"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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It seems from the moment I got pregnant with our first child almost 8 years ago, I have officially given up a good night's sleep. From the constant shifting all night and 3 am heartburn that came with pregnancy to the 2 am feedings and diaper changes that came after birth, I dreamed of the day when I would finally be able to sleep again.

But for some reason, sleep has never returned. Since birth, our oldest daughter has woken up several times a week and is just now making it through the night (she's 7!). Then, like most parents, we decide to have baby number two (back in 2003) and although she has turned out to be a much better sleeper, we still have the occasional 4 am wake-up call because of a bad dream.

I thought that as my kids got older, things would be easier to manage and that I would finally get the well deserved rest I needed. But once again, I was wrong. It seems that as they get bigger so do all the things I have to do, from homework to laundry to extra-curricular activities. Now, I find that from the time my feet hit the floor at 6:30 am (Okay 6:45 because I hit the snooze), I'm running around like a mad woman until I crawl back in bed each night close to mid-night. So much for getting my recommended 8 hours of sleep! And unlike the good ole days of sleeping in on Saturdays, I'm waking up early to drag the four year old at of bed to make her 9 am Soccer Games!

And of course some of this I have brought on myself when I decided to venture into self-employment and co-manage SandhillsKids.com. Like most moms, the only time of day that isn't consumed with house, kids, sports, dogs, husband and chores, are the hours between 8:30 pm and midnight. Just like many of the users on SandhillsKid.com, that's when I jump on the superhighway and work. Anyone that has ever emailed the site has probably received a reply with a time stamp after 10 pm. 

What does this all mean? Should I quite working, stop letting the kids do sports or start taking naps in the morning instead of doing laundry (which I would love because I hate laundry). Nope, it just means that right now life is busy and sometimes, I need to stop, grab a good book and climb into bed by 8 pm! That's all.

And, hopefully, when both kids are in school all day starting in July, I will finally have time to work during the day and get back to sleep. But until then, Sleep is Overrated and Caffeine is the stimulus of choice! 

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When I visit other places, I don't really care about architecture or landmarks. I want to meet people. I yawned through the Louvre, but I had quite a thrill participating in a worker's rally in the middle of Paris. I'm not sure what we were protesting, but it was fun anyway. People are what make the place, at least for me.

That's why I love Moore County. We have some really cool people, and I want to introduce you to a few of them. None of these people have any idea that I'm writing about them, so please feel free to tell them I did. That would be fun to watch. In separate blogs, I will introduce one or two people at a time.

Charlie McWilliams

Charlie is one of my heroes. Born in the New Jersey/New York area, Charlie has known both privilege and poverty. We met through the Moore County Leadership Institute (MCLI) when he was a banker with First Bank. Charlie is one of those guys that you want to have around if you're ever in a burning building. He's not particularly assertive or physically imposing, but if he said, "Follow me," you would. He has such a quiet strength and calm demeanor. Both traits are polar opposites of myself, which is probably why I like him. Charlie has always been the guy I go to for business advice, not just because he's knowledgeable, but because he cares enough to tell the truth. I haven't always followed his advice, but I later wished I did. The great thing about Charlie, though, was he was there for me with a pat on the back, a kick in the rump and a story of one of his own failures. We all have failures. Some of us more than others. The goal in life is not to avoid failure, but to grow past them into success.

Thanks, Charlie, for leading the way.

When Dan isn't busy telling Charlie about a crazy new business idea, he sells real estate with Fore Properties. He can be reached at 910-528-7003 or Dan@DanAskins.com.

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It seems that every "mom" website you go to or news about families is always focused on how we as women can be better mothers to our children and more efficient. I recently saw an article on MSN.com title "50 tips to for moms" dedicated to keeping us moms more organized and better at managing our families. Somehow, we as moms have bought into this idea that we aren't good enough as we are and we somehow need to improve ourselves in order to be quality parents.

For many years, I bought into the hype surrounding motherhood. I read books on how to be a "good" mom, join the "best" mom groups and watch parenting experts on TV all in an effort to be the "perfect" mom. Instead of being supermom, I was the just "good enough" mom who was slightly overweight, frazzled and usually sleep deprived. What I soon realized was that I was a "normal" mom and the "perfect" mom for my family with all of my quirks and flaws.

As a result of this new found realization, I gave up reading parenting books and comparing myself to other moms. I stopped trying to find ways to be the "best" and accepted "good enough". What I have learned is that even those "perfect" moms have their flaws they just may not be as obvious as some of mine.

But most of all, I gave up "MOM GUILT". I made a conscious decision to no longer feel bad about myself as a parent or for taking time to sometimes step away from being just mom and enjoy being "Rollie" for awhile. And this year, I took it a step further and decided to live a Year Without Guilt.

So what does that mean? Well, simply put, I will not allow Guilt to be my guide in 2008. This year, I will not feel bad about.......

• Locking the door when I go the bathroom for privacy.
• Putting a cartoon on the TV for the kids so I can fix dinner in peace and quiet.
• Going out with a few friends for an evening without little people.
• Taking time to take care of myself both physically and mentally.
• Driving through McDonald's for Happy Meals instead of cooking.
• Hiring a babysitter so I can go to the store without tantrums.
• Dropping my daughter off in the carpool lane instead of walking her to class.
• Spending time with my husband with a child in sight.

But most of all I won't feel guilty for the little mistakes I make along my journey in parenthood. Because believe it or not, I am more than a mom - I am also human.

So this year, throw the expert advice out the window, enjoy your life as a parent, accept who you are and live a Year Without Guilt!

 

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It's official. My husband will be heading home in a few weeks. And although I don't actually have a date and probably won't find out when he's coming until the plane takes off (I once had 4 hours notice - not cool!), I have confirmed through a reliable source that the wheels are in motion for his safe passage home.

So, what does that mean for me? Well, if you're not a military spouse you probably think I'm on cloud nine swooning about the house dreaming of seeing the love of my life. While that is a wonderful thought, it's definitely not reality. Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled that he is finally coming home but I am also stressed out about the upcoming reunion.

His impending return means that my "To Do" list just got enormously long. You see, military spouses work incredibly hard to create the illusion of having everything under control while their husbands are away. I'm not saying we don't have it all together but we do run things a little bit differently when our men are across the ocean.

If fact, I think I run a pretty tight ship when he's gone. The bills get paid, the kids are fed and the house is still standing when he returns. In my book that is success. Granted we eat a lot more Mac-n-cheese when he's gone and the kids spend more time sleeping in my bed then their own, but who says that's a bad thing? Plus, I have complete and utter control of the most prized possession in the house - the remote control. Although, this may sound like the good life it is certainly better with him home. So, in the next two weeks I will graciously prepare to hand over the remote and welcome him home.

First and foremost on the list is shaving my legs. While I might appreciate the break from razors, it certainly won't be appreciated by him. Then I need to clean up the many little "gifts" the dog left in the backyard and fill in the holes from digging paws. Oh, and let's not forget the garage. God help me if he comes home and finds "his" garage in disarray. Especially since he "organized" it before he left. And did I mention the car? I still need to get the oil changed and the carpets cleaned before he sees what Libby did in the back seat!
 
Plus, he has no idea that I bought a new headboard for the bed and a matching quilt (It's from Pottery Barn!). Somehow I forgot to mention that. It's probably better if I explain that purchase when he gets home. So I definitely need to make sure the sheets are clean....and of course the check book needs to be balanced, the house dust busted, the towels washed, the frig stocked with his favorite food and a good twelve pack of beer. Oh, I better check his laundry basket to see if he left any dirty clothes when he left. That would be bad if they were still there when he returned. And the list goes on....

At this point you're wondering why anyone would create this much anxiety about having everything "perfect" and if my husband is some kind of control freak. Shouldn't he just be happy to see me? Well, as far as my husband is concerned he has only two requirements when he gets home - to see us and a goodnight's sleep. A cold beer is considered an added bonus. As far as the rest of it, that's all me. It's my gift to my husband. I want to make sure when he walk's through the door after spending 48 hours traveling home from some God forsaken location that everything is in order. Not to prove that I can do it alone but to assure him that he doesn't have to worry about us when he's gone. It's sort of my insurance policy for his safe return. My theory is simple, if he doesn't have to stress about his family falling apart while he is gone then he can focus all of his attention on his job and come home in one piece.

And so far, it's worked. Which means if you see me in the next few weeks talking to myself, neurotically checking my "To Do" list or just looking a little more frazzled than usually, remember it's all part of my re-deployment ritual. Feel free to offer me an adult beverage, I'll probably need one!

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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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The other night, about 1:30 AM, I heard a loud crash and breaking glass. I jumped up, ran into the hallway and yelled out in my deepest, baddest voice, "WHO'S THERE!!". I was also carrying my weapon with me. I looked down, and I was holding onto my pillow in a very menacing way. I hate it for the fool who dares endure the wrath of the pillow. Turns out my Christmas tree had fallen over, and a few of the ornaments broke in the process, but I now know what I would do in a fight. :)

Merry Christmas.

Dan.

When he's not out fighting crime with his pillow, Dan Askins is a Realtor with Fore Properties.

"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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