I'll admit it:  I am a Fraidy Cat.  Lily-livered.  Yellow-bellied.  Chicken.  When I was a kid, my sister would ominously bellow "Roooo-che-lle" down the basement steps whenever my mom would send me down there on errands.  Next thing I know I'd be tripping over my feet up the steps, running as fast as I could, heart pounding a thousand beats a minute.  I knew that no one was after me, but there was always something unduly spooky about hearing "Roooo-che-lle" in our unfinished basement/dungeon.  To this day, I still don't like basements -- not even our own.

Given my yellow-bellied history, it should come as no suprise that I'm no fan of the horror movie genre.  In fact, the most suspenseful moment I've been exposed to in the past six years was when the witch in Enchanted morphed into a dragon -- and that was a little intense for me.  But in the end, of course everything turned out happily ever after.  I don't know, maybe it's me getting older.  Or maybe I'm looking through the world with a mother-bear-protective filter.  Or maybe I just like sticking in my head in the sand because I find reality a little overwhelming at times; but the bottom line is that I just don't handle suspense or impending doom or violence well at all.

Then along comes Disney's A Christmas Carol. GG's already seen the Milwaukee Rep's version (tickets on sale now), so she knows the story.  It's uplifting, and there's a wonderful, timeless message and morale, so why shouldn't we see it?  So despite it being a little early for Christmas movies, we went to see it in IMAX 3D. 

*SPOILER ALERT*

The special effects were outstanding -- you could practically smell the smokestacks from an Industrial Age London, and feel the cold and snow crunching under your feet.  But it....well it....scared the heck out of me.  Now, I know that the vehicle by which Dickens' spins this classic tale is a ghost story, but did we really need to be treated to Jacob Marley's decaying, unhinged jaw in all its 3D glory?  Did we need to experience the terror of Ebenezer being pursued by the red-eyed Shire horses of hell? (Who knew that hell had Shire horses in the first place anyway?)  And there's more, but if I go into it, I'd only scare myself all over again.  Anyway, during especially intense scenes, GG'd say "I can't look."  I put my arm around her, told her not to worry and that I'd tell her when it was safe to look --  which only forced me into watching when I would have rather closed my eyes.  In the end, of course Scrooge is redeemed; he reunites with his estranged nephew Fred; and Tiny Tim does not die.  But to tell you the truth, by the time ol' Scrooge reached his final redemption,  I was still too wigged out to muster a "God Bless us, everyone" or a chorus of "Joy to the World" or even a tear of joy.

So if you're looking for an unsolicited opinion, here it is: despite the fact that Disney Channel's promoting this movie BIG TIME with a very incidental caveat about some scary scenes, this probably isn't the movie for little ones...or big ones who are Fraidy Cats.  Like me.

If you and your kids do go to see it, post a comment and let me know what you think.

Tick…tick…tick….I’m counting the days until Chris Rock’s new movie “Good Hair” hits theaters.  Good Hair explores the peculiar relationship that black people have with their hair, as well as the booming hair care industry that was born of it.  Throughout the years, my relationship with my own mane has run the gamut from Skipping-through-the-daisies-Love, to Bad-hair-day-Frustration, to I’m-going-to-get-it-over-with-and-cut-it-all-off-Resignation.  My love/hate-hair-relationship isn’t unlike what thousands of people go through – regardless of ethnicity – but with black people (at least this black person – I don’t claim to speak for the whole race), it’s a tad different.

Back when I was a kid, the shampoo commercials featured models who breathily boasted about their “Bouncin’ and Behavin’” hair.  Well my hair didn’t bounce.  And when it was humid, rainy, or if I even thought about water-related things, it did everything but behave.  Feathering like Farrah?  Forget it.

I was always left someplace in between “I wish I could have hair like that” and “But what’s wrong with my own natural hair?”  The result was that I, like so many other girls in that weird middle ground, would have it straightened with a hot comb, also known as having your hair “pressed”.

Many years (and burned ears) later, I abandoned the hot comb and started getting chemical relaxers to temporarily “relax” my naturally kinky (A.K.A. Nappy) hair.  Good Hair calls these chemical relaxers the Creamy Crack of hair products because of its addictive quality -- you have to have it “touched up” about every six to eight weeks to address new kinky growth; and yeah, I’ll readily admit that I am indeed addicted to the Creamy Crack.

Now, enter GG.  Her hair is someplace in between my extreme kinks and Jamie’s wavy hair.  But the refreshing thing is that now, media is increasingly featuring models whose hair isn’t always silky and swingable, but that looks more like hers – and mine...and that’s a good thing.  She’s fine with her kinks (except when I have to comb through them – Ow!); and she readily sees the beauty in her natural hair -- or "poofie" as she likes to call her unbraided ponytail. 

And Me?  I’m just looking forward to seeing Good Hair….and to having that Creamy Crack the next time I’m at the salon.

Anyone with kids knows that you don’t buy coats while they’re on sale, because sales are usually  happening when it’s warm out, and you don’t know if your child’s going to go through a crazy growth spurt before its time to actually use the coat.  That’s been my reasoning with GG -- wait it out until the last possible moment.  Well, the Last Possible Moment arrived, so we went shopping.  We waltzed into the store and found one coat in the color she liked.  I paid.  They bagged it.  We went home and she was happy.  I breathed sigh of relief knowing that GG wouldn’t be cold on the playground during recess – or that I wouldn’t get the dreaded note home from school telling me to dress my kid for the weather.  End of story.

But something about the ease with which we bought her coat bothered me.  Granted, it was a last-minute thing, but I knew it was coming – and even though we may have to cut back here or there because of the purchase – overall, it was something we could afford.  And maybe that’s what was bothering me.  I think about parents who want that same sigh of relief that I had over this coat business, but they simply can’t afford it.  I think about the parents who make the trade-off of getting coats for their kids while they go without -- that’s what my mom did.  For years, all four of us kids were dressed for the weather while she wore her Spring coat, whether it was 60º or 60-below.

Listen, this weirdo economy is squeezing everyone – it’s not just localized in “those” neighborhoods anymore.  In fact, the 2-1-1 help hotline’s biggest increases in calls are from Greendale, parts of Tosa and Shorewood, Franklin, Oak Creek and South Milwaukee.   You never know -- maybe that neighbor you wave to everyday…the one who says that they’re waiting until the real cold hits before they or their kids bundle up could be someone who’s looking for that sigh of relief too.

So check your basement for coats – for kids’ and adults alike -- and lend a hand if you’re able.  Right now, Condella’s Coats for Kids is up and running, and there are other organizations that need coats too, and others that distribute coats if you need them.  If you have questions about where you can go to give or get, just dial 2-1-1 and ask.

In the meantime, everybody bundle up, make that chili and check your snow blowers.  We’re sliding down that slippery slope toward the ice and cold, and who knows when the ride will end...Sigh.

*Disclaimer - I work for IMPACT, the agency that runs the 2-1-1 hotline...

Why isn't there an additional verse to that Wheels on the Bus song?  Think about it:  the Bus' wheels go round and round for who-knows-how-long; the wipers are going nuts, so obviously the Bus is exposed to the elements; kids are hopping on & off; and the driver's constantly yelling at said kids to move on back.  Wouldn't an appropriate verse at some point be about the Bus experiencing some wear and tear? 

Maybe I'm taking the song to heart because in the past year or so, I've been getting some subtle clues that the weels are indeed falling off the Bus.  And I'm the Bus.

My first clue of my Bussishness was a while back when Jamie and I had "date night."  We were going someplace casual, so I skimmed the closet for something to wear.  Work clothes, sweats and jeans are what I found.  Hiding under the sweats was a long forgotten about black concert t-shirt that was decorated with wonderfully tacky red studs.  Perfect!  It fit like a glove, and I paired it with my favorite jeans.  I took a look in the mirror, and I...looked like someone's middle-aged mom who was desperately clutching, clinging, grasping onto 21 with all her might.  I stared at this strange woman in the mirror much like dogs stare when they hear a funny noise....and opted for a work top instead.

Of course, GG's provided some clues of her own.  Once she asked why I had "lines" in my forehead and "cracks" around my eyes.  Not to mention the time she saw that commercial about some miraculous cream that guaranteed to erase dark under-eye circles.  I clearly remember wincing with a clenched jaw waiting for it.  And sure enought it happened:  "Mom, you could use that" was her cheerily offered suggestion.  I priced-checked it at Walgreen's a few days later.

Then there are the environmental clues like the college-aged kids next door.  They do what college-aged kids do, and go out with their college-aged friends who play their car stereos at college-aged noise levels when picking up and/or dropping the college-aged kids off.  And so it was the case one night after GG had gone to bed and Jamie had turned in early.  I was in my heaven; I had Quiet and Control of the Remote Control.  The next thing I knew, I felt a bass line in the pit of my stomach and our front window was vibrating.  It was college-aged kid drop-off time.  I flicked on the porch light and stalked outside and stood on our front porch, staring intently.  With my arms folded.  And brows furrowed.  Like a crabby old lady.

The radio's also been throwing its fair share of clues at me too.  While making dinner, I happened upon some station that was playing a "back in the day" song.  It took me back to those college-aged days when table dancing was the norm and nobody thought about noise levels of any kind.  I cut loose and did my little dance with my wooden spoon in hand.  After it was over, I felt great...until the deejay did the station ID and I found out that it was an "easy listening" station.

Oh well, I guess I'll just keep getting more clues while my wheels go round and round.

Just a follow up to to my post about Monday morning's drama and the 4 lessons I came away with:

1.  God protects us, and there really are guardian angels.
Why I say that:  The armed person fired at least 52 rounds with the semi-automatic I saw him with.  No one was seriously or fatally wounded.

2.  Crazy can happen  to anyONE.
Why I say that:  The armed person was a retired police officer.

3.  Crazy can happen anyWHERE:
Why I say that:  We live in what's considered to be a "nice" area of the city.

4.  We need to thank our police officers more.
Here's why I say that:  I thanked the detective who interviewed me after today's incident and the look on his face was priceless.  He said (and I quote) "No one usually says thankyou."  It takes more than bravery to leave a position of safety and go to a dangerous scene/crazy person who might forever separate you from your loved ones.

All in all, it wasn't the way I wanted to start out the week, but that's how it happened. 

Shaken & Stirred (Originally posted 9/14 @ 10:15 a.m.)

Like a lot of people, our house is crazy in the morning.  Usually by the time I get GG all fed, dressed and packed up for school, I’m a full ten to fifteen minutes late for work.  This morning, however, I blew a sigh of relief because everything went off without a hitch, and Jamie and GG trooped out the door on time. I could actually get my make-up done, have a cup of coffee and get to work early.

It was a beautiful morning scene. Charley (our dog) had taken his place on the love seat in front of the picture window to watch the daily parade of squirrels, rabbits, joggers and walkers that go by our house when I heard it: BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!  Hmmm….Maybe a car backfired.  Again: BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!  Charley was unfazed, but I thought it was strange, so I looked out the window and into the neighbor’s yard across the street.  We live somewhat at the top of a hill, so I could see into the neighbor’s yard who lives across the alley from her.  There was a big cloud of white smoke, and in the midst of it stood a sixtyish white male with a big gun who was firing into the air and all around him. I knew what I was seeing, but for a minute, I couldn’t process that it was really happening...that I wasn’t watching it on TV.  Then I heard him say “Leave me alone! Stay in the house!”

I grabbed Charley, and we went into the bedroom while I called 911.  I tried to remain composed when I told the operator where I was, where the shots were coming from and what I was seeing.  She told me that squads were on their way and to stay in the house.  My second call was to Jamie, who by that time was well on his way to work.  After reassuring me and calming me down, he told me that he’d check back with me in a few minutes.  The police came quickly, and I saw my other neighbors talking to them, and pointing to where this gunned individual had apparently run since the first rally of shots were fired.

So there we sat.  It’s the first time I’ve ever been afraid to leave my house and stay in my house all at the same time.  My thoughts went haywire:  Where did this nut job go?  Are our doors secure enough? That gate Jamie installed could make our yard a pretty good hiding place.  How fast can I grab Charley and run if I need to?  Pretty soon two officers approached my house – one visibly carrying a rifle. “Did you catch him?” I choked out.  The reply: “He resisted, but we got him.  Are shots being fired over here, because we were given your address.”  I told him there must have been a mix-up; that the operator asked for my address when I made the initial call.

Then I had to go to work.  I flinched at a squirrel who happened to skitter across my path as I walked to the car.  As I drove, I was thankful that GG hadn’t been around to see any of this.  At the same time, it dawned on me that some kids live with gun shots ringing through their neighborhoods everyday – whether they live in “the hood” or in an “official” war zone like Iraq or Afghanistan.   As I drove further, I thought about how strange it was that only a few blocks away people were attending to their daily routines without any clue of the situation down the street.  A few more miles down the road, I could feel that “crying lump” in my throat and I felt sick.  Sick, but thankful to God for keeping my neighbors and me safe.

There are four kids in my family, and I’m the youngest.  My siblings are 50, 47 and 46…and then there’s me: I just turned 40 in July.  Mom died when I was 19, and for awhile, I was a little jealous of my siblings because they “had her longer” than I did.  Growing up though, our age difference meant that often it was just her and me – like when she’d pick me up from half-day kindergarten while my sibs were in school.  Sometimes, we’d go out to lunch and she’d warn me with a wink, “Now, this is a secret just between us” which always made me feel really special; although now I think it was probably “a secret” because mom couldn’t have afforded to take all four of us out to eat.

The thing I liked most about our lunch dates was that not only did I have mom’s undivided attention, and not only was she listening to me, but she responded to what I was saying.  In my memory it feels like we had deep, involved, solving-world-peace conversations – but I know a five-year-old couldn’t possibly have come up with such complex concepts.  But mom always made me feel like I did.  Especially now when I consider some of the crazy talk that comes from six-year-old GG, I’m realizing how much of a stretch it must have been for mom to muster responses other than “M-hmmm” to the crazy-talk coming from a five-year-old Rochelle.

Back to the here-and-now:  Yesterday after church, GG and I went out to lunch – just us two.  We headed to Red Lobster -- her (and my) favorite restaurant (delightfully tacky!).  After a short wait, we were seated in a cozy booth.  Sitting like a “lady” with her napkin on her lap, GG perused her children’s menu and excitedly chattered about the crab legs and the lobsters in the tank and whatever else happened to pop into her mind.  I followed her lead, and went with her down the paths her stream-of-consciousness led us.  All of a sudden, I realized I was recapturing those kindergarten days with mom…only I was the mom now.   And you know what?  It was really neat.

Without a doubt, I do miss my mom.  I wish she was here to see GG and spoil her only grandchild like I’m sure she would.   But yesterday’s lunch made me realize that I’ve been given the chance to create, in my own way, that same kind of relationship with GG now; and hopefully someday, when she’s a mom, GG will pull out this memory, dust it off and share it with her kids too.

First things first: I’m not going to blog about the rosy side to getting fired, laid off or navigating through unemployment benefits and/or COBRA.  I’m sure there are positives in there someplace, but I’ve been through it firsthand, know people who are going through it right now and frankly, there’s not a whole lot of upside to it that I can see.

That being said, there is an upside when it comes to downsizing stuff; and with a 6-year-old budding Van Gogh, believe me, we had a lot of stuff.  It all kind of sneaked up on me.  When GG was about 3, Jamie and I were delighted that she colored inside the lines, did pencil drawings reflecting depth and perspective, and drew cartoon characters near perfectly.  So I think we did what any parents (read naïve parents) would do:  we saved artwork and cultivated her talent by getting more crayons…and markers…and paints…and sidewalk chalk…and coloring books…and – well, you get the picture.  Add to that school projects for every (and I’m not kidding) every holiday on the calendar: St. Patrick’s Day, Flag Day, President’s Day, Groundhog’s Day, Easter, etc.

I realized that we had at least three years of stuff piling up in boxes or attached to walls or the refrigerator door.  With school starting, I knew the stuff was going to grow more until it would finally push us out of the house by Thanksgiving.  So this Saturday, I literally dug in.  It took me two kitchen garbage bags and three hours to finish; and I felt kind of silly for hanging onto all that stuff in the first place.  Turns out, GG didn’t care about that picture of the elephant she drew.  I did.  She had totally forgotten about her cardboard stencils and that St. Patrick’s Day poster from K3, but I didn’t.  She even told me to toss out her old, dried up glitter-glue sticks.  Why did I hang onto all this?  Maybe I was trying to hang onto to her babyhood, I don’t know...or maybe it’s just the packrat in me trying to get out.

What I do know is this: from now on, I’m only keeping the important stuff like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards.  Then again, those Thanksgiving hand-turkeys are so cute – I mean, really, her hands are going to be tiny for such a short time.  We probably ought to keep those Christmas origami ornaments too, because we use them. Come to think of it, maybe we’ll keep this year’s Martin Luther King birthday project; she does draw his portrait really well…

So what’s the upside to downsizing? Check back with me in about three months.  For now, I’m just happy to have a little extra room in the house.

How do you keep project/artwork "stuff" under control?  Click on "comment" to share your tips!

GG and I have a ten-minute ride home; and it seems that in the past two weeks, she gets an intense case of the sillies during those ten short minutes.  Just what I need right after work.  Anyway, I talked to BFF Amy today and she says she’s dealing with the same thing -- only double -- because she’s got two girls. “Can you imagine having two GGs?” she offered.  My stomach turned and I swear the room spun a little at the thought. 

Granted, none of our girls is saying anything bad.  It’s just, just….well, take this typical drive time conversation that GG can commandeer at least five times in a row:

Me:       How was your day?

Her:      Good.

Not too bad so far…

Her:      Hey Mom.

Me.       Yeah?

Her:      What if I ran really fast (a good start) and then I jumped into outer space, (oh boy, where’s this one going) landed in Africa and (yup, here we go) all the people threw their money at me and (now the sound is escalating) then they’d call me PINEAPPLE HEAD (full volume, punctuated by giggling) and then I’d say AGGGGHHH!! (we’re now in Hi-Def Surround. Let the full-on giggle fit begin.)

Really. Five times. In a row.

BFF Amy and I know that our kids are just acting their age, but when you pile on all the grown-up worries – the new school year, the money we're hemorrhaging for school stuff, new schedules, whether we're really good parents – the silliness can indeed take its toll.  We complained back and forth for a bit, and then patted ourselves on the back for being sane mothers despite having crazy children.  There’s no way we were ever that silly…Right?  Oh yeah, there was freshman year algebra.  Our poor teacher.  We laughed at everything -- constantly: the chalkboard, the science crock (to this day, we still don’t know what it was for), the way the teacher said our names, the buttons on his shirt.  We’d do everything we could to contain ourselves – from pinching to thinking about the certain death awaiting us if we got in “trouble” over our uncontrollable laughter.  And actually, today we ended up in a giggling fit over those very things that made us laugh way back when.

You know sometimes with everything that we as parents carry, it can be hard to remember the things that gave us belly laughs -- or even have a good belly laugh, for that matter. Thank God our kids are here to remind us --- even if the reminder is the same crazy nonsensical story heard five times over on a ten-minute ride home.

The other day Jamie and I were having the “things were different when I was a kid” talk. You know the one: “When I was a kid, we had to walk to school! Uphill in the snow. Both ways.”

Well, this particular little chat was about music. Our glory years were the eighties, and we were bemoaning what some artist called “Flo-Rida” had done to Dead or Alive’s Right Round. All I can say is Flo did a lot of rapping and the lyrics had been angled in way that I don’t believe the artist ever intended. (Don’t believe me? Click here for the original and here for Flo’s version to see what I mean)

But that’s beside the point. Jamie’s argument was that maybe there really isn’t any new good music, and that’s why today’s artists (and I use that term loosely) are recycling the stuff we grew up with. I had to agree with him.  For heaven’s sakes, ad execs can’t even come up with an original jingle. 

Take, for example, the time some wonderful radio station was having an All-80’s Weekend.  They played Blondie’s One Way or Another; and I’m kind of doing my little dance and reliving the glory days when GG breaks in with “HEY! That’s the Swiffer Song!”  Gasp. “No – no, it’s not the Swiffer song. This is the real song and Swiffer people just use it.” I snorted.

 Another day, we’re in the car and the Human League’s Don’t You Want Me comes on the radio. Again from GG:  “HEY! That’s from the cookie show!” (She gets “show” and commercial mixed up sometimes) I had to repeat the drill, “This is the real song. The cookie show (who cares whether she thinks it’s an ad or a TV show) is only using this song.”   These “real song versus the commercial” drills are about to kill me. The other day I even heard a Disney starlet trilling a song from the 70’s. Try and explain that one.

Listen, I know that my old school music "issue" is a really a non-issue when compared with healthcare, the recession and world peace, but geez....can we just agree that some music just shouldn't be messed with?  Especially -- and particularly, the theme songs from my carefree days?  So please.  If any ad execs or artists tempted to "sell out" are reading these ramblings, stop this madness and save the music before the soundtrack to my freshman year crush is reduced to a bag of potato chips or furniture polish or a 3D animated feature…or worse yet: crooned by a Disney up-n-comer.

A few days ago I wrote about losing our camera along with the memory card it contained.  I won't revisit the internal drama that ensued, but I will say that I learned a lesson in losing these items.  I always thought I wasn't a materialistic person, but the whole experience taught me that maybe I was a little too tied to things, and taking our blessings for granted -- including the people whose images were captured in the lost memory card.  Anyway, by today, I had really come to peace with the whole thing, had stopped kicking myself for losing it in the first place and had "let go" and moved on.

Imagine my suprise when I picked GG up from the childcare center today and the receptionist handed me the camera.  Wouldn't you just know it?  Last week, nearly five adults had turned that bus upside down looking for it and found nothing.  Today it only took one six-year-old to see that it was nestled snugly in a bus seat when the kids were going on a field trip.

Of course, I was happy to get it back....and just as happy to have learned a lesson about gratefulness in the process.

Field trips.  I'll admit that I've never been a fan of tagging along with a class of revved up kids and taking them someplace where they get even more revved up, but field trips do provide a great opportunity to be in GG's world in a different way than when we're at home spending time as a family.  Not to mention the great photo ops that pop up.  So the other day, I went with GG's class to the Family Farm.  Even though we had been there before, it was fun for everyone.  And the pictures that I caught were great: GG's class clad in the school's bright orange t-shirts huddled underneath the Family Farm sign; the scrunched up faces coming nose-to-nose with the piglets; and the countless, priceless pics of my daughter having fun with her classmates and teacher.  On the long busride back to the childcare center, GG and I reviewed the pictures together, and I was quite anxious to pop the picture card into the Wii so we could all view them later on that evening.  Once at the childcare center, we herded the kids back to class, I kissed GG goodbye and headed home for a well-deserved (I thought) nap.

When I got home, I noticed that I couldn't find the camera in my purse.  I checked the car: nothing.  I figured I must have left the camera on the bus and called the childcare center.  They checked the bus: nothing.  Maybe I set it down on one of the counters when I was kissing GG goodbye for the day, so I went back to the childcare center and looked: nothing.  Checked the bus: still nothing.  Jamie picked her up later in the day and repeated the drill I had done earlier.  Nothing. At all.

Just like that.  It was gone and we were sick about it.  It wasn't losing the camera that was upsetting as losing the card and everything it had captured up until now: the annual family Christmas gathering with grandma, all the cousins, aunts and uncles; the last Father's Day blow-out; the Girls Night Out Cruise on the Edelweiss; other silly slice of life pics and who knows what else.  The card held a microcosm of our life...and it was gone.

Later that night, I was ruefully recalling what was lost while I was making dinner.  As I grabbed some veggies and wondered type of fruit to have with the meal, it hit me:  Here I am moping about some pictures and taking for granted that we have what we need.  That we have veggies to go with dinner.  That we have a selection of fruit to go with dinner.  That we have dinner at all.  In my job, I research stats just about every day that tell a story about what's going on in our community; and there's plenty of people who have so much more to worry about than a lost camera or memory card.  Frankly, I was a little embarrassed that I was being such a big baby about this.

Now....am I upset that the camera's gone?  Yes.  Does it bother me that I lost the memory card with it?  You betcha.  But on the grand scale of everything that there really is to worry about and be sad about, this is just a blip on the radar screen.  Things could be a lot worse.  Most importantly, everyone pictured on that lost memory card isn't just a memory -- they're still with us and healthy; and that's really all that matters.

Maybe this was just God's way of telling me to get a grip.  And probably to get a better grip on our camera too for the next field trip.

20/20 is airing a series called "Family Secrets."  Tuesday's episode was promoted with an ominous voice-over that said something to the effect of "It's every parent's worst nightmare...Teens and their sex lives."  The show was about teen pregnancy and profiled a number of girls, and follwed them through different stages of pregnancy and life after their respective babies were born.  One girl delivered triplets.  Only one survived.  Another girl finished high school -- a real feat considering that statistically, these young moms don't complete their high school educations.  She ended up breaking up with the baby's father and dating one of his friends.  Then there was the girl who delivered healthy twins, only to give them up for adoption after nearly changing her mind shortly after their birth.

Differing viewpoints on preventing teen pregnancy in the first place were also featured in the show.  There was an abstinence-based program out of Longview, Texas where kids were taught, in detail, what the consequences of having sex at an early age could bring, with pregnancy being the least of them.  Ironically, Texas has the 3rd highest teen pregnancy rate in the country.  Then there was the graphic -- very graphic (made my mouth hang open graphic) prevention program someplace in Massachusetts where kids not only learned how to correctly use birth control, but also demonstrated their knowledge through interactive ice-breaker games.

You know, my daughter's only 6 right now.  Her biggest social challenge will be starting a new childcare center next week.  In other words, I'm years away (thank goodness) from that conversation.  But right now, I'm just confused: I mean, all the experts agree that for parents to help prevent kids from using drugs, they should talk to their kids and adopt a "This will not be tolerated / I'll be disappointed in you if you do" attitude.  But when it comes to teen pregnancy, it seems like there's the "I wish you wouldn't, but you probably will so be careful" attitude.  I just don't get.  If we should be so vigilent about preventing drug use, why wouldn't we be that vigilent when it comes to teen pregnancy?

In the meantime, I wonder how many girls are trading in their dolls for diapers right now.

Here's a link to the show.  What do you think?

There's just no pleasing me, I'll admit it.  When it was winter, I whined that spring couldn't come fast enough.  When spring arrived, I complained that it was too rainy.  Now that it's sunny, I'm pining away for a hot, 80 degree day; and when that day gets here, I'll probably kvetch about having to work inside.

When it seemed that Jamie was working a million hours each week, I was a force to be reckoned with.  Oh, the litany of complaints: "I feel like I'm on my own here," "It feels like I'm a taxi-cab service that cooks meals and washes dishes."  And on and on ... and on I went.  Now the situation's turned around; and Jamie's carrying most of the load.

He and GG have already planted a vegetable garden

He built GG a "Doctor's Office"

Today they saw "Escape from Witch Mountain."  Those are just a few of the exciting things that Dad Almighty already dreamed up for GG.  Then there are these touching entries from GG's class journal that she kept throughout the school year:

"My Dad and me took Charley for a walk." 

"This is a picture of me and my Dad."

" My Dad can fly."

 "My Dad can walk on water."

Okay.  I made those last two up. You'd think I'd be happy, but (get ready for it, here's me not being happy yet again): What about Mom?  I mean seriously -- did DAD give up leaded (read caffeinated) coffee, gain twenty-five pounds and go up half a shoe size during nine months of pregnancy?  Did DAD go through 8 hours of labor just to get GG here?  No, it was me -- MOM.  And why wasn't MOM's name anywhere in this precious little journal?

A page later, her journal reads:  My Mom and me baked apple pie.

Oops.  I don't even remember that.  But GG does.

So, in the words of Emily Litella from SNL's Weekend Update: "Nevermind."

And oh yeah:  Happy (early) Father's Day, Jamie.  Thanks for everything you do for our family.

Instead of reading GG's class newsletter yesterday (when she brought it home) like normal parents do, I read it this morning as she was eating her breakfast.  Another form to fill out?  C'mon, school's ending next week, what else could I possibly have to complete at this late date?

"Please let us know how many guests will be attending the 5K Graduation...blah, blah, blah, blah"

I knew graduation was coming up this week, but after looking at the little form today it dawned on me: this is the THIRD graduation I've been to in THREE years!  Not like three different graduation ceremonies for assorted relatives, but the third one for GG alone.  Let's see: there was the 3K ceremony, last year's 4K commencement and now this one.  I'm not complaning -- well, maybe I am -- or maybe I'm just confused.  I understand that this is a transition, but so was the last one, and the one before that.  It's not like we're carting her off to a university, or like she's going to embark in her chosen career, or like she's moving in with her buds into a crappy little aparatment until she feels like continuing her education after a few years.  The kid is starting FIRST GRADE!  IN THE FALL!  OF THIS YEAR!

The criterion for promotion into first grade are pretty straight-forward for the kindergarteners:  listen to the teacher; raise your hand when you want to talk; interact well with other kids; read; count; do simple math; eat a snack; drink your milk and take a nap at naptime.  And I'm so proud of GG -- she's passed all of these requirements with flying colors....

...Now if only there was some sort of ceremony to recognize her accomplishments...after all, she is moving into First Grade, you know.

My mom graduated with some sort of vocal degree from the Conservatory of Music, and up until I came along, she was in charge of the choirs at our church.  Music was always present in my family and my mom encouraged all of us to explore music; and we did: one of my brothers is a drummer; the other brother is an assistant musician at his church and plays bass guitar, piano, organ and drums; and my sister is such an accomplished singer that Jesse Jackson invited her to sing at a campaign event when he was a Presidential candidate.  All that musical exploration meant that I grew to appreciate all kinds of music -- from old time Gospel, to R&B, chorale, progressive rock and even the dreaded Heavy Metal.

My appreciation (although I don't think that's an appropriate term) for Heavy Metal was influenced by my oldest brother Marriott.  He and his buddies formed a garage band back in the mid-80's.  I swear the only song they played for entire summer was Rocky Mountain Way.   Then winter came; they moved their act in the house, never moved back to the garage and expanded their set list considerably.  For at least three years, twice a week, the whole household (and our neighbors too) was treated to Fly By Night, Tom Sawyer, Free Will and other songs from the Rush catalogue.  Once practice was over, Marriott and his buddies would crank up Metal tunes by bands like Queensryche, Dio and Dokken with regularity.  But as time went on, some guys from the band got married, some got grown-up jobs, and the band eventually un-banded.

And so I was done with the Metal.  Or so I thought: last year, Queensryche and RATT were headliners at State Fair, and my dearly beloved husband wanted to go.  And because -- and only because -- I deeply, truly love Jamie, I went. 

It was at that concert that I understood why a pained look came across my mom's face every time my brother's band geared up.  (If you've ever had a killer toothache, you know what that look is)  I got what she meant when she said "Are they still tuning the instruments, or are they playing a song?"  Now contrary to what you may be thinking, I wasn't a wet blanket throughout the concert, but I will say that beer runs and potty breaks were taken at a verrry leisurely pace that night, and I will confess that I breathed a sigh of relief when it was all over.  And then my ears rang for three days.

So I thought that would have put the lid on my Metal experiences as an adult.  I thought wrong: on our way to lunch the other day, Jamie got that excited little kid look on his face and said "Jackyl and Dokken are coming to State Fair!"

If you or someone you deeply, truly love craves the Heavy Metal days, I'll see you in the ticket line on Monday.

It seems that I'm losing things more often.  You know what I mean -- the pen that I'm going to write a check with suddenly disappears after GG or Charley the Shih Tzu-a-Poo interrupts me.  My favorite brush that guarantees a halfway decent hair day goes missing for a week.  My left shoe that I just saw by my bed can't be found when I'm running late for work.  And heaven only knows how many times I've gotten stuck watching ESPN because the remote control goes MIA.

What I have found (without even trying, mind you) is 14 pounds.  I don't know when it happened, but no matter how much I'd like to lose them again, they seem determined to hang around in plain sight of every fitting room mirror that has the all-important, much-dreaded Rear View.

Now, usually if I lose something, I can retrace my steps and find whatever it is that's lost, so I'll try to do something similar here:  My lunch used to be spinach salads, garden salads, baked chicken and fresh fruit.  Home Run Inn Pizzas, garlic bread, fast food and Turtle Sundaes weren't even a thought at dinnertime.  40-minute workouts on my stepper at least three times a week used to be the norm.  Shows like The Biggest Loser inspired me, and I was gung-ho about healthy living.  That was two years ago....I definitely lost them during that time.

But how did I end up finding them yet again?  Let's see....Lately, spinach salad and anything healthy for lunch has more often than not gone the way of the wonderfully tasty, greasy Quarter Pounder with Cheese or whatever looks good on the Taco Bell menu.  Now when I watch 10 minutes of The Biggest Loser, I think to myself "That's a lot of work.  That looks like it might be painful.  Honestly -- is that really a tasty diet?"  Then I nestle into our comfy couch and find something more palatable to watch like American Idol.  Then there's my stepper...hey -- where is that stepper anyway?  Oh well, I'll just count that as something else on my Lost List.  Maybe if and when I find it again, I'll figure out how to lose these found pounds.

But in the meantime, I think I'll just look for my other shoe....once the American Idol Finale's over.

Seriously -- this weight loss thing is a real project, and I'd love to hear your weight loss/fitness tips.  How do you fit it in between working, mothering/fathering, volunteering and whatever else you've got on your plate?  And has anyone found a way to do it without exercise and while eating what they want?  (I know, I know -- but I can dream, can't I?)

GG's school doesn't have summer care, so with the school year fast coming to a close, Jamie and I had to decide where GG'd spend her days while we work.  Luckily, a co-worker referred me to a place where her child is.  Even better, it's within walking distance of my office.

Jamie and I visited the place during my lunch hour -- which was naptime for the little-little ones.  As we passed their classroom doors, we heard the familiar sleepy time music playing, and the lights were dimmed, except one or two desk lamps at which the caregivers were reading while their little charges slept.  Tiny feet poked out from under the blankets of the sound sleepers, while the restless ones played little shadow games with their fingers.  It all took us back to the time when GG first started 3K...and of course, we got choked up.

We went on to tour the "big kids'" area.  The curriculum was clearly posted, and the classroom had computers, a stage and theater equipment for little actors (right up Dramatic GG's alley) and a library.  It seemed like the perfect place -- fun programs filled with educational activities, field trips and a capable staff.  All we needed to do was fill out the registration forms.  But for some reason, I was having a hard time doing just that.

So hard of a time, in fact, that I missed the registration deadline by two whole days.  If it wasn't for Jamie, I'd think I was one of those completely loopy, over-protective-guilt-ridden moms, but he understood and articulated my dilemma perfectly, "You know, sending her to school is one thing because she's supposed to be there; but sending her to childcare feels like we're just dumping her off someplace because we've got better things to do."  Now I know that's not the truth, but sometimes that's just how it feels.  And then there's the whole issue of leaving your kid with people you've only met a few times, you know?  Kind of like saying "Hi, nice to meet you.  What's your name again?  Anyway, here's the most precious part of my life -- she's vulnerable, trusting and has only been on the earth for six short years. See ya' in 8 hours!"

I finally registered GG yesterday; and driving home, I got misty just like I did when I registered her for childcare three years ago.  In my heart of hearts, I know that she'll have fun and make friends at this place just like she did back in 3K; and my crocodile tears will subside after her first day (or first week, to be honest).  But for the time being, this sure is hard.

Talk to me, moms & dads....Does this ever get any easier?  Share your first-day stories -- preschool, new school, college or otherwise -- by clicking the "Post a Comment" button.

If you're like me, you like to believe that your problems, issues or whatever molehill you're facing is yours and yours alone.  That no one else could ever feel the way you feel, and that you're all alone on your little Island of You.  But the truth is, we're all human, and although situations might vary from here to there, our emotions are pretty similar.

I was scheduled to go on The Morning Blend to talk about one of IMPACT's programs; and I'll admit it:  I was a nervous mess the days leading up to it, the night before and the morning of.  As I was getting GG ready that morning, I said "You know what today is, right?"  Her eyes brightened and she got this big grin "Yeah!  You're going to be on the Dr. Phil show!"  Maybe in ten years or so, but not today, I thought.  "Actually, I'm a little nervous, so I want you to say a special prayer for me today, okay?"

She was incredulous.  "Grown-ups don't get nervous."  Oh yeah they do, I'm thinking.  Then it was time for her to be my teacher:  "You know, mom....I was nervous once.  We had the Science Lady at our school , and my teacher wanted me to be the helper, so I had to take the magic wand to the Science Lady, and I was a little nervous because everyone was looking at me."  "Yeah.  That's kind of how mom feels too."  GG told me that everything turned out fine with the Science Lady and that I probably shouldn't be worried or nervous.

I kissed her goodbye and drove down to the station, sat in the green room (which isn't green at all) with some incredibly nice people, went on the set and chatted with some other nice people (this time while the cameras were rolling), and my six minutes of fame was over.  And GG was right:  I shouldn't have been worried or nervous at all.

Huh?

“What did you say?”  She said it again.  I picked up my jaw off the floor and flashed back to the first time I said a …um…chosen word in my mom's presence.  Before I continue, you’ve got to understand that my mom was “old school,”  in fact, she’d be 84 on her next birthday.  Hers was the generation where you didn’t sit down and do mini-psychotherapy to find out why your 6-year-old just cussed like a sailor.  You simply spanked her little bottom, and she never said the word again – even if she didn’t know why saying the word was wrong in the first place.  Which is what happened with me.  But I knew I wanted to do things differently with GG.

“Who have you heard say that word?”  Heaven knows that Jamie and I aren’t halo-heads or anything, but strong language is something that just doesn’t happen around our house.  In fact, I was 30 years old before I ever heard my own dad swear.   Anyway, back to GG the Sailor.  “I heard it from my Surf’s Up movie.”  Great.  Not only did I take her to see that movie, but bought her the DVD too…So we had yet another “talk.”   We talked about how she may hear people saying words like that, but it doesn’t mean that she should use them; how she’s got so many words in her vocabulary that she doesn’t have to come up with dirty words to explain herself; how saying dirty words can get her in trouble at school or even cause her to lose friends.  And whole bunch of other stuff that took about 10 minutes to go through, as well as a “time out” and an apology to me.

Really…didn’t I just have “the talk” about alcohol with her the other day?  Great…and now we’ve moved onto swearing.  Guess I better buy a book about the “Birds & the Bees”…that’ll probably be the topic of tomorrow’s “talk” at the rate we’re going.

Anybody have suggestions for some "cover the gray" hair coloring?

I think I'm gonna need it.