Day One - 109 Photos.

I laughed out loud: that was the name of the emailed file. In his first six hours, little Cooper had already scored more photographs than my shutter-neglected offspring will probably see this year.

And here's the kicker - Cooper isn't number one or even two, he's kid three!

So allow me to stop for a moment and give props, that is proper respect, to Coop's ‘rents for not adhering to the old standby: you know, hundreds of pictures of your firstborn and a few of the second. Heck, any kids after that are lucky to find a photo predating their first day of Kindergarten.

Though by week's end, I expect my friend's new little bundle of joy will exit the hospital ward like a hounded paparazzi darling, shielding himself from flashbulbs with his baby blanket before diving into a waiting limo - or minivan as the case may be. Another hapless victim of modern conveyance and convenience.

Yes, I blame technology.

Once upon a long lost time, say about ten years ago, film was an expensive, precious, and finite resource. For most events, you had twenty-four shots or less to get your picture right: a bar set way too high to assure success. Trust me, with a shelf full of family albums featuring timeless moments forever documented with half-closed eyes, turned heads, and open mouths, I speak from experience.

The purchase of my first digital camera freed me from the misery of scrapbooking yet another lousy photograph, or worse, developing print after print of the inside of my purse. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know - put the lens cap back on! But that early digital, while handy, had a very limited memory.

Not that this was a bad thing.

Digital gadgets have evolved to store hundreds of images. Kids born into today's media savvy, digitally-mastered universe will have their every milestone documented and Photo Shopped to perfection. Red eyes, corrected; sky not blue enough, no problem; blurry image, delete.

It kind of makes me wonder about that iconic Kindergarten picture. Will they be so memorable if they aren't so inherently bad?

Mine reflects a tomboy's existence, with an overabundance of freckles on skinny bashed knees, straggly red hair, and a standard issue horrid school uniform. Maybe some historical revision is in order - get rid of the dress, straighten the hair, airbrush the knees and freckles...voila. On second thought, perhaps not: I'd probably end up looking like an Olsen twin.

Instead I think I'll just busy myself surfing my email - only 108 photos to go.

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

 

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It's amazing to me, as I look at all the safety paraphernalia that my two girls have accumulated, how much we "protect" our children from everything. Somehow I survived childhood without the use of helmets, car seats or even seat belts. Riding in the back of daddy's pickup truck was a given, even on the highway. We use anti-bacterial soap, even though recent studies suggest it has a negative impact on "good" bacteria and almost no impact on "bad" bacteria. The Department of Social Services would take away my Daddy License if I allowed my kids to drink from a garden hose.

All that is to preface the fact that within the span of a few days, both my daughters sustained life-altering wounds while playing. Elizabeth, 9 years old, was riding her bike at a campsite on High Rock Lake. She is not the steadiest thing on two wheels, but seemed to be OK as I rode just ahead of her. As we started down a little hill that she had already travelled many times before, she all of a sudden lost control, of her mind, and splayed out on the asphalt, bruised and bewildered. It was nothing too serious, so I got her back on the bike and we rode back to our campsite to lick our wounds. The very next day, at 8 AM on Sunday morning, I was preparing breakfast, when a sleepy-eyed fellow came walking up to our campsite with Elizabeth in one arm and a crashed up bike in another. Her little basket was smashed and she had cuts and bruises on her nose and cheek, just below the left eye. As the report came in, I discovered that she had been on the same hill, and this time was fortunate enough to find a parked golf cart to run into, in lieu of that nasty pavement. We forgot to bring her helmet that weekend. After a little ice and some parental lovin', she was alright and even got back on the bike again, although never venturing near Killer Hill. Her new nickname is Elizabeth "Crash"kins, which she really likes.

The very next week, we decided to take a family walk down the street. We stopped at the corner, where a friend of mine owns a vacant rental house. In the front yard sat a pear tree pregnant with beautiful, bigger than my fist, pears. The girls immediately scurried up the tree and were happily playing as we talked to a friend who happened to be driving by. All of a sudden I heard a "I'm really hurt. Come now!!" kind of scream. It was Katherine, my 7 year old. She had fallen out of the tree and was holding her left arm, sobbing and screaming bloody murder. We got her back to the house and made a splint out of her soccer shin guards and an Ace bandage. After calling our friend who is an x-ray tech, we determined that waiting until the morning was the best option. The emergency room would just add to the misery, and they wouldn't be able to do anything until the swelling went down. It was probably broken, but not badly, so after stabilizing it, we medicated and got her in bed. After a very long and sleepless night, we got to the doctor's office, where they confirmed she had a small buckle fracture to the radius and would need a cast. Evidently some doctors don't even prescribe a cast for these types of fractures in children. Katherine's new nickname is "Cast"erine.

I guess we really can't protect our kids after all. After being scolded for "loose living and hard drinking", W.C. Fields, the early 1900s film star and comedian, reputedly remarked, "There'll be a lot of healthy people who get really mad when they die of nothing." While I am no hurry to see my daughters die, or even get hurt for that matter, I do tend to allow them to explore their limits. We have taught them some very basic things. They know about strangers. They know about playing in traffic. If the stick wiggles, it's not a stick. And if they forget to use anti-bacterial soap every now and then, we just let it ride. I think they'll be alright, and if they aren't, well there's always therapy.

When Dan isn't nursing some wound his daughters have sustained, he sells real estate with Fore Properties. You can reach him at 910-528-7003 or email: Dan@DanAskins.com.

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8:52 am: Three suitcases, backpacks stuffed with toys, a few bikes, two joyous children, and one sleep-deprived mother hit the road for one last Summer adventure.

8:55 am: Contorting to retrieve a spilled juice box, I narrowly avoid catastrophe as I pinball my way out Seven Lakes gates and point the minivan towards the Atlantic.

9:03 am: Passing an idyllic rural homestead populated with goats and chickens, I reconsider my choice of residence.

9:04 am: Waving to the sun-kissed farmer spreading fresh manure, I decide that life in the ‘burbs ain't so bad.   

9:15 am: Demonstrating uncanny diplomatic grace, I deftly negotiate a truce and my children agree which DVD movie they'll watch.

9:35 am: Losing interest in the movie, the kids resume kicking each other for entertainment.

9:40 am: Hoping a sugar rush will alleviate my headache, I hand out bowls of dry breakfast cereal.

9:41 am: A sweetened honey puff is launched past my head.

9:41:0004 am: Threatening to return home, I suggest an alternative vacation plan of spending the week cleaning up bedrooms.

9:42 am: Peace prevails for ten sacred minutes.

9:52 am: One hour, mark.

9:54 am: "Are we there yet? How much longer?"

9:55 am: "Hours! Mommy, how many minutes are in hours?"

9:59 am: "I dropped all my cereal on the floor. Can I have some more?"

10:01 am: "Jack ate my cereal!"

10:02 am: "Waah! Mommy, Jack hit me when I grabbed his bowl."

10:03 am: "Can we watch a movie?"

10:05 am: After another intense period of negotiation we settle on listening to a CD of "kids music."

10:10 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:12 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:14 am: "Can you play that song again?"

10:15 am: I decide that investing in two iPods, or at least liberating a few old Walkmans from storage is probably a wise parenting decision.

10:26 am: Pretending the car stereo is broken, I suggest we try a different CD to see if it works better.

10:28 am: The kids sniff out my plan to inject my music into the player and demand Hannah Montana.

10:31 am: I fantasize about ways to torture Billy Ray for creating this corporate pop rock drivel. I'll Achy Breaky your...Wait, hey that song she's singing is kind of catchy.

10:32 am: "Who would have thought that a girl like me could double as a superstar, yea, yea, oh, oh, oooh."

10:52 am: Two hours, mark.

10:59 am: "I'm hungry! I want lunch. Me too! Yeah, Mom, when are we gonna eaaaat!"

11:00 am: Assuring my children that somewhere ahead there must be a town of some sort, I silently pray to the hamburger gods.

11:03 am: "I'm so hungry! Mom, I'm starving to death. Look at my tummy, see?"

11:04 am: "I see a gas station. Mommy, let's eat there."

11:05 am: "Kids, we are not eating at a place called Uncle Buck's Truck & Pluck. I'm sure we'll see something soon."

11:32 am: Redemption dead ahead! Ah, nothing like the nutritious goodness of grease and salt at the drive-in window.

11:42 am: "I dropped my soda, Mommy. Wow, neat! It's making really cool bubbles on the floor!"

11:52 am: Three hours, mark.

11:54 am: Arriving at the ocean, I contemplate throwing myself in. I settle for a cool drink and decide to throw the kids in instead.

Yes indeed: nothing like a trip to the beach to relax and unwind.  

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

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"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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