couldn't go home if we wanted to

I'm happy to report we had a great time sledding as a family last night. I'm also happy to report that I'm not the one who lost our car keys.

On the sledding hill.

In the dark.

It happened alright, and Greg realized it as we stood on top of the hill, watching the boys do belly slides down the now half-melted muddy snow. They had fallen out of his pocket 'somewhere on the hill,' according to him, which translated to 'they could be anywhere.' He realized we had no way home about the time I realized my thighs were like two giant popsicles and momma needs some hot chocolate.

Stat.

So we began our search, combing the snow, while I thought to myself A) I'm gonna kill Greg B) It's a loooong walk back C) I'm gonna kill Greg, and yes...all in that order. Yet, Greg came through and after 5 minutes of me panicking, he found the much-needed keys at the bottom of a hill. And we all lived happily ever after.

Even Greg.

letter to my 5-year-old

Dear Hayden,

Soon, you'll be turning six.

And though you don't like to sit in one place for long, I watch you when you do, taking in your little quirks that bring a smile to my face. Like the evening you colored diligently, making sure to stay within the lines, with furrowed brows and a tongue peaking over your bottom lip, pausing long enough to look up for reassurance. Your shy smile gives no indication of the bold personality you possess, the one that says, 'That's what I'm talkin' about,' when you learn I'm making breakfast for dinner.

I love the questions you ask me, like why the male host at the restaurant is wearing guy-liner, how Santa lost weight from the time you saw him a week ago, and if we can ride around the neighborhood to watch a movie on the DVD player in our new car. Sometimes my answers aren't satisfying, and instead of the usual 'Why's that?', you often rattle off phrases of disgust, as in 'Well, that makes no sense,' 'That's just stupid,' or 'Really...mom?', as if to say...that's all you got?, then you dash off to find a football helmet that you will inevitably wear indoors for the next thirty minutes.

The little things in life are what make this world go round, and you live for 'em. Gumball machines near the exit doors at restaurants, couch time with your Dad, and a sucker from a Meijer employee are all grounds for a good day in your eyes. Simple things aside, you're the only boy I know who likes a ziplock bag full of bacon in their lunchbox, will happily skip dessert, and who blushes when the waiter asks to take your order.

I am proud of all you've accomplished over the past year, and wish you a bright future full of happiness. Much like the happiness you bring your family, including your older brother who giggles at your silly ways, like the time you snuck his sports glasses to school and wore them all day long. You're the bounce in this shindig called life. Here's to you, Hayden.

Happy Birthday, blue eyes.

how an almost 6-yr-old thinks

Him: Look, Mom...it's President Obama's wife on tv.

Me: Yeah, that's her. That's the First Lady.

Him: The First Lady?

Me: Yep.

Him: She was the very FIRST one ever born?

read this today and loved it

I miss my Dad.

Miss him all the time, but especially now that we're smack dab in the middle of the holiday season. Read this today, as the boys played in the snow with our neighbors and Greg, no surprise, swiffered the floors.

Thought I'd share...

THE SEND-OFF

My parents had eight kids: two boys, followed by six girls. Often, after dinner, Dad would allow us girls to do whatever we wanted with him...comb his hair, put it in curlers, or paint his toenails. He was like a real live doll for us to play with. He didn't mind, sometimes he even fell asleep during his beauty treatments.

Every summer his company had a picnic. One year, when it was time to go swimming, we begged Dad to get into the pool with us. As he took off his shoes and socks, his co-workers couldn't help but notice Dad's toenails were painted a bright shade of pink. He just laughed and said, 'Those darn girls.' I'm sure he didn't care who saw it, and he didn't bother to offer a fuller explanation.

This happened almost forty years ago. About ten years ago, Dad became very sick and had to go to the hospital. We agreed to take him off life support, and we arranged for it to happen when we had all arrived at his bedside. As the priest was giving him his last rites, we six girls agreed that it would be fitting for Dad to enter heaven with his toenails painted. Each of us painted a toe, and amid the tears, we all burst out laughing. The hospital staff must have thought we were crazy, but we knew something they didn't:

Dad would have loved it.

-Debbie Moore

from the book Wisdom of our Fathers, by Tim Russert

i've watched it 20 times now

Working in radio, I often come across a new song that I like enough to play over and over again. And then one more time after that.

And I love it when it's a fairly new act trying to get their name out. Let's face it, talented artists are everywhere and not everyone ends up on the cover of magazines or photographed while buying Starbucks. I also love it when it's an act just different enough to not blend in with all the others.

So meet Thompson Square.

I dig 'em.

20 years later...

Visited my old stomping grounds at Butler University last week.

I'd been asked by a former professor to speak to his class about my career in radio, and found the experience to be very rewarding. Sure, its been 20 years exactly since I first rolled on to campus in my parent's Explorer van with carpeted interior walls, but somehow time stood still and I found myself feeling like that big-haired freshman who wasn't shy but anxious all at the same time.

I met my prof in the C-Club, the place we used to grab a bite to eat between classes, the place I spent more money than allotted by my parents, the place decked out in Bulldog Blue and booths to avoid sitting in. It hadn't changed a bit.

Neither had my professor.

He looked exactly the same, though I love that he admitted to wearing a sportcoat he had worn when I was student. I, fortunately, had traded in the legwarmers for slacks, the White Rain hairspray for a flatiron, and we chatted about our lives, where I met my husband, the ages of our kids, and admired photos of the boys with toothless smiles. Eventually, I was handed his dreaded grade book from years gone by. Dreaded because though I was a decent student, those years are cloudy to me, possibly from lack of sleep these days or an attention span that is shorter than, wait, what was I saying? So imagine my surprise to find I scored a B in my professor's intro class, and an A- in his advanced class two years later.

Yay for me.

Speaking to his class was great, as I love, love, love my job and believe in finding personal satisfaction in what you do, whether it be radio or driving a school bus or staying at home. The fulfillment is what brings a smile to my face, though maybe not when the alarm first screeches me out of bed.

And so my visit proved to be more than educational for a classroom of glassy-eyed students, it was rewarding in other ways.

I appreciated comparing notes with my prof, from radio to parenting to the benefits of minivans. My visit also triggered flashbacks of the person I used to be, that worrisome girl who stepped into my professor's classroom with no idea of what to do with my life, and no idea of how to get there. Life has no checklists to follow, no guide to keep us on the right track, no map of how to reach our destination. Somehow, catching up with my professor in the very place I often lost my keys, ran across campus to turn in papers on time, and occasionally called my parents feeling homesick was like watching flickering slideshows of the former me. Me...the person who didn't know what to do with her life, but hoped I wouldn't fail trying to figure it out.

Not sure what to call it, but I drove away from campus with a big smile on my face. A big thanks to my professor, Scott, for the opportunity to catch up and see life sort of before and after.

Minus the big hair and hot rollers.

dentist=misery

That being said, I would like to immediately make it known that I like my dentist. But good dentist or not, a visit to their office is no walk in the park. I liken it to volunteering to have your fingernails ripped out. And PAYING for it. And that's exactly where I found myself last week.

I exited the office looking like I'd just tangled with that 8th-grade girl who threatened to beat me up after swim class, minus the chlorine-soaked swimsuit. Reading over my instructions to eat only soft foods for the next 48 hours, I jumped at the chance to suck down a milkshake. Liquid lunch, loaded with fat grams, and no guilt...after all, doctor's orders.

Big mistake.

I pull up to the drive-thru window, hear the request for my order, and proceed to rattle off which fat-laden flavor would suit me best:

Me: Yesth, I'd like a cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake, pleasth. With no whipped cweam.

Speaker guy: Um, excuse me?

Me: Yesssth. A cookiesth-and-cweam milksthake...no whipped cweam. Pleasth.

Speaker guy: Yeah...uhhh...I can't really understand you. Would you mind pulling around?

Mind? Oh, not at all. Nothing embarrassing about having you see me face-to-face and sounding like I still suck my thumb. And so I do, and thank you for not laughing, Speaker Guy, at least not until I pulled away with my shake in hand. I proceeded to take a bite with the provided spoon, miss my numb mouth by a good mile, and watch the shake dribble down my sweater. That's when I realized something very important.

Should've asked for a bib.

he wants to 'fuhgetabout' it

My husband's attempt to be friendly left him with the taste of a rubber sole in his mouth during a recent chat with a work associate. He called me afterward, feeling mortified and describing the very short conversation that had just taken place:

Him: Sooooo, when are you due?

Her: I'm...Not.

OUCH.

I've had library books longer

Well, howdy strangers.

I was given a friendly reminder that I'm overdue on posts, and well, I'm overdue on posts. Wish I had something creative to offer regarding my absence, like I forgot my password to this site or I've been trapped in tangled Christmas lights, but I got nothin. Instead, life just got busy.

I've missed writing.

It brings satisfaction to the end of my day, and I've made a point of pocketing daily observations to eventually share, including when my 5-year-old asked Indianapolis Mayor Greg Ballard last week if 'he had a girlfriend.' His response eased my humiliation: 'Well, if I do, I'd better not tell my wife.' Let's hear it for the Mayor's sense of humor.

Changing the channel, Thanksgiving came and went, happy to be with family, but a family that is incomplete without my father. Memories of dad were fondly recalled as we decorated our tree over the weekend. My son handed me an ornament with a photo of my father inside. He kissed Dad's face, saying 'I miss you, Papaw,' yet tears were quickly dried by Greg's frustration over the concept of a prelit tree, as in 900 lights, with 600 that work. My husband suddenly channeled a little Clark Griswold, slightly losing his sanity as he ranted about the two dark sections of our tree and threatening to throw the entire thing in the trash. I propose these prelit trees actually be called 'Prelit: But you'll still add lights, Moron.' Seems fitting, don't ya think?

So, we're the house with the tree that doesn't light up in the middle, at least for now.

Happy Holidays.

I always forget something

We are packed and heading for Nashville today. Just one problem:

I forgot socks.

So, after a quick run to the Walgreens down the street from the station, we're loading up the SUV and hitting the highway. Here's hoping the luggage will fit, considering Jim has a month's worth of hair product packed for two nights.

Lots to do!

We're on the hunt to find the cheapest souvenir in Music City, Jim will try his hand at playing guitar on a street corner for tips, and a friend of mine promises to show us Taylor Swift's new Penthouse in town.

More to come.

Music City or Bust

It's about that time of year again.

Time to pack up the van and road trip with the guys to Nashville for the CMA Awards. It's always a good time, despite the fact that we're working. We've gone for years, and always return with a memory or two, or one we'd like to forget.

Here are the highlights from the past decade:

Severe bronchitis left me sounding like Lauren Bacall and sitting in an ER for four hours. I found the guys patiently waiting for me and asleep in the hospital parking lot.

Breaking my wine glass in an apparent case of not knowing my own strength as I sat it down on the table.

Kevin and Gator locking themselves out of their room, and telling the front desk, 'We won tonight. We're winners.' Winners who couldn't find their room keys.

Gator pranking Jim by calling his room as a 'housekeeper,' instructing Jim to use the 'facial soap on your face, and the body soap on your body.' And Jim bought it.

Gator later calling me, posing as security, instructing me to keep the windows of my room closed and bolted because 'the hotel is located in a high crime area.' I panicked and called Gator, asking if we could change hotels, only to be greeted with hysterical laughter.

Jim having an urgent need to visit the men's room en route to Nashville while dining at Ruby Tuesday, only to find it closed for cleaning. He eventually gave up and walked, er ran, next door to the men's room at a local motel. The rest of us? We laughed till our stomachs hurt.

Taking a bus with other radio dj's to a party at Phil Vassar's house, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Once there, we were given a tour, where I hopped fully-dressed in Phil's shower to see what kind of shampoo he uses. We've since told Phil, who enjoyed the laugh.

More memories await. The CMA's are next Wednesday, and we'll be talking with all the stars, including Carrie Underwood, Brad Paisley, Taylor Swift and one of the night's performers, Gwyneth Paltrow.

Stay tuned.

we all have a comfort zone

The good news is I've been given the opportunity to interview Robin Roberts of Good Morning America via satellite on the local ABC affiliate.

The bad news is...I've been given the opportunity to interview Robin Roberts of Good Morning America via satellite on the local ABC affiliate.

The invitation led to last night's series of thoughts circulating my head like the pinwheel held by the pig in that Geico commercial. After all, you don't wanna go embarrassing yourself and Grandma and anyone else who normally claims you as family.

And so the thoughts began:

What do I wear?

What color won't wash me out?

Should I wear Spanx or try to look natural as I suck in my tummy, yet not sound like I inhaled a helium balloon?

Hair down, or up?

Paint my nails or am I the only one who will notice they are in dire need of a manicure?

Cross my legs, or just my ankles?

What if I have a booger?

Oh, the worries.

I love doing interviews, but also love being able to hide behind a microphone and only be heard through the radio. No one knows if I'm slouched in my chair, wearing sweats that don't match, or holding a Starbucks while speaking because I stayed up too late.

And I certainly don't wear Spanx.

what am I?

Despite running into doorways with my enormously wide rubber chicken, it was a good time at Bunko last night. I'm in the middle...next to Elin, Tiger Woods ex, and a martini glass, complete with olive.

Can you guess what I am? (I pulled off the Most Creative award...)

CHICKEN CORDON BLEU!

Unfortunately, Greg's extension cord is still uncoiled in my backseat.

why even ask?

Store clerk: Hi, can I help you?

Me: Yes, do you sell aprons?

Store clerk: Uhhh, which kind?

Me: Oh, it doesn't matter. Either kind. The long, barbeque-type, or the shorter style that wraps around your waist.

Store clerk: No, we don't sell aprons.

hiatus shmatus

Ohmigosh.

Hard to believe its been so long since I've written. Certainly strayed from my usual goal of writing a post a day.

Been busy with life and living it.

Just needed to tend to things that demanded my attention. The usual necessities, like getting suckered in to bringing McDonalds to my 5-year-old for school lunch, listening to my husband repeatedly ask me to get a carwash, and replacing that roll of toilet paper I kept forgetting. All equally important. Over the past three weeks, I've discovered a few things. And they are:

Your stomach feels flatter when you don't eat after 7 pm.

The tooth fairy still visits even though a child ends up sleeping in his Mom and Dad's bed.

Holding hands with your husband in downtown Chicago can cause your 5-year-old to say in repetition, 'You're embarrassing me!'

A husband who says his wife's purse could double as a gym bag will, oddly enough, ask her to hold all of his crap.

Boys don't like to shop unless the store has an escalator.

Those dividers between a taxi cab's seats would be nice in the family car. Road trip, anyone?

It is possible to overcook asparagus.

And finally, get a carwash before your spouse asks if you can swing it before Christmas.

take five for toby

Toby Keith visited with the show this week! Here's the skinny:

Toby has never, not even once, seen the likes of American Idol, Survivor or Dancing with the Stars. But, he's not interested in putting on his dancing shoes.

Toby carries an average of $400-500 bucks in his wallet on any given day. And he's a fan of plastic.

Toby was letting his beard grow out, and refused to trim it until his wife stopped nagging at him to shave. When she stopped, he grabbed the razor. This went on for over a month.

Toby coaches his son's football team 3 days a week, in his 'free' time.

That same son wears a size 13 shoe, and can often be found swiping Toby's cool shoes from his closet. Yes, they share.

And that's cinco.

conversation with a 5-year-old

Him: Mom, when we were at Target, what did that girl have on her lip?

Me: Her lip?

Him: Yeah. She had this circle-thing hooked on her lip.

Me: Oh, that. It was...well...like an earring.

Him: Why would she wear an earring on her lip?

Me: Some people just do. But, I think it looks painful.

Him: Me, too. I'm soooooo not ever doing that.

he skipped some options

5-year-old: Hey, Mom...how long have you been a wife?

Me: Umm...11 years. Why?

5-year-old: Just wondered. I'm never gettin' married.

9-year-old: Oh Hayden. I'm gonna marry one day.

Me: Well, you don't have to. It's your choice.

9-year-old: True. You can also be a hobo.

every coin has a flip side

Tired.

Tired of running.

Tired of being pulled in a trazillion different directions. Who hasn't been there?

Each day my alarm screams at me to get out of bed at 2:30 in the morning, and each day I'm convinced I've aged 6 months since putting my head on the pillow. I know you can relate. What happened to the days of 8th grade when I had 'real' problems, like that poetry scrapbook I put together in a bathroom stall at school and if spaghetti was being served for lunch? Or whether or not I should wear blue eyeshadow AND the lace Madonna glove, or just the glove, solo.

You know, pressing issues. About things that mattered.

Back then, I daydreamed about being an adult, people whose only worries were to remember to check their answering machine or so I thought. Now I'm 38, and checking voicemail barely makes the To Do list. I didn't realize as a junior high student with my Izod collar flipped up that one day I would be blessed with migraines, bills, gray hair and more things to do in the day than there are minutes on the clock.

It only proves that life isn't always what it may seem. Girls with straight hair want curly, debonair homes are sometimes vacant of furniture inside, and that skinny girl at the mall may secretly wish she was curvy.

I love my life.

Just need a breather. Nothing some disco-blue eye shadow and a lace glove can't fix.

5 things you need to know about Billy

Billy Currington visited with us last week.

Besides the fact that I could easily be President of his fan-club, or a stalker, not sure which, I learned some things I didn't know about the shy Mr. Currington. So, here's 5 things that may tickle your fancy:

Billy runs barefoot. As in 11 miles barefoot...on pavement. Ouch.

Billy is homeless. No home. No apartment. Just hotels, busses, or crashing 'at a buddy's place.' Plus, a few storage units.

Forget the suitcase, Billy tours with a backpack. Talk about low-maintenance.

Don't look for Billy to try his luck on Dancing with the Stars. He says it looks too difficult and he'd be an easy target for laughs.

Finally, Billy is no hoarder. (Doesn't have a place to put it!) He says he's seen the show, and is quite the opposite, with a former roomie once telling him, 'This ain't gonna work. You can't be THIS neat.'

here's what you missed today

Producer Gator answered calls on a megaphone???

First Lady Cheri Daniels stopped by!

what boys talk about

Oldest: Hey, Mom...

Me: Yeah?

Oldest: Look under there.

Me: Under where?

Oldest: He, He, He. You said 'underwear.'

finding life's pleasures in the rush

Did a marathon grocery run the other night.

One of those nights when bedtime is approaching, so I literally do a sweep of the store, grabbing anything that looks remotely close to what's on my list. Jelly, but no time to search for my favorite Blackberry flavor, bottled water but not the ones on sale since I don't have seconds to spare looking, and you get the idea. All that's missing is my running pants and an ipod, it's that quick.

The store employees must think I'm a maniac though I don't waste time looking, after nearly crashing my cart through the Twinkie display and self-checking my own items quicker than the chick at register 4.

And would you believe I actually get a kick out of trips like these? Something inside me sort of enjoys adrenaline-shopping, as if my life is really that boring. I promise it's not. I just work better under pressure. Kinda like the days I get to work early, and get nothing done. As in, absolutely nothing. The extra time will instead be spent engaging in a Jim and Kevin gabfest, and then it's showtime, and guess who vows to sleep in the next morning?

Back to my grocery aerobics, I threw things in the pantry upon arriving home and realized in my rush that I purchased Crunchy Peter Pan, as opposed to its Creamy rival. I loved Crunchy PB as a child, so yay for me. My hurried approach paid off.

It's how I roll.

just another busy day at work

got myself a part-time job

Not one that has me on the payroll, of course.

As a mother, we all work the late shift in our homes, doubling as a part-time nurse. A nurse without training. No ID badge. No scrubs. And no clipboard to record notes about the patient.

That was me last night, as my 5-year-old woke in the night screaming and tugging his ear. God love him, but I must admit the boy is a shoo-in for worst patient of the decade. He may be five, but any patience he had prior to catching this bug apparently took the day off. Grouchy kid aside, my husband and I were like tag-team wrestlers minus the tights in a ring, taking turns on Motrin runs downstairs and hoping our oldest son didn't wake from the circus.

Wasted thoughts.

Our little guy had only a few requests. He doesn't want to be bothered with meds but wants to feel better yesterday, wants a drink but not that one, agrees to numbing drops in his ear but now it's clogged, wants his back tickled but no talking please, and you get the idea.

One thing was clear by 1:00 am. He'll need a good wife when he's older.

Preferably one who wears scrubs.

not a yes, not a no

'No promises.'

That's the response I got after lying in bed with my oldest last night, recapping his day, the good and the bad and the silly, then telling him with a wink 'not to come home with a girlfriend tomorrow.'

'No promises,' he chimed with a devilish grin that said it all.

No promises. It's a phrase we could substitute for almost anything, really. Wouldn't it be nice to rattle off those two simple words when asked to commit to something we dread? It could apply to all unenjoyable moments in this thing called life.

Being asked if you can work overtime.

Being reminded to show up for your appointment with the girly doctor.

Being told to put your check in the mail.

Being asked to share a cookie with a friend.

Being told to clean your room.

And the list goes on and on. I might just try it.

When Greg asks me tonight if tonight's the night I will finally get around to buying that alarm clock, since I'm still using his and waking him up at 3 am, I might say yes. Or I might say...

No promises.

overheard from the backseat

'Ahhhhh...my first chest hair.'

-5-year-old Hayden

7 things I don't get

Kids running barefoot around Chick-fil-A on Kids' Night. Free meals and a No Shoes policy in the play area shouldn't mean dirty piggies on a restaurant floor. Not too appetizing.

The toaster that went missing at work. That frozen whole-grain waffle does nothing for the taste buds as it thaws over a three-hour period.

The constant calls for 'Phillip' on my work cell. You'd think after a few months, these people would get that he's not answering. Or here. Or even within reach, so no, I can't take a message.

High heels you can barely walk in. When it looks as though you're desperate to get to a bathroom, what's the point?

How I survived 30 years without Starbucks? Pretty much self-explanatory.

At drive-thrus, why...after I say, 'A large diet, and that's all,' will they still say, 'Okay, anything else?' Never fails.

My husband using more bubble bath than I do in a year. And...

...admitting it.

cousins...it's what life's all about

Thanks to my sister for sharing. She filmed my 2-year-old nephew getting 'tackled' by my boys, and it brings tears to my eyes. Brown grass and all.

Good times.

forget the pantry door, call 911

Decided to grill out for dinner last week.

Which may very well be the last time such a thought pops into my head. Ever.

Dinner was good, chicken breasts that had been brushed with olive oil and sprinkled with seasoning. I even managed to keep the corners from getting too black and crunchy, something the boys call 'crispy burnt.' There's a lot going on during the dinner prep hour, if you think about it. Kids in and out of the house, the dog wanting to take care of business, phone ringing, etc had me focused about 30-percent on the grill.

Imagine my surprise when the meal still turned out great, no crispy burnt pieces thank you very much, and I was quite the proud chef as I turned off the tank and attempted to the shut the lid.

Attempted. As in, it wouldn't close.

Turns out, in my rush to whip up our meal, I didn't move the grill far enough away from the house. So, visualize the lid melted to the siding of our home. While you're at it, visualize Greg's face when he observed the damage.

I was somehow able to visualize the number for the local pizza place, should I ever get the idea to grill again.

we need a new pantry door

Came home from work last week, fixed lunch and it wasn't till a good 3 hours later that I noticed something odd in our kitchen.

A hole in the door.

The outer paneling had literally been torn through and I immediately assumed there had been some sort of light saber war that morning after bowls of Lucky Charms were downed. Not the case.

The culprit was my husband, Greg.

He informed me that he had tripped over our black lab, who often resembles a cozy rug on the floor, only one that's breathing. Greg put his hand out in front of him, hoping to catch himself, when it went through the door instead.

A dual with light sabers sure sounded a little more interesting.

cars, sports, and...brasierres?

It's not every day you walk in on your two boys talking about undergarments for ladies. Here's the skinny on what I overheard:

5-year-old: Hey Griffin, what's a brasierre?

9-year-old: Oh, it's like a bigger word for bra.

5-year-old: You mean, those things mom wears.

9-year-old: Yeah, girls wear 'em. A brasierre is what Mom's putting on when her bathroom door is closed and she says you can't come in.

5-year-old: Got it.

You can't make this stuff up.

maybe I need to relax

Not sure about you, but something tells me I need a break.

To put it mildly, I made a complete fool of myself at Starbucks during my daily trip for the usual caffeine needed to keep me from slurring my words during the show. It's a routine I can do with my eyes closed, though I won't since it requires driving up to a window. The routine is nothing out of the ordinary.

Order.

Pay.

Brief wait.

Leave with beloved drink in hand.

Until this morning. I ordered the very same drink, same size, to the same barista, pulled up in the same car, handed him the same debit card.

Just as I put my card back in my wallet, I turned back toward the window, only to find Dave, the friendly barista, leaning out with my beverage, which caused me to jump out of my skin and scream loudly.

Appreciate the prompt service, but I wasn't expecting my drink to be ready so quickly, or even for a recognizable face to be lurking so closely.

He got a good laugh, and I...well, I'm looking forward to a few days off.

Maybe I'll go inside next time.

this one caught me off guard

Greg and I took the boys to lunch over the weekend.

One of the those kid-friendly places that is usually a thousand decibels louder than it should be, with shirley temples being sucked down by 5-year-olds who have dried ketchup on their cheek. Still, we had fun and left with full bellies, only to have the hostess hand the kids balloons, a green one for Hayden and a blue one for Griffin.

Of course, our oldest declared he is too old for an inflated circle on a string. As we stepped outside, he let the balloon go and said, 'This is for you, Papaw Mike.' The gesture made me smile.

Not to be outdone, his younger brother followed suit, tossing his balloon to the sky and saying...

'Here you go, Michael Jackson.'

Obviously, one tugged at the heartstrings a bit more than the other.

cause saying it twice means you mean it

Good times were had by all at a dinner over the weekend with the winners who placed the highest bid during our annual charity auction.

One tiny disruption.

As we posed for this photo in the lobby of the restaurant on our way out, another patron came in and informed the hostess, also our photographer, that the cigarette butt box on the sidewalk 'is on fire.' I loved the rest of the conversation.

Hostess: You mean...fire, fire?

Man: Miss, I wouldn't be telling you if it wasn't a concern. I mean, FIRE, FIRE.

never argue with a 5-year-old

Hayden: Remember when I told you what I want for my next birthday?

Me: No, I don't. You told me something specific?

Hayden: Yessssss. You really don't remember?

Me: Honey, I don't remember you saying anything like that. Your birthday isn't till December!

Hayden: Well, I did.

Me: Okay, I just don't recall.

Hayden: Well, I told you. I did, Mom.

Me: Okay, when?

Hayden: Like...back in the 80's!

pick a bed, any bed

Another episode of Musical Beds in our home last night.

That's how it goes, with Greg and I beginning the night sleeping in our bed, and waking up in another, if not two.

Sleep is apparently underrated for us. Not that I wouldn't give anything, maybe even the dog, to change that. God love her, but darn it, we're tired. Yes, it's my fault that I stay up till almost 11 pm watching mindless shows like Real Housewives, only to get up for work a few hours later. I always start out in my cozy quarters, then somewhere between dreams and drool, I am awakened by one of the kids. If it's Hayden, he wants to crawl in bed with us, if it's our oldest, he is adamant that he won't be able to catch any more z's, so can he just turn on the tv or read a book? Funny how he never requests to sort our laundry. Might be worth being jolted out of bed for that, right?

And so we find what works best, with one kid MacGyvering his way under the covers, and one parent eventually deciding that an elbow in the back is cause for moving to a twin bed under the eyes of a Peyton Manning Fathead clinging to the wall.

The scenario last night was so scrambled that I woke up this morning in Hayden's bed, both boys in ours, and Greg downstairs in our family room on what he calls our air-mattress from heaven. It's like a hotel without the room charge.

And I'm not at risk of losing my key.

life's little nuggets

The dishwasher being emptied before I can get to it.

My husband singing 'The Shower Song,' with our youngest as he dries him off.

Milkshakes on a late summer night.

Finding my favorite shampoo on sale.

Starbucks treat receipts, which allow me to come back in the same day for a 2-dollar drink.

People magazine and the kids are asleep. Oh, and Greg's in the tub.

The kids eating their veggies before the usual reminders.

Seeing one of the boys hold a public door open for someone else.

wish I could have caught this on film

Took my ususal afternoon nap today.

Not because I'm lazy, but to catch up on the little sleep I get at night. Nothing different about today than any other. Ate lunch, set my clock to wake up before the school bus rolls down the street, and dozed off within a matter of seconds.

And then woke up in a panic.

For who knows what reason, I woke up this afternoon convinced that I had overslept for my radio show THIS MORNING. I sat up shouting, 'Oh my gosh!' and jumping to my feet, wondering all the while why the guys hadn't called me since it was now sunny and well past my first 5 am newscast. Then I looked at the clock.

2:00 pm.

Now didn't I feel silly.

kindergarten and cologne?

My youngest is now officially in kindergarten.

It's been a few weeks of non-stop questions leading up to this morning, as in 'Where will I eat lunch,' and 'What do I do if someone punches me on the bus?' You know, typical questions out of the mouths of 5-year-olds, who had a game plan should anyone mess with him on the entire ten minute bus ride.

I pity the person who even tries.

So, today was exciting for him, emotional for me. I took the day off work to capture Hayden's big-boy status on film, then came home and collected my thoughts once the bus was the size of a mere twinkie in the distance.

Here's what I learned this morning as we prepared for Hayden's first day of school:

He has clear ideas of what his hair should like. 'Not like that, Mom...like this. I want my bangs moussed up.'

He has mastered the slide-open waistband on his shorts. Here I've been doing it for him.

His teacher will get an earful about his new skater shoes, complete with skullheads. Not my choice, but the kid has an older brother. You pick your battles.

His request to wear 'manspray' threw me off guard. It was quickly denied.

He felt cool sporting his new backpack, but didn't dig the fact that it was empty, having taken his school supplies to the ice cream social the day before. So, he stuffed it with paper towels.

My worries quickly disappeared when he turned from our driveway to walk to the bus stop, announcing, 'This is gonna be awesome.'

It sure is.

it's what life is all about

I came home from the Rascal Flatts show last night to quite the party in my kitchen.

No invited guests, just my husband and two boys laughing hysterically. Laughing so hard that Greg had hiccups, watching Griffin and Hayden dance around in Harry Potter glasses that they received from a friend's birthday party.

The boys also insisted on wearing the oversized glasses inside a sporting goods store...hey, they get it honest...remember Greg and the football helmet in the drive-thru? Back to the story, the three had been fishing earlier in the evening, and somehow Griffin's hook got caught on Hayden's shorts, leaving my 5-year-old no choice but to fish in his underwear.

Better that it happened to him and not my husband. Not sure nearby families going for a walk would appreciate THAT view.

And so there stood my son in our kitchen, oblivious to the fact that he was in his skivvies, proudly describing the nine fish he caught, including the one who lost an eye when they pulled out the hook. Sure, it was past 10 o'clock and Greg hadn't thought twice about bedtime snacks, but they were having a good time. Not a care in the world. Boys being boys.

And that's what life is all about.

try to remain quiet when this happens

Went to the spa for a pedicure this week.

Picture this. They have one of those relaxation rooms, probably the closest thing to heaven, where you don't hear cell phones ringing, kids calling your name, or horns honking at you to move the minute a light turns green. By the way, the horn thing happened last week, and I heard Hayden yell from the back seat, 'Don't sass my momma!'

Good to know a 5-year-old has my back.

So I took a seat on the plush couch in the relaxation room, donning a robe and flipflops, and noticing that the woman across from me either had better biceps than my husband, or once worked for that show American Gladiators. I then poured myself a steaming cup of cinnamon tea...

And PROCEEDED TO SPILL IT ALL OVER MY LEG.

Hot. Tea. Skin.

Not a good combination. And my reaction was anything BUT relaxing.

but Regis doesn't live here

Here's the lowdown on Regis, and the co-hosting gig.

They asked for a second video, so I sent it Sunday. The Top 10 will be announced on LIVE! with Regis and Kelly Monday. You can keep sending in your comments here.

I've heard someone jumped out of a plane for their pitch tape, and that's just not going to happen on my end. I can barely fly IN a plane, without holding the hand of a stranger next to me, true story, and who knew the seatbelt actually fits over your lap while curled up in the fetal position? Peanuts? No thanks. More like valium.

At any rate, whatever the outcome, it's been fun. It's also been ALL that my 5-year-old wants to talk about, as in 'Hi, Regis!,' repeated a minimum of 20 times daily after hearing me say it on the tape. He knows he's driving me nuts, responding with 'Hi, Regis!' when I tell him it's time for a shower, or I am greeted with 'Hi, Regis!' as I bring in groceries from my car.

He smirks and bats his lashes for effect.

Or he uses it to get out of trouble. Like when he told his dad he had hairy armpits, I shot him a look, to which he responded with a grin...

'Hi, Regis!'

It's gonna be a long week.

my husband's frantic call for help

I was preparing food for the baby shower I threw yesterday in honor of my dearest friend, who is expecting twins! Then I heard my husband scream for me, and the rest is history:

Greg: Deb, get in here now!

Me: WHAT? What is it?

Greg: Ohhhh, this isn't good. This isn't good at all.

Me, running: What? What happened?

Greg: I was dusting the piano.

Me: Yeah, and?

Greg: And I sprayed it with RAID.

more webcam fun

Lady Antebellum Webisode = Halarious

kevin got a new webcam

Morning!

My co-host, Kevin, got a new laptop. He's into taking studio pics and using the timer. Not bad for a self-portrait.

Oh, the fun.

my favorite moment of all-time

See that photo?

I've never laughed so hard in my entire life. I'm almost 38 years old, and I can honestly say, without a doubt, it was the funniest moment in my lifetime.

That's my husband Greg, by the way. We had been out with the boys, when he realized it was late and we needed to get home. He suggested getting the kids a 'bedtime snack,' though certainly not the healthiest, at a nearby McDonalds drive-thru.

So he pulled up to the speaker and placed the order.

As he slowly approached the window to pay, he grabbed our youngest's football helmet, saying 'Who dares me to wear this up to the window?'

He wasn't kidding.

So this was the final result, and I found myself snorting while crying tears of laughter, with the boys dying of embarrassment. Kids standing at the counter inside McD's stared and grabbed their parents to point at the weird guy wearing a football helmet in the drive-thru. (Greg yelled back, 'Go Colts!') The female employee turned to hand us our food and bust out laughing, saying 'I like your...uh...hat?'

Griffin chuckled, and capped off our cackle-fest by saying:

'Gosh, Mom...you haven't laughed like that since the 80's.'

Note to reader: He's 9.

I wanna sit next to Regis

Found out you can vote up to 50 times a day...so have at it.

Click the link here, then click LIKE and make your comment. The list is down to 100, and I want, more like NEED to make the Top 10. How else will I be able to find out what Regis smells like?

Yeah, I said it.

Regis is a handsome fellow, so I would imagine he wears some killer cologne. So far, the closest I've gotten to sniffing Reege is posing next to his wax statue in the Big Apple.

And that didn't smell so hot.

hot & hot-hot...not the same

Learned something new yesterday.

I'd been reviewing videos to send in to LIVE with Regis and Kelly for the possible co-hosting gig next month. A two-minute video from the semifinalists is required, about long enough for me to say hello, laugh, snort, goodbye.

Sounds like a winner, eh? (By the way, you can vote here by clicking LIKE on LIVE with Regis and Kelly's facebook page and leaving a comment!)

While doing this, our 5-year-old blurted out, 'Hey Mom, will Selena Gomez be a granny when I'm old enough to marry?'

WHAT?

No, not a grandmother, but a young adult, I told him as I tried to explain the age difference Here's the rest of that conversation:

Me: She won't be a granny, but she will be an adult. A mom, perhaps. Like me. Why you asking?

Him: Cause I'm gonna marry her.

Me: Oh well, maybe not. She's a bit older, buddy.

Him: Yes, I am!

Me: Honey...she's about 15 years older or so.

Him: So what. She's hot.

Me: Hayden!

Him: No, she's hot-hot.

Me: What's the difference?

Him: Hot means pretty. Hot-hot is like your girlfriend.

Me: Well, let's be nicer and say she's pretty. That sounds better.

Him: No, she's hot.

Me: Pretty. Just say pretty.

Him: Okaaaaaaay...she's pretty hot.

LIVE with Regis & Kelly...huh?

We've all done this.

The phone rings while you're fast asleep, and rather than reveal that you were catching some z's, you pretend to be wide awake, fooling no one and instead sounding like a moron.

That was me around 2:30 yesterday afternoon.

All morning dj's take naps, to make up, somewhat, for the fact that our alarm clock annoyingly screeches us awake at ungodly hours. So as I curled up in the fetal position with my favorite purple socks covering my toes, which always get cold when I snooze, I heard the phone ring and found myself reaching for the cordless next to my bed.

Me: mmmpphhhello?

Caller: Hi, this is Megan calling from LIVE with Regis & Kelly.

I immediately sat up in bed, and heard about every other word as I tried to wake myself. She went on to say that I was one of the 100 semi-finalists in their Women of Radio Co-host with Regis search. She nicely rattled off some information that I'm assuming she wanted me to write down, but at that moment nothing registered. So I pretended to jot down a number, trying my best to not sound like an incoherent version of Paula Abdul.

Greg later asked me all kinds of details, which I couldn't answer. Yet, I did manage to get this information:

Producers of LIVE with Regis and Kelly need you to post a comment here on their facebook page, telling why I should be voted through to the Top 10.

Four winners will be selected from the Top 10 to make the trip to New York City. Should I be so lucky, I have vowed to my co-hosts to wear a t-shirt which reads, 'I Love Jim & Kevin.'

And that just may kill me.

Here's Johnnnnnny...

John Rich, well-known as half of the duo Big & Rich, not to mention his many hits in the world of song-writing, stopped by our Pickin' Parlor Friday. He was as personable as they come, sharing laughs and stories about his family and life as an artist. Here's what we learned:

John compares changing a diaper to working on a Nascar pit crew. He's quick. Mainly because 'I don't wanna get peed on.'

John says a typical day for him when he's not busy is picking some peppers from his garden and preparing a meal.

John dresses himself, and selects his own clothes, most of which have been custom-made.

No, John's 9-month old baby, Cash, does NOT sleep through the night.

John is heavily impressed with artists like Zac Brown, Dierks Bentley and Lee Brice.

John selected the bikini-clad women on his new album cover, saying casting that gig was 'a tough job.'

John's wife chooses to stay home, rather than hit the road with her hubby, and John proudly showed us pics of Cash on his cell phone. (He looks like Momma!)

And that's a wrap.

7 things observed at the neighborhood pool

The Justin Bieber-looking lifeguard spends more time looking at his six-pack than he does the swimmers. Good to know.

The guy with the lobster-red back either fell asleep on his stomach or was going for that before-and-after look.

No tv network will be featuring the fashionable swimwear anytime soon.

Goldfish crackers float.

The right stall in the women's restroom is the cleanest. Always.

The person who yells 'Marco' during Marco Polo totally peeks, then denies it.

A trip to the pool in late afternoon is a good excuse to get out of cooking dinner and have the hubby bring home a pizza.

birthday shopping gets interesting

Birthday shopping.

I usually enjoy this, especially if it's for my sisters or a friend. Not a difficult thing, and I love the wrapping just as much.

Shopping for Greg is a different story. I did just that last week, hoping to get him something special instead of the usual shirt or visor. So, I decided on a watch. Or a hubcap, as my brother-in-law calls it.

Thinking it shouldn't take too long, I grabbed the kids and headed to the store, the one where they offer you a beverage because those few steps from the parking lot to the door must have been grueling. I reminded my youngest to not touch the glass, even though jewelry cases are an invitation for handprints and noses. And then it happened. We were soon greeted by a lady, who in turn, was greeted by my 5-year-old:

Hayden: Hi, it's my Dad's birthday.

Lady: It is? Well, are you going to get him a cake?

Hayden: No. A watch.

Lady: What a nice idea!

Hayden: We just got back from Disney World.

Lady: That sounds like fun!

Hayden: And I know where boogers come from.

NOTE: We did NOT buy here.

a son's letter: snuggle-dipping through life

Dear Hayden,

Life has been challenging for you in recent months, so I'm writing this letter to file away and let you read when you are older.

Your father and I love watching you from afar, like when you're sleeping and your dad says, 'I've never seen a sweeter face.' By day, you are a bouncing spirit that melts my heart, and I admire your zest and the lens through which you see this ever-changing world. You grow bored with the ordinary, and I soak up your thoughts as you move from room to room, collecting various items to create your next character for imaginary play.

The stage is yours. Maybe a wrestler. Sometimes a karate guy. And always a baseball player.

You have no idea how I would love to trade places with you for one day, even one hour, to live life through an innocence that knows no boundaries and only wants to 'be.' A racing mind that believes everything is possible, even if it's growing dark and time for bed, a trait that will certainly bring you success in later years.

I watch you enter a room, scanning the people to anticipate the mood, as you bashfully smile when we lock eyes. It's my favorite smile in the world, the one where your lips don't part and just the corners turn up, the one you give both your dad and I each time we call your name, the one that make's life's worries disappear in that very moment.

It's my sunshine.

I have fond memories of our Tuesday and Thursday afternoons the past three months spent cuddling on the couch, moments you affectionately dubbed being 'snuggle-dippers,' a combination of snuggling and your favorite fruit snack from McDonalds. Those days were homeruns for me, as life stood still for you and I. Sort of our way of carving time out of the chaos.

You have many gifts, a memory I could only dream of, and a humor that keeps us all in stitches, including your older brother who giggles as you dance like McJagger in the middle of the bowling alley without a care of who may be watching. A carefree soul who knows no strangers, and has costumes already selected for the next three Halloweens.

I am proud of you, Hayden. And I will help you navigate the road ahead.

Love,

Mom (AKA 'Snuggle-dipper')

signs of summer

Flies in the house

Wet swimtrunks on the floor

Lightning bugs

Sleepy boys that aren't up before 9 am

Popsicles melting faster than kids eat them

Crocs piled by the door

Groceries consumed in days

Neighbor kids ringing the doorbell

Protests at bedtime

Protests that mention it's still daylight

The ice cream truck and mad-dashes for money

Faded sidewalk-chalk artwork

Groans over the mention of sunscreen

Dinner on the grill

And finally...

Wondering if its bad to sleep before the kids do!

need an extra keychain?

I'm not crazy.

I sometimes debate that statement, but I did begin to question whether I was losing it for a good five minutes yesterday. Here's the story.

Last week, I arrived home from work and eventually when Greg returned, he asked me, 'Since when did you love Fishers so much?' I had no idea what he was talking about. He pointed to the 'I LOVE FISHERS,' heart-shaped keychain on my keyring. Problem is, I didn't put it there. Not that I don't enjoy the nearby town of Fishers, but I wasn't even certain where the keychain came from.

Thinking maybe my oldest son put it there, I removed it and went on making dinner.

The following day I arrived home and realized two paper clips were attached to my keyring. Not sure how that happened, I thought. Still, it was possible they tangled with my keys when I dropped them at my desk early in the morning. I removed the paperclips and forgot about them.

Monday morning, I went to leave work and found two more paperclips on my keyring, but these were attached through a tiny packet of pepper. Not your typical keychain sold at Hallmark. On closer inspection, I noticed another keychain, a shark, with teeth that doubled as a bottle opener.

Am I losing what little sanity I possessed in the first place?

Obviously, someone was having some fun at my expense. I investigated and found it was our traffic guy, Darren, who couldn't keep a straight face. He'd been plotting his careful moves, attaching random keychains when I was occupied doing something else. He's the same guy who taped a fellow worker's phone to her receiver several days in a row. His next idea was a packet of mayonnaise for my keys.

Someone needs a hobby. :)

there when I need him

It's Father's Day.

The boys woke Greg up this morning with gifts in hand, soon to be followed by breakfast in bed, including waffles with syrup. Of course, I also wish I was making my usual Father's Day phone call to my own Dad, who will be gone two years this August, and would have said the usual, 'Well, thank you very much, Doober.'

Instead, memories will have to do.

Greg and I were watching a show Friday night about people who get visits from loved ones who have passed away, and I told Greg it would be nice to hear from my dad. He sensed a little doubt on my part. Maybe because these stories on television seemed too good to be true, but I told him I just don't see it happening. That's when Greg told me to wish for a sign, any sign. I settled on pennies, the coins our kids call 'Papaw pennies,' when they discover one in various places.

Yesterday, we visited the school where Dad played ball during his childhood years, when our 5-year-old came running up to show me the penny he had found in the gym. 'Look, Mom! It's a Papaw penny!'

He dug it deep in his pocket and I had to smile. Thanks, Dad.

Happy Father's Day.

good advice for anyone

Following my visit with Girls Inc. this week, I promised I would post the poem that I read to the young ladies.

A family favorite:

DON'T QUIT

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you're trudging seems all uphill, When the funds are low and the debts are high, And you want to smile, but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is strange with its twists and turns, As every one of us sometimes learns, And many a failure turns about, When he might have won had he stuck it out; Don't give up though the pace seems slow-- You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than, It seems to a faint and faltering man, Often the struggler has given up, When he might have captured the victor's cup, And he learned too late when the night slipped down, How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out-- The silver tint of the clouds of doubt, And you never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems so far, So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit-- It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

- Author unknown

talking and talking and talking

I am speaking to a group of 60 girls with Girls, Inc. this morning.

The girls are between the ages of 5 and 15, and would like to hear about my role in the media. A role that may not have seemed likely early on. I began college as an undecided major, hoping something of long-term interest would slap me in the face as I plowed my way through Algebra 101. And as much as I tried, my love for the belly-dancing costume as a pre-teen didn't seem to fit any college degree.

As a child, I was shy and would occasionally stutter. Not exactly popular criteria for a radio career. That later changed, and my sisters would agree that I had no problem gorging them with stories about school and the neighbor down the street, nor did I have trouble giving them zero opportunities to chime in at the dinner table.

In a nutshell, I talked.

A lot.

So maybe it's fitting that I talk for a living. I enjoy coming in to work each day, though not necessarily getting up when most are just getting in to their REM sleep. The snooze button and I are tight, as I have grown accustomed to tapping it repeatedly each day. It's certainly a sign that you love your job when you look forward to returning after being away for a week. I leave each day with a feeling of fulfillment. And that's satisfying.

My message to the girls will be to choose something they love as they make decisions for their future. When you do, life is that much more enjoyable.

Then again, there's always belly-dancing.