We Middle Georgians are fluent in the language of hot summers. We know what we’re talking about when we utter terms like humidity, heat index, gnats and frying eggs on sidewalks. As expert as we are on the season between spring and fall, most of us natives are complete strangers to the winter white stuff that falls out of the sky once every decade or so. Ya know, snow.

As a kid growing up in Wrightsville, I can remember two times that it snowed during the winter. On both occasions, you’d have thought that Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy had all arrived unexpectedly and planned to stay the weekend. In 1982, the year I was 8, we got two inches overnight. My brother, sister and I were ecstatic to wake up to wintry bliss in our own backyard. We romped. We frolicked. We threw snowballs, made snow angels, snow forts and a humpbacked, popeyed snowman named Jim. Scamp, our Springer Spaniel did his own form of dog sledding down the sloped driveway. Though the snow was gone in just two days, I’ll never forget the memories brought by that unexpected frozen white stuff.

Just this weekend, as the school year dragged on and cold, rainy weather kept the kids indoors way too much, we all got a thrilling surprise (as I’m sure you did too, if you’re here in Middle Georgia) “Mom! It’s SNOWING!” shouted Andrew, my 8 year old. Even though the TV weather man had predicted it, I was tempted not to believe it. (We’d had a couple of forecast false alarms already this year and I didn’t want to get my hopes up) But a glance out the window verified that sure enough, the white stuff was falling…in abundance.

4 year old Jack and I walked out onto the porch to catch our first snowflakes. Andrew was mysteriously missing. Just as I reached my hand out into the falling stream, “THWACK!” a shockingly cold, icy fastball hit me in the back of the neck. “HA HA” shouted Andrew. “I got you good!” Let the games begin!

After running back inside to don necessary outerwear, we were back in action. First on the agenda, a full-on family snowball fight. As Andrew and Jack bunched up snowballs, I brought out an ice-cream scoop and gravy ladle. Great for quick making and flinging of snowballs. I’m not sure who won, but we had a great hour long battle.

Scamp (the second) Dudley and Hope, our three dogs had a fantastic time, running, sliding and frolicking in the snow. Neighbors we hadn’t seen in a couple of months came out to share in the festivities. Snowmen were built; sledding paths were forged and new memories were made. The whole day was spent outside enjoying a spontaneous, natural playground. My husband James and I put aside our chores and business to play with the kids, and act like kids ourselves. It was truly special.

As the day went on and the sun got hotter, the snow began to melt. James commented, “wouldn’t it be great if we got to have a day or two of snow every winter.” Yeah, it would be.

I love the fact that, as parents, we get to have two-fold types of memories. Ones from our childhoods and those from watching our own kids enjoy the same things that we did once upon a time. The snow reminded me of that this weekend. Thanks, Mother Nature, for giving us a little fun in our winter.

It’s 10 PM Sunday night. The Weight family is tucked safely into Room 221 at the Stone Mountain Hampton Inn. We’re wet, tired and happy, having just spent an incredibly intense few hours experiencing Snow Mountain, the closest man-made snow to Middle Georgia.

We tubed, sledded, made snow, angels, threw snow balls, built igloos and snow men and drank ridiculously expensive hot chocolate that was made with some of the worst tasting city water I’ve ever had. Overall it was a really fun family outing, a great way to spend a couple of days over the MLK holiday weekend.

If you’re thinking of taking your brood to experience Snow Mountain, I hope you find the following review to be helpful. I’m pretty level-headed, fair, travel a lot, am not on Stone Mountain’s payroll and feel no obligation to sugar coat things, although if the snow had been sugar coated, it may have been softer.

Snow Mountain, which is inside Stone Mountain Park, consists of 12 tubing slides, a snow play area and a fire pit for making $5.00 smores, which taste the same as 25 cent smores.

Upon entering the snow area, we got in line and waited for our start time of 7 PM with around 300 other excited moms, dads and kids. Promptly at seven, we each grabbed a tube and took our places on a long slow moving walkway on which everyone was told not to walk. The walkway ended at an even longer maze of non-moving walkways that eventually led to the top of the tubing slides. On the first go-round, the line was, as they say in the country "slow as molasses." I might have celebrated a birthday about midway. However, on subsequent runs, it got less crowded and faster. On our last run, there was no waiting, just the trek to get to the top.  

The tubing was EXCELLENT. Way Fast. Way Fun! Worth the wait. Even my fearful four year old was laughing his head off as he shot down the not-too-steep slope. In our two-hour allotted time, we were able to tube seven times. That was with a very short bathroom break.

The snow play area has everything you need to build fantastic snow people and igloos. It also has a great snowball target area for any major league pitchers in training.

Staff members were all very helpful and more courteous than I’ve seen in a family amusement park in a long time. I began to wonder if they were clones. I point this out because we all know just what a precious rarity it is to encounter really, sincerely nice employees in such a large setting.

Here are just a few things I’d want to know ahead of time if I were planning a trip to Snow Mountain.

1)      They call it Snow Mountain, but, let me tell ya, it’s NOT snow. It’s ice. And if it’s balled up and hurled at you at 50 mph, you could lose an eye. If you stand in the wrong spot while the snow machine is shooting projectiles through the air, you could withstand a severe head injury. Just a note of precaution, if anyone in your family enjoys snowball fighting, I’d recommend wearing armor and a helmet, and perhaps having your own shield.

2)      Wear water proof gloves. I’m serious. This is NOT an occasion to wear those cute little mittens that Aunt Mildred crocheted for you. Depending on the weather, you can skip the scarf, snow bibb pants, face mask and even long underwear, unless you plan to roll around in the snow, making a whole choir of angels. But don’t forego the gloves. Building snowmen with ice that’s normally used in slushies can be excruciating on the hands. Protect them well.

3)      Book your tubing time in the evening, or at night, not during the day. After 7PM, the lines get shorter, which allows for more time on the slopes. This is especially important to parents of children with little or no patience.

4)      As with any family attraction, the food is over the top expensive. A 16 oz Coke is $3.29. You already know how I feel about the s-mores and hot chocolate. Security didn’t check our bags on the way into the park, so I’m thinking next time, we might bring in our own refreshments. That may come back to bite us if Mr. Bag Checker was coincidentally off tonight.

5) They don't always have double tubes available. And tubing with a little one on your lap isn't allowed. This is very important to know ahead of time. If you have a timid youngster, who is afraid of going down alone, you might be sitting on the sidelines with him or her while the rest of the family zooms past. On second thought, you could probably get some really good photos from the viewing area, because it's nearly impossible to do when you're tubing.

6)      Check the weather forecast before buying your tickets. Don’t expect to take a leisurely drive to Stone Mountain and just waltz into Snow Mountain whenever you feel like it. It’s often sold out. Book your reservations online ahead of time at www.stonemountainpark.com. Make sure you know the weather forecast first. I almost got tickets for yesterday instead of today. After the Genesis-like flood we received all day, I’m glad my husband stepped in with his common sense in planning.

The Christmas tree is down. Decorations packed away. And now the Weight Family is staring at a new year. 2010! That’s amazing. It seems like a just few weeks ago, rather than a decade, we were all panicking about the Y2K bug and the potential calamities it could bring.

Also, with the new year, comes January, my least favorite month. Sorry to all you Capricorns out there but, I’m not a fan of winter. It’s a brisk 21 degrees outside this morning. Even the penguins are plugged into electric blankets. Andrew, my eight year old son, even wore a coat. WOW!!! He’s normally allergic to anything that provides warmth, saying “it’s not cold out here, short sleeves are fine, mom,” as I slip on a patch of ice trying to chase him down with a hat and gloves.

What frustrates me about winter here in Middle Georgia is that the temps can plunge down into the teens (much to the chagrin of Al Gore) but we seldom get any of that glorious white stuff that puts the fun in freezing off your buns. By that I mean snow (in case your brain is also frozen). Nothing to sled in, no snowballs to hurl, no snowmen or angels. So we stay inside, getting a little more screen time than I’m comfortable with.  The dreaded words “I’m bored,” are coming a little too readily out of the mouths of my kids. So, what can we Middle Georgia families do this winter to beat the cold weather blues? Surely there’s something fun out there to get the kiddos away from their Wii’s and Spongebob marathons.

Here is a list of indoor and outdoor boredom proof activities for parents and kids in our area.

1)      ICE SKATING! It’s not just for Michelle Kwan and Brian Boitano. It’s for you and me as well! Get an official taste of winter fun this weekend, Jan 8, 9 and 10 at the Macon Centreplex. The Weights will be lacing up our skates and strapping on our kneepads. For a list of other ice skating weekends throughout the season, visit www.maconcentreplex.com.

2)      Creating Portraits and Self Portraits at the Macon Museum of Arts and Sciences. On Thursdays January 21, 28 and February 4, kids ages 7-11 can explore their inner Van Gogh’s (ears kept intact) by taking a class on how to make those sketches of friends and family come to life. And, of course, the Macon Museum of Arts and Sciences has tons of other fun and educational activities as well. Check them out at www.masmacon.com.

3)      Caribbean Sound – Pan by Storm at the Grand Opera House the mornings of January 26 and 27. Introduce your kids to the exotic music and history of the West Indies steel drum in this rhythmic experience. Visit www.thegrandmacon.com to see their calendar of events.

4)      Museum of Aviation, Warner Robins – Lots of people don’t bother visiting their area’s tourist attractions because they think “oh it’ll always be there for us to see.” That was my thought about Robins Air Force Base’s air museum, that is, until Andrew became fascinated with flying. We saw all kinds of iron birds and bombers at this completely cool, 100% impressive, interactive center for air travel history. If you haven’t been, it’s worth your time – and you’ll score major points with the kids. Want to learn more? Visit www.museumofaviation.org.

5)      Toddler Play Date – Georgia Children’s Museum. The stroller set who aren’t quite into painting portraits or sure footed on skates can get out of the house and spend time in a with other little ones having fun with age appropriate activities. There’s always a lot to see and do at this awesome inspiring museum. For more information, just click www.georgiachildrensmuseum.com.

Of course, this is just a small sampling of what’s going on in Middle Georgia to beat those freezing outside – housebound blues. For a more extensive listing, click on the events portions of this Web site.

I grew up in a family with the motto: “better to ruin a relationship by being brutally honest than to say nothing at all.” If this wisdom applied to anything, it applied to gift receiving. I never had to wonder what my dad, mom or sister thought of any one of the dozens of gifts I’ve painstakingly picked out for them over years of Birthdays and Christmases. Because they told me, be it good, bad or ugly.

“Angela, you really wasted your money on these.” –my mom said, upon opening the earrings I bought her with my babysitting money when I was 12.

“Snort, Laugh, Hoooo-eeeeee, I’d rather have a Big Mouth Billy Bass than a tie like this! Which dollar store’d you get it from? And more importantly, will they take it back?” – my dad, Christmas of 1994. I was 20 and tried to choose something sophisticated for him.

“Angela, please tell me you kept the receipt for these. You obviously didn’t read the labels because if you had you’d have seen that they were made in Korea. In a sweatshop, no doubt. Plus, I’d never wear this shade of red. The dye-mixing process is bad for the environment.” – My sister, Pamela, on the slippers I bought her for Christmas of 1987. I was 13.

It wasn’t just my family members displaying such bad manners. I acted that way too, a product of my upbringing. I recall a handful of Christmas mornings that ended with me storming off because I didn’t get the exact brand or color of boots, perfume or cd player I wanted. The words “thank you” were on permanent vacation from my vocabulary. I even made a boyfriend cry one year with my callous remarks about a necklace and earrings set he’d given me. Apparently he spent lots of time picking out the perfect one. Today, when thinking back, I cringe with embarrassment.

It wasn’t until my first Christmas with my husband that he set me straight with a little lesson in gift receiving etiquette. James is not a wimp who would roll over and take my rudeness. And he never yells either. He has that quiet, strong assertiveness of a Siberian Husky, a lead dog, no matter the journey. Anyway, he let me know right quickly that with my attitude, he’d never waste another minute of his time or dime of his money on me again. So, I straightened up. Looking back, I sincerely appreciate his taking the time to correct my behavior. 

Andrew and Jack, our two sons are pretty good about remembering to say “thank you” and being socially conscious when opening presents, because I've reminded them like a skipping record since they were old enough to talk. But it’s also important for them to see what’s involved in picking out and buying Christmas gifts.

In the past, I've always picked out gifts to be from my kids and shown them what they were giving their cousins, and grandparents. This year, I’ve given them each $20 to use for grandparent presents. Then we’ll head to Target so they can make their selections. Andrew and Jack are of the ages where they should take the responsibility of picking out, purchasing, and wrapping gifts. They’re also each making an ornament for Grandma and Grandad. I think it’s important for children to be able to empathize with the gift giver. This way, they’re less likely to pout if they receive a sweaters from Aunt Penny instead of Bakugans. They’ll know she spent her time, money and efforts to pick out something useful for them.

Now, let’s just hope that Grandma and Grandad use more tact in opening gifts from their grandsons, than they did when I was growing up.

I love watching my two boys when they’re sleeping. They’re so peaceful and perfect. I sit in the rocker next to their beds and marvel at these two creations on loan from God. When Andrew, my oldest, was a baby, I’d watch the rise and fall of his breathing with fascination while he napped in his crib. His chubby arms set in right angles framing his cherubic face.

He doesn’t do that anymore. Like the near pre-teen that he is, Andrew rests sprawled out in every direction, with the covers twisted like confused snakes around him. His feet nearly touch the end of the mattress. I can no longer manage to pick him up out of bed to rock him in my arms. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t be graceful. Andrew is growing up. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Jack is too. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him out, but, at age four, the reality hasn’t hit me with the force of Andrew’s rapid changes.

Just yesterday, I was pretending to be a T-Rex, chasing the boys around our house. We’re lucky. There is a perfect circle connecting the kitchen, living room and foyer. So the chasing never has to end until someone (always me) gives out in need of a rest. I roar and throw my arms in the air, while the boys scream and dart away in mock terror. At some point I change directions in the circle and meet them as they’re running. This always leads to the biggest screams and laughs.

While I was in mid-chase, just for a brief second, I wondered when Andrew would no longer be interested in playing with his mom. At what age will I throw my arms in the air, and let out a growl, expecting him to take flight – and he just rolls his eyes and tells me to go chase Jack. Never, I hope. Although, I can’t quite picture being in my eighties playing chase with a fifty year old.

While I’ve mostly been a stay-at-home mom with lots of time for my kids, there have been too many occasions when I was “too busy” or not interested in playing blocks, or watching their mattress gymnastics demonstrations. The reality that those times are gone for good hits me in the face as I discover yet another gray hair and that those circles under my eyes aren’t going anywhere, even with $52 dollar miracle eye cream. It really bugs me when we’re walking out in public and Andrew no longer reaches for my hand.

I can’t go back and put them in strollers again for a leisurely walk around the neighborhood. But we can all jump on our bikes and go exploring. Andrew and Jack don’t fit in high chairs anymore and there’s no need to buy those adorable jars of baby food. But we can get in the kitchen on a rainy Saturday and pretend we have our own cooking show (which we do with hilarious results). No amount of cramming would fit them in the baby backpack that I used to wear them in when we’d go shopping. But I’m still up for a few hundred piggyback rides.

While I could, and do, lament about the time that’s behind me in my motherhood journey, I won’t let it stop me from seizing every minute that I have with my boys today. I’ll savor every sloppy kiss, every art project, every “watch this, Mom” and every question that I know I’ve answered 952 times before.

Yes, I’m feeling sentimental. I’ll savor that too. Because tomorrow, Andrew and Jack might just be getting on my very last nerve. In fact, I’m sure they will. It’s all part of the journey called Motherhood.

It’s Wednesday morning, November 4^th. Today’s the day I’ll precariously sidle out onto the roof and take down the big, black, fuzzy spiders that grace our upstairs windows each Halloween. I’ll take the haunted house welcome sign off the backdoor and replace it with something more autumn generic. Oh, and that decaying carved pumpkin has to go. It should’ve been tossed out on Sunday—but life happens and things don’t always get done when they should.

All in all, my boys had a great Halloween this year. Andrew, age eight, was a Star Wars clone trooper. He didn’t want to wear his costume once he saw that his best friend Alex wasn’t wearing one. This might be the last year that WalMart super hero costumes had any appeal to him. I predict next year, he’ll either refuse to dress up at all or will go in something he concocts himself. That’s one of the things that can make a mom sadly reminisce over her child’s growing up too fast. From infant peapod costume, to three-year-old Bob the Builder, to five-year-old skeleton, I’ll savor each Halloween memory.

Jack, age four, has never been a fan of Halloween costumes, a strange anomaly because he loves playing dress up at home, often donning doctor scrubs or a Power Ranger mask, or both at the same time. This year, however, we made progress. He found his brother’s old ninja costume and ceremoniously proclaimed it as his own, wearing it everywhere in the week preceding Halloween. Of course I took pictures—lots of them. In these fleeting moments of my kids’ early days, my camera is a constant companion. (Sorry I’m feeling nostalgic this morning.)

Observing Andrew and Jack’s yearly Halloween activities often brings me back to my own—and then I notice the differences between today’s customs and those of my trick-or-treating days back in the 80’s. (Gosh, that seems so long ago.)

It seems to me that for today’s kids, candy has lost its appeal. No, I don’t mean that they now prefer broccoli to pixie sticks. It’s just that I often marvel at how much candy kids get. It’s everywhere! Andrew’s teacher hands out lollipops and tootsie rolls for good behavior and correct answers. It’s not uncommon for him to come home on an average Tuesday with four pieces of candy…. just for sitting in his seat and doing his work. In Jack’s preschool, there’s always a classroom mom clamoring to make goodie bags for any and every occasion—including Veterans’ Day and “just because she felt like it” day. In Andrew’s choir, the teacher gives out gum and Jolly Ranchers as a reward for good practice sessions. I’ve noticed twice in going over to friends’ houses that they’ll have a large candy bowl on the counter for kids to scoop out at will. It seems a little much to me.

When I was a kid (at risk of sounding like Grumpy Old Man “BACK IN MY DAY…WE DIDN’T HAVE….”). When I was a kid, the candy we got from trick-or-treating made up a good 75% of our candy earnings for the calendar year. After returning home on Halloween night, my brother and sister and I sat on the living room rug poring over our bounty like pirates with new found treasure. We counted and cataloged and thanked God for our good confectionary fortune. Also, trick-or-treating was one night. We may have gone to a church carnival also, but that was it. It didn’t spread out over days and weeks.

For today’s generation, the average Halloween observance can last two weeks. We attended three parties, two church carnivals, including hayrides, two classroom parties and trick-or-treating in two neighborhoods. Each event netted Andrew and Jack enough candy to provide a piece for every child in Bangladesh. By the time October 31^st rolled around, I was all Halloweened out, and so were they. Looking back, I could’ve said “no” to some of it. There was never an excited candy dumping and counting session like when I was a kid. I, being the responsible parent, looked through all their loot to make sure it wasn’t laden with razor blades or arsenic, but Andrew and Jack seemed quite ho-hum about the whole affair. Their friends did to. I know because I did research, an informal poll among moms, and then a more formal Facebook survey. It counts as official research.

Maybe Halloween is just another example of how spoiled today’s kids have gotten, society’s instant gratification approach to life. They don’t have to wait until the end of October to splurge on sugar highs because some classmate’s mom or a well-meaning teacher is doling candy out like brain food. Hmmm, is that one of the reasons why every other kid is on Ritalin or Adderall? I’ll save that for another blog entry…a controversial one, no doubt.

In the meantime, I must come up with a responsible way to ration my kids’ candy. One piece a day, perhaps? Or maybe we can send it all to Bangladesh. There are unfortunate kids over there who would love to get high on sugar and drive their parents crazy bouncing off the walls.

It's one of those gorgeous fall days outside, where the sky is blue and cloudless. There's a light wind showering the yard with golden leaves and I'd rather run barefoot through the grass instead of doing laundry and starting dinner. So, that's what I've done with my four year old Jack and our eight dogs. Yes, I said eight. No, I'm not one of those strange animal hoarder people you see on TLC.

Up until about a month ago, my family was complete with two parents, two kids, one dog and one cat. We had no plans to add other furry or feathered friends. However, things happen and plans change. I'm sure you can relate.

About four Sundays ago after church, we all loaded up in the car to drive to Macon for an afternoon of shopping. I packed a few granola bars and cheese sticks for cases of en route munchies.

About ten miles into our trip, while happily chatting away, I spotted her. A sight for a sore heart. Plodding slowly and awkwardly alongside the road was the saddest, most emaciated looking little black dog I've ever seen... in real life. I'm an animal lover at heart and can't bear to see the animal cruelty posters with the skin and bones dogs staring at you through hollow eyes. But there, in rural Laurens County was a barely hanging onto life poster dog for the ASPCA. Without the padding of extra flesh, every one of her ribs was showing; her hip bones jutted out sharply and her spine was a distinct rope down her back. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and there were sores and bite marks all across her muzzle and neck. She looked as if she'd had puppies sometime in the distant past, but couldn't possibly have enough milk to nourish them.

My husband shook his head, sighing "How pitiful!" I burst into tears, crying  "Honey, we have to go back and get her!" Now, aside from our cat, I've never rescued an animal before. I'm not the type who's always being followed home by the pet of the week. But, then and there, I felt like we had no choice.

In recent weeks, our newspaper had covered two different horrific stories of raids on dog fighting rings, where nearly 100 canines were discovered in deplorable conditions. The suffering of animals had been on everyone's minds. Could the little black dog with too big ears (like a donkey's) have been put out beside the road to fend for herself by heartless owners who no longer wanted her? She looked slightly like a pit bull. Could she have escaped her own dog fighting nightmare? I still don't know.

James pulled over and I hopped out of the car with the only form of dog food I had...a cheese stick. In my merriest sing-song voice, I chanted "Heeeeere, puppy." The little dog slunk closer timidly, with tail between her legs. She was too shy to bite the cheese, instead offering a meager lick.

After a few minutes of coaxing and cajoling, I picked up the sad canine and put her in the front seat with us. She didn't move the entire ride home. Andrew and Jack were beside themselves with excitement, each having chosen a dozen potential names for her. James was silent. He'd planned to return home with new golf clubs, not a starving stray dog that could have diseases. But, he's a good man. A man who occasionally doesn't mind going along with one of his wife's warm hearted, half brained schemes.

It had been raining on and off throughout the weekend. As we drove back into Dublin, drops began to fall again. Through his car window, Andrew spotted a brilliant rainbow in the gray sky. "Hey, Mom, LOOK! I think God's proud of us for rescuing one of his creatures. That's why he sent us that beautiful rainbow!" I couldn't help but smile. Maybe it was true. 

Being the nostalgic poet that he is, Andrew also provided the name for our new friend. "Hope" because that's what we were giving her. We all agreed it was perfect.

Hope Comes Home

Once we were at our house, Hope sniffed her surroundings and enjoyed a huge bowl of Alpo. I gave her a good bath and then introduced her to our cat Anakin and our other dog Kelly. They weren't as thrilled with having a new roommate as I'd expected. Next, we had a veterinarian friend give her a quick exam.

Aside from her facial wounds and malnourishment, Hope was pretty healthy. That was good news. But, there was more. Those puppies she'd probably given birth to in the distant past? Well...they were actually only a few days old, according to the doctor. Hope was a NEW mama.

Oh No! That meant there were babies somewhere out in the wilderness without their mother. Not Good.

"Okay, everybody back in the car. You too, Hope!" Quickly we drove to the same isolated spot we'd left hours earlier. James pulled the car over just like before, this time to let Hope out. She must've been confused.

After standing beside the road, staring at our vehicle for several minutes, our mama dog began to follow a barely noticeable trail through a field of high grass. I trudged behind her. Moccasins and poison ivy and who knows what else could lay waiting for me. We continued on for what seemed like miles. What if the puppies had starved to death, or been eaten by a predator? I didn't know what to expect. Was there a litter puppies in that field exposed to the rain and heat of late September? Finally, Hope stopped as we came to a little place where the grass had been flattened down. There in front of us were SIX furry lumps about the size of potatoes. They were lying very still. Too still. "Oh, no!" I thought "We're too late!"

That was when Hope let out a motherly whine. Recognizing her voice, all six little bundles began squirming to life. With a surge of relief and gratitude for what I'd found, I just stood there watching and marveling as she began nursing her puppies.

A few minutes later, we were loading our new little family into the car. "Six Puppies!" Jack cried. "We hit the jackpot!"  

That was four weeks ago today. Hope and her puppies (two girls and four boys) are happy, healthy and oh so playful. Andrew and Jack love to lie on their backs and let the puppies climb across them like they’re mountains. In case you’re wondering, we named them Roley (like the fat one in 101 Dalmations) Scamp (after my childhood family dog) Dudley (because we found them right outside the community of Dudley). The others are Beau, Spot and Rocky, just because they're were cool puppy names. Each day offers more tail wagging, face licking, puppy breath delights. They're a lot of work, but I'll NEVER regret giving my boys the experience of rescuing a dog in need and raising her furry little ones.

Eventually, we’ll find good homes for the puppies, but we’ll keep Hope. She's a good dog. She barks a little too much, but she's a good girl. She’ll never again have to roam the roadside desperately searching for a morsel of food. She’ll always have a home, a warm bed and a dish full of Alpo. We gave her Hope and that feels pretty good.

I have a husband. I swear I do. My tax returns and the ring on my finger are acceptable proof. However, those wanting further validation, like a real live, in the flesh spouse, would be disappointed to find only the remaining messes my husband leaves each week--like razor stubble in his bathroom sink, golf clubs and an empty six pack of Heineken in the garage. he also has a home office (used once a week) overflowing with papers that have the name James Weight in official type on them.

James is my husband, the only one I've got. The one that's almost always on a plane to somewhere, or on another plane returning from somewhere else. No, he's not a pilot. He's a financial planner. And in today's economy, it's a wonder he has a job at all. So, I'm not complaining. Well, okay, maybe just a teensy bit. I didn't plan to become a single mom. But that's what I am about 65% of the time. I cherish the remaining 35% (Hope that's right. Math was never my strongest subject). However, as a stay-at-home mom with two young boys to raise, this life of being their sole caretaker, taxi driver, chef, stain remover, homework tudor, spiritual leader, nurse, bike riding instructor and mixed martial arts referee can be down right exhausting. Okay, exhausted doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling when I fall in bed each night. How I'm feeling RIGHT NOW at 9:41pm with both boys snug and sound asleep and the house eerily quiet.

The mental and physical drainage is not necessarily the most difficult part of my solo parenting life. Let me be painfully honest and admit that I'm lonely. There's no hubby to share my day with at the dinner table, or cuddle on the couch and watch CSI with, no one to laugh at my lame jokes or be impressed that the Hostas I've planted haven't died yet. I've started talking to the cat as if he's my life companion, not a snotty feline who sharpens his claws on my silk robe.

Now that I've dragged you into my pity party, I have to be fair and say that life isn't exactly a picnic for James either. He's not a jet-setting playboy, just a husband and father doing what he has to do to support his family. I'm his biggest fan. But even fans have bad days. Rather than burn my pom-poms and boo him when he calls tonight, I think I'll consult an expert or two and get some advice for coping with this condition of Married-Single-Mommia, as I like to call it.

The Web site www.screamfree.com, gives a few suggestions for sane single-parenting that I'm darn willing to try.

1) Hire a babysitter once a week. A babysitter! That's someone who comes into the home and relieves me of my kid duties for a few hours. I'd forgotten about those. Jenny of screamfree says that getting out is essential. Think I'll call Lydia and see if she's free Saturday.

2) Find a hobby or sport (other than complaining and whining about my absent husband) ---something to take your mind off the mundane home tasks and tempermental tots. How about mixed martial arts? I hear it has some stress relieving qualities. I'd better check my health insurance and dental plans first.

3) Finally, put the kids to bed early and take time to decompress by watching reruns of Wife Swap (Okay, I added the last part). Can I hear a big AMEN to that one!?!

If you're suffering from Married-Single-Mommia, take a deep breath, know that I'm right there with you. And when Hubby does finally come home...run like the wind to the nearest shopping mall or sushi bar with some gal pals. You've earned it.

It's that time of year again! The one where little ones struggle to get their feet into shin guards and cleats, where parents pack coolers and collapsable chairs and they all head to the soccer fields in droves, like ants to a picnic. (yes, I know that sentence was too long, sorry)

For me, this season has been a mix of fun and frustration. First of all, I get way too into the game. I used to laugh at strung out soccer moms yelling at the unfair refs and shouting plays at their oblivious children. Now, I'm one of them. Between Andrew's winning team, "The Wizards" and Jack's bad news bearish team "The Wolf Pack," I have no fingernails or vocal chords left. I wish Excedrin would come out with a soccer tension strength pill, like they do for PMS and migraines.

Andrew, who is eight, somehow got lucky enough to land on a nearly professional team with most of the boys having the last name Beckham. Their record is 5-0 and they have no plans of allowing themselves to be defeated. I love watching the games because the kids are so darn good. Andrew, who would rather be playing PS-2 soccer has vastly improved his skills and has become a defensive player to be reckoned with.

Jack, on the other hand, poor Jack. He just turned four and has wanted to play sports like his brother since he was born. This year I was so excited that he was old enough to play and didn't have to sit on the sidelines once again. However, just because he wanted to play before the season, didn't mean that he wants to play now. Noooooooooo. Actually, none of the kids on his team want to play. They want to pick dandelions in the field and throw cups of water on each other's heads and sit in their moms' laps sucking their thumbs.

Their coach admits that he's never played or coached soccer before. I honestly don't think he's ever even attended a soccer game or seen one on TV or played PS-2 soccer. And once the season's over I don't think he'll ever coach or attend another game. Their record is now 0-6. They've only scored one goal in those six games and that was technically an accident by a kid on the other team. It's painful to watch, sort of like seeing a kitten being chased by a Rottweiler. 

When we signed Jack up, I naively believed that most of the other kids in his age group would be of the same mindset and experience level. Not the case!!! Every team the Wolfpack has played seems to have coaches from England and Brazil and have players who were dribbling, blocking and doing throw-ins in their mothers' wombs. The last game score was 27-0. I asked my husband if I could bring a book to read so I didn't have to watch the carnage.

The good news, though, is that Jack doesn't seem to care. He loves marching around in his cleats and soccer uniform more than playing the sport. So we let him. He wears them to school, to Kroger and even to church. I think the uniform is the most exciting part of playing organized sports when you're four. Winning is second and actually playing....well that's on down the list behind dandelion picking and water dumping.

In a couple of weeks, the games will be done, trophies will be handed out amid cake and ice cream and another soccer season will be behind us.

Should we dare sign up for Flag Football? I think I'll stick with Cherub Choir and let my vocal chords recover and my nails grow out.

My family recently returned from three weeks in California. While I was hoping for a little respite from my vacation to catch up on email, scale mountains of laundry, skate a Pledge sprayed cloth across my dust covered furniture and just generally chill out at home for a week, it didn't happen that way. We rushed right into the chaos of going back to school, soccer season and the start-up of multiple church activities. Plus, my cousin chose a fne time to have her baby :-)

The yearly family photo calendar from my sister-in-law on our kitchen wall went from being blissfully empty, except for a few playdates and lunch outings, to looking like the victim of an administrative graffiti artist. In fact, with my four year old now in organized sports and doing cherub choir, any my husband's travel schedule, a wall calendar simply will no longer do. I'm going to be one of those moms who carries her family organizer everywhere with a separate daily page for each child, complete with color coded markers and divider tabs. It'll be spilling over with receipts, business cards and little notes scrawled on scraps of paper. And then I'll be in charge, Queen of the Family Schedule. We'll never miss an activity or even be ten minutes late again...Yeah, like that'll happen.

Amid rushing around last week, from getting haircuts to buying new sneakers to taking the dog in for her annual physical, (funny how my husband and I don't have time to get physicals, but our dog has never missed one), I found myself sitting in traffic, becoming increasingly agitated at the car in front of me. We were running late to the vet's office already. It's amazing how the person in the car in front of you instantly becomes an idiot when they need to turn left on a busy street. Why left??? Why now? Can't they see I'm in a hurry? I have things to do that are more important than their trip to the paint store. As the parade of cars passed by us, as long and slowly as a funeral procession, I waited...and waited. The seconds ticked. I bit my lip. Andrew and Jack in the backseat were oblivious, reading and playing PSP. Kelly, our Anatolian Shepherd, hung her head happily out the passenger side window, high on life and getting to ride in the car.

Finally, a break in the traffic; the car in front of me went for it. I punched the accelerator to make up for lost time. After about 50 yards, I abruptly slammed on brakes, just in time to cause the Department of Transportation worker standing in the middle of the road holding a stop sign to soil his pants. (Sorry about that) CONSTRUCTION ZONE!!! Now, we were definitely late for Kelly's appointment. How could this happen? I'd planned everything so well, even left early so we'd be there on time.

As the construction foreman waved for three backhoes carrying loads-full of metal ducting to drive across the road, I sighed. This might take a while. I was clearly agitated. Kelly panted, breathing hot air on my face, as if to say "you're making me late, here."

Just then, four year old Jack looked up from his game and shouted "Mommy, Cool! Awesome! Look at THAT! Look at those backhoes, Mommy! Aren't they the coolest thing EVER!" Then Andrew looked up commenting on the heavy loads that were being precariously balanced in the metal, long armed buckets. Both my boys have always marveled at the sight of construction equipment to the point where we have a library of Caterpillar and NewHolland footage.

The three of us became engrossed watching the activity before us, discussing elementary physics, what was being built there and what it would be like to drive one of those machines. Then, as quickly as it had started, the traffic director flipped his sign to "slow" and motioned for us to proceed. "Aww, man" Jack said, hating for the show to end.

Until he'd pointed out that truly glorious sight in the mind of a preschooler, I'd focused only on the aggravating delay. I hadn't looked at it as an opportunity to stop and smell the roses, or marvel at the machines, in our case. Thanks, Jack for reminding me that there is wonder in EVERYTHING and to slow down and enjoy it once in a while.

By the way, when we got to the vet's office, the receptionist told me he was running about fifteen minutes behind, so we'd have to wait. Of course!