Environmental Awareness

When my husband, George, gets home from work, he usually comes in the house through the garage. When he gets to the interior garage door that leads into the laundry room, he swings the door open and takes a quick look around before he actually steps foot inside. You see, I have made my husband paranoid, or at least paranoid about coming into our home. I like to say that I am teaching him to be aware of his surroundings. It may seem odd that George should be so cautious about walking into his own home on any given day, but the truth of the matter is George married a prankster and my all time favorite go-to prank is hiding from him, then jumping out and scaring the poo out of him. It's his own fault really. If he didn't scream like a little girl or yell absurdities all the while dancing in place and doing his best bobble head impression, I wouldn't waste my time. Frankly, it's the best laugh of my day.

The game of hiding from loved ones only to jump out and scare them within in an inch of their lives is a game that my mom taught my brother and me when we were kids. Imagine that. One minute Mom would be busy in the kitchen or putting laundry in the dryer and the next minute, she was nowhere to be found. In those moments, I knew Mom was hiding from me, and that at any second, she would pop up from behind my bed or burst out of a closet, scare the daylights out of me, and then we would both crumple over with laughter. It was always fun and unnerving at the same time. I remember one such instance when she went into hiding and I searched the whole house in an effort to beat her at her own game only to come up empty handed. Needing to relieve myself, and feeling confident that she was probably in the garage, I headed to the bathroom, which I had already searched. I went into the bathroom, started to close the door, and as I turned, I found Mom perched on the toilet seat hidden from view by the opened bathroom door. I think she quietly said, "Boo." I know I screamed and it's possible, just possible, in light of where I was, that I may have peed my pants a little. We still laugh about that one.

Mom taught me the fine art of choosing our victims. The bigger the screamer, the better the target. Enter my Uncle Robert. Now Uncle Robert was actually my great uncle so he was an older gentleman and quite easy to catch off guard. He always put on quite the show of hollering and jumping out of his skin any time that we scared him, so of course, he was the obvious target. What I have failed to mention is that in earlier years when Uncle Robert was still a smoker, he suffered not one, not two, but three heart attacks. Yeah, I know we probably shouldn't have been hiding from him but I like to think that it brought him almost as much joy as it brought us. I should also mention that we stopped hiding from him after he had the quadruple bypass and you'll be relieved to know that he lived to be 91 years old and his passing was not the direct result of any of his heart issues.

So now, the not so coveted title of Most Demonstrative Victim falls to my dear sweet George. Oh, I'd love to scare the kids, and I have on occasion, but it's hard to savor the scare high when Nathan is crying or Liam is telling me how angry that makes him. Jacob puts on a good show, and he usually falls to the floor with laughter but I don't like to target him too much because it just doesn't seem sporting. I get Vivie every now and then so she doesn't feel left out, and she thinks it's the funniest thing ever, but George is by far my favorite target. Before you start thinking I'm twisted and mean, let me just say that George has gotten me a time or two (he actually brought me to tears once) but I'm not as jumpy as he is thanks to Mom's Environmental Awareness Program for the Up and Coming Paranoid.

All this to say that for several consecutive months on an almost daily basis, I would hide from George in the laundry room upon his arrival home from a long day at the office. It's reasonable to assume that I would be able to scare him once. It's even probable to think that I would scare him twice, but let me tell you, I scared that man nearly every single time I hid in that same spot for months on end. One day, George decided to push the door open and take a look around the laundry room before he actually entered the house. That decision was life changing for him. This is now his habit and it makes my job a little more challenging, and to be honest, a little more rewarding when I actually score the scare. I keep at it because I would hate for an intruder to scare George and George's initial reaction be his usual jumping in place, arms flailing in all directions, topped off with a shrill scream; however, this might just cause the intruder to fall to the ground with uncontrollable laughter buying George the small amount of time he would need for his fight reflex to kick into gear. Nonetheless, I have been laying low for a while. It might just be time to crank it up a notch.

Save the Books

Today, my 12-year old son, Jacob, started reading To Kill a Mockingbird -- my all time favorite book. I read it for the first time when I was about 11 years old and I think I have probably read it a dozen times since then. It always amazed me that Harper Lee's first and only novel is an American classic taught in classrooms around the world. Can you imagine your first attempt at writing a book and not only do you win the Pulitzer Prize but you are considered to be among the greatest of American novelists? Lee certainly didn't need a mulligan, did she?

I have always loved reading, but this is the first book that I read that I truly devoured. It was the first time I read a book that I just couldn't put down and I was so sad to leave it when I finished reading the last page. So for about a year now, I have been encouraging Jacob to read the book in the hopes that he will enjoy it as much as I have over the years. I guess the title threw him because he was reluctant to pick up the book. Thus began my oh so subtle campaign (I took cues from Sam I Am--think Dr. Seuss, not Sean Penn) to persuade him to give it a try.

We got a puppy last summer, and I insisted that we name her Scout, and even after I told Jacob that the name came from the main character of To Kill a Mockingbird, he still seemed uninterested even though he enjoys reading. I had high hopes that it would be required reading in sixth grade because it was required when I was in sixth grade, but apparently, they don't really teach literature in sixth grade in this school district (don't get me started). At the end of the school year, I suggested that he and I read it together over the summer. His response was simple, "Nah." Now that seventh grade has started, I hoped he would be getting a required reading list that included my beloved book. Not so much. Again, even though he is in advanced English and has a separate reading class, he will not be studying the finer aspects of literature. This year is all about grammar, writing, and building vocabulary, which are all important things; however, by now I was well versed in symbolism, themes, irony and all those wonderful layers that unfold when delving deep into literature. I can't help but think standardized testing has played its ugly hand here, but I digress.

Desperate to get this book on Jacob's radar, I decided to loan him my copy weeks ago when he was looking for something to read. Nothing. My last ditch effort came when I decided to add the movie to our Netflix queue. You see, the kids and I have a long standing ritual of reading a book and then watching the movie counterpart. We then discuss how the two compared and which one we enjoyed more. The book always wins. When Jacob saw me updating the queue, he insisted that I not add the movie just yet because he eventually planned to read the book, but not right now. Then out of the blue today, he finally decided to crack it open. I was just giddy...that is, until I saw Jacob dog ear one of the pages to mark his place. Oh no he di'int! Oh yes he did! I mean who is raising this kid?!

When I was in elementary school, I had the greatest librarian. Her name was Mrs. Barksdale and she influenced my love of books almost as much as my own mother did. When our class went to the library, Mrs. Barksdale made all of the students line up at the sink so we could wash our hands before touching the books. Then we all chose our seats and the one lucky student who sat in the secretly marked chair was allowed to select his book first and read it while lounging in the whimsically painted claw foot tub filled with colorful throw pillows that sat center stage in Mrs. Barksdale's library. (Alright, now that I have children, the idea of allowing the kids to lounge in a pile of throw pillows gives me pause what with head lice being so prevalent in school settings.Yikes! That being said, the rest of library time was nothing short of enchanting.)

Not only did Mrs. Barksdale make library time special, but she went to great lengths to teach us how to handle and care for books, how to really appreciate books. She was a lovely woman but you didn't want to cross her. So watching Jacob dog ear that page in my most favorite book, my inner Mrs. Barksdale wanted to smack the back of his head, but she and I restrained ourselves. I said in a horror stricken tone, "Jacob, what are you doing!?" To which he so innocently replied, "What? I don't have a bookmark." It was as though we had never even met.

Just what goes on in those school libraries these days? Next thing you know, the kids will all have ebook readers and the crinkling sounds of a book's spine opening, the wonderful tactile experience of turning the pages, and the warm yellowing hues of aging books will be meaningless to upcoming generations. The horror, the horror.

Basketball Courting

I have never been athletically inclined. I'm not that coordinated, I don't enjoy sweating, and I am convinced that the whole runner's high theory is just a big scam similar in nature to a snipe hunt. So no, I never played sports in school. I took a dance class in lieu of a p.e. class in high school, and I took health psychology to opt out of my p.e. requirement in college. I enjoy watching sports, but I am about as athletic as a three toed sloth; therefore, during the fall semester of my freshman year in college, when three cute boys asked if I would round out their intramural co-ed basketball team, obviously I said yes.

Newsflash: I didn't really think through this grand plan of mine to hang out with these three cute boys. I shudder at the number of times I have made a fool of myself all for a pretty face, but I digress. I genuinely wish my present day self could go back and knock some serious sense into that goofy girl who thought that the only girls playing intramural sports would be the ones just wanting to flirt with cute boys. Forget about the notion that there are dedicated athletes with tremendous ability playing intramural sports. I'm laughing at my foolishness right now. (Oh how it hurts me to think back on this. There truly is no place for pride in this narrative).

When my brother got wind of my basketball team (once he stopped laughing and regained his composure), he asked, "When is your first game? There is no way I'm going to miss this."

My team and I had just a few practices before our first game. My best friend, Jen, was also on the team because I coerced her into playing so we would have 5 players. She was my athletic kindred spirit, thus you can understand why she and I were only getting more and more nervous as we realized these boys were hoping we would actually win a few games. Oh, you mean the goal of playing sports is to improve your technique and hopefully win some games? It's not about looking cute and getting asked out on a date?

Before Jen and I could think of a way out of this predicament that I had allowed my hormones to create, the day of our first game arrived. True to his word, my brother, Tad, met us at the gym and not only did he not miss my first game but he brought his girlfriend, and a handful of our friends from work to cheer me on to victory, or at least that's what I told myself. I pretended not to hear Tad when he laughingly asked the cute boy who was both a teammate and the coach, "Have you seen Allison play?"

There I was, in the gym, stretching and warming up my muscles. I had my hair pulled back in a cute ponytail, and I was working on my game face which included full makeup, by the way. Don't all serious athletes have vanity issues? Suddenly, I looked up, and I kid you not, just as the radio in my head began playing "We Will Rock You," the other team strutted onto the court. These girls looked as though they had just left their day jobs as Justice Leaguers. I knew there was no way I was going to walk off that court without suffering some form of humiliation, but I had no idea that it would be reminiscent of The Bad News Bears. Jen and I, or maybe I should say Lucy and Ethel, struggled through the first period, we were out of breath by the end of the second period, but I think the sugar hit the fan in the third period, when Glenda The Not So Good Giant, decided to guard me. She was all over my stuff, standing head and shoulders above me with her chest pushed right in my face. I couldn't breathe, and in all honesty, I didn't realize that her aggressiveness was considered fair play. I thought she was just being rude. In that moment, I snapped. It's as if I thought we were in some women's prison status sqaubble and I was not going to be her punk. I put my hands on her ample chest, and I shoved her so hard it knocked her off  balance, all the while I was yelling for her to get out of my face and back the heck off of me.

The rest of the game was just a blur, but I will tell you, we lost significantly. We withdrew our team from the season, my brother had some great laughs at my expense, and while none of those cute boys ever asked me to play on any of their teams again (nor did any of them ask me out on a date) we remained close friends for the duration of my college years. And that, was the start and finish of my not so lucrative basketball career.

Dancing With Salmonella

I love to bake. I hate to clean, but I love to bake. I especially love to bake chocolate chip cookie bars because chocolate chip cookie dough is my crack. Hello. My name is Allison and I am a chocolate chip cookie dough addict. Yes, I am well aware that there are raw eggs in chocolate chip cookie dough and I don't care. Of course, I would never let my children have cookie dough because of the risk of salmonella, but they haven't had the opportunity to build up a tolerance to raw eggs like I have and frankly, I don't want them to get sick on my watch. Yeah, part of that is because I am a good mom who hates to see her children sick (and I know I could use pasteurized eggs but I don't), but the other part of that...well, I'll just be honest, I don't want them throwing up all over the floor because invariably there will always be at least one kid who doesn't make it to the toilet, and (okay, don't hate me because I am sure you can relate to this on some level) I really don't want to share my cookie dough. By the time I get the dough spread into my bar pan, there is just a little bit left in the mixing bowl, just a smidgen on the beater, and a teeny tiny minuscule amount left on the spoon. It would never amount to much if I had to share it with four kiddos. Besides, I don't want to enable them to the point of becoming a dough addict like their mother. After all, addiction can be hereditary.

So there I was yesterday, channeling my best June Cleaver, baking yummy chocolate chip cookie bars and remembering to add love and goo which is what I always tell the boys makes my cooking tastes so good. The boys were upstairs playing, my baby girl was scaling the living room walls, and my husband was working quietly on his laptop at the kitchen table. It was such a serene moment that I lost myself in my mixing and measuring. I do a lot of my baking while the baby naps and the boys lose themselves in a video game. It's my alone time. Just me and my cookie dough or me and my buttermilk pie or me and my beer bread, but yesterday was different. George was home. I put the bar pan in the oven and started the task of cleaning the mixer. I found myself licking the beater over the kitchen sink while taking in the view of the backyard. I was alone with my dough, or so I thought. Suddenly, I felt eyes upon me. I slowly turned to look over my shoulder and saw my George, the love of my life, the man of my dreams, looking right at me with an expression of horror mixed with disgust all over his face. I think it was the first time he'd ever caught me with my dough. "What?" I asked too caught up in my own dough euphoria to be embarrassed. He simply replied with laughter.

So George would never eat anything with raw eggs in it but I figure they were good enough for Rocky Balboa, and they are good enough for me so long as they are wrapped in butter and brown sugar.

Maybe That Is The Best Smile He Can Do

I desperately want a beautiful family portrait. You know the kind where the whole family is seemingly blissfully unaware that a photographer is capturing every wonderful moment they are spending playing in the forest while each member of the family just happens to be perfectly coiffed and wearing a coordinating outfit. Ah, but this is simply a pipe dream in my world. A dream that only becomes more unobtainable with each child we add to the mix.

Today, we had our church directory photo taken. Now, I know this isn't quite the same as having a professional photographer take your family photo out on location, but I still hold tight to the dream. I put a lot of thought into choosing the right color coordinated outfits. I made certain that everyone had a recent but not too recent haircut and I personally styled all of the children's hair the day of the photo. I even went to great lengths to make certain no one spilled his breakfast on his clothes or dribbled his toothpaste down his shirt.  Alas, this effort was all for not. Let's face it, the church directory photo session is the wham bam thank you ma'am of photo shoots. There is no time spent getting the kids to loosen up and relax. Heck, the guy simply referenced the kids based on their height rather than taking 2 minutes to learn their names. We were in and out in five minutes so I really didn't expect to end up with the perfect family portrait, the one that captures the true essence of each of my four lovely children and my handsome husband, all the while making me look 15 pounds lighter and 10 years younger. I really didn't even expect to like the portrait, but I certainly didn't think it would be so bad that I would laugh out loud when the salesman tried to coax us into purchasing a package. Really? Was he looking at the same proof that I was or was he drinking 80 proof?

So none of my children have mastered the art of faking a natural smile. It's not their fault. I think I was 19 before I could do it, and I'm a girl with some vanity issues. Awkwardness is in our gene pool. My boys are boys. They don't care about looking cute in photos and my baby girl, well she's still too young to get it and frankly, she's too smart to find the humor in the feather duster the photographer kept waving in her face. So there we were, George and I front and center donning our most genuine fake smiles, a stoic Vivie was seated in my lap while we were flanked by the three boys. Jacob and Nathan came close to genuinely smiling but still not really looking themselves, but Liam, my dear sweet wonderful Liam, can single handedly ruin a picture. I write this with all the love in my heart, because frankly, I love that Liam is his own person. He is wonderfully weird and funny and oh so creative; however, when Liam was in kindergarten, for reasons unknown to me, he decided that his claim to fame would be that he is the one kid who never (and he really shoots for never) smiles in pictures. Well, sometimes to accomplish this goal, this means Liam won't even look in the general direction of the photographer for fear that he may accidentally smile at the photographer. Other times, this means that Liam will contort his mouth into any other expression trying to fight against the appearance of a smile. No matter the technique Liam uses to avoid smiling, the result is always the same...one awkward family photo.

So I had to laugh today when the salesman, who was earnestly trying to persuade me into purchasing a portrait package, simply said, "Maybe that is the best smile he can do."

The Eyes Have It

When I was about 5 years old, I started collecting Madame Alexander's Dolls of the World. Once I had acquired several of those dolls, I started wanting larger dolls to add to my collection. So when I was in second grade, my mom gave me a 15 inch vinyl doll dressed in a Victorian style brown velvet dress with a matching hat. She came wrapped in a box with a clear window showcasing the doll in all her beauty. While I was excited to get a new doll for my collection, there was something unsettling about this particular doll. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't want to take her out of the box. I simply told Mom I just didn't want her clothes to get dusty, and there, wrapped in her box, the doll stayed for several days.

I finally decided to take the doll out of her cardboard sarcophagus and get a closer look at her. While I had the doll in my hands, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling building up inside of me, my brother, Tad, just happened to come into my room. I'm sure he must have sensed my uneasiness about the doll because he proceeded to tell me the scariest story about a doll scratching out some little girl's eyes (oh yeah... I also have a thing about eyes). Well, I just laughed it off, but as soon as Tad left the room, I packed that vinyl beast back into her box where she stayed for the next 4 years. Not wanting to hurt Mom's feelings, I stuck with the whole premise of wanting to keep the doll pristine. During the day, the box was on display in my room, but at night, I put that box in the far corner of my closet and shut the door.

So 4 years after I got that creepy doll, our house caught on fire while we were on vacation. Let me just stop you here, I do not think the doll started the fire. Although, having that thought for the first time just now, really gave me the chills. No, I repeat, the doll did not start the fire. We pretty much lost everything in the fire and I have to say, as devastating as losing your home can be, I found some solace in the knowledge that the doll was gone and I decided then and there that my doll collecting days were behind me. It was just too risky of a hobby.

Several months later, my grandmother and my great aunt decided to surprise me with a gift. I couldn't wait to see what was in the gift bag. As soon as I put my hand in the bag, I realized I probably should have told them that I was no longer interested in dolls so they wouldn't have wasted their money buying me a new one. As I pulled the doll out of the bag, my heart stopped when I saw the brown velvet dress and matching hat. Trying to catch my breath I asked, "Where did you find another doll like this?" To which my great aunt replied, "We found your old one in the rubble and took her to my friend who restores dolls." (AAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!) Quick on my feet, I asked my grandmother if I could keep the doll (who mind you no longer had her box prison thanks to the fire) at her house so I would have something special of mine there.

That was the beginning of my pediophobia, or fear of dolls. I have what I like to call a rational case of pediophobia. I am not scared of all dolls, just the evil ones. It's all in the eyes. If you look into enough dolls' eyes, and if you're honest with yourself, you'll know what I mean.

Some 17 years later, shortly after my grandfather had passed away (and no, I don't think the doll killed him), Mom and I were helping my grandmother pack up her house so she could move in with my folks. My grandmother reached inside one of the closets and pulled out that same doll and asked me, "Would you like to take her home with you?" Mom, aware of my fear at this point and now a bit of a pediophobe herself, said, "Well she's not coming to my house!" Somehow, that doll ended up in the donation pile but every now and again, I can't help but think our paths will cross again.

The Seventh Grade Squeeze

My oldest son, Jacob, will be starting 7th grade in just a few weeks. In my efforts to wrap my head around the whole Where Did The Time Go concept, I have been feeling a little nostalgic for my 7th grade year. That was a fun year, and I hate to say it,  but given the chance, I might would just do it all over again (this time with contacts instead of the my old goofy pink glasses with lenses the size of salad plates).

So it's probably obvious (what with the glasses and all) that I was a pretty big dork in 7th grade, but it really didn't matter because I had a great circle of friends and in our own ways, we were all a little dorky, right? Anyway, that was the year, that I gained some independence in that I was allowed for the first time to hang out with my friends unchaperoned at the mall.

I spent a lot of free time with my friends at the mall trying on clothes, eating pizza, ogling boys, and giggling. One of our favorite stops at the mall, was this store that had fun trendy clothes for teens. The only problem was that this store's fitting rooms did not have doors or curtains on the stalls. At 12, this was not a shopping deal breaker, but now, with my aging postpartum duct taped body, fuhgeddaboudit. One afternoon while shopping there with my friends, I decided to try on one of those sexy tight dresses intended for a girl much older than 12. I knew there was no way on God's green earth that my mother was ever going to let me wear it because she had this crazy rule that I was not allowed to dress like a hooker. Go figure. Hanging out with my girls, I thought I would just try on the dress for poops and giggles. I'm sure at the time I thought it made me look every bit of 16, because really isn't 16 the age all 12 year old girls aspire to be. So I had my fun slipping into the red dress but when I decided  it was time to take off the dress...well that's when the real fun started. This dress was a pullover style with no buttons or zippers and I think it had the innate ability to get tighter while being worn. I pulled the dress up over my hips, my waist, my small chest, but then when I got it to my shoulders with my crossed arms and head hidden inside the dress, it stopped moving. It just wouldn't budge in either direction. So there I was standing in the doorless stall of the dressing room stuck in this dress with my bra and undies on display for all those in the fitting room to see. When I realized that I could neither pull the dress up over my head nor back down over my body, I called for my friends to help me. By this time, we were all laughing so hard that our bodies were too weak to pull the dress and then all of a sudden, I had to pee. So there I was with the not so sexy red dress stuck over my head, shoulders, and arms completely encasing me like a sausage, laughing so hard I'm crying, all the while doing the pee pee dance and praying that the store manager wouldn't come in and find me this way. My friends somehow managed to free me from the dress, I threw on my clothes and made it to the restroom without leaving a yellow trail. Four kids later, I can't say the outcome would be the same.

Life has a funny way of coming full circle and now I'm looking forward to see what adventures lay before Jacob this year. I pray that he has the kind of good friends that will help him out of a tight situation if need be, and I hope that his 7th grade year will be so memorable that he'd like to live it all over again.