will erode our castles and in some cases, smash them to bits. We know this, and yet we continue to build. And smooth. And decorate. And when the walls start to crumble, we patiently start building all over again.

And so while a part of me would rather be stretched out on the sand with a good book, I’ll build that sandcastle for my children as often as they let me. The waves will destroy it sooner than I’d like- but for one long, glorious moment, the sun will shine, the water will sparkle, the castle will stand magnificent, and my children and I will laugh in delight.

Best. Dad. Ever.

2011-06-19T12:00:00.004-05:00

Happy Father's Day

to a man who's devoted his life to being the best dad he can possibly be.

It is paying off...

And um, also?

It is incredibly sexy!

xoxo,

Lindsay

Your Summer Reading List (for the Next 50 Summers)

2011-06-15T07:30:00.002-05:00

I am, as many of you have probably guessed, a bit of a workaholic.

I am also, as many of you know, at the beach this week.

I've spent the last month or so working ahead on all of my writing assignments so that I could have a fantastic week with my family that was unfettered by deadlines. I also planned ahead for a mental vacation of my own- one that would involve the one thing I love doing but don't get to do enough lately (well, actually, there's more than one thing, but stay with me, mkay?):

Reading.

And so about a week ago, in an effort to have the best Week O' Reading possible, I asked for your book recommendations. And you delivered.

Boy, did you ever deliver!

You gave me so many great titles (each of which I cross-referenced on Amazon, by the way), that I decided I needed to share them with you. I also got out my handy dandy list of EVERYBOOKIHAVEVERREAD and picked out all the ones I think you'd love.

And so now, without further adieu, I present to you....

Your Summer Reading List. FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

You recommend:

My Family and Other Animals
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
If I Stay
A Girl Named Zippy
The Heretic’s Daughter
One Last Thing
Heaven is For Real
The Book Thief
Little Bee
The Bitch in the House
Same Kind of Different as Me
The Historian
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
The Magnificent Ambersons
Cane River
Pope Joan
The Dry Grass of August
The Last Chinese Chef
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down
The Book of Joe
Every Last One
The Pillars of the Earth
Snow Flower and the Secret Fan
Water for Elephants
This is Where I Leave You
Cinderella Ate My Daughter
A Visit from the Goon Squad
One for the Money (Book 1 of the Stephanie Plum series)
The Paris Wife
How Did You Get This Number?
Sarah’s Key
Cutting for Stone
Little Bee
The 19th Wife
How to Talk to a Widower
Winter Garden
Firefly Lane
The Wilder Life
The Swan House
Divergent
In the Woods
The Passage
The Gargoyle

I recommend:

The Secret History- Donna Tartt
Run with the Horsemen- Ferroll Samms
Madame Bovary
All the King's Men
The Lord of the Rings Trilogy
Night- Elie Wiesel
Love in the Time of Cholera
100 Years of Solitude
The Witching Hour- Anne Rice
What Fresh Hell is This (an excellent Dorothy Parker biography)- Marion Meade
Fear of Flying- Erica Jong
To Kill a Mockingbird
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
Cold Sassy Tree
Christy- Catherine Marshall
Wuthering Heights
Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady- Florence King
The Two Mrs. Grenvilles- Dominic Dunne
I'm with the Band- Pamela Des Barres
Jane Eyre
Edie: Diary of an American Girl (amazing biography of Edie Sedgewick by George Plimpton)
Tales of the City-Armistead Maupin
Emma
Self Help-Lorrie Moore
The Diary of Adrian Mole
The House of the Spirits- Isabel Allende
Lakota Woman
Interview with the Vampire
The Vampire Lestat
Charms for the Easy Life - Kaye Gibbons
In Cold Blood- Truman Capote
My Father's Glory/My Mother's Castle- Marcel Pagnol
A Lesson Before Dying
The Lords of Discipline
Corelli's Mandolin
Naked- David Sedaris
Play It as It Lays- Joan Didion
The Remains of the Day
A Year in Provence- Peter Mayle
The "Lucia" books by E.F. Benson
Anna Karenina- Leo Tolstoy
The Once and Future King
The Reader
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
Memoirs of a Geisha
Vanity Fair
The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing
Jean de Florette/Manon of the Springs- Marcel Pagnol
The Harry Potter books- JK Rowling
The Corrections- Jonathan Franzen
Freedom- Jonathan Franzen
The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency- Alexander McCall Smith
Mr. Bridge/ Mrs. Bridge- Evan S. Connell
Coraline
Bel Canto- Ann Patchett
The Hiding Place
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
The Blind Assassin- Margaret Atwood
The Lovely Bones
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius- Dave Eggers
The Time Traveler's Wife
Running With Scissors
The Other Boleyn Girl
The Ruins

Feel free to add more suggestions in the comments- The more the merrier!

And your suggestions are totally rocking my world- We stopped in a locally-owned bookstore in Savannah yesterday and I had a GREAT time because I kept coming across all the books you've recommended. It was so much fun recognizing them and getting a chance to flip through them in person!

Now... What do you recommend?

Image courtesy of nseika/Flickr

Psssst.... I'm giving away $100 in Mary Kay makeup! Enter to win it here.

Wish You Were Here

2011-06-14T07:30:00.000-05:00

Hilton Head. June, 2011.

xoxo,

Lindsay

The Road Warriors

2011-06-13T07:30:00.001-05:00

On Saturday morning, Hubs and I got up at 2:45am, threw on some clothes, made a pot of coffee, loaded up the kids and a few last bags into our SUV, and headed south for Hilton Head Island.

It can be rough getting up hours before dawn, but in the end it was worth it- The roads were relatively clear-- at least until 8am. That's when, just south of Atlanta, we hit construction traffic and went at a snail's pace for about 45 minutes.

As we crawled along in one of two open lanes, our speed maxing out at 10 mph, we had ample time to examine the activity in the four shut-down lanes beside us. And for me anyway, this is where it gets to be frustrating when it comes to highway construction. Because for all the orange cones and the Let ‘Em Live signs, for all the police officers monitoring our behavior as we roll grumpily by and all the big , important-looking paving machines parked here and there beside the interstate, for all the men in hard hats and safety vests, 95% of the time, absolutely nothing is actually happening.

“What are they even doing?” Hubs asked, frowning.

“Well, that guy is taking a stroll, and he’s confused about something,” I said as we passed a man in a neon green vest, wandering down one coned-off lane with the look of a newly-minted zombie.

“And that guy,” I continued, pointing out a man slouched down smoking a cigarette atop a machine with an enormous roller on its front, “is taking a breather.”

We passed a group of construction workers huddled in a group. “Those guys are probably talking about what they did on Friday night,” I said, “and those men sitting on the median over there look like they might be overcome by the car exhaust fumes.”

We drove on for several miles and passed dozens more construction workers who were sitting, standing, smoking, belly scratching, meditating, praying, taking five, taking ten, taking twenty, planning, plotting, musing, loitering, lollygagging, and lazing about.

Finally, 30 minutes later, we came across one single, solitary man sitting behind the wheel of a moving paver. He was a loner, clearly scorned by his fellow construction workers. He was a man who appeared to be operating machinery, a man who was… wait for it… working.

“Wow,” I breathed as we watched the man do the unthinkable. “Wouldja look at that...” A moment or two after we passed the man by, the lanes opened up again, the congestion eased and we were once again on our way.

Road work. It takes a village.

Photo by Flickr/dreamglowpumpkincat210

Crane Day, 2011

2011-06-08T10:22:00.004-05:00

As my rough band of renegades and I strode into Snappy Tomato, all seven heads in the place turned, a mixture of fear and awe plainly visible on their faces. I paused for a moment, lowered my aviators, and took a quick look around the room.

"It's in the back, gang," I muttered to the two henchmen flanking me. "Let's roll."

Confidently, we passed the greeter, the cashier, and the cook and made our way to the back of the restaurant.We had no time for silly pizza. We were there for one reason and one reason only.

The Crane Claw Game.

Crane Day was the official launch event for Bruiser and Punky Ferrier's 2011 Summer Experience. I knew this because it was in my calendar.

After spending a disastrous summer of 2010 with few plans other than "relaxing" and "enjoying the break" (phrases that, incidentally, don't sit well with 6 and 3-year-old children WHO NEED TO BE ENTERTAINED DURING EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY), I spent a week last month mapping out the kids' entire summer. Day camps were booked. Vacation Bible Schools were noted. Beach plans were finalized. Grandparents were called in as reinforcements. By the end of that week, every single day contained at least one set-in-stone activity or excursion.

And it all began with Crane Day- the day that we would do whatever it took to win a stuffed animal from a crane machine. Why?

BECAUSE IT WAS FUN AND A LITTLE BIT INSANE, THAT'S WHY.

I was armed with ten dollars in quarters and a list of nearby crane claw locations, helpfully provided by my Facebook friends. We'd been told Snappy Tomato had a machine that was full of WIN- and so of course, we hit it up first.

I had my doubts, though, as I popped in the first two quarters. The crane claw was small. The stuffed animals were large, and packed in together. This was gonna be tough.

Since I'm a champion crane claw machine operator from way back, the kids had already decided I would man the crane while they directed from either side of the glass windows. We also had made a pact that we would go for the EASIEST stuffed animal to win. Even if it was a dirty and torn stuffed monkey in a sea of brand new Steiff bears. It didn't matter.

Easiest was best...est.

With that in mind, I aimed the claw for a purple hippo that was lazing atop the other toys. But after just two tries, we could tell that our efforts were pointless. The claw had zero grip. The purple hippo didn't even move.

"This machine is a rip-off," Punky said. "Let's go to the next place."

"Great idea," I told her. I didn't smile back at the manager who said goodbye as we made our way out. I knew his dirty crane claw secret. He wasn't to be trusted.

Our next stop was Shoney's. A former co-worker had informed me that Shoney's was home to one of the best crane claws in town, and when we saw it for ourselves, we weren't disappointed. The claw on the Shoney's machine was enormous. The stuffed animals were in complete disarray, and clearly had been knocked around more than a few times. We decided to go for a tacky red dog, and within two tries...

HE WAS OURS.

My daughter squealed and immediately claimed him as her own, naming him Lucky and hugging him much like I would have hugged a $500 Boden gift certificate. (Oh, if only they had a crane claw machine full of $500 Boden gift certificates. I'd be there all day.)We still had a lot of quarters left, too, and that could only mean one thing.

"Let's win one for Bruiser!" I said excitedly. The kids cheered.

And that's when things started to go downhill.

The Shoney's machine had a Clifford dog dressed as a fireman that was giving me fits. We'd drag him toward the drop bin, only to watch him fall back on his fat doggy a$ at the very last moment. Dumb dog. I wasted five dollars in quarters and attracted a small crowd of onlookers before we decided it was time to move on.

Next stop on our list: Toys R Us.

Toys R Us was a total disappointment, and we didn't stay long. It had the same pathetically small claw as Snappy Tomato, and while the grip was slightly better, the toys had been carefully arranged to not budge. Boo.

We moved on to Pizza Perfect, where the game cost just 25 cents as opposed to 50. I thought that was appropriate since the Pizza Perfect claw was completely ineffectual. By this time, our efforts were half-hearted. We were all thinking one thing...

"Let's go back to Shoney's!" my daughter crowed. "Shoney's has the big claw!"

I agreed, but I had to make a return trip worth our while. I called Hubs.

"Hey honey, this crane claw thing is taking longer than I thought. Want to meet us at Shoney's for dinner?" We don't go out to eat a whole lot because frankly, we can't afford it. (despite SOME PEOPLE'S belief that I shop all day long.) But I had an ace up my sleeve and knew my husband wouldn't refuse.

"Shoney's?" he said happily. "I have a 50% off coupon for Shoney's!"

Bingo.

Yes, my husband is a coupon clipper, at least when it comes to restaurants. He keeps a bag full of coupons from all the clipper magazines and sorts through it at least once a week. Just for fun. There. The secret's out. Your man might keep a stack of car magazines or back issues of Playboy in his nightstand. My man clips restaurant coupons. I'LL TAKE IT.

"We'll meet you there," I said. "And uh, Hubs? Bring quarters."

As we made our way back into Shoney's, the employees looked up in surprise. One of them noted my glazed eyes and smiled wryly. "Need more quarters?" he asked. Clearly, he knew the Power of the Big Claw.

"No," I said. "I'm good." I'd used up all of my own money, but had thought to raid Punky's piggybank before we left. Fortunately, she was as hooked as I was.

"You can do it, Mommy!" she whispered, pulling her quarters from her Barbie purse as we made our way back to the crane claw. "I know you'll get Clifford this time!" I smiled at her and got to work.

I was on my fifth try and had only two quarters left when Hubs entered the restaurant. "We need all your quarters," I said without looking at him. "Hand them over."

"How much have you already spent?" he asked suspiciously. Evidently, he recognized my expression as the same one I got in front of the Plinko game at Chuck E. Cheese.

"Seven dollars," I lied. It was more like twice that, but what Hubs didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He dug out his wallet and scrounged up two more quarters.

"This is all I've got," he said. I took them wordlessly and inserted them into the machine. But it was no use. The claw scraped uselessly at Clifford's stupid fire hat and then bobbed back up, empty. I stared desolately at Clifford and from behind the glass, he met my gaze with a mocking one of his own. Punky put her hand on my arm.

"Well, at least we have Lucky," she said.

"But your brother..." I said brokenly. We looked over at him, where he stood atop a stuffed bench in the waiting area. He farted loudly and chortled. The man sitting beside him gaped.

"I think he'll be okay," Punky said. And she was right. Bruiser had given up on the crane claw game long ago, resorting instead to Entertaining the Customers. Smart kid.

As for me, well you can say I was a fool for wasting all my money on a cheap stuffed dog. But I have only three words for Crane Day 2011:

We got Lucky.

And that's all anyone needs to know.

Crane claw photo courtesty of Leland Francisco/Flickr

The Voice

2011-06-06T08:41:00.001-05:00

"Hello?"

"Hi Susan, it's Lindsay," I said into the phone. "We were wondering if Jenny might like to come over and play for a little while."

There was a confused pause and then a loud exhalation into the phone.

"Susan?" I asked.

"I'll get my mom," she answered.

Oops. I realized in that moment that she was a he. And he was Susan's ten-year-old son.

What can I say? On the phone, at least, he sounded exactly like Susan.

I covered the receiver while Joey went to look for his mom. "Oh no!" I whispered to my husband. "That was actually Joey on the phone!"

"Niiice," my husband said, chuckling.

In a few moments, Susan answered and I managed to keep my giggles at bay as we arranged an impromptu playdate. I didn't mention what had happened with Joey, but I had no doubt it was still on his mind. The memories had all come rushing back the moment I heard his exaggerated sigh.

I vividly recall a few years growing up when adults would call our home and think my older brother was my mom. Oh, the mortification! The shame! To a boy right on the verge of The Changing of the Voice, there's not much more humiliating than being mistaken for your mother.

GAH.

"Do you remember that happening when you were a kid?" I asked Hubs after I'd hung up with Susan. "Because I remember when that would happen to my brother, and it was a VERY BIG DEAL. There was a lot of angst afterward. A lot of accusations."

"Of course I remember it," Hubs said. "It was awful! So embarrassing!"

I looked over at Bruiser, innocently playing with his Batman set, and thought about what was to come-- It's yet another piece in the puzzle of raising a boy that I hadn't considered up until that moment. Being mistaken for a woman at a time when that seems like the worst, most humiliating thing that could possibly ever happen to you...

I giggled again. I couldn't help it.

It's going to be hilarious.

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*Alert! I'm giving away $100 worth of makeup! Go here and enter to win it.

Balloon Rage

2011-06-02T11:09:00.004-05:00

It was a typically magical Sunday afternoon at the Nashville Library's annual puppet festival. There were puppet shows and demonstrations...

Random acts of cuteness...

...And then there was this guy.

The balloon guy.

You know him... or at least, you know his kind. He shows up at birthday parties and childrens festivals, delighting the kids and striking fear and loathing in the hearts of parents. For while the balloon guy can work magic with balloons, his lines are inevitably hella long. And his air-filled poodles and pirate hats nearly always pop within five minutes of their creation, resulting in a crying child and, for the weak, another eternal wait in line.

This particular balloon guy was one of the best... He was clearly a Grand Poobah of Balloon Creatures, whipping up all kinds of elaborate creations: three-foot wizard wands with fuzzy pom poms rattling around inside... crazy balloon hats with tentacles that extended in every direction... and, after an hour-long wait, a unicorn for my daughter and a spider hanging from a tree branch for my son.

Understandably, my children were thrilled. They waved their balloon creations around happily as we filed into one of the library's auditoriums for the final show of the day: Pinocchio, a one-man performance from Atlanta featuring puppets made out of found objects.

As we settled into our seats, Bruiser and a kid in front of us staged a mock battle between Bruiser's balloon spider and the kid's balloon pirate sword.

"That's enough," I told Bruiser after the other kid bonked me in the head with his sword. "The show's about to start. Let's put our balloons under our seats until it's over so that they don't pop." The kids whined a bit, but eventually allowed me to stow their balloons for the duration of the puppet show. But as I looked around, I noticed that other parents weren't bothering to do what I had done. Everywhere in the auditorium, balloons were visible- balloon wands waved, balloon flowers bobbed, balloon swords swished. The lights went down and across the auditorium, dozens of balloons quivered in anticipation.

The show started and my kids forgot their own balloons entirely as the puppeteer launched into the story of the puppet my son calls "Pokey-nose." Indeed, the entire audience was riveted by the performer's completely unique rendition of the tale. A hush fell over the crowd as Pinocchio ran away from home and joined the circus-- and then-- about 15 minutes into the performance during an exceedingly quiet moment on stage, there came a loud

POP!

from the audience.

"GET THAT THING OUT! OF! MY! FACE!" a woman yelled from one of the seats on the right side of the auditorium.

Every head in the audience turned to see what was going on. The performer continued with his show, but the woman was still carrying on, and you could hear bits and pieces of her diatribe over the puppeteer.

"...HAVE HAD ENOUGH!"

"...COMMON DECENCY..."

"...AGGRESSIVELY WAVING THAT THING..."

I sat listening, agape. From what I could gather, the woman had grown tired of some kid waving his balloon in front of her during the show and... and...

popped it.

"Balloon rage," I whispered to my husband. He nodded sagely.

Because while the woman's actions were shocking and strangely... violent, I think we've all experienced balloon rage at one time or another. Who among us hasn't dealt with someone constantly getting in our face? Which of us hasn't felt the temptation to just reach out one time and...

POP?

Balloon rage. Unleash your inner straight pin.

When Tiger Mom Attacks

2011-05-31T12:00:00.000-05:00

The last time my inner Tiger Mom made an appearance was at Punky's first grade awards program.

While all of the children sang two songs as a group, a few individual kids had been chosen to step up to the microphone and announce each selection. I was trying my best to simply enjoy the show... but my inner Tiger Mom was making that impossible.

Why wasn't Punky chosen to introduce a song? she hissed in my head. What do those kids have that she doesn't? You really need to work with her on her speaking skills!

"Don't be ridiculous," I murmured through gritted teeth. I smiled at Punky up on the stage and she grinned happily back. My kid didn't care. So why should I?

But Tiger Mom wasn't giving up that easily.

As the singing ended and the awards began, she was more vicious than ever, booing when Punky wasn't voted Best Citizen and screeching in dismay when my daughter narrowly missed the top reader award. I thought of all the books Punky had read- three a day sometimes- and dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands. My inner Tiger Mom laughed approvingly.

Next year, we'll work even harder, she promised, her voice quivering with rage. We'll take that award next year and our honor will be restored. RESTORED, I tell you!

"Shut up!" I whispered.

"Excuse me?" said a mom beside me.

I paused. "What up?" I said finally. She stared at me. "What up, girlfriend?" I repeated. She snorted and looked away.

Tiger Mom was at it again.

I have always been competitive, which is not entirely a bad thing. Correctly harnessed, my competitiveness has spurred me on to to do some things I'm really proud of. As a parent, though, my competitive streak is actually a liability- especially when there's an excellent chance that neither of my children have inherited it.

Certainly, Punky wasn't feeling the wrath of her own personal Tiger Kid as she stood on the stage. She smiled with pleasure when her friends received their special awards. The only thing that would have upset her on that day was if her dad and I hadn't been there.

I constantly remind myself of these things as I watch my daughter fall behind while riding bikes with friends or write her letters and numbers backward. I tell myself that her father and I know she's special, and so does her teacher, and so do her grandparents. I review the facts over and over again in my mind: Punky is a very happy child. Punky loves to learn. Punky will spend the rest of her life feeling pressure and that pressure doesn't need to start in first grade.

But Tiger Mom is always lurking, always ready to take advantage of my weaker moments. And the truth is, I suspect I'm not the only one she's bothering. I think most every mother has at least a little bit of Tiger Mom in her, regardless of who she is or where she came from. We all secretly want our kids to be the best...

At absolutely everything.

I've seen Tiger Mom's distinctive mark in graded school projects that have clearly benefited from a "helping hand." I've heard Tiger Moms at soccer games, when otherwise mild-mannered women scream at refs and coaches over "bad" decisions. I've witnessed dozens of Tiger Moms emerge at kids' competitions and award ceremonies-- they're the tight-lipped, fidgety ones sitting up front, talking to no one until the winning names have been called.

Don't blame us. Blame our inner Tiger Mom.

I really need to figure out how to shut mine up once and for all.

It's Called Bruiser's Theme

2011-05-25T12:47:00.007-05:00

Now that my son is four, he's becoming more and more independent with each passing month.

Bruiser spends the bulk of his days completely absorbed in play, whether he's drawing space men with colored markers, molding Play-Doh into flying machines, playing robot games on the computer, or looking through his dog-eared collection of toy catalogs. As he plays, he talks quietly to himself, giving voices to the characters he has created in his own mind, while I often stand just around the corner, listening to his scenarios and fighting back giggles.

Bruiser, you see, includes something in his imaginary play that his sister did not:

A soundtrack.

He's always hummed soundless tunes as he's played-- but I noticed recently that the tune has now become a theme... a recurring theme. Judging by the gusto with which he sings it, in his little mind the music clearly invokes passion and toughness, engine-revving, motor oil and sweat. Bruiser is growing up in an era of video and computer games, HD movies on a 47-inch screen and 3D films at the theater. It only makes sense, I guess, that the pretend scenarios he creates for his stuffed animals and Tonka Trucks also have a soundtrack-- one he's created. THERE WILL BE NO COPYRIGHT ISSUES FOR MY BOY.

Despite the honored position it holds in his playtimes now, I knew the tune would be forgotten after a few more months-- and I couldn't let that happen. So I taped it. I had him sing it for me.

And yes, I did what I can never seem to resist doing when interacting with my son. I teased him just a little bit.

Here you go.

BRUISER'S THEME:

That's all...

Setting Our Kids Loose in Today's Real World

2011-05-23T09:30:00.000-05:00

I have a confession.

I've been watching a show that's so trashy, so salacious, so disgustingly scandalous that I hastily turn it off in embarrassment whenever anyone else is in the room.

It's called Real World: Las Vegas, and even though its disturbing images haunt me for days, I can't stop watching.

The premise is the same as you remember from your own MTV days. It's the story of seven strangers, picked to live in a house and have their lives taped.

Gone, though, are the staunch Republicans, the AIDS patients, the cowboys, the naive Southern girls from the Real World we remember. They've been replaced by young men and women whose sole goals in life seem to consist of hooking up with as many people as possible, fighting, and getting fall-down drunk.

This season alone, every single castmate has made out with or had sex with another castmate. One was sent home for repeatedly getting wasted and trashing their penthouse suite. Another was outed as having gay porn videos on the Internet- even though he was hooking up with a female castmate each night and hadn't bothered to tell her about his past. That same female got drunk after learning about his sexual history and hooked up with another female castmate. Two more castmates endured a pregnancy/STD scare, after the guy admitted he hadn't been using protection with the other women he'd been sleeping with in Las Vegas. And the scandal and bad behavior goes on. And on. And on.

Why am I watching this trash? For one important reason.

Our kids are going to be watching it, too. Like it or not, MTV continues to be the arbiter of what's current among teens and young adults.

I remember relating to the Real World cast members when I was their age. On some level, their lives and experiences, their likes and dislikes, mirrored my own and those of my friends. I'm going to sound like a codger now, but wasn't it important when we were Real World age to stand for something? Sure there was drinking and there were hookups among our friends, but there were also lots of heartfelt talks about the meaning of our lives and where we were headed. There was concern over the state of our government and our world. Relationships were painstakingly analyzed. Ideas were exchanged. Philosophies were tested.

I see none of that now. I see young people concerned only with getting drunk and getting laid. That's essentially the plotline of every single Real World episode that airs.

And that concerns me.

I'd like to see MTV catch up with these castmembers six months after the last Real World has aired. And a year down the road. And five years after that. I'd like to hear what the castmates have to say about the random hookups and excessive drinking then. I want to know how their pasts affect them when they have their first serious adult relationship. When they marry. When they have kids of their own. That's the Real World. But our kids won't see that on MTV, will they?

It's depressing that sex is portrayed now as being no more meaningful than an extended makeout session. It's depressing to hear that young, educated men and women are still using the "pull-out method" and going without protection when they have sex with strangers, because that stranger "looked clean." It's depressing to see that a night out on the town isn't really complete unless it ends with everyone doing something they wouldn't do sober, whether it's hooking up or fighting or passing out on the floor of the bar.

It's depressing that this is the Real World our kids are inheriting.

I don't like it. But I do feel the need to know about it. How else am I going to know what I'm up against?

What do you think about the Real World our kids are entering? Do you see differences from when we were growing up, or do you think it's no different from when we were their age?

Cicadageddon

2011-05-20T07:43:00.005-05:00

Last night, we all got home from the Y and heard a very loud rustling from underneath the mulch in our front yard planters. It sounded like an effect from some sort of sci-fi alien thriller.

It was, we soon discovered, the sound of thousands of cicadas, emerging from underground.

Hubs ran and grabbed a flashlight so that we could see for ourselves exactly what was happening. When he came back out, he shined the beam onto a tree in our front yard.

Its trunk was completely covered in cicadas, slowly climbing up into the tree's branches. It was so gross, I had to video it.

Tomorrow is supposed to be C-Day here in Nashville. Cicada Day. Their numbers will peak, and if last night was any indication, it is wise for all of us to be very, very afraid.

It also is starting to seem like more than coincidence that tomorrow is the Day the World is Scheduled to End.

I'd say this cicada thing definitely qualifies as a plague.

Wouldn't you?

Mall Meltdown

2011-05-18T10:11:00.004-05:00

Over at The Stir this week, I wrote a post about getting snubbed by a couple of sales people while shopping at a clothing store here in Nashville.

It was one of those topics I thought a lot of women would be able to relate to- and boy, was I right. Commenters came out of the woodwork, itching to talk about the times they had been dissed by store employees.

The funny thing was that the snubbing I experienced wasn't the only bizarre incident I had with a sales person that day at the mall. On the very same visit, I managed to cause great consternation among the employees at Dillards AND Macy's. Now that I have small children, I don't go to the mall as often as I used to, and at the end of that day I was left thinking that somehow, mall etiquette rules must have changed, and no one had bothered to send me the memo.

It happened like this...

I went to Dillards looking for spring clothes on a weekday morning, when the store was all but empty. Within a few minutes of browsing in the woman's department, I had a couple of pieces thrown over one arm. A sales person came and asked if I wanted her to start a fitting room for me.

"Oh no thanks," I said. "I'm okay for now."

In salesperson-ese, refusing the starting of a fitting room is basically like spitting in the salesperson's face. At least, that's what I gathered from the woman's expression after I turned down her offer.

But here's the thing... Women's departments are sort of large and spread out. I'd rather gather up all I'm going to try on, THEN find a fitting room and get it all over with in one fell swoop, as opposed to letting some salesperson start a fitting room and spending ten minutes once I'm ready to try things on attempting to figure out WHICH of many fitting rooms in the store she put my clothes in.

Also? Quite often, I want to keep the clothing with me so that I can match it to other pieces. IS THAT SUCH A BIG DEAL?

Apparently, yes. Yes it is.

The woman proceeded to tail me at a distance and within a few minutes, she was joined by another employee, who, after a whispered conference with the first, also asked if she could start a fitting room for me.

"No thank you," I said politely. "But I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Cue horrified Did-you-really-just-SPIT-ON-ME look from the second employee.

And now I had two salespeople tailing me at a not-so-respectable distance.

Brilliant.

Eventually, I had about eight things to try on. I headed for the nearest fitting room, found an empty stall, and went inside. There were a few items of Dillards clothing on the floor of the fitting room, but since I was the only shopper I'd seen in the area for quite some time, I logically assumed that person was done trying on clothes and the things she had tried on hadn't been put away yet by an employee (probably because the employee was too busy tailing dangerous customers like me).

I began trying on my clothes.

A good 20 minutes later, I was almost done, and a customer and salesperson came into the dressing room.

"Oh, whoops," the customer said. "Someone else is in there now. I had a pair of pants in there I wanted to buy."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"I need a pair of pants that were left in that dressing room when you went in there and I need them now," the salesperson announced testily. I could tell by her voice that it was the first woman I had "spat" on.

"Okay," I said. "Let me just put a shirt on."

"Another customer was trying on clothes in there," she hissed. "I need those pants now."

"Just trying to get un-naked," I said. "I'm moving as fast as I can!"

Seconds later, I opened the door and handed her the clothes.

"I couldn't have known," I said apologetically. "This dressing room has been completely empty for the last thirty minutes."

"We like to let customers into dressing rooms ourselves," she said angrily.

"Clearly," I said, smiling and shutting the door.

A few minutes later, I was done. I took two items I had chosen to buy and left the dressing rooms. Outside, the saleswoman stood with a pack of other saleswomen. She saw me come out and her voice dropped to a whisper.

I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter. 'D' for Dressingroomstealer. Or maybe 'W,' for Wouldnotletsalespeoplestartafittingroomforher. I held my head high and marched past them with burning cheeks. What was with all the hostility? I hadn't meant to steal someone else's dressing room. Even the customer seemed to know that. And where were the rules posted stating that I had to let a salesperson start a fitting room for me or suffer dire consequences? GAH.

I left Dillards and headed straight for The Snubbing.

After that, I ended my morning at Macy's, where employees waved their arms and shouted at me as I got on the escalator, apparently because I was carrying a blouse from the second floor and headed down to Petites to see if I could find a coordinating skirt. Is that not allowed now, either? I didn't know and at that point, I was too beaten down to bother with it.

"No speako Englisho," I shouted back at the employees, shrugging and pointing at my ear. I've begun using this phrase whenever I don't feel like answering questions, and it tends to be pretty effective, particularly if delivered with a Southern accent. It worked at Macy's, too. No one followed me downstairs.

I'm beginning to wonder if there's some sort of WANTED poster with my picture on it in all the employee breakrooms at that mall. HOW ELSE can you explain the number of people there who were suddenly all up in my grill? Was Marzipan behind this? Or maybe Ima Nidiot?

I don't know... but I'm determined to find out.

In Defense of Germs

2011-05-16T07:30:00.005-05:00

Like so many first children who've come before her, my daughter Punky spent her early childhood in a virtual plastic bubble.

Her hair was combed. Her fingernails were clean. Her hands were sanitized. Her clothing was spotless. My girl baby was germ-free and, fueled by my pediatrician's warnings, Parents Magazine articles, and television commercials featuring wise-looking, capri-wearing moms armed with Lysol Spray, I went to extraordinary lengths to keep her that way.

Toys were wiped down daily. Children with runny noses were scorned. Hand washings were frequent. Shopping carts and restaurant highchairs were painstakingly double lined with blankets. Yes, I bought into the anti-germ propaganda peddled to anxious first-time moms, because I cared. Obviously.

Of course, seasoned moms can guess the results of all my labor.

Punky got sick anyway.

Quite a lot, actually. Rotavirus, croup, ear infections, flu... She had it all. Oftentimes, more than once.

But I didn't make the connection. No, when Bruiser was born, I resolved to keep him just as germ-free as his sister. As many of you remember, though, Bruiser was a... well... a more challenging baby than his sister had been. He cried a lot. He slept a little. That meant that much of the germ-killing attention I had planned to shower on him was rerouted to ensuring that both of us simply survived.

(Lest you think I'm exaggerating: Bruiser [and therefore, I] didn't sleep through the night until he was THREE AND A HALF. That was just six months ago, people. It's a miracle that I'm not in a sanitarium right now, if you want to know the truth.)

Suffice it to say that Bruiser was a very different child than his sister had been. Where Punky had one meltdown ever in the history of her baby and toddler years, Bruiser had them weekly. Daily. Hourly. My husband and I raised our son during those early years like he was a human hot potato, passing him back and forth, each hoping the other would be holding him when he went off.

Consequently, the kid got away with far more than his sister ever would have. He was an emotional terrorist and we were his sleepless victims. On the rare occasions that we took him shopping, he ran and shouted and we often bit our lips-- calling him out would have resulted in screams that would have attracted even more negative attention. And when we went to restaurants, the kid spent most of his time under the table, crawling around in God knows what was down there, and then stuffing his fingers in his mouth.

Oh yes.

I watched it happen more than once. Much more than once. Not only that, I let it happen. Why? Because I wanted to finish my Black and Blue Salad in peace, dammit. Was that so much to ask?

And that's not all.

Over the years, I've watched in horror as Bruiser has picked up dirty candy from the ground outside and eaten it. I've shuddered to see him sucking on his fingers, just a few minutes after playing in rainwater that had accumulated in the wheelbarrow in our backyard. I held back dry heaves as he scrambled to eat a wet fruit gummy that had rolled under a bench in a government building, held it up to the light so that I could see the scum and dust bunnies hanging off it, and happily popped it into his mouth. And on at least one memorable occasion, I cleaned poo out of his mouth.

It's not that I didn't try to prevent these things from happening. It's that they generally happened so frequently and so fast, there was nothing I could do about it. And at other times, God help me, I chose my battles. Of course I'd prefer Bruiser not lick the wooden blocks in the doctor's office waiting room, but better the blocks than a toilet seat, right? That's the power of positive thinking, people. Try it some time.

So with all this germ eating, you'd think Bruiser would have spent his early childhood twice as sick as his spotless sister, right?

Think again.

Bruiser got sick maybe once or twice a year. Max. Often when he did get sick, he hardly showed any symptoms. He was the first of us to get Swine Flu, for example, but his symptoms were so minor that we didn't even realize he had it until the rest of us had come down with it. When my husband and I came down with a wicked case of strep throat a few years ago, I had Bruiser tested, just for kicks. It turned out he was the carrier, but he was showing absolutely no signs of strep... so we'd had no idea.

As for all the usual childhood illnesses Punky endured- stomach flu, rotavirus, croup, etc- Bruiser didn't get a single one.

And while it's hard for me to admit, I think... I mean, I hate to say it but I think...

All those germs he ate had something to do with it.

So to all the new moms out there with your super-sized bottles of hand sanitizer, your shopping cart seat covers, your gadgets that allow you to conveniently hang your baby on the bathroom stall door while you empty your bladder, I have a little advice for you.

Let them eat dirt. And dust bunnies. And maybe even... poo. As long as it's their own.

It probably won't hurt them. It might even help them.

But you didn't hear that from me.

Invasion of the Cicadas

2011-05-13T11:35:00.005-05:00

Well friends, it looks like the thing I've been dreading for months has finally arrived:

NASHVILLE CICADA INVASION, 2011.

Yes, this is the year that "Brood XIX" emerges from underground and does their mating thing. What that means for us humans is that millions of cicadas will be wreaking havoc on Nashville...

for the NEXT SIX WEEKS.

*shudder*

I wasn't here the last time Brood XIX came up for air thirteen years ago, but it seems that everyone who was has a story about it.

And most of those stories involve a cicada in the mouth.

IN THE MOUTH, people.

Let us pause for a moment as you imagine this thing flying into your mouth.

Of course, I'm hoping that the stories I've been hearing of cicadas in homes, in clothing, in hair, and in other, uh... orifices... have been embellished a bit in people's memories over the last decade or so. I'm hoping that all the tiny holes that have appeared in the ground in our front yard around our big elm tree were actually created by a silent team of cleats-wearing soccer players, who just happened to run through our yard at midnight. I'm hoping that the beetle-like creatures I'm starting to see on trees and sidewalks everywhere I look are just ordinary bugs. I'm hoping that that whirring sound in the trees that I couldn't ignore yesterday was just...

Oh hell.

They're heee-eere.

And I'm not leaving my house until they're gone.

Images via Anderson Design Group and tinyfroglet/Flickr

Rage Against the Dry Cleaner

2011-05-11T10:56:00.009-05:00

A few months ago, Bruiser had a bout of potty training regression and managed to wet both his bed and ours in the space of two nights. As a result, I had not one but two down comforters that needed to be dry cleaned, and since I wasn't willing to hand over my life savings to the overpriced dry cleaners down the road, I decided to try a drive-thru dry cleaner about 15 minutes away, in a less-expensive part of town.

When I drove up to the door of the place, I spotted a little man inside. An adorable, sweater-clad lapdog was seated in a chair beside him.

"Look at that doggy, kids," I said. "Isn't it sweet?" The dog, I thought, was a good sign. Clearly, this man was something of an eccentric. He would probably clean my comforters cheaply and perhaps even give me something a little more interesting to report when it came to the dreaded how-was-your-day conversation I had with my husband each evening. (Dreaded because "I cleaned out the oven. It took a whole hour," just doesn't have the same impressive ring as my husband's "A serial arsonist threatened to shoot me when I asked him to do an interview.")

"I have these two comforters to be cleaned," I told the man as I pulled the comforters from the back of my car. He gave them a quick once-over.

"Pick them up... Thursday," he said, nodding curtly. He asked for my phone number, then printed up a ticket and handed it to me.

"Okay, thanks!" I said. "'Bye now." I looked at the ticket. Four days was a long time to go without our comforters, but he was ten dollars cheaper than the dry cleaners near my house.

SCORE.

After suffering under thin blankets for a few chilly nights, Thursday couldn't come fast enough. I picked up the kids from school that afternoon and then headed back over to the dry cleaner. Once again, the man was sitting there with his dog beside him. This time, the critter was dressed in a little yellow sweater. I smiled indulgently. "There's that doggy again," I said to the children. "See?" The man stood up and came to my window and I handed him my ticket. He looked at it.

"Not ready," he said. "Come back tomorrow." Without a word of explanation, he turned and went back inside. My smile changed to a frown. I drove away.

"Mommy, I want my blanket," Bruiser whined from the backseat.

"I know, honey," I said through gritted teeth. "I want mine, too." As if in league with my new dry cleaner, the temperature dropped another 20 degrees that night. Bruiser got the extra comforter we kept stashed in the hall closet. Meanwhile, huddled underneath two guest room blankets, my husband and I had never been so cold.

The very next afternoon, I headed back to the dry cleaners. It was so cold that the man had closed his sliding glass door. I peered inside and could see him behind the counter, with his back to me. He was wearing a large pair of headphones. I tapped on the glass. "Hello," I called. Nothing. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped tentatively inside. "Hello?" I said. He didn't move. "Hello. Hello! HELLO HELLO HELLOOOOOO!" At my feet, the dog barked. The man still didn't turn around. I sighed and looked out at my children in the car, who gazed back at me with questioning faces. This sucked.

Finally, the man turned around. He saw me and grimaced.

"Not ready yet," he said. "Come back Monday."

"Monday?" I said. "But this is my third trip! What is going on?"

"Not ready," he repeated, motioning for me to leave. "Come back Monday." As I was shepherded toward the door, I turned back. "We are very cold," I said pleadingly. I wanted to make sure he understood. I held my arms and shivered exaggeratedly. "VERY COLD," I repeated.

"Come back Monday," he said, sliding his glass door shut.

Scowling, I got back in the car.

"Where are our blankets, mommy?" Punky asked from the backseat.

"That's what I'd like to know," I said, seething. We went back home and endured two more bone chilling nights of thin blanket torture.

I went back Monday afternoon, of course. This time, I didn't smile when I saw the man and his stupid dog.

He came to the door. "Not ready," he said.

Not ready? NOT READY?! That was it. I had had about enough. I needed to let this horrid man see for himself my white hot rage, my righteous fury. And I needed to not do it in front of the kids. Quickly I stepped out of the car and shut the door. I couldn't remember the last time I had been this angry. I was about to GO BALLISTIC.

"What the heck!" I shrieked. He gazed back at me impassively. I said it again, more slowly.

"What! The! HECK!"

Yes, readers, that is what happens when you make Lindsay Ferrier mad. Mess with the bull and you get the horns.

"Come back tomorrow," the man said, but this time I thought I detected a hint of fear in his voice, a certain vague tone of near-hysteria, which I chose to believe indicated a newfound respect for the value of my time.

I gave him one last long look of indignation, then left.

"What happened, Mommy?" my daughter asked.

"What happened was that I let that man know I was not pleased," I said. "Those comforters will be there tomorrow. Mark my words."

And sure enough, they were. The next afternoon, he loaded them into the back of my car without a word of apology. And he charged me full price. And his dog totally peed on my tire, too.

Gah.

Of course, I didn't go back. But I also didn't tell you this story for a few months because I was so embarrassed that I had completely lost my temper in front of that man. What will my readers think of me when they know the truth about the seething rage that lies beneath my smiling exterior? I asked myself. What will they do when they see the full extent of my uncontrolled anger?

Well, now that you know what happens when I get ugly, I guess that decision is up to you. I think we'll still be okay, you and me. We seem to get along pretty well, don't you think? But I do have one small piece of advice, in light of what I've just admitted:

DO NOT MAKE ME WHAT THE HECK YOU.

Because you will live to regret it.

Terror in the Sewer Mars Mother's Day for One Suburban Neighborhood (VIDEO)

2011-05-09T07:00:00.001-05:00

NASHVILLE, Tenn. -- A man's ego is still recovering today, just hours after he found himself trapped in a subdivision sewer, while neighbors pointed and laughed at him.

The incident happened around 4:00 pm on Sunday afternoon. Hugo Huckleby* attempted to remove a grate from a sewer on his street after a ball being used in a children's hockey game rolled into the street's drain.

According to four-year-old Bruiser Ferrier, an eyewitness at the scene, "The lid were too heavy for him. It falleded in the hole." Huckleby bravely jumped in after the grate-- and that's when neighbors gathered around the sewer to ~~jeer~~ come to his aid.

Nashville resident Dennis Ferrier was returning home from a run when he saw the scene of terror unfolding. He rushed to his garage and retrieved a length rope to aid in the recovery of Huckleby and the grate. Eyewitness Lindsay Ferrier caught the scene on camera:

"I try to tell people that there's major drama on my street all the time," Ms. Ferrier told reporters afterward during a press conference. "I mean, just a few weeks ago, my neighbor Steve took out his trash on the wrong day! I'm hoping that this video gives people clear proof of the insanity I have to deal with on a near-daily basis."

Ms. Ferrier just might get her wish. NBC's Today show has announced plans to air tomorrow's 7:00am-9:00am program live from her street as Meredith Vieira and Matt Lauer investigate the dangers of playing street hockey near sewer drains, while CNN's Anderson Cooper will be conducting an exclusive interview with Mr. Huckleby later on in the week.

*Some names have been changed to protect the egos.

One Day, We'll Laugh About This. Today is Not That Day.

2011-05-06T08:00:00.005-05:00

For the last few days, I've noticed something unpleasant-- but not exactly unusual in a house with small children:

The smell of pee.

It was bothering me more it typically did because I could smell it downstairs, where, you know, outsiders were likely to smell it, too. I knew it would take only a few impromptu drop-ins from neighbors before my house was labeled "that pee house..." and that would not do at all. Not surprisingly, the smell was strongest in the downstairs bathroom, but a quick inspection of the floor and toilet offered no clues as to where it was coming from.

But still. It smelled like pee.

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon that I emptied the trash can in the bathroom-- only to find that everything in it was sodden and stinking. As liquid spilled from the trash can into the open garbage bag I'd placed beside it, I knew exactly what had happened and, more importantly, who was responsible.

"BRUISER," I said, my voice instantly an octave lower. "Did you pee in the trash can?"

"Somebody else did dat, Mommy," Bruiser said quickly from his seat in our den armchair. "But it wasn't me." I looked out at him, peeking at me from over the back of the chair. We made eye contact and he ducked. I put down the trash can and walked over to him.

"Bruiser," I said, gripping him by the shoulders. "Did you pee in the trash can?"

"No," he mumbled, avoiding my eyes.

"Did you pee in the trash can?"

"No, I didn't," he said, squirming.

"Then how did you know somebody else did it?" I asked him. "Who else would pee in the trash can, Bruiser?" He paused for a moment. Busted.

"Ac-shully, I did do it," he said.

Punishment and wailing followed, of course. As did a thorough scrub-down of the trash can, along with the walls and floor around it. As I cleaned (and cursed under my breath), I suddenly remembered an "incident" that had happened a few months earlier. We had hosted our weekly church small group at our house, and hired my stepdaughter to watch the half-dozen kids from the group in our playroom.

A few days later, I emptied the trash can in there, only to discover that someone had peed in it during the gathering! Obviously, it had been one of the five small boys from the group, but which one was it? Whose child would do such a horrid thing? Which one of those children had such appalling manners (not to mention obvious psychological issues), that he had opted to pee in a trash can as opposed to going to the potty like a normal kid?

I stood frozen at the sink in horror as it dawned on me that that troubled imp, that miniature miscreant doomed for a lifetime of citations...

That was my son.

"Mommy," Bruiser said from behind me, "The sunroom smell real bad, too." I froze. Oh no. Oh. Hell. No. Silently, I walked to the sunroom, the children trailing behind me. There, in the sunroom, was another trash can.

Filled with pee.

I turned to Bruiser. "Is there any other trash can in this house with pee in it?" I asked him quietly.

Fearfully, he said, "Well, I think dere might be anudder one, Mommy."

"Where?"

"In the playroom," he whispered. The three of us walked to the playroom. Sure enough, standing in the middle of the room (the pee bandit was getting bolder!) was the trash can. I picked it up. The carpet was wet beneath it.

There was only one thing I could do.

"You won't BELIEVE what YOUR SON did," I informed my husband on the phone. He listened in shocked silence as I recounted the events of the last few minutes.

"Why would he do that?" my husband asked in wonder.

"Marking his territory maybe?" I said. "I don't know, you tell me. He's YOUR SON."

"Stop calling him my son!" Hubs sputtered.

"Well, no one says he takes after me, that's all I know!" We were at an impasse. I hung up.

Bruiser and I had a serious talk (The Farm may or may not have been mentioned), at the end of which he tearfully declared that 'he love us all SO BAD,' and would never, ever, ever pee in the trash can again.

A few hours later, I was watching the kids play outside with the neighbors when Bruiser stopped abruptly and ran to me.

"I need to go pee pee!" he announced.

"Okay," I said. "Go on inside and then you can come back out and play."

"But Mommy," he said, coming up to me on the stairs and whispering in my ear knowingly, "Big boys ac-shully go pee pee... in a secret place... outside."

Here we go again.

This Thing Called Hockey

2011-05-04T11:25:00.013-05:00

So there's this thing in Nashville now. It's called hockey.

We went to see a hockey game last night.

From what I could gather, hockey is this sport where a bunch of men skate around on ice and hit a little black disc with their sticks.

They also hit each other.

And they fall down kind of a lot.

Oopsie!

They try to get the disc into a goal, but it's pretty hard because the goals are tended by men dressed up as robots.

The neat thing is that our Nashville team is pretty good! We made the playoffs! We didn't exactly win the playoff game last night, but we came really close-- and Hubs says we were playing the best team in the league.

We're starting to get a little bit excited about this hockey thing here in Nashville. It isn't NASCAR or pro wrestling, but it seems like the kind of sport that might just catch on!

Still, I was pretty reserved at last night's game. I mean, I haven't really decided whether I'm in to hockey or not...

We'll just have to wait and see.

Have you ever heard of hockey?

Preschool is No Place for Parents

2011-05-02T10:30:00.000-05:00

When I received my copy of the April calendar for my son's preschool class several weeks ago, I read over it with dismay.

There was an Easter Egg hunt (parents invited to attend!). A special joint performance with the church children's choir. Another singing performance, just for the preschoolers and their parents. And a Munchies with Mommy morning.

Here's the deal. I love my son and I love celebrating him. But he's only in preschool for a few hours a week. And when he's there... well...

I don't want to be there.

I feel that old familiar mommy guilt creeping over me even as I write those words.

It's not like I didn't know this was coming; Bruiser's preschool is simply following in the tradition of pretty much every other preschool in the country. And perhaps if I could have afforded to send his older sister to preschool, as a first-time mom I would have proudly attended everything they had to offer-- and then some.

But now, I'm older and wiser.

For one thing, I don't really need to see my son hunt for eggs in a church gym, or dance to music in the fellowship hall, or have a snack in his classroom. We do our own egg hunt here at home. We dance to music together all the time. We have snacks every stinking afternoon.

For another thing, let's be honest. He's four. Ten years from now, he won't remember whether I was there or not.

I'm all for attending special events for parents in grade school. My daughter is away from me for too many hours each day, and I love going to lunch with her and chaperoning field trips and volunteering in the classroom. It's a way for me to feel connected to her life away from me.

But honestly, I don't need to feel connected to my son's preschool class. Ninety-one percent of his life is spent with me. I feel completely comfortable allowing my son's preschool teachers to have that remaining nine percent all to themselves. Please! By all means! Be my guest!

Meanwhile, I'll be home, getting writing assignments done without feeling guilty. Mopping the kitchen floor without my son in the doorway, whining pitifully about needing to walk in the kitchen "all the time and forever." Running errands, getting my hair done, and visiting the doctor, Bruiser-free. I'm absolutely sure he's having more fun in preschool than he would be having with me.

I don't need to see the proof for myself.

Is that so wrong?

I sense a few pursed lips on those of you reading this story right now. So you don't want to go? I hear you saying to yourselves. Then DON'T GO. Quit complaining.

Well, that's not an option. Here's why:

This is the face that greets me when I get there.

How can I leave this face in the lurch?

And so I hide eggs for the Easter Egg hunt in the church gym. I crouch at tiny preschool tables for cupcakes on his birthday. I smile and watch my son pretend his whole body is spaghetti during his music presentation. And I'll (pretend to) munch whatever I'm given to munch on Munchies with Mommy Day.

HOWEVER.

If my preschool happens to decide that it can do without ~~a few~~ ~~some~~ most of these special parent events?

I won't be complainin.'

The Ballad of Bobby Joe

2011-04-29T12:30:00.003-05:00

I'm lucky (so, so lucky) to live on a small street full of children, all fairly close in age to my own kids. This is the first year that everyone on the street is old enough (and young enough) to play together, so most afternoons once school is out, you'll find up to a dozen kids running through yards, riding on bikes, trikes and big wheels, blowing bubbles, and playing ball in our cul-de-sac.

This is a long-awaited, magical time for the parents on my street, and we're all a bit giddy with the excitement of seeing our children live out the dream most of us had in the backs of our minds when we moved to the suburbs. For me, that dream is very personal- Growing up, I lived on a street much like the one I'm on now, and my adventures with my neighborhood friends are some of my favorite memories. And so while this new playtime scenario means I get pretty much nothing done from 2:30 on, I'm okay with that. I willingly abandon the laundry, the cleaning and the writing and instead keep watch over the kids from my front steps.

In exchange, I get the comfort of knowing my children are growing up doing what children do best- playing outside, using their imaginations, and communing with nature.

Nature, as it turns out, plays a big role in their outdoor activities. The lure of Spongebob and LEGO Star Wars just isn't strong enough to override the appeal of snail hunting. Or caterpillar trapping. Or butterfly netting. Or acorn gathering. Or four-leaf clover seeking. Or bird watching, lizard gazing, squirrel chasing, and sewer cat hunting. (Yes, we have an elusive population of former house cats and their progeny who emerge every so often from our sewer to poop in our brush piles. Good times!)

But all of these things have absolutely nothing on frog catching. There must be a bumper frog crop this year, because the little hoppers seem to be everywhere-- and the kids are loving it. That's how I knew exactly what my daughter and a neighbor friend were looking at a few days ago, when I spotted them peering into a small outdoor trashcan and squealing with delight.

"Mommy!" my daughter shouted a few minutes later from our deck. "Sally and I found a frog! Come and see!"

I did.

"We're having a argument," my daughter told me after I'd made a proper fuss over their new acquisition. "I want to call him Bob, but Sally wants to call him Joe."

"Oh, that's a tough one," I said. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

A few minutes later, Punky came in to get a plastic cup in order to try and trap some flies for the frog to eat.

"What did you decide to call him?" I asked her.

"Bobby Joe," she said. "We're cooperating."

"Oh good!" I told her. "Cooperating is always a great idea."

Bobby Joe provided the bulk of the girls' entertainment that day. They took him on hops in the park, offered him a variety of food options from worms to animal crackers, and tried their best to make him feel at home while he was visiting. In fact, Bobby Joe was so much fun that I had a hard time convincing them to let him go a few hours after they'd caught him.

"Why can't we keep him as a pet?" Punky demanded.

"Because he would be very unhappy living in my mixing bowl," I explained. "Wouldn't you be?"

That convinced her; Bobby Joe was set free a few minutes later, after several elaborate goodbyes.

A day or two later, my entire family was outside getting ready to leave when I spotted something strange on the street in front of our house, just behind my 17-year-old's car. I walked over and looked at it more closely.

"Eww! I said, turning to my stepdaughter, who was standing across the lawn. "You ran over a frog!"

"I did?" she said in surprise.

I hope it wasn't Bobby Joe," I blurted, not thinking. Hearing me, Punky rushed over while I cringed. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Now there would be tears. And wailing. And gnashing of teeth. And, most likely, one of the things every parent dreads most: A PET FUNERAL.

I held my breath as Punky stood over the frog, hands on her hips, surveying the gruesome damage.

"It is him," she said at last. She turned and looked at my stepdaughter. "Sister, you runned over Bobby Joe," she announced loudly. Then she turned and ran to get into the car. My stepdaughter and I burst out laughing.

Since that time, Bobby Joe has become even more popular with the kids. He's been "runned over" a few more times and now looks more like a dark silhouette of a frog, imprinted on the street. (But, as the six-year-old across the street noted gaily, you can still see his tongue sticking out. Awesome.)

Fortunately, none of our young neighbors have taken Bobby Joe's untimely demise too hard. In fact, they've turned out to be an incredibly fickle bunch. Last night, a new visitor showed up and Bobby Joe was all but forgotten.

Meet Fred.

Let's hope he's a little bit smarter than his predecessor.

EDIT: A reader has informed me that Bobby Joe and Fred are/were actually toads. If my usage of "frog" bothers you in this post, feel free to substitute the word "toad" in your head as you read it. There. Feel better? ;)