Do it now! Finding a life balance can be tough

Devotees of "The Simpsons" are familiar with the popular family fun spot Wall E. Weasel, known for its memorable tag line: "We cram fun down your throat!"

This summer, I have been the personification of that restaurant. I have been positively giddy about having and scheduling fun - for myself and the family - nearly to the point of exhaustion.

Part of my issue is the climate. Sure, others in my neck of the woods may look outside and see sunshine and balmy temperatures, but I remember those arctic winter winds that chilled me to the bone. And I know, I KNOW, they're just around the corner. Winter will be here before we know it - mark my words.

So if we're going to the lake, to the pool, to the bonfire, to the back yard - if we're taking walks, building s'mores, making road trips, visiting friends - we need to do it NOW.

The other part of the equation is time. Time, as any Trekkie will tell you, is the fire in which all men burn. We can't control it. We can't stop it.  I look around and I see my kids getting older, my friends battling health problems, and I feel a slight panic rising in my soul. How did all this time pass so fast?

Am I doing enough? Too much, or too little? Am I living, loving and laughing enough?

It's hard to tell. No, it's impossible to tell. All you can do is the best you can do. Striking a life balance is tough.

 All I know is when I sit in my back yard swing and hear my kids laughing, watch the dog playing and see my husband manning the grill is that today, I'm making it work.

Semantics key to success in blogging, life

The door to my daughter's teen cave opened with an ominous creak.

I saw this from the corner of my eye. I was in the master bedroom, multi-tasking: folding clothes, listening to music, and quasi-dancing to earn steps in my weekly Fitbit challenge.

The daughter inched closer and stuck her head in the door.

"That song is on my playlist," she said, sounding puzzled, looking at my phone.

Uh-oh. Not good. ONE TIME, about FIVE YEARS ago, I made the mistake of alluding to a song she liked that was playing on the car radio. "We use that in Jazzercise," I said innocently. Had I looked into the rear view mirror, I would have seen her face frozen into a mask of horror. She later informed me she had been permanently scarred.

I don't even take Jazzercise anymore. (And there isn't anything wrong with it. It was fun.)

But it doesn't matter.

Semantics matter. She's a teen. I'm a mom. Not mommy. Mom.

I used to "mommy blog." But I stopped. It seemed stupid. My kids were older; I wasn't really a mommy anymore, was I?  It had been fun. But that ship had sailed.

"You could 'family blog,' " my husband suggested. Hmmm. Wait.

I could, couldn't I?

Semantics. Maybe that's the key.

After all, I used to be a features writer. Now I'm a "content creator."

I still get paid to write.

Semantics. Mommy, mom, content,  articles .... It is, in the end, all just a manner of speaking.

Words matter, of course - just ask my daughter. But as we all know, actions matter more.

"Okay," she said doubtfully, looking at my phone. "I guess you can listen to it." She looked up at me pleadingly. "But .... just don't dance."

Age is just a number - for shelter animals, too

13-year-old Clinton is waiting for a forever home
 (photo: Humane Society of  Huron Valley)

I'm a volunteer at a local animal shelter. I go in on the weekends, and walk dogs, clean cages, distribute pet food - whatever they need me to do.

I've never been much of a volunteer, so the fact I'm actually doing this - and not just thinking about how I should be doing this - is kind of unusual for me.

But I love animals. And the shelter I'm at is outstanding, where there is no limit of time on adoption, and there are many programs in place to promote publicity for the animals.

Usually, after I come home from volunteering, I'm ebullient. It's not a sad place. The animals are wonderful, the staff is appreciative and I feel like I've helped them accomplish something good.

Except yesterday. Yesterday was crowded, with many clients looking at dogs and cats, and interested in adopting them. That's great. But then I walked into the puppy room and saw a woman pull her teen-age son away from a corner kennel.

"That's not a puppy," she told him. "That's an old dog - you don't want some old dog."

She was right on one count; the dog was not a puppy. He was an older dog. There are sometimes so many animals at the shelter that grown dogs are placed in the puppy room. But I was appalled at her callousness. It bothers me enough that so many senior dogs end up in shelters in the first place, but when I heard those words, my heart just sank.

It stayed low for the rest of the day. I couldn't get her words out of my head - because they're wrong. Very wrong. Senior dogs can be wonderful companions for many who don't want or can't handle more energetic,younger dogs. They are usually gentle, sweet-natured and affectionate, and I think their graying whiskers are beautiful. Yes, if they have medical issues, that needs to be considered before adoption. But I hope people know that it's not always the length of a relationship that makes it meaningful.

I hope someone shows more kindness to that woman in her golden years. As for me, I guess the old saying holds true ... eavesdroppers never hear anything good.

Look up - and keep that sense of wonder

There are days when I wish I could be a kid again.

No, I don't miss braces or acne or middle school angst, but I do miss something else - that sense of wonder I feel I often overlook in my harried adult world.

The other day, my daughter and I were driving together on a quick errand, and I was giving  her the rundown of my commute home - heavy traffic, lots of construction, the guy who cut me off ... you know, things that you try not to take home with you but stick with you for awhile anyway.

I was still annoyed - and more than a little cranky.

She was sitting quietly beside me  as we drove along, and she interrupted my rant
.
"Look!" she said. "Mom ... look at the clouds!"

Startled into silence, I stopped my litany of complaints and looked through the windshield, up into the bright blue sky. A gathering of clouds was billowed together in the distance, silhouetted against the the horizon in thick, soft layers.

"They're beautiful," she breathed.

She was right - they were. And I hadn't even noticed.

I'll try not to make that mistake again.

Just one more parody of 'Let it Go' - for moms

Frozen: A Mom Parody

Okay, Okay, I know - we're all about "Frozen'ed" out.

 And we've all heard a million versions of "Let it Go." (Even though truthfully,  I could listen to it every day).

But if you're a mom, this is one version worth listening to:

Frozen: A Mom Parody

(Courtesy of Granger Church, Granger, Indiana)

'They grow up so fast' isn't really a cliche

I remember when I used to walk my son and daughter to elementary school. They'd walk ahead of me, giggling and pushing each other, racing to see who could get to the crossing guard first.

One day, when my son was in kindergarten and his sister was in fourth grade, I was walking them to school as always, but I didn't feel well. I felt feverish and all-over yukky, like I was coming down with a flu.

"I'm just going to walk you to the crossing guard," I told them. "Then you two can walk the rest of the way by yourselves."

They looked at me with uncertainty. I always walked them into their classrooms.

But I felt really sick. "Hold hands," I said. "You'll be fine."

They walked across the street, with the help of the crossing guard, obediently holding hands. No problem. Gratefully, I turned go back home. Then I looked back.

My son was standing stock-still, staring over at me with an expression of sadness, confusion and outrage. He yanked his hand from his sister, put both hands over his face, and burst into tears.

She bent down to him. "He doesn't want to go without you," she called. "He wants you to walk with him."

I did, of course. How could I not?

Fast forward to this year, earlier this week.  My son is now in fifth grade; he's a safety guard, so we drive to get to school early. As he gets out of the car, I brush his too-long hair from his eyes. He sighs. "Mom!" he says, batting my hand away, "don't touch it! I just gelled it into place!"

We walk together toward the front door, but about 50 feet away, he says, "That's fine,"
and runs ahead, leaving me standing by the outdoor custodial closet. It's an agreement we have. Each day, he leaves me a little further behind.

That particular day I just stood there, watching him, awash in memories. I realized with a start I'd been standing there for more than a few minutes. My son had long disappeared inside the doors. I turned to go and nearly bumped into a teaching assistant I knew.

She looked at me sympathetically. "It's hard to let them go, isn't it?" she said, and she put her hand over her heart.

You have no idea. Or maybe you do.

Sharing, selling your art? That's one tough gig

My brother is the salesman in the family. He could, as the saying goes, sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves.

I am not a salesperson. At all. The books I've sold have been by luck, happenstance and word of mouth. And for every sale, I'm very grateful.

My teen-age daughter is an artist - she has been, ever since she could pick up a pencil. But she got a taste of sales this past weekend when she gathered up her entrepreneurial spirit along with
 a portfolio of art she'd created for the occasion, and headed off to a sales booth at her high school's annual anime convention.

It was a tough gig. I knew there would be other vendors there, but since it was just a small  high school convention, I assumed they'd be other students. A few were. But most weren't - they were grown-ups, selling wares from big companies, and this was their livelihood.

Tough competition. And selling to high-schoolers ... that's no easy feat, either.

Some were wonderful. Others were incredibly rude. And still others, apparently used to communicating only through text messages, were oddly anti-social - unable to make eye contact and mumbling so bad they were nearly incoherent.

My daughter simply gritted her teeth and persevered. She made a decent amount of sales, received some good feedback and learned a lot about marketing. (For instance, many people wanted business cards, or her website gallery address. She didn't have either - but she will soon).

I was incredibly proud of her. Putting your work out there for everyone to judge and criticize is tough - something any creative person will tell you. But sharing your work, in most cases, is the reason many of us create in the first place.

It's a tough tightrope to maneuver.

She did learn one thing - she enjoys creating far more than selling.

I can't disagree with her. Not one bit.

RIP, wedding diamond. I miss you.

So the blog is back.

I have no idea \why I stopped writing it for so long, but no matter - it has returned, and that's all that matters. I'm just sorry it went missing for so long. I hope you'll follow me again, if you don't already.

And speaking of missing ... imagine this. You're sitting in your favorite chair, relaxing in front of the television, you turn, and your left hand scratches your right.

Only it shouldn't - because your left hand has a wedding ring on it. With a solid, smooth diamond.

It's been there forever, practically. So you look down. And the ring is there, but the diamond isn't.

It's gone. GONE. Just four forlorn little prongs remain.

That's what happened to me this weekend. It was incredibly disconcerting, I did a double-take. A triple-take. But the stone was gone, baby, gone. I turned the house upside down, of course, but it was like looking for, well, a diamond in a haystack.

That diamond was with me for two childbirths, two funerals, multiple jobs, countless meals, lots of laughs, a few tears and and even a few disastrous vacations.

My hand feels incredibly bare. I know it was just an inanimate object, but I miss that little stone a lot.

My husband promised me a new one - but it won't be the same.

At least, as he says, we're still married. And that's worth more than any old rock.

Shopping for Halloween? Better hurry ... it's later than you think

Last year, I was taken by surprise. I went shopping for Halloween decorations in mid-October, only to be met by  bare shelves, a couple of sad-looking skeletons and a few assorted window clings.

Primarily, I saw a lot of Christmas angels and sparkling candy canes.

I'm sure I had the same look of outrage on my face as when I went out looking for snow pants in November and found shelves of T-shirts and ads for bikinis. But that's a different story.

So this year,I planned ahead. Far ahead.

I started trolling the craft aisles at Michael's and Hobby Lobby early this month, noticing when the back-to-school items disappeared and the spooky, creepy decorations appeared in full force.  I've been checking out the dollar stores and wandering the home decor areas at department stores.

I watched for those clearance flyers to start appearing, which they have, and although my husband thinks I'm crazy, I feel much more prepared to fill the goodie bags for the class Halloween party this year.

Sure it's early, but our yard is already starting to look a little festive, too.

Now if only I'm not too late to get a few pairs of snow pants.

Video camera holds instant appeal for junior filmmaker

My son is turning into a little Steven Spielberg.

 It's a talent I never expected from my formerly shy little boy.

It all started when I bought a little flipcam on sale. Silly me. I thought I'd learn to make  videos - maybe create some book trailers, you know, learn a few new tricks.

Instead, my son was instantly mesmerized. "Cooool," he said, holding it in his hot little hands. "Is this a video camera? Can I make videos? Like on YouTube?"

I was a little nonplussed. "Um, I guess," I said. "But it's mine," I added hurriedly, as he took it into his room. He nodded absently.

I think that was the last quality time I spent with my little camera.

Oh, sure - I've seen glimpses, usually when the boy is filming. His videos are primarily short stories involving the adventures of his Mario plushies, although sometimes our dog gets a cameo role. After he films them, he splices the scenes, courtesy of Windows Moviemaker, which his teen-age sister taught him to use.

Then he sets it up in high-def and uploads it to YouTube.

 He's 9. When I was 9, I think I had a really cool Malibu Barbie set and thought I was All That.

He's not alone, of course. His friends make their own videos, too  - post them, laugh about them, trade messages. They get together over the weekends sometimes and make more.

My son's videos are short, shaky. I'm afraid he'll get criticized online; people can be rude sometimes.

I told him that; he just shrugged.

"You just keep making movies," he told me. "You keep getting better."

So I wonder ... is that what Spielberg said?

Holiday weekend brings on thoughts of daunting fall schedule that lies ahead

It's a holiday weekend. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and I have the day off.

I should be ecstatic. Instead, I'm fighting the blues. It's silly, I know. But end-of-summer time always does this to me. I absolutely love summer. I love the sun on my face, I love my little flower garden, and I love the lazy, slower schedule.

Tomorrow, the kids go back to school. And that means it's back to packing lunches, helping with homework, volunteering in the classroom and balancing work, school and life. The thought - right now, in my quiet living room - nearly overwhelms me.

Yesterday, my husband gave me some advice: First, think about how great this summer was. He's right - it was terrific. I got some much-needed surgery out of the way (that's where I've been for the last few weeks, by the way), got a new book out, and had some fun getaways with the kids.

Then, he said, look at the future in small chunks of responsibility - a day, a week, a month. Then it won't seem so daunting.

He's right, of course. And I do love fall, with its snap of color and cooler temperatures. So yes, it'll soon be time to trade ice tea for hot cider, but maybe I can sneak in one more visit to the pool.

What am I afraid of? Kid, you don't know the half of it

We were in the car the other day, my son and I.

"Mom," he said. "What are you afraid of?"

What am I afraid of?  Ugh. He has no idea. Frankly, I wish I didn't, either.

I'm having surgery in a couple of days - I'm not a good patient. I have a very low pain tolerance. I'm pretty much afraid of doctors, afraid of hospitals, afraid of needles, afraid of blood, afraid of paper gowns that don't close correctly in back, afraid of just about everything except the anesthesiologist, whom I adore.

The fact that I actually gave birth to two children still gives people pause. My epithets, complaints and strange demands are likely still legendary at the maternity ward in Springfield, Mo.

But I look back at my son's beautiful, trusting eyes, and, somehow, I don't think this is the answer he's looking for.

"Um, snakes," I say. "I'm kind of afraid of snakes."

He smiled. "I'm a little afraid of heights," he told me, and sat back.

Sigh. Maybe as long as there's no snakes in the operating room, I'll be okay.

Summer vacation isn't just for kids - parents love it, too

My eyes flew open at 7 a.m. today, and I could feel the panic rising even before I sat up in bed. Okay, okay, I told myself. So we missed the bus. Not the end of the world. I'd get everyone up and going, fix a quick breakfast and ...

Oh, wait. No. I wasn't late, hadn't overslept. I hadn't missed the bus because the bus wasn't coming.

It was the first day of summer vacation. Finally! I sat back with a sigh of relief. But ... what a strange feeling, to have the morning to myself. It's so peaceful, so full of possibilities.

I could catch up on housework. I could read the paper, enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee on the deck. I could even get in some writing time before heading off to work. Summer vacation - even these brief morning hours - is wonderful, and not just for the kids.

But this morning, I confess, I simply went back to sleep. And I enjoyed every minute of it.

New Kindergartners Day brings on wave of nostalgia ... or is it more like envy?

Timmy the Timberwolf should have tipped me off.

Timmy is the mascot for our elementary school, and he was out the other morning at the front door of the school, smiling and waving in his furry costume. I was hurrying back to my car, wondering why the parking lot was so full and why parents were rushing in when I was rushing out. I noticed then that all the children coming in looked little, and all the parents looked harried.

It hit me then: It must be New Kindergartners Day.

As I stopped and watched, the nostalgia hit me like a wave. I remembered when my kids were that little. I remembered how excited I was to see the inside of the kindergarten room, how nervous I was to meet the teacher, how hopeful I was that she'd recognize all the qualities that made my child so special.

I wanted to stop these parents, the ones who looked so rushed and annoyed. I wanted to tell them to slow down, to enjoy this, to store it in their mind's eye so they could enjoy it later. In fact, I wished they were enjoying it now.

I wanted to remind them that even though it seems like these days - when your kids are silly and messy and constantly underfoot - last forever, they'll be gone in a heartbeat.

But I used to hate it when more experienced parents used to do that to me. I would stare at them through my bleary, sleep-deprived eyes and simply nod. "Yeah, right," I'd think, when they'd gush over my adorable children and tell me to savor these precious times. "Whatever."

I took the car seat out of my van last week. My son is just too big for it; he doesn't need it. By the way, he doesn't need to hold my hand any more on the way into school, either.

So maybe it wasn't nostalgia hitting me so hard that morning. Maybe it was envy.

Baseball field is no place for mother's intuition

A chilly rain was trickling down, and I was standing in the grass, watching as my son grabbed a bat and walked confidently to home plate. He'd been doing so well on his baseball league - I really had no reason to worry.

But suddenly, I was worried. Call it mother's intuition, call it a psychic flash. I saw in my mind's eye a baseball crashing into my little boy's face. It was so startling, I actually strode forward to the fence.

I was only a few seconds early.

I got there just in time to see it really happen. The pitcher threw wild. The baseball hit my son's batting helmet then bounced off his shoulder. Luckily, the helmet has a protective cage that descends down over the eyes and the face - and that's where the ball struck.

"No!" I shouted before I could help myself.

The coach ran over and patted his shoulder; my boy just shook it off and jogged to first base. He looked over and gave me a thumbs-up. I gave him a weak smile in return.

The baseball field is no place for mother's intuition. I was rattled for the rest of the game.

Trip to Indy Speedway provides bonding time for dad and son

Last Sunday was Mother's Day, and it was wonderful. But last Saturday was Father's Day - actually Father-Son Day, and it was pretty great, too.

That was the day my husband and son traveled down from our home in Michigan to Indianapolis for the Indianapolis Motor Speedway's opening day. They watched the cars, ate a few track dogs, did a lot of walking and shopping and most importantly, spent a lot of time talking

The drivers were onsite, and my normally shy son ran here, there and everywhere gathering signatures in his autograph book from everyone - including his favorite driver, Will Power, who was nice enough to pose for a picture. It's one of my favorite photos - my boy looks absolutely thrilled.

It was the first time my little boy, an avid racing fan, had been to back to the track since seeing the televised fiery wreck in Las Vegas that killed Indy 500 champ Dan Wheldon. I was glad he could go there with his dad and talk about it, glad they could spend the day together just hanging out and having fun.

Father-Son day is almost as good as Mother's Day. Almost.

Spending special time with kids is worth every minute of a "Wallace and Gromit" marathon

My son is a boy's boy, a rough and tumble kid. He likes football, plays baseball, watches racing. He doesn't hold hands with mom much anymore, and he only says "I love you" at night.

So that's why I owe a big debt of gratitude to "Wallace and Gromit."

I don't know if you've seen this British series, but my kids love it. I think it's just okay - but I'll admit, it's growing on me.

There are "Wallace and Gromit" movies and "Wallace and Gromit" shorts, and they all revolve around the harrowing adventures of cheese-loving Wallace and his very intelligent dog Gromit.

There was a marathon of shows on the other night. My son came up to me as I wrote on the computer.

"Mom," he said. "Do you want to watch TV together in your room? 'Wallace and Gromit' is on!"

I couldn't jump out of my chair fast enough. We giggled, snacked and snuggled - me, the boy and about 20 Mario plushies - for hours. His sister, sometimes far too sophisticated for such things, even saw we were having a plushie party and joined in.

As my kids get older, these invitations don't come as often as they used to. I'll take as many as I can get. Even if I have to watch an entire "Wallace and Gromit" marathon.

My mom role model: With bouncy curls and perfect pants, she's just like looking in a mirror. Yeah, kind of ...

I saw my mom role model today after I dropped my son off at school. She was walking in front of me in her cute little white capris and a matching spring jacket.

She had on those pert little socks that barely show above your tennis shoes, the ones that have the little balls that peek out from over the heels of your shoes.

I almost missed her; I was bent over, tucking my pants cuffs under because they were too long and I refused to wear heels. I didn't have on a cute spring jacket - I couldn't find one in the labyrinth that is our hall closet. In fact, I was wearing what my husband calls my "grandma sweater;" it was bequeathed to me years ago from a former cubicle mate who took pity on me when I, um, couldn't find a spring jacket.

My mom role model has bouncy curls and perfect makeup that she likely does not apply in the rear view mirror on the way to work.  A quick glance at her nails tells me that they are filed into nice ovals, that the thumb nail is not bitten to the quick from stress, and the other nails are not covered with weird white polish that was on sale for $5 at Sephora because, it turns out, it looks like White-Out.

My mom role model smiles at me when she walks by, and her teeth are white and shiny. She must not be a writer; she probably doesn't stay up late drinking lots of coffee and developing new plot lines.

I don't know her, per se. Well, okay, I don't know her at all.  But I bet we could be friends. As long as she doesn't have a twin. Because really, there's only so much perfection I can handle.

Through children's eyes, trip to the museum because almost as educational as the exhibit

The other day, we took the kids to the Henry Ford museum to see an exhibit on the Titanic. I couldn't wait - I've always been fascinated by the saga of the doomed ship: the heroism, the cowardice, all the events that had to coincide for the Titanic to meet her fate.

I didn't think the kids would get all of it, of course, but I knew at the very least there was an iceberg there - and I was betting they'd get a kick out of that. What I didn't count on was what they'd notice long before the doors to the exhibit even opened.

To get to the museum, we took a strip of highway I travel nearly every day to get to work. It's not pretty. It's bare and gritty, lined with vacant, weedy lots, run-down businesses and strip clubs.

It's a far cry from our peaceful, tree-lined subdivision. But I've seen the sights so often I don't even pay attention to them anymore.

But my kids did. "Who lives in those?" my daughter said, pointing to a dilapidated trailer court by the side of the road.

"Why are those there?" she wondered, pointing at old shopping carts at a deserted bus stop.

My daughter has always been kind-hearted. One time she went with me on a newspaper assignment to a food bank; she watched as the families lined up and loaded up their groceries. Still very young, she watched the kids clinging to their parents in the huge gymnasium.  Later, she asked me if she could learn to sew someday - maybe she could make teddy bears, she said, so that those kids could get one when they came in. "Everyone needs a teddy bear," she told me.

On the trip, she sat quietly in the back seat, watching the scenery. "This makes me sad," she said quietly, almost to herself.

It was sad - is sad. Sad, too, that I see it so often I'd almost stopped noticing it.

Life is uncertain: Hug your kids, say 'I love you,' and make the most of the time you have

I have a friend who just found out a relative's cancer has returned. The diagnosis isn't good - the doctors have given him four months to live.

The news was just beginning to sink in . "Four months," she told me. "That's basically a summer. One summer, and he'll be gone."

I know what she's going through - somewhat. Sometimes the people we think we'll have around us forever disappear in a heartbeat. Nearly seven years ago, my beautiful, fun-loving sister laid down with a terrible headache; days later, she was dead from a stroke.

Life is so transient, isn't it? We think we'll have so much time - to hug those kids, to take that trip, to write that book, to get that great job. But you just never know.

My friend is at a loss; I hate to see it. But she has the right attitude.

"I bought a bag of jelly beans the other day," she told me. "I felt so silly - but he loves jelly beans. I thought, 'There's not much I can do, really, but be there ... and I just want to make sure he has all the little things around him he likes.'"

She's right, I thought.  There's no guarantees. We can just surround ourselves with the people and the things we love and make the most of the time we have.

Then we cross our fingers and say our prayers.