"Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la...." Oops, right sentiment - wrong month. Maybe I'll look instead to Alice Cooper for inspiration and belt out, "School's out for Summer, school's out forever!" - though maybe you'll agree that the correct celebratory tune is probably "99 bottles of beer."

Yes indeed Summer is here and school bells atop scores of fine institutions of higher learning will soon rest quiet while our roads, parks, and waters buzz with the excited sound of freedom. A freedom defined by that ever-so brief time when we enjoy an unbridled, innocent sense that the world is our oyster...the last days of school.

After taking the scenic route through my twenties - an adventuresome journey withlots of turns, twists, and Twinkies - I went from the surreal life to real life in my thirties, and now sit on the threshold of the big 4-0. Perhaps it's because Darling Hubby and I stretched that youthful glow out to ridiculous lengths, like a dwindling string of Silly Putty, that we now take such joy in reliving all the pleasures of childhood with our brood: especially the school countdown.

Not that those hardworking teachers weren't feeding that frenzy each day by X'ing off days on the calendar. Every afternoon, my tots would scurry off the bus announcing that magic number....eleven days left, ten days left!

Like an eminent shuttle launch, I could see the white cloud of smoke curling up around their ankles. By the final day, the fevered pitch of excitement was a volcanic spew.

For my money, being an adult just can't compare. Sure I look forward to vacations - but that enthusiasm is equally tempered with the knowledge that the week will inevitably end in an avalanche of dirty laundry, spent energy, depleted funds, and great piles of unopened mail. In fact on a day-to-day basis, it seems the only tangible benefit to adulthood is eating potato chips for lunch, at least when no one is watching.

All those other adult perks come with baggage. You get to set your own bedtime, but work and bosses determine when the blasted, ‘stop-that-ringing-noise' alarm goes off. You get to pick your spouse, hopefully, but your mother - his mother - the travel agent - and the caterer all seem to get the final word on wedding plans. You get to pick what vehicle to drive, sort of.

Let's see, I need a car that seats at least half a baseball team, is easy to load, and can tow a camper a few weekends out of the year.

"I know what you are looking for, ma'am. You want the minivan, right?"

Wrong! No, dear car dealer, I want the zippy little two-seater, in red, with the convertible top and...hhmph,

"Okay the van. Does it come in red?"

Alas, at least my Mother Earth-size cruiser came with a moon roof and a reasonably hip sound system so I can blast my past: "Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do, but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues."

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

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   In the end, it was a strawberry and I was quite surprised. For weeks there had been much wobbling, wiggling, and tugging, to no avail. That first little lost tooth was not to be yanked or hurried it seemed, much like its owner, Lindsay.

   Now I assure you reality television has nothing on the drama of raising a six-year old girl. Unlike my courageous son who lost his first tooth to a karate sparring match, my tiny princess of pink spilled many tears over the horrible pain of her "looth tooth." Luckily, that sweet strawberry finally saved the day.

   Per tradition, the tooth fairy was summoned that evening and produced something quite grand...girl money. Yup, a good old Susan B. Anthony dollar for my pink-wearing, tutu loving, Barbie lunchbox- carrying, Ugh - I'm going to make her a feminist if it kills me - daughter.

   For a chick who spends three mornings a week beating the stuffing out of punching bags and passionately enjoys throwing back a well-crafted brew, I know that someone up there must have had a great sense of humor when they sent me down this little angel to raise.

  We're like a cartoon team, Tough and Fluff.

   With seventeen months more experience at life and that wily creature, the Y-chromosome, on board, my son has also proved to be a mothering challenge. A much more jaded seven and half year old, recently when he lost another incisor Jack wanted to know if the tooth fairy would bring him $100.

   In my most understanding Mommy-tone I explained how that was a lot of money and the tooth fairy couldn't possibly lift it.

   "She could if it were a $100 bill," suggested my way-too-clever boy.

   Drat, foiled again. I think I liked Jack better last year when he got his first gift from the tooth fairy, a gold dollar. When he took that shiny treasure to Kindergarten for Show and Tell, a classmate exclaimed, "Now that is tooth fairy money!"

   Unfortunately, Darling Hubby and I expect to be on the tooth fairy's destination list for at least three or four more years. So far we've drained our coin cups of gold and silver dollars plus a few stray Loonies and Twonies from our frozen neighbor, the Great White North.

   At some point we may have to abandon our thrifty fairy route in favor of the more hip Hilton-esque model. I've heard the tooth fairy is known to toss around ten dollar bills these days. Yikes, and I thought my gas bill was outrageous!

   Thank goodness that economic stimulus check is in the mail - or is it? Maybe I'll just check under my pillow tomorrow morning. Come on, somewhere flying around there must be a tax fairy too, right?

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

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  A blur of fur and fury is all that I saw and I couldn't help but wonder, "Can dogs be bipolar?"

Not that I am in the habit of making light of serious medical conditions, but bipolar is characterized not as a single disorder but an entire category of mood disorders. Anyone who has ever been owned by a cat could tell you that this is the very definition of a feline.

However, I had always thought of loyal Fido as being slightly more stable. That is until last month.

Succumbing to the mind-numbing pressure of parental guilt, I opened my house and heart to the sweetest set of brown eyes you ever saw. Two-years old and of mostly Labrador retriever heritage, Biscuit spends the majority of her day camouflaged as a speed bump. Her pale fur blends nicely with ourcarpet - a real plus for the maid. Yes, that means Mom.

Now there were no big surprises as our new pup negotiated territory and her place in the pecking order against the stone-cold killer cat that also shares our domicile. A quick study, Biscuit is wary of those well-armed swipes of pure evil.

In true testament to her manic species, Milkshake can purr contentedly, bat her bedroom eyes, and draw blood - all at the same time. Worse, like a spider, she'll draw in unsuspecting victims with a simpering little meow and friendly cocked head...right before pouncing.

I've considered posting one of those signs at my door that reads, "Warning Attack Cat on Premises."

It's probably no wonder that I prefer to play with my daughter's Webkinz kitten. Fast becoming my number one guilty pleasure, these fuzzy stuffed toys are your ticket inside a magical world of internet games, chat rooms, and dress-ups. An award-winning computer program for children, I must confess its appeal works on big kids too.

My princess has amassed a collection of four pets; my son lags behind with only three. Each child has built their own cyberspace house, furnished with toys, appliances, clothing, food, even windows and gardens - all selected and purchased with points acquired by playing on-line games. I remind myself that my little darlings are learning valuable skills like budgeting, math, and reading. But of course, as a fellow addict - I know it's all about having fun.

If only bathing, feeding, and exercising my real pets were so easy. And don't even get me started on vet visits!

Luckily Biscuit arrived with a clean bill of health, though her behavior of late has left me thumbing the yellow pages for a doggy shrink.

An absolute angel while houseguests are seated, Biscuit's latent herding instinct kicks in as soon as anyone walks or stands. Forgetting all her good hostess manners, she'll growl, pace, and even on occasion nip at the offending ‘wolf.'

Though after years of sustained chronic fear of our predatory cat, most of my guests are fairly nonplussed to find I've also adopted a bipolar dog.

Maybe I should rethink that entrance warning sign, remove my Welcome wreath, and look to Dante for inspiration: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

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

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 "Is that a Christmas card?" asked my five year old with great anticipation as it is her job to set out for display all such incoming holiday greetings. Amusingly enough, the card in question was not from family or friend, but was instead an advertisement from a global lingerie distributor - one with very few secrets from what I can tell. Darling hubby had thoughtfully placed the card in question in a position of prominence on our kitchen counter so I wouldn't inadvertently overlook the enclosed coupon. Enough said.

 

Trying to maintain some measure of dignity, I informed my impressionable daughter that no, this was not a card that needed to be displayed in our living room. But, as usual, my undernourished proper side was overwhelmed by my all-too-healthy wicked side and I couldn't resist asking if she thought we should send out a similar card.

"Oh no, Mommy, you can't do that! She's showing her belly button," protested my wise little angel.

Ah, the blessing of celebrating another December in the company of such innocence. There is simply no substitute for kids when sharing the joys of tree-trimming, present wrapping, or better yet unwrapping, and all the other little pieces and parts that makes each Christmas season so special.

I should come clean and admit that as a single adult I would hang a tree-shaped piece of green construction paper and call it good. What a Grinch! Of course, I blamed my meddlesome housecats as my handy excuse. They spent plenty of quality playtime suspended from the curtains, I saw no need to add another climbing structure to the room: especially one with tinsel, lights and other alluring feline delicacies.

One year my decorating resolve weakened and I was rewarded for my effort with months of vacuuming pine needles out of the shag rug and one whopper of a vet bill. Yup, you guessed it. The world's stupidest cat - truly no exaggeration - stripped the tree of a silken thread-wrapped ball, enjoyed her own private holiday feast, and was promptly rushed to the hospital for major abdominal surgery.

Alas, now that I have more kids than cats in my house, I was forced to embrace all manner of yuletide cheer and can honestly say that I am no longer the Scrooge of my youth.

Just recently, I was utterly charmed when my son announced that he had "this whole Santa Claus thing all figured out." In perfectly reasonable seven-year old logic he opined that Santa knew if you'd been bad or good because God passed along that information. He came to this conclusion, he said, by reciting for me the opening prayer read each week at our church, which states "Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid..."

Surely no sticks and coal would ever be placed in the stocking of a child so precious. Nope, this year it's more like a heap of Legos for him and oodles of glitter pens and fancy paper for my daughter.

Now if I could just find that phone number for my, um, friend, Victoria: I could finish my shopping!

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

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"Whoever said you can't take it with you has never packed their car for vacation!"

Isn't that a great quote? Certainly prophetic of my own impending woes as I, once again, get ready to load down the family jalopy - this time around to see The Mouse.

While we aren't scheduled to leave until Saturday, I'll start packing suitcases on Tuesday: and that's just the clothes. I still have to stockpile the snack hoard and cooler cache, videos for the portable DVD player, extra film, batteries, and medicines. Oh, and don't forget spare pillows and towels, first aid kit, each kid's favorite blanket and toy...the list nears endless.

Why is it that I go into survivalist mode whenever we have to leave the house for more than twelve hours?

It's not like we're fleeing a hurricane and have to pack up our most precious belongings for a trip of indeterminate length. I mean really, I'm leaving the comfort of home for the comfort of a Disney hotel room: not exactly roughing it!

Though I guess in everything, one can always look back on this trip or that one when a little better planning could've saved the day.

Darling hubby and I had our own Donner Party-vacation moment during our honeymoon. While planning this romantic odyssey, for some reason, the province of Nova Scotia looked deceivingly compact, and populated, on the map.

Our arrival in Halifax, a wonderfully clean and modern city, was inauspicious enough but then we turned north. Once past the municipal limits, we crossed into no-man's land. I say ‘no man's' because that's what we saw; no man, no woman, no child, no gas, no grocery store, no restaurant.

When you read in a cultural tour guide that an area's population was greatly reduced after the fishing industry bust, trust me, take their word for it.

Our first night in the Great White North was spent in a race of time between locating the quiet, little lakefront cabin we had booked and finding something to eat other than leaves and twigs.

You see unlike our usual overstuffed car excursions, this trip we flew. Rules on luggage size and weight seem to have a profound limiting effect on one's typical packing habits.

So on that October eve, we drove for hours ever nearing our cabin destination with a few darkened houses for company but no real sign of civilization, meaning no food! It didn't help that we missed the end of the traditional tourist season by a month or two.

Behold, a light beckoned to us from out in the gloom. We couldn't believe our good fortune: a restaurant! And even more unbelievably, within a mile or - oops! kilometer or two of our nuptial bed.

Be thankful for small blessings. We surely were, as we had no choice but to become first name-friendly regulars at this establishment with the two or three other people touring Eastern Canada that week. The meals were delicious, but with no other dining option for a hundred kilometers in every direction, that hardly mattered.

The remainder of our honeymoon was fraught with other exciting adventures such as moose loitering in the road, desperately searching for Petrol and then trying to calculate liters versus gallon pricing, exploring the survival huts placed with alarming frequency along Nova Scotia's roads, and avoiding getting shot - who's bright idea was it to plan a hiking honeymoon during hunting season?

So this year as I set my sights on Florida, I hope those flying missiles sporting Canuck license plates charging down I-95 will forgive our sluggish, snack-laden, toy-burdened, jam-packed van as we too head out on vacation - this year in search of a mouse and not a moose!

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

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No one knows the art and finesse of planning birthday parties better than a mom. And in my generation's ever escalating quest to ensure our kids have a unique and special day, the process has become downright daunting.

If you think throwing a child's birthday includes blowing up a few balloons, lighting the candles, and sharing in song, well, let's just say you probably haven't spend much time lately in the Wal-Mart toy aisle either.  

Birthday parties have become competitive sport out here in Suburbia. And I, Douglass Family Team Captain, am surely headed for the play-offs in this race to nowhere.

I think it all started with my son's third birthday when a firefighter friend offered to bring the ‘real deal' right to our house. Nothingsays birthday like a massive fire engine terrifying the neighbors and crushing your landscaped driveway plantings.

As my children have reached each successive milestone, I have attempted to provide equally amazing thrills and chills. We've rescued stuffed animals from peril in the yard, blown up mountainous bouquets of pink balloons, and laid acres of train track throughout the house.

In my defense, I do eschew the glitzy store-bought cakes in favor of much simpler Mommy-made fare. Perhaps I feel compelled by the memory of my own mother's heroic effort to craft the fantasy castle cake featured on the cover of one of her massive cookbooks: I had begged for years. Truly, it was a work of art with chocolate bars for doors and a roofline turreted with mini-marshmallows.

This year - utterly swamped with life and laundry - my fabulous Mommy varnish was duly threatened as I was flat out stumped and the clock was ticking.

A moment of inspiration!

I was headed North, up yonder towards our county seat - getting ready to improve the view at a recent Board of Commissioners meeting - when I happened upon a most unusual storefront.

‘Wow,' I thought upon entering, ‘How little we chicks know about what you men-folks do during your off hours!'

I had discovered the underground world of outlaw slot-car racing. Eyeing up this hundred-foot long, eight-laned monster, the words couldn't tumble out of my mouth quick enough.

"Can I reserve THIS for a herd of seven year olds?"

To my surprise and enormous relief, the deal was sealed with only a fair hit to my purse. Hey, it's not as if hosting eight kids in my living room was going to be a picnic, right?

So once again I have kept my self-imposed birthday party ante. As my poker friends would say, "The pot is good."

I'm thinking come March, on the occasion of my daughter's next big day, I'll be forced to conjure something even more outstanding - like delivering fresh snow.

Good thing I've still got plenty of time to plan.

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

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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 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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