Wilson Post Blogs

So when Becky first mentioned that Jackson was playing junior pro football and thought Neill might also like to play … I just continued talking right over her.

You see, we are soccer people. We practice once a week…weather permitting. Play our soccer games in the morning…weather permitting. And hand out snacks and a fruity drink once the game is over. It’s such a civilized sport. 

When I wouldn’t take the football bait, Becky did what she always does when I ignore her. She called Brody directly.  Next thing I knew soccer was out and football was in!

I’m hiding out; in my bedroom, on a Friday night, watching the Golden Girls. Don’t pity me. I love those girls. In fact, they’re the highlight of my evening. You see, this week I have played hostess to my brother, his wife and their three children (two of which are in pre-school). They stay with us every year after making the trek from California to Tennessee. And just to add a more variety to the mix, my oldest niece, her husband and their new baby joined us. So every night since they’ve been here (6 days, 16 hours, 41 minutes) it’s been a party with all my brothers, sisters, their spouses and children. It’s been fun. Especially when my 4 year old nephew uses his 9 octave scream when I tell him he can’t drink his grape juice upstairs, when my 2 year old niece locks herself in the pantry and empties a full box cereal or when my dad leaves my house without telling anyone because… he can!

I read a blog recently and the 22 year old blogger requested readers write a letter offering advice to the younger you, a 20 year old you. I tried to think of how many times I’ve heard people, my dad in particular, say, “If only I could go back and do this (or that or the other thing) differently my life would be better.” We’ve all said it. But most of us, if given the chance wouldn’t take it. Because we know that cutting out some of the poor choices, embarrassing moments or just plain awful experiences of life would most likely mean cutting out the breathtaking, lesson learning and indescribable moments as well.

The reason the blogger made this request of readers was so that she and other 20 something’s might learn more about the bumpy road us older folk had already traveled.

They say that nobody knows what heaven looks like. They - would be wrong. I know exactly what heaven looks like and, I’m here to tell you, it’s grand!

As we vacationed this week by the beach and strolled around the town of Seaside, I explained to my husband that “If heaven doesn’t look like Seaside, I’m going to be really ticked off when I get there.”

Not missing a beat, he responded, “Really? What makes you think you’re getting into heaven?”

I was on a cleaning gag last week and during said gag I found an old roll of film. Yes, film. For those readers who may not remember, film is what us old folks put in cameras to take pictures. So this set me on a mission to find out what this little piece of history had stored on its cellulose.

When I picked up the developed photos I couldn’t wait to see the faces and places that would show up. Was this the long lost photos from the summer I lived in California? Or the film from my oldest son’s first birthday party?  Or, even better, completely embarrassing snapshots of my college roommates? Either way, I couldn’t wait to see. As soon as the clerk handed over my purchase, I immediately started perusing.

On Saturday, after a long day of swimming, Neill and Jackson (Becky’s son) raced inside to find me.

Neill: “Mama, can I go to Jackson’s house for dinner?”

Jackson: “Please, please can he come?”

I looked at the sunburned and tired little boys and said “No, its already late, you probably should just stay home.”

Then in unison it started:

I love shopping for bathing suits. I love it like a cat loves a bath, like a 2 year old loves naptime or like my husband loves complete strangers giving him hugs. The very process of finding that perfect suit is poetic. There are many things to consider before purchasing a piece of material so small even the larger ones would be considered indecent in some countries. There’s the print, the color, the amount of medication you will need to feel comfortable wearing that thing in public.

Not only does it cling, it’s tiny too. I’m not talking about just the bikini. Those became a thing of the past after having my first child. Since then my tummy has more closely resembled a deflated balloon with a sad face for a belly button. And this is why I opt for a one piece but even those don’t hide the parts I think they should.

When my oldest was in preschool, his teacher sent home a paper feather and directions for the children to decorate it with anything found around the house. According to the steps, it was critical that this should be completed by the child and not the parent. I obliged, and the next day we turned in a feather decorated with dry rice, beans and a few sequins we found.

That afternoon I walked into the classroom to find all the little feathers hung proudly on a wall. I was in shock! Apparently, my little boy was going to school with 4 year old equivalents of Picasso. There were feathers that looked like they belonged on Bob Mackie couture and some were so detailed it was as if they had been plucked right off a turkey. And there in the center was my little boy’s feather. It was like a pop up camper surrounded by million dollar homes. 

So the afternoon went something like this:

Picked up the kids from school. Drove all the way home. Unpacked the car, went inside, let the dog out, looked at the mail, changed into comfortable clothes, watered the plants, called Becky, swept the floor, thought about what I’d make for dinner and one hour later as I was just about to hit defrost, my middle child says, “My photos for my Tennessee Notebook are due tomorrow. I need 10 photos of me at interesting places in Wilson County.”

I immediately saw the other two children look up from their perch upon the sofa. My eldest appearing more attentive than she had been in weeks. My youngest literally grabbing a bag of popcorn, as he knew this show was about to get good.

When Jack Norworth penned the tune, “Take me out to the ballgame,” I wonder if he pictured a little league set of 11 year olds; mouths stuffed with Big League Chew, black out under their eyes and grass stains on white baseball pants?

Like a lot of you, our spring and summer months are packed full of sports. When my oldest started playing ball, I wasn’t prepared for how much time we would spend eating ballpark faire like hot dogs, hamburgers and sunflower seeds.

At mile 3 my second toe on both feet went numb. Before some of you elite runners start questioning the stability, size and toe box of my shoe, I DID the legwork and research. I spent more than I should have on my latest pair of running shoes that were guaranteed to get me to the finish line without so much as a blister. The shoes didn’t exactly deliver what they promised, but I’m not one to cry over lost toenails.

When I noticed the big “Mile 7” sign, as sweat was streaming down my face and burning my eyes,  I thought, “Why in God’s name am I trying to run a half marathon… again? What am I trying to prove? I’ve done this twice before! Geez, I’ve run a full marathon! So who is this for?  Maybe Angel’s right. Maybe all runners and late blooming athlete wannabes are insane. Then again, Angel also says this about people who cook from scratch, smile too much or hug strangers.”

It’s 7:30 in the morning. The kids are patiently waiting by the back door, teeth brushed, hot breakfast in the first stages of the digestion process and backpacks sit neatly at their feet. Meanwhile, the matriarch of the family zips her bag, gives her makeup and perfectly coordinated outfit a quick check in the spotless bathroom mirror and ushers her compliant children to the car.

On the ride to school, a “Learn how to speak French” CD plays and the children begin a French dialogue with their mother. Children and parent giggle when the youngest asks if French toast is just called ‘toast’ when made in France.

I’ve been on a mission since the birth of my first child almost 11 years ago. As hard as I’ve tried to complete this mission, I fall short every time. Actually, I usually fall head first into a big bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. ‘What is this mission’ you might ask. [Begin Theme Music from Mission Impossible] I’m on a mission… TO LOSE WEIGHT! And while Ethan Hunt was a mastermind at defusing bombs and retrieving deadly genetically engineered viruses, dieting while stuffing fistfuls of candy into plastic eggs, serving up slice after slice of ooey gooey pizza or forgoing a late night dance with a 3 Musketeer, would leave even him waving a white flag of surrender.

By BECKY ANDREWS

Many times in life adults will look in the mirror, throw their hands up and whisper -- or scream -- “that’s it, I can’t take anymore. I give up!” This is usually in response to a situation life has thrown and for one reason or another, you feel overwhelmed and just want to fall on the ground, assume the fetal position and maybe even suck your thumb. (At least that’s what some people do. I prefer dive head first into a big piece of chocolate cake.)

This has happened to just about every person I know; male and female. While we usually resist the urge to “give up,” the cloud of guilt that hovers for even considering quitting still lingers long after the once impossible task is conquered.

By Angel Kane
Wilson Living Magazine

In our house, we have lots of rules. My favorite rule by far is the law of equals. It is not a rule that I established, but over time has taken hold and I have come to cherish it. It goes something like this….

“Take the dog out Neill”

“But I’ve taken him out two times today and Zoe has only taken him out once. It‘s her turn, Zoeeeeee come take out the dog! Mama said!”

Once upon a time there was a little boy who, at 6 years old was ready for the rite of passage all children look forward to. He was anxious for a visit from that enigmatic character he had heard all his snaggle toothed little friends talk about. He was ready to see the tooth fairy. Well, maybe not ready to see her, but definitely ready to see what prize she’d be leaving behind. So begins his quest to loosen a tooth.

At least once a week since Christmas, he will run to me and say, “I think my toof is loose. Help me pull it. Ohhh, I can’t wait to get this toof out. It really is ready.” I always oblige and check this alleged loose tooth. And I always find a tooth that is no closer to falling out than a monkey out of a banana tree. Regardless, I always look at him with excitement and say, “It’s very close. Just keep working on it.” He then runs off in a flurry of excitement. Usually off to tell his big brother about all the loot the tooth fairy will be bringing in exchange for this elusive tooth.

By BECKY ANDREWS

It comes up a few times a year. When one of my boys is getting in trouble for mishandling a video game, leaving wet towels on the floor or not putting their dirty clothes in the hamper, the suspect will look at me with big blue eyes puddle in tears and say, “I knew you didn’t love me best! You always take his side! You’ll never love me best!”

Because of this I have decided to finally tell my children which one I actually love the best.

Well, I hate to admit it, but I’m back on the crack.

A year ago, I was completely addicted to it. Consumed by it! I’d wake up and the first thing I’d do was find my phone, check my emails and texts and then stumble to the coffee maker.

My children remained in the state of terror as I drove down Coles Ferry trying to text, drive and call out spelling words all at the same time.

It was a bad day. A long week at work, argument with my husband about household chores (This one NEVER gets old!), silent treatment from my 10-year-old because I said no to a sleepover (He asked me right in front of the kid! That’s a no-no in this house), and to top it all off I had managed to gain 3 pounds thanks in part to the mood calming ingredients in Dunkin’ Donuts. I was thankful it was Friday. The weekends just seem a little easier when I can face it with family, even if we’re not speaking or arguing.

This Friday morning rush seemed especially chaotic. I had too much to do and was feeling sorry for myself. I loaded the kids in the car and started the approach to school and business meetings. When the side door to the mini van opened my youngest, as always said,

By ANGEL KANE
Wilson Living Magazine

Saturday morning as I walked around my house, room by room…I was in a state of deep depression.

My house, my home, my hearth, the place I come to for peace and comfort - was a FREAKIN  mess!!!

Four weeks prior, the lovely lady who’d been helping me keep the house nice and neat….deserted me! Claiming she was moving out of town. When my eldest, who is slowly learning the ways of the world, heard about it, she wisely noted,