Cracking Up: When soccer mom and soccer dad need a time out

as published at www.ocregister.com on September 19th 2012:

I’m all about saving a buck. But in hindsight, I realize some bucks would have been better spent.

If my husband and I can survive the upcoming soccer season with our marriage still in tact, perhaps we’ll go back to coupon clipping. For now, we’re thinking one particular deal we encountered was too good to be true.

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

It all started with a “Hey Michael, if we coach Blake’s soccer team this fall, the coach’s kid plays free!”

Michael gave me the burned-out eyes of a guy who works 18-hour days at his software company.

“I’m out. And what do you know about coaching kids’ sports?”

“Ahem, I played soccer in the fourth grade AND I grew up with six brothers AND I was a school teacher for crying out loud,” I vindicated.

“Coaching 6-year-old soccer is like herding monkeys,” he said, a three-time survivor. “Good luck with that.”

How hard could this be? I thought, with the same dauntless zeal that has started cold wars, world religions, and QVC product lines. This is what the internet’s for. So a-Googling I went, where I found a plethora of U7-appropriate practice drills. But the night before our first practice, I realized they barely glossed over a few fundamentals.

“Michael, I’m making a lesson plan for practice tomorrow, and I was wondering: what specific part of your shoe should actually touch the ball when you kick it?”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “What time’s practice?”

“4:30.”

“Fine, I’ll be there.”

I thought this might be a good thing. But nooo...

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Growing up on the first day of school

as published at www.ocregister.com on Sept. 12th, 2012:

The Friday before the first day of the school plays out the same way every year in my town.

A steady stream of sun-dressed moms drag their sweaty herds of offspring to our neighborhood school at 3:55 p.m. The mood around the class-posting zone is anxious, gnawing, clawing as 4 p.m. nears and The Listis solemnly walked out by a brave team who seem to vanish the second their placements hit the board.

The moms can’t wait for those neatly typed papers that signify it’s real: the utter lawlessness of summer is over and they can reclaim their lives — their workouts, their kid-free erranding. And even more importantly, The List bears the name of the one other adult in the world who will split the burden of caring, sharing and staring down that mother’s child for nine months as he grows up a bit in a little plastic chair, his secular womb.

For the kids, The List means even more. A merciful match can be the payoff for a summer spent finger crossing for the teacher who gives out candy. Or it can seemingly signal the end of childhood when all your friends are placed in one class — the other class, not yours — with the teacher you wanted but didn’t get.

And that’s how things went down for my first grader this year — my shyest, of course. We scanned down sheets of teachers we knew and kids we recognized to no avail. When we finally found Blake’s name on the list of a teacher we didn’t know too well, splattered in the middle of a long list of kids we didn’t know at all, my heart sank.

“He doesn’t know one other boy in his class!” I whisper-yelled into my cell, dragging my husband into the blacktop drama.

“How’s he taking it?” Michael asked.

“He hasn’t — he doesn’t — he’s on the jungle gym right now,” I sputtered, watching my oblivious son’s blonde curls blow in the breeze ushering in what would be the loneliest year ever...

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Cracking Up: When mom goes back to school

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 29th, 2012:

This year, we made back-to-school shopping a family affair. Which meant while my husband crammed four kids in a red Target cart and launched them down various aisles in an attempt to make and break new speed records, I spent two hours checking off lists over in school supply.

Four Fiskar scissors, 30 glue sticks, and 96 Ticonderoga pencils later, I thought I’d finally covered it all. But then I realized I’d forgotten someone: me.

PHOTO COURTESY STOCK.XCHNG

Because this year, I’m going back to school.

When I tell people this, I find that most adults and all kids look at me with a flabbergasted cringe that begs, “Why?”

So maybe I’m not the breadwinner around here. And I’ll concede that a Master’s degree in Professional Writing from USC may sound less lucrative than an MBA or Juris Doctorate. But I’ve been waiting for this day for twelve years.

I white-knuckled my way through the GRE, spent two months triple guessing my application essay, and begged, bribed, and pleaded four professional relationships to write a few nice words about me. So I deserve to buy something with three rings and a pocket for myself.

As I survey the bins of wide-ruled and college-ruled, I wonder what else does a student of writing need? They didn’t give me a list. I reach for a blue spiral notebook and as I hold it, it fades into another blue notebook from my past, one labeled as belonging to Jacob G...

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Welcome to Camp Ruin Mom’s Life

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 24, 2012:

In theory, it seemed like a good idea.

“Hey Mom, me and my friends want to have a babysitting camp to earn money for back to school shopping! Sound good?” my daughter chirped.

Photo courtesy Morguefile.com

In hindsight, it was the worst idea ever.

At least for me. Because while my budding entrepreneur is currently out making an offer on a small country with her earnings, I’m still extracting popsicle sticks from my planters and carting around a full bucket of size 4T Lost looking for merciful souls to claim it Found.

Funny, I seem to remember a pleading promise that, “You won’t have to do a thing!”

The truth is, the tweenster businesswomen behind Camp Summer Fun (now closed forever) are really, really great at tending to kids. But the same entrepreneurial genius and kid-loving zeal that launched this plan was missing a key component in their triple-force trifecta: reality. In the end it came down to a numbers game, and for these girls, it was the more the merrier.

“Nine, ten, eleven… nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—I told you to cap it at fourteen!” I hollered as the Expeditions rolled up and the kids started rolling out.

“But they just keep coming,” she replied sweetly, Forever 21 dreams flashing in her eyes. Oh to be twelve and ignorant to the bleariness of liability insurance, CPS and all the other things in childcare an Otter-pop can’t fix.

“You know that the required ratio in a preschool is 1 adult to 7 kids, right? And they’re licensed, bonded, and insured!”

“With you here, we’re more than covered. Do you have change for a twenty?” she asked.

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14 things not to buy your spouse for your 14th anniversary

as published at the www.ocregister.com on August 15th, 2012:

Like many parents, Michael and I have renewed our vows in anniversaries past by sneaking away for a memorable experience — which can be in a swamp in North Dakota as far as I’m concerned as long as Nick Jr. and swim diapers are not invited.

But this year's budget has created a new tradition in our household called Don't Spend Money. So in an effort to still honor our 14 years together, I thought I'd mix things up by surprising the hubby with a simple, time-honored, and potentially home spun gift. And the always faithful Google procured the following list of appropriate 14th anniversary gift fare (via weddingclipart.com):

If Autumn really loved her husband, this would be their new pet!

PHOTO COURTESY MORGUEFILE.COM

1. "Ivory, the traditional 14th wedding anniversary gift, is no longer recommended." Good. They're all out of tusks at the dollar store.

2. "Instead, one can incorporate a more environmentally-sound, ivory themed gift." Like a piano lesson?

3. "Perhaps ivory colored bed linens or tablecloths would enhance the home of the couple celebrating." Obviously, this list maker does not have four kids.

4. "Ivory colored dishes are a timeless gift idea as well." I wonder if "ivory" is one of the hues of "Ikea white?"

5. "Elephant-themed gifts pay tribute to the ivory theme, while expressing a deeper appreciation for their species." Heh heh. As much as I'd love to see his reaction as I heave an elephant through the front door ... 

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Cracking Up: I'll take an Olympic medal to go, please - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 8th, 2012:

As Russian gymnasts, Jamaican track stars, and a 27-year-old retiree with more gold than a Swiss bank hijack the living room of every household in America, two wannabe athletes are training in my own kitchen nook. And at this rate, we might just be ready for the Ugandan Games 2032.

My mom and I are hardly Olympians. But we (or I, anyway) felt like we could be the first night we watched the synchronized diving.

This could totally be Autumn McAlpin and her mom. Right?

FILE PHOTO: THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

As I simultaneously wiped a counter, loaded a dishwasher, and stuffed my face with all the leftover food from my kids' plates, I became a bit inflated in my multi-tasking. After watching two teenagers walk to the end of a board and dive off at the same time I looked at my mom and declared, "We could do that!"

I received a roomful of chortles.

"No, really. They walked to the end of the diving board and … dived. Sure, they had nice form and all, but come on, we did swim team. We're not afraid of heights. How hard could that be?"

The panel of my biological judges on the couch weighed in.

"Those kids have been training since they were in preschool," said my husband.

"In some countries, the athletes are preordained as embryos," my mom agreed.

"You could never do that," laughed my brother...

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Cracking Up: Do you let your kids add a little pee to the sea

as published at www.ocregister.com on August 1st, 2012:

                                 Photos like this used to seem so innocent...

"We don't swim in your toilet, so please don't pee in our pool."

This sign was a staple of my childhood summers. Growing up in Memphis, Tennessee, where everyone survived the humidity via a backyard swimming pool, moms uselessly zip-tied signs to their wooden fences advertising to all: "Welcome to our –ool; notice there's no ‘P' in it. Let's keep it that way."

But in Memphis, no one had an ocean. After a decade ofliving in southern California, I still struggle every summer with the fact that I seem to be the only one on the Pacific coast uncomfortable with backwashing into the sea.

Some ingenious parents even invented the urban legend of the "pee indicator chemical." Even when I became a lifeguard and learned of its folklore, the vision of a red halo around my waist was a strong enough scare tactic to keep me hopping out for potty breaks. But for the most part, our friends' parents just drunkened their pools with enough chlorine for anyone to care.Regardless, I was raised believing you release your… output… in the proper place, namely inside.

This issue did not come up with my husband in our premarital courtship. Because I don't think the past fourteen years would have actually ever happened had I known before we set up shop that he truly believes a dog's saliva is better for a household than a cleaning service, and that human urine is more sterile than Windex. Obviously, he takes his potty breaks in high tide (and I wash the windows at home).

Others I know take his team...

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Cracking Up: Remembering Grandpa Mac

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 25th, 2012:

"Don't bend the cards."

I'll never hear that phrase again without thinking of my Grandpa Mac. Last week, he became my first grandparent to pass away.

Not only were we not to bend the cards while shuffling, but Grandpa's voice will live on to remind us not to "play out of turn" and to avoid unscrupulous "table talk" with our partner while playing his favorite card game: Hand and Foot.At his funeral, many of his trademark phrases were shared over the podium as his five kids took turns remembering him, and the congregation of his life chuckled knowingly as we predominately heard catchphrases sputtered from his role as officiator of thousands of family card games.

Going to Grandpa and Grandma Mac's for dinner the second Sunday of the month was a ritual for many of their 21 grandkids who circulated through their town while attending college. And just as we knew Grandma would always serve her delicious soft rolls, homemade jam, and Jello topped with whipped cream, we knew as soon as the table was cleared of dishes, a box of Rook cards would fill their void. Grandpa would then shuffle and disperse the cards with the skill of a Vegas dealer as our eyes assessed our hand's ability to win the round, and our ears perked up to his jocular pre-game banter and occasional break into song.

However, once the first card was flipped, the game was on and so better had you be...

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Cracking Up: Finding the perfect vacation spot to dwell

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 11, 2012:

Nestled in a quiet wood past a sea of orchards in the Ojai Valley lies a quaint dwelling built into a trove of trees. Its rustic cabin-like exterior harbors a bohemian, modern enclave within. This abode — listed as the "Dwell house" (though monikered the Agave house) -- facilitated this year’s installment of our annual experiment to find a vacation place of our own. 

As a kid growing up in Memphis, TN, visiting relatives here in Orange County every summer was a pilgrimage to our getaway, our "place." Now that I have a family of my own with a permanent address here, I often feel like we live on vacation. But we still crave a place to which we can retreat to leave the knocking, ringing, and shuttling of daily life behind. 
The front view of the Dwell house: rustic cabin on the outside, ultra-modern sleek and chic enclave within.

AUTUMN MCALPIN, FOR THE REGISTER

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Over the years, we’ve tried out various spots within a one-day drive perimeter but had yet to find one that felt like ours. Until this weekend.

As a vacation rental, of course this Ojai "treehouse" can’t technically be ours. But the homeowner mastered the art of making it feel that way.

Upon entering, we were greeted by the scent of fresh white lilies and pine. Eclectic light fixtures and bold art accenting the birch framework begged for a lingering look at all the surfaces of the efficient loft-like space. Sunlight streamed in from the gratuitous windows that flanked every wall. My husband sighed in relief that his requisite Wifi worked while my kids scampered up and down both floors, waving to each other from the skylights in between that created peek-a-boo intimacy.

With fluffy comforters and linens lined by funky sequins aplenty, my kids quickly claimed their individual places to cuddle and settle in. And when I discovered my two daughters hunkering in the spacious closet "ort" under the stairs, I also stumbled upon my favorite home feature: the bookshelf...

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Cracking Up: Grandpa's heart bleeds red, white and blue

as published at www.ocregister.com on July 4th, 2012:

I inherited my mom’s love of good books, my dad’s love of roller coasters, and my grandpa’s love of the red, white, and blue.

When it comes to patriotism, Grandpa Davis is a flag-waving, parade-marching, my country ‘tis of thee Marine. And I pledge my thanks to him for teaching me what it means to be an American.

The day Autumn's grandfather was elected President of the Bodfish Chapter of the 1st Marine Division Association.

While there, we parents keep a close watch on our young kids as Grandpa’s house hides a mini-arsenal of wildly appealing weaponry. Ever a proponent of his Constitutional rights, Grandpa jumps at the chance to take his grandkids to the shooting range, and jokingly threatens to shoot us if we neglect our right to vote.

For as long as I can remember, the 4^th of July has meant a party at Grandpa Davis’ house—his delegated hosting role only natural as the one relative who served in the armed forces and once owned a firework stand. Every year, we all know to show up at Grandpa’s to eat our KFC and wave our sparklers. Upon arrival, we find his day-to-day patriotic home décor further enhanced by a whole Party City aisle of extra flags and streamers, and a sea of appropriately colored, berry-speckled cakes.

Though no longer on the battlefield, Grandpa feels it’s his mission to spread his Semper Fi spirit wherever we go. Whenever Grandpa spots a fellow Marine, he distributes one of the many refrigerator magnets he carries advertising that not only are Marines good-looking, but they’ll kick your a%$, too. Grandpa regularly gifts us with rare military coins or holiday light strands of bullet casings, and floods our email inboxes with tear-inducing stories of patriots who perform brave acts in the name of our country.

While Grandpa’s “Oorah” may sound dangerous, he’s a marshmallow inside. A few years back at a Marine auction, Grandpa Davis set his eyes on an item that he didn’t need for its intended use, but that suited his penchant for patriotic paraphernalia: a starred and striped walking cane. I’m sure he was thrilled when he outbid his opponent, bestowing the cane to his Americana collection.

But when he went to claim his prize, Grandpa was told that the woman who bid against him had real difficulty walking due to her multiple sclerosis...

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There's just something about a Marine in uniform

as published in The Sun Post News on June 22, 2012:

There's something about seeing a Marine buying toothpaste at Walmart that makes me weep inside. Every single time.

The idea that these strong and courageous heroes allocate part of their monthly stipend toward such a mundane human task makes me feel somehow unworthy, yet connected as we stand in the same aisle. As I watch them price-check the plastic tubes, I suppress my awkward desire to offer to pay for their items and instead resolve to find them in the parking lot the next time they host a car wash. It's the one car wash I get that I don't check for missed spots afterward.

Not that these men would miss them.

Even when not in uniform, you can always spot a Marine around town – their shoulders broad as a bull's, their hair fastidiously shorn to the scalp, the modest bravery in their countenance that somehow emanates even as they buy toiletries at a superstore.

When people ask why we love San Clemente, my mind instantly turns to visions of the palm trees at T-Street, the sunset down Vista Hermosa, and the Marines. And now that I have sons of my own, every time I see a man in uniform, I think of what my sons could become.

I'll never forget my oldest son's first haircut. As we entered Jerry's Barber Shop, I was already emotional at the thought of saying goodbye to my toddler's wispy blond baby hair. And then a Marine walked in.

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Camp Mom: A good fix for summer break

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 27, 2012:

Am I the only mother out there who dies inside on the last day of school? Does two months of 24/7 family togetherness make anyone else a little bit … twitchy?

Sure, there’s that whole we get to sleep in, don’t have to do homework or pack lunches “sell” to summer vacation. But not really.

Time to debunk the myths:

1. Sleeping in? Actually means staying up late... as in the kids. It’s hard to duct tape your kids into their beds at 8:45 p.m. when the sun’s still out and the neighbors are still on the slip’n slide.  After a day of full sun family entertainment, I seem to be the only one passed out drooling on the couch by 9 p.m. while the rest of them party through all two hours of "So You Think You Can Dance." So really, I’m fine getting up early again if it’s to SEND THEM TO SCHOOL.


2. Don’t have to do homework? Only the kids win on this one. You find me a mom who doesn’t spend two hours of every summer day preparing for the pop quiz of "What are we going to do today?" and the science project of "Determining the Appropriate Amount of Aloe to Combat Third Degree Sunburn." When the kids are home, believe me, mom’s still doing WORK.

3. No packed lunches? YEAH, RIGHT!!! Not only will you be packing them, you’ll be packing twice as much for all the kids’ friends who snuggle their way onto your beach blanket. And then you’ll be loading them into appropriately chilled coolers with sand drains so you can haul/roll/drag them through three acres of parking lot and down rocky terrain and past two lifeguard stands ‘til you find an open two-foot by two-foot square.

Arguably, summer is only a break for the kids. So this year, this mama came up with a survival plan for me/them called "Camp Mom." I didn’t realize I was such a joy to be around until I threw out this clever idea about a month ago, and my kids asked if they could go to summer school instead. (I checked, unfortunately they’re not qualified for the free kind.)...

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Cracking Up: Digging for treasure in a backpack

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 20, 2012:

I’ve spent a year’s worth of afternoons asking my kids how was their day and what did they learn at school, only to be answered with "fines" and "nothings."

Well this month, like every other parent in Orange County, my counter is being splattered with evidence of all the fine nothings they learned at school. And in digging through the notebooks, collages, and projects, I’m learning a lot about my kids.

Like what makes 32 of my third grader’s friends special. The Star of the Week program is always a classroom crowd pleaser to give each kid his moment to shine, and thus one I fully support (except at 10 p.m. the night before I realize it’s my kid’s turn and we haven’t started our photo poster). But I didn’t know that during each kid’s week, the rest of the class journals about that friend.

I love this. I love discovering that whilst my son Gavin’s sloppily printed "spetial" transformed through the year to a beautiful cursive "special," he recognized that "Nathan is special because he likes lasagna," "Kate’s special because her nickname is Kate the Great," and "Justyn’s special because his mom’s house has a dog and his dad’s house might get one." This spiral green notebook is a keeper as it holds within it budding friendships, potential wedding video ammo, and at its core the building blocks of community and respect...

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Cracking Up: So what if we're not breeding Olympians?

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 13, 2012:

                                                    Let's hear it for the participation trophy!

The track meet was going like any other sporting event to which my kids don a jersey. Sure, I love to watch them play. I even try to smile as I holler "Wake up!" "Stand up!" and "You’re running the wrong way!"

It’s quite painful, really, and it’s all my fault.

So after watching my daughter not place in first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth in a foot race at the track meet, I was a bit surprised when she leapt up the bleachers with a huge grin.You see, my kids inherited the B-team, third string gene from me. They prefer the stage and any type of screen to all sports. But in a perpetual effort to athleticize them and "find their thing," we actually spend most sports seasons playing the game of bribery: "You have to play the whole game if you want a snack!" and "Those who quit mid-season do not get to sing karaoke at the team party!"

"Did you see me? I broke a school record!" she exclaimed.

"For what?" I asked, wondering how one sells a baton drop to the hall of fame.

"For the world’s shortest long jump ever! One inch! I tripped when I hit the sand," she announced proudly. I couldn’t help but echo her giddy laugh. At least she’s finding the joy in her bragging rights.

And so did I. My athletic claim to fame is that as a child, I played on the same soccer team as women’s Olympic gold-winning forward Cindy Parlow. That’s right, we rubbed shoulders as we stuck oranges in our teeth at half time in the third grade. But that was the closest I ever got to her, as she played forward and was so amazing even back then that the ball NEVER once came on our side of the field.

Too bad because I’m sure I would have offered some mad skills on defense, where I was strategically positioned to sunbathe the entire season. There, I also started a side business making dandelion bracelets to hoc post-game with the other three directionally-challenged green jerseys...

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Tweeting for the Pulitzer

as published at www.humorwriters.org on June 12, 2012:

Despite the ever-progressive state of the technological age, it seems if we want to achieve real success as writers, we actually must regress back to behaviors we learned in, like, high school.

In the olden days, writers wrote. They moved to the forest to cabins with no electricity and hunted or trapped their own dinner or better yet never ate at all because they were too busy chain-smoking and ignoring everyone they’ve ever met and WRITING. The more angst and reclusivity, the better their work.

Oh, to be Harper Lee.

Now, if I want to make it as a writer, my muse is a homecoming queen. Because everyone “likes” her.

Social media has invaded even the most lonely of professions, and just like the quill, the solitary life has been expelled from the writer’s toolkit by the landmines of the “Like Me” world...

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Tweeting for the Pulitzer

A father who tells time by the hours spent with his kids

as published at www.ocregister.com on June 7, 2012:

When it comes to gifts, my husband doesn’t ask for much. If I forcibly cajole him into providing a birthday or Father’s Day gift idea, he usually appeases me with, "You know I like to collect watches."

Funny, for a guy who is never on time.

But Michael has a special gift when it comes to the extra hours he squeezes out of his day. Daily and without fail, they belong to his children. His time with them is generous, timeless, and intentional.

Time and responsibility frequently slip away when Michael takes the kids on a hike to the water tower or turns a two ingredient grocery run into a four store supermarket sweep to find the best-stocked Redbox, or falls asleep on their floor at night reading a few bonus chapters because the story’s just getting good. These are all perfectly legitimate excuses for missing appointments and meals and bedtimes in his mind.

In the long run, I suspect he’s right.

As the one who logistically spends the most time with our kids, I often feel the opposite — that I'm at my limit, that I need a rest, that I need some alone time. Recently after spending six hours in the car with our 6-year-old who speaks 6,000 words per minute, I collapsed in my husband's home office chair, ears    ringing, and moaned, "That kid sure loves to talk..."

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Cracking Up: A vacation that never was

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 30, 2012:

The treehouse "Dwell" in Ojai; available on vrbo.com...another too good to be true option when you wait 'til the last minute...

"What are you guys up to this weekend?" the text from my friend read.


The idealism had all started Friday morning of the Memorial weekend holiday when my husband emerged from our home office after two years spent buried in his new business to announce he was ready to bug out of town. This glorious news greenlit my favorite hobby: trip planning. BUT ... 


"Ideally, planning a surprise to take the kids somewhere fun! Realistically, working in pajamas," I replied, wondering if my favorite flannels had yet made it through the dry cycle. 


"Before I spend four hours planning the perfect getaway, I'm going to need a commitment and a credit card from you," I said, safeguarding my efforts from the reason and logic he loves to hurl at my "great ideas." 


He handed over the plastic and I was off. But a quick search on every Lastminutedealsforloserswhowaitwaytoolong.com site revealed … nada. Besides an $8,000 a night suite in the central coast, every "family resort" adventure in the western hemisphere had been booked solid for months. Overachievers. 


So I branched out to a land of Plan B trips, finding this route included many options my kids might find "memorial..."

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Cracking Up: Baby fat I adore

as published at www.ocregister.com on May 23, 2012:

There are some things sisters just shouldn't share: toothbrushes, boyfriends, mood swings … But my two daughters have found the joy in sharing the one thing sisters should: clothes! The problem is, one sister's 4, and the other 11.


"Mom, why is Gracie wearing my shirt?" our oldest Alex asked on St. Patrick's Day, when little Gracie came down dressed for preschool in a sparkly green top.


"You put that shirt in your 'too small' pile," I said.


"Yeah, but I wore it in fifth grade! What size is she?"


And a double check revealed that indeed, my 4-year-old should most appropriately be shopping at Forever 21.


Meet Gracie: the baby of our family, and our Amazon woman. The sensitive would term her "long torsoed." Her brothers prefer the nicknames "Juicy," "Jelly" and "Bacon." They're still in time-out for that one. But our little marshmallow is the mascot of our family.


Gracie is hands-down the most loving child you'll ever meet. She's all about jumping on your neck and giving you a squeeze. But somewhere in that long torso, she's packing lead. Unsuspecting relatives frequently emit a guttural "Ughhhhh" when she leaps into their lap. But no one gives better hugs, so she's worth the deadlegs...

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The Bond that Legos Built

as published at www.ocregister.com on April 25, 2012

With four kids and three kids' bedrooms, someone had to share. As testosterone tends to whine, begrudge, and rage a little less than estrogen, a few years ago, our two sons became roommates.

But their breezy blue walls, tiki-themed bedding, and bamboo-trimmed furniture failed to lull them into pacific coast pacifists. Rather, a walk past the boys' room usually exposed a tropical storm.

"He's so messy, he takes all my things, he never stops talking!" fussed our oldest.

"He doesn't help me clean up my stuff, he won't let me play with his toys, he makes me be quiet!" the hurricane swelled, with the counter-argument of his three years younger brother.

So we became referees - each morning moderating a quick pick-up, each night projecting a menacing "Boooyys!" up the stairs as our younger's nightly superfluous ramblings drove his older brother nuts.

They shared that room as their birthdays advanced them from ages three and six to six and nine. And every night would culminate in a bellicose "Why can't we have our own rooms!?" as the younger chattered and messed, and the older begged for some peace and quiet.

Then one night, the squabbling stopped...

To read the rest, click here: http://www.ocregister.com/articles/night-350856-boys-one.html

Downton Abbey portrays my kind of motherhood - OC Moms - The Orange County Register

as published at www.ocregister.com on April 10, 2012:

Note: This column is best read in an aristocratic British accent.

It appears I have a newfound obsession that partners well with my two other affinities in life (slipper socks and Ben & Jerry’s -- both of which receive entirely too much air time in this column, I confess).

"Downton Abbey." What a delightful discovery! Albeit, most of you have probably already witnessed the adventures of Seasons 1 and 2 and might be wondering if I’m privy to a sneak preview of Season 3.

Quite the contrary. True to form, I overlooked the soccer sign-ups, missed kindergarten round-up, and was not to be bothered with this program until I recently learned at a birthday party I was the only human alive who had not yet visited Downton Abbey.

So I purchased my ticket (on Apple TV). Without knowing it was a one-way passage, because mentally I haven’t come back.

To read the rest, click here:

Downton Abbey portrays my kind of motherhood - OC Moms - The Orange County Register