Y'all, I just CAN'T!!!

A new wave of craziness in the form of health is sweeping through America and I just have to step up and stand up for what I think is right (and sane). Although I applaud the folks out there who are detoxing their bodies by eliminating sugar (gasp!) from their diets, I'm only being honest when I say I SERIOUSLY can't imagine a day without ANY sugar in it. Perhaps there's a little bone of jealousy when I witness those perfect bodies sipping their 6th (!) bottle of water that day, abs so cleanly sculpted I wonder how babies ever came from that body. Okay, yes, I would love to be the kind of person who never has a coke, a cookie, or a Cherry Lifesaver, but I know myself too well, and that's just NOT gonna happen, y'all!

So for today, just for fun, I'm going to play devil's advocate and ponder just what might happen when one (specifically me) completely eliminates sugar from her daily activities. Here goes:

1. Baby Tate decided not to sleep much last night and Mom (me) has several classes to teach this morning. A Coke would really get her going, but no, she's given up sugar and must survive on Water???? to get motivated to run 6 girls 8 miles on a treadmill. Not much hope in that one and my runner girls leave the Y with hardly a drop of sweat on their Nike t's.

2. I've regrouped and later in the day I head out for a run in the Georgia heat. I make it, feeling great, and round the corner to my house. This time the sweat IS dripping and nothing would be better than to cool off with a popsicle on the back porch with my boys. But, no, this mom gave up sugar, so that popsicle has to be replaced with um, um, I still don't know, while I watch Popsicle juice drip from their sticky little fingers.

3. Homemade Ice cream-- how in the world am I going to teach my boys how to truly be Southern if I can't share with them in the timeless tradition of peaches drowning in sugar and cream, dipped from an aged to perfection ice cream maker. I can't stand the thought of my handsome boys headed to a fraternity party at the Ole Miss KA house and tasting their first-ever porch-churned ice cream. Fraternity brothers would gasp, little sisters would whisper, and they might get black-balled. And why? Because years ago their mom gave up sugar! Not on my watch. And while I'm on the subject of food, let me just throw out two more uber-important words: banana pudding.

4. I've already mentioned how much I love weddings (as long as I'm not a member of the party), but really WHY on earth would I get all dolled up on a hot Southern Saturday and not plan on ending it with a big sugary slice of wedding cake? What am i trying to prove? Along those same lines, can I add tail-gating, baby showers, retirement receptions, and church picnics where the dessert table literally calls my name? I might as well stay home in sweat pants and do laundry if I'm going to forgo the goods on the table.

5. Finally, I have to end where I stared, because really, I think numbers 2,3, and 4 could (with some help from Dr. Phil) be erased from my day, but I absolutely COULD NOT give up my Coca-Cola. At the end of a marathon, my awesome husband waits for me with a cold coke; same with child birth-- I had an iced down Coke in my hand within minutes of delivering my Tate. And if I won the Superbowl, I WOULD NOT be going to Disney world; I'd be going to the World of Coke.

So there, just a sample of why this world (and my little family) is a high functioning, happy, and all-around better place because of sugar.

Back to Reality (TV, that is)

First of all, I want to say thank you to ABC for bringing back a second season of "Bachelor Pad." The old me would never have admitted to poisoning my brain with the kind of television trash that would make my father roll over in his grave; but I'm a big girl now- I'm married, have a mortgage, three kids, and if I want to watch seemingly normal people behave in ways that make ME blush, by golly I will. The Bachelorette hasn't even picked a husband yet, and already the network is teasing me with little bits of the show full of rejects from seasons past who want ONE MORE CHANCE at love. And by love I mean, of course, fame and notoriety.

Secondly, an even bigger thank you goes out to Jake and Vienna who can't get enough of each other, yet can't stand each other. Logic would tell most folks that if you make a fool of yourself once on TV in the name of love, then going back on TV in the name of hate isn't going to fare much better. Alas, TV is good to us and the "most Talked about Bachelor break up" couple will entertain us once again as Bachelor Pad contestants. Based on the teasers they previewed during Monday night's "hometown" episode of The Bachelorette, Jake hates Vienna, Vienna hates Jake, his pilot days are waaaay over, and Vienna just can't stop crying about how mean Jake is. Talk about good TV!! I can't wait.

All I have to say to Tucker and Tanner is, homework BETTER be done, and you kiddos best be in bed by the time my "stories" come on, 'cause this is DEFINITELY not PG material. In fact, if word gets out that I watch (read: love) trash TV, my very livelihood as a Sunday school teacher may be in jeopardy. Heck, I may even be moved to the back row in the choir loft. Well, it's a risk I'm willing to take. Till then, reality TV friends. The countdown begins . . .

A Race in the Life

I was placing Tate in his car seat on an early, early (way earlier than school day) Monday morning, and he looks at me with his sleepy-eyed self and says, "Mommy running?" Well, yes, I just about died at his ability to be precious at 5:30 in the morning, AND this was July 4th and Mommy's favorite race was just hours away. Apparently, Tucker had taught Tate how to say running and race the night before, and to say I was delighted would be like saying I kind of like a Coke now and then. I was over the moon!

I've been running for years, at the track, through the city streets, on the treadmill. I have my favorites, but when one won't do the others are just as good and I leave each place with that awesome sense of accomplishment that keeps me coming back for more. I can't really describe the feeling I get when I'm running, or why, despite the aches and pains that develop after too many long runs, I wrap, ice, elevate, take Tylenol, change shoes, whatever it takes to get back at it the next day. I can't explain why I set the alarm for the crack of dawn just so I can log a few miles before the craziness of the day sets in. I can't pinpoint what it is that makes me leave a warm bed and bundle EVERY body part before the sun even starts rising to huff and puff with the other "addicts" who understand me so well.

I do know that despite the lack of running camaraderie at my house (Coach said he did his running in college), this whole house, right down to the littlest supporter, lets me do my thing. Coach is more than willing to take the boys out on a Saturday morning and piddle around town (aka breakfast at Waffle House) while I train for whatever is next on the calendar. Shoot, he'll even watch film with the little man running around the office while I plead for just 12 laps around the track and 30 minutes of Mommy time (not sure what the other coaches think of that but we'll worry about that later). Tucker (during football season when Daddy is catching much-needed z's) plays the role of big brother at its best, trucks, Disney channel, monster under the blanket. Even Tate became one of the best stroller babies I could ask for, challenging me to run, push, and TALK all while picking up errant matchbox cars as we were logging our afternoon miles. And Tanner, well, Tanner is patient enough to wait on his cinnamon toasts until Mommy makes it back from the track.

Truth be told, I feel so good every day once I've gotten my run in that I know I'm a better wife, friend, mom, homework helper, organizer, kitchen cleaner, player chauffeur because of it, and I think they know it too! Blood-free brawls don't bother me, kool-aid spills don't affect me, lost shoes not a problem, 4th grade math a breeze. It all works itself out when the sweat has been spilled. Maybe I CAN pinpoint why I do it; maybe the feeling I get is confidence; maybe it's so self-explanatory that it requires no words, just the smile on my face when I finish a 6.2 or a 13.1 and I see all my guys cheering for me at the finish line. And maybe that's why when every day feels like a race (and some days an uphill race), I lie down at night, feeling like a winner in my age group who just clocked a personal best!

Dear God, About that Owner's Manual

I know, I know. This is baby number 3, how many questions could I possibly have. And to make things even smoother, baby number 3 is another boy. How hard could it be, you ask. Well, I have to say I pretty much had the infant stage down, the actual mothering of a child who couldn't speak, gesture, or even facially communicate with me. A crying baby means a few thing: hungry, wet diaper, maybe gas. Eliminate the others, conquer what remains. I got that. Baby number three was well fed, clean, and Mylicon-ed up, baby, thanks to the husband.

Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?

Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.

But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.

But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.

Father's Day 2011

It's that time of year again- gift giving (and Hallmark) never takes a rest, and so I'm racking my brain for a "Wow! I can't believe it" kind of gift for the man who gives GREAT gifts. I know it's hard to believe, but the man who dreams in play-by-play and delivers kick a** halftime speeches ALWAYS comes up with the most thoughtful, relevant, surprising gifts for me. The man who believes all aches and pains can be fixed with athletic tape and a 5 gallon bucket of ice buys monogrammed totes and sterling silver charm bracelets with our children's names and birth dates engraved. I know, I know, I should just sit back and bask in the holidays that center around me, but after 12 years of this, the pressure is ENORMOUS!!! It's time to hit hard or go home!

Two years ago I gave him a child and somehow that didn't go over too well, so I'm playing some serious catch up in 2011. No more offspring who look just like him, no more "coupons" for solo fishing or golfing trips that never end up solo. No more expensive Craftsman tools that end up in the sand pits in the woods.

So what do you give a man who has the job of his dreams, three (yes, three) adorable boys, and a wife who knows he likes his tea sweet and his breakfast eggs runny? Like this author who wishes for marathon entries at Christmas (don't I ever take a break?), Coach not surprisingly has been wishing for some fancy schmancy high-powered, high-falutin' lawnmower that will cut his game field with the same precision as a surgeon performing a face-lift(doesn't he ever take a break?). That's about the only wish he has ever vocalized, but unfortunately,I haven't the funds of a Hollywood plastic surgeon, so that Mower from Heaven will have to wait.

Let's see, Coach loves Waffle House (like all good Atlantans), so maybe a huge handmade coupon for anytime AYCE would be good. Of course, the boys will want to go too, so that means a high chair, spilled drinks, and a sticky toddler. Hmmm, maybe not. Oooh, Coach also LOVES golf, maybe a little too much, but a weekend at an exclusive PGA course would be a great pre-season getaway before the papers (and some of the fans) start taking jabs. Of course, the boys would be disappointed to watch Daddy load up the Explorer with all things golf and NOT add a car seat to that mix. I can see (and hear) the tears now.

Good grief, why must it be so hard to show a man that he's the best Daddy in the world? That watching his 250 pound body cradle Tanner's 2 pound body in the NICU made me weep with joy? That every football toss in the backyard makes me feel like I'm in a Norman Rockwell painting? That every hard-earned paycheck he hands over to me makes me feel like a million bucks? Every phone call in the afternoon to "Just see what y'all are doing" warms my heart.Seeing Daddy circle the game field on his mower with a baby in his lap or speeding from football practice to catch Tucker's first big hit just hint at the kind of Daddy my boys have; and watching our kids in their Panther black on Friday nights cheer on their Dad is like a big Jumbo Tron message from God that says, "Son, you're doing it right."

Happy Father's Day, Coach! You're doing it right!

Field Paint and other Little Joys

Daddy came home yesterday, achy, tired, and grinning from ear to ear. People kept texting, Coach kept responding, and the smiles kept coming. I said nothing, watching surreptitiously, waiting to be let in on the fun. "Who are you texting with?" I finally pleaded, wondering if there were some good news to which I wasn't yet privy. I love his answer: "my boys-- they're ready!"

Spring football starts today, and like the field paint that stains his hands, those high school boys fill his waking moments. All the anticipation, the new coaches, new material from the winter clinics, and the love come back full force and the boys who send texts at all hours of the day make for one very happy coach. Nothing is better than the opportunity to start over, try new things, improve the old-- the grind, he calls it, but he loves the grind.

I've never seen a coach so happy to mow his own field, change the sprinklers, line up screwdrivers and yarn and mark off yards down the field. There's nothing prettier than a freshly painted field, waiting for the trample of cleats and the slide of the pants on a perfect tackle. A stadium waiting for the echo of a chant from a hundred young boys who just gave their all. The handing out of equipment, methodical placing of pants, girdles, shoulder pads, and helmets, a masterpiece of pulling a team together. Check out the equipment room, the washers and dryers the coaches use to personally clean the uniforms late into the night, replacing each item into its appropriate bin, ready to start again on Monday. Watching film, not just once, but over and over, replay after replay. Pause, play, pause, replay, until the wives start calling and film-watching is postponed until tomorrow. The grind, he calls it.

He's been waiting almost six months for it, the work, the worry, the weary mornings after a tough game. He's been waiting and so have the boys; and when the texts come in at 10:00 and 11:00 at night-- "Can't wait, Coach", "Ready 2 hit!", "4 mo dayz!"-- I understand the grind a little bit better. The smile on his face makes it crystal clear.

Here's Your Sign!

I have always hated the country comedian who does the stand up act, "Here's your sign!" Ugh, blatant stupidity, I thought. Who really needs to be reminded of the redneck folks one runs into at convenience stores or chances a mishap with by shopping too late at night at Wal-Mart. As soon as his face crossed my TV, my fingers hit the remote. Unfortunately, and it's taking alot for me to admit this, I had my own "Here's your sign" moment just last week. It's not the redneck edition, it's the mother's edition, but I felt the same when I got my sign.

One of my favorite Y members had taken my whole family out to lunch and we were chatting away with him and his lady friend as the dishes were cleared from our table. The boys were making laps around the dessert bar, eyeing whatever it was they hadn't already tasted and indulging Tate in one more round of red jello. All was well, or so I thought, until the three of them rounded the corner and the blood disappeared from my face. Standing in front of our table with a Cheshire cat grin was Tanner, only to be upstaged by Tate sitting in the WHEELCHAIR (!!!!) Tanner was pushing. Tate was ecstatic and Tanner the proud brother, earning his babysitting badge. Oh, Lord, help me disappear into nothing amid this lunchtime crowd!

And there it was: Here's your sign! You know it's time to leave, lunch is definitely over, when your children highjack a wheelchair and make laps around a restaurant. Billy's eyes met mine, horror being passed back and forth. Dine and dash crossed my mind. Politeness and good manners were quickly replaced with humility and bowed heads as we grabbed bags and sippy cups and made our way to the door, stopping only to return the wheelchair from where it had been "borrowed."

Every parent knows that obtaining that title means that life is always unpredictable, that the picnic you packed all night for can be cut short by a chipped tooth on the monkey bars. That the trip to the county fair ends abruptly because someone forgot to restock the diaper bag. That the REALLY good Mexican meal you have been craving ALL DAY may never get past chips and salsa because SOMEONE didn't nap well that day. Kids change everything and now, much to my chagrin, give us our very own "signs."

Here, just a few of the "Here's Your Sign" mommy moments I've been dealt:

When the player with the jersey sporting your last name has a seat and begins playing in the dirt, here's your sign: soccer season is over!

When the recently potty-trained fan drops his drawers just minutes before the spring game and shows the booster club president what he's learned, here's your sign: Daddy will give you the play by play when he gets home.

When an otherwise well-behaved toddler can't keep his hands off a little girl's sparkly ponytail holder, here's your sign: put down that dumbbell, your workout at the gym is over.

When the circular clothes rack at your favorite boutique suddenly tips to its side, showering the floor with expensive blouses, here's your sign: You REALLY thought you could shop with little boys in tow?????

Funny, all my signs seem to pretty much point to the same thing: run, get out as fast as you can. And don't come back until you're driving a sports car that is child-seat free, and there's not a package of wet wipes in your purse.