Cleaning is for suckers.

That probably sounds terrible, unless you are the person in your home responsible for cleaning up after everyone else. In that case, it makes perfect sense. I believe of all the things we as humans, adults and parents are tasked with, maintaining a clean and orderly home is one of the toughest.

Before I had children, I knew and could tell you the origin of every item in my home. I’m not kidding, and I’ll bet you could probably say the same thing if you think about it. After the kids came along, and I’m talking when they were old enough to be mobile, I couldn’t say that any more.

At first it started out small, the kind of thing you’d hardly notice and probably brush aside. For instance, I’d be folding a basket of laundry, and a shirt or sock would show up that I had never laid eyes on before. Initially, I chalked those incidents up to mere forgetfulness. But as the kids got older (and more numerous), the incidents of finding UFOs (Unidentified Foreign Objects) in our home became more frequent, as well.

We’d find jewelry (always one earring, never two), shoes, jackets, backpacks…you name it, we’d find it. No one ever laid claim to these items, and no one ever knew whose they were or where they came from. After a while, I’d just throw the unidentified items away. Looking at them just bugged me – where do you put shoes that belong to no one? What do you do with one earring if no one recognizes it? The closet hoarder in me had a hard time getting rid of that stuff at first but eventually, it became necessary.

When our youngest two were in high school, an entire car showed up one night. No one recognized it. There were no extra people in our house. No one saw anyone park the car in front of our house. Our neighbors had no idea where it came from. It was just there. It stayed where it was parked for a day or two, and then it disappeared as magically as it materialized.

What about cleaning out closets? How often do you do that? When we first bought our house back in 1999, I was absolutely obsessed with keeping the drawers and closets neat and organized. I quickly learned, however, that there is a crew of people living somewhere in our house whose sole purpose is to undo any closet/drawer cleaning. I could clean out a closet and within 48 hours, it would look like gremlins had gotten in there and intentionally pulled clothes off hangers, spit crumbs in the floor and scuffed up the door just for kicks. Within 72 hours, there would be a film of dust and cobwebs on top of the pile that magically materialized in the first 48 hours. Now no one ever saw this crew of people. No one ever heard them at work. I just know they exist; I saw the evidence.

Then there’s the cagey apparition responsible for carpet stains. This individual shows up, most frequently, right after the carpets have just been cleaned. I remember coming home from a dinner one evening several years ago. We had left all four children at home, as they were plenty old enough and responsible enough for us to do that.  We thought.

As soon as my husband and I walked through the back door (scooting our “guard” dog out of the way with the door as she continued to sleep, never even opening one eye to see who was breaking in), a giant purple carpet stain caught my eye as soon as I stepped into the house. It was, of course, perfectly centered on the white carpet in the family room, the nerve center of our home. The stain was easily more than a foot in diameter and still damp.  Someone had apparently attempted to clean it. No one, none of our children and certainly not the dog, had any idea how it got there. Complete mystery.

What can we take away from all this? Just don’t clean any more, at least not if you ever have children in your home. It won’t last. And if it’s just you and your spouse or roommate at home, then you each always have someone to blame.

Do you have a cleaning routine, and do you require your children to help around the house? How’s that working?

How young is TOO young for Facebook?

A friend asked me a couple of weeks ago whether he should allow his 11-year-old daughter to start using Facebook. Hmmm … now that’s a tough one. If you have children, you understand why. On one hand, it’s getting harder and harder to shelter, or maybe I should say “shield,” your children from anything. The viral nature of social media is mind-boggling, faster-than-light, it seems.

Too, most of this girl’s friends already have Facebook pages. There’s the eternal, “But so-and-so’s mom lets HER do it!” argument. As a mom, I always hated that one, because I always answered it just like my mother did. “I don’t care what so-and-so’s mom lets her do. You’re my child, and these are my rules!” That answer, by the way, goes over every bit as well now as it did 40 years ago.

What I told my friend by way of advice went something like this:  “If she has access to a computer or a cell phone, she is likely already on Facebook. Rather than fight that or forbid it, thereby making its appeal even greater, go ahead and lay some ground rules now. Her computer should be in an area of the home that’s central and available to you and Mom. Let her know that you have the right (and will exercise it) to jump in and look around her ‘page’ anytime you choose. And if it at any time it looks like she isn’t exercising good sense, she loses the privilege.” That’s really all you can do aside from never granting your child access to a computer or phone, and how practical is that?

What I should have also told him, and I intend to next time I see him, is to never, EVER, try to outsmart your kid when it comes to these social media sites. I speak from experience. You see, I am of that very last generation of people who went right through high school, college and graduate school without ever touching a computer. Don’t bother doing the math. It was a very long time ago.

When our youngest daughter was in middle school, that’s when the My Space craze was taking off. I was amazed at how much time kids spent on there, and I had already heard that everything from bullying to sharing inappropriate photos to predatory stalking had made their way to that new arena. I made the mistake of bypassing the above conversation about ground rules and mutual trust with my daughter. Instead, I put on my spy hat, and the end result was both frustrating and humiliating.

I created a fictitious identity for myself and set up a My Space page (or whatever you call it). I didn’t do anything weird; I just didn’t want to look like a mom out there checking up on her daughter. The problem was, I promptly forgot my username and password, so in essence I had locked myself out of My Space. When I called a friend of mine to help me figure out the mess, it took us another two hours before I was completely locked out of my own computer. Not only could I not oversee my daughter’s activities on My Space, I couldn’t check my own e-mail or use the Internet at all.

Whom did I have to finally break down and ask to unravel the whole mess? My daughter, of course. Not only did she learn of my lame cloak-and-dagger attempt to monitor her activity, she has never let me forget it. It was only then that I took the time to sit down with her, explain my concerns and ask her to humor me with respect to using My Space and eventually, Facebook. She knew that I could get in there and look around at random (because she set it up), and I think just having that knowledge and knowing that it mattered kept her mindful of her choices. Eventually, as she got older and more mature, I didn’t feel the need to (lurk? creep? Whatever this week’s term for “spy” might be).

To my advice-seeking friend, if you happen to read this before we see each other again, just be honest with your daughter and lay all the cards on the table. Be honest, and be firm. Our kids have such sophisticated tools at their disposal, but they’re still kids. It’s nearly impossible for them to foresee the likely conclusions to most of their actions and choices, so they need us to help guide them. They need us to step in if a situation gets out of hand. They’ll never admit that, of course, but it’s our job as parents to know it, nonetheless.

And whatever you do, don’t create a fictitious identity and try to get your child to “like” you on Facebook so you can follow her activity. It’s too complicated, it’s just one more password to remember, and it’s really embarrassing when you have to own up to it.

Do you let your children use Facebook or other social media sites? Do you have any rules or tips to share with other parents?

Happy Mother's Day, to moms everywhere.

It's here again, Christmas in May for Moms. I love Mother's Day. My family spoils me rotten, and for at least one day out of the year, they go out of their way to make sure I know that they get it. That they got ALL of it - the teaching, the admonishing, the guiding and most of all the loving.

I've raised a couple of very good kids. Well, my husband and I have. And no, my husband is not their biological father. I can't tell you how many sleepless nights I've spent worrying that my divorcing their father would somehow screw up my children for the rest of their lives. It's a tough position to be in, and I will be the first to say, divorce is awful. Horrible. I do not recommend it unless NOT divorcing would be more harmful. In our case that was true, so I made the difficult decision to leave about 15 years ago, and I've never looked back.

I am happy to say that my children (now 19 and 21) are OK. Would I have preferred they be spared that nightmare? Yes, without a doubt. But I am a better mother and (I believe) their father is a better father under these circumstances. And I will also say that bringing my husband into the picture has only benefitted us all, and I mean immensely.

It can be done. It takes at least twice as much work, but raising well-adjusted children out of divorce can be done. My sincerest recommendation, however, is that no one marry until you're 30. What on earth does any of us know before then? And 30 may be cutting it close, but we women are on sort of a tight  schedule with respect to reproducing, so we'll let 30 stand. And if your mama has given you a "marrying material" checklist - and this applies to men as well as women - copy it. Laminate the copies. Stick one on your fridge, one on your car visor and one on your headboard. She knows what she's talking about.

We're planning a family vacation.

Marc and I are planning our annual family pilgrimage to the beach. We've done this many times, and every year the adventure takes on a different personality than the one before. Oh I don't think it's because we've changed so much; rather, it's because our children have.

I remember the very first time we took all four children to the beach. I believe it was the first year we were married, so they would have been 7, 9, 11 and 13 years old. What on earth were we thinking? All but the 9-year-old were girls, and those ages are about as far apart in maturity as they can be. The week was a nightmare, hell with a view, and it's burned in my memory probably forever. Oh, it was awful. The older two girls had one mission and one mission only - to meet and hang out with as many boys as humanly possible.

The younger two - mine from a previous marriage - did everything in their power to throw water on that plan. What resulted was a week of fighting, bickering, squabbling and tattling. I made a blood pact with my husband after that that we would never, EVER, travel anyplace together again as a whole family. I wasn't sure everyone would survive it.

Of course, the pact didn't last, and that's OK. As the years have come and gone, we truly became a real family, comfortable enough with each other to, well, be comfortable with each other. Our children all love one another, and time spent together these days, though rare (they're all grown now) is treasured.

But back to this year's family trip. We'll get a house on a beach along the Gulf, and the kids will come and bring their significant others, and Marc and I will actually be able to relax and enjoy each other. I love seeing who each of our children has grown up to be. They're very cool young people now.

Now, what they don't know (unless they read this) is that, for the first time ever, Marc and I will take off on an actual vacation to an actual resort this year, too. A resort for adults only. My youngest will be indignant, my son will think "party at the house," and the oldest two won't care at all. Marc and I will sleep late and do whatever we want whenever we want. We've earned it. We will dance and laugh and shop and snorkel and surf. Of course, if my youngest were to witness any of this, she would be mortified. In her mind, we are merely props, there to hover in the background of whatever exciting adventure she may be having at the moment.

Ahh, yes. I'm liking this stage of life better and better.

Youth sports and white trash parents

I know; here in the South it's safer to talk about religion and politics than it is our beloved sports programs. But it has to be done. I decided that this morning while shopping at Kroger (a local supermarket). I was standing in line behind a woman who, from the looks of things, played on the line for an NFL team a few years back. She had most of her teeth, but there were a key few missing up front. OK maybe hockey, but not likely. Not in Georgia.

Anyway, this woman was talking to her son (I'd say he was maybe 10 years, maybe a big 9). My first thought was, "Why isn't that kid in school?" He was leaning on her grocery cart and complaining about not feeling well, so he was probably sick. But wait a minute – Mom was talking to the kid about his poor performance at last night's football practice. Apparently a bigger kid had gotten the best of him at some point during the practice. And Mom, while belittling the kid for his lack of domination over another 10 year old the night before, was trying to get Junior pumped up for tonight's practice. I presume he plans to be healed before then.

Now are you sitting down? Mom actually said to the kid, "You better kick his a** tonight, or I'm gonna kick yours when we get home." I couldn't believe it. You should've seen the kid's face: an unhealthy mix of fear and dismay. And that, my friends, sums up the way white trash parents drag their kids through recreational sports. No wonder kids burn out and abandon a sport they probably loved at one time.

My husband and I together have raised 4 children. All of them played some sport or another year-round. We had one hard and fast rule: if you sign up to play, you're gonna finish the season. After that, you never have to play again if you so choose. There's a lesson in that, if you think about it for a minute. Some parents never see it. When I see a parent (and they usually come in pairs, but not always) berate a kid like this woman did, or sit in the stands and shout at players, refs and other parents, I cringe inwardly and outwardly. How obnoxious. Their kid is usually the most talented athlete to come down the pike since Samson. Everyone else's kid is on the field strictly in a supporting role, and everyone else's kid inevitably falls short. Refs are stupid; coaches are inept. And yet Mr. and Mrs. White Trash sit in the stands on their a**es and dole out misery across the board.

I will save the specific sport of cheerleading for another post, all by itself. Those parents are a breed all their own, and their girls…wow. They're what therapy is made of.