A Kid's Imagination

You never know what might be in a kid's imagination, until you give him the opportunity to release it. My 10 year-old son and two of his 4th grade classmates produced this video. After watching it, I still don't quite understand his imagination, but I was definitely entertained.

Skim Board vs. the Whiteboard

Yesterday I faced a conundrum. Someone forced me to take a hard look at what I'm teaching my children to value and to make a difficult decision.

The public schools in my county are out for summer. The private school my children currently attend, however, is still in session for another week. And therein lies my problem. Two of my 12 year-old son's friends, who are liberated to revel in summer's bliss, invited my child to revel with them. They asked if he could go to the beach with them for the day, today, a Friday, a school day for my 12 year-old.

There I found myself caught between the importance of education and what I know to be fleeting opportunities for youthful abandon. In an effort to put the decision on the shoulders of others, I told my son he could not go if he had any tests or quizzes scheduled for today. He smiled broadly at me. He didn't have any obligations of that nature.

I explained to him my concern over the message I would send him, and his siblings, for that matter, if I allowed him to skim board all day instead of stare at a whiteboard for eight hours. He assured me, however, that he understands the importance of studying hard and doing well in school. "Sometimes, Mama," he argued, "a boy just needs a mental health day." And he cartoonishly convulsed to emphasize his point.

Sending him out of the kitchen, I insisted that he leave me to ponder it for awhile. I thought about the last time I did anything spontaneous or slightly irresponsible. Nothing registered. Apparently, without my constant attention to all the details and serious commitment to the to-do list, nothing will get done and all will fall apart or come to a screeching halt.

Then I considered all the people who have died without notice; up and keeled over without warning. I pictured their to-do lists scribbled on paper on their kitchen tables with nothing crossed off. Friends and relatives mourn their absence. They cry. But no one says, "How will the grass ever get cut now that Gerald is gone?" or "Who will service those accounts Jane's been in charge of?" No, Gerald and Jane are six feet under having never unchained themselves from their to-do lists and life marches right on. The grass gets cut, the accounts get managed, and their to-do lists get thrown away, unnecessary remnants of lives concluded.

While I don't want my son to be 32 years-old, sitting on my sofa, watching reality TV, wearing a wife-beater shirt, with his right hand shoved in his unbuttoned trousers, and his left hand transporting a PBR from the end table to his lips, I don't want him to take himself too seriously either. Although I may regret it and find myself kicking his 32 year-old arse out the front door someday . . .

I landed on the side of youthful abandon and sent my son and his skim board to the beach with his friends. The whiteboard can wait until Monday.

Word Rodeo

So we're driving through one of those dark, narrow parking decks with small arrow signs pointing us in directions that they don't appear quite committed to. Those signs reserve the right to change their mind when a car comes through the maze in the opposite direction.

Out loud, I say to myself, "It's hard to maneuver a car in here," to which my young daughter responds, "What does maneuver mean?"

Her brother, only slightly older than her but adamant about exerting his intellectual dominance, replies, before I can, because I'm winding my way up the tower of Babel in the wrong direction, "It means poop."

Now, while he desires to crush his sister like a brainless bug under the sole of his intelligence, he also loves to fit in potty talk whenever he can. "No it doesn't," I correct, still peering through the dark for a parking space.

"Uh-huh," he insists, "I've heard you and Daddy talk about cow maneuver; how y'all are going to put cow maneuver on the garden."

"Honey, you mean manure. Cow manure."

"I do?" he asks, surprised. "Then what is cow maneuver."

"It's what they do at rodeos."

Twisted Minds

If my mother gives me advice, I think she's judgemental. If my mother gives my friends advice, they think she's wise (and that she is very, very cool).

While at every turn I fight being like my mother (a fight I'm losing), my friends all say they want to be just like my mother when they are her age (but they'll be just like their own mothers).

My 8 year-old daughter says she wants to be just like me when she grows up. She always seeks my approval. But ultimately it will be her friends who treat me like a rock star.

The whole cycle is just so twisted.

We're not Immortal After All

Dixie Carter died.

I didn't think things like that happened to people like us, Southern Ladies. I've been so naive. Now this. It changes everything. If something so unmentionable can happen to Dixie Carter then it can probably happen to me, too.

Am I ready? Have I hostessed enough garden parties, attended enough UDC meetings, baked enough casseroles, been to enough football games, grown enough tomatoes, eaten enough cucumber finger sandwiches, taught enough Bible School, mulched enough magnolias to enter through the pearly gates and recline in my heavenly home along the banks of the Suwannee River?

Miss Dixie, I hope that sweet chariot swings low for you and carries you on home, where the angels sit you down to a fine meal of fried chicken, okra, butterbeans, summer squash, sweet iced tea, and Mama's homemade mashed potatoes. And I hope all your kinfolk, who went on before you, are gathered around that table, too, talking and laughing and telling stories and generally welcoming you. What a wonderful celebration it must be when a Southern Lady gets to the other side.

Rest in peace, Miss Dixie. All us girls down here, now that we know the Lord will send for us as someday, as well, have got a whole lot of silver to polish so we can be ready.

You hear that, Lord! A whole, heap of a lot of silver to polish, so please don't show up for the party before I'm expecting you.

Southern Girls Living Fearlessly - Two Kinds of Friends

Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold.
--Old summer camp song from Jennie Arnold Edwards YWCO Camp

I've been humming that tune since I got back from my annual girls' weekend with sorority sisters from my college days. I firmly believe every southern girl should cultivate two kinds of friends:

1. The ones who knew her way back when
2. The ones who know her now

Friends from back when allow us to be that silly, giggly girl from our teens or twenties. The one who told that bad Santa Claus joke any time she had the floor. The one who sunbathed on the roof in February so she would be ready for spring break in March. The one who pretended to like champagne and who re-enacted the When Harry Met Sally cafe scene, in public places, whenever she got the whim. They're the friends with whom we shared a wardrobe and our wild side.

Way back when friends forgive us for ditching them for a date with a boy. They recall all the gory details of Pledge Formal and don't mind if we've chosen to forget them. These friends remind us of when we weren't mamas and wives and responsible working adults. We are bound to them by history and they love us.

The friends who know us now are just as important. They accept the sophisticated, polite, lady-like woman we've grown into without ever comparing us to our past. They keep us from lingering too long in yesteryear when the present isn't all we thought it would be. They support us. They civilize us.

Friends who know us now chat with us about the mundane details of daily life and never grow bored with the conversation. They love our children like we do. They loan us a bottle of wine on a Sunday night or a pair of shoes on a Saturday. They feed our dog and pick up our mail when we go on vacation. They carpool our kids, bring casseroles when we're sick, and attend every Girls' Night Out, no excuses. We can count on them.

TODAY'S ASSIGNMENT: We take our friends for granted, expecting them to be there when we have time for them. Today, be intentional about your friendships. Contact at least one old friend with whom you have fallen out of touch. Plan a get-together - a movie, dinner, a tour of homes, whatever - with a current friend. Gold and silver are too precious to let them slip away.

Did You Ever Wonder . . .

Why do hard boiled eggs stink like an old man's pruny poots, but scrambled eggs smell savory and delicious?

You probably haven't wondered, but I just thought I'd ask.