You Betta Check Yo-Self!

Ahhh the conveniences of the modern age…how did we ever do without? God knew better than to create me during the 18th century. I’m a modern girl and I EMBRACE anything that makes my life easier and saves time during menial daily chores…well, almost anything.

Take, for instance, the self-checkout line…a dream come true for the impatient shopper right? More like a NIGHTMARE! Yes…apparently I am self-checkout impaired. What can I say? It just wasn’t my calling to excel in the checkout line. Had you asked the 8 year old me I would have whole-heartedly agreed that I was the checkout QUEEN…no wait…checkout PRINCESS (because the princess is ALWAYS more beautiful than the queen…Disney taught me that).

One of my favorite toys of all time was our cash register that had the three color coins and a cash drawer that dinged when it opened to provide the change. Oh how I loved the sound of that bell! It was the indication of sweet reward at the end of a transaction. It spawned a chemical reaction in my brain sending me to heights of anticipation rivaling the result of Pavlov’s dog experiment. Alysson and I would fight daily over who was the glamorous cashier and who was the lowly grocery shopper. I always won the role of cashier…it was my right as the oldest. Surely with all that checkout experience this new technology would be like putty in my hands…a world of convenience at my fingertips!

My arms were full of “quick trip” items and I was juggling to keep them from falling to the ground. “Who needs a basket, “I thought, “It’s really only a couple of items.” I approached the checkout area only to be greeted with line after line of people who apparently had all day to grocery shop with their coupons, their price checks on aisle three and their cell phone conversations. But wait…what was that in the distance? An oasis of time-saving technology, apparently known as the “Self-Checkout Lane”! Jiminy Cricket, THIS was for ME! And there was no one in line! It was like winning the lottery! Probably everyone else was too intimidated by change or technology or anything good for them. That’s okay…I’ll show them how it’s done!

Step-by-step instructions for use of the machine? No thank you, I got this!

SCO: Welcome! Please scan the first item.

Me: Well don’t mind if I do.

SCO: (after I scanned the first item and placed it in the plastic bag) Please scan the first item

Me: Wha? I already did.

So I removed the item from the bag, and proceeded to scan it again, because obviously my scanning skills were too ninja quick for this machine to process.

SCO: Please return item to the bagging area.

Me: Well make up your mind lady! Do you want me to scan it or return the item to the bag?

SCO: Please return item to the bagging area!

Me: OKAAAAY! No need to yell. Jeez!

SCO: Please return item to the bagging area!

Me: I already did! Can’t you see it there?!

SCO: Error…please wait for assistance. Error….

Just then I looked up, only to find a red light similar to those found on the rooftop of an AMBULANCE flashing as the machine repeated “Error…please wait for assistance…” Yes folks…for your red light special entertainment of the day we have Abby, the cashiering FAILURE. Was I being arrested for removing my item from the bagging area? This machine totally thought I was stealing the item I know it! She was out to frame me for this and I was NOT going down without a fight! I started frantically pushing the cancel button, then scanning another item. But that didn’t work so I tried putting all my items in the bag. Maybe if I gave her more stuff she would be satisfied…maybe not.

The old lady in line behind me rolled her eyes and moved to the next lane. Apparently I was holding her up from more important things. It took the store manager an eternity to get over to my station and turn off the alarms, reset the machine, and then “self-checkout” my five items for me as I watched. Then, par for course, my cash was not of acceptable quality to be received as payment by the machine, so I had to follow the manager to an open register where she accepted my payment.

All in all I’m pretty sure I would have saved time by waiting in line and letting a professional handle my purchase. Also, I’m pretty sure self-checkouts are of the devil!

The Halloweaster Bunny

I’m not a big Halloween person; maybe because my parents barely acknowledged the holiday throughout my childhood. And also there was the fact that we lived in a more rural area so our annual trick-or-treat visitors would total somewhere along the lines of two neighborhood kids…three if Michael Hickman wasn’t in trouble that night. The four acre distance between homes was a pretty good deterrent for parents becoming motivated to walk the kids from house to house; not to mention the idea of children wandering the streets after dark dressed like hooligans and begging for food like paupers only to come home and fight a battle over how much chocolate is too much before bedtime.

Muahahaha!  I vant to suck your Cadbury mini eggs!

I do recall one particular Halloween, however, where my mother made an extra effort to put her own spin on celebrate the occasion. You should know that my mother is a well-educated woman who sometimes falls victim to culture shock. She moved to the United States as an adult, so while she does understand the concepts of all American holidays and the meaning behind them, she sometimes gets “lost in translation” when it comes to the actual traditions. Case in point:

Halloween night, 2003. I was an adult; however, my 6 year old son was excited and filled with anticipation for special Halloween with his maw maw. I was excited for a night out with friends and a free babysitter. I got to my mother’s house and walked inside where she whisked him away and promptly returned with a bright orange foam pumpkin sporting arms and legs and bearing an uncanny resemblance to my son. Her witch hat didn’t quite go with the hospital scrubs she wore to work that day, but mom ALWAYS had a way of making things work in her favor. “Hellooooo Brandon! I am Glenda the good nurse-witch! And we are gonna have soooo much fun hunting for Halloween candy! Peter Cottontail has visited and there are candies and surprises hidden alllll around us!” She grabbed his little hands and started bouncing around with her 70’s disco moves singing "Here comes Peter Cottontail. Hoppin’ down the bunny trail…"

Wait…what? I was lost. Peter Cottontail? Please tell me my dad was not about to jump out of the hall closet wearing cover-alls, bunny ears and his Sunday church shoes. (He didn’t by the way…BIG relief) So I was all, “Mom, Peter Cottontail? That's an Easter thing.  Aren't you going trick-or-treating tonight?” And she was like, “Of course! We are gonna trick-or-treat right here to find all the goodies, right Brandon!?!” And of course Brandon was practically jumping up and down and screaming “Let’s go maw maw!! Bye mom! Let’s go!”

Apparently, after work, my mom bought a few bags of Halloween candy and hid the pieces of candy all around her house for Brandon to find.  And yes, in the end there was a "golden prize egg".  Because a hunt wouldn't be the same without one!  My mom always had a way of making things exciting for little kids. Her enthusiasm is contagious to say the least. To this day I have a theory that my son enjoys going over to their house strictly for the possibility of finding candy in the least expected places.  Kind of like a modern day Hansel and Gretel effect.  Maybe there was something to this whole Halloweaster bunny concept.

Breaking all the “Cool Mom” Rules

First day of school! First day of school!  So here are the gratuitous shots I got this morning through my sleep-filled eyes…

This was his reaction to my instruction to "look more enthusiastic about your photo being taken"

The only somewhat normal photo I got

This was him telling me he was done with photos for the day

The progressive "eye roll" shot.  I tried to tell him that the proper eye roll is done CLOCKWISE...not counter-clockwise!

Have I mentioned that I LOVE my Canon 40D and it's ability to shoot several frames per second?  Okay, back to the story.


I was filled with pride today as my only son walked toward Bolton High School (Go Bears!) for the beginning of his freshman year. Then suddenly…a thought…THIS, my friends, is a Kodak moment!!!



So I whip out my Blackberry and frantically press the buttons to open the camera app. My heart was racing. What was I doing?!?! My next move could make or break his reputation for years to come. What would he say when he found out?? How could something be sooo wrong when it felt sooo right? So I did it. I threw caution to the wind and snapped a photo of my baby bear walking up to the school. Oh yes I did. Right in front of everyone! I paused for a moment and gazed at my new photographic treasure as the narration ran through my mind. After 14 years of inconspicuous and expert maneuvers, Abby’s efforts were amply rewarded with the coveted cell phone camera shot of the elusive bear cub approaching his new den.

Steele Wilson...freshman bear cub

The line of carpoolers piling up behind me was my cue to flee the scene before being discovered.  I'd like to think that those parents were not annoyed, but beaming with pride at the new frontier I had reached.  The car horns honking behind me led me to believe otherwise.

Oh yeah…I’m THAT mom!

I could have spared his ego this one time…but sometimes it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask permission.

Rotten Eggs

Thanks to my best friend and sister, Alysson, whose friendship keeps me grounded in the roots of our carefree childhood.

So my sister and her fiancé, Miah, were playing tennis in the park recently.  To the right was a child’s modest birthday party centered around a picnic table filled with treats.  To the left, in juxtaposition, was another child’s birthday party, literally bouncing with the excitement of a bold and brightly colored space jumper.  While lobbing the ball back and forth, Alysson and Miah were becoming more and more aware of the void their court created; a void which separated the children of peaceful budget bondage, from the party of screaming chaotic excitement.

Then it happened…a defector.  The leader in a soon-to-follow pack of children starved for freedom bolted out across the tennis court in pursuit of a better life the jumper.  He didn’t care what the consequences of his betrayal may be.  All he knew was that that bounce house was HIS.  He was in a total body sprint, running full on with his head thrown back, knees to the chest, arms pumping and chest heaving with every breath as he yelled, “Last one there is a ROTTEN EEEEEEGG!”

Thirty to forty-five seconds behind him trailed a little runt of a child, moving with half-effort and waddling along granny-run style.  In his determination to not be defeated he yells, “First one has to EAT IT!!”

The Squirrely Bird Always Gets the Worm

I believe we all have that one screwy neighbor…you know the one I’m talking about.  The soccer mom  who does 5 point turns in her driveway to park her enormous SUV just right; that guy who paces his back yard after digging shallow graves spraying insect killer sporadically in the air and creating his own exterminator version of Swan Lake; the old woman who cuts the grass along her stepping stones with craft scissors while humming “Tinny Bubbles” by  Don Ho and who visits only to bring you bagged specimens of dog poo collected from her yard to inquire as to whether or not your dog made it.  Okay well maybe that last one was just an isolated case in which my aunt and uncle were living next door to a lunatic, but you get the point.

Well in my child “hood”, that one neighbor was a doozy.  A hoarder of sorts, she would chase her two rambunctious boys around the junkyard known as her lawn with frying pans or ping pong paddles threatening to beat some sense into them.  When you knocked on her door, she would answer by cracking it just enough to catch a glimpse of her hair net and lazy eye.  But all of that probably would have gone unnoticed amongst the neighborhood cast of characters if it hadn’t been for the fact that she would come and go in her dented, busted –up old truck at least 30 times a day.

Our living room had several windows facing the street, so day and night we would see her leave, then return, then leave, and return.  My dad would yell out, “Look kids!  There goes SQUIRRELY BIRD again!” And we would run into the room to giggle and make up stories about where she was headed THIS time.  I’m not sure where my dad got the nickname “squirrely bird”.  It could possibly be another of his famous coonass terms like fiddly-fartin’ or old as the hills or T-totally ugly.  But at age 10, I pictured the squirrely bird to be something like this.

"Git back here you spawn of the devil!"

And sometimes I would defend the squirrely bird by suggesting “normal” reasons for her comings and goings.  Things like, “She’s probably just getting groceries.” Or “Maybe she’s secretly a superhero who has to fight crime.”

Heeeere I come to save the DAAAAAY!

My dad would be like, “Nah, she’s just squirrely.”

My neighborhood now is peppered with squirrely birds.  But at least there aren’t any peepers.

Monkey see, Monkey do WHAT?!

So I want to talk a little about this photo.

We Are Awesome!

It has been on the front of my fridge for about 4 years, so yes, I’ve glanced at it hundreds of times. So why did I never notice before today that my son is giving HIMSELF rabbit ears?! Really? So basically he took a moment to consider his options, and the best candidate ended up being HIMSELF?! Knowing my son, it sort of makes sense…but still.

There’s one in every group, but since when is it this child of mine?

About 3 weeks ago, my friend Laura was visiting from out of town (her kid is the one front and center) and we were discussing how this photo captures perfectly the personalities of this group of neighborhood kids back in the day. Jonathan (Laura’s son) front and center, taking charge and challenging the photographer to dictate his next move, Brandon (far right) relinquishing the attention, doing his own thing in his own little world, but still making futile attempts to earn a smile, Ryan (second from left) flailing around like a monkey on meth, and most likely singing the Pokemon theme song as loud and repetitiously as possible in order to clown his way into the spotlight, and Tyler (far left) the quiet, unsupervised country boy from down the street who stares in awe at the other three thinking…”Hey ya’ll quit posing and let’s go blow up a bull frog in the ditch behind the house and build a fort in the woods.”

These little monkeys have since grown apart and gone their separate paths into their teen years…it’s probably a good thing. Maybe Brandon won’t be THAT one in his next group, but then again…I sure love that kid.

God & Country

As the July 4^th celebration weekend approaches, I am reminded of a time when Brandon was 4 years old and how our conversations in the car opened my eyes to his innocent perspective on life.  I had picked him up from preschool that day and inquired, as usual, about what he had learned in school. His response was, “the pledge of allegiance.”  I glanced into the rearview mirror, only to discover that he was knuckle deep in his nose…digging for gold perhaps, or “pointing to my brain” as he would say (it was a daily struggle between us to break this disgusting habit).  So I was like, “Brandon! Get that finger out of your nose!” and he was like, “How’d YOU know where my finger was?”  I told him that it doesn’t matter whether I can see him or not.  He shouldn’t do things behind my back because God was watching and eventually he would reveal the truth to me.  So Brandon is all, “Well I already KNEW that.  We learned about it at school today.” And I was like, “About what?” and he says, “About how God is EVERYWHERE an you can’t hide from him.”  So I was like, “But I thought you learned the pledge of allegiance today.” And he says, “We DID.  It’s a story about God AND about the country.”  So I was all, “What in the WORLD are you talking about?”

Frustrated with my ignorance, Brandon moaned through a deep sigh and says, “It goes like THIS, mom.”

Brandon: “I pledge allegiance, to da flag, United States of America.  An to da republic, whichistans, one nation, under God, INVISIBLE, wif liberty an justice furall!  See?  He’s everywhere, we jus can’t see him cuz he’s invisible.”

Me: “Well if you knew that, then why were you picking your boogs?”

Brandon: “I didn’t think he would tell on me this time.”

Do NOT Touch the Girl's Cookies!

Brandon is currently attending cotillion. For those of you who are not familiar with this program, it is one in which children (usually pre-teens or teenagers) attend classes where they learn patterned social dance or “ballroom style” dance (i.e. fox trot, waltz), in addition to learning gentlemanly\ladylike manners, etiquette, and formal dining. For those of you who are familiar with cotillion because you too were subjected to this humiliation as children…my son sends his sympathy. The students are “rewarded” for their efforts with two or three formal balls held in the fall, winter and spring.

So as I impatiently wait for Brandon to adorn himself with the suit I had purchased at the last minute before his first class, I began to wonder what exactly I had committed myself to as a parent. The responsibility begins as follows: spending an obnoxious amount of money on formal attire for a child who has grown 5 inches and 2 shoe sizes this year alone and will probably surpass that by Christmas, chauffeuring service to several 3-hour lessons, chaperoning 3 formal balls, purchasing proper attire for myself to wear to said formals, constant negotiation and threats directed to my uncooperative 11 year old, etc...etc…etc.

As I pondered the mess that I had gotten myself into, I glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized quickly that we were on the verge of being tardy (a violation of rule number 3 of the manual for proper etiquette). The obsessive compulsive in me, who is NEVER late for ANYTHING, began barking orders in the direction of the house from which faint grunts and grumbles were resonating. “I’m Coming!” he said in a voice of defeat.

Then there he was…emerging from the hallway… a stranger…a young man with whom I had not yet made acquaintance. Where was my little boy who used to let me call him “baby bear” and give him public displays of affection? Where was the child who would yell “Mommy, watch this!” from across the room and I would hold my breath in anticipation of another trip to the emergency room?

As I drove to the class I was suddenly saddened with my realization of how quickly time was passing by. My impromptu pity-party was abruptly halted when we arrived and Brandon told me to just “drop him off near the front”. Apparently having me watch while he was forced to dance awkwardly with random girls would only multiply the intensity of his embarrassment. As I loitered near the front entrance concocting a plan to spy on the class, I was joined by 15-20 other rejected parents with peaked curiosity. We devised a plan to come back 30 minutes early (by accident) in order to catch the last part of the class.

Once I returned, I found my place among the eager onlookers, poking my head ever-so-carefully around the corner of the room. There he was…Brandon was dancing with the tiniest little girl. Unfortunately, he was paying no attention to his dance partner at all. Instead, my son, along with several other boys, were snickering and whispering to their friends as they passed on the dance floor. Then I watched as the music ended and the children were all seated. The instructors muffled voice echoed from the speaker system. “Okay gentleman. It’s time to escort the ladies to the refreshment tables for cookies and punch. Remember to escort the lady on your RIGHT arm and hold the plate for her as she chooses her refreshments. Remember gentleman!! DO NOT…TOUCH…THE GIRLS’ COOKIES. The girls do not like it when the boys touch their cookies.”

It was at this moment that the crowd of adolescent boys began giggling and chattering amongst themselves. The instructor, apparently unaware of her double entendre, continued to guide the kids to the refreshment table, then dismissed them for the evening.
On the drive home, I inquired of my son as to what part of the evening he enjoyed most. The cookies, was of course, his absolute answer. It was then that I realized he was not so grown up after all…and when I tucked him into bed that night, his Scooby Doo pajamas confirmed my conclusion.

Look Out Babe Ruth!!

HE DID IT!! Brandon hit the ball. He not only got a base hit in his very first tournament game last Friday, he hit again tonight and SCORED!!! Woohoo! He's batting a thousand! Now if I could only teach the kid to slide...