When Your Girls Go Off to College—Words of Wisdom

When my girls were little, they carried a special stuffed animal everywhere.

Likewise, when a girl goes away to college, she takes all her special belongings [including fifteen new Lilly Pulitzer sundresses for game day at the Grove, (Ole Miss)] because she must recreate in her dorm the same cozy environment in which she did not study at home. 

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First, during the summer before college, she and her roommate must meticulously plan a color scheme via Twitter and Instagram. 

They’ll send each other Laura Ashley fabric samples and coordinate polka dot dust ruffles and area rugs to pull their project together.

Then there’s Monogramming.  Everything.  Gabby Lee’s mama must purchase a monogrammed duvet and headboard at Ole Miss because that’s just what Southerners DO.  Now if she went to college in the North, . . . BWAAAHH  HAA!  I kill me!  

To make the boudoir complete, (BTW - we Southern girls like to say “boo-dwaahh” because it makes people think we hail from somewhere exotic, like the French Quarter) Gabby Lee will create a corner “reading” nook—a velvet loveseat, surrounded by sheer drapery and a string of white lights casting a soft glow on her spray tan.  A quiet place for “courting” because a Southern girl is forbidden by God and Mama to sit on her bed with a boy.  It’s a studious retreat in case a Sigma Chi wants to come over and get . . . tutored.

pinterest.com    Bella Rivera

For inspiration, she’ll have a Motivation Wall over her bed with a poster of a fluffy kitty proclaiming, “Don’t let anyone dull your sparkle!”  She can see it when she wakes up and peeks from under her bed tent of tulle and tulips.

Getting practical, Mama will make sure she has a monogrammed bath robe so she’ll never have to walk to the shower in her coed dorm wearing just her monogrammed boxer shorts.

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Over her desk, she’ll have a bulletin board covered in a sweet Vera Bradley “Va Va Bloom” pattern that matches her flat iron pouch.  It will display pics of her sorority sisters giving each other air kisses—wouldn't want ruin the Chanel lipstick.  Saving that for the Sigma Chi later.

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After Mama drops her off at Ole Miss (a TOP American party school),  Gabby Lee will take down the fluffy kitty poster.  Instead, over her dorm-sized fridge she'll hang a 30” x 60” poster of Abercrombie and Fitch Lust, wearing a cowboy hat and . . . a grin.  Signed  "Love, Texas Pete.”

CRANK UP THE HEAT . . . LOVE, TEXAS PETE
http://www.calendars.com/Studs-N-Spurs

(OK . . .  I DID ENJOY LOOKING FOR THIS PICTURE.  SUE ME)

That transgression is actually Mama's fault.  As a good Southern Mama, she taught Gabby Lee two basic truths that have been handed down through generations:

1— “Always own a deviled egg platter ‘cuz you never know when there’s gonna be a funeral."  

2 — “Always keep a big ol’ dose of Texas Pete in the kitchen.”

Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

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Me:  Go get your uniforms! I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

B to C:  Keep you doing what?

Me (hearing their conversation):  I am gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah, NAG-a-ramus, NAG-a-pottamus

C:  NAGmeister, NAG me with a spoon

B:  NAG-a-delic

C:  SHAG-a-delic

Me:  Where did you hear that?

C:  The Austin Powers movie.

Me:  When did you see it?

C:  Dad let me. He’s fun.

Me:  Being fun is not my job.  Where are your uniforms?

C:  Mooooommm! Stop nagging. You nag ALL the time!

B:  Yeah, ALLLL. Dad doesn’t nag. He’s fun.

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, a beautiful mess all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

 I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Dad Coaches: "We're Gonna Have Fun. Winning Is Fun."

Dad Coaches:   “We’re Gonna Have Fun.  Winning Is Fun.”

My daughters won their school’s State Championship in soccer last Saturday.  My senior daughter said goodbye to an incredible coach she’s had for four years. 

School coaches do a great job teaching the nuances of their sport to kids who already know the basics.  But who taught them the basics?  Dads (and moms) who sacrificed their patience and sanity coaching church and community leagues since their kids were spastic kindergartners.

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A good Dad-coach knows his players in ways a school coach can’t.  He’ll call Katie before a game to reassure her she can handle that tall #23 under the basket.  He knows Anna’s gonna cry if he yells.  And he knows Alexa likes chocolate milk with her pancakes after his daughter’s sleepover. 

A good Dad-coach will angrily throw his clipboard down.  And at least once each season, he’ll be ejected from the ball park and watch the game from his car for uttering “another word” when the umpire orders him not to.

http://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=1b3FDIWPhIYQuM&tbnid=PpR78W0ae
FZRKM:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.

He knows how to smile nicely while questioning a ref’s masculinity.  

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He knows how to beat the Star Wars pin ball machine at Garibaldi’s after games.

He knows trash talk is just as crucial as a good helmet.

And the best team isn’t always the one that looks best on paper.  

A good Dad-coach is also über-competitive.  In second grade, my daughter played on a basketball team coached by her friend Grace’s dad.

In the championship game, they were short a player because of a stupid family wedding or something, and Grace, the best player on the team, was injured.  Naturally, Coach John sent his daughter onto the court as if she was simply sporting a bandaid on her toe instead of a giant orthopedic boot. 

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The ref, a teenage boy with video game needs, wasn’t going to get paid for a forfeit, and boots weren’t prohibited in the manual he didn’t read. So game on.

Soon Grace flew through the air, diving for a loose ball.  My daughter Catherine, a 3 1/2 ft. Dick Butkus, but twice as mean, joined the fray and Grace’s boot cut her forehead.

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The ref, at the sight of blood, was thrown into a Call of Duty virtual war zone haze so Coach John stopped the game.  I let John handle it because I’d get my Mom Card taken away if I approached my child on a court/field unless her eyeball was falling out.    

After the game, I called John’s wife who wasn’t there.  “We won!  And Grace scored 15 points!! 

“What?”  Silence.

“Oops.  Well, I really can’t talk right now because I’m taking Catherine to get, um . . . stitches . . . her head ran into Grace’s boot, um . . . we have a bad connection,” I said.

“Are you telling me John let Grace play?  What the heck was he THINKING?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, but Catherine’s beaming.  She said Coach John taught them something today—’Don’t come in second.  That’s just being the first loser.’”

Poor John, our brave, competitive Dad-coach won on the court that day, but I’m sure he paid the price at home that night.  Licking his wounds, he probably just left the house for awhile and worked on his pinball game at Garibaldi’s. 

Meeting Big-Time Authors: All In a Day's Work

Meeting Big-Time Authors:  All In a Day’s Work

Last week I attended a fund-raising luncheon for Literacy Mid-South where W. Bruce Cameron, a New York Times best-selling author, was slated to speak.  He’s only just the funniest writer of all time, and I had the chance to meet him!   But to me, social situations where everyone knows each other feel like the front-yard lamb roast in My Big, Fat Greek Wedding.  Me being the lamb.  And honestly, it’s been a long time since my sweatpants and I have been apart that long.

http://www.brucecameron.com/books/8-simple-rules-for-dating-my-teenage-daughter

The morning of the luncheon, I placed my hands over my heart chakra, greeted my Spanx respectfully with “Namaste,” (we had a little bad karma from the last Open House debacle) and successfully squeezed into rubber fabric the diameter of a garden hose. 

Arriving at the luncheon, I perused the books for sale and noticed a smaller room adjacent to the lobby where two mom-friends from school mingled with Mimosas.  Obviously this was the room for me, so I grabbed a flute and mentioned to them I wanted to meet W. Bruce but I was extremely nervous.  My friends were no help because they do not meet famous people every day like me, being a journalist and all.

I'm usually calmer after a drink and, I must say, I ALWAYS look better.  But I soon realized bubbly isn’t something one should drink when one’s mid-section is wearing an iron boa constrictor.  

Just then a sweet woman asked me if I’d like to meet Mr. Cameron.  After three mimosas, my swag was more than ready to take on a guy worth a gazillion dollars—I mean he’s just a writer like me, right?  (What??  Dear God.  The oxycodone from my root canal just shook hands with my friend, Korbel Brut)   

She introduced me.  “Heeyyy, Mr. W.,” I said.  “Ummm, sorry.  I called you W.  Wad’nt he a awesome president?” I asked in my Southern Brut accent.  The woman who introduced us flinched.

Mr. Cameron politely commented that winter is so bad in the South this year he probably wouldn’t come back for a while.

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As I tried to redeem myself, a champagne burp, sparked by a Spanx revolution, rose and parked in my esophagus, and I was racked with angst because an expulsion of air was imminent.  Should I turn away?  Act like I was whhhhhispering Mimosa instructions to the oblivious bartender?  Or let it fizzle through my nose while he was talking?  That would've burned, and Dr. Oz says that's not safe AND it’s the leading cause of belly fat.  

I couldn't concentrate on what to say because my Spanx were hissing too loudly in Parsel-tongue, squeezing my mid section up into my brain. (Ok.  Parents of teens ARE my demographic, and you haven’t seen Harry Potter?)

http://www.deviantart.com/art/Parseltongue-298676672

  OH SORRY!!! WRONG PICTURE!!

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Then, I realized if I stifled my burp, it Had. To. Expel. Somewhere.  

I got so nervous, my dress started sweating.  I casually crossed my arms while listening to W.’s writing tips and realized it was my shapewear that was sweating . . . spray Pam.  How else do you think I got the $%@# things on?  (FYI, there’s an online Spanx forum hosted by “Smart Physics Gals and Cross-dressing Divas,” since you ask.  I can’t think of that scientific stuff myself!  For the love of all professions with zero earning potential, I’m a writer!)

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Soon another newbie writer wandered up and I bolted for the Ladies Room, exhaling something about squeezy snakes and 
“s-uurrrp-ents,” which I’m sure will surface on Youtube soon.

While cutting off and disposing of my Anaconda, I missed Bruce’s comments about his teenagers, the inspiration for his first book.

  

In “8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter,” he writes that his opinions are often out-voted and ignored by his wife and girls, but he never backs down from his role as Decision-Maker because—“I’m the Father, that’s why.”

Like Bruce, my opinions are ignored by my kids, but I still have to perform motherly obligations like signing forms and other really important stuff.  Besides, I still get satisfaction embarrassing my 15-year-old and her friends by driving them to the movies, loudly rocking my “Raspberry Beret."  I've totally earned that—because I’m the Mother, that’s why.