Back to School!

I hear it, sometimes everyday, sometimes every other day. But I hear it, ringing in my ears and getting my little mind to thinking. What is it? It's a little reminder that pretty soon it will be time for me to go . . . Back to School. It's similar to the biological clock that women hear. Mother Nature's gentle reminder that it's time to start planning for a family. Only with me, it's Father Finance and it's a silver whistle blowing in my ear instead of a clock tick.

When I finished college with a Master's degree in English, the natural thing for me to do it seemed was teach. And so I did. And I enjoyed it until Mother Nature did call and i chose my kids over other peoples. But I guess I always figured I would go back one day, step foot in the classroom and pick up with Romeo, Juliet, Faulkner, and all my other favorites. I look back on my few years in the classroom with fond memories, squeamish moments, great stories, and lots of "wonder whatever happened to that kid?" I covered lots of bases, the 12th grade summer schoolers who were either super smart and graduating early or had failed English before and needed it (desperately) to graduate. I read a great paper once on the Bubonic Plaque by one of those scholars. I then taught the ninth grade babies who were the low men on the totem pole and weren't afraid to befriend the teacher, hopeful to have as many friends in their corner as possible that first year. I was privy to all the hot gossip in the freshmen world. I also "experienced" junior high and spent a year with 7th graders that wasn't nearly as long as I thought it'd be going in.

That mix of ages, races, genders, etc. has given me plenty to talk about over the years. I remember the nose bleed to end all nose bleeds. If I had been a squeamish teacher they would have found me out cold,face down on the dirty tile in the junior high boys' bathroom. Luckily, my stomach was and is strong and I remained composed as i called for the janitor and the attendance lady. I remember the sweet little girl who couldn't ever remember to do her homework but after I got married never once called me Miss Carter again. Several years later as I ran on the treadmill, I watched that same girl on the Maury Povich show, pleading with a psychic to tell her who killed her mother. To this day I hope for the best for that little girl. Perhaps my favorites, though, were the little boys who, despite the number of detentions, sentence writing, and extra assignments, always came in each day with the same smile for me. They may have hated me the day before, but they were the perfect examples of forgiveness. My favorite 9th grader was a Chris Rock look alike and act-alike who couldn't keep himself out of trouble. Detention after detention eventually led to suspension, but he came back and never once acted like he blamed me for it, though I had been the issuer of many of those detentions. I left town after that year, but I like to believe that he, and all my other boys, chose all the right roads and are men I'd be proud of today.

But, and this is a BIG BUT, that was 10 years ago!!! Surely things have changed in 10 years. Teenagers didn't have cell phones back then. Now it seems like every little girl has an I phone and a Louis Vuitton bag by the time she's 13. My students turned in hand written essays, and I didn't have a computer at my desk. Did we even have the internet???? Luckily for me, the whistle-blower set up for me a long term sub job at his school last fall. I'd get to dip my toes in the water after so many years as a stay-at-home mom. Before i dove back in, i'd get a chance to see if teaching was still all it was cracked up to be back then. i won't lie either. During those at-home years, I wondered what life "outside the classroom" would be like. I wondered how I'd handle a sales meeting, a product pitch, and a day spent entirely with adults.

Well, let's just say it didn't take me long to realize that high heels and hose are overrated. Lunch in the cafeteria is just as satisfying as one at Applebee's, and Prom and pep rallies are still FUN! I won't be dropping Tate off at daycare anytime soon, but when the whistle blower blows again, i'll be ready. I'm sure i'll write plenty of detentions for texting in class and the students will probably have to show me how to do a power point, but as long as the halls are filled with the jokesters, the athletes, the kids who read Steinbeck but won't admit it, the kids who stand out for looking a little different, but deep down are just the same, i'll be ready to go back to school. Now, what will I wear????

The Hardest Job in the World

As i was scraping melted blue crayon out of the dryer(my very new dryer, purchased in February), I couldn't help but recall everything else i had done that day. Get a manicure, watch a good movie, soak in a hot bathtub-- none of that came to mind. Instead, my brain filled with images of spilled kool-aid, the effects of the baby in the bathroom(think mascara on the bathroom rug), and more spilled kool-aid on a just-mopped floor at dinner. I still had lunches to make for the next day, clothes to dry, fold, and put away (once the crayon was removed), and it was 10:00 already. When i walked across the kitchen floor, dirt stuck to my feet, reminding me of another task yet to be completed. Whew! That Calgon commercial from the '80's popped into my head. "Take me away?" Yes, please!

Everyone knows there are days when life gives you a break: the kids don't fight, supper seems to prepare itself, and everyone goes to bed on the first try. Unfortunately, those days are sometimes few and far between, and the norm is a 2 practice night, right in the middle of supper time, with homework and laundry waiting on you as soon as you pull in the driveway. If we're lucky, there's a "love you, Mom" or a base hit that for a split second makes you forget about the Home Depot bill waiting to be paid and the garage that is a disaster area. Nobody said it would be easy and once you've lived it you've earned the right to say, Motherhood isn't for sissies! I've seen Facebook entries, bumper stickers, and refrigerator magnets that list a mom's duties: nurse, chauffeur, judge, jury, cook, tutor, referee, coach, motivator, role model(?), and the list goes on.

Some days, the toughest part of being a parent involves the self-restraint to not "jerk a knot" in the head of a 7 year old with an attitude. Some nights, the toughest job is to "divide" myself between three little boys who want their mom's attention, all at the EXACT SAME TIME. Stinks, huh? It gets worse: watching your child strike out at home plate, struggling with word problems on the math homework, not being invited to THE birthday party, or being the new kid in a classroom full of old friends.

I ache with every Lego creation that falls to the ground and shatters into pieces, destroying hours of work and imagination. My heart sinks with the essay written in barely legible handwriting that doesn't win the county competition. How could I leave out the sick days and nights, when all a mom can do is hold a sick head in her lap and promise that he'll feel better soon.

But by far, the toughest part of being a mom is being a disciplinarian, doling out punishments for accidents, poor judgment, and sometimes pure laziness. It stinks having to send a child to school without his homework because he forgot to put it in his bookbag, knowing full well he will have to move a puppy and lose some of that much anticipated recess. It stinks making a child miss a fun day because the rule was, "talk back to your mom and you lose your privilege."

No one wants to be the bad guy, especially when being the good guy is so much fun! The "thanks, moms" and the "you're awesome's" make a day so much better than a huff and a puff and a slammed car door. But I want Tucker, Tanner, and Tate to be the students that all teachers dream of, and if that's going to happen, then i must stick to my guns and follow the words of wisdom that are so readily available to me. Sorry Dr. Phil, i don't mean you. I'm referring to the Bible and the verse that sticks in my head every time i have to wear the mean hat: "Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it." So here's to many more years of tough love and maybe a support group for moms who haven't been swept away yet by the Calgon.

things you might hear at my house

Life is pretty busy, not just these days, but all days. Waking up each morning with the goal of having three boys fed, dressed, cleaned, and out the door by 7:30 each morning leaves little time for anything else. Once we get home from school, we immediately start homework, with Tucker and Tanner doing totally different things, which, keeps my brain and ears pretty occupied. Then it's on to supper, laundry, referreeing the afternoon activities, and on to baseball/football practices and games. I'm not complaining, i love my life; i'm just saying that when i stop and think about it, I do alot and sometimes don't realize what's going on around me.

A couple of days ago, Tate went down for a nap and I headed to the back deck, ready to relax and take in some sunshine. The big boys were playing with some friends in the woods,close enough that i could make out most of their conversation. With no i-pod, no magazine, and no cell phone, i was privy to their world. They had no idea I was even paying attention to them, but within minutes, I had this awesome glimpse into their world AND into them.

I guess what first got my attention was Tanner calling for a time-out. "I gotta go to the bathroom!" Tucker's unsympathetic response: "Just go in the woods!" And I never saw him come into the house, so I guess we'll just leave that one alone. Well, after that I was all ears. I love to hear them play, army this time. Fake battles mixed in with a 3rd graders knowledge of WWII and Vietnam. Team work and camaraderie ensued as each pair of boys attacked the others and protected their own men at the same time. THIS is why i don't want them watching TV! I kept listening until Daddy brought the no-longer-sleeping baby out to me--my cover was busted, but it lasted long enough to get me thinking.

Between Tate's babbling, Daddy's cell phones (yes, i said phones!), and my constant mothering (not nagging, mothering), Tucker and Tanner mange to keep the conversations flowing. And it's safe to say there's no telling what one might hear at my house or in my van. The tooth fairy came last night and Tanner was eyeing his dollars, so he informed me that Washington didn't smile for his picture on the dollar bill because if he opened his mouth his fossil teeth would fall out. You're right! I said. Gotta watch those "fossil" teeth. We've also had in depth conversations that included Velma, Shaggy, and Scooby and what I would do if I were, say, trapped in a coal mine with a one-armed ghost. Would I run? would I fight? Ooh, they go straight to the tough questions.

It's not always the cute stuff that I hear if I really listen. Too often, I've heard the remark, "Why do we have to brush teeth? It's not even a school day!" Or "Mom, it doesn't matter if I wore it yesterday. It's still clean." Then there are the more frightening things I hear. "Mom, what would happen if Tate ate cat food?" I err on the side of caution and don't assume it's just a hypothetical question.
Perhaps most exciting and disturbing are their plans for the future. They both have plans to watch Freddy vs. Jason when they turn PG-13. Umm, as soon as they get their driver's licenses they have plans to buy a motorcycle and a Mustang, the kind that make really loud noises when they go by. Here's hoping they change the legal driving age to 20!!! And as he places me in handcuffs and under arrest, one informs me he wants to be a policeman when he grows up. Umm, the kind who get shot by angry drug dealers or the ones who sit at desks? Please say the ones who sit at desks!!!! Another can't wait until he's old enough to join the Army and fly planes and fight like Raif and Danny do in Pearl Harbor. Yikes! I pray that by then peace breaks out across the world. Not too long ago, their conversations were about salamanders in the bathtub and yellow and red dump trucks. I'm getting old and so are they.

I'll continue to listen, but I suspect what i'll hear more than anything is a whisper saying, "slow down. You're growing up too fast!" And because they're boys, they won't listen.

Spring (football) is in the Air

It's happening again. The temperatures are heading into the 80's, the daylight is stretching too close to bedtime, and the boys are dirtier than ever. The Braves are playing, grills are smoking, and Daddy has been on the tractor for the last two days.

I noticed it starting to happen yesterday, though I suspect that the season has been creeping up on us for some time. I had supper prepared-- hot meatloaf, creamy mashed potatoes, sweet carrots, three little boys, and no Daddy. He traipsed in just moments after i had set the table, little pieces of grass sticking to the ankles of his socks, tan lines where his hat had been, and the odor of grass and gasoline surrounding him. No question where he'd been, but i had to ask. "Cutting my grass." Make no mistake, Jackson County taxpayers. Your dollars may have paid for that field, but that field belongs to Daddy.

And that's how spring football starts. Field maintenance, a few coaching clinics, and some film watching from last season. Though it takes Daddy away from us more than we'd like, I like the beginning of football season, spring and fall. You see, Dads, er, coaches work their butts off during the season. a full day of practice with players and coaches, film-watching, phone calls on something new he just saw, and more film before bed. A seven day work week has to suffice only because there's no such thing as an 8 day one. So when there isn't a game on Friday to devote his time to, what's a coach to do? I'll tell you: drive his wife crazy. He brings all that energy and passion home. All of a sudden the closets need reorganizing and the gutters need to be cleaned. He's taken a keen interest in helping plan the meals he'll now be in attendance for. He wants to know if the appliances are running smoothly, does the vacuum lose suction, should we resod the yard or just add some mulch where it's needed. It's exhausting having him home after so many months of being gone. Please understand-- I LOVE my husband, i'm just unselfish enough to share him with a world that needs him: high school football.

It's not just to get Daddy out of the house that I love football season. I love football and everything associated with it. I suppose it's because I really have no other choice, but still. I was a typical football fan growing up. I caught bits and pieces of the Saints on Sundays, cheered from the bleachers on Friday nights, and generally had no idea what was going on out there. Marry football, though, and in no time I'm screaming for the ref to call clipping, praying we punt and don't go for it, and criticizing the quarterback for not reading the defense.

Forget baseball, basketball, soccer, even tennis (which i love), things just aren't right around here unless there's a game to look forward to this weekend or practices to get them ready. Less than a month from today, the players will line the field every afternoon for two weeks, running drills, memorizing plays, perfecting their blocks, tackles, and pass routes. We, the faithful families, will watch from the hill, waiting for the right play, listening for the compliments, and biding the time until the "real" season starts. When the water girls work on their August tans in between water breaks, the coaches' kids litter the sidelines, tossing balls with the "injured reserves," and the coaches watch months of work and preparation come together under a hot afternoon sun. When the spring quarterback returns 2 inches taller, the once timid linebacker plows through the line, and the kid I helped with an English paper earns the title of Captain. Hurry back, football. We miss you!

A True Southerner

I just finished flipping through an old Southern Living while Tate took a nap and my casserole simmered in the oven. As most everyone knows, the defining magazine of our region thoroughly covers the basic three in a girl's life: food, gardening, and home. I'm a little distraught; despite the formative years under my mother's tutelage, I'm not doing too well living up to the ideals of a Southern woman. There's nothing growing in my backyard, not flowers or tomatoes, I don't like sweet tea, and there's not a thing in my house with a visible monogram. I used to have a beautiful silver wine stopper (a wedding gift) with our monogram, but last time I saw it the boys had it out in the backyard, so I don't think that counts.

I don't know where I could have fallen off the wagon. I took piano lessons, sang in church, and remember coming home from my mama's house many times with little clippings from one of her beautiful plants, visions dancing in my head of my own potted plant spilling over its plastic container and dripping toward the ground. I'll never forget pulling up to her house in the summertime, her porch beckoning with greeenery and other brightly colored foliage that took my breath away. This was a place where flowers and plants went to get in shape, the Gold's Gym of geraniums. This was the plant world on steroids. Yet today, my front porch sings quietly with only two ferns, and I bought them already grown and they will likely be there only a matter of months until the sun and lack of love cause them to die. Strike one!

If there's another rubber-necking moment that happens quite often to this Southern girl trying to prove her roots, it's the moment when I mention at a tea, luncheon, or wedding rehearsal that I don't drink Sweet Tea. And yes I capitalize it because that's how important it is around here. McDonald's will give you a large sweet tea for only a dollar. Ask for a large Coke-- $1.69 please. And before anyone asks me if i've tried it, Yes, if only accidentally. And No, it wasn't love at first sip. Strike two!

Finally, despite the plethora of monogram and specialty shops on every corner of small town USA, I have NOTHING in this house marked with our initials. All three of our children are boys and Billy is FIRMLY opposed to little boys wearing monogrammed outfits, so that's a definite no. Moving into the bathroom. The most I can say about our bath and hand towels is that they are black and red and work with the Georgia theme I had planned. The kitchen is no better. I'm lucky if I can find a kitchen towel when I need one. Most of them leave the kitchen wrapped around a freeze pop in the hands of a 7 year old. Strike three!

So what's a girl to do? Should I read more Southern Livings? Take better notes when I'm at my mom's house? Suck it up (literally)and order a tall glass of Sweet Tea, just to save face? Actually, the more I think about it, I may not be so far off. I did pay attention to a few things growing up. When I'm out for a jog or pushing Tate in the stroller, I wave at everyone who passes. I take a pound cake and chicken enchiladas to neighbors and friends at every birth and death; and I love the tradition of a new Easter dress every year. I've taught enough vacation bible schools that I'm a legend in the craft room.

Maybe there's still hope for this Southern girl. I'm still young. Who knows? One of these days Billy may come home to find me sitting in my garden, surrounded by hydrangeas and azaleas, wearing a monogrammed apron, and sipping a sweet tea.