Rock and Roll Grandma

The Transformation 

At 12:47 am, May 16, 2012 my life changed permanently. After almost 24 hours of my daughter's drug-free labor, many hurried texts to the father-to-be in the labor room, countless cups of horrible hospital coffee and several walks around halls, up and down stairs and out to the parking lot for some fresh air, I became the grandmother of a beautiful baby boy named Benjamin Alexander. 5 pounds 4 ounces of sweet perfection, complete with startling blue eyes, all twenty fingers and toes and a head full of wispy blonde hair. I looked into his eyes and my heart melted; he could do anything he ever wanted at Grammy's house (including riding our dog Cooper like a small horse) and I wouldn't mind. Anything. He. Wants.

 As I walked out of the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, smiling and humming to myself, I couldn't wait to get home and start posting pictures and bragging on Facebook, after about 10 hours of sleep, of course. I got into my car, put the key in the ignition and turned it, and was immediately blasted awake by Korn screaming at me about feeling like a freak on a leash. Now, for the two of you who aren't familiar with Korn, let me put it this way. They are a lot like Pat Boone...if he were dreadlocked, tattooed, fed a TON of acid and handed an electric guitar and a set of bagpipes. And as I was driving out of the parking lot, bobbing my head up and down and singing along, it hit me: I'M A GRANDMA AND I'M LISTENING TO THE DEVIL'S MUSIC!

Okay, let me clarify. I don't really think Korn is the devil's music, but I suddenly seemed to be channeling my grandmother on my father's side. Grandma Genie was a sweet and sedate ministers wife who always wore floral-print dresses, knitted and crocheted blankets and sweaters and almost wore out her knees praying for the salvation of her granddaughter's rock and roll soul. I felt very insecure at the thought that I was supposed to start acting like a grandma, and grandma's aren't supposed to rock in anything but rocking chairs, right? Right.

 Out of Denial, into De Nursery 

I admit, during my daughter's pregnancy I questioned my ability to be a good grandma. I was the girl who once flashed the megatron at a Guns n' Roses concert; I got drunk in the school parking lot at 7 am on the first day of 11th grade. I lost my virginity in a graveyard, for crying out loud! How was I supposed to guide and teach my grandson when honestly, 21 years earlier, I had barely felt qualified to teach his mother anything? And then a realization hit me. I'm not supposed to be MY grandmother. She was a wonderful, patient woman whose taste in music and fashion I would still question if she were alive today. But couldn't I take the patience, the teaching, the homemade cookies and secrets that she shared with me and share those same things with Ben? Hadn't all the crazy life adventures I had made me a better, more open and aware mother to my own children? Did I really have to stop going to concerts, seeing friends' bands play, or cranking up Metallica's "Seek and Destroy" every time it came on the radio? A resounding HELL NO!!! Er, heck...heck no. Sorry Ben.

 Lacy sweaters, gray buns and floral-print dresses aside, being a grandma is all about being worldly wise, a keeper of secrets and a giver of unconditional love. I can do all that in a leather vest without batting an eye. (Side note: spit-up cleans off leather much easier, too!) I know that what really matters is what's in my heart, not what's coming out of my speakers. I know that taking Ben to the zoo and park and beach will all be great, and hopefully I'll get the opportunity to take him to his first metal show as well! Rock on Ben...Grammy loves you!

An Unorthodox List of Things For Which I am Thankful

Today is Thanksgiving, and as I sit here at my kitchen table, smelling the big fat turkey roasting in the oven, it occurs to me that I should probably talk a little bit about things for which I am thankful. The problem with expressions of thankfulness, especially on Thanksgiving, is that everyone gives thanks for the same things. Family, good health, a roof over our heads and food on the table, and while those are all wonderful things that we should all be thankful to possess, I wanted to think outside the box a little about what makes my world a happier place in which to live. So here it is, my Top Ten List (a la David Letterman) of Unorthodox Things for Which I am Thankful:

10. I am thankful for televised sports. At least once a week (though usually more) I can jump up and down, scream at my television and throw things with no fear of anyone recommending that I be committed. Plus it doesn't hurt that a lot of the pro athletes are pretty yummy!

9. I am thankful for the 1980 Abrams & Zucker classic movie Airplane! Featuring Moonies getting punched out, a Jive-talking Barbara Billingsley ("Chump don' want da help, chump don' GIT da help!") and the arguing couple over the airport intercom, this movie has some of the greatest lines ever. "The cockpit; what is it?" "It's that little room at the front where they fly the plane; but that's not important right now!"  "Surely you can't be serious?" "I am serious. And don't call me Shirley."  "Looks like I picked the wrong day to stop sniffin' glue." And who can forget the smiling autopilot, the literal shit hitting the fan and the woman thinking "That's funny; Jim never vomits at home." This movie literally shaped my weird sense-of-humor and I will be forever grateful for that!

8. I am thankful for Pink Floyd's "The Wall" album. There is nothing better than sticking both discs into my CD player and just mellowing out for a long ride into some of the best music ever made. Some of my favorite songs are on this album like 'Young Lust', 'Goodbye Cruel World' and 'Run Like Hell'. The record has sold over 23 million albums since its release in 1979 so apparently I am not the only person in the world who really utterly and completely digs this masterpiece. If I burn some incense while listening, I can almost relive my teen years while listening to Gilmour playing his ass off on the guitar; only difference is, now I don't get a bad case of the munchies afterwards like I did back then!

7.  I am so very thankful for the amazing novel The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger. My older sister Amy took a Comp Lit class in college when I was a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore who was descending into a deep depression unlike anything I had ever experienced. She came home for the weekend and threw the book on my bed. "Read this; I think you can relate." Wow, was she right. Holden Caufield was descending into madness as quickly as I was drowning in my own despair and somehow reading about his plight helped me get a better handle on my own. I had a lot of thoughts of suicide that year; I credit this book with pulling me out of it and am so thankful that with the strength it gave me I was able to grasp my inner demons by their pointy tails and hurl them out of my life forever.

6. I'm thankful for my friend Chris Williams for turning me on to Monty Python back when we were a couple of giggly, dorky 6th graders. She had cable television (something my uncool family didn't have until I was 17 years old) and we used to watch Monty Python's Flying Circus every time I was over at her house. We practiced our own silly walks and knew every word of the Lumberjack Song. We even bought a stuffed parrot at her neighbors yard sale and could re-enact the entire "Dead Parrot" sketch, exchanging roles between customer and clerk at the drop of a hat. I've since lost touch with Chris but I still sing "The Lumberjack Song" to my kids to make them laugh. As a bonus, they both think Monty Python is the bees knees. And I can't help but say "Wink wink, say no more, nudge nudge!" whenever my husband and I are being flirty with one another.

5. I'm thankful for my husband's and my weird habit of giving everyone in the world nicknames. Kirby and I call my mom "Old Spice" (the unsung heroine and older mentor of the Spice Girls). Our oldest daughter Ellie has been Ellie-Bug, Ellie Bean, Elouiscious, Ms. Drop-It-Like-It's-Hot and The Cheeseburgler (robble robble). We called William by the name "Dita" (short for Willdita, since he looked like a gordita when wrapped in blankets) until he was about 5 years old. Now we call him Buddy or Nancy, and also Princess Wilhelmina. Allison is Big Al and Alouiscious. Even the dog and cats aren't immune: we call the cats Violet and Valentina "The Ass Sisters: Fat and Dumb" and Cooper is "Mr. Coopsby", since we imagine that, in his inner monologue, he has a British accent and the bearing of a slightly effeminate butler. Weird, maybe. Fun, oh yes!

4. Okay, this one is a little weird so bear with me; in my family, we have this odd habit of telling the grossest and most inappropriate stories, usually involving bodily functions and embarrassing moments, at our family get-togethers. I can still remember laughing until I cried when my cousin told us the story about how an early morning jog led to his baring his behind to take a poop behind some fir trees only to discover when he was done that he'd been bare-assed beside a state highway while doing the deed! I'm thankful that my family is quirky, gross and irreverent because it just makes life more colorful and a whole lot more fun!

3. I am thankful for junk food. I know it is politically incorrect to admit this these days but there is nothing better than candy, Pringles, popcorn, McDonalds and Taco Bell, and my favorite of all junk food, Big Red soda. Of course it is bad to indulge in these treats regularly but sometimes there is nothing better than sitting around with your girlfriends, bitching and moaning to one another about our love lives and enjoying a big box of chocolates. Or having a heaping helping of nachos at the ballgame. Without disgusting junky food, life isn't worth living.

2. I am thankful for flea markets and yard sales. I grew up with my Aunt Gladie, who was the queen of the yard sale. She could find the gem in a box of junk and know exactly what to do with it to make it perfect for her home decor. In elementary school I was always one of the best dressed kids; little did they know that it was Aunt Gladie's eye for great clothes at yard sales that helped make that possible. And today, there is nothing I love to do better on a warm summer weekend than head to the flea market with my tape measure and a wallet full of cash so I can look for the next piece of furniture to refinish or a quirky globe or picnic basket to add to my collections. And like Gladie knew, the thrill is in the hunt.

And the number one unorthodox thing for which I am thankful is:

1. Baby smell. I have a new grandson, Ben, who is six-months-old. There is something about baby smell, sweet clean baby smell, that just makes me want to squeeze that little boy to pieces. Okay, I said I wasn't going to say anything about being thankful for family but technically, baby smell is what I'm thankful for; it just happens to be attached to this particular baby!

I'd love to hear some comments on some of your favorite "weird" or odd things that you are thankful for this year. Happy Thanksgiving to everyone and I hope you have a wonderful day with family and friends.

Defining "Cool"

I celebrated a birthday last weekend. While I'm not one of those people who looks upon every birthday with dread, I have to say that every post-40 birthday has been a little tougher than my thirty-something birthdays were. But with age comes wisdom and I've learned a lot, especially these last couple of birthdays.

I've never been afraid of getting old. My hair has been going gray since my mid-twenties, though I refuse to totally let nature take it's course and still color it from time to time. I'm starting to get a few "laugh lines" around my eyes, but I think they give me character. No, it's not a fear of aging that plagues me; my phobia goes much deeper than that. To sum it up, it's the fear of no longer being - wait for it - COOL.

Now anyone who has teenagers will tell you that in their eyes, you were never cool, you will never be cool, you COULD never be cool. It's just not possible. I mean, how cool is the person who tells you to clean your room, eat all your vegetables and finish your homework? But I want them to know that there is another me besides the "God, you're SO MEAN MOM!" me that they've known all their lives.

I mean, when I was in school, even though I wore glasses and braces and was pretty much a big dork, there was an inner me that was cool. I mean, really cool. I loved the Three Stooges, Monty Python and The Young Ones. I loved heavy metal, hard rock, alternative and punk music. In fact, I went to so many concerts that my entire wardrobe consisted of black concert tees. I hung out with bad boys, cut class, smoked and drank with abandon. (Okay, I don't want my kids to know about THAT!) But I was COOL! Or so I thought.

Then as I started to get older, I realized that concert tees, smoking and drinking aren't the things that really make you cool. Cool is an attitude; it's a certain something that people either have or they don't. It's an intangible concept. What I discovered is, cool is in the eye of the beholder.

I found that people thought the fact that I was kind of funny in a weird, twisted sort of way was pretty cool. I found that my ability to recite all the movie lines from Airplane, The Naked Gun, Monty Python's The Holy Grail and Animal House made me kind of cool. When I married Kirby, he told me that one of the things that made him love me so much was that it was cool to have a wife who would remind him that football was about to come on, instead of trying to get him to go shopping for shoes with me. I think the fact that I've raised three amazing, smart and really gut-bustingly funny kids is pretty damned cool too.

I have a wonderful marriage to a guy who, in my opinion, is the epitome of cool. He's super smart and challenges me in a way no other person ever has. He's opinionated, stubborn and stands up for what he believes in no matter the price. He is a soldier, a defender of our country and I think that is pretty cool too. And it's really cool to me that he looks hot in his uniform too! I think it's cool that, when we became grandparents together early this year, he cried right along with me the first time we held our beautiful grandson. I think it's cool that he loves to goo-goo and gaa-gaa over Benjamin, and the way he looks at his grandson like he is the most beautiful thing in the world.

I have some of the coolest friends in the world. But they aren't cool because of their jobs, or their cars or the size of their homes. They are cool because they are some of the most kind-hearted, loving, loyal and always there for you kinds of friends. They are friends that would pick you up at the airport, for crying out loud! They are friends that have laughed with me, cried with me, celebrated good times with me and mourned losses with me. My closest friends are people who have been my friends for over thirty years and we still think each other is the bee's knees. I think that's pretty cool.

And now that I'm 42, with gray hair, wrinkles and boobs that headed south a few birthdays ago, I'm still pretty cool. I'm cool because of my family, my friends, and all the blessings that I've been given. I'm cool because I love my life and wouldn't trade it with anyone. I'm really and truly soul-deep happy; in my opinion, that's the real definition of cool.

Our Broken Government: Is it Repairable?

Tuesday, November 6 is Election Day and it seems the upcoming election is all people are talking about right now. While I don't care to get into political debates with flame war starters in chat forums, I do care deeply about the country I live in and the people who are leading it, though "leading" seems to be a somewhat strong word for what is actually happening. Our Senate and Congress are divided like never before in American history and there is only one word for the reason why: ego.

After watching an interview this evening with Senate Majority leader Harry Reid and Minority leader Mitch McConnell, I am feeling even more hopeless than I was previously. The basic tone of the interview was "Why can't the Senate accomplish anything? Why is the Senate so divided and unwilling to compromise on the important issues?" In typical Washington fashion each leader (who claim to be close friends off the Senate floor) spent the time blaming one another for the actions of their respective political parties. There was no real definitive answers regarding the failure of this Senate to accomplish even the most minor of compromises.

When politicians begin to care more for the power of their seat and the agenda of their party and the lobbyists who scratch their backs, America is in trouble. There is currently no one in Washington right now who appears to genuinely care about the American people. There is no one willing to stand up and say "We don't have to agree on every issue, but let's put those disagreements aside and come up with solutions that will benefit our constituents."

When heading to the polls on Tuesday, I urge you to go armed with knowledge of the voting record of your representatives in Washington. Don't bother voting along party lines anymore; neither party is any better than the other these days. Instead, go with the candidate you feel will stand up for the citizens of this country. It is up to we voters to say "Enough is enough!" We have the power to change the government and make it a true reflection of our goals as a family of Americans. After all, isn't that what defines a true democracy? Make your voice heard; please vote this Tuesday.

Indiana - The State You Can't Wait to Leave

Okay, the title is a bit tongue in cheek but if you know anything about celebrities you know that a lot of them came from the Hoosier state and apparently their path to fame started with one common goal -- to get the HELL out of Indiana! Now, I lived in southern California for two glorious sun soaked years and I can understand the desire to be surrounded by palm trees and beautiful tanned gorgeous surfer boys with firm chests and bronze bulging arm muscles, their long flowing dirty-blond hair waving in the breeze and their strong, muscular thighs flexing as they balance on their surfboards and their -- wait a second, where was I going with this? Okay, anyway, I understand the siren song of the West Coast. But when it was time for us to move back to Indiana once Kirby's Marine Corp commitment was up, I was ready for some Midwestern normalcy.

But apparently a lot of celebrities don't feel this way. And it's funny; some of my favorite celebs are Indiana natives. There's my favorite comedian, Jim Gaffigan, who was born and raised up in the Fort Wayne area. (And a quick shout out to my favorite Fort Wayne peeps, the soldiers of the 338th QM Co., of which my honey was commander!) David Letterman of course began his career in Indianapolis, his hometown, and I used to shop at the Atlas Market where he was bag boy every time I was in Indy crashing at my friend Rico Swarthy's place. Our local legend John Mellencamp, hailing from Seymour, used to play the Crump Theatre in Columbus, my hometown. David Lee Roth, former Van Halen front man and one of the best showmen in rock, came from Bloomington, where his father was an IU English professor. Then there's Axl Rose, who before he went insane and started using spray tan and cornrows was my favorite long and lean lead singer in my late teens and grew up in Lafayette along with G-n-R bassist Izzy Stradlin. (Mmm, those leather pants on those skinny hips. Come to mama!) And in the same category of insane musicians, the late Michael Jackson grew up on the mean streets of Gary before Papa Joe realized that his kids could sing and got them the hell outta there!

But it's not just funny men and musicians. Oh no. There is a veritable plethora of celebs who are Hoosiers. Jane Pauley is an Indiana native who is a feminist icon for her success in the male dominated world of television journalists. Legendary dark, brooding and mysterious actor, the late James Dean, grew up in Fairmount, Indiana, a small town about 60 miles north of Indianapolis. He was laid to rest there as well upon his death. Jimmy Hoffa, famed leader of the Teamster's, whose mysterious disappearance is still highly speculated on today, grew up in Brazil, Indiana. He would probably still be alive if he'd never left corn country. And Ernie Pyle, legendary WWII journalist, killed in action doing what he loved best, was a Hoosier as well, hailing from tiny Dana, Indiana.

Indiana also has the distinct honor of having birthed such luminaries as Kurt Vonnegut (if you have to ask then you haven't read Slaughterhouse Five, one of my favorite books, and if that's true then I won't be speaking to you again anyway!) Twyla Tharp, choreographer and dancer, Knute Rockne, football coach extraordinaire (and also of  "Win one for the Gipper" fame) as well as Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart (Columbus native), Ryan Newman and David Stremme of NASCAR fame. Steve McQueen, late amazing actor, stuntman, wild child and all around sexy beast back in his day, was born in Indianapolis suburb Beech Grove, though he was abandoned to his grandparents in Slater, Missouri at age three and grew up there.

We also have Bedford's own Rocket Man Gus Grissom, 23rd POTUS Benjamin Harrison, Jim Davis, creator and cartoonist of Garfield. Bill Blass, amazing designer and Cher's stylist for a time, is a Hoosier. Larry Bird is a hoosier who DID come back home again and just resigned as president of the Pacers organization. Sex researcher Alfred Kinsey was born here as well, and women everywhere should thank him for his findings on the G-Spot.

So you see, for some reason Hoosiers are attracted to the spotlight, and many have been considered the top of their respective fields. I guess it's true, there is more than corn in Indiana. There is apparently something in the water that produces fame as well. Who knows, maybe someday someone will be writing about one of my kids being a famous Hoosier!

If It's Too Loud, You're Too Old

I have a secret. I love really loud, really hard rock music. Okay, so that's not really a secret to my friends who know me well, but to a lot of people who only know me on the outer fringes of my life, this may come as a surprise. After all, I'm a middle-aged mom of three who just became a grandma; I'm supposed to be listening to just about anything but hard rock, or so I've been told.

I first became enamored of hardcore, heavy and loud music because of a t-shirt. That's right; a t-shirt started a 30-year love affair with what my mother referred to as "Godawful racket!" but it's true. I was a nerdy twelve-year-old who listened to whatever songs the pop radio music station played and barely listened to that. Then my totally cool older cousin Todd came to visit from Florida and he had on a Molly Hatchet t-shirt. It was really cool. HE was really cool. (Well, he was 19 and tan with long blond hair who always smelled a bit "herbal" - of course he was cool!)

I silently admired his t-shirt for most of the week he was there, making up all kinds of stories in my head about who this Molly Hatchet was; she had to be cool, I thought, with a last name like Hatchet. Finally, the day before he was to head back home I asked him who she was. After he finished laughing and then apologizing to me for laughing at me, he explained that Molly Hatchet was an awesome band and that I had to listen to them immediately. He gave me a mix tape that had "Flirtin' With Disaster" along with other gems such as "Sweet Leaf" by Black Sabbath, "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin and "Big Ten Inch" by Aerosmith. I listened to the music up in my bedroom and I was hooked.

The first album I bought with my own money was Kiss "Destroyer". I then started exploring the genre of punk (with the direction from a record store clerk who loved punk) and a love affair with Iggy & the Stooges, the Dead Boys, the Ramones and the Sex Pistols ensued. I began to explore even more in depth and found that Henry Rollins was a genius, GG Allin was controversial yet amazing and Glenn Danzig was a master lyricist as well as a super nice guy. (I met him at the Vogue after a show in Indy when I was 15; he kissed my cheek and signed my shirt.)

I still remember exactly what I was doing when I first heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and I looked at the infant Ellie and said "Well, hair metal is dead!" She cooed in agreement. Nirvana changed my direction yet again, and suddenly I was dreaming of moving to Seattle and hanging with Alice in Chains, Screaming Trees and the Pixies. Soundgarden's "Big Dumb Sex" became one of my favorite songs to play to irritate my mother. (Listen to it if you've never heard it; you'll understand what I mean.) I also remember what I was doing when I heard the news about Kurt Cobain's suicide; I had to pull the car over and cry for about a half-hour because of the great talent that had just been so carelessly taken out of this world.

Then just when music started to seem lame and all the radio would play was Matchbox 20 and Fuel over and over, I met a man who captured my music fan heart with his controversial lyrics, his carefully calculated "insanity" and his gorgeous eyes. Marilyn Manson became my newest love; I absolutely was crazy about everything about the band and the man. Every song was amazing; hard, loud and unapologetic, the way real rock and roll should be.

I had never really gotten into rap or hip hop (except for the Beastie Boys amazing "Paul's Boutique") until a certain blond haired, blue eyed beauty of a man from Detroit captured me with his poetry. Yes, I love Eminem too. While I wouldn't play his songs around my kids, after they went to bed I was often in awe of his ability to rhyme in an almost impossible way, his vocal prowess and his content. I still think "Stan" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever written and I absolutely love him taunting Dr. Dre in "Guilty Conscience" by calling him "Mr. AK, Mr. NWA, Mr. Strait Outta Comptom, y'all better make way!" 

I've been listening to a lot of old favorites lately. I still love to put in Pink Floyd (any Pink Floyd album, doesn't matter which one) and just mellow the afternoon away. The kids still love to twirl around and dance hippie-style to "Estimated Prophet" by the Grateful Dead. And anytime I hear any Red Hot Chili Peppers song, I have to sing along with Anthony Kiedis's beautiful, rich voice. But then I'll get a little tug and will have to pop in Korn's "Wake Up" or anything by Disturbed. Sometimes nothing will do but a hit of Slayer's "Seasons In the Abyss" album to get me pumped up. And I just laugh when people ask me when I'm going to grow out of this "phase". It's thirty years going strong people, and I'm still rockin' hard. But hey; that's rock and roll!

My Love Affair with Baseball

I've really been caught up in the World Series this year, even though my favorite teams (the Pittsburgh Pirates and the San Diego Padres) aren't in it at all. Part of my enthusiasm has to do with the fact that I have a deep crush on Tim Lincecum of the San Francisco Giants. (I love that long hair.) But mostly it has to do with my deep and abiding love for the sport of baseball.

While watching game three with Kirby last night my youngest daughter Allison walked through the living room, looked at the television and pronounced "Ewww. Baseball. Ugh."

"Why don't you like baseball?" I asked her.

"It's sooo totally boring!" she said with a sniff of disgust that only a twelve-year-old can muster, then she tossed her hair and huffed out of the room.

As I was really into the game at the time I didn't stop to tell her how totally and completely wrong she was. Baseball isn't boring at all! I honestly believe that anyone who thinks that baseball is boring, too slow or not exciting enough has never really watched a game and appreciated all the subtle nuances that make for an exciting match up.

Don't get me wrong; I love all sports. I love football, hockey, basketball (mostly college; the NBA annoys me for some reason - unless the Pacers are winning, that is.) I am an equal opportunity sports fan. But baseball is a thinking woman's game. It's more cerebral than any other sport; there is a calculating intensity to the pace of the game. What pitch will be thrown? Will this player get walked? And there is nothing more exciting than watching a shutout or a closer coming out on the field to put the game away; it gets my blood pumping like nothing else.

Living in San Diego during the late '90's I remember how awesome it was to be at a game and hear the opening toll of Hell's Bells by AC/DC; you knew Trevor Hoffman was coming out on the field to do something amazing. And getting to watch Ricky Henderson steal bases, or the legendary Tony Guinn playing his last seasons (a little slower perhaps, but still great!) And of course, I was completely infatuated with Ryan Klesko and was visibly angry when, a few years after we moved back to Indiana, I found out about his request to be traded to the Atlanta Braves. (The Braves Ryan? Really?? What were you thinking man!!!)

My passion for the sport started early, when my grandpa would take me to Cincinnati Reds games; I always took my mitt so that I could catch a foul ball (never happened) and I always ended up lying in the back seat of the car during the hour-and-a-half drive home with a stomach ache because of too many hot dogs and sodas. Grandpa was a great teacher about the sport. He explained strategy, how to recognize different pitches and why the designated hitter rule is a sure sign of communist activity in America. He loved Pete Rose and was sorely disappointed by his dismissal from the game and his omission from the Baseball Hall of Fame. ("I bet every one of them gambles - Pete just got caught is all!")

Baseball is a gentleman's game; it is America's game. One of the greatest things you can do as a family is to head to a ballpark, explain the game to your kids, and let them get sick on hot dogs while clutching their mitt, looking out for foul balls. Oh, and make sure to explain the communist ties of the designated hitting rule; it's what Grandpa would want. 

The Fine Art of Letting Go

When you have your first child it is a magical experience.  You look at them in wonder and awe, disbelieving that you had anything to do with the creation of this perfect little person.  You are full of hopes and dreams for them; you want them to live the best life they can and to always have all their heart desires.

Those first few weeks home from the hospital are a blur.  You and this little person are getting to know one another.  You are sleep deprived and cranky but looking at that little face as she looks up at you makes your heart melt and you know that you will do anything in your power to protect her and give her what she needs for the rest of your life.

Soon she is crawling all over the house and making a mess of everything.  Your once well-ordered world is somehow in chaos.  You walk into the bathroom and she's in the process of unrolling a jumbo pack of toilet paper, a beautiful blond haired blue-eyed princess in the midst of a snowy fall of paper, laughing like she is the most clever thing in the world.  You can't help but be proud of her ingenuity in maneuvering through a baby gate and a safety latched bathroom cupboard; she's obviously a genius.  You put the cleaning products on high shelves as you grin with maternal pride.

Then she's walking around, playing dress-up in your clothes and high heels, bossing her dolls around when they don't want to do things her way.  "Do it myself!" becomes the phrase of the day, in every area of her life.  Bathing, making her bed, "tying" her shoes, brushing her teeth; she is an independent spirit, one who knows her own mind.  No one has ever told her she shouldn't be confident in her ability to take care of herself, so she does it without thinking.

Then comes school and the playground politics that come with it.  You watch her making friends as a kindergartner and the days of play dates and slumber parties has started.  Soon you're cheering her on as she tests for the next belt in Tae Kwon Doe or as she makes the game winning free-throw on the basketball court.  You laugh at her playing an outrageous character in a school play with all the flair and drama of Mae West and Bette Midler's love child; you burst with pride as she sings the National Anthem and any number of solos in the school choir.

You cry as she goes through her first heartbreaks; love is something she can't control and it kills her!  And it kills you to see her learning all of her lessons about love the hard way, as she gives her heart too freely to boys who don't deserve it.  But you've raised her well and taught her to respect herself and to be strong and make the right decisions; you know she's not going to throw herself away on someone that isn't worthy of her.  And she doesn't.

She goes to college, gets her first apartment, works a part-time job and is basically the wonder woman you always knew she would be.  And though your heart hurts when you walk past her empty bedroom and sometimes you look at her baby pictures for hours on end, you are so proud of the young woman she has become, the young woman you always knew she would become.  And soon she is bringing home a young man; one who treats her like a queen but isn't too intimidated to challenge her.  One who is as scarily smart as she is, who speaks to her as an equal and a contemporary.  One who you know, even the first time you see them together, will be her partner in life.  And though it's lovely planning a wedding, you are sad too because you know in a sense she will never be "all yours" ever again.

Soon, these two are making a life for themselves together.  You don't always agree with the direction they choose to go in, but you are so proud that they are making good choices for themselves.  You become a grandparent, something you never dreamed you wanted to be until you were one.  And you watch her, looking down at his little face with all that beautiful awe and wonder and you realize at that moment that you've never stopped looking at her the same way.

Spiders & Sand: That's What My Little Boy is Made Of

 This is an essay I wrote about my precious boy William that was recently published in my local newspaper and will soon be published in Columbus Parents Magazine, December 6, 2012 issue.  Hope you enjoy! :)

Okay, it seems like a no-brainer to say that boys and girls are different. But aside from the obvious naughty bits business, the differences between the male and female of the species are staggering. Now, I have three children; my firstborn Ellie, my middle child and only son William, and my youngest, Allison, whom we call ‘Big Al’ because she’s so tiny. The girls are interesting. Ellie is a married college student now with a new baby, my first grandson whom I call Benjamin Alexander the Great. Allison is a sixth grader, a cheerleader, straight A student and all around goody two shoes, but with a streak of evil in her a mile wide, especially when it comes to tormenting her brother. And then there’s my boy, William.

Poor Will. He’s the rose between the two thorns that are his sisters, and believe me; they love to harass him to no end. But it’s hard sometimes to feel sorry for him because frankly, boys are weird. Now, don’t get me wrong. I love my boy just as much as I love my girls. He is funny, smart, a handsome young man of thirteen. But from day one, he was just a strange kid, and the more I’m around boys, the more I realize they are all the same.

When my girls were little, they rarely if ever put anything in their mouths that didn’t belong there. Will’s first solid food was a spider he found crawling along the baseboard of the living room floor. We lived near the beach in California when he was a baby, and for days after an afternoon on the shore I’d be changing sand-filled diapers. Cigarette butts buried in the sand went right into his mouth. Cat food had to be put up on a high surface or the cat would have starved to death.  In fact, after catching him eating a crayon one day I began to worry that he had that weird disease that causes people to crave dirt, detergent, paint chips and plaster.

And it’s not just the weird “I’ll eat anything” syndrome. He and his friends speak a language that I don’t get. At all. In fact, this is a standard thirteen-year-old boy conversation:

“Dude!”

“Dude!”

“Duuuuude!”

“Duuuuude!”

“Oh, duuuuude!”

See? Nonsensical perhaps, yet they completely understand every subtle nuance of this conversation. And this weird conversational style extends to our family as well. Every day, I’d ask my girls how school was, and I’d receive a litany of complaints about Bethany doing something heinous to Brittany while Morgan was stabbing Ashton in the back and Megan complained about it to Stephanie and now everyone was mad at Emily! When I ask Will about his day, it goes a little something like this:

Me: “So, how was your day buddy?”

Him: “Mmm.”

Me: “Anything exciting happen?”

Him: “Mmm.”

Me: “We’re having your favorite: spiders and sand for dinner tonight!”

Him: “Mmm.”

But I go to school conferences and the teachers all say the same thing:

Teacher: “Oh, Mrs. Yoder, Will is such a pleasure to have in class! He’s an outspoken classroom leader, full of creativity and thought. He just exudes personality! But I’m sure you know all this already.”

Me: “Mmm.”

So mothering a son is definitely not as easy as I’d thought. Yet for all his quirks and boy weirdness, there is something about little boys (because let’s face it, no matter how big they get, they’re always our little boys, right?) He and I can sit and play cards for hours and just smile at each other and not talk much and I know he’s enjoying our time together. Even though hugs and kisses are becoming fewer and farther between, every once in a while he will come up to me and lay his head on my shoulder, very briefly, and I’ll smell that boy-smell that is outdoorsy and sporty and puppy-doggy and my heart just about melts. And even though his voice is deeper now and on the rare occasion I get a kiss on the cheek I can feel a little wisp on fine baby mustache, he will always be the little boy who used to sing along with me to “Foxy Lady” by Jimi Hendrix, pronouncing it FOKFEE. He will be the boy who pulled the neighbors flowers out of the ground to present me with a bouquet when he was 4. He’s the boy who cried and let only me hold him when he fell off the bed and busted his head open, requiring 10 stitches and ice cream sandwiches daily for a week.

And no matter how much he grows or what he accomplishes in his life, he will always be my sweet baby boy. But I swear he still has spider breath sometimes.

Does Reading Help your Writing?

I have always been a voracious reader.  Ever since I was a little girl I devour books as quickly as I get them.  My heart flutters when I step in the doors of a library, bookstore or even just the book section of Wal-Mart or Target.  And this love of books has, I think, made me a better writer.

I've read some great books lately, a couple of which I want to talk about here.  The first is a book about freelance writing by my personal freelance hero, Kelly James-Enger, called Writer for Hire: 101 Secrets to Freelance Success.  This book has really changed the way I view my career as a writer.  I learned so much about marketing myself as a writer, using social media to advertise my services and my blogs and just the basic tools I need to succeed at my chosen profession.  If you are considering freelancing as a career, or if you are an established freelancer who just wants to sharpen up your skills or move to the next level of your career, this great book is a must read.

The second book has nothing whatsoever to do with writing but has merit in a different way.  Destroy All Monsters and Other Stories is an amazing book of short stories by Greg Hrbek.  This book really examines the range of human emotions in a beautiful and moving way.  From love, loss and death to renewal and second chances, I absolutely could not put this book down.  Once I'd read it, I immediately read it again and that is something I don't often do.  I laughed at some parts and really, truly wept at others.  It was an amazing experience reading this book and I highly recommend it to anyone who loves a good compilation novel.

But the question remains, does reading help us as writers?  I believe the answer to that is a resounding yes!  Reading brings new worlds right into our homes; it expands our horizons in ways too numerous to count.  Some books really make you think, require you to question your own ethics and morals and most of all, entertain you.  Books give me ideas for my own writing; not plagiarism, mind you, but creative license to take an idea or a concept and run with it in a different direction.  The best of books stay with us forever; I used to lie in bed on cold, snowy nights as a child and pretend I was Laura Ingalls Wilder in The Long Winter.  I cried and despaired right alongside Holden Caufield in Catcher in the Rye.  To Kill A Mockingbird made me question some deeply held beliefs about right and wrong, black and white, and for that I will always be grateful.

I think reading is the best thing that a writer can do with their spare time.  We have chosen to earn a living using words and communication.  Keeping those skills sharp is vital to our survival; reading is the whetstone upon which to sharpen those skills.  So go on, read a book today.  Lose yourself.  You'll never be sorry.

Juggling: Not Just for Clowns Anymore!

If I had wanted to be a juggler, I'd have joined the circus.  Yet here I am, trying to find the best way (read: easiest and most painless) to juggle my two young teens, a military spouse, a dog, two cats, two hermit crabs, and a writing career on top of that.  Oh, and I'm also a new grandma of six-month-old Ben, thanks to oldest daughter Ellie and son-in-law Nick!

Sometimes I feel like I've got so many balls in the air at the same time that I'm just going to drop my arms and let them all crash to the ground.  But on the other hand we women are pretty amazing.  Just when we think we have nothing left in our energy reserves we begin to catch a second wind and before you know it, the juggling act looks flawless yet again.

I think the hardest part that I'm going through is trying to get my writing business, WildWordz, off the ground.  I've been working on my website, I've got a Facebook page and a Twitter feed and I'm trying like hell to figure out Google+ (harder than I'd expected!)  I'm sending queries to editors, volunteering my services to local non-profits to build up the business writing side of my portfolio; basically I'm juggling like a mofo, and it seems to no avail.

I have been working some side jobs on Elance and oDesk but they are low paying gigs and I can't truly contribute to the support of my family on what I'm making on these content mill sites.  It's just been difficult trying to keep my spirits up while maintaining balance.  Thank God for a supportive family!  They are really behind me all the way in this quest, and for that I truly feel blessed.

Anyway, that's it for now.  Just needed to rest my arms a bit before I start up again.  More tomorrow and happy reading! :)