Things I learned from baseball

My four year old son is a genius. I walked into his room the other day to find him sitting at his red, plastic desk writing an essay. The perfectly formulated, perfectly structured experiment in creative writing every English teacher dreams about receiving from a pupil.

I don’t know many four year olds who can read, write or correctly punctuate a compound/complex sentence while maintaining appropriate subject-verb agreement and using the correct verb tense. Maybe this is why the brilliance of my boy overwhelmed me. Lest my boasting take away from his masterpiece, I’ll simply let the reader decide.

“Things I learned from baseball”
By Cooper Smith, age 4


How to count:
Keeping score in baseball is a great way to learn how to count. There’s that big scoreboard out there with all kinds of numbers on it. Once your mommy or daddy teaches you zero through ten, it’s all pretty easy after that. Then you just start saying “teen” a lot and you finally learn to get them in the right order.

How to read:
The scoreboard can be an intimidating beast for a kid to try and tackle. There aren’t just numbers up there, but lots of letters too, and all in different spots. Once you learn that “H” spells “Sentinel Bulldogs” and “V” spells “The other team” you can pretty much tell who’s winning and who’s not. Of course if it’s an away game, “V” spells “Sentinel Bulldogs” and “H” spells something else, and we never get to have last bats.

How to add and subtract:
After mastering the scoreboard, one finds it’s never really good enough just knowing how to read it. A real fan and a true ball player has to understand how many runs his team needs to put the other team away, or on a bad night when Daddy has to yell a lot, to catch up.

How to communicate with people:
Sometimes the guy making the numbers come up on the board doesn’t pay attention and he gets them all wrong. But that’s ok, cause there is usually someone sitting close enough to yell at him to change the score and pay closer attention.

How to earn money:
During ballgames kids can earn money for every foul ball they chase down, and each one is worth a quarter. Last Saturday I earned seven quarters! No wonder Dad has to work so hard; he has to pay for all those foul balls!
If we’re lucky and we get to stay to the end of the game, Momma will let us pick up all the trash in the ball park for a dollar, but we have to leave the chewed up gum on the ground cause it’s full of filthy germs.

How to use our best manners:
It’s never ok to spit where we play, but in baseball sometimes it’s ok. You just have to be sure the wind isn’t blowing toward your mom or you get in big trouble.
We usually aren’t allowed to eat with our hats on, but if it’s just a hotdog or cheesy chips, it doesn’t really matter as much. And if someone gives you gummies or Gatorade or Jello with onions, you have to say “Thank you” or mom makes you give it back. Even at the concession stand.

How to control our emotions:
We usually aren’t allowed to throw things that aren’t made to be thrown, but in baseball, sometimes you’re allowed to throw your hat, but only if it keeps you from throwing a fit. Dad says it’s especially important that the pitcher doesn’t throw a fit cause the umpire won’t like it and he might even change the strike zone and then you may die on the mound.

Always be a good sport:
At the end of every game, both teams go to home plate and give each other high fives. I liked doing that in coach pitch, but I think as you get older the fives must start to hurt a little cause the big boys don’t look like they are having much fun doing it, and the Yankees don’t do it at all.
Mom says to treat others the way you want to be treated, but I think that only goes for people on your same team, cause I never see Daddy’s boys smile at the boys on the other team. And nobody smiles at the umpire.
Mom says we’re not supposed to yell either, but sometime she forgets and sometimes Daddy forgets and maybe somebody needs to put up a sign to remind everyone that this game is supposed to be fun.

How to think ahead:
Dad’s always saying when you play baseball, you have to use your head. I used to think that’s why they made you wear a helmet, but then he said, “No, you’ve got to learn to think.” I think about baseball all the time.

How to compete:
Mom says it’s not always easy being the youngest in the family. You aren’t as big, you aren’t as fast and you have to wait till later to do what your big brother is doing right now. She says that means I shouldn’t be so hard on Brisco and that I should try to let him be safe sometimes when we’re out playing ball. But I don’t like to do that very much. Besides, that’s not how the big boys do it.

How to be loyal:
On game days we wear something that’s red like the Bulldogs. Sometimes we wear our long, red, socks, but they aren’t Red Sox-red socks cause we don’t like the Dirty Sox.
Sometimes we play “Who do you want to win” and say the names of two different teams. When we say the Bulldogs vs. the Yankees, we always choose the Bulldogs, even though I know there’s no way the Yankees are ever gonna drive all the way to Sentinel to play ball.

How to be responsible:
Mom is always telling us to “be responsible” with our things. She says she’s sick from having to search for balls and gloves when it’s time to go somewhere, and if we’d put them in the basket when we’re through playing, we might could find them when we need them. I decided to try it out last week to see if it would work cause I got sick at Grandma’s house and I sure didn’t want Momma to have to do that.

How to fall in love:
The first thing I do every morning is ask Mom if there’s a baseball game on TV that we can watch.
Now that I’m in school, I get to take my glove and ball with me so I can play with it outside, and when I come home, Mom lets me throw the ball against the wall in the house and practice fly balls and grounders.
The other night at the ball field, I laid my glove down somewhere and couldn’t remember where I put it. When Mom asked me where it was, I felt really sick in my stomach and my face felt red and hot. I tried not to cry, but I just didn’t know where that glove was, and I couldn’t imagine how I would live another day without it.

How to dream:
Mom says I can be anything I want to be when I grow up. I told her I wanna be a baseball player. She said, “Who do you wanna play for?” I said, “Daddy, of course!”

As I stood looking over his shoulder, I was amazed at the insight of such a young boy and the lessons he had gleaned from simply being an onlooker in a 163 year old game. I hugged his neck and told him I loved him and asked if we could hang his story on the fridge. He just smiled and handed it over and blew me a kiss as he grabbed his mitt and headed out back.

I pass that masterpiece at least 20 times a day. The way he has so accurately portrayed the little boy in the piece. The precise shading he had crafted in the scene on the page. Simply put, it is picture perfect.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Going to school

We put a lot of thought into whether or not we were ready to send Cooper, our oldest, to school. We’ve been back and forth on both sides of the issue at least a dozen times. I’d say we’ve decided and been undecided for the better part of the last year.

We rationalized and debated our reasons for and against, but it seemed there were good arguments on each side. My mind and my experience told me that he was probably as ready as any four-year old ever is when he walks into a school building for the first time. But my heart just couldn’t seem to accept it.

The day had come, however, and we were forced to make a decision: our boy was going to school.

I guess it’s all pretty normal-dreading the first day of school, worrying about sending our kid off into the real world while he is still so small. I have been against it since his birth almost five years ago, but that’s just the momma in me. It’s a crazy feeling when something that for so long seemed so far away is suddenly staring us right in the face.

Not all parents dread that first day, I suppose. It is possible that some parents look forward to the day their children are old enough to go to school, walking out that door first thing in the morning and returning hours later, full of knowledge and wide-eyed excitement about the new world they’ve discovered. I just can’t seem to get there.

Over the last few months, when someone would ask Cooper if he was ready to start school, he’d say, “No, next year.” He had no idea that next year had gotten here so quickly. Seems he and I were on the same page.

I prepared in my mind how we’d spend our last few days together, and of course little went according to my plan. As it turned out, I would have to be satisfied with a couple of hours of together time before bed on his last night before the big day.

Since little brother had stayed the night with Grandmother, I had Cooper all to myself and decided that before bed, we’d grab some ice cream and retreat to one of our favorite places on earth: the ball field. Unfortunately, batting practice was in the barn that night, so we just borrowed the tailgate of somebody’s pick up and sat outside, enjoying the cool air, the crack of the bat, and a pint of Golden Vanilla.

We only stayed a little while, but it really doesn’t take long to create a memory. Cooper was astonished that we were eating right out of the carton, and he wasn’t about to let one tasty drip escape his lips as he tipped the miniature tub to drink the last, melted bite.

We looked for shapes in the clouds and counted the lightening flashes and talked about his first day of school the next morning.

“What do you think will be the best part?” I asked.

He squinted his eyes and twisted his lips as he searched an empty frame of reference for a suitable answer.

“I think it will be the music,” he said with a big grin. “Yes! You might get to go to Mrs. Warren’s class tomorrow,” I said.

He laughed, and I knew he was taking comfort in knowing he’d be seeing a familiar face, and anticipating what an exciting day tomorrow would be. “She really makes me happy,” he said. And I knew for certain that he meant every word.

When we got home and ready for bed, we laid out his clothes for the next day. He was careful to choose just the right shirt to match his favorite, red shorts, although I had to convince him that he didn’t need to sleep in them first. We packed his school supplies into his new backpack, and everything seemed to be in place.

He asked in his best, big-boy voice if I thought I could maybe lay down with him for a while, and although I had a thousand other things that begged to be done, there wasn’t a chance in a million that I was moving from that spot. But before we turned out the light, I had one more item to pack in his bag. So I gave him his hand-made Hallmark.

He read his name on the outside of a folded 3 x 5 note card. As he opened it up and looked inside, he recognized right off the shape that was drawn in the middle of the page. “It’s a heart! And it looks like a baseball!” he beamed.

“See if you can read it,” I urged him and pointed to the letter at the top of the card. He began, “I… …U”. And he read it like an old pro.

I don’t know if he was really moved by the note or if he was just proud of himself for reading what it said, but he jumped into my arms and gave me a hug and a kiss and wore a colossal grin from ear to ear. A priceless moment for a mom.

“Now this is in case you miss me while you’re at school,” I said. “I’ll put it right here, and if you start to wonder what I’m doing at home, you can read your note and you’ll know!”

That seemed to make all the difference in the world…for me, at least. And he seemed pretty happy about it too because after double checking that it was right where we left it, we turned off the light, laid our heads on the pillow and drifted right off to sleep…with barely a sniffle or a tear.



And that’s All in a day’s work!

Through the eyes of a child

I’m always amazed at what my children can see. They can spend twenty minutes searching for a pair of “lost” shoes lying in plain sight at the bottom of the closet and still never find them, but can take one sweeping glance at the television set and tell whether the batter is a lefty (“like Coopa”) or a righty (“like me!”). So many new things to learn at such a rapid pace, and they are soaking it all up every minute of the day. Through the eyes of a child, the world is a beautiful, interesting, curious, comical and sometimes scary place.

It’s fun to watch them discover that they have learned something new. After mastering the alphabet and the spelling of their names, anything that was a circle looked like the letter “O”: cookies, wheels on the bus, and every knob on the cabinets in our kitchen. Three o’clock (on the clock) is always an “L”. A squiggle in the garden hose makes the perfect “S”, and the handle of a coffee cup, a capital “D”. All that, I’d say, is pretty simple. But when Brisco stood up from the potty in the restroom of the Lookeba-Sickles field house and said, “That looks like a six!”, in reference to the shape of the handle on the toilet, well, that’s when I knew this child was probably always going to think outside the box.

The smallest observation, I’ve learned first hand, can create connections in their minds and make all the difference in whether or not they comprehend the lesson we are trying to teach. Lately, we’ve been working on picking up after ourselves, a lesson no male in this house has yet to grasp. After a rather overdue deep cleaning of our kitchen recently, Cooper came in to see clear cabinets, freshly mopped floors, and the smell of lemon pine sol. He said, “Mom, I really like your house.” After which he immediately picked up his three pair of shoes, two hats and rather disgusting pile of damp, muddy clothes from the day and deposited them in their appropriate locations. Yes, it is amazing what kids can see.

Children can sometimes be so simple; however, the job of raising them is anything but. After being gone on vacation, Brisco decided he needed some serious “Momma Time”. One morning, he curled up in my lap and gave me one of his great big bear hugs, wrapping his arms and legs around me so tight I could hardly breathe--one of the best feelings in the world. Then he looked up at me and said, “Mom, did you know someday we’re all gonna die?” I took it as any well prepared, intellectual, mother of two would--like a rock to the side of the head.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, our youngest became somewhat preoccupied with death and dying. He was persistent in his questions and concerns about exactly how and when death would be coming. “When are we gonna die?” And “If I eat this, will I die?” And “If you hold something in your hands, will it still die?”

We did our best to give appropriate and adequate answers to this difficult and rather adult line of questioning, but he just kept coming back with more. It seemed he was having a hard time making this heaven place out to be a good thing. Evidently, he had just put it all together that in order to go there, one first had to die. And if dying was anything like a ten day vacation, he had decided he wanted no part of it.

“Do you wanna go to heaven?” he asked me one day with the look and tone of “Why would you wanna do something like that?” I answered, “Of course I do!” at which time he proceeded to inform me that I’d have to die first. I finally decided if I was going to help change his way of thinking, I’d have to bring out the big guns. And for Brisco, that always involves chocolate.

“You love chocolate, don’t you?” I asked him in a melt in your mouth not in your hands kind of way. His eyes got wide and he smiled really big. He made that “Yum” sound and hugged his tummy right on cue. “Well, think about heaven as a place where there’s lots of yummy chocolate, and you can have all you want.” His wheels were turning, but he’d not yet climbed on board. I put it in reverse.

“Brisco, it is ok to ask questions about dying and going to heaven, but you don’t need to worry about it all the time. Nobody knows when they are going to die, but for most people it is not until after they are grown and have played lots of ball and gotten married and had children and are the daddy and then the granddaddy. Most people live for a really long time until they are very old. We just have to read our Bible and do what God wants us to do in the meantime.”

There. That should do the trick.

He looked at me in a questioning way as if he were about to ask the most profound question of the decade, “But Mom, when I get to heaven…can I have ice cream with my chocolate?”
“You can have anything you want!” I said with a smile.

For the most part, that has put an end to his obsession with death. Not that I’m unhappy that my kid is thinking about heaven, but to be worried about dying at the age of three could really put a damper on the next 50 years. He still asks random questions, like one cloudy day last week he said, “Did the sun die?” Those kinds of curious, comical and sometimes heart wrenching questions come so easily from innocence of our children.

Lately, we’ve just been taking it easy, eating our way through a jumbo bag of pretzels, guessing the number or letter that is formed after each tasty bite. Watching squirrels climb trees and observing ants taking loads of bread crumbs back to their den. Being completely exhilarated by a bases loaded, two out, full-count A-bomb in the bottom of the ninth to give our men in pinstripes yet another amazing win. It’s the simple things in life that make our kids smile. And us, too, when we take the time to see this world through their eyes.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Just another road trip

As we loaded up for an impromptu, flying trip to the All-State game in Tulsa with a coughing, hacking husband at the wheel and two little boys strapped in their car seats in the back, I must have checked my sanity at the front door on the way out of town.

Riding in the car is always an adventure, but as of late, they boys have taken to hating road trips. Even if the destination is one of Daddy’s ballgames, the first thing they’ve learned to ask is inevitably, “Is it a long ways?”

We know better than to stretch the truth. We’ll pay for it during the ride. We just tell them where we’re going and how much fun it will be when we get there and maybe throw in a promise of an extra game of catch or a piece of chocolate candy if they agree to go willingly.

We had just taken them to see a RedHawks game in Bricktown last Friday, to which they adamantly approved, so when Dad told them we were going to another big ballpark, reluctantly, they agreed to go the distance.

The trip began without incident as the boys played “I spy” for the better part of 20 miles. Cooper reminisced with his dad about the good ole days (last week) and the million and one games of backyard baseball they’ve played this summer. “Daddy, remember when we were playing baseball and you hit me right in the belly?” he asked. Dad smiled, but had a come backer of his own. “Remember when you were the hitter and you hit the ball right at me?” They both just laughed.

Amazingly, we made it all the way to the second Weatherford exit before Brisco announced, “I’m hungry! Let’s go by and get a hamburger!” I, of course, needed a bathroom break about Burns Flat, but I didn’t dare share that with our man-on-a-mission driver. We were both forced to hang on for a few more miles.

I passed the time thumbing through the 247 satellite radio stations, trying to ignore the rain pounding on the windshield. Brisco began talking to himself. “I need more gum. Gum, gum, gum. Gum, gum, gum. Gum, gum, gum, gum. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Hungry.”

I decided a distraction was what we both needed. I introduced the boys to the “Copacabana“, the 80’s girl-band Bananarama, and a host of other do or die music greats from the past in an effort to pass the time. It didn’t seem to be working. Before I knew it, we were enduring a musical interlude from our very own back seat. Our two well-mannered boys had created their own version of what I’m sure kids of some generation may someday call music. I called it the “nose flute”. Randy called it the “booger bugle”. Either way you look at it, our kids are no Brooks and Dunn.

We unwillingly played “I smell something” and rolled the windows down on the Interstate going 70 (ish) in the rain, just to suck in one breath of clean, fresh air.

Randy and I poked fun at one another’s musical preferences, as I enjoy a wide range of musical genres from rock and country to alternative and R & B, as well as the classic in all arenas. His preferences are a bit more narrow: hair bands and old country, with a soft spot for Elton John. But I’m working on him.

We bantered back and forth between Salt-N-Pepa and George Jones before I finally gave in and left it on a good ole Merle Haggard tune we could both agree on. I had work to do.

“When are we gettin’ to food?!” came a blast from the back seat. I explained to them how they could tell that we were getting close to a town. “Watch for the green signs.” This kept them busy for at least a mile.

Four hamburgers, two fries, six chicken nuggets, one missed exit and 29 “I need a drink(s)” later, we were on the turnpike and the boys had been convinced that if they’d close their eyes and take a nap, we’d be there when they woke up. Oh, and of course sleeping after a meal always helps to subdue the car sickness in our eldest.

We finally made it to Tulsa. It had been pouring most of the drive, so we just hoped that a rainout wasn’t in our immediate future. As it happened, the weather was mostly dry, the boys were well rested, and the concessions were almost affordable. It was a near-perfect day at the ball park, and we still had a whole two hours to kill before buckling back in for the drive home. Oh well, what’s another road trip?

And that’s All in a day’s work!

Destination: Paradise

As we rode in the back of the Aerostar Minivan/taxicab, I felt the driver ripping through the empty streets of the Dallas suburb as if working to qualify for pole position. This formula one racer turned family truckster turned on-the-spot cabby could have been the next big up and comer on the NASCAR circuit. At least that’s what the two cups of coffee in my otherwise empty stomach in her backseat at 4 a.m. was telling me. But I just held on tight and thought to myself, “Stay calm. A few more miles and you’ll be on a plane headed for the islands. Destination: Paradise.”

But as we unloaded at the airport, I had no idea how many others would be en route to their own versions of paradise, until I saw the line stacked in triplicate all the way from baggage check-in to the doors leading to the street. Not to worry. I had e-tickets. And that little kiosk was calling my name.

I stepped to the automated check-in machine, an ATM for boarding passes, and put in all the required information, from our birthdates to our shoe size to the color of our underwear, and awaited my two tickets to paradise. Instead, the red, flashing police light that sits above the machine came on, and my do-this-the-easy-way check-in screen read: “You must see an agent.” This can’t be good.

“Don’t panic,” I told myself. In a few short hours I’ll be lying on the beach of the beautiful St. Thomas island-my sea sick hubby on one side and the crashing of the waves on the other-kids safely at home with grandparents. I can handle this airport agent. At which time I was promptly directed to the aforementioned baggage check-in line to my left.

It seems traveling at 6 a.m. on a Friday morning doesn’t do much to reduce the traffic at DFW. In addition to our two measly economy seats were seats for six generations of Lucy and Ricky, an irritable fellow with the demeanor of Ralph Kramden and Archie Bunker combined (and who had evidently been in the airport since 8a.m. the day before), and an entire high school soccer team, just to name a few. We were definitely not lacking for entertainment. Especially after the airline agent began spreading the word to the dozens of awaiting passengers that we would more than likely miss our flight.

As we finally reached the front of the line, a gentleman called us to his counter and asked for identification. He began typing on the keyboard in front of him, asking a few random questions along the way. I assumed things were good, until he called over a supervisor. The supervisor began typing on the keypad, and the two men were talking softly over one another’s shoulders. After what seemed like an excessive amount of typing from both men, I mustered my courage. “Is something wrong?” And like a scene out of a Ben Stiller movie, the guy just kept typing.

Finally, without even looking up from his screen, he said, “The problem is, the two of you are on the ‘No Fly’ list. Without even thinking, I cackled, “You’re kidding, right?” Lesson #1: Airport agents do not “kid”. Especially concerning characters as threatening to our national security as a high school baseball coach and a stay at home mom.

After a few more uncomfortable moments and what seemed like enough typing to pass half the state of Texas through baggage check, the agent informed us that we needed to be at terminal C26 now if we were going to make our flight. “And oh yes, by the way, it is too late to get your luggage on board.” And I thought raising kids was stressful.

As it turned out, we did make our flight, our luggage was in St. Thomas waiting on us, and our week of rest and relaxation was finally underway. The beauty and serenity of the water and the island were almost enough to make me feel guilty for leaving the boys at home. But I’m a firm believer that a battery will only last so long on a single charge, and it had been a long time since this drum-beating bunny had been given a rest.

While I refused to let myself think too long and hard about what the boys might be doing at home, it’s probably no coincidence that we got home with an insane number of photos of iguanas and pelicans and 747’s.

It comes as no surprise either, that after riding shot gun behind my daredevil of a husband on a jet ski going 60 mph in the over-sized waves of the windy Caribbean, I was forced to think at length about the future and welfare of my children (as my entire life flashed before my eyes).

It’s no joke that by the fourth or fifth day, we were both talking about how much this one would have loved the waterfall and how that one would have gone crazy over free vanilla ice cream any hour of the day.

It felt quite normal that almost every conversation we had with other couples along the way was about “my eight year old Tyler” or “my 25 year old in grad school” or “our three and four year old boys”.

No doubt, beaches are beautiful and vacations are vital, but our children are the real joy of our lives. It’s true that no matter where we travel or how far the journey, a piece of us remains a parent. It’s an inescapable role in which we revel and relish, even when we’re determined to retreat.

In the end, after seven relaxing days of sailing, snorkeling, sun baking and dining at sea, I know what I really knew all along: no matter how wonderful or well-deserved or exotic the location, coming home to our boys is my favorite destination.

And that’s All in a day’s work!

The Mom’s List

In case you have yet to notice, we are living in a world of lists. Open any year-end edition of any pop culture magazine or click on most any website on the Internet and you’ll find some kind of helpful-or completely useless-list to peruse. “10 Most Evil Disney Villains” “10 Failed McDonald’s Products” Or my personal favorite, “10 Survival Tips for People in Horror Flicks”.

It has become a money making industry, it seems, for folks to formulate their own “Top”. From Top Model to Top Chef to the literally dozens of lists compiled by ESPN’s Top Whatever-Sport-Happens-To-Be-In-Season. We can check out American Top 40 every hour of the day, thanks to satellite radio. Forbes is spending money to tell us the top 100 Celebrities making money, and they’ll even throw in the top earning dead celebrities if we’re willing to move our mouse.

We can find lists to teach us how to “talk text” with our teen. Lists to learn how to help our kids stop stuttering, and still others to tell us when we should be talking to our kids at all! But with this overload of useless listing that is pervading our web space, I’m yet to find a list that’s truly informative for the complicated, every-day tasks of parenting. So I decided to write my own.

I came to the decision to make The Mom’s List after an apparent lapse in judgment that occurred several months ago. Evidently, I decided it would be a good idea to take the boys to the skating rink. I suppose I thought it would be a fun, new experience for them. After all, I used to be a fairly decent roller skater. Surely I could handle them just fine.

But what I found after just a few short moments of adding wheels to the bottom of our shoes (which should have been my first clue) was that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe in life, there are certain things that we just shouldn’t do alone: Walking down a dark alley. Climbing Mt. Everest. Tandem skydiving. These seem so obvious, even to the faintly blond. But after our roller rink incident, I decided that maybe this mom needed a list. A list of the every day activities that any sane of mind parent might consider, but really should consider twice before tackling alone. Thus, “The Mom’s List” was born.

“The Mom’s List: Installment One”
Top five things a parent should never do alone
5. Take children roller skating
I’d say that’s been covered.

4. Take kids to the beach
First, we must clarify that the beach for us is the North Shore of Lake Altus-Lugert. Not so “beachy” as beaches go. But for a three and four year old, it does the trick. Let’s just say that if one were considering this as a fun outing, she might first realize that the journey from the car to the water is no day at the spa. From hot sand to red ants to “scratchy trees” and blowing cottonwood, getting to the beach itself with floaties, towels, children and treats is nothing short of a miracle. Having the energy to blow up the floaties, keep the sand off the Cheetos and explaining that we don’t pee where we eat is altogether another realm of the supernatural. Taking the kids to the beach: definitely a two-man job.

3. Promise to give them a spanking
This, I must clarify. In our house, we spank. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” and all that jazz. We take it to heart. But when the kids have no qualms about telling you that “your spankings don’t hurt”, the game plan, it seems, must change. I suddenly felt all alone in this spanking endeavor. My threats were idle. My spankings were wasted. My hand was sore. So, I decided I’d climb on board with the “Just wait till your Daddy get’s home” bit. But that didn’t quite seem fair to Dad, and let’s face it, I’m not quite ready to give over all my power just yet. So my best advice on giving spankings is this: Never give spankings alone. Always have with you your closest and most convincing friend, Dad’s leather belt.

2. Give them haircuts at home
Since the time of his youth, my husband has had haircuts at home. So when we got married, I just started giving him haircuts (and I use the term loosely). When the kids came, it just seemed logical that they too, would receive their haircuts at home. It probably needs mentioning here that I am in no way, shape or form a beautician. I have a comb and a pair of scissors. That’s it. So a haircut from Mom could take anywhere from 10 minutes to two hours. And that’s the truth. As you can imagine, “Sit still-Stop moving-Look straight ahead” are only a few of the phrases that I might utter in my distress. That is why haircut at home, at least at our home, should only be given if Dad is there too. He’ll sit and “take a haircut” so patiently that the boys are both begging to be next in line. There is of course one exception to this rule. If Dad is unavailable, the use of a straight jacket and a neck brace would probably suffice.

1. And the number one thing a parent should never do alone…(drum roll, please)…
Undertake the task of raising kids
I have found in my short span as a parent, that there are times when we just shouldn’t go it alone. Whether it’s my own kids’ Dad or someone else’s dad, a grandparent, a friend or a perfect stranger, sometimes a mom just needs an extra hand. From the helpful emails and notes of encouragement to the offers of trips to the park and kickball in the yard, when all a mom needs is 10 quiet minutes to clear her mind or a couple of hours to type her piece, those are the times when the kindness of others can make or break this job of being a mom.

And there you have it. The first official Top Five on “The Mom’s List“. After all, if “Craig” can do it…

And that’s All in a day’s work!