Ask any neighborhood kid and they will tell you that I am the first house they stop at when they are looking for buyers for their latest school or sport fundraiser. I always do my best to purchase at least one item per school/group. But lately, it seems that I'm spending way too much on fundraisers.

My children are only 4 and 6 so I thought for sure that I had many years before I would be out trying to convince my neighbors to buy cookie dough or the latest in wrapping paper. But in the past few weeks, I've been proven wrong!

Let's see what I'm selling (be sure to give me a call if you would like to purchase any items!)

1. Raffle Tickets for SYSL, I have a two booklets because both my kids are playing soccer. So, if I purchase the "best" deal per book then I will spend $15 each for a grand total of $30.

2. Raffle Tickets for the Elks Club - that's another $20.

3. Raffle Tickets for SPP's Fall Festival - 10 tickets for $10 (Are you seeing a theme)

4. Cheese Cake for Gymnastics (Last month they sold Champion Discount Cards). That will cost about $15 if I purchase one cake.

5. Cookie Dough and Cheese Cake for Libby's preschool. There's another $24 for 2 containers.

6. Current Gift Wrap Catalog for Southern Pines Primary to help pay for field trips since funding was cut this year. I'm hoping the school bond takes care of that problem. That's at least $8.00 for the minimum purchase.

7. The Scholastic Book Fair for Southern Pines Primary to help the library raise money (The have to sell $3000 to get 30% - a whole whopping $300!) I spent $30 - a book for each child and a gift certificate for the teacher.

8. And let's not forget SPP's Monthly Fundraiser Night at Moe's (which I enjoy and am a huge supporter of because I don't have to sell anything). But that usually cost about $12 if my husband's gone and $18 if he's home. The school get's 15% of the evening's sales. We've been average about $140/month. Not bad for showing up to dinner and hanging out with friends.

9. And of course, the QSP Magazine Sales are just around the corner. However, I boycott those after they did the big song and dance in front of all the kids at school about all the cool things they could win if they sold magazines. This sent my 6 year old into a frenzy and she wanted us to go knocking on everyone's door.

So, if I participate in everything at the minimal level I will spend $149 for fundraisers this month alone. Which is not something I budget for. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge supporter of helping groups and the school offset costs. But of the $149 I contribute to these fundraisers, less than half will actually get to the groups. That's my frustration with the whole process.

I know that some people don't mind selling stuff. But for me, it is difficult because we don't have tons of family in the area and most of my friends are trying to peddle the same goodies I am. So, I usually end up pulling out the checkbook and paying for it myself.

Personally, I would rather participate in a donation drive, write the check and get the nice letter with the organization's Tax ID # acknowledging my donation and be done with it. They get my money and I get a tax write off. Plus, it cost me less in the end.

 

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It seemed like deja vu. The long day of looking at each other, small talk about the house, picking up the kids from school, a quiet dinner, homework and then bedtime. And then the last hug and kiss good-bye. It is a scene that is much too familiar to me and one that I repeated again last night.

Less than 24 hours ago, my husband tucked our children into bed while they cried and begged him to stay. My youngest daughter tried to convince him to bring her along not understanding why he had to leave again while my oldest child asked about the War and if someone would be trying to kill him between sobs. I did my best to console my children by telling them that everything was going to be okay. And for my husband, I tried to assure him that we would be fine and that his daughters make it through another deployment. It broke my heart to see the pain in his eyes as he said good-bye one last time before he shut the door and drove away. I spent the rest of the evening holding my daughters while they cried themselves to sleep. And when they had finally dozed off, I cried.

I've said good-bye to my husband too many times in the past few years. Regardless of how much I prepare myself for the moment and tell myself that he'll be home before I know it, it never seems to be enough to stop the pain and grief that accompanies each deployment. And while I know that I am fortunate that he won't be gone for a year, that doesn't make saying good-bye any easier because war doesn't know a timeline. Whether my husband is gone three months or fifteen, he is still in harms way.

For me, the pain comes from knowing that each time he walks out that door headed back to Iraq it might be the last time I ever see him again and that is almost unbearable to think about. It is a reality that I live with and pray I will never experience. So as I wait for my phone call letting me know he has arrived safely on the other side of the world, I will pull myself together and moved forward with my life as I wait for him to come home one more time.  

 

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I sense something new in the air, and to quote a dead rock star, "it smells like teen spirit."

Lately I have been surprisingly inspired by football - a sport I am not particularly fond of and generally avoid. Other than occasional Super Bowl parties with their lure of snacks, suds, and those million dollar commercials, I'll go years at a time having not watched a single game.

Sporting events on an average day mean one thing to me: time to take a nap. Hmm, since we're discussing football, perhaps I should rephrase that and say "time to take a down."

This year is different.

I was thrilled when Appalachian State capped their fifteen-game winning streak with their Cinderella story upset at Michigan. And no, I didn't actually watch any of their games. But I did read all about it.

Here in the Douglass encampment I have been following any and all news of Brian Leonard: the youthful running back for the St. Louis Rams. Leonard hails from the same thriving upstate New York metropolis, Gouverneur, population 7,000 [not including cows], that my darling hubby calls home.

Along with the denizens of this tiny slice of American dairy land, we have cheered Leonard's every success: in high school, college, and now the NFL. My in-laws, like other Gouverneur families, are planning their Fall vacation around the Rams season schedule: this after four years of vacationing to New Jersey for Rutgers University games.

And now each and every day, it seems, I hear another good thing about Moore County's own new superhero - Chris Metzger.

In just a few short months, Coach Metzger revived the flagging football program at Pinecrest High School from a team whose very existence was on the budget chopping block, just a year ago, to a reckoning force of strength and talent.

Equally impressive is how Metzger stretches that energy well beyond the visible varsity squad, illustrated beautifully when he included over 300 students in a recent junior varsity pre-game event. The undefeated JV team emerged onto the gridiron to join with over 150 middle school-aged and freshman football players. Also on the field were the school's marching band, color guard, and cheerleaders. Even for a disinterested non-fan, like me, football is starting to shine.

I will go out on a limb and suggest that my disdain for all things pigskin is securely underpinned by my complete and utter ignorance of the rules and strategies of the sport. I ask you, what woman - other than Condoleezza Rice - really does get it?

A childhood spent living abroad and attending eight schools in twelve years, a modest statistic among military brats, surely stunted my interest in team sports and certainly did not allow time to develop school spirit. That said, I always coveted the sense of ownership and excitement felt by locals when their team or athlete does well.

Having kept residence in the Sandhills now for over five years - a new lifetime record - I find myself, for perhaps the very first time, sharing in that hometown pride. So today, here and now, I vow to uphold the timeless American tradition of cheering on my very own local high school football team. Go Patriots!

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times where this column originally appeared.

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I am looking for a part time or full time day care center to enroll my 2 1/2 year old son and eventually my 10 month old daughter.  Which ones are the best in and/or around the Aberdeen/Southern Pines area?  Also, what resources are there for someone looking for full-time employment in the marketing field?  I have just graduated with my B.S. in Business (major marketing) and am not having any luck with a job in the area.  Any ideas? 

I don't usually forward jokes or videos, but every now and then something that is just too funny to pass up comes along. And this is one of them!

Thanks to one of our SandhillsKids members for sharing this with us! It definitely sums up my days as a mom!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_oc1j5NakY

 So, what did you think!

 

I have a confession to make: despite coming of age during a rather enlightened and liberated period in human history, I have allowed many traditional gender roles to creep into my life. You know, he earns the bacon and I fry it up in the pan, that sort of thing. However, it's not the frying pan that I'm afraid of - it's the gas grill.

Yes, that hulking chunk of stainless steel with its menacing propane tank, various dials, extra burners, and spider web-laced rain cover is what strikes fear in my heart. There is something quite sinister and flammable about the whole affair.

I'm not sure when this grill-phobia began; I expect early in life with repeated harsh admonishments at cook-outs to give the hot coals a wide berth. Perhaps it stems from watching male relatives saturate stacked charcoal briquettes with enough lighter fluid to send flames shooting skyward like fireworks, blackening the leafy canopy of less fortunately positioned trees. Or maybe it's because despite the many safety features installed on our own silver monster, my dear husband still managed to singe our son's eyebrows off one day as our erstwhile tot stood to close while Daddy used the self-ignite button.

No doubt about it, grilling falls within the masculine sphere of household chores. On many a fine summer day, we ladies watch in wonder and alarm as members of the Y-chromosome persuasion take to the deck or patio to incinerate the family meal: the meaty portion anyway.

My husband exudes confidence no matter the challenge; fish, chicken, or steak. Of course, his self-empowerment is fortified by cracking open a bottle of frosty courage and only then  daring to scrape the charred remains off the grate - evidence of past culinary crimes.

I expect I am not the only member of the smarter, oops, I meant softer sex who finds one pressing reason or another to cower behind the fridge door while hubby fires up the coals, or, worse, flips open the fuel tank. My throat tightens when I hear that ‘tick, tick, tick' sound as gas floods the belly of the beast. I know that it will be soon followed by the terrifying ‘Whump!' of combustion.

Once I'm reasonably sure that the yard and /or the children have not been set ablaze, only then do I emerge from the kitchen bearing a platter piled high with some variety of raw carnivorous delight. As if enacting an idyllic scene conjured by Rockwell, I lovingly hand over the plate and thus the task of preparing dinner.

Perhaps, to appeal to modern sensibilities it would be better to frame this transition of nutritional servitude to the context of television, say CSI. Only this program's acronym would stand for Cuisine Sparks Indigestion - Special Vittles Unit.

Tune in on Sunday's, we're on at five o'clock sharp.

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times, where this column originally appeared.

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On occasion, I'll leave my comfort zone of home, hearth, and keyboard for a little culture. Last Friday was just such an evening, as I ventured into town for dinner and to see Angelina Jolie's much-anticipated, or at least mass media-saturated movie, A Mighty Heart.

Trying to avoid the crushing Women's Open dinner crowd, my friend and I opted for burritos. We picked a rather rowdy bunch -- the servers not the burritos -- as the staff insisted on hollering greetings to every person entering said establishment. After gorging on a traditional fare of rice, beans, and cerveza, we headed over to the theater.

While Jolie may be the film's name of marquee consequence, indeed, the real star is the city of Karachi, Pakistan. From the opening sequence showing this vibrant, writhing sea of people and vehicles, each city scene was overwhelming in its chaos. At times, it reminded me of the streets of my former domicile, Washington, D.C. on a Fourth of July holiday. Dupont Circle in particular was always a steaming cauldron of taxis, pedestrians, road rage, and poor municipal planning.

Of course, Karachi notwithstanding, this is a serious film dealing with tragic circumstances involving the lives of two outstanding journalists.

Daniel Pearl worked for the Wall Street Journal: his wife, Mariane for French radio. I, on the other hand, serve here in the mostly peaceful - read, it's not election season - Sandhills.

My kids seem proud, however, of my modest literary achievements. Last week, they were delighted to discover that they could flatten Silly Putty over my column photograph and reproduce my sunny visage. Once my head had been suitably stretched to absurd proportions, they would giddily squash me and start anew.

For some reason, I don't think I'll include this on my resume: though it does lend some credence to the newspaper cliché of being an ink-stained wretch.

Now to be frank, though I consume plenty of print material, my sphere of influence does not usually include Wall Street's elite reporters' take on world-view topics. Worse, the preferred national news source in my home is The Daily Show, which tells you a lot about my satirical bias and distrust of the government machine - a side effect from living too close to the epicenter. I think it's probably like sitting in the sunshine: seems innocent enough at first but before you know it you're scorched.

I think I'll send Jolie a letter suggesting that her next foreign adoption should be from that most alien place, the District of Columbia. Maybe she'll write back and advise me how I can convince my kids that the hours Mommy spends sitting in front of the computer, wearing her pajamas, is actually work. I'll return the favor and send her offspring some Silly Putty.

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times, where this column originally appeared.

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Did you feel it? The earth shook this week!

Well, at least at my house it wobbled perceptibly on its axis as two incredible events that have never occurred came to pass. It didn't rain on my birthday and, are you ready for it? My mother forgot!

That is like violating one of those immutable laws of physics - a mother must remember her child's birthday.

I mean how could she forget? Whether it is one year or four decades since the momentous event, it's not as if her memory of labor and delivery would dim. Truly, ask any mother and without hesitation she will recite day, hour, attire, lighting...literally a moment-by-moment playback of the whole sordid affair.

I figure public humiliation in the free press is reasonable restitution for my mother's crime against nurture.

As for Mother Nature's lack of appreciation for my big day, I am utterly disappointed.

As a child, I hated the guarantee that a late July afternoon squall would sabotage my annual soiree.

When we moved to the Middle East, my parents tried to sell me on the idea by promising a desert-dry cake and candles day. Yes, you know what I'm going to say - it still rained. And no, watching our Iranian neighbors celebrate this unexpected life-giving blessing did not make me feel any better.

Last week, as an only slightly more mature birthday girl, I was finally looking forward to the obligatory glisten of precipitation that would fall upon my drought-parched garden and trees.

I think in sports, you'd say my week was 0 for 2.

Redemption was found on Friday when a lovely friend's regrettable loss of a job prompted an occasion to ditch kitchen and kid duty for an evening on the town to commiserate.

Braving the dinner crowd, we were finally seated at our restaurant of choice. A rather charming, not to mention good looking, server took our beverage requests - margaritas all around, of course. After repeating our order back to insure accuracy, he dropped the bomb: he wanted to see our ID's.

Since the statue of limitations surely must have expired, I'll be honest and tell you that I have fake ID's older than our young hero.

That said, he dutifully looked over each license and to his credit did not laugh at us: at least out loud.

My life is difficult enough trying to remain even slightly hip these days. My wardrobe selections hinge primarily on any given item's ability to hide juice stains. I drive a minivan encrusted with playground sand and cereal crumbs. And my children want to know what the dinosaurs were really like.

The threat that a college-aged cutie would address me as Ma'am would have been the last straw.

No wait, that's not my last straw. I have a ready stocked boxful in the van: we mom's have to be prepared for any and all juice-related emergencies.

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times, where this column originally appeared.

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The pencils were sharpened and packed securely. Breakfast was a hurried affair. Then off they went: my oldest and my youngest. Their excited smiles and cheerful hearts burdened only by cumbersome backpacks filled with delicious lunchtime promises.

Yes, the school year has begun anew again. And I, as always, am rejuvenated as Summer wanes.

Whether as student, parent, or bystander, in my heart, the New Year does not begin in January. The countdown to midnight, the song for forgotten friends, and the dropping of lit apples do not herald for me anything other than a great excuse to have fun.

My homage to the passage of time rings in harmony with the first chime of the schoolyard bell.

Each August, I find joy perusing the brightly colored stacks of school supplies that sprout up in the stores. Like seeds in a freshly planted field, the rows of lined paper pads, pens, and highlighter markers speak of patience: waiting to yield their harvest in creativity, not fruit.

Not one to be swayed by seasonal marketing, I cringe aghast at the premature display of Valentine's candy the first week in January and the springtime sandals and swimsuits in chilly December. Surely the worst offense is found each Autumn, when the fake firs of Christmas share aisle space with clearance sales of leftover sand pails and beach towels.

However, back-to-school shopping is a retail ritual that I do enjoy. I see inspiration and boundless potential in those unblemished pages of paper - each sheet, a perfect representation of the proverbial clean slate.

At no point ever again within a lifetime will one's slate be as clean as the one upon which we write our first day of school memories. Every turn and class is another beginning; a new teacher, a new book, a new friend, a new experience.

I find, as an adult, were it not for the natural rhythm of the school calendar, my year would simply dissolve from one into the next. As for new experiences, these days this would include benign forays into cookbooks looking for something extra zesty, or taking a different street home while out walking.

On occasion I will find myself blessed by a truly novel experience, however, nothing compares to a first day at a new school. And as a military brat, I endured more than a fair share of those.

As children, we are under a near constant assault of new ideas and experiences and possess a unique perspective of time. I suppose when a few short months represent such a tremendous portion of a young life, it is not profound to view each year as an enormous epoch. Juvenile years then being even further broken down into eras, halves and quarters, especially when it comes to declaring an exact chronological age.

My daughter is not five, I assure you. Indeed she is five and a half years old. A very important distinction within the Kindergarten set.

And so it was as my no longer five, but not yet six-year old, princess stood proudly on her first day of school this week. With notebook and pencil at the ready and lunch sack stowed neatly in a cubby, she grasped her new teacher with one hand - and waved goodbye to me with the other.

As if it were midnight on a late December eve, when we gather those we love in an embrace, I gave her a hug and a kiss, and thought, "Happy New Year, honey."

Laura Douglass writes for the Seven Lakes Times, where this column originally appeared.

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Community Bible Study is off and running...we just finished our 3rd week and I am having a ball!  I am the Children's Director for CBS and am so excited about the growth of our ministry.  Last year we had 8 regular children and this year 23!!!!   If your child is in CBS I no doubt play & speak with and/or hug on them each Tuesday.  This time is the hightlight of my week!  When I first took on this position I doubted that I could volunteer to take care of other peoples children each week when at the time I wanted mine to be with someone else :)  Oh how I underestimated what the Lord would do to equip me!
  Each Monday morning I do my own Bible study with CBS and then on Tuesday mornings I perform my Children's Director duties which include quite a bit of paperwork and administrative duties but also a lot of helping out my 2 teachers.  One of the things I enjoy most is taking care of dishing out and receiving hugs :)   Getting hugs from these children boosts my energy enough to last the day and makes me look forward to the next week.  I LOVE MY JOB!

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