One Less.

One Less.

By Allison Adams 08-22-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 08-22-11

In the past five years I’ve successfully sent two children off to college.

I must admit that I thought I might need to be institutionalized after I let my firstborn baby girl go.

Beginning with her high school graduation ceremony, I wept incessantly through the summer.

I didn’t even enjoy shopping for her dorm room. (Well, maybe just a little.)

I got her settled in her new room on campus without too much of a fuss. And as I turned to leave her on her own, I was certain that I was too dehydrated to be able to make much of a scene.

But I completely underestimated me.

Eventually, after about a year, my weeping waned, and I adjusted to the shift in our family dynamics.

I became comfortable with the New Normal.

When I sent my second baby girl to college I was better prepared for the event because I was a college move-in survivor.

I actually enjoyed getting ready for her new adventure.

I shopped really well.

When it came time to move her in to her dorm I managed to do it efficiently, and without an emotional breakdown … until I drove off, leaving her on campus alongside a sweet roommate, in a cutely decorated room with color coordinated bedding.

I broke down again when I got home and realized I was now the only girl in my house.

In the time it took me to reach for a box of tissue, I lost all control of everything electronic to my husband and my son.

I haven’t seen the clicker since.

Eventually, after about a year, I forgave my daughters for abandoning me, and I became tolerant of the New Normal.

Well. The time has come to push my last baby bird out of the nest.

I believe he is ready to spread his wings.

Since I survived the first two birdies flying away, I called upon those memorable experiences to brace myself for this one.

In recent weeks, among the other momma birds wrestling with their emotions at the thought of letting go of their first or second babe, I’ve been the voice of reason and reassurance.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday I took my know-it-all, righteous, emotionally-void self to the grocery to pick up a few things.

I browsed coolly through the produce department and then headed down the first aisle, stopping in front of the Moon Pie display.

I instinctively reached for a carton of double-decker, chocolate, Moon Pies, and that’s when it hit me: in 24 hours my house would be minus its only remaining double-decker, chocolate Moon Pie eater.

I choked on a whimper, and put the carton back on the shelf.

When I passed the gigantic boxes of Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I stifled a sob.

I erratically maneuvered my buggy down the chip & snack aisle, barely blocking a big, ugly cry when I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a freezer full of DiGiorno Stuffed Crust Pepperoni Pizza, which were on special.

I melodramatically melted in front of the Mayfield’s Moose Tracks, and threw a carton in my buggy. (I’m not an idiot.)

By the time I left the store I was a blubbering basket case.

Forget what I said before. The third time is NOT the charm.

My baby boy bird is leaving me with an empty nest!

WOE IS I!

I am NOT braced and ready!

Mop the floor with me!

Leave me alone with my carton of Moose Tracks and my beloved Fifth Dimension cd, ‘cause Marilyn McCoo is singing my song:

“One less bell to answer.

“One less egg to fry.

“One less man to pick up after.

“I should be happy…

“But all I do is cry ….”

Birthright

Birthright

By Allison Adams 07-10-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun 07-11-11

My firstborn child left the hospital in the arms of a mother who was petrified, but perky. We wore matching outfits home.

My “baby fat” fell off of me and I was back at my pre-pregnancy weight by the next day.

I was prudent and resolved to raise my daughter by the expert-authored, dog-eared, how-to-raise-a-perfect-child books, which were kept at my fingertips at all times.

Everything my firstborn did was an event – carefully chronicled in calligraphy on the linen pages of a leather bound Baby Book.

The camera was always ready to point and shoot, and photo albums were stuffed with candid prints.

Expensive studio portraits of my firstborn were displayed in expensive picture frames that sat upon every surface inside a house that was childproofed like Fort Knox and sanitized like a hospital operating room.

My small world came to a screeching halt when her naptime rolled around, which was at precisely the same time everyday. No. Matter. What.

My firstborn slept in a new crib, rocked in a new chair, started school in a new dress, and learned to ride on a new bike.

Her outfits were always clean and pressed and perfect, and a matching bow-that-ate-Tokyo was always affixed upon her head.

At one time or another she took lessons in ballet, tap, karate, gymnastics, piano, guitar, pottery, and I even bought her a harmonica … because it was important that she be well rounded.

My second born child left the hospital in the arms of a mother who panic-struck and begged to anyone who would listen to be allowed to stay for a few more days.

Once back home I bathed irregularly, dressed only in soft, elastic-laced clothing (accented with a burp rag) and lived in my house shoes.

I had misplaced my how-to-be-a-perfect-mother books, so I winged it.

Everything my second-born baby did was met with a smile and a clap of my hands. I occasionally wrote stuff down on the back of a grocery receipt, or a napkin, with the intentions of transferring it into a baby book that I’d buy next time I went out.

I took a few candid photos of her whenever I could find my camera, but we rarely visited the expensive portrait studio.

My house was still childproofed, but more like a 7-Eleven. And it was still clean … but more like a 7-Eleven.

My second-born baby slept in a hand-me-down crib in a shared room. She wore hand-me-down clothes, played with hand-me-down toys, and learned to ride on a hand-me-down bike.

When my naptime rolled around I closed us all up in the same room and we played the “Quiet Game”.

Her play clothes were clean but never saw a hanger.

Her precious, but unruly hair stuck straight up or hung in her face, and it always smelled like fresh flowers or peanut butter and jelly.

She went to playgroup and learned to swim at an early age … because it was important that she be well rounded.

My third baby was born 45 minutes after I arrived at the hospital. I dressed him in a Onesie and carried him home 23 hours later because I had things to do.

I've never lost another pound.

He doesn’t have a baby book, but I think I have his shot records.

I taught his older sisters how to use disposable cameras to take his picture, and if I ever put my hands on those I’m going to get them developed.

Truth be told, I occasionally dressed him in his sister’s primary colored hand-me-downs. Nothing he wore remotely resembled a matching outfit. Footwear was optional.

The floor of my house was a minefield of matchbox cars and Legos.

He napped sometimes.

He played in the dirt, ate paste, taught himself how to ride the next-door neighbor’s bicycle, and I made sure he had his own house key by the time he was in the first grade … because it was important that he be well rounded.

Well. This explains so much.

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Hurrah!

By Allison Adams 06-26-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun 06-26-11

I was raised in Texas where people (ALL people) live shoulder-to-shoulder with la cucaracha.

High society people call it a Palmetto bug.

You can sugarcoat it any way you want to, but the fact of the matter is if it walks like a cockroach, and talks like a cockroach – it’s a cockroach.

They say if somebody dropped an A-bomb on the State of Texas, there would be only one survivor: the cockroach.

Of that – and also death and taxes – you can be certain.

The cockroaches in Texas are so big (“How big are they?”) they rearrange your furniture at night while you sleep.

In Texas the cockroaches travel in herds and that’s one of the reasons the household pest exterminator is considered the modern day cowboy.

He is revered regardless of whether he wears a 10-gallon hat or a baseball cap.

As was the case with most “bug men” and their clients, mine was so important to me that his phone number occupied the top spot on my speed dial, and his name was on my Christmas card list.

All Texas bug men had job security. Against la cucaracha, they occasionally won the battle, but never the war.

I’m telling you all of this just to let you know that I am no stranger in the world of household pests and the extermination thereof … but I had no idea what I would be up against last Monday, when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one little black ant on my kitchen floor.

I watched it closely.

It appeared to be on a reconnaissance mission.

I continued to keep my eye on it and casually crept my clodhopper in its direction.

I don’t think it ever saw my cowboy boot comin’.

I rocked my foot back and forth just to be sure the deed was done. (Unlike the underfoot eradication of the cockroach, which is signaled by a distinctive crunch, the itty-bitty black ant squashes silently.)

Shortly thereafter I realized that when that ant didn’t return back to its platoon to report its findings they would send out a search party.

I had barely completed that thought when I spied a thin black line emerging from the cabinet below the kitchen sink.

Good grief, they work quickly … but so do I, my friends – so do I!

I wiped-out the whole brigade with one swift step of my size-9 squisher!

Victory was short-lived, however, and they kept coming.

They marched two-by-two, and the little one stopped to tie its shoe.

Then there were more; shutting the door, picking up sticks, closing the gate, etc., etc. Hurrah! Hurrah!

It turned out they were being nourished by my teenaged son and his buddies, who inadvertently littered the kitchen counter with morsels of their sugar-and-preservative diet, despite my orders to the contrary.

That turned the battle into an all-out war.

For the next several days the General of the itty-bitty black ants – whose Command Central appeared to be somewhere beneath my kitchen sink (or behind my refrigerator, or within the very wood grain of the baseboards along the bottom of my kitchen island) – deployed thousands teeny-tiny troops to terrorize me.

I drew from my experience and went into Full Exterminator Mode.

Determined to make their undersized existence unbearable I launched a comprehensive attack consisting of an arsenal of natural sprays and toxic traps.

It. Was. Epic.

I waited for the ants to retreat once they realized they were up against a formidable force.

But. They. Didn’t.

So naturally, I went on vacation.

(At least they’re not Palmetto bugs.)

The Big Idea

The Big Idea

By Allison Adams 06-12-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 02-13-11

I had a garage sale once.

It was early in our marriage and my husband, The Minimalist, thought we had accumulated too much stuff.

On his way to and from work he passed by the occasional homemade “Garage Sale” sign posted in a yard and he decided if it was good enough for the Joneses (and the Smiths, and the Millers, and the Browns), then it was good enough for us, and he hatched a Big Idea.

“We need to have a garage sale, like the Jones, the Smiths, the Millers, and the Browns”, he declared one morning as I was feeling my way around the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee and a couple of diaper wipes.

And even though it was very early and all of my neurons weren’t firing I knew, of course, that by “we” need to have a garage sale, he really meant “me”.

“Think of all the money we’ll make!” he said as he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door for work. (Now, that time he meant “we”.)

I rolled my eyes and followed him out the door with a baby on my hip, took her noodley little arm in my hand and waved it bye-bye while my enterprising husband backed his car out of our carport.

Then he stopped and hollered out of the driver’s side window, “We can use our garage sale profit to go on a vacation!”

Hold up. A vacation?

Nothing lights a fire beneath a stay-at-home mom with two children under the age of three, who has nowhere to go, and no reason to dress in anything nicer than sweatpants and an Enfamil-stained t-shirt accessorized with a burp rag permanently draped over one shoulder, than the promise of a vacation.

For two weeks in advance of the sale I worked diligently in between feedings, diaper changes, playtime, naptime, and even late into the night in order to sort through, select, and price our superfluous household items in time for the big day.

The promise of a vacation looming in my foggy brain even had me culling through our closet filled with We-Will-Never-Use-This-Thing wedding presents to add to the kitty.

I spent hours making eye-catching signs using poster board and Magic Markers. My lettering was big, bold, and perfectly centered.

I purchased an ad in the local newspaper.

I swept clean and hosed down the floor of our carport.

Under the cover of darkness on the night before the sale I carried our only card table to the carport and set it up.

Upon it I carefully displayed our trash-to-treasures, among them – a few out-of-fashion pocketbooks, a roll of red floral wallpaper, a set of 3 placemats (hand woven in Guatemala), a never-been-opened Este Lauder Bonus Gift, numerous coffee mugs advertizing anything from Penzoil to Piggly Wiggly, a healthy supply of bamboo chopsticks (still in their paper wrappers) from Wong’s House of Noodles, and the unusual candlestick holders (at least that’s what I think they were) that my mother-in-law’s bridge partner presented to us on the occasion of our wedding.

Sure that there would be a throng of shoppers that I couldn’t handle by myself I recruited a friend to help me control the cash and carry on the day of the sale.

I even hired a babysitter to watch my rug rats while I managed my event.

Cars began lining our street before sunrise on the morning of the sale.

When I could keep the buyers at bay no more, I pulled on my sweatpants and t-shirt over my pajamas and went to work.

By noon I realized I still hadn’t brushed my teeth, but I had sold the above mentioned items along with an arrangement of artificial flowers covered in a thin layer of dust, a broken boom box, a Richard Simmons exercise tape (which I paired with an exercise bike), a coil of clothesline, box full of cassette tapes, and a Christmas ornament that played “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”.

By 2PM I had pulled down my garage sale signs, folded-up my card table, dragged my worn-out body and bad breath inside and counted our profit: $68.90.

And THAT, Bill Adams, is why “we” will NEVER have another garage sale.

Don't Shoot!

Don’t Shoot!

By Allison Adams 05-29-11 / Submitted to The Greeneville Sun on 05-30-11

Just once I’d like to be able to lift, aim, and focus my camera to take a picture of my kids without them scattering like ball bearings hitting a marble floor.

“Take cover! She’s got a camera!”

For heaven’s sake, people! It’s a Canon; not a cannon!

All I want is a couple of cheesy shots of my cherubs to slide beneath the magnets on the refrigerator door.

In the early days, even before my children knew exactly I what I was doing with the contraption that hung around my neck, I was usually out of film. Or, out of batteries. And they were always out of focus.

There was no such thing as a “candid” shot. No, sir.

Every photo was painstakingly directed, and then I spent an inordinate amount of time checking to see that I had all the photographic accoutrements (film, batteries), and then it took me a little longer to make sure I could keep the moving targets in focus.

Oh, the blood, sweat, and tears that went into the annual Christmas card family photo …

By the time I got my first digital camera my children were on to me and my quest to capture the moment, so I rarely got a chance because it was almost impossible give chase while I held the thing at arm’s length, all the while trying to keep the subject matter framed within the tiny screen on the back of the camera.

Autofocus was of no use to me in those situations.

If they really thought about it, my children would realize my photographs are harmless. I mean, anymore it’s not like I actually ever print the photos I take. They live perpetually inside my camera, stored on that little thingamajig the size of a postage stamp.

Someday though, maybe I’ll get my pictures off of that doohickey. Then maybe I’ll have prints made of the pictures I really like.

I’ll use photo-friendly glue sticks to adhere them onto decorative acid-free archival paper. I’ll sort through a selection of paper-punchers that create an array of themed shapes with which to adorn the page in the photo album.

I’ll write a little blurb about the picture, like where it was taken and who’s in it … except that I really won’t because the photos of my kids set against a scenic background turn out to be shots of scenery and a hint of a couple of nondescript body parts.

“Oh, THAT’S a picture of my children on our recent hike. See? The shadow right over there is the back of my daughter’s head. She spotted me with my camera and slipped behind that tree. And look! There’s my son – that speck in the upper right-hand corner is his left heel. He is quite a runner!”

When I finally realized that the only thing me and my camera were really good for was clearing a room or the wilderness, I became indebted to anyone who happened to snap a shot of my children and share it with me.

The fact of the matter is that if it weren’t for those who shoot and share (or shoot and sell), I’d have no photographs of my son’s teenaged years.

My son has even managed to slyly sabotage his likeness in professional photographs.

Recently, I parted with a nice chunk of change when I ordered a professionally photographed group shot of his whole graduating class, taken on the steps in front of the school.

When I received the photo in the mail I was so excited to have such a wonderful keepsake of this important milestone that it took me several minutes to finally find my son in the picture – lying face down on the pavement … like he was waiting for the police to show up with their chalk.

I am not making this up.

You better believe THAT one’s on the refrigerator.

Don't Blink

What in the world just happened?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I gave birth to a ten-pound baby boy who came into the world clutching a Matchbox car in one tiny fist, and a couple of passies in the other?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I toted him around in something that resembled a miniature hammock with a shoulder strap, wishing I’d invented that contraption because it made it almost effortless to wrap and balance my Big Bundle of Baby Boy across my torso while simultaneously keeping both hands free to push a grocery cart, shuffle coupons, pluck one toddler from the top shelf of the cereal aisle and another one out of the dairy case?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I dropped-off my Baby Boy at Kindergarten and into the arms of Another Woman who couldn’t possibly take my place in his eyes for six whole hours, only to pick him up at the end of the day and listen to him babble on and on about Mrs. Conley’s amazing wonderfulness?

It feels like it was just yesterday that I stood on the sidelines of the soccer field watching my Little Athlete, dressed in a soccer jersey that hung down to his knees and shorts that very nearly covered his shin guards, which were so large they looked like they were wearing him instead of the other way around.

And wasn’t it also then that I concluded it was highly unlikely that he’d ever amount to much of a soccer player unless Mid-Field Mud Mucker or Defensive Dirt Digger became key positions on the team lineup?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I routinely spent several extra moments sitting in the car in the parking lot when I arrived at the grocery store, deciphering my Hungry Helper’s chicken-scratched, creatively spelled (curip, napcines, gaderad) shopping list?

And wasn’t it also then when I concluded I could never possibly have enough items on-hand from his favorite food group (Sugar and Preservatives) to satisfy the appetite of my Walking Garbage Disposal, for whom my kitchen pantry was the center of his universe.

Wasn’t it just yesterday when I realized that “I dunno” really was the most reasonable explanation my Mischievious Monkey could offer for having spent the better part of his afternoon cutting down a backyard sapling, duct-taping it to two skateboards, and sending flying down our driveway into the street?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I finally accepted the fact that the pungent aroma of a teenaged boy’s bedroom is indescribable, unavoidable, and impenetrable, no matter how many cans of Lysol one unleashes within?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that my Cute Camper declared that for the rest of the summer he’d be living in the wilderness in his pup tent in the back yard as long as he could have access to our electricity, running water, and the kitchen?

Wasn’t it just yesterday that Nascar Nate finally earned his driver’s license, and then had the nerve to turn to me to announce that all these years I made him nervous every time I got behind the steering wheel?

Was that my Handsome Baby Boy wearing a tuxedo and escorting a beautiful date to the prom last Saturday night?

Is that really his high school graduation robe stuffed inside his backpack?

I should never have blinked.

The Holiday

The Holiday

By Allison Adams, 04-17-11 – Submitted to The Greeneville Sun 04-18-11

“Mom? Why are you slapping together a pile of turkey sandwiches at 8 o’clock in the morning when we’re just about ready to hit the road?”

“Why don’t you have a seat there, and I’ll tell you a little story while I work on these sandwiches.”

“Why don’t we just pretend I never saw the whole thing?”

“Once upon a time families used to ‘road trip’ a little differently than they do today.”

“You mean like how they used to travel together in covered wagons?”

“No – like how they traveled together in station wagons.”

“You’d never catch me riding in something that lame.”

“The premier model station wagons often had decorative wooden paneling along the sides.”

“Hideous.”

“Luxurious. And road-tripping families would pick-up a commemorative decal for every city or state they visited, and they’d decorate the windows of their station wagon with their decal collection to show everyone where they’d traveled to – a little like placing a stick pin in different cities on a map.”

“Tacky.”

“Trendy. And road-tripping families of long ago made traveling an adventure!”

“How so?”

“Well, daddies would study road atlases for the scenic routes, and mommies would make sure to pack plenty of things to entertain the kiddos.”

“Like a portable video player and an iPod?”

“Like crayons, coloring books, activity books, playing cards, dolls, … things like that. Why, I remember once being in the ‘way back’ of my family’s station wagon with my doll and some scissors, and somewhere between Arizona and California I cut-off all of her hair!”

“Wait a minute. You were sitting in the ‘way back’ while the car was moving -without a seat belt?”

“Well, things were different back then – cars didn’t have seat belts.”

“Whoa! And your parents let you have scissors while you were bouncing around?”

“That’s right, son. No seat belts, and sharp objects. It was a wild and crazy time! And listen to this – in the absence of a rest stop, parents often made their own. They’d pull off the highway whenever they needed to, and produce a little plastic travel potty, and let the kids relieve their bladders!”

“No. Way.”

“Yes - way. Families traveling with small children came prepared for anything! Oh – and families played car games like ‘Name the state capitols’, ‘Cow Poker’, ‘License Plate Bingo’, or ‘Punch Bug’…”

“Boring.”

“… and there would be singing, and laughing …”

“Lame.”

“… and we’d almost always travel with a spare can of gasoline, just in case the scenic route of our road trip took us through a remote area with no gas stations.”

“NOW you’re talking! You’d sit in your station wagon with a full can of gasoline?

“Sometime, yes.”

“Awesome! That’s so … combustible!”

“There’s more. Families also packed food to eat along their journey.”

“No way! Why didn’t they just stop at McDonalds or Wendy’s?”

“Fast food joints weren’t on every corner then, like they are today. People were more practical, more frugal. Long ago, families didn’t automatically spend money for the sake of simple convenience.”

“Because they were poor?”

“Because they were resourceful. Families would pack a picnic lunch, or supper, or both – to eat along the way on their road trip. Sometimes they’d pull over on a scenic overlook and spread out a picnic blanket and enjoy a good stretch and a nice break. Sometimes families would eat their picnic as they drove – driving straight through the night to reach their destination, and avoiding the need and expense of a motel room.”

“What did they have against a Holiday Inn?”

“Once upon a time, the holiday was as much about the journey as it was about the destination.”

“Wait just a minute. Is that why you’re making turkey sandwiches at 8 o’clock in the morning right before we pull out on a road trip?”

“Yes, dear. I’m making the best of the situation – and your daddy and I are sick and tired of fast food.”

“Please don’t make me sing songs or play ‘Cow Poker’.”

“All right, dear.”

“And can we bring along something combustible – just to add to the excitement?”

“Certainly. I’m packing the bean dip.”