dirt don't hurt

In all my years of parenting, Since those babes came out of my gut, I never have been so exhausted. Yes, summer is kicking my butt. From the day they stepped of the school bus, They instantly started to run. How can they go all day without rest? Summer is kicking my bum. I go outside and they follow me I come back in and they’re standing right here. The air conditioning bill is enormous, Summer is kicking my rear. It seems each day is so beautiful With blue skies and the sun so shiny, Surely we have to go out and play. Summer is kicking my hiney. Off to the library, the zoo and the park, “No, you can’t bring a friend!” Sure, I’ll set up the sprinkler. Summer is kicking my end. Sunscreen all day, passing out snacks The dirty dishes pile is uncanny. How do three kids go through forty-five cups? Summer is kicking my fanny. Bug spray at night while we run around, “You’ve got to let those fireflies loose!” How many jars of dead bugs have I dumped? Summer is kicking my caboose. But summer ...

Dads and daughters are an interesting pair.  We daughters start off as “Daddy’s Little Girl” and steal their hearts, and before you know it we’re turning their hair gray.  In a blink of an eye, those dads are walking us down the aisle and giving us away, putting all of their trust in you that the lessons that they taught you will sustain you throughout life. My dad taught me many things.  He gave me my love for nature and music.  He taught me how to eat mushrooms and make a pot of soup the size of Texas.  He showed me how to drive a four-wheeler, be a dead eye with a shot gun, and how to use tools up and down the workbench.  For all of this, I am so grateful…and rather tough.  He gave me the confidence to do things I never thought I could do, and the desire to succeed at whatever I try.  (I think I inherited these things from him, which makes for very long games of Pinochle and Boggle.) But like most dads, he has gifted me a few token phrase...

I didn’t grow up a sports person.  We never watched it on TV, went to any games, and while there were hundreds of baseball and kickball games played in the street, that was as far as I got.  The thought of a schedule and uniforms and all that jazz didn’t appeal to me.  My one-year stint at tee ball was productive in the literary sense, because while standing in the outfield, looking at the clouds, I wrote a poem. Ball?  What ball? My kids seemed to be traveling on the same path as I, turning down organized sports, not keen on practice and competition.  And I, who would rather not spend my time flattening my behind by sitting on a metal bleacher for twenty years, was OK with it.  The pressures, mental and physical, that small children endure during sports just weren’t something I believed in.   But then along came baseball.   More specifically, little league. This is not a game I ever really understood.  The games can potentially l...

I have this theory that you make your own normal.  Everything that you do, no matter how wacky and odd it seems to everyone else, is pretty standard in your life.  And naturally it follows that whatever everyone else does is just plain weird. My theory was once again proved true during a recent trip to the whopping metropolis of downtown Cleveland, where my husband and I met some friends and enjoyed a concert.  Truthfully, I was a little excited to have this destination, because it’s not often that I step foot into a world of concrete with a plethora of shops and restaurants at every turn.  (Some people might argue that Cleveland doesn’t have that many options, but those people have never lived in a small town in rural Ohio.)  Visiting a city like this gives me a feeling of comfortable anonymity and the ability to step out of my usual self, to test the waters of a life I don’t normally lead knowing that I will be back home in a matter of hours. The evening...

Dear Fast Food Restaurants, French Fry season is just about full swing, when busy families like ours simply have no other choice than to buzz through your drive through.  Not that we don’t enjoy it, because we do.  You have done an amazing job making your food mouth-watering and delicious, and I stand by my sentiment that anyone who says they don’t like french fries is just a just a downright, two-faced liar.  We are Americans and have been raised to crave salt, fat, and sugar.  There is no one better than you to give it to us. As I said, we’re just about in that time of year when our family dines more frequently than we should at your establishments.  It seems we’re always running from this game or to that event, often times changing clothes in parking lots.  The back of my vehicle has been filled with the necessities of the season, from baseball gloves to concert attire. My point is that I personally struggle to keep my family going to where they ...

It’s time to get a little personal, and if you’re offended by the passing of gasses, I suggest you discontinue reading this column.  For in the next few hundred words, I’d like to express my maternal nose’s lament and explain why I have sudden outburst that I never thought were possible.  As a mother, you expect to yell things like, “clean your room!” or “finish your dinner!”  Maybe even a rhetorical question such as, “why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?”  But it was a recent exclamation that got me thinking that no one really ever warned me about all this stinky stuff. “I am so tired of smelling farts!” I yelled, in total honesty, on a chilly day when opening the windows wasn’t really an option.  Because when you’ve got three kids, a dog, a husband, and let’s keep it real here, yourself all processing food, there are bound to be releases.  I just don’t want them in such close proximity that not only does my nose burn, but my eyes also water. ...

Alliteration, if you can’t remember from way back in high school English class, is the repetition of similar first syllables used in adjacent words in literature.  Or basically, a bunch of words start with the same letter.  Technically, Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers is more than just a tongue twister, it’s alliteration.  This wacky little English tool has been used for hundreds of years, and was quite prevalent in old English, but something so spectacular seems to spread though the centuries.  It’s used in advertising, cartoons, poetry, music, and just about everywhere else, including my own home on what turned out to be an excellent evening of events.  We simply dubbed it “The Night of P’s.” The first great thing about The Night of P’s was that it was just G’s, as in just girls.  With just my two daughters and my dog, we were free from the plagues of the boys, including passing gas, paper airplanes, and persistent pestering.  We a...