Getting that bad New Year's advice

         The end of 2012 is right around the corner, and many of us are jotting down New Year's resolutions. There's the promise to get in better shape, eat healthier and remain calm in rush-hour traffic.

            Everybody,  it seems, has advice for those of us wishing to turn over a new leaf for 2013, and most of the suggestions are valid. Who can argue with deciding to forgive our enemies or vowing to keep the house neater.

            But sometimes bad advice is shrouded in good intentions. Over the years, I think I've received more bad advice than good.

            The first piece of bad advice I got was from Ms. Thomas, my high school typing teacher. A no-nonsense woman, Ms. Thomas spent most of her time correcting our posture and lifting our elbows.

            Her advice to me was to be a secretary because I could type fast. With that one piece of advice, I decided to follow a two-year curriculum at a small college and become a secretary.

            It never occurred to me to question that advice, and although I enjoyed being a secretary, I secretly yearned for a four-year college degree. It took 25 years, but I finally earned that diploma.  

            Then there was the advice I got as a first-time mother. Nick was a colicky baby, and I always rocked him to sleep. A friend told me I was spoiling him and I should let him cry in his bed so he'd learn to go to sleep by himself.

            Later that day, I put him in his crib and let him cry for about three minutes. When I went in to check on the baby, his little face was covered with spit-up. I cleaned him up, promising I'd never let any of my babies cry themselves to sleep.

            In fact, the list of bad parenting advice, especially about discipline, is as long as my driveway. One of my boys loved to bite. I don't know why he used this form of revenge, but biting was his favorite way to aggravate his brother.

            All the parenting books said to never bite a child back.

            All my friends said to use time out.

            Old-timers said to bite him back.

            One day, I was standing at the sink, and my little angel came up behind me and bit me on the back of my leg hard enough to leave a bruise. I turned around and bit him on the arm. He was astonished, and it was the last time he bit anybody.

            After that, I vowed to only consider child-rearing advice from people over the age of 65, and that philosophy has served me well.

            Relationship advice bombards us from all directions. When I was young, friends told me to never learn how to put gas in my car or fix anything around the house because that was a husband's job.

            If I'd followed that advice, I wouldn't have known how to fix a broken toilet when my husband was out of town.  

            Truth be told, there are advantages to listening to bad advice because those gems of well-intentioned but misguided words of wisdom have provided me with important life lessons over the years.

            I learned nothing takes the place of a thirst for knowledge; and once we stop learning, we stop growing.  

            I know how to trouble shoot an unhappy toilet and how to maneuver my way through our breaker box.

             I learned to cherish time rocking my babies to sleep and, even though I regret a lot of things I did as a parent, letting them cry themselves to sleep wasn't one of them.

            In 2013, I'll vow to eat healthier and keep my road rage under control. After that, I'll toss the advice books on my bookshelf.

            And always rock my grandchildren to sleep.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When we don't have the answers...

                When my boys were young, they'd often ask questions for which I had to scramble for an answer. For instance, how a car works. When my 4-year-old son asked the question, I thought about telling him something up that would give him a general idea about internal combustion, but I changed my mind.

                "Magic," I told him, and he was satisfied.

                During a scary thunderstorm, my sons asked what caused thunder.

                "It's the angels bowling," I said. They looked dubious.

                "Well that's what my mom said," I told them, and they were satisfied.  

                As parents, we try to answer all the questions our children ask us; and even though we try to be as truthful as possible, sometimes we have to make up explanations.

                But there are times when the only truthful answer is "I don't know." Such is the answer I give when asked why someone would open fire on a classroom and kill 20 innocent children and six innocent adults.

                There are numerous possibilities – he had mental issues, he came from a broken home, he was depressed or there were readily available assault weapons in the house. There are questions as to why he chose Sandy Hook Elementary, what set him off and why he murdered innocent babies instead of just taking himself out.  

                I keep thinking someone knew this piece of human garbage was unhinged. Somebody was aware things were not right with him, and they did little to stop him.

                Perhaps they were afraid they'd be considered biased or prejudiced against people with mental issues. Maybe they didn't want to get involved in something a family is supposed to take care of behind closed doors. Maybe his family was completely exhausted and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of caring for someone so relentless and sick.

                Right now, we're grieving for the loss of these 6- and 7-year-old babies who were sitting at their desks one minute and then being shot at close range the next. We sob and thank God for the adults who died trying to save the children.

                Still, our children ask us why bad things happen, and we can't come up with a reason that makes any sense. I can't begin to explain why 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by Taliban gunmen while riding her school bus.  

                Malala was an outspoken proponent of rights for girls, and she was opposed to the oppressive tactics of the Taliban. This young Pakistanian was shot in the face earlier this year in front of her friends and other young children while on her way to school.

                There are no suitable explanations as to why a lunatic opened fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colo. this summer. During a midnight screening of "The Dark Knight," 12 innocent people were killed and 20 were wounded as the movie played on the screen.

                We're still trying to understand why, in 1999, two evil teenagers decided to shoot their classmates in Columbine, Colo., an unbelievable act of terror that continues to reverberate throughout the land.

                These heinous acts shattered our belief that we live in a world where children and the weak are safe from men with machine guns and assault rifles, fueled by hatred and lunacy.

                So when our children ask us to explain why bad things happen in this world, I hope we can honestly say we don't know but we're working to make sure they never happen again.

                And then keep our word.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Lovin' those Texas winters

         With this latest snap of cold weather, the standard holiday songs are making a little more sense. We identify with Frosty the Snowman when we're wrapping our pipes against a freeze, turning the knob on the mini-van air conditioner to the red zone and hauling heavy jackets out of the closet.            

                Frankly, I'd rather visualize cold holiday moments instead of experiencing them, and because we live in southeast Texas, we can watch other people dig themselves out of the snow while we're running air conditioners year round.

                A Southern Christmas is different.   

                We don't roast chestnuts over an open fire. When confronted with a roaring campfire, Southerners are scrounging around for hot dogs and Shiner beer. If Jack Frost tried to nip at a Texan's nose, ole Jack might find himself with a nose as red as Rudolph's.

               Still some people wish for snow, sleigh rides and throwing snowballs. They think they're missing something by not experiencing frigid temperatures and four feet of snow outside.

                But let's consider the positives of a snow-less Christmas. First there's the mild temperatures. We picked out our Christmas tree while wearing shorts and sandals.

               While holiday shopping, I wasn't bundled up in a scarf and a bulky overcoat. I was strolling along from shop to shop wearing sunglasses and short sleeves.

                No snow and sleet to slosh through.

                No blowing snow in my face. 

                Just an easy saunter under a bright blue sky.

                Like me, our granddaughter loves a Southern winter. The temperature was still around 80 degrees this past Sunday, and she wanted to splash around with the water hose.

                Why not, I thought, and I let her dance around the back yard in her pink bathing suit.

               I can hear my cold-weather loving friends whispering my granddaughter could've had just as much fun in the snow; but we spent one minute hanging up a wet bathing suit to dry versus spending 30 minutes thawing out snow boots, socks, a scarf, a heavy jacket, long johns and mittens.

                I know of what I speak. I grew up in Olean, N.Y., about 60 miles from Buffalo, one of the coldest places in the country. We lived five blocks from the elementary school, and we literally walked through hills of snow on our way to school.

                Getting ready required an extra 10 minutes just to snap up snow boots and layer on a woolen vest, sweater, scarf, a hat and gloves and then 10 minutes extra at school taking all those layers off and hanging them up where they'd dry out by the time the 3 p.m. bell rang.

                But no matter the perks of a warm, Southern Christmas, we still love holiday songs that revolve around snow and cold weather. I wish songwriters would come up with songs that reflect a Southern Christmas. Instead of "Winter Wonderland" lyrics, what about:

                "Cowbells ring, are you listenin'

                On the gulf, waves are glistening

                A beautiful sight

                We're happy tonight

                Sitting on the beach in Whiskey Bay."

                Or what about changing the words in "Frosty the Snowman:

                "Ole Mike the Tiger

                Loved the purple and the gold

                Dashing all around Deaf Stadium

                Growling make ole Bama fold.   

                There are many more perks to a Southern Christmas. We never have to worry about strapping snow chains on tires nor do we have to spend time protecting the truck's undersides from salt damage after snow ploughs clear the roadways.

                We don't spend money on a winter wardrobe and a summer wardrobe – I own one long-sleeved shirt and there's not a sweater in my closet. I never have to rotate my clothes because I know even when the temperatures are in the 30's, warm days are right around the corner.

                In fact, the weather forecasters are predicting the weekend weather should have high's in the mid 70's.

                Halleluiah, y'all.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  

Peeking under the tree

                The jig is almost up. Our 5-year-old granddaughter discovered some unwrapped toys in her parents' closet, gifts a jolly ole elf was going to leave on Christmas morning.

                Young Kylie inherited her reporter genes from both her mom's side of the family and her dad's side, and those "seek-and-find" antennae were on full alert when she just "happened" to stumble on the gifts hidden in the back of the closet.

                I can't say I'm surprised. When I was a young girl, snooping and looking for Christmas gifts was my prime mission. The best source of information were conversations my mom and aunts had when they thought we weren't listening.

                One year I overheard the words "Barbie Dream House" and hoped they were helping out Santa Claus because that dream house was at the top of my list. On Christmas morning, a fully assembled cardboard Barbie Dream House, complete with a Barbie and a Ken, was waiting for me.

                After that, I figured my moms and aunts had a secret line to the North Pole because we always seemed to get exactly what we wanted for Christmas. That charade went on for years but I gradually unraveled the myth of Santa Claus.

                When I was in the fourth grade, I opened a closet in our laundry room, and I saw a white helicopter on one of the top shelves. I didn't think much about the toy, figuring I'd find it wrapped up underneath the tree for my brother.

                But when I woke up on Christmas morning and saw the helicopter with a tag on it that said "From Santa," I knew right then and there that my friends were right – Santa really was my mom and dad.

                Contrary to what psychologists say, I wasn't traumatized by this realization. Instead, I was miffed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. After that, the only true mystery was figuring out what was in the wrapped boxes my mom put under the tree in the days before Christmas.  

                I shook, rattled and probed every box under the tree almost the minute she put them under there. I was a master spy at slowly but accurately removing Scotch tape from gifts and peering underneath the wrapping paper to see what was inside.

                And, just as stealthily, I'd re-tape the paper and act extremely surprised when we opened the gifts. Every once in a while, I'd tell myself I shouldn't sneak a peek so I'd genuinely be surprised.

                Just as quickly, I'd talk myself out of that rationalization and go to work removing the tape from the rest of the gifts. My mom didn't figure out I was a major snoop until years later when I caught her doing the exact same thing to a mystery gift my dad had left under the tree for her.

                 The true generosity of Santa Claus wasn't clear to me until I had children of my own. At night, as I'd tuck my boys into bed, they'd ask if Santa would really get them what they wanted. And on Christmas morning, when they saw that special gift with their name on it, the man at the North Pole got all the recognition, not mom and dad.

                Somehow, though, I didn't want the credit for those gifts. Seeing the light in my sons' eyes as they thought about how good they'd been that year and that someone with a hearty laugh and twinkling eyes was rewarding them was the best Christmas gift of all.

                This year, what my daughter-in-law and I will do is switch out toys as my granddaughter hasn't yet discovered where I'm hiding her Christmas gifts. Hopefully, the secret identity of the jolly man in the red velvet suit will stay secret.

                At least for one more year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Days of Christmas

                I said I wasn't going to do it, but I did.

                I said I would resist the demands of Madison Avenue to shop early, but I gave in.

                It's not even the end of November and, much to my embarrassment, I'm almost finished with my Christmas shopping.

                I don't start Christmas shopping in the summer nor do I start at Halloween. I wait until December because I love the spirit of the holidays.

                My favorite pastime the first weekend in December is drafting my Christmas list, leisurely deciding what to get for everybody on the list.

                That's about the time my husband hauls all the Christmas decorations out of the attic, and the next weekend we head out to the country to cut down a tree.

                We let the tree sit overnight so the limbs fall a bit, and we decorate the tree on a Sunday afternoon while listening to holiday songs. When the boys lived at home, they'd spend hours shaking the boxes under the tree, trying to figure out what was inside.

                Back then, we'd spend Christmas in Louisiana, and all the Heberts gathered together for Christmas Eve. We'd attend Mass in the morning and then spend the rest of the day playing with all the new toys and visiting with cousins, aunts and uncles.

                Our tree stayed up until the needles were so brown they fell off; but by that time, we'd usually had enough of ho-ho-ho-ing and were ready to get back to the familiar grind.

                That was how Christmas used to be. That's before email, cell phones and cyber shopping became the modern way to shop. My sons now send me emails with a direct link to the gift they'd like or they text me their Christmas list so I know exactly what they want.

                Using their cyber list, I took advantage of Black Friday and Cyber Monday sales which was easy but there was little holiday cheer about the experience. And even though I want to pat myself on the back for being organized, there are things I'm going to miss about the Christmas shopping experience.

                I'm going to miss the crowds of people and driving past houses whose yards are practically dancing with holiday lights. I'm going to miss listening to canned Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers as I elbow my way through the store.

                For even though we've heard those songs 100 times before, there's nothing like humming along with "Silver Bells" while carrying bags of treasures found at stores where you know the owner instead of clicking the "order now" button with a mouse.

                Emails and text messages are efficient, but I sorely miss reading my sons' hand-written letters to Santa Claus. I miss seeing my boys' faces on Christmas morning when they dashed into the living room to see what Santa left for them.

                But maybe all is not lost. Surely I've missed a few gifts on the list and hopefully I'm not as efficient as I think. After all, there's nothing wrong with having a few surprises underneath the tree.

                I might have to browse the packed aisles of our hometown stores while listening to those familiar holiday tunes play overhead and let the spirit of Christmas wash over me.

                I'll still sit down the first weekend in December and make my Christmas list. But this year, I'll use my iPhone and key in what everybody wants so I'll have that list at my fingertips. We old-timers have to keep up with the changing times but some holiday traditions need to stay put.

          This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Happy Thanksgiving

                For 15 years,  I've had the privilege of having a column printed on Thanksgiving Day. I've written about nostalgic Thanksgivings – sitting around the huge dining room table with my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins while we enjoyed the traditional Thanksgiving menu of turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes and gravy alongside traditional Lebanese dishes of tabooley, stuffed cabbage rolls and baked kibbee.

                I've also written about the Cajun side of our Thanksgiving feasts that included fried turkeys, oyster dressing and deep-dish pecan pie.

                There was the first year I cooked Thanksgiving dinner all by myself and the absolute terror I felt when facing a raw 15-pound bird, two packages of cornbread dressing and a dozen bake-and-serve rolls.

                There was the year I forgot to defrost the turkey in enough time and got up four or five times during the night to change out the water so that huge bird could go in the oven at 6 a.m.

                Over the years, you've indulged reading as my sons went from mischievous toddlers to grown men. My dad lived long enough to read some of my columns, and my mom occasionally cuts one out and tapes it to the refrigerator, right alongside the pictures of her great grandchildren.

                So in trying to think of something new to say on this Thanksgiving, something different than what I wrote in 1997, 2001 or 2008, I'm left scratching my head, discarding every story line that pops into my head.  

                It's easy to write about the sentimental slices of life – family friends, neighbors and co-workers. Little kindnesses grease the wheels – someone holding the door open for me and someone letting me merge into traffic without trying to take the bumper off my car.

                What not to write about seems easier, like my unsuccessful attempts at maneuvering a turkey, ham, apple pie and sweet potatoes in one oven in a four-hour time frame. Nor am I going to write about the sublime joy of munching on Thanksgiving leftovers while sitting watching a college football game on TV.

                I'm not going to write about Thanksgiving days from the past when the kids sat in one room and the adults sat in the other room, they having verbal fights about politics while we literally had food fights.

                I'm also not going to write about the pre-dawn Black Friday shopping trips my sisters and sisters-in-law enjoyed for years.

                What I am going to write about is what a day of Thanksgiving means. A day to give thanks for the big things like our families, our health, house, job, car and enough cash in our pockets to go out for ice cream every once in a while.

                Thanksgiving is a time to ponder the experiences that make life worthwhile – the sound of children laughing, the memory of our father's voice and how our mother's hands felt when she fretted over our hot foreheads.          

                Friends who understand our humor, especially those who've known us all our lives and still laugh when we tell the same joke over and over again, are right up there when I say my prayers of thanks.

                A soft pillow to snuggle up with at night. Comfortable slippers. A hot cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Finding a pair of jeans that fit. The company of a faithful dog. An unexpected chatty email from a best friend. A child curling up in our laps to take a nap.

                It's the little things that turn into the big things that I'm most thankful for as those little things stay with us the longest and ensure life's often rocky path is a little less bumpy.

                Happy Thanksgiving and may your day be filled with a bounty of small but meaningful joys.    

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

Memories of playing canasta

I was waiting in line at the grocery store, and I spotted a familiar package of blue and red playing cards. For the past few years, I’ve picked up decks of cards wherever I found them because my eldest son is pretty good at card tricks.

However, I couldn’t remember the last time I actually sat down and played a card game. Playing cards as a leisure activity is in danger of suffering the same fate as playing board games, I’m afraid.

When my siblings and I were young, we’d spend hours playing Monopoly. Fights started before the first roll of the dice because we all wanted to be the racing car or the statue.

Then we’d argue over who was going to be the banker because we all had a tendency to embezzle money. We never had a clear-cut winner – we stopped playing whenever we ran out of plastic houses or the bank ran out of green $20 bills.

Another board favorite was “Clue,” but with seven rowdy children, it was tough to keep track of all the little silver murder weapons and clue cards. As a result, it was always Colonel Mustard in the dining room with the rope.

            But with playing cards, things were different because there were so many games to play with one deck of cards.

            We started off with the simple “Go Fish” and moved up to “Spoon,” both favorites because we only needed four matching cards for every person to play the game.

            “War” was another favorite because the game allowed us to fight without throwing a punch.

            My grandmother finally grew tired of the shenanigans and taught us grown-up card games, from the right way to shuffle a deck of cards to the complicated and convoluted game of canasta.

            At first, we were quite confused because there’s a long list of rules to the game of canasta, but she kept playing with us until we knew how to play like pros.

From there, we went on to learn how to play “Hearts” and a variety of rummy games, and family get togethers always involved decks of cards.

The adults played “Bouree,” an old-time Cajun game where everybody throws a nickel in the middle of the table for the kitty.

When the adults ran out of nickels, they’d play for matchsticks. No matter who won, there was always laughter and good-natured ribbing around the kitchen table.

Even when the cards were bent, we still had a use for them. Our uncles taught us how to carefully place cards together so we could build five- and six-story houses out of cards and, when we were finished, pretend we were Godzilla and destroy the village.

They also taught us how to make our own bike sound effects. They showed us how to pin the cards to the bike rims using our grandmother’s spring-loaded clothes pins.

When the cards flapped against the spokes, we sounded like motorcycles gangs. The faster we rode, the louder the “flap, flap, flap” noise.

Then toy manufacturers came out with bikes with built-in sound effects and we no longer needed the cards.

Board games were forgotten – it’s tough for a quiet game of checkers or chess to compete with the bells, whistles and lights on an electronic game.

It’s even tougher for complicated card games like gin rummy or canasta to compete with online poker or an electronic video game with music, lights, bells and whistles.

Then again, a kitchen table surround by loud Cajuns of all ages makes for some pretty colorful sound effects.

As I placed my groceries on the conveyor belt, I impulsively reached over and grabbed that box of playing cards.

Perhaps it’s time to teach my grandchildren how to play “Go Fish” and, when they're older, introduce them to the fun they can have with a bike, a clothes pin and a discarded queen of hearts playing card.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As the song goes "we will survive"

                Mercifully, the elections are over. The "I voted" oval stickers are tucked away in a precinct closet until the next election, and electronic voting gadgets are carefully stored in a locked cabinet.

                Victory parties remain in full gloating mode, and those who lost are licking their wounds, planning their strategy for a come-back run or looking for another line of work.

                Voters are thrilled the 2012 elections have come to an end because we're no longer bombarded with political telephone calls or trying to see a sea of past red, white and blue cardboard signs crowded around every street corner.

                We can go back to watching television shows and complain about the number of insurance and hair coloring ads instead of the number of negative political ads.

                As much as we gripe about all that aggravation, elections put money in somebody's pocket, and those dollars help the economy. Newspapers and magazines were happy to take candidates' money as were television stations, Websites, billboard companies and sign makers.

                Pollsters were happy to cash checks for running fictitious scenarios so political action committees could see where to spend their money.

                Campaign strategists used high-tech projection software and analyzed minute details from electronic polling to tell their candidate what issue to talk about and where to spend their time and money.

                Email and the Internet have been prime players in elections for the past few years. Email blasts from friends and political groups filled our mailboxes. YouTube videos used patriotic music and spliced together videos to make candidates look worse than slimy geezers who take candy from babies.

                This time around, Facebook and Twitter became major players as people tweeted and posted about candidates, battling and spreading lies, innuendoes, gossip and slogans.

                The presidential debates struck me as which man could get the sharpest jab in. Forget answering our questions about the economy, jobs, pollution and other issues that are tops in our minds. The debates were simply opportunities for one-upmanship.  

                Now it's all over. The airwaves are filled with pundits analyzing why Romney lost and Obama won. We'll be looking at analyses and reports for weeks; and every time a major election comes around, we'll endure experts rehashing and dissecting this election and this campaign.  

                And then the presidential campaign of 2016 will swing into gear as potential candidates attempt to make their voice heard in the wilderness as the whole process starts all over again.

                A few years ago, I remember seeing a young Bill Clinton and Al Gore standing on the stage accepting the office of the presidency and vice presidency of the United States.

                I was terrified, thinking we were turning the reins over to two green-behind-the-ears guys who wouldn't have a clue how to run this country.

                But like their politics or not, the United States survived, just as we lived through sub-par presidents like Zachary Taylor and Herbert Hoover.

                We survived Richard Nixon whose paranoia caused most Americans to lose faith in the White House. We survived Andrew Johnson who mismanaged Reconstruction after the Civil War.

                We flourished under presidents George Washington and Thomas Jefferson who laid the groundwork for the United States. We came to admire Abraham Lincoln who fought for equality.

                As Mitt Romney said in his gracious concession speech, "I believe in America." So do the millions of people who cast their vote in the 2012 election process.

                For the next four years, Mr. Obama is the president of the United States, the commander in chief. No matter who you voted for, it's time to move forward. We Americans do that quite well, and we'll survive or triumph, not only for the next four years but for decades to come.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

How the mommy tables have turned

                The parenting lifecycle is anything but straight forward. Once our children are placed in our arms, we diaper and burp, feed and clothe and watch them feverishly for any hiccup in the road.

                Along with those parenting jobs, the long-term assignment of teacher kicks in. We teach our young 'uns to pick up their toys, share with others and say "excuse me" when they burp.

                As they get older, the mentoring continues –how to ride a bicycle, how to drive a stick shift and how to buy life insurance.

                For most of their lives, parents remain in that advisory role.

                Unless children grow up to be smarter than their mom.

                That's what happened to me.

                My Aggie boy is a whiz with computers and especially the Internet. He knows I like watching movies but I can't always get to the Cineplex. He told me about an online movie channel, and the site offers a variety of movies I can watch on my computer monitor.

                I lost the password we'd set up, so I called him and he gave me the password over the phone. my handwriting is sloppy and every attempt I made the next night met with an "incorrect password" prompt. I tried everything – uppercase, lowercase and then I just gave up.

                Exasperated, I sent my son an email listing the password and asking if it was correct.

                His return email was quick and short – "Do not ever email passwords. I will call you."

                I slapped myself in the forehead, and my reply note was apologetic. After I sent the email, I sat in front of my computer and realized the tables were turned.

                We'd crossed from "you know everything, Mommy" to "you're an idiot, Mom" line.

                About the time I turned 12, I knew my parents didn't have all the answers. I wasn't upset about this revelation. Instead, I began to see my parents as flawed human beings who were doing the best they could.

                I did everything to try and keep my sons from seeing me in that light. Unfortunately, real life stomped all over that fantasy, especially as they saw me lose my car keys on more than one occasion, lock myself out of our house and fumble my way through directions for the VCR and then the DVD player.

                Forget learning the subtle differences between a Blu Ray and a regular DVD or understanding how fiber optics work. My boys knew these facts like they knew all the hiding places for my extra cash.

                But I still felt I had the upper hand. I knew more about pop culture, cooking and the best way to remove grease from a new shirt.

                Over time, though, my Aggie boy had slowly coaxed those secrets out of me, and he was probably on par with me in the kitchen, if he hadn't surpassed me.

                In gentlemanly fashion, he didn't lord his superiority over me. If asked, he'd clean up the hard drive on my computer, rearrange my electronic photos into a more searchable system and send me links to birthday gifts for everybody in the family.

                As I look back, all the signs were there that he'd surpassed me on the information highway. It was inevitable. He's more of a Mustang and Camaro type of guy and I'm still puttering along in the Edsel.

                Still, there's a few things I know he hasn't figured out yet – how to hem a pair of pants, how to shoot the moon in a card game of Hearts and the best way to carve a Thanksgiving turkey.

                For the time being, I think I'll just keep those secrets to myself. A mom, even one who's in the slow lane, has to have a few aces up her sleeve.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

You want synthetic or regular oil with your order?

                Not to sound like a 1950s suburbanite, but when it comes to my automobile, I haven't a clue what really makes that vehicle run. I depend on the car to tell me if something's wrong.

                It's a sweet deal as dashboard lights come on whenever the tire pressure is low or I need gas. A bell chimes if I forget to turn off the lights or leave the keys in the ignition.

                Best of all, my husband keeps up with major maintenance issues, so I'm on autopilot most of the time.

                Recently, though, my car was due for an oil change, and I told my husband I'd take the car in because, I was thinking, how hard can it be to get the oil changed.

                Certainly easier than replacing the windshield wiper blades.

                When the rains started up earlier this year, the streaks on my windshield were a red flare that the wiper blades had dry rotted during the long drought. I was in front of the auto parts store, so I pulled in, thinking I'd run right in, get some replacements and be ready for the threatening thunderstorm.

                Forget about a less-than 10 minute errand for something as seemingly straight-forward as windshield wiper blade refills. The clerk had at least six questions about my car before we even got to the wiper issue.

                And, of course, his first question was one I didn't know the answer to – what length blades did I need.                 

                "They're different sizes?" I said, puzzlement written all over my face, and I told him I'd text my husband to get the size of the wipers. The clerk looked at me, sighed, and then said he'd not only find the right wiper blades but he'd also put them on the car for me.

                Sweet.

                Which is why I felt empowered to take my car in for an oil change. My husband used to keep a case or two of motor oil in our garage for the numerous oil changes three teen-age drivers require.

                But with advances in engines and more computer-driven parts, a stop at one of the local quick oil-change business seemed the most economical path.

                I pulled into the bay, handed my keys over to the mechanic and sat down in the lobby to leaf through a "Motor Trend" magazine.

                A few minutes later, he returned and asked if I wanted petroleum-based oil or synthetic oil. My first thought was "there's a difference in oil that comes out of the ground and goes into the car?" and my second one was "why does something that should be so easy require a master's degree in engineering."

                I didn't have a clue what kind of oil to use, so I texted my husband. While I was waiting for a reply, the nice man behind the counter tried to explain the pros and cons of synthetic and petroleum-based  oil.

                I nodded and tried to sound like I was keeping up, but he lost me about the time the issues of oil weight and temperature under pressure came up.

                Then there were questions about the oil filter and how many miles I wanted to wait until my next oil change. I texted my husband again with those questions, and we finally agreed on a plan of action.

                Thirty minutes later, I left with fresh oil in the car, a new oil filter and a sticker on my windshield reminding me to take care of my car's needs on a regular basis.

                My husband said whenever my car needs the tires rotated – because he only has so many text messages on his cell phone plan – he'll be happy to take care of that maintenance item for me.

                Sweet.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Advances in technology -- oh baby!

                When I was expecting my first child, I was convinced the baby was a girl. I was so convinced, in fact, I spent weeks making a pink blanket and tucked a pink coming-home outfit for the baby in my suitcase.

                I was shocked when the doctor announced "it's a boy," and I referred to the baby as a girl for about two weeks after we came home from the hospital.

                Knowing the sex of the baby 30 years ago was impossible. We guessed, of course, and I performed all the folklore remedies around. I held a needle over my tummy, watching which way it spun, and dangled my wedding ring to see if it swung back and forth or circled over the unborn baby.

                Both wives-tale procedures indicated a boy, but I said I'd wait until modern science came up with a sure-fire way to discover the sex of the baby before I'd believe predicting the sex was possible.

                We came close with my second child. I had an ultrasound early in the pregnancy as we weren't sure when the baby was going to be born.

                I can still picture that black screen with a white form moving around, but comparing that picture to what's out there today is like playing the early "pong" game versus today's realistic "Call of Duty."

                And what's out there now is 4D Ultrasound technology.

                My son and daughter-in-law invited the grandmothers to go with them to see the ultrasound for their baby who's due in December. I was expecting the old grainy black-and-white image.

                Instead, a 4D ultrasound allowed us to see facial features, a leg and a tiny fist curled up underneath a developing chin.

                We also found out grandchild number three is a girl, and it's a mixed blessing because the wondering if it's a boy or a girl is eliminated. Science has removed the waiting game.

                Today, it's possible to know within minutes whether or not a woman is pregnant. As a baby boomer, most of us grew up listening to our moms and aunts talk about waiting for the rabbit to die.

                I didn't have a clue what they were talking about, but I knew it had something to do with all the maternity and baby clothes my aunts were dropping off at our house.

                Over coffee, they'd toss around boy and girl names and it seemed everything in the nursery was either light green or a pale yellow. Once the baby got here, aunts came around with the right gender clothes, but not until the baby got here.

                Back then, there were two ways to feed a newborn – breast feeding or glass baby bottles my mom put in a big pot and boiled for 10 minutes. Today's bottles are plastic, scientifically angled and come with an assortment of accessories.

                Baby shoes were easy years ago – kids went barefoot until they were big enough for the big white shoes with the hard tan soles. Today's infants are wearing couture Mary Janes retailing for $31 a pair or Skechers black boots selling for $55 online, both for kids who can't even walk yet.

                Even though technology allows us to know what sex the baby is going to be almost before the baby itself knows what path it's heading down, I miss the old days of playing the guessing game and waiting for the doctor to say "it's a girl" or "it's a boy."

                But now that I know, instead of stocking up on pale green Onesies™, it's time to start buying some pink Mary Janes and frilly bows for Miss Katherine Elizabeth Adams.

                Baby girl, we can't wait to meet you.

 This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sights and sounds of Rome

                It's the sounds that echo in my mind – water splashing in fountains, horns blaring from irate taxi drivers and horses' hooves clopping along cobbled brick roads.

                Images play through my mind as though they're on a revolving carousel – towering 15th century pillars standing next to modern office buildings. Walking into a neighborhood church and seeing life-sized statues on Egyptian marble floors and protected by solid gold ceilings.

                These are the memories I have of Rome, a once-in-a-lifetime trip my husband and I took last week. He was there for business, but I got to tag along and see the sights.

                Luckily, I joined up with two women, Kim and Karen, whose husbands were also on the trip, and we walked miles throughout Rome accompanied by Karen's 6-year-old son, Will, who never once complained. Bribes of chocolate gelato and visits to Italian toy stores helped keep him in good humor.

                The guide books describe Rome as the eternal city, fitting as it was settled in 753 B.C. and has survived through invaders, floods, famine, bad times and good times.

                Wandering through ruins that were built hundreds of years before Christ was born seemed unreal, especially when examining the artistry and workmanship created without modern tools.

                We followed our tour books through the city and made sure we stopped at all the major tourist stops – the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain. We read descriptions at all the churches, looked at gorgeously painted ceilings until our necks ached and savored Italian pastas and freshly baked bread every evening.

                We walked miles and miles, it seemed, and priests, nuns, school children, tourists, natives, beggars and business people surrounded us. Buses and taxis roared through the streets, filled with people on their way to the Coliseum, the Pantheon and the many piazzas and fountains around the city.

                Although the well-known sights were astounding, Rome is filled with surprises around every corner, and those are the ones that stand out for me. There was the kind, elderly priest in a magnificent church who reminded Will to give his mother a kiss and tell her he loved her.

                There was the delicately baked eggplant-and-cheese dinner my husband and I dined on in a family-owned restaurant off the beaten path.

                Walking through numerous basilicas and churches, some historic and some off the beaten path, we were rewarded around every corner with huge tapestries, marble sculptures and Renaissance paintings. Although they were all beautiful, the crown jewel was the Vatican.

                As a Catholic, standing on the cobblestones in St. Peter's Square was a dream come true. Even more incredible were the treasures inside the Vatican.

                We heeded good advice from my sister-in-law and purchased online tickets. Thanks to those passes, it only took us a couple of hours to wind our way past hundreds of gorgeous museum artifacts until we found ourselves at the heart of the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel.

                Standing underneath the stunning paintings of Michelangelo, we were surrounded by languages from around the world – Russian, French, English, Portuguese, Italian. All were speaking in hushed tones, their faces reflecting an appreciation for the masterpieces surrounding us.

                We didn't need a common language to understand that talent and craftsmanship crosses all boundaries. The beauty of the art found in Roma, as they call her, speaks to all those who come to this historic and unique city.

                For those able to make the pilgrimage to Rome, this regal and grand signora will reward visitors with thousands of memories and sounds of a long-ago past to last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.