Written by Rebekah Crozier

About six months ago, I was sitting in my dorm room on the phone with one Kim Avery. This was an unexpected phone call, as I had not seen Kim (or Mrs. Kim, as I’ve called her since the 7th grade) since my high school graduation. It was during this phone call that she told me about her writing and her Substack blog and her desperate need for a reliable editor. Hence, my introduction to editing Mrs. Kim’s hilarious, satirical stories. You can imagine my excitement when she told me in January that her stories were going to be published! 

I love editing and always have. Really, I love anything that has to do with words – reading, writing, listening, storytelling. But editing holds a special place in my heart. I see editing as a puzzle; I love looking at words and deciding how best they fit together. I love grammar and clarity and flawless sentences. Any chance to edit, I will always take. And editing for Kim is fun – her stories always make me laugh! 

Other than editing for Midlife Madness, I write and edit daily in my studies and work. I attend Samford University in Birmingham, where I have a double major in English and Journalism/Mass Communications. Not only am I constantly writing essays and stories for class, but I have also worked for my school’s student-run newspaper for almost three years. During my sophomore year, I worked as the paper’s News Editor, where I edited and designed the news section of the paper. Last semester, I was the paper’s Editor-in-Chief, a job with lots of responsibilities but that I enjoyed immensely. 

Now that I’m a junior in college, the question that I get asked at least once a week is: What are you going to do after graduation? I’ll be graduating in the spring of 2024, so I understand that this is a valid question to ask. My answer? I have no idea. And I’ve learned that that’s okay. I’ve realized that God is teaching me to trust Him with my future right now, and if that means I don’t have an answer to the above question, that is okay. 

However, I do know that any future career or ministry position I may have will include words, whether through writing, editing, journalism or digital storytelling. I am grateful to God for the gifts He has given me and the doors He has opened for me to use those gifts, including editing for the incredible Kim Avery and her Midlife Madness blog! 

Last Thursday morning, while happily drinking my coffee and watching the morning news, I was shocked to learn that, according to CNN host Don Lemon, I may as well be dead. To be clear, Lemon was not imparting his opinion about me specifically but about 51-year-old former Congresswoman Nikki Haley, who recently announced her candidacy for U.S. president. In the conversation on CNN on Thursday, Feb. 16, Lemon stated that Haley is past her prime as a woman at age 51.

Hold up, Don. This hits a little too close to home for me. I’m not considering running for president, but I am a fifty-year-old woman.  

Lemon's co-anchors, both women themselves, reacted to his comments with surprise, and one seemed worried he was digging himself a hole. She threw him a lifeline by asking him to clarify what he meant by "prime." Instead of the rope, Lemon grabbed a metaphoric shovel and continued digging, saying, "A quick Google search would reveal that a woman's prime is in only her 20s, 30s, and 40s."

You know what they say, women. Once you stop menstruating, what good are you?

Though offended, I didn’t immediately dismiss Lemons' opinion. I reasoned that as one of America’s most respected journalists, winner of the Edward R. Murrow award, and a fifty-six-year-old man, Lemon's background screams post-menopausal expert. 

What if he knows what he’s talking about? What if my best years are behind me? What if I am now as obsolete as Blockbuster?

According to Lemon, there was only one sure way to confirm if my irrelevance was imminent. “If you don’t believe me, Google it,” he advised his audience.  

This seemed reasonable. Everyone today knows Google is the ultimate source of infallible Gandhi-like wisdom. Whenever I wrestle with important questions about the mysteries of life, I turn to Google.

Hey, Google, where’s Waldo? 

Hey, Google, what would you do for a Klondike bar?

Hey, Google, which came first: the chicken or the egg? 

Hey Google, were Ross and Rachel on a break? 

Hey, Google, where would you bury an arrogant past-his-prime reporter's body? Too far?

Taking Lemon's own advice, I dragged what I now felt was my subpar, frumpy, more-ancient-than-the-pyramids body in front of my computer. Somehow, with apparently only half my elderly brain working, I remembered how to spell the word Google and searched with trepidation the dreaded words: “women over forty.” 

It wasn’t long until the computer generated a very extensive list. As I began to read, I realized the list was not an inventory of all the ways I had become lesser than; it was instead a lengthy, encouraging catalog of incredible women who achieved their principal accomplishments later in life.

As I scrolled, I was amazed at the hundreds of women over forty who changed the world. Some of my favorites were:

Harriet Tubman – She led hundreds of slaves to freedom on the Underground Railroad after the age of 41.

Julia Child – She published her first cookbook at age 50. 

Laura Ingalls Wilder – She published her first book, Little House in the Big Woods, at age 65.

Grandma Moses – She began painting when she was 78 years old. 

Vera Wang – She didn't begin designing wedding dresses until she was 40.

Toni Morrison – She published her first novel, The Bluest Eye, at age 39.

Dr. Ruth Westheimer – She began her career as a sex therapist in her 50s.

Sandra Day O'Connor – She became the first female Supreme Court justice serving from the age of 51 to 75.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg – She served on the supreme court from age 60 until she passed away at 87.

Margaret Thatcher – She was prime minister of England from ages 53 to 74.

Rosa Parks – She was 42 when she refused to give up her seat on a bus, igniting the civil rights movement.

Mother Teresa – She changed the world one soul at a time until her death at 87.

According to Don Lemon, these women were inconsequential. They were one-offs in a world focused on youth and beauty. But imagine if these women believed their worth and relevance sharply decreased with age. How different might our world be today? Thank God no one told them they were past their prime. Or, more importantly, if someone did thank God, they didn’t believe it. 

Should Lemon be canceled for his arrogant, ignorant, and sexist comments?

I say no. I am reminded of what my wise, still-in-her-prime seventy-five-year-old mother once taught me: “The best cure for objectionable opinions is to allow people to air them. Don’t take away their shovels; with enough time and enough digging, people will usually bury themselves.”

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

contact info: Avery282@gmail.com

A recent phone call from my oldest son prompted me to remember a conversation I had with him years earlier during his senior year of high school.

"What's wrong with you?" my son had asked. 

"I think I twisted something in my back dancing at your homecoming dance yesterday. Maybe during the wobble. Who knew chaperoning could be so dangerous?" I said, rubbing my shoulder

"It might be the way you do it," he laughed, rolling his eyes.

"The way I do it? What does that mean?" 

"You know, all in and a little crazy," he said. His smile told me it was a compliment.

His comment caused me to reminisce. I became a little teary-eyed and nostalgic, knowing he would graduate soon. "All in, and a little crazy." I laughed. 

When he was little, I worried I would mess him and his siblings up. As a new mom, I cried to my mother, afraid that this baby would realize one day that I had no idea what I was doing. "Fake it ‘til you make it," she said. I took the advice and have been faking knowing how to parent ever since.

Before you judge me. If we are being honest, we all fake sometimes. Not that kind of faking! Get your mind out of the gutter….. We all fake knowing parenting strategies to connect with our kids.

There were times I felt very ill-equipped for the job. It’s not like school taught me anything on the subject past the biology of creating a child. Carrying around that sack of flour I was given in Home Ec in no way prepared me for the challenges of raising real children who, it turns out, can’t be fixed with layers of duct tape.

I felt my best hope was to seek advice from those who had traveled this road before me. I remember asking older moms, "What works in parenting?" “How can I build relationships with these little people who sometimes seem to be from an entirely different planet?” I received many answers like, "Never let them see you cry," "Wine coolers," and "Stay one step ahead of them." I was not too fond of wine. They had already seen me cry beginning the moment they were born, and as for catching me, I resembled a penguin when I ran. I felt they would pass me immediately if they didn’t die of embarrassment first. So none of that advice seemed to have potential.

My friend Jennifer had a different approach.

"Kids naturally love life and having fun.” she said “They will gravitate towards it like little moths to a flame. Whether it's with you or with someone else is entirely your choice," she advised. "As a mom, you’ll have to say ‘no’ plenty. So when you can, say ‘yes,’ and embrace the moment with them even if it’s out of your comfort zone and feels a little crazy.” She told me with conviction."It goes by so quickly. Be all in and a little crazy." I remember thinking, That I can do.

“Having four kids crazy was clearly already in the mix, so how difficult could implementing this be?” I contemplated

I was already staring at my personal reality show, Say yes to the Mess. If I added a little levity and insanity, what did I have to lose? Besides, I reasoned I could put savings away as a backup plan in the event my strategy failed, and one day they all needed to hire a professional to counsel the crazy back out.

Like Jennifer, I began to look for ways to be “all in.” Not always, but whenever I could, I said "yes" and joined them. So the crazy started.

Yes, to playing in the rain. Yes, to eating popcorn while watching old movies. Yes, to hayrides, corn mazes, and family dance parties. Yes, to campfires. Yes, to attending extremely loud concerts. Yes, to bike rides and sneaking out for ice cream in our P.J.s. Yes, to having friends over, tons of them. Yes, to building forts with every sheet in the house. Yes, to shaving cream fights. Yes, to attempting Call Of Duty and Minecraft. Yes, to shark fishing and crab catching at night. Yes, to scavenger hunts and long walks. Yes, to TP-ing houses and man hunts in the dark. Yes, to Karaoke in the car and telling silly jokes. Yes, to dropping everything to view a rainbow outside together. Yes, to stargazing and skydiving. Yes, to laughing so hard we cried.

Last week, my now grown son called me. "Hey, Mom!  Concert tickets go on sale today. Do you and the rest of the family want to go with us?" 

"Umm, do you even need to ask? I'm putting it on my calendar now," I said excitedly. 

He laughed. "Knowing you, I figured you would want to go," he said. I smiled, thinking he was still inviting me to have fun with him after all these years.

The journey with my children hasn’t always been smooth, but those memories in the crazy are bonds that have become more important, not less, over time. Those experiences with my kids, now adults, have made for some of my life's greatest, funniest, happiest, and most memorable moments. All anyone can ask of us as mothers is to pause and examine what we are doing and why. If a little spontaneity and craziness will make the moment unforgettable, why not?”

Good news! The 'All In, And A Little Crazy' strategy appears to have worked.

Maybe instead of counseling, we can safely put that money toward a little crazy for me. I’m thinking cherry red convertible.

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

Kimberly’s Contact info: avery282@gmail.com

Kimberly Avery

Our son Thomas had a break from College, and my husband and I had decided to take him with us to visit our family living on the Oregon coast. While there, our kids usually explore the beautiful, rugged outdoors. Over the years, they had been rafting, salmon fishing, hiking, skiing, crabbing, and even sand surfing. In other words, I thought they had done everything there was to do on the Oregon coast until Thomas noticed a flyer hanging in a local grocery that read "Beginner-level hang-gliding lessons."

"Are there levels?" I asked.

I had imagined hang-gliding was much like bungee jumping, with no skill required, just the will to launch yourself off a bridge and pray. Intrigued, my son called the number on the flyer and talked with an expert hang glider named Doug, who assured him there was a beginning level to hang gliding, and he taught it. Thomas informed me the only problem is that Doug only teaches group lessons.

"Where will you get a group who wants to throw themselves over a cliff with you?" I asked. Thomas raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"Dad has to work, but if you go, we will make a group," he pleaded.

"Oh no! I don't think so," I laughed. I did not share Thomas's enthusiasm, but he assured me there was no cliff and we would be floating under the hang-glider, only traveling a few feet off the ground. After much convincing, I reluctantly agreed, and we drove to the coast the next afternoon to meet our instructor Doug.

I got my first clue that Doug was different from your average instructor or even your average person when he zipped his car into the parking spot next to us. Leaping from it, he apologized profusely for being late. Doug explained he had been involved in a minor traffic accident on the way to meet us. However, fortunately, the helmet and airline neck pillow he happened to be wearing and was still sporting had saved his life.

I regarded his strange attire and apparent propensity to exaggerate and debated whether or not to get out of our car. Too late, I realized he was already greeting Thomas with a hardy handshake and an enthusiastic grin. Doug's hang-glider draped comically over the roof of his car like two giant chopsticks rolled in a used paper napkin.

He quickly began to pull the rest of his equipment from the car's hatchback. Unfortunately, his trunk hydraulics no longer worked, so the trunk closed on him each time he reached into the vehicle. It appeared the car was devouring him helmet, neck pillow, and all. I looked at Thomas, and we both raised our eyebrows but glanced away quickly in an attempt not to laugh. I surveyed the beach. Were we on candid camera?

We observed as Doug assembled a large metal triangle frame with white fabric attached to rope and duct tape. Noticing us eyeing the duct tape skeptically, Doug assured us. "She is older but sturdy," he said gingerly, patting the craft's wing.

"How much older?" Thomas asked.

"Well, It's hard to say-I got it from an army surplus store, but she is newer than WWII," Doug told us as if that news was reassuring.

He continued lecturing on the mechanics and history behind hang gliders and shared story after story of his years soaring with the birds. There was no mistaking Doug's love for the sport.

Enthusiastically he proclaimed, "It's as close to an independent flight as you will ever achieve because you control your movement through the air." His description of hang-gliding seemed inspired, almost magical. Obviously, for Doug, hang gliding was not just a hobby. It was his life's passion. The yarns he spun seemed a mix of History, Wikipedia, and his own real and imagined experiences.

The three of us struggled to drag the giant refurbished hang-glider to the top of the dunes. At the same time, Doug enthusiastically recounted how in Jamaica in 1975, he had landed his glider on a beach only to discover a herd of wild horses. He claimed one stallion allowed him to stroke its mane before it disappeared into the jungle. Eventually, Doug shared how he learned hang-gliding in the army and once how Dolly Parton had asked him for hang-gliding lessons.

It seemed to Thomas and me that our time with Doug had propelled us into a strange new world. Forest Gump meets Jumanji on the beaches of Normandy. Reaching the summit of the Dunes, Thomas held the hang glider steady as Doug strapped his harness to the middle of the frame. We observed as he demonstrated the technique of running down the sand under the belly of the glider. Instantly, it lifted him about eight feet off the ground, and he floated just above the sand like a kite with no strings and landed softly on the beach below.

At this point, I'm not sure Thomas or I knew what to make of Doug. We had never met anyone quite like him. Doug's enthusiasm for people, hang gliding, and the gift of life was refreshing, but he marched to the beat of his own drum. He was so unconventional I imagined some people might easily dismiss him. But, instead, I reasoned it was their loss; they missed out on the experience of flying and some unbelievable stories.

When it was my turn, I clipped the strap on my harness below the glider and took a deep breath. Doug had promised the glider would not float more than a few feet off the ground, and the flight would be the experience of a lifetime. I ran forward and immediately lifted into the air, sailing about eight feet above the dune. As he instructed, I pushed the bar in front of me from right to left, turning the glider.

My heart raced. Doug was right, I marveled. This experience was as close to flying as I had ever felt. The feeling was peaceful and exhilarating as the beach appeared to open below me, and the wind danced past my face, catching the glider's wings and holding me above the ground. It was heavenly until I reached the shore, where I pulled back too quickly on the bar, causing the glider and me to careen nose-first into the wet sand. Undaunted, I unhooked myself and hopped up, assuring Doug and Thomas I hadn't hurt anything more than my pride. I couldn't contain my excitement as I stood there, covered in sand from head to toe.

"Did you see me fly?" I asked Thomas.

"Oh, I saw you, Mom," he grinned. We sat down and laughed together for so long that I thought we might never be able to collect ourselves enough to help carry the hang-glider back up the dune.

Thomas and I agree we will never forget Doug or our time together that day. We have recounted the story of our hang-gliding adventure many times, and true to Doug, we always tell it with wonder, excitement, and a bit of exaggeration.

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Over the holidays, our kids came home and brought with them their spouses, children, and dogs. A few days later, we added grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins to the mix. Our house was more crowded than Costco on the day before Thanksgiving. Of course, we loved every minute of it, but now that it’s over, my husband and I have a new appreciation for the quiet, boring lives we usually lead.

It's the little things that I’ve come to appreciate about being new empty nesters. Before my children left home, I never imagined I would feel this way one day. I love my children, and ten years ago, I would have cried myself to sleep if someone had mentioned that they would all leave the nest one day. I remember imagining this inevitable tragedy: my husband and I alone in our ridiculously too-big nest, clinging to each other, shivering in sadness, too brokenhearted and lonely to go on. I have found, to my delight, that this is not the case.

Things here in our empty nest often run more smoothly than ever before. However, the holidays reminded me that our house couldn't handle much excitement these days before it started to act up. Our home is like a toddler that will melt down if he or she doesn’t get a nap. 

With each new guest that arrived, our house began to rebel a little more. Our thermostat started to register the same temperature as the sun each morning. Whole gallons of milk evaporated, leaving only empty jugs in our fridge. Whenever we plugged our phones into a charger, we would return to find the phone still dead and the charger missing, prompting an immediate search for the kidnapper. Our favorite coffee mugs began playing hide-and-seek with us. The Wi-Fi mysteriously froze. Leftovers in the refrigerator vanished overnight. Fresh flowers in the bathroom wilted inexplicably, and toilet paper disappeared, leaving only the cardboard tube. My shower no longer ran hot. Our cars' gas tanks began to register empty even after being topped off the day before. The dishwasher started running loudly 24/7. Water leaked from the floor by the upstairs bathtub through the ceiling below. At one point, our house became incapable of even keeping its doors closed, and on top of that, the alarm blared in the middle of the night, causing all the dogs to bark and all the babies to cry.

Just when I thought our house couldn't take anymore, the holidays ended, and our guests returned to their homes, leaving us (and our house) breathing a collective sigh of relief. 

In celebration, my husband and I sat enjoying our morning coffee from our favorite coffee cups and listening only to the sound of our fireplace crackling and the wind blowing outside in the distance. “Do you hear that?” he asked. 

“What? I don't hear anything,” I answered. 

“Exactly,” he said. “It's wonderfully quiet.” 

“Cheers,” I said as we clicked our mugs together and smiled.

Just then, the phone rang, shattering the silence. Our son had been our longest-staying guest. We’d barely even had time to miss him as he’d just headed back to his college apartment this morning. 

He began his call with the words, "So you’re not going to believe it." I set down my coffee and turned on the phone's speaker so my husband could hear what I suspected would not be good news. Whenever a phone call from one of our children begins with, "You’re not going to believe it," it's never good. The phrase, “You're not going to believe it,” is never followed by “I just won the lottery,” or “I'm graduating early,” or “I just found the cure for cancer.”

My son continued, "The pipes at my apartment froze and burst over the holidays, and the manager said it will be at least three months before I can live here again. I’ll need to move home and commute for a while.”

After hanging up the phone, my husband and I looked at each other. “Well,” he said. “That had to be the shortest post-holiday honeymoon on record.” 

We heard a loud creaking sound from upstairs. “Great,” I panicked. “Our house just heard the news, and it doesn’t sound happy.”

Edited By Rebekah Crozier

Contact Info: avery282@gmail.com

Not many people can admit it, but I can. I’m very bad at Christmas. My anxiety starts building at the mere thought of what it takes to spread Christmas cheer. Hanging Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer on my tree, simply confirms the obvious: I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m terrible at it.

Before you send me mail cleverly addressed to the Grinch, let me explain. I didn’t say I hated Christmas; I just said I’m very bad at it. Being bad at something doesn’t always mean you hate it. For instance, I’m very bad at dancing. I have been told my dancing looks like Elaine’s from Seinfeld: a full-body dry heave. But I still love dancing. I suppose this could be because I don’t have to look at myself dancing as other people do. Anyway, Christmas is like dancing for me. I love it, and I’m jealous of anyone to whom it comes naturally.

As an adult, I’ve discovered that Christmas, like many things in life, requires skills that some of us (namely me) never acquired growing up. Unlike most of my friends, I could always relate to Charlie Brown, as my attempt at all things Christmas has yielded astonishingly sad results over the years. For example, while wrapping gifts, I accidentally sliced our carpet, a bedspread, and the tip of my finger on separate occasions, only to produce packages that looked like they were sent by the Unabomber. In my Christmas cards, the sentiments I come up with are never clever, and a four-year-old using a crayon has better handwriting. As for Christmas candy, I’ve been assured it’s hard to make because it requires certain weather conditions. Judging by the results, I have always chosen the wrong conditions.

So why is there so little emphasis placed on preparing kids for the inevitable grown-up responsibility of pulling off Christmas? 

I remember taking many classes in school, most of which were filled with information I never use today. For instance, calculus. Well okay, I didn’t take calculus, but many people who are smarter than myself did. My husband did, and I know for a fact he doesn't use it today. My point is that neither of us uses calculus. Google took calculus so I didn’t have to.

Why did all those classes teach unnecessary subjects like calculus instead of useful topics like the finer points of crafting Christmas? This seems crazy when you realize how much material there is to cover: shopping, ordering, wrapping, baking, caroling, and decorating. 

But if I’m being honest, I’m not certain years of instruction would have been helpful enough for me. Am I the only one who feels that if schools did offer a class on creating Christmas magic, I would immediately have been identified as special needs? All signs point to me being a Christmas dyslexic.

Instagram is full of videos showcasing Christmas cabins located in what appears to be Narnia. Trees that rival the elegance and splendor of the ones in the store windows lining New York’s Fifth Avenue. Gifts wrapped in whimsical paper with matching ribbons and bows. A Christmas dinner table that could inspire Norman Rockwell. So I’m not surprised when I observe the homes of my neighbors, friends, and coworkers who somehow have developed real talents when it comes to the holidays and who come across as Christmas overachievers.

After visiting my friend Stacey, I realized she must have not only taken a class on Christmas but somehow had gotten into the AP class and graduated Magna Cum Laude. Her home at Christmas resembles a live Hallmark movie, with front doors draped in a beautiful display of real fur wreaths, warm twinkle lights, and giant silver bows. (How does she keep those branches so green? If I can’t keep a cactus green, I sure can’t keep dismembered limbs looking fresh.) Inside her home, her dining room table is set with Christmas China and more crystal than a window outside of Tiffany's. Christmas scents waft from candles all over the house, a different one in each room. Her rooms display not one, but three trees that I feel certain she must have grown herself with a proprietary blend of low-calorie, protein-rich fertilizer. Each tree is pruned to the perfect height and width, and trimmed in all the right places with large swirling ribbons, warm twinkling lights, and matching ornaments. These trees, supermodels of the Christmas tree world, are runway ready.

My best attempts at decorating never seem to result in anything close to Stacey’s display of Christmas magic. I would instead call my attempts, Christmas tragic. It's not like I don’t try. Every year, I head down to the local Christmas tree lot and spend hours searching, comparing, and measuring. Aware of my ineptitude, I even get others' opinions. Does this tree make me look fat? 

Eventually, I decide on what appears to be the perfect Christmas tree. However, once I drag it home, somehow half the needles are missing and it leans slightly to one side, requiring me to build a kickstand out of a walking cane. Yes, my tree resembles Mr. Peanut. After I add the ornaments, the branches sag and bend more than my boobs after a jog these days. Half the lights on my tree burn out after I string them, immediately sucked back into the tree fat with no way to identify which bulb is the cause of my rolling blackouts. Instead of looking like a supermodel, my tree looks more like Jabba the Hutt

.

Also, it doesn't help that I’m sentimental. I keep ornaments well past their prime, and I can’t seem to part with them. My isle of misfit ornaments includes a chinless nutcracker, a wingless angel, and a reindeer named Ralphie, who only has three legs. All are sweet gifts from my children over the years. 

I’ve resorted to Christmas shopping online in an effort to make the process quicker and easier. Somehow, I still find this to be challenging. I’m constantly confused by sizes or quantities, or both. Last year, I ordered a sweater as a gift for my mother. When it arrived, I opened the package to behold three tiny sweaters for doll triplets. I know, I know! It’s the thought that counts. But even I know that nobody, not even Mariah Cary, feels that all they want for Christmas is me. 

On Christmas Eve, I waited nervously for family and friends to arrive. I must admit I was feeling overwhelmed and frustrated by the less than impressive results from my efforts at creating the perfect Christmas. My daughter, who had been away at college, was the first to arrive. “Oh, the house looks great,” she marveled, as only someone who had been homesick for the past three months would do. She glanced around with delight and examined the tree I had struggled to put up. “I love it,” she said. “It’s perfect!” She reached up and touched each of her favorite ornaments with her fingers. “Look, mom! It’s Ralphie.” 

“Yes, it wouldn’t be Christmas without Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer,” I laughed. 

“Not for us it wouldn’t,” she agreed.

As more family arrived, we spent time eating, playing games, drinking hot chocolate, laughing together, and reminiscing about Christmases past. We sang Christmas carols, and my husband read the story of Jesus’s birth. That night, I realized something important. While it’s true I would probably never be able to pull off an Instagram-perfect Hallmark channel Christmas, why was I so worried about it? How had others' standards become my standards? Shouldn’t every family develop their own unique celebrations and traditions? I realized I had worried that my insignificant Christmas skills would result in my friends and family having an insignificant holiday. 

Looking around the room, my heart overflowed as I understood that we had everything we needed to observe the perfect Christmas. We were blessed to be in a safe, warm home celebrating Jesus’s birth, surrounded by those we love and thinking of those who couldn’t be with us. Sitting near my husband, I smiled at our friends, who are now family, and I regarded my two youngest children, who had returned home, and my two older boys, who were now raising families of their own. One day, they would all be in charge of creating their own Christmases. I pray they will always remember who Christmas is really about and why we celebrate it. I hope years from now, they will remember Christmas at our home fondly. 

That evening, I watched my two-year-old grandson’s eyes light up as he reached for the tree, and like his dad at his age, carefully cupped his hands around Ralphie, the three-legged reindeer. Gratitude filled my heart in that moment, and I realized no class could teach what every child already knows: the wonder and magic of Christmas.

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

Contact info: avery282@gmail.com

After dropping off our last child at college, we sat in silence on the long drive home. “What now?” I wondered. Glancing at my husband John, I noticed an ear hair was beginning to curl out of his ear and down into his collar. Sure, he would need me to pull that hair he couldn’t reach, help keep his eyebrows separated, and alert him to when he had spinach between his teeth, but sadly he wouldn't need me the same way our kids had. 

With the last child leaving, it was as if my stint on “The Apprentice” was over and Donald had just leaned in and bellowed, “You're fired.” 

The next day, I was catching up with a friend when she caught me off guard with a single question. “Now that you're an empty nester, what are you planning to do with yourself?” She spoke with urgency as if I was at risk of becoming as obsolete as Blockbuster.

“I have no idea,” I told her. “Perhaps I’ll skip this phase of life entirely and move into assisted living early.” 

After being a full-time mom for nearly thirty years, the thought of sitting alone, rocking peacefully with only my thoughts to occupy me, assuming I still had any, was somewhat alluring. I could attend field trips I didn't plan, dine on food I didn't cook, and lounge in bed all day binge-watching Netflix in my comfy pajamas without anyone worrying that hell had frozen over or that pigs could now fly. “You must admit that has an underappreciated appeal,” I told my friend.

“Seriously, what employable skills do you have?” she asked. 

“I can take a nap anywhere, anytime. I can touch my tongue to my nose, and I have mastered the at-home facial with the steam from the dishwasher,” I responded

“What employable skills?” she asked again. 

“As a mom, I’ve got skills,” I told her confidently. “I'm just not sure how employable they are.” 

“Any particular field?” she asked.

“I have a lot of experience in health care.” 

Let's see. I’ve administered 1,728 doses of Tylenol. I’ve kissed and applied Band-Aids to 1,200 boo-boos. I can tell a child's temperature with just my elbow and can sense when they are about to throw up in traffic. I once performed surgery with only super glue when my son’s knuckle was shaved off during an apple-peeling debacle. I’ve extracted 72 splinters and 18 fish hooks. I saved one hamster headed toward the light with mouth-to-mouth, and I’ve removed 37 ticks, not counting the one I tried to remove from our dog that turned out to be a nipple. 

“Bill’s half-brother, Steve, is starting a late-life career as an Uber driver,” my friend informed me. 

“I have a lot of experience in transportation too.” 

I can drive a school carpool with my eyes closed, often backward and uphill in the snow. I can also dislocate my own shoulder in order to retrieve a screaming child's sippy cup from the floor of the backseat while never taking my eyes off of the road. I can probably drive Uber at night and still get a full eight hours of sleep. I trained myself to nap sitting straight up with my eyes open in order to give my offspring the impression that I was watching them from the car as they spent hours practicing sports at which they’ll never be good enough to translate into a profession.

“What about working with food? You make a fairly edible meatloaf,” she said. 

She’s not wrong: I’m great with food. I can slap together a school lunch in under fifteen seconds (thirty seconds if we’re out of Lunchables). I have a talent for locating items in our refrigerator that are invisible to everyone else in the family. I can make leftovers last for a week by dressing them up and disguising them as new meals. When the kids announced there was nothing in the house to eat, I was able to discover vegetables that no one recognized as food. 

“I’m bilingual, too!” I remembered. “I speak fluent two-year-old. Or what about something in accounting?”

“Accounting? But you're terrible at math,” my friend pointed out. 

“That actually works in my favor,” I told her, “as the IRS is now hiring 87,000 new agents. Plus, I’m great at estimating what people owe. I can tell you that each of my kids owes us eight million dollars.”

“Eight million?” she asked, incredulous. 

“Obviously! That accounts for inflation and our pain and suffering.”

I then started thinking that maybe the military would be interested in employing me, and I shared this with my friend. 

“Seriously? Your joking, right?” She laughed. 

“Go ahead and laugh,” I said. “But I’ve developed a few rare abilities the Navy Seals might be interested in.”

I have overdeveloped olfactory senses that can sniff out potentially lethal substances. I once identified dirty gym socks and a bag of Doritos under a bed three rooms away.

I’m an avid multitasker. I can talk on the phone, fold laundry with my toes, swill wine, and help two kids with their homework all at one time.

I'm skilled at employing bribery and negotiating with tiny hostages. I know when a teen isn’t telling the truth without a lie detector machine, and I’ve held interrogations that resulted in the suspect confessing and begging for mercy in under five minutes flat. I also have great detective skills, as I can easily tell which culprit has mud on their shoes that they’ve tracked into the house.

“Impressive,” she said. 

If they still underestimate the extent of the unique skills I’ve acquired in thirty years of mothering, I may need to arrange an in-person interview with U.S. Special Operations to personally demonstrate the superhero speed that kicks in when chasing a missed school bus or garbage truck. Oh, and my ability to be in three places at once.

“Special Operations?” My friend laughed in disbelief.

“Hey, being a parent is not a job for the ill-equipped,” I assured her.

“Superheroes had nothing on my mom when she was raising me,” I reminisced. “My mom could read my mind, and I’m convinced she had a sixth sense. She was fearless, especially when it came to standing up for her children. Her heart was larger than most meer mortals as it was filled with unconditional love, and of course, she had eyes in the back of her head.”

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

Contact Info avery282@gmail.com

“You stuff what inside the bottom of a turkey?" my friend asked. She was quite serious.

"Stuffing,” I said again. 

She laughed.

It all began when our friends from South Africa flew to the U.S. for a conference the week of Thanksgiving. Picking them up at the airport, we couldn’t be more excited that they would be experiencing the U.S. and Thanksgiving for the very first time. I quickly discovered that Thanksgiving, a nostalgic holiday that makes perfect sense to Americans, seems like a bizarre ride on the crazy train to much of the rest of the world.

It had never occurred to me that, unlike Christmas or Easter, the rest of the world really has no ties to the American holiday of Thanksgiving. Not only do they not celebrate it, but they also don’t really understand it either.

"The airport isn't always this crowded," I assured them. “Thanksgiving week is the most heavily traveled time of the year in the States.”

“Are Americans all traveling to express gratitude in a place of worship?" my friend asked. 

“No, they’re traveling to a place with turkey,” I answered. “They travel once a year to eat a giant meal with their friends and family and give thanks that they don’t live closer together.”

“Why turkey?"

“Well, it's the traditional centerpiece of our holiday meal,” I explained. “One lucky turkey receives an official pardon from the President. The rest risk having their heads cut heads off, feathers plucked, guts pulled out, and bottoms stuffed full of bread.”

"That sounds awful,” she said, horrified. “Then what?”

“We cook the bird. Traditionally we baked it in our oven, but this year my husband is opting to light a garbage can full of oil on fire in our driveway and dunk the bird in it instead.”

 “Americans are often willing to risk life and limb in pursuing the perfectly cooked turkey.” Case in point: my Uncle Ted still has no eyebrows from his last year’s attempt at deep frying his turkey.

“If you don’t like a plain old turkey, some people mix it up and order a Turducken. It’s a deboned chicken stuffed into a deboned duck and a deboned Turkey.”

“That doesn't sound very appealing,” she winced. 

“Well, no worries, there are many other things to eat,” I offered. “Americans are fond of gourds, especially pumpkins, this time of year. We infuse our coffee with their scent. We mash them into casseroles with enormous amounts of butter, sugar, nuts, and marshmallows, which we deliberately burn before serving. We even blend them into pies”. I continued. 

My friend’s raised eyebrows suggested she was less than impressed by the holiday of Thanksgiving. 

“It’s really one of my very favorite holidays,” I assured her.

I was tempted to go on discussing my love for The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, where commentators give play-by-plays on the movement of enormous crazy balloons, the kids' tradition of tracing paper turkey hands, or watching football for hours until my family eventually becomes so inspired that we waddle onto the front lawn and recreate the game with everyone including grandma. Or how those of us that survive the football go on to compete the next day at the mall in what can only be described as a deathmatch for the deals.

But I realized I can't explain most of it and sound sane. I can't explain why my family loves space-age cranberry sauce that maintains its shape even after being poured from the can or that at least three boxes of cereal mixed with Worcestershire sauce is a must.

I can't explain our obsession with shaping appetizers into balls.... sausage balls, meatballs, and cheese balls.

Or why our dining room table is beautifully set but then connected with a train of wobbly card tables extending into our coat closet.

Or just try explaining why kids enjoy fighting over who gets the bigger side of a bone of the dead turkey carcass.

I thought about explaining all this to my foreign friend, but I decided not to –  I knew she would never understand.

To the rest of the world, I guess it really appears that Americans have lost their minds on Thanksgiving, but for those of us that grew up in the United States, we don't really care what the rest of the world thinks. We wait all year for that special day with family and friends where, once again, we repeat these unexplainable, bizarre, and nearly certifiable traditions.

Maybe we can’t explain it because it's not really about the traditions themselves. Maybe it's more about the way it makes us feel; grateful. Maybe, just for one day a year, it reminds us of a time when the world was not nearly as uncertain and politically correct as the one we live in today. Maybe the freedom to celebrate in any way we choose reminds us how blessed we are as individuals and as a nation. I can't explain American Thanksgiving to the rest of the world. I only know I love it – every crazy, wonderful, and certifiable part.

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Thanksgiving_Day_Turkey_Float.jpg

For those who grew up in the 80s, fashion magazines were a readily available, entirely reliable, absolutely bonified source for all things beauty. In my teens, I spent hours attempting to mimic the 'Cindy to Cinderella’ techniques detailed in their pages. In magazines like Seventeen, Teen Beat, and Vogue, I found critical advice from articles with titles such as, “Unforgettable eyebrows are robust but pleasantly unobtrusive.”

Throughout my twenties, I tried to follow the magazine’s advice but eventually, I was forced to accept that unforgettable eyebrows were simply not in the cards for me. Thanks to genetics, my eyebrows were never big, bushy, or fabulous in a Brook Shields Hollywood sort of way. Mine were more the average blue-collar, boring brown eyebrows. At least they were dependable, showing up every day for years and doing their indispensable job of framing my face and telegraphing my expressions. I swept a brow brush over them once a year, and occasionally, I plucked a few rogue hairs that had attempted to migrate from one brow to the other (I can only assume they got tired and homesteaded in the middle of my nose).

That was pretty much the extent of my brow nurturing until recently when my husband and I stayed in a luxury hotel with a glamorous bathroom. It had heated floor tiles, an in-mirror television, a shower the size of a car wash, and a vanity with a giant, wall-mounted, LED-lit magnifying mirror. I was especially excited about the mirror, and my imagination began to run wild. I fantasized that this was exactly the kind of mirror that magically transforms celebrities in their dressing rooms into flawless stars. That night, before getting dressed to go out, I excitedly flipped on the light, ready to conduct my own beauty transformation. Glancing down, I was immediately shocked by the reflection staring back at me. I dropped the mirror and instinctively jumped back as if I’d seen a ghost (or at least the ghost's great-grandmother). 

Using a mirror that lit up and magnified every cell in my face a thousand times its natural size, did not result in the cathartic experience I had anticipated. Reflected in the mirror before me was not the face I had been viewing with apparently failing vision in my dimly lit bathroom at home for years. The face looking back at me appeared much older. This new face sported undereye bags, a few brown patches that resembled the skin of a banana well past its prime, a nest of nose hair, and, worst of all, eyebrows that could easily be mistaken for two sad little Charlie Brown Christmas trees. 

“What the heck happened to my eyebrows?” I blurted out to my husband. 

He glanced at me from the doorway. “What?” He said calmly. “They look like they always do.” 

Dear Lord, could he possibly be right? 

I had heard rumors that once you reach your mid-forties, a few of your eyebrow hairs might have the potential to rebel and even go on strike. But was it possible that by age fifty, whole quadrants of your eyebrows can unionize and actually boycott your face altogether? Were these deserters now somewhere on a beach sipping something strong on a permanent vacation? Obviously, they had either revolted or retired. Either way, they didn’t consult me in the process.

“I just don’t understand,” I worried out loud. “I'm sure my eyebrows were here yesterday. Where could they have gone?” Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a few brow hairs that, while not still technically on my brow had not completely gone AWOL with the others. 

“Never mind; I found them,” I told my husband. “They’ve migrated to my chin.”

Back at home, it didn’t take long for me to accept that my eyebrow arch was most likely gone forever. I decided to take immediate action. I consulted with an expert, the makeup stocker at the local CVS, who told me that I would now need to use a brow pencil to cover the potholes in what was left of my eyebrows. She also felt strongly that a chin hair transplant would likely have a very low success rate, despite my hopes in the suggestion.

Following her advice, I chose two brow pencils in shades as close as I could find to the remnants of hair that remained above my eyes. However, I was forced to switch to non-permanent pencils once I discovered I was no Picasso when it came to eyebrow self-portraits. After much practice, my efforts still produced only a vague resemblance to my once great community of brow hair, but I figured it would have to do. I vowed to never leave home again without pencil coverage.

Unfortunately, this honeymoon relationship with my new eyebrow pencils proved short-lived. 

My husband and I had scheduled a Zoom meeting with an editor early one morning. I had been performing my usual morning routine of making coffee, shuffling around in my ratty slippers, losing my coffee, unloading our dishwasher, finding my coffee, feeding our dog, and reheating my coffee. Somehow both of us had lost track of time, and my husband announced that we needed to be on the call right then. I quickly found my coffee again, and we both sat down in front of our computer monitor. 

We joined the call and could immediately see our faces on the screen. I was not thrilled that I hadn’t had time to apply any makeup. My morning brows were on full naked display, resembling two thin caterpillars with bad cases of leprosy. Our editor had not yet joined the call. Staring at my brows, I surmised I could be comfortable without my other makeup, but my eyebrow pencil was a must. Jumping up, I yelled at my husband that I would be right back. Since my brow pencil was my new best friend, I had stashed duplicates everywhere: my makeup drawer, the car, my purse, and even the downstairs bathroom. 

“Hurry!” my husband yelled. He believed in always being prompt. 

With my slippers on, I hit the bathroom tile and slid across the room faster than Tom Cruise in Risky Business. I fumbled in the drawer under the sink, and locating my eyebrow pencil, I applied it quickly and bolted back to the office. By the time I returned, our editor had joined the call and was chatting with my husband. Our editor's face now appeared on our screen and ours on his. I slid into my seat beside my husband, relieved that I had accomplished my mission in such a small amount of time. 

In hindsight, I remember a strange look crossing our editor’s face when I sat down beside my husband, but I concluded that it must have been something he ate. I also remember that at one point, my husband looked over at me and his face adopted the same confused look. 

Thirty minutes later, the call ended, and my husband turned to look at me. “What the heck is wrong with your eyebrows?” 

“Hey! You know they’re not robust,” I snapped back at him. 

“No, why are they bright red?” he asked. 

“Red?” I gasped, running to the nearest mirror and flipping on the light to look for myself. What greeted me was the face of a clown. In my hurry in the dim morning light, I had somehow confused my red lip liner and my brown brow pencil. In my defense, other than the color at the very tip, they looked exactly the same. 

I was horrified. I had been showcased on a Zoom call for nearly thirty minutes looking less like Lady Diana and more like Lady Gaga. “Kill me now,” I cried. 

When I finally calmed down, my husband stopped laughing long enough to speak. He pulled me into a hug. “Consider the silver lining here,” he grinned. “You always wanted ‘unforgettable brows.’ Now, these are absolutely unforgettable.”

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

Contact info: avery282@gmail.com

It's that time of year again. You know, the season when the days become shorter and the nights become longer. The air grows cooler and the trees grow bare. It’s the time of year when, no matter where you turn, cynicism and discontent abound.

Obviously, I’m speaking of election season.

About to vote for the first time, my eighteen-year-old asked me if there is a handbook or instruction manual on who to vote for.

“It really comes down to which qualities you value and expect to see in the people you elect,” I told her. “And if they’re already in office, you base your vote on their performance, not their rhetoric.”

“So no book?” She laughed.

“Well, there are actually many books,” I responded.

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I thought back to raising my children and the importance I had placed on teaching them the values that I prayed they would one day embrace as their own. I recalled all the classic books I read to them when they were small children. The books contained simple themes emphasizing how to be a good friend, citizen, neighbor, employee, and leader.

While observing Washington recently, I’ve realized that many of our politicians seem confused and often lack the pragmatic truths, values, and common sense taught in these children’s books. Perhaps once they grew up, politicians forgot what they learned in childhood. Perhaps no one read to them as children or perhaps they were dropped on their heads. In any case, I would recommend the following as must-reads for our politicians and anyone heading to the polls.

The Little Engine that Could: Great leaders have goals. When reaching those goals becomes difficult, great leaders inspire hope and encourage others to never give up.

Miss Nelson is Missing: Sometimes, tough love is important and necessary. Holding people accountable challenges them to higher performance. Often, accountability inspires people to greatness, by expecting from them more than they realized they were capable of accomplishing.

Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse: Taking responsibility for and expressing regret over the things that go wrong under your watch is often an important step in correcting a situation. Accepting blame and seeking forgiveness is powerful.

Little Blue Truck: Be polite and kind to others. Model civility.

The Lorax: Being a good steward of resources and the environment is always relevant. We will constantly be required to seek a balance between progress and nature. This classic book stresses that those in leadership have an even greater responsibility to improve the world. It closes with a warning: “Unless someone like you / Cares a whole awful lot / Nothing is going to get better / It’s not.”

Oh, The Places You’ll Go: This classic inspirational story tells us that life is an adventure and that everyone should reach for their wildest dreams. Rather than viewing people only as part of a group, good leaders recognize the power of seeing each person as an individual following his or her own dreams.

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie: In this book, granting one request leads to the asking of another in a never-ending cycle of requests. Our leaders should consider that well-intended efforts and policies can have the potential for abuse with long-lasting expectations and demands that drain everyone in the process.

The Empty Pot: It goes without saying that honesty is always the best policy. If you want to lead, it's important to be honest with yourself and with others. Honesty builds trust and respect.

Harry the Dirty Dog: When things that fall under your leadership become dirty and unrecognizable, it's often worth the effort to clean them up and restore them rather than just throw them away. You might be surprised at the irreplaceable beauty and worth hidden underneath.

Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day: The apparently unbelievably challenging lesson from this book is that we all have bad days. Suck it up and don’t blame others.

The Little Red Hen: Requiring everyone to contribute their unique talents to the best of their abilities is good for society.

Everybody Poops: Politicians, like everyone else, are human. They’re not superior to the people who elected them, and they should demonstrate humility by adhering to the same policies they enforce.

If you disagree with any of the wisdom imparted in this article, please do not email me or my editor. Instead, send your insightful email to Washington D.C. - I am certain that if enough of you raise your collective concerns Congress will immediately swing into action. They will reallocate millions of tax dollars in order to form a committee and a subcommittee overseen by a czar in charge of investigating politically inconvenient misinformation disguised as children's literature. Most importantly, please include in your correspondence the reminder that everybody poops.

edited by Rebekah Crozier

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This post was inspired by Geoffrey James’s “Business Wisdom From 10 Classic Children’s Books.” (https://www.inc.com/geoffrey-james/business-wisdom-from-10-classic-children-s-books.html)

image provided by “In Pastel”: (https://www.flickr.com/photos/g-dzilla/5198225154)

Article by Kimberly Avery

There is no reasonable explanation for how I ended up barreling down Interstate 285 in a tow truck, smashed against the driver, and deeply regretting my decision to leave home on Friday afternoon.

I blame my husband. I had mentioned to him that "Big Bertha," our (only occasionally) trusty Suburban with 170 thousand miles, seemed to me to be barely hanging on.

"Perhaps you’re a little paranoid," he said dismissively.

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"Perhaps I have good reason to be paranoid," I snapped. "You remember that our children are still scarred from the Bertha incident last fall that left us stranded on the side of the highway while I was driving them to school?"

He laughed. "You know it wasn't the car breaking down that scarred them. It was your curlers, slippers, and robe combined with an unfortunately strong wind from passing cars that they are still working through with a counselor."

He had a point. After that, at my children's insistence, we implemented a new policy that I must wear pants and a bra before leaving the house to drive them to school.

Still, I could point to the many other times that Bertha had let us down. When we picked her up from the mechanic, my husband would pat her hood and say, "Now that we’ve fixed all the major things that could go wrong, Bertha is good as new." That was as ridiculous as saying my 82-year-old great aunt, who has had breast implants, liposuction, knee surgery, hip replacement, and angioplasty, was now ready for the Boston Marathon or the cover of Vogue.

With my appeals falling on deaf, or at least very wax-filled, ears and having no other means of transportation, Bertha, Ashley, and I headed down GA 400 to her cross-country track meet on the other side of Atlanta. Things took a turn for the worst about twenty-five miles later. A young man in a shiny corvette convertible pulled up next to me on the freeway and motioned for me to roll down my window. I could tell he was visibly annoyed holding his car steady next to mine as I manually moved the handle, stretched out the cramp in my arm, caught my breath, and rolled some more.

Finally, he yelled, "Hey lady, black smoke is coming out of your car's back!" I nodded thanks, but in my head, I was thinking, Look, smart guy. I just manually rolled down my window, the ceiling of my car resembles a circus tent, and my bumper is held together with bumper stickers. These things alone should signify that you were not born when this car was made. Do you think it should have the same emissions as a Prius?

About that time, Ashley choked out, "Something smells like a paper mill in our car!"

"Great! That's new."

I pulled off at the next exit and managed to coast into a tiny Georgia service station. Explaining my dilemma to the mechanic, I asked if he would mind taking a look.

"No problem," he said. It wasn't long before he returned with his brilliant analysis. "Yep! She's got black smoke coming out her backside."

"Is it drivable?" I asked.

"Well, here's the thing," he said. "White smoke? You can drive her. Gray smoke. You can drive her. But black smoke means it's burning really hot, and she may catch on fire while you are driving her."

I must admit that I pondered the words, “catch on fire,” for just a moment. I pictured Bertha on the side of the road burning like the Hindenburg and calculated that if I lived, that should guarantee me a new car. Finally, however, realizing I had Ashley with me, I came to my senses.

"I can call you a tow truck and get a rental car to pick you up." he offered. After twenty minutes, Bubba the rental car driver arrived in a car that reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor. Gasping for breath, Ashley and I rolled down our windows and hung our heads like Golden Retrievers going for a ride.

Arriving dizzy from lack of oxygen, I fumbled in my purse, searching for a tip. Unfortunately, all I had was a twenty. I reasoned that I was not tipping twenty dollars for a five-mile ride in a car that smelled like an armpit. Instead, I quickly hopped out and headed inside, trying not to make eye contact with the driver, but I could feel his disapproving stare on my back.

Inside, a perky agent greeted me with, "I will be with you in just a moment." 

Fifty-one minutes later, I was called up to the counter. "Obviously, the word moment has a very loose definition here," I commented.

"Credit card and driver's license?" she motioned. I wearily produced both.

"I could put you in that brand-new SUV." She pointed out the window. 

"Perfect. I'll take it," I sighed.

"But I can only rent to licensed drivers, and your license expired seven days ago."

"What!?"

I grabbed my license in disbelief. Yep, the thing had been good for ten years, but today it sheepishly admitted to being expired. "I still know how to drive!" I said sarcastically. 

"That may be true, but according to this, you are no longer able to," she quipped just as sarcastically.

"That's just great!" I snapped. I tried calling my husband, but being unable to reach him, I turned back to the agent.

"We are closing momentarily, but our driver could give you a ride back to your car," she suggested. 

"Is that momentarily like in a minute or fifty-one minutes from now as you seem so prone to defining it in the rental car world?" I asked. Her face, no longer perky, said she was not amused.

I peered through the glass door into the parking lot and saw Bubba still glaring at me from behind the wheel. "Yeah, Ok," I said, defeated. Then, taking a deep breath, I tried nonchalantly walking out and sliding into the back of his car again. This time I handed him the twenty and asked sweetly, "Could you take us back to our car, please?"

He snatched the money out of my hand and laughed. At this point, I was growing exhausted and irritated. "Couldn't get a car?" he snickered. 

I looked at Ashley and raised my eyebrows to say go with it. I answered Bubba with the straightest face I could muster. "No, apparently, that stretch I served back in Federal Prison for attempted homicide, even though my own Mother deserved it, disqualified me. Who knew?"

When the color returned to Bubba's face, he quickly handed me my twenty saying, "It's on me," and even more rapidly returned us to our car, which was being towed.

"Do you need a ride?" the tow truck driver asked me. I thought of waiting for my husband or a friend to pick us up, but it was five o'clock, traffic was awful, and everything here in 'Mayberry' was closing, so I said, "Why not? Sure.”

So two Valium and two hours later, I pondered again how Ashley and I had ended up in a tow truck squished against its sweaty driver in stand still traffic regretting our decision to leave home. The whole incident is now etched in our minds as an incredibly memorable experience that she will likely spend the next year in therapy trying to forget.

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

Article by Kimberly Avery

In the past, my husband and I always celebrated Halloween on the road. And by road, I mean the road in our neighborhood. We spent our Halloweens walking up and down sidewalks watching our kids, and eventually grandkids, trick-or-treat, and occasionally we would end the night by taking them to a neighborhood Halloween party. 

With just the two of us this year, I told my husband I was looking forward to our first Halloween at home. “Let's let Halloween come to us this year,” I mused. “It’ll definitely be less work.” 

My husband happily agreed and added, “Sounds like we could probably turn out the porch light and be in bed by nine this year.” At our age, our favorite holidays are now exclusively the ones we celebrate in our living room, usually sipping wine and donning cozy bedroom slippers before concluding the night with a one-room commute.

Thinking back on my own childhood, trick or treating was the one holiday adventure reserved just for little kids, and as little kids we looked forward to it all year. Each Halloween my friends and I dressed up in cheesy-themed plastic costumes that included a matching mask with tiny uneven slits to serve as peepholes. Looking back, I can only imagine the discussion involved in the design of the costumes. I’m certain it must have been some childless genius in marketing’s brilliant idea. “I know let's wrap the little kids in sauna suits blindfold them with a mask and send them out in the dark to beg while holding a plastic pumpkin with no lid.” 

My first clue that Halloween had changed dramatically since my childhood should have been the reaction of my neighbor when I told her we were staying home and simplifying Halloween this year. 

“But what are you planning to dress as?” She wanted to know. 

Confused by her question, I asked, “Dress up as?” For my generation, once we reached puberty, it was understood we stopped begging on Halloween. We stopped expecting people to give us something just because we were cute (except for those of us who went on to work in Hollywood or at Hooters).

“Everyone dresses up! Even to give out candy.” 

“Well,” I sighed. “Since I’m over four feet tall, I guess I’ll dress as a mature adult.” 

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief and laughed. “You're a humor columnist, so that might be hard for you to pull off.”

Walking into the local pharmacy later that afternoon, I passed two large posters. One read: One in four Americans will develop diabetes. The other said: Buy three bags of candy, get three free. I was happy to combine errands and save time by shopping for our Halloween night giveaways at the same place I picked up my prescriptions, but honestly, what evil scheme was this? It seemed preposterous that in the month of October, pharmacists holding people responsible for diabetes treatment also double as drug mules pushing candy. You’d think more people would be able to see the blatant hypocrisy, I contemplated to myself, moving the EpiPens to reach the candy peanuts. 

As I surveyed what was left of the ransacked, diabetes-inducing aisle, I pondered carefully which candy to choose. This was an important choice for me. A choice not based on price, which candy was leftover, or even which candy the little beggars would like the most. If history serves, it is far more important that I choose the candy based on my own candy needs. 

Meaning, I needed to pick the candy I hated most. 

As a recovering sugar addict, I can’t be trusted to purchase and bring home unopened bags of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups or M&M’s or Nerds or Skittles or 3 Musketeers, or, if I’m being honest, any edible candy. In fact, we haven’t kept sweets in our house since 2001, or the Cookie Delivery Debacle, as my family now calls it. My fall off the sugar wagon that year coincided with the unfortunate intersection of Girl Scout Cookie season and the second trimester of my third pregnancy. The result was my traumatic transformation in less than a month from a woman resembling the Pillsbury Doughboy to someone who had eaten the Pillsbury Doughboy. I remember My OB-GYN’s bafflement as he asked what on earth I had been eating. 

I tried to explain. “Well, the Girl Scout Cookies were delivered.”

“How many of them did you eat?” He asked incredulously. 

“Maybe forty-five or fifty,” I admitted. 

“Cookies?” 

“No, boxes.”

Not wanting a repeat of this debacle, I decided to play it safe this year. I scoured the shelves for the most unappealing candy I could find. At the check-out counter, the cashier observed my candy choices and looked up with such astonishment you would have thought she had just seen Elvis. 

“Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone purchase this candy since I was a kid.” She squeezed one of the bags. “In fact, this may be the same candy from when I was a kid.” 

What does she know? I thought. Obviously, she was naive and had never lived through the hell of her own Cookie Delivery Debacle. Undaunted and proud of my practical (although possibly inedible) choice, I left the store and soon arrived home with ten unopened bags of circus peanuts. 

By five p.m., my husband and I had turned on the porch light, dumped the candy into a bowl, put on our cozy slippers, and poured ourselves glasses of wine. We were ready for the sweet little munchkins.

“You're actually going to try to pass that off as Halloween candy?” My husband asked. 

“Tiny kids are many things, but discriminatory against candy is not one of them,” I assured him.

Almost immediately, we began to hear commotion outside. Peering out the window, we saw our street already crawling with an onslaught of vehicles. Golf carts, cars, Amazon vans, buses, tractor-trailers, and even an Uber – all delivering hundreds of trick-or-treaters to our doorstep.

First on our stoop arrived a tiny shades-wearing fighter pilot with his own co-pilot, his helicopter mom, glued to his side. I offered him a treat, and he smiled, reaching inside the bowl.

Upon glimpsing the candy, his mother gasped. “Drop that!” She yelled at him. “He’s allergic! Didn’t you receive the neighborhood letter warning against giving out anything with nuts?” 

“Oh, it's just circus peanuts,” I assured her. 

“I don’t care what kind of peanuts they identify as! It’s very irresponsible,” she shamed.

This was only the first of many incidents to come.

Soon, entire families were on our porch, every family member dressed according to theme. The largest family appeared dressed as the Kardashians, the kids holding candy-collecting swag bags that said, Place Bling Here, while the adults held bags reading, Venmo Me.  

Instead of begging, one woman actually rang our bell to ask if the skeleton decorations strewn across our yard were real or made of plastic. 

“Of course they're not real,” I told her. “We're not cold-blooded killers.” 

“So you claim,” she said. “But you're killing the environment with every bone in that skeleton's body.” 

During a brief lull in the action, I was startled to open our door and encounter a lone young man much taller than me standing on our stoop. He modeled droopy jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. The stubble on his face told me that, along with forgetting his costume, he had forgotten to shave. He was holding a pillowcase full of candy in one hand and his phone to his ear in the other. I held out our bowl of candy and smiled. 

“Aged-out Disney channel star?” I guessed. 

“No,” he mumbled. 

“Mark Zuckerberg?” I guessed again. “Unabomber?” 

Visibly annoyed, he picked through our bowl while talking on his phone at the same time. “They’re giving away what at house 378? Cough drops? Dude, I can top that. This lady is pushing circus peanuts.” 

A little ballerina arrived and pushed her way past him. “Is your candy gluten-free?” she asked me. 

“Her candy’s taste free,” The teen informed her. 

At one point, I opened the door to see only an older couple smiling back at me. I looked around, confused. Was this couple actually begging without children? I know there’s a recession but really? Reading my face, they pointed down to my feet. I moved aside the candy bowl I was holding to reveal a tiny dog resembling a rat donned in a witch hat staring up at me.   

Not having prepared for non-human trick-or-treaters and not wanting to risk what would happen if we didn’t have a treat, I backed inside. I quickly located our napping pug, ripped her bone from under her chin, and tossed it out the door.

Exhausted and still holding a full bowl of candy, I looked up to see an adorable toddler coming up our walk holding her mother's hand. She was dressed as Eeyore from the Hundred-Acre Woods. “Aren't you precious?” I exclaimed. 

Scooping a giant pile of candy into her little bag, she smiled and said simply, “More?” I was delighted that she seemed to not mind that our candy was unpopular. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to unload the rest, I quickly poured all the candy that remained into her little bag. 

The small girl seemed very pleased. 

“What do you say? Tell the nice woman ‘thank you,’” her mother prompted. The little girl stared up at me silently. “Tell her ‘thank you,’” her mother prompted again. Little Eeyore shook her head. “Tell her!” Her mother demanded again, much louder this time. 

“It's ok,” I said.

“No, she must say ‘thank you,’” her mother announced. Little Eeyore didn’t move and didn’t say anything. I was beginning to understand more fully the connection between this child and her costume. Thirty minutes later, stubborn little Eeyore was still mute and her mother, from whom she had obviously inherited her stubbornness, was still determined to hear that “thank you.”

In all the loud begging and confusion, I glanced up to see an end-of-the-night straggler and his parents making their way toward our door. Realizing we were now out of candy and trying to save this family from joining the chaos, I blurted out, “I have no peanuts!” Suddenly, the porch fell silent. The disgust and confusion on everyone's faces, combined with the parents’ ninja-like moves to cover their son's ears, told me they had not heard me pronounce the word “peanuts.”

At this point, I decided I was done. Halloween was officially over, at least at our house. As silently as little Eeyore, I backed up slowly, closed the door, and flipped off the porch light. Inside, my husband asked excitedly, “Did you actually give away all that candy?” 

“Yes.”

“Were people disgusted by the peanuts?” He chuckled. 

“More than you know,” I answered truthfully. 

“Can we head to bed now?” He asked. 

“Yes,” I agreed. “We’re going to need our rest.”

“Why is that?” 

“Well, there was an unfortunate circus peanut incident earlier that has me anticipating a visit from Child Protective Services early in the morning.”

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

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Article by Kimberly Avery

Our part of the world is famous for its heat, hills, and humidity. On this particular day, I surmised that the heat and humidity called for a dip in the pool. As I floated in the cool water, I daydreamed about the plans for our son's birthday party later that evening. It would be hot as it always was this time of year, but hopefully the food, balloons, and ice cream would distract from the boiling heat.

After backstroking to the side of the pool, I checked my phone. Surprisingly, it was much later than I had imagined, and I still had a lot to prepare. I tried to phone my husband thinking maybe he could pick up the supplies for the party on his way home from work. No answer. He was probably in a meeting. Great! I thought. I was going to have to hurry. I threw on a cover-up, slipped on flip-flops, and tied my hair in a wet knot mimicking the "Messy Bun" hair tutorials I had watched the night before on Instagram. It's hot, and I'm in a hurry.

Pulling into the grocery parking lot, I realized I was not the only one who had begun my weekend with a grocery supply run. The parking lot was packed. I finally located an open space by not-so-stealthily stalking an exiting shopper. As he backed out I signaled with my erratic blinker warning other drivers this space has been captured by me. Pulling in, and exiting the car with fifty-year-old-cheetah-like speed. I ran in and around the store collecting party preparations. 

After checking out, I grabbed my receipt, nodded to the young man who had bagged my groceries, and offered to push the cart to my car. Perfect! That might save some time, I thought as I jogged past him with my messy bun unraveling and now living up to its name. Before heading out the door, I checked my receipt to ensure I wasn't missing anything: ice cream, cake, wine, and balloons.

I was proud of myself. I was making good time. I sprinted in front of the cart as if to signal, "Let's get a move on." The sweltering heat hit us both as the supermarket doors sprung open. Fumbling in my purse for my keys, I saw a sea of hundreds of shiny cars like a mirage baking in the sun. Keys in hand, I picked up speed. The only things slowing me down now were my flip-flops, which were beginning to stick to the melting tar of the parking lot.

At this moment, I realized something that I now know completely changed the course of history, at least my history or at the very least my entire day. It dawned on me that I had no idea which car was mine. My husband worked for a car manufacturer, and the vehicles we drove as a family would often change when he brought home different cars. I racked my brain. I had not paid attention to the car I had hopped into back in my driveway; they all looked similar. This was worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack at least I know what a needle looks like. How embarrassing. Deciding not to worry just yet, I pushed the key fob. Silence. I tested it desperately and repeatedly. How was this possible? Perhaps the battery was dead. Glancing back at the bag boy I had left in the dust, I cut to the next aisle, squeezing between a camper and a four-by-four parked closely together.

“This way,” I yelled, knowing the cart would not fit through, and he would have to go all the way around, hopefully giving me time to locate my stupid car—no such luck. 

Every car looked just as familiar as it did unfamiliar. Do all car manufacturers conspire together to insure all cars look just similar enough to appear camouflaged when parked together? After twenty minutes of chasing me through nine isles of the parking lot, the bag boy finally caught me with the cart. "Ma’am, did you lose your car? If you describe it to me, I'll help you find it." How do I possibly explain to this young man that yes, I drove here in a car and parked it in this parking lot but that at this moment, I have no idea of the make, model, or color of the car? I think I mumbled something like “black wheels” and “rectangle.” We were both melting in the sun. Looking down at my cart, I noticed my cake and ice cream were suffering too as they began to pool in the bottom of the cart. Shaking his head he looked at me with pity as if he now believed I had a lower I.Q. than the radishes he had bagged for me earlier.

Of course! I think. My husband! He knows which car I'm currently driving; how I see it, this is all his fault. He is responsible for constantly switching cars, causing what I can only describe at this point as an embarrassing calamity. I grab my phone and quickly call him again. No Answer.

It's been forty-five minutes of inspecting cars, and I'm sweating, exhausted, and limping with a broken flip-flop. I felt like no explanation at this point made me appear sane. The bag boy agreed. "Ma’am, have you been drinking?" He quietly asked. I was looking down at the bottles of Chardonnay in my cart. 

"No, not yet," I said, desperately trying my husband's number again. "I'll be fine," I told him. I collapsed onto the curb to adjust my toasted, melted flip-flops and bun that now resembled a bird's nest.

It seemed the bag boy, too, had had enough. "I'm going back inside. I need to refuel with a drink," he announced as if he was part of a rotating parking lot pit crew for lost shoppers. The look on his face told me he instead would be finding his manager to inform him of the crazy-haired woman who appeared to be on drugs and believed she drove to the supermarket but could not confirm it with an actual car.

The parking lot temperature kept rising, and so did my temper. Why wouldn't my husband answer? Connecting to his voicemail for the tenth time, I left a message he couldn't ignore. "You need to call me back. There has been an incident. I'm sitting on the curb in the grocery store parking lot, slurping melted ice cream from a straw while drinking wine directly out of the bottle. A woman just handed me a ten-dollar bill and said, 'God Bless.' If you don't call me back soon, I'll throw off this cover-up, hitchhike to a corner in the red-light district, and embrace my new life. CALL ME BACK!"

After eating half the cake and drinking half the wine, I was losing both hope and my mind. I took out my receipt and scratched a few final words on it. If you are reading this, they’ve probably found my body in the grocery store parking lot. I tried to be a good mother and put on a great birthday party for my son, but instead, I died of heat, humidity, and humiliation because I could not identify my car, and my husband didn't call me back.

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 I untied the balloons from the grocery cart, attached the receipt, let them go, and watched them float away. I glanced down just in time to see an older gentleman in overalls crossing the parking lot toward me. He had a friendly smile and kind eyes. "Young lady, I’ve been waiting in the car for my wife, and I noticed you can't find your car." I nodded in absolute defeat. "I can help you," he said with calm assurance. For a moment, I felt new hope. He seemed so confident. Alas, staring at my shopping cart, I realized it contained only part of a cake, no ice cream, no wine, and no balloons. If he could help me find my car, I could at least drag myself home. "No problem," he said. "Now, what does your car look like?"

edited by Rebekah Crozier

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Article by Kimberly Avery

With the swimming pools closing, the smell of pumpkin spice permeating the air as thick as bug fogger, and the school buses back stopping traffic everywhere, it's obvious that autumn is just around the corner. You can’t make small talk with anyone this time of year without them happily mentioning, “It seems like fall is in the air.” 

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I, however, am not as thrilled about the annual change of season. “Yes, fall is in the air,” I would answer. “Temperatures will be dropping, leavings will be dropping, and my husband's backside will be dropping onto our couch and not moving until January.” 

You think I’m joking. But as long as I’ve known him, John has demonstrated one pig-skinned passion that lasts the entirety of the last five months out of the year. 

To John, watching college football is as necessary as breathing, and no amount of smothering will keep him from it. Desperate to get his attention during a game, I once yelled, “FIRE!” 

Not taking his eyes off the gridiron, he admonished, “Yelling ‘fire’ during football season is irresponsible and could put lives at risk, namely yours.” 

 I would even go so far as to say that this time of year, I could stand in front of the T.V. wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, and his only response would be, “Honey, I can’t see the score.” I know this with absolute certainty because all our children have the same birthday: they were all born exactly nine months after the last bowl game. 

His routine in September is as predictable as the changing of the guard at Caesar’s Palace. After the miraculous birth of each year's college football season, he begins each Saturday planted in his recliner, showcasing the enthusiasm of an expectant father. With his jersey on, snacks in hand, and the insertion of his never-miss-a-moment I.V. and catheter, John is ready to participate in the largest living room pre-funk in the world, ESPN's “College Game Day.” He watches intently, noting all game start times and converting them to Eastern Standard Time. He tries to guess who will appear as the celebrity guest picker, this guest usually has the football I.Q. of mayonnaise. Regardless John then predicts that picker’s picks. He leans in, deciphering aloud and chuckling at the backdrop of not-so-clever signs crudely fashioned with discarded flattened pizza boxes and spray deodorant. The signs are being waved high in the air by college students so amped I can only assume their red Solo cups contain a rocket fuel cocktail of Adderall and Red Bull. 

The show continues with even more football discussion, predictions, and debate, culminating in a behind-the-football story so heartbreaking and emotional it makes the Humane Society commercial staring at emaciated dogs seem downright cheery. 

Once, as the show's closing montage rolled, I looked over to catch a tear running down John’s face and smearing his black eye paint.

Our gaze locked, and to my surprise, he suddenly turned the television off. Rising from his chair, he walked across the room and wrapped me in his arms. 

Leaning in, he whispered tenderly,  “Honey, this makes me think, we should name our next child Corso.”

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edited by Rebekah Crozier

Article by Kimberly Avery

"I'm going to be a grandmother," I proudly announced to my friends over lunch. I could hardly contain my excitement. No longer would I have to resort to showing screenshots of my granddogs when my friends bragged about their grandchildren. After the cheers and congratulations, a friend who was already a veteran grandmother asked, "Well, what's your name going to be?" "Name?" "What are your grandkids going to call you?" she asked. No one had ever prepared me for that question. I shook my shoulders and answered, "I guess Grandma." "Oh, that's no good," my friend frowned. It makes you seem old." "I think the fact that I am now old enough to have a child that is old enough to have a child makes me seem old," I quipped.

A few days later, I mentioned it to my sister-in-law, who agreed with my friend picking a name was a must. "In fact," she told me, "you need to pick it up soon." You don't want to be stuck with a name that is the only one left after all the family's other grandmas, and aunts choose theirs. Then as if suddenly remembering she warned, "In fact, I know a friend who ended up being NeeNaa because everything good was already taken." "NeeNaa the grandma" for the rest of my days? That prospect seemed absolutely terrifying.

Driving my younger son to practice, I decided to enlist a more youthful perspective. "What do you think might be a good name for my grandchildren to call me?" I asked. "Let's ask Google," he suggested. "Not to worry, Mom they have a list. Mi Mi, Gi Gi, De De, Minie, Honey, Queenie, Marmie, Kitty, Lolly. So it must end with E and sound like the name of candy or a stripper?" this was no help. "This site suggests you add mama in front of the first letter of your first name. So you would be Mama K," he laughed.

That sounds like a rapper, not a grandmother.' I told him, "I can hear it now. Mama K is in the house." So give it up for "Mama K and the grands." He laughed. Hard pass!" I told him disapprovingly.

"Kim Kardashian's kids call their grandma Lovey." he read. "I doubt I should take my grandma's name from the suggestion of a woman who broke the internet with her bottom." I snapped, "Hey, I didn't write It. I'm just reading it." He smiled. "Besides, Lovey reminds me of Gilligan's Island," I told him. Gillian's What? He asked, "Is that a grandma thing?"

A friend of mine had picked Ki Ki as her grandma's name. I wouldn't suggest it, she said. "The other day, my three-year-old granddaughter asked Ki Ki, are you, my grandma?" "Wow! So much pressure to pick a name. I contemplated "just remember everyone will be calling you that for the rest of your life." she warned

Remembering I wasn't exactly alone in this, I asked my husband. "Have you come up with your grandparent name yet?" "Sure he responded immediately, "Barry is taking Paw Paw, and I'm going with Grandpa." I was stunned. "This was the same man who took one month to settle on a good name for his truck and one week to pick a clever enough name for his fantasy football league, but this he had already picked?"  

Weighing the gravity of this decision, I spent the next seven months contemplating the suitability of grandma's names. I conducted poles and asked the experts my mother's water aerobics class. It should be a name that describes me but doesn't define me. Something simple yet dignified. Original but not overused. I imagined a word I could live with being called until my dying day and possibly etched on my tombstone.

Finally, by the time my first grandchild, little Gerald, who goes by G, arrived, I had settled on the very simple, understated, and unoriginal name of "Grandma." I felt I had made the right decision. Grandma couldn't be rhymed with, made fun of, or misunderstood; also, I had waited so long to decide that everything else was taken. "I'm going to be called Grandma," I announced confidently to everyone I believed could help reinforce the name. Unfortunately, a year later, it became apparent I had made a grave miscalculation. Try as he may, little Gerald can't pronounce Grandma, so instead, I am now Bumpah for the rest of my days.

Edited by Rebekah Crozier

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Article By Kimberly Avery

College Moves

"Mom, we’ve got to start preparing for moving into my dorm," my daughter promptly announced the day after her high school graduation.

"We have three months! That's plenty of time to decorate something the size of a tool shed," I assured her. Having already moved her three older brothers in and out of basements, dorms, and apartments before her, I was no freshman-experience virgin. Yet somehow I sensed from Ashley’s tone that this would not be the same seamless experience that involved dropping her brothers at the dorm entrance with a backpack, towel, toilet paper, six sets of clean underwear, and a sleeping bag.

"I have the measurements for the room," she announced, flipping open her laptop. Glancing at the room's layout, I turned it around several times.

"Is this the closet?" I asked.

"No, Mom, that's the room. The closet is in the corner behind a curtain. It's like an invisible armoire," my daughter explained.

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"Are your clothes invisible also?"

"That's not funny," she said anxiously. "We need to focus." Sure, I thought, we only have three months to get ready. But apparently, the invisible clock was ticking.

"Send me a list," I told her. So, the next day, she sent me a thirty-two-page inventory spreadsheet she had received from the college. It listed everything required to turn a bunker into what she seemed to feel would be her forever home.

I read the suggested list from the college with skepticism. "Some of it seems unnecessary," I told her. "Rug? Doesn't the room have carpet?" I asked her as I crossed the rug off the list.

"Not carpet, a double-padded fluffy, girly rug. Page four of the school's paperwork suggests it might save my life if I fall from the lofted bed," Ashley stared at me with wide eyes that said, unless you don't care about that. I erased the line through the word “rug.”

"Chair? Doesn't the desk include a chair?" I asked.

"If you want me to focus when I study, I will need to replace it with a leather, rocking gaming chair with speakers to block noise." Page twelve of the paperwork I gave you cites a study conducted at the University of Berkley that suggests immersing your thoughts in classical music inspires better grades. It's inspirational." She beamed at me.

I moved on to the next item. "A mini fridge? You definitely don't need that,” I told her confidently. “We’re paying an arm and a leg for your meal plan."

"That's true. But the cafeteria is only open from seven to nine, eleven to one, and five to seven, minus weekends, holidays, and national emergencies. Plus, I'm reading that the cafeteria plan is vegetarian, low carb, vegan, gluten-free, and grain-free."

“In other words, food-free?” I asked.

“Potentially. Better make it a sizeable mini fridge.”

This list was only getting longer. “Mood lighting? What is mood lighting?”

"Everyone has it, Mom! It's lighting that changes with the time of day. Without it, I may become depressed and not absorb enough vitamin D."

"Why can’t you just go outside?" I wondered out loud.

"I might, but I can't risk becoming sunburned. That would definitely ruin my mood," she told me. “In fact, the college mentions that risk on the bottom of page fifteen under the Sun Safe Space waiver that you and Dad need to sign.

After months of shopping on Amazon for the same amount of supplies the astronauts took to survive on the International Space Station, the day finally arrived for us to haul it all to her “home away from home.”

Long lines surrounded the dorms with cars dropping off loads of supplies. Parents and students baked in the sun and waited amid seas of boxes for empty elevators and transport carts to become available. As we waited, I surveyed our mountain of necessary purchases. My daughter had taken the list seriously and prepared for every possible contingency. Extra-long sheets, a headboard, a guitar, bed bugs spray, First Aid kit, contact paper, dehumidifiers, fans, air purifiers, winter clothing, summer clothing, cleaning supplies, toiletries, curtains, shower curtains, blackout curtains, and a deluxe futon.

Were we missing anything? That's when it suddenly occurred to me!

"You forgot to order your textbooks!" I announced in frustration.

Ashley laughed. “Don't be silly, Mom. There are no books."

"Oh," I said, relieved. “Do you go to the library to read books because they don't fit into your cubical home?"

"No, Mom, students don't have books. The library doesn't have books. The college doesn't have books."

"Is this like the invisible closet?" I asked, surmising things had really changed since I was in school. The whole concept was beginning to have a Harry Potter feel to me.

"We still have to buy them, but they’re all digital."

"We sure are paying for a lot of invisible necessities," I groaned.

"Mother," my daughter said with a reassuring tone, "we are not the only ones." Looking down the long sidewalk filled with parents in front of the dorms, I realized she was right. However, I noticed not everyone arrived in U-Hauls to deliver their student. There was a notable difference in the drop-off experience of the girls and the boys. Most girls' parents were standing much like us in an Everest-high pile of supplies, which were clearly not invisible.

However, the boys, it appeared, were jumping from their vehicles as their parents slowed near the curb. They seemed to be equipped with only a sleeping bag, Xbox, the clothes they were wearing, and a backpack that I can only assume contained their invisible books. Watching this only confirmed for me that being the parent of a girl was much more dramatic and expensive when it came to most rites of passage, like prom, weddings, and most assuredly moving to college. But alas, like her prom in the past and her potential marriage in the future, I knew it didn't really matter. We would always do everything in our power to make her dreams come true.

As we unpacked the final box and hung the last curtain in her room, my stomach hurt and my chest tightened. She had worked hard for this and was as prepared as anyone could be, but I wasn't. My daughter had been right. Three months had flown by, and eighteen years was not enough time to prepare us as parents to leave her here. There had definitely been an invisible clock ticking. As I hugged her tight and whispered, "I love you," tears streamed down my face. But my tears dried quickly as she informed me cheerfully, "I love you too. And don't cry, Mom. I’ll be moving out again in the spring and then we get to do it all again next fall."

Edited By Rebekah Crozier

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