dirt don't hurt

It all started with a bag of pork rinds and a bottle of wine.             I was in the checkout lane and an older gentleman and his wife who I frequently see at the YMCA where I instruct came up behind me. “Let’s see what she eats to stay so fit and healthy.”             It was only a quick trip to the store. I looked at him and laughed while the cashier rung up pork rinds and wine. “Diet of champions?” I replied in giggles.             It just so happened that the bag of pork rinds, which strangely enough my family loves, came with an error. There was no flavor sprinkled on them, as the package stated, and instead of a savory salt and vinegar taste all we got was the bland fried skin of a pig. I thought it must be a random goof, so the next time I was at the store, I picked up another bag.             The same, tasteless fried skin. Something was terribly wrong.             The two bags sat on my counter for a few days, while I contemplated what to do. I could take them bac

Sometimes, mothers just know. Mothers know things that are things are going to happen even before they happen.   We have extra eyes, extra ears, and some other maternal sixth sense. We can toss good sense and reason out the window in exchange for a gut feeling, and chances are we’ll be happy we did. Such was the case when my daughter’s friend came jogging up to me.   She said my kid had fallen on her scooter and had asked for me to go to her. I instantly knew something was wrong because, as a rule, our children do not simply lay there if they are hurt.   They are the ones who brush it off and continue to play while the blood cakes in their socks. They are tough. When I was called for, something had to be different.   I saw my daughter lying there on the ground, holding her hand.   I checked the wound and saw a tiny scrape, and no blood. Maternal warning sirens started going off in my head—if there was a big cut, I would know why she was so upset. Trying to stay calm and not fl

I remember clearly the satellite radio program we were listening to, back when that free trial was making our car rides more exciting.  A fast talking man was the host, and he was telling his loyal listeners about a game that his children play called “Boo-Yah.”  If you are not familiar with the term “booyah,” you should be.   It’s a great and entertaining word.   Often used as a shout of joy or an in-your-face exclamation, booyah is also a type of soup or stew of presumable Belgian origin that is made throughout the upper Midwestern united states.   Photos of it online make me hungry. But in this case, the game Boo-Yah (with added hyphen) is a great way to pass the time, especially on road trips. The game goes like this: One person chooses a topic, usually a parent or other responsible person so that the topic has nothing to do with bathrooms.   The topic needs to be something broad enough that everyone can have multiple opinions on it.   For example, potato chips would not make

It happens before the poison ivy comes into full bloom and before the mosquitos emerge from the stagnant water of spring. It comes before the bee stings and the sunburn that you want to rub even though you know the pain will skyrocket with the very first touch. It is the summer itch, the unscratchable sensation that you are ready for our warm season to be here to stay. My parents are born and raised Clevelanders. In their retirement, they decided to move to a sunny Carolina climate and have lived there for the past 10 years before returning home to Ohio. This is their first real spring back in the Buckeye State, and I want to pass them some hydrocortisone cream because oh boy, they are itchy. “I went to the nursery and bought some plants for my garden. They told me not to plant them yet, but I don’t want to wait and I looked at the long range forecast and…” I had to cut her off. “Mom,” I said. “Have you completely forgotten what Ohio is like in early May? We could very well