Boys will be _______.

It's spring break. I have slept past 7 for three days in a row....done 18 loads of laundry...and hosted various teenage boys on any given night. Tonight is no different. I got a text from Parker, asking if he could have TWO friends over, and outlining his plan for "spending the night in the woods." I replied that Yes, his friends could come over, and Let's Talk about the spending the night in the woods thing.

For a couple of weeks now, Parker has been disappearing into the woods, hatchet in hand, working on what he loosely refers to as his "hideout". With no leaves on the trees, I can see him out there piecing together random sheets of plywood and reclaimed two by fours. It keeps him busy and doesn't hurt anyone but the trees he's hacking limbs off of. So, if he's happy, I'm happy. But sleeping out there? I don't think so.

We compromised. The boys could spend until midnight "out in the woods" and then come back up to the house and sleep out on our covered, banistered, second-story deck...safe from various dangers like possums and skunks and teenage girls.

We picked the boys up and headed for home. They put their music in my cd player and turned it up loud enough to hear over the wind tunnel created by the open windows. Then they took turns sticking their heads out the window and making their cheeks flap in the wind. They coughed up bugs and guffawed at each other like grown men. As I shivered at the wheel, I yelled over the music "Everyone DOES have their seat belt on, right?" They did. I may be cool, but I am still a mom.

After a "beer" run (heavy on the ROOT), they stuffed their pockets with snacks and headed for the woods.

And as I watch them turn into man-sized shadows I shake my head and think...

Boys will be creative.

Boys will be determined.

Boys will be funny.

Boys will be sweet.

Boys will be boys....

The Ride of My Life

"but I....don't like those....spinny rides"

from "I don't like" by Barenaked Ladies Snacktime cd

We've been going through old pictures lately...finding things for Hillary's senior slide show. These images of life on Kodak paper have taken me on a roller coaster ride of emotions. Some of them make me laugh hysterically...and some of them bring me to tears. A few of speak about the ride of my life.

Like this one. We were at a small tourist trap and for some reason, young and stupid as we were, we put Hillary on this spinny ride. Round 1 -

"Um..I'm not so sure about this, guys..."

Round 2 -

"Get me off of here! NOW!"

I pretty much attacked the teenaged operator and got her off that stupid spinny ride. Only to put her on a DIFFERENT kind of ride....

"OK. Not so bad...but not really FUN either."

And as we spin through this senior year I am the one on the spinny ride. Paying for the ACT...filling out the FAFSA...ordering graduation announcements...picking out senior pictures...

I want to screw up my face and scream, "Get me off here, NOW!"

But here's the thing...Hillary went on to LOVE riding roller coasters and spinny rides. By the time she was 7 she was actively trying to deceive the operator at Six Flags by putting her ponytail on the top of her head and tiptoeing so she would be tall enough to ride. (It didn't work. Apparently ride operators are smarter than they look.)

So here is what I know about spinny rides and roller coasters:

1. Holding your breath does not help.

2. Sometimes you just have to scream.

3. As scary as it may be, no ride lasts forever. They are actually fairly short-lived.

4. If you let go and enjoy the ride, it can be kind of ...fun.

5. Rides are always best shared with someone you love.

So when a new boyfriend comes...and then goes, or I have to explain dyslexia to yet another crop of teachers, I hear the click click click of the rickety ride and feel the dread swell as we climb.

And then Hillary wows the critics in her school play...and Parker clears the highest bar in track practice...and they pile onto my bed so we can watch a corny action movie (Parker doing a forward flip onto the mattress like a little kid - even though he's 14!). And I reach the top and then I'm flying. And even though I'm screaming I realize that I feel......pretty great actually.

And I squeeze my husband's hand.

And we just enjoy the ride.

A-dressing A Woman

I took Hillary dress shopping.

We both skipped school, grabbed the camera, sunglasses, and our trusty new Garmin, and headed off to the city in search of the perfect prom dress.

She knew exactly what she wanted...

Red.

Or maybe purple.

Mermaid style.

Store #1 -

Yes, I know. Not a red or purple mermaid dress in the bunch. But lots of pretty-ness. Except for one nude colored monstrosity that was so ugly we didn't bother to photograph it. As we were walking out of the store an old black lady stopped us. "Which one did you get?" "Oh, we are still looking...it's our first stop, you know." Then she proceeded to tell us her opinion. "Oooh. And they were so PRETTY. I don't know which one I liked best. I think the tan one. Mmmhmmmm. That tan one was BEEE-utiful!" Hillary and I barely held our giggles until we got out of the store. "Really! She liked the UGLIEST one best?!" So much for advice from strangers.

One coffee stop...two bathroom stops...and one shared piece of Sbarro's later...

Store #2 -

This was one of those outlet type stores where what they have is what you get. No special ordering. Digging through crowded racks is required. And the handwritten sign over the shower curtain covering the dressing room door screamed, "NO PHOTOS ALLOWED!"

Hillary entered the dressing room with an armful of rainbow colored fabric (clearly having no respect for the "3 dresses only" rule - also declared by handwritten sign) and I settled into a chair with my second cup of coffee to wait for the show.

A middle aged white lady in short sweat pants and glasses on a chain was helping two rather large black girls try on dresses in the next dressing room. They took turns coming out and standing in front of the three-way mirror, looking like sausages stuffed into their casings. Ms. Sweat Pants tried, but apparently there is no tailoring in the world that can make satin enlarge itself enough for the "sisters" on those girls. They left.

In the meantime, Hillary came out in a parade of dresses that were good, but not "right".

A tired looking white woman with a two toddlers and a tatooed man in tow came in to try on a long red dress. The three year old with a mullet passed the time performing his own version of "Talk Dirty to Me" in front of the mirrors - egged on by his redneck father. The woman came out smoothing down the front of the dress. "You think it will be okay? I mean, with a body shaper, of course..."

As they headed to the checkout, I couldn't help myself.

"That dress looks really pretty on you." I said. And I wasn't lying.

She looked at me with grateful eyes. "You think so? Thank you. Thank you a lot. That means a lot."

What was that I was saying about advice from a stranger?

Hillary finally came out in the PERFECT dress. Which I happen to have a picture of because I slyly slipped my foot through the camera strap and d-r-a-g-g-e-d it into the dressing room with me, evading the watchful eyes of the saleslady. (I don't know where Hillary learned to break the rules.)

Unfortunately, the price tag said $350. Undaunted, I called the tall Asian saleslady back there, telling her we had a question about a dress.

"Is this the price on this dress?" I asked.

She gave me a look that clearly said, "poor, stupid American" and stated, "This is price."

"It's not on sale?"

Again, slower this time, "This is price."

Okey dokey, then.

The dress went back in the plastic garment bag, and we went on our way.

Half an hour and 5 missed exits later (no I am not kidding - our poor Garmin was starting to smoke) we finally arrived at store #3. Hillary loaded up and hit the dressing room. I sat in a chair next to a Mexican mama with TWO daughters in tow.

Every dress was "bonita" and the prices here are "so reasonable."

And FINALLY, Hillary made her decision.

Beautiful, I know. Although remarkably like one from the FIRST store? Just like a woman...

And then it was on to shoes.

Aren't these cool?

We drove home in the sunshine, happy with our successful shopping day. (BTW we got the shoes AND the dress for $116 - because the saleslady generously gave us an extra 15% off!) And I thought about how many women it took to dress this young lady. And I smiled. Us girls have gotta stick together.

Comic Relief

I stepped on the elliptical machine and slowly started moving my feet. Parker sat in front of me playing his video game on the big screen tv.

"You gonna watch me?" he asked.

"Well, I'm walking and I'm facing the tv. So, yeah, I'll probably end up watching you." I replied.

2 min later I was whining..."TWO MINUTES? That's all it's been? It feels like forever already."

He looked at me. "No it doesn't. It feels like it's been two minutes."

I tried to keep my pace as I s-t-r-e-t-ch-ed for my coffee on the table beside me.

No good.

Parker came over and placed my coffee cup in the cupholder on the elliptical machine. "Here, this is what it's for."

He went back to his game.

One minute later..."I'm bored," I complained. Parker looked over.

"Why are you walking, anyway?" he asked.

"To relieve stress," I panted.

Then I added. "Can you hand me my phone?"

He did, but added dryly, "I'm sure THAT doesn't help relieve stress!"

And I laughed. Seeing the whole thing through his eyes was pretty ridiculous.

And seeing me laughing he added, "but THAT will!"

And I agreed. This is my favorite stress reliever.

Laughter.

From my favorite comedian.

Ta ta, for now...

*Warning to any male readers I may have...this post is full of girl humor and references to "ta tas" so if you are sensitive you may want to have someone else read it for you and just give you the highlights.

Recently I got a new bra. I spent hours online and way too much money for the promise of perkiness. Finally, I got my package in the mail. It came from The Little Bra Company, who specializes in fitting "petite" women. It was wrapped in purple tissue paper with a fancy little tag that said, "Good things DO come in small packages."

I couldn't wait to try it on.

I ripped off my shirt right there in the kitchen.

Of course, Hillary, who could catch the scent of something "new" from across town, soon showed up to investigate.

She read the directions to me. Yes, there were directions.

HOW TO WEAR the little bra

step one
Put the little bra on. Lean over to allow your breasts to fall naturally into the bra cups.

step two
While leaning over, take your left hand to hold the bra in place (where the back wings–the strips of fabric, which extend from the outer base of the cups and secure in the back–meets the wire). Now, use your right hand to scoop your “little goods” to the center of the little bra. Repeat with the right cup.

step three
Adjust shoulder straps–tight enough so they don’t fall off your shoulders, but not so tight that they cut into your shoulders.

step four
You’ve got cleavage! Wear your favorite fashions with the little bra, or just wear the little bra!

Several tries and a few giggles later, I stood up straight...shoulders back...and looked down.

My grapes looked like....well...plums! There was the actual hint of a valley in the middle of my chest!

"Mom!" Hillary breathed reverently. "Look at you!"

I knew right then that I would have to be vigilant about this particular piece of apparel. If it were ever missing, I knew exactly whose room to start looking in...

Fast forward a few weeks to last night's ball game. As usual, I flew home from school, tutoring, and picking up Parker, to change clothes and freshen up for Hubby's first basketball game of districts. I had worn my old, non-magical bra to work because I like to save the good stuff for special occasions. And first graders don't really care about your ta-tas. One of their best qualities.

Anyway, I put on my favorite jeans and my new sparkly black t-shirt. I added high-heeled black boots and some dangly earrings and vavoom. If this seems like overkill to you, you must not be the "Coach's Wife". I was in such a hurry I completely forgot about my "special" bra until we were halfway there.

The kids and I were part-way through our third time of belting out "Sunday Morning" with Maroon 5 when it hit me. "Oh man..." I whined. "I should have worn my black bra!"

Hillary just looked at me.

I nearly drove off the road.

"You're WEARING it, aren't you!" I accused.

She smiled sheepishly.

"Well, I should make you trade with me when we get there." I pouted.

"I will." she piped. "I don't mind."

Fastforward again... 20 miles and one high school girl's bathroom later Hillary and I are both squished into the handicapped stall with our shirts around our necks and our purses perched precariously on the toilet paper holder. She rips off THE bra and stands exposed waiting for me to get mine off. She is laughing hysterically. I am fumbling and trying to do this gracefully without flattening my hair when my phone starts buzzing. I dig around in my coat pocket for it.

"Mom! You're gonna get that...NOW?"

"It might be important"

She is about to fall onto the toilet she is laughing so hard.

"Be quiet!" I hiss. "People are going to think we're doing something weird."

She is barely able to breathe as she squeaks, "Yeah, because THIS is not weird at ALL!"

I resist the urge to give her a swirly and we make the exchange just as one of the 27 teenage girls in the bathroom calls out, "WHAT are you guys DOING in there, Hillary?" Hillary, who is much quicker than I am, goes out the stall door, leaving me to follow the four-step-bra process on my own.

And I hear her laughingly describe to all her ballplayer friends how she had to switch bras with her mom! The girl is missing that gene that allows you to be embarrassed. It's a genetic disorder she inherited from her father.

Fortunately, the girls like her (and possibly me) enough to think it was cool and not crazy. And they all filed out of the bathroom giggly and girly.

I pulled back my shoulders, winked at my cleavage in the mirror, and said to my former flat self, "Ta ta for now...!"

A Stack of Memories

As we stood in church this morning singing, "Jesus, Hold My Hand" I had a sudden flashback. A sweet memory. So I leaned over to Parker and whispered, "Wanna know the memory I have of this song?" Since I was not wearing heels, he had to lean down so my mouth could reach his ear. And I told him about the time Loretta Cole and I sang this song as a special when I was 10. We practiced singing "parts" until we thought we sounded pretty good. But the thing I remember most was that we stood behind the podium. And I couldn't see over it. So we stacked a few hymnals on the floor and I stood on them.

Parker smiled and said, "You wanna know the memory I'll have of this song? That when my mother whispered her memory to me, I had to bend down to hear her."

And I couldn't help but picture our memories being stacked on top of each other like songbooks for the next generation to stand on.

No No

When my kids were toddlers, I used to joke that they would think their name was "No No" because it seemed like that's all I ever said to them. I think anyone who has ever lived through Christmas tree season with a 2 year old could understand.

But then I earned my degree in Child Development and was taught to be more positive. "Tell the child what you want them to do instead of what not to do."

And then I went to counseling and was taught to loosen my knuckle white grip of control over every thing remotely related to my family. "It's ok if their clothes don't match. It's not a reflection of your mothering."

And so we've floated along fairly smoothly down the river of time, and as my children show me respect and good judgement (most of the time) I respond by saying yes unless there is a reason to say no.

But sometimes I get busy and don't notice how much the four of us have allowed our loopy up and down and all around schedules and activities to mushroom. Until we start to suffer.

Like yesterday, when I came home from the chiropractor, who informed me that to keep my muscles from pulling my bones out of place, I needed to find a way to deal with my stress. Is it telling that when he corrected my posture (my shoulders are too rounded and my head is forward) I responded by thinking "How stupid of me! I will perfect my horrible posture right away."? And I immediately programed my phone to beep once a day to remind me to check my shoulder position. As if I had somehow purposefully chosen to defy the posture gods and was now being punished. Instead of thinking, "Ok. Now I know what the problem is, and how to correct it." But I digress.

I came home to dirty dishes and piles of laundry and tried to remember to breathe deeply and keep my shoulders back while making pizza. Parker headed straight for my room (his favorite tv watching spot). I didn't hear from him again for a while. Then Hillary came home and plopped on the couch. She was mysteriously and uncharacteristically quiet as well. When I finally checked on them, they were both sound asleep. In the middle of a Friday afternoon. They never do that.

And I realized it was time to call a time out for our family. But before I could get the words out my children took care of it themselves. Parker had originally planned for a friend to spend the weekend. That was cancelled at the last minute. Hillary had planned to go Cosmic bowling til the wee hours of the morning. But she chose on her own to stay home instead. We all just lay around together in front of the fireplace and watched lame tv and talked.

So maybe I'm not perfect. And I don't always keep us on the straight and narrow. But is that really a mother's job? What I really hope to do is to teach my children to see the signs of overcommitment on their own and make better choices from there. And last night proved to me that they get that.

Its ok to get off track sometimes. We are all human and that will happen. The important thing is to see that you're off track and adjust...before it's too late.

So do I think my family is perfect?

No.

But would I change them for the world?

NO NO!