And from the looks of the comments posted to my status update, it looks like overzealous parental involvement is a widespread problem.

Parenting? It’s no longer about raising kids. It’s a competitive sport.

(Oh, great, we all know how much of an athlete I am. My kids are up a creek without a paddle.)

What does a grown-up gain from submitting an elaborate project in their child’s name? You should have seen some of the example projects. Honestly, most of them looked like a parent was heavily involved to me, even the projects offered as examples of satisfactory student work. I know what I was capable of in 4th grade, and even though I was a teacher’s pet I doubt I could have executed with such sophistication. Kids are more sophisticated and have more sophisticated tools at their disposal, but I still felt uncomfortable visualizing the parental involvement evident in most of the presentations.

I’ve seen it and felt it, this competitive parenting business, from the time I was pregnant with Elizabeth. Some misguided people started judging from the moment of conception. The big issue then was whether or not I would return to work after Elizabeth was born. One woman didn’t like it when I answered that I planned to keep working and asked me “Was this a planned pregnancy?”. Another woman told me that I was shortchanging Elizabeth by demonstrating that “the only thing women can do is be mothers.”

After E arrived, what activities would I choose for her? Gymboree? Mommy and Me? Pilates for Pups? Did I read all of the classics to her in the womb, or was I a lazy bastard to have only read “Green Eggs and  Ham”? What about music? Did I strap headphones over my uterus and subject her to Mozart or Vanilla Ice? My choices certainly impacted her babyhood. God only knows what I had done! How would she be accepted to the best preschools?!?!?!?!?!?

It got worse as E got older. Soccer starts in preschool now. Basketball soon after. We skipped dance and theater, only because there are a mere 24 hours in a day. And we kept having babies. Two more, as a matter of fact. That also put me at odds with a few naysayers. Everyone always had an opinion, but after awhile I realized that their opinions were more of a reinforcement for their own parenting skills than a critique of mine. When we’re afraid we’re not doing the right thing, not doing enough of something, not measuring up, what do we do? ATTACK!

The homework issue reared its ugly head in first grade. The assignment was a timeline: each student would map out their lives so far on a long roll of manilla paper and display it in the pod during Parent/Teacher Conferences in the spring.

I did help E on this one. We looked through photos together and I printed the ones she chose. She cut them out and pasted them on her manilla paper and wrote about each event. Her timeline definitely looked like it was done by a kid. Many of the others on display that spring looked rather professional. With matted labels and hardcore scrapbooking doodads.

Now, I’m all for liberal use of hardcore scrapbooking doodads, but there is a time and a place. Like in your own scrapbooks.

I was waiting for E’s conference, and I overheard a couple of parents commenting on the timelines.

“Wow, good luck with that when your kid’s in high school.”

As in, you can only do your kid’s work for so long.

I know of a few helicopter parents from back in my day who would intervene on a daily basis with the good intention of making sure their child made it to the college of her choice. I was a senior in high school, and one of my classmates failed a trigonometry test. She was on track for straight A’s, which to her and her parents was essential to be accepted private school. The student threw a tear-filled tirade, and her parents were at school that afternoon, pleading with the teacher to change her grade since she was under so much pressure. And her “F” magically transformed into an “A”. Just like that.

She wound up with straight A’s and attended the college of her choice. I’m not sure where she is now, but I really hope she’s not involved in saving people’s lives or anything like that. What if she was having a really bad day? I have a feeling her parents would still intervene. But helicopter parents can only do so much. I’m unaware of any having the capability to bring people back from the dead.

I suppose my kids are a reflection of me, to an extent. But I’m more concerned about them not being creeps than I am about them having a professionally produced science project. I figure the opinion of anyone who judges me for what they perceive as a lack of love or attention or skill is hopelessly misguided anyway. My unsolicited opinion? I think we as parents are responsible for raising children who can stand on their own two feet. Guide them through life’s rough waters, but never man the wheel. I’ve seen many parents who seem to me to be living their lives through their children. If anyone would want to relive her childhood vicariously, that would be me! But protecting a child from failure, ridicule, and even judgment only makes a child less confident and less able to handle the bigger challenges that life will inevitably throw at them. If my parents would have intervened during my countless adolescent trials, they would have been hopelessly busy and I would have grown into a hopelessly helpless adult.

One of the teachers said it best last night: step aside and give your student ownership of their project. He knows the students who have ownership of their projects. The kids who did the work themselves are thrilled to take their projects home.

He still has many beautifully executed projects in storage at school.

And that judgment? I’ve been fortified by years of ridicule and lack of parental intervention. Bring it on!

Five years ago, it seemed I could hardly wait to leave.

A lot changes in five years.

Joel couldn’t wait to escape Iowa, and we moved to Dallas shortly after we were married. Me? I felt pulled in two directions. I’ve always been a Family First kinda gal, and I felt like I was betraying my parents to just pack up and leave for no good reason, since I don’t consider impractical adventure a good reason.

Obviously, I didn’t consider striking out on my own with my new husband a good reason, either. The first Christmas we were in Dallas, Joel and I visited Iowa. I bawled my eyes out the entire trip home. By car, that’s 14 hours of crying. I was so terribly homesick and denied myself the slightest opportunity to enjoy anything about Texas. I always felt guilty if I even started to like it just a tiny bit.

It’s not like anyone asked me to torture myself. I’ve always been a self-starter.

We built a new house, brought two children into the world. Life was pretty nice. But the life wasn’t in Iowa. My kids would never know their grandparents as I’d known mine. The guilt was overwhelming, and I remember one particular day, in a random parking lot walking back to my car. The tears welled up from God-knows-where, and I found myself contemplating my destiny on asphalt, wondering what in the world I was doing.

What does a girl do? Well, she puts the wheels in motion and forces her family back to Iowa! That’s what she does!

Joel hated the idea, but that man always wants to make me happy. So he found a job (with a nice pay cut and demotion in it for him) and did everything he needed to do to make my dreams come true.

A week before we were set to move, I couldn’t sleep. I was feeling guilty, again, regarding E and her little neighbor friend. What if they were destined to grow up together and be best friends forever? I felt I was torn away from my destiny when we moved to Texas. What if I was tearing her away from hers by moving away? What about starting school in the brand-new building, walking-distance from our shiny new house, with all of the kids on the cul-de-sac? I was seriously yanking E out of her preschool and dragging her to a portable in the back of St. Joseph’s in Des Moines?

Seriously. WHY was I doing this?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Too late, though. The job offer was accepted, the house was for sale, and we were leaving town.

It felt weird being back in Iowa, to be honest. The biggest change? My guilt had evaporated. Woo-hoo. It wasn’t the same as I’d left it seven years earlier. I imagined that I would be the best of friends with my in-laws and it would be barbeques and Christmas Eve every day. I imagined my parents would visit every weekend, even though the drive from Sioux City is excrutiatingly dull. I imagined that we’d visit Sioux City far more often than we actually have. I imagined trips to the Omaha Zoo and experiencing other things from my childhood with my own children.

Funny how those visions never quite materialize in real life the way they form in the ether in your head. The intentions are good, the effort is there, but reality isn’t a Christmas card.

And now I find myself surprised by crying over Dallas in a little American Airlines puddle-jumper. So much has changed since we moved back. Joel assures me that we probably wouldn’t have Ben if we had stayed in Texas. He assures me that I probably wouldn’t be physically or mentally healthy had we stayed in Texas, the way I was. I know, I know, I know.

But what if we moved back?

The very idea of mentioning my emotional plane ride to Joel left me feeling defeated. I could hear Joel telling me, “I told you so,” even though the dear man never utters such thoughts to me (even though I know he thinks them!). So I admitted it. I admitted that, yes, after all of these years of pretending that I absolutely hated living in Texas, yes, I actually liked it. THERE. I said it. My mother didn’t pass out. The world is still spinning on its axis. Dogs and cats are still at war. THERE.

Now I find myself cruising Remax.com, looking at houses in Frisco, the new place to be in Dallas for families like ours, just for fun. Still stunned at what the lack of a basement and a yard makes up for in granite countertops and hand-scraped wood floors and soaring ceilings. How different would life be? It wouldn’t be the same as it was the first time. We hit the jackpot with neighbors, and although lightning might strike twice and bless us with good friends again, I can’t bet on it. But we still have those friends and the many others that made the move from Iowa before and after.

What about the kids’ education? Yes, one of the major draws for Iowa is the educational system. But it’s very different from when I was a kid. I wouldn’t say the kids are receiving a mediocre education, but I would say that other states have caught up and are even exceeding Iowa, depending on the district. We lived in one of the best school districts in Dallas, Coppell ISD. Coppell High is very similar to Valley in regards to achievement, even a bit better. I’m pretty sure had we stayed our kids would have been just fine.

And Joel wouldn’t be tortured about cheering for his Valley kids when they play against his alma mater, Dowling.

What about the kids’ friends? Joel likes to tell the story about when he and his family moved to Ohio for his Dad’s residency when he was about Sam’s age. The kids cried and cried and cried…until they crowded into the U-Haul for the actual trip. Joel swears he didn’t shed a single tear after that. They were in a big truck, after all.

Even my mother has brought up the idea of Texas being the last safe haven for people like us, politically-speaking. Remember the tagline that Texas used in their travel campaigns a few years back? “Texas: A Whole Other Country” Well, that’s true. It has a strident vibe to it. The people are friendly, too. I still remember my shock at strangers starting conversations with me in the elevator. That’s something Iowans just don’t do. We’re all about personal space. I’m not saying Texas is a paradise of any kind, but it somehow seemed to fit better. Even through the veil of all of my self-imposed guilt, I could at least feel a sense of belonging.

Maybe Texas is where my family is supposed to be. Maybe it’s our home.

The decision would be so much easier if I didn’t have to pack.

I always tell my kids that we should be thankful for our troops and their sacrifice. We should shake their hands and graciously thank them for their service. A few parents at the kids’ school are in the military. I see one father in particular nearly every afternoon, dressed in his fatigues, meeting his kindergartener. I’ve never had the opportunity to thank him from my minivan in the pick-up lane. And it would be unseemly, no matter how well-intentioned, to race up the lawn and fist-bump the poor man.

Back in Salt Lake City, the man walked back to his group. I turned to the woman in fatigues and quietly asked her where she was headed today.

“Afghanistan,” she replied.

She couldn’t have been much older than 20.

I reached out my hand and shook hers. Her hand was small and tiny and slightly trembling, and, somewhat astonished, I weakened my grip and let go.

“Wow,” I said awkwardly. “How long will you be there?”

“Until March or April.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Sounds rather creepy when I type it out, but it was all rather sweet in reality.

I don’t remember a single thing we talked about. Just that the conversation didn’t seem forced or uncomfortable. After all, we were both nerds, technically. He was a Jock Nerd, so the Quiz Bowl and Math Bee stink didn’t stick to him as much as it did to me.

My parents allowed no dating until 16, so my first boyfriend was limited to his nightly phone calls and nothing more. Until October 14, 1988, when I was officially four days old enough to go out for dinner and a movie.

He came to my house in his father’s Suburban. He was a little bit older than me and already had his driver’s license, but his father didn’t trust him to drive his Suburban. Or maybe his father didn’t trust a teenage boy on his first date. Regardless, the doorbell rang and there he was.

My First Date.

His father drove us to Southern Hills Mall, way out on the other side of town. He dropped us off, and we shared an unabashedly romantic first date meal at Taco John’s in the food court.

No beans. Although I’ve never been one of those girls who chooses salad over a big juicy steak, it was my very first date and I was taking no risk of avoidable embarrassment.

He bought two tickets to “Cocktail”. You must know (if you haven’t already guessed) that I was quite the naive young lady at 16. Or 15 and 4 quarters, if you really want to be realistic. I’m sure you’ve all seen the movie, a Tom Cruise/Elisabeth Shue classic.

Put yourself in my movie theater seat, just for a moment. And be thankful that theaters are dark places where people can’t tell if you’re flaming beet red or just pleasantly rosy. I have a hard time watching that movie NOW, nearly 21 years later. And it’s not just because of the horrible acting and cheesy premise. It takes me right back to 1988 and Southern Hills Mall Cinema.

I don’t remember if it was between the “Kokomo” or the Tom Cruise/Gina Gershon romp to the beat of “All Shook Up”, but I managed to look over at my date, and I was even more disturbed by what I saw next to me that what I was seeing on the screen. My first date? Digging for gold. That’s right. DIGGING FOR GOLD. Um, excuse me? I may have had my eyes squeezed shut for most of this movie, but you REALLY think you can get away with such SERIOUS DIGGING? Dude! I can totally see you!

Well, after the disturbing movie and the disturbing revelation of my date’s bad habits, I was so ready to go home. I was torn between feelings of disgust and young love. For once, after all of our nightly hour-long phone conversations over the past month, I was rendered completely speechless.

It was a long ride home in that Suburban.

He walked me to the door, and I think he thought he should kiss me. But with the glare of the brightly illuminated front porch most likely hiding my parents’ watchful eyes from his view coupled with his waiting father in the Suburban, he opted for the handshake. The handshake! Now, I KNOW he didn’t wash his hands. And this was way back before the invention of hand sanitizer (By the way, thank you, Mr. Purell, wherever you are.) But I had no choice. He HAD taken me to Taco John’s AND a movie at the big theater.

I was creeped out.

He called on Saturday night and Sunday night, as I’d come to expect. But it was more difficult to visit with him with the knowledge that he was a Gold Digger.

On Monday at school, one of my most obnoxious classmates practically tackled me wanting all the inside scoop on my first date. You know the movie “Grease”? Patti Simcox ring a bell? Look it up. Astonishing resemblance, minus the poodle skirt, plus the acid-wash jeans.

“OOOOOH! Tell me EVERYTHING!!!!!!” she squealed.

I know my enthusiasm didn’t even approach the same galaxy where her enthusiasm resided, so I got this:

“You KNOW, that when YOU TWO are seniors, he is SO going to be Homecoming King, and that means YOU are SO going to be Homecoming QUEEN! That’s so AWESOME! OOOHHHHH!!!!!”

Really? Gold Digger over there is handsome, talented, smart, and all that. But he PICKS HIS NOSE.

He called Monday night, and I could tell he could sense my distraction. At some point in the conversation, he went for it:

“So, what’s the status of our relationship?” he asks me.

I think I dropped the phone. I recovered long enough to stammer something about having to erase all my math homework and start from scratch because I couldn’t turn it in with my handwriting in its present state, punctuated with a very curt “Goodbye!”.

I was such a chicken then. Granted, I was a child. But if only I could travel back in time as the person I am now, I would have been so much smoother than that. Come to think of it, that would make me a cougar then, too. Ew.

So that’s the story of my first Real Boyfriend. My first Real Date. And my first Breakup.

It’s kinda cute, really, don’t you think?

And about that Homecoming thing? Fast forward four years, and yes, he was up for Homecoming King. And her? Wouldn’t you know it? She was up for Homecoming Queen. They both lost. He probably couldn’t have cared less. Her? I still can see the raw expression on her face when they announced the winner. Her best laid plans for the past two or so years came crashing down as hard as her jaw.

Yes, that was me, watching from the audience. At least a tiny bone of security in my enormously insecure body, at peace with the fact that I didn’t sell out for a glittery plastic tiara.

I got on an airplane. Not once, not twice, but four separate times. I did it all alone.

And I didn’t even die. Not one time.

My fear of flying is deeply embedded. My first flight was to Washington, D.C. the summer before 7th grade. My Dad flies all the time and never shows an ounce of fear because, well, he’s not afraid. My Mom? White knuckles, all the way. I couldn’t reconcile how Dad was so nonchalant while Mom was practically hyperventilating with her eyes squeezed shut for a solid two and a half hours.

The flight wasn’t actually that bad. The return trip? A little rougher. We flew over a thunderstorm, and the pilot kept climbing to avoid severe turbulence. I vividly remember coming down with a nauseating headache over a breakfast of sliced oranges sprinkled with toasted coconut. (I’m getting sick thinking about it now!) Then we sunk down through the clouds and were practically skimming the Missouri River into Eppley Field.

My Dad? Totally cool. Probably embarrassed by the ridiculousness of his girls.

Next up was a flight to Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama. (Yeah, I was cool like that.) We flew a prop plane to Minneapolis from Sioux City. The first (and hopefully, last) time in one of those. No flight attendant, unless you count the person in yellow sweatpants who hopped on the plane to shuffle our luggage around to distribute weight more evenly. The flight wasn’t as horrible as I suspected, but I couldn’t help but fixate on the vision of Jessica Lange smashing into that mountain in “Sweet Dreams” the entire time.

We made it to Minneapolis and connected in Memphis. Nothing spectacular. I remember the Memphis airport being all decked out in pink and blue neon, celebrating Elvis as only an airport can celebrate Elvis.

Memphis to Pensacola was a totally different story. By now, it was nighttime. We were on one of those regional jets that are just a step above prop planes. And we ran into some nasty weather.

Needless to say, I was a wreck.

We hit severe turbulence, the kind that jars you around as if you were on a sick and twisted roller coaster ride. Lightning all around, just like that one episode of “The Twilight Zone” where William Shatner’s character keeps seeing Sasquatch hopping on the wing. Thank God for my kind friend, Kelly, who kept reassuring me that turbulence was just like cars going over tire tracks.

Sure, cars. Cars 30,000 feet in the air with nothing underneath but a steep drop and solid ground to break your fall.

The analogy was lost on me, and I started to freak out as the plane jerked more violently. The flight attendant was strapped in towards the front of the plane, facing us. I needed Dramamine, horse tranquilizers, ANYTHING, and Kelly motioned for his assistance. But he was busy with his death grip on his seat. He fervently nodded, “NO!”, refusing to unbuckle. Kelly took matters into her own hands and started to walk towards the flight attendant, intent on getting some water for me to wash down some hallucinogens. The plane jerked, Kelly tripped and fell down the aisle, and I think that’s when I started screaming, “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yes, I really am that fun.

The turbulence kept at it, but we finally broke through the clouds. I saw happy twinkling lights below where happy families were happily on the ground.

Then blackness.

We were over the Gulf of Mexico, looping around for landing. But all I could think was that the plane was not only going to crash in the ocean, I was also going to be devoured by sharks on top of it.

I was not happy.

Finally, we landed without incident. I felt rather sheepish for being so dramatic. Until we deplaned onto the tarmac. The staid business commuters who shared that flight with me actually knelt on the ground and kissed it.

See? I wasn’t kidding. It was pretty bad.

I begged to take a train home, drive, even WALK. I DID NOT, by any means, want to get on another plane, EVER. Of course, I had to fly back from Huntsville to Memphis to Minneapolis to Sioux City. And I’m typing this now, so you know I actually made it. But my fear of flying was all the more cemented, and it wasn’t budging for anything.

I mentioned my Dad travels a lot for work, and my family and I always had the opportunity to tag along. Montreal was a big trip. Didn’t go. He flies to Arizona and California and Florida quite frequently, in the winter, too, but guess what? Never went. Colorado? Only by car. New York City? Are you kidding me?

I missed out on many adventures, but I told my adventurous self that I didn’t need to go anywhere that badly. I denied my wanderlust and convinced myself that an adventure consisted of three-hour interstate drives.

I flew to Orlando once in January. We left Omaha covered in snow, the temperature hovering below zero. And while Orlando wasn’t much warmer that time, it was novel to be out of parkas. I allowed myself to enjoy that one.

And then our dear friends were to be married in the bride’s hometown of Juarez, Mexico. We bought the tickets, we were ready to go. It was going to be an absolute blast.

But a full week of night terrors and absolutely horrendous anxiety kept me on the ground. Joel went without me. I couldn’t even go near the airport. He was gone for a week, updating me daily with all of his adventures. And there I was, the one in the relationship who could actually speak Spanish, sitting in Des Moines at my cubicle, missing the wedding of a lifetime all because I was a wimpity-wimp afwaid to be on a pwane.

I felt so embarrassed. And 13 years later, I still feel it.

Joel insisted I fly on our honeymoon. It was only to Miami to hop on our cruise. It took tranquilizers this time, something that I was really ashamed to admit, but something that did help. What does it say on the prescription? Don’t mix with alcohol? I was so terrified that I ignored instructions and drank on the plane, thinking that would magnify the effect. And it certainly did. I was everyone’s best friend on that flight and the one returning home. At least in my own fuzzy mind.

As young newlyweds, Joel and I decided that we wanted to move across the country. I encouraged a compromise to Dallas, and he agreed. Our Juarez-married friends had relocated there, and I sort of felt like I would be making it up to them somehow by flying to stay with them there.

And that was the very last time I flew.

Before 9-11. Before all of the new rules. Before three kids and a mortgage and car payments. In other words, before I actually became a grown-up.

Last June, opportunity arose for me to fly to Salt Lake City for the Digital Scrapbooking Experience, a convention put on by Creating Keepsakes. Nancie, the owner of ScrapArtist, threw it out there that I might want to go. I justified not going one hundred ways to Sunday, but by August (and with a lot of prodding from Joel) I bit the bullet and, with much reservation, made my reservation.

I watched takeoffs and landings on YouTube over and over again. I learned as much as I could about how planes work, including the fact that not a single plane has ever dropped out of the sky because of turbulence. I steeled my nerves, convincing myself that if someone as formerly mousy as me could kickbox, then I could probably fly.

I was flying solo, so no drugs. No alcohol. And certainly no mixing of the two. I didn’t want to wind up hungover in some Dumpster at the airport.

As my departure day approached, I felt butterflies more and more. But I kept telling myself I could do it. I promised myself that if I could get over this then we could take more interesting family vacations. I could stop talking about all of the places I want to go and actually go to them. I could check one big huge thing off my list.

Joel dropped me off at the Des Moines airport very early Wednesday morning, before the kids were even thinking about being awake. I felt sort of like a big girl just then, dependent on myself. I went through what has become quite agonizing security since my last flight 12 years ago. What you have to endure for a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer is pretty amazing.

I made my way to the gate at the end of the terminal and waited. And used the bathroom. And waited. And used the bathroom. And waited. And used the bathroom. My biggest fear at that point? Losing control of my bladder/bowels. Seriously. I started to perspire in weird places, like the tops of my feet and behind my knees. I had little fleeting moments of doubt that I would actually be able to walk and board. I was terrified to actually be strapped into the plane with no choice but to endure whatever the flight was going to entail.

But I did it. I got on that plane. I buckled my seatbelt. I looked around at my traveling companions and quietly promised them I wouldn’t puke or scream or otherwise torture them with my insecurities.

The plane sped up. It left the ground. My eyes were closed, and I just kept breathing like I was at Farrell’s. I told myself I kick things for exercise and this was absolutely no big deal. The plane shuddered a little bit on ascent, but nothing major. And before you know it, I looked out and got a bird’s-eye-view of Valley Stadium, Jordan Creek Town Center and other familiar landmarks. A few minutes later and we were flying over the Missouri River. Not long after that, Kansas City. Then Kansas.

Before you know it, I saw the Red River and we crossed into Texas. I could make out our old neighborhood, using Grapevine Mills Mall as a reference point. And I actually started to tear up a little bit as we landed in Dallas. It was at that moment I realized how much I’d allowed irrational fear to guide so many of my choices over the years. I felt awfully regretful. I felt like apologizing to anyone and everyone to whom I’d ever exhibited my ridiculousness. But then I felt a little more strident, a little more fearless, a little more confident in myself.

Happy to land, but happier still that I’d made it so far.

The leg from DFW to Salt Lake was on a larger plane, more people whom I realized God probably didn’t want to slam into the ground today. We flew over the clouds and as the sky cleared I saw snow-capped mountains. The Wasatch Mountains. I have a big thing for mountains, and seeing them from high above is just something you don’t do every day unless you’re a pilot. Then I spied a huge copper mine, Provo, and then the Great Salt Lake.

I landed, I was alive, and I went to sleep that night dreaming about all the places that had just opened up to me in the world.

I flew back home the same way, SLC to DFW, DFW to DSM. And I didn’t lose control of myself or any of my internal organs. Not once.

The best way to conquer your fears is to face them head-on.

Now for that pilot’s license…

Sometimes, I feel a little sheepish asking if I can make copies, especially if I’m only a relative by marriage.

So what’s a girl to do?

Use her camera!

The LeMar cousins had many photos on display yesterday at the family reunion. It was a dizzying array to a self-appointed family archivist like myself. So instead of fussing over the logistics of making hard copies, I just took pictures of the pictures.

Now, this works well in some circumstances, not so much in others. But it certainly doesn’t hurt to try.

This handsome devil is Joel’s uncle, Cliff LeMar. The photo on the left is the raw image, straight from my camera. The photo was hanging on a corkboard inside the shelter at Grandview Park. I only took one shot. Multiple shots are preferable.

Photoshop to the rescue! I started with a Levels adjustment layer. I fuss with this sometimes, but I just opted to go with the Auto adjustment. Then I used the Warp tool to pull in the sides a bit and give dear Cliff better posture. The photo had been trimmed to fit in an oval frame, so I begged, borrowed and stole from around the portrait to fill in the corners. Basically, I used the Lasso tool with a good feather of 3px to copy a good section, then I moved the patch over the blank area and blended it with a layer mask and a soft brush. I also needed the Clone Stamp tool and the Patch tool to aid with the blending here and there.

The tricky part was filling in the cut-away parts of Cliff’s suit. I used the same process as above, but I was much more particular in lining up textures and shadows.

The before photo has an obvious yellow cast to it, and the Auto Levels adjustment layer took care of much of it. But I used another Levels adjustment layer, using Cliff’s shirt, which was presumably white in real life, to sample with the White eyedropper and jazz up the rest of the colors. I merged all of the layers I’d created so far into a new layer, and I performed a Variations adjustment on this new layer, making it a teensy bit more blue.

Et voila! A “copy”! Sure, a bit more effort than had I just asked if I could run them safely over to the westside, scan, and run them back. But this way everyone feels safe.

I have a few more to Photoshop, and now I can share copies with all of the LeMar cousins.

Now for those Rice relatives…

Joel’s never worn them. It’s not a critique of my knitting skills, it’s just that they’re wool. Soft-ish sock alpaca/silk, a beautiful taupe skein from a bonafide yarn store in Plano, but wool nonetheless. Slightly itchy. No Gold Toe. But Joel keeps them because I made them. He’s a bit of a sucker like that, even though he’s all tough and manly on the outside.

Regardless of the lack of action they get from his feet, those socks are beautiful. I took them out of Joel’s drawer and unfolded them. I marvelled at the idea that the tangle of stitches, increases, decreases, heel flaps, and Kitchener stitch all came from uncoordinated me and a fistful of double-pointed needles.

As usual, some other random thought strikes as I’m folding the socks back together.

“He” asked me to knit a pair of socks for him once. “He” being my high school sweetheart, the boy I just knew (at the wise old age of seventeen) that I would marry someday. I used to fantasize about signing our checks and Christmas cards with my first name and his last name.

Yes, it was true love indeed.

(And I rarely write checks anymore and barely issue Christmas cards, so that really was some fantasy.)

I had never knitted a thing in my life at seventeen. I tried to crochet a sweater once out of a book from the library. I scored a couple of skeins of squeaky white Wintuk from Shopko and forced myself to decipher the pattern into wearable art.

Three weeks later, and I’d barely gotten beyond the foundation chain.

When I was little, my dear neighbor, Hope Harbeck, latched on to my interest in anything crafty. She made it her mission to pass on the feminine arts that her own grown daughter had never given a passing glance. I used to follow her husband, Orville, around their garden. I liked digging up the carrots, which of course he let me wash and eat right there. But after all of that dirty work and vegetable consumption, Hope would wrangle me to sit with her while she tried to help me grasp the concept of casting on.

When “he” asked me to knit socks for him, I took on the assignment with the fervor only a lovestruck adolescent could possess. I ran like a bullet train to Northwest Fabrics and bought a skein of the “good stuff”, something like 20% wool.

I was out an entire $3.95, but like I said, this was true love.

I knew that I needed more than two needles to accomplish this sock knitting thing. I settled on a pattern (an old one from Hope, if I remember, complete with cables) and I cast on all of the stitches required for the first row onto one of the slippery Size 5 double-points. The pattern instructed me to divide these stitches onto four needles, being careful not to twist the stitches. All I could do was twist the stitches. I unraveled the cast-on stitches and tried again. And again. And again. I kept trying until the yarn was so over-cast-on that it lay limp and frazzled in my hands.

I gave up.

He was not meant to be with me. The socks were not meant for him.

They were meant for Joel.

For some reason, the next time I attempted to knit socks, I understood the pattern. It was like looking at that optical illusion where you can see two faces or a vase, and this time I saw the two faces instead of the vase or the vase instead of the two faces. Sure, I made a few mistakes, but it didn’t seem like reading Chinese upside-down like it had so many years ago. I knit a fine pair of socks, worthy of my soul mate’s feet.

To everything there is a season. Socks included.

BETSY WETSY.

Ben is now three-and-a-half years old, and he is extremely resistant to toilet training.

Of course, Elizabeth was potty-trained at two, with very little effort on our part. We pointed to the toilet. She went. Done deal. Never made it past Size 3 Pampers.

Sam was a bit more difficult, but very determined. I vividly remember him coming down with a vicious case of the flu that left him dehydrated to the point that we wound up in the hospital on an IV. He was wearing Pull-Ups, but he asked me if he could go potty. I told him he could just use his Pull-Ups this one time because he was so sick. But he insisted on walking down the hall to the restroom. There he was, my little man, shuffling through the ER wheeling his IV stand all the way to the toilet. It was an heroic thing to witness.

Sam’s threshold? Size 5. Barely broke into the box, but we had crossed the line.

Ben? Size 6 and counting. I even went all Mommie Dearest and switched from Pampers to Huggies, assuming that Pampers were far too absorbent and therefore too comfortable for Mr. LeMar. After Size 6, our only other option will be Depends. I have nightmares that I will have to sneak Ben into preschool, sliding under the radar of the no-underwear-no-shoes-no-service preschool standard, only to be turned away after he soils his adult incontinence undergarments and rats himself out.

True story. We stopped at a rest area on our way home from Sioux City before Ben was born, and I witnessed a frustrated mother changing her SEVEN-YEAR-OLD son in the restroom. She was trying to reason with him. If you are having an existential battle with your child regarding diapers, it’s gone too far.

Ben is *this close* to “too far”. We introduced the concept as soon as Ben expressed interest, just like parents are supposed to do. But I have this feeling that as the baby he knows he’s getting exclusive time with Mom and Dad because we have to change his diapers. Trouble is, the older he gets, the more the deposits evolve. Without getting into too much detail, the days of “sweet-smelling” breastfed-baby jobbies are long, long, long gone.

(And whomever decreed breastfed babies have sweet-smelling diapers must have been smoking something sweet when they wrote that. Comparatively? Maybe. But there’s nothing sweet about Numero Dos. Ever.)

We’ve rewarded Ben by trucking the entire family to Dairy Queen when Ben merely sits on the potty. He doesn’t even have to do anything but sit, and he earns ice cream. The promises have become grander and grander, if only Ben would actually put something in the potty.

I think we’re up to a supermodel girlfriend and a Lexus at this point. Honestly, I’ve lost track.

So a co-worker of Joel’s leads Joel to (of all places) DrPhil.com. Dr. Phil professes a fool-proof method of toilet training that he swears will work on the most resistant of subjects in a single day. Buy a doll that wets. Load up the doll with bottled water. Let the subject put the doll on the potty. And celebrate profusely when the doll performs as requested.

Dr. Phil promises that Ben will want his own “Potty Party” so badly that he will fling his diapers to the margins for all eternity.

We had to run to Wal-Mart this afternoon to fill in the missing blanks on our school supplies lists, so we checked out the toy aisle and found such a doll. She’s a girl, and Ben has christened her “Lily”.

(As a side note, Wal-Mart had two versions of the same doll on the shelf. One had pursed lips and seemed entirely too grumpy, the other had a pleasant smile on her face. Ben chose the “happy baby”.)

Lily is now sitting on our kitchen counter, waiting for her training to start tomorrow morning. Believe it or not, Ben is JAZZED about taking care of Lily and teaching her how to go potty.

Dr. Phil? If this fails, I have you down for a Costco-sized box of Huggies, Size 6, possibly a pallet of Depends. I’ve never been one to put faith in you before. I’m calling on you now.

Dude, I’m at my wits’ end. This better work.

Soon after we moved into what has become Chateau LeMar, we couldn’t help but notice how what the inspector told us was just “normal wear (nervous twitch) and tear (nervous laugh)” was more like serious deterioration.

We forked over a ton of cash on really sexy things like Hardiplank and a roof and gutters. Ooh. La. La.

Every spring and summer, I take it upon myself to wash the windows. (I do windows. I love to do windows. It’s more the result than the process, but part of it’s the process, too. Clean. Freak.) I couldn’t help but notice how the paint had started to peel away from our trim. Winter passed, another spring, and the more I scrubbed, the more it flaked.

I distinctly recall the painters haphazardly slopping paint on the trim in cool rainy weather, so I nervously called the contractor and asked what was going on. He assured me that no matter what, he guaranteed his work for five years, pretty much blowing off this Little Missy.

Four years later, and you can literally breathe and blow the paint off of the trim in long curling sheets should you walk close enough. Please don’t.

Since the Hardiplank was primed when it was installed, I guess he got a little mixed up about the trim. So he just slopped paint over that, too, even though the trim was original.

I call upon Joel for situations like this where I’d have to interact with a gruff macho painter guy. So, Joel called. And we waited a couple of days. So I called. Gruff Macho Painter Guy appeared on my doorstep not ten minutes after I hung up. I just know he’s thinking, “The little woman is home alone because her husband is the one out in the real world doing man’s work. This’ll be easy.”

He was appalled that we thought his work was shoddy, even with the peeling paint shedding all over him as he inspected the trim.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “This woods all wet, see? Soaked. We can’t do any kind of prep that’ll cover that.”

Me: “Um, it rained all night. The wood’s bare from where the paint’s peeled off. Rain makes bare wood wet,” and I know this because it’s in all the books I read.

He was astounded by the breadth of my meterological knowledge.

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “Well, they sanded and oil-primed and did everything they were supposed to do,” implying that my magic witchy woman voodoo powers must have just terrified paint into jumping off window trim.

Me: “I was watching your guys on the job, and they didn’t do any prep. They just painted over what was already there.”

Gruff Macho Painter Guy: “Well, you SHOULDA CALLED ME,” talking down to me like the stupid little woman he’s sure I am.

Me: “I did call you. You told me you guaranteed your work for five years. And now you’re here.”

Wow. Did he get all incredulous on me then. This chick is a SMART ASS, his favorite kind, obviously. He told me he’d “get back to me” in two weeks.

So, for now, we’re the house on the block with the beautiful siding and the shabby windows.

“Sam, grab Momma an ice-cold Forty from the fridge, lemme pop out my teeth, and let’s sit a spell on the front stoop. Fire up my corncob pipe, Ben, and bring Momma her chew, Elizabeth.”

I’ve forbidden anything else from breaking down, falling apart or otherwise deteriorating for the foreseeable future. I’ve employed my super secret uterine powers to make it happen. Now if only I could command my estrogen to take the form of Sherwin-Williams Duration. That would impress Gruff Macho Painter Guy AND save him a trip back to the bowels of Hell!

I’m such a girl like that, willing her own body chemistry beyond it’s purpose just to save a Gruff Macho Painter Guy a redo. Tee-hee-hee!!!!