It’s still February, and as long as my Valentine’s tea towels are out, we may as well celebrate the season, yes? Birds are chirping, trees are budding, and the effects of everyone’s New Year’s resolutions are starting to play out on their biceps and abs. Not that I would notice, on anyone other than my husband, because I’m so happily married. I am so romantic…

Here’s another lovely magazine that ran one of my favorites, “Top 10 Reasons to Date Your Spouse,” this month. I love this magazine, and not just because they serve Milwaukee, home to one of my personal heros, Laverne DeFazio.

Thank you, metroparent!

Give us any chance, we’ll take it.
Give us any rule, we’ll break it. 

Image Credits: metroparent; Englishsnow, Flickr

This isn’t the first time my words have made their way north of the border. I’ve been published in Calgary and Toronto, too, but it always feels special to be accepted so close to home. Thank you, BC Parent! I also adore the image of three stair-stepped blonde girl children. 

Could Be Worse is the story of one of the many road trips our family took in the quest of the ever-elusive youth hockey trophy. It appears in the February issue of BC Parent, and in the 5-star rated Blacklisted from the PTA. Which makes a great Mother’s Day gift, for yourself ;)

Image: ankakay, Flickr

It was the hottest day of the year. Naturally, we decided to camp. But first, for added amusement, we spent the entire ninety-plus degree day on the lake with friends. All day we soaked in the sun and its glare off the water. Grown ups quenched thirst with beer while kids gorged on Cheetos and orange soda. We all got sunburned. As the hour got later, and hotter, friends questioned our choice to sleep in a tent. But we truly believed it would be fun.

Around six, when everyone else docked their boats and headed for the air-conditioned Nirvana of their suburban homes, we trailered up and parked ourselves at the campsite. A friend waved goodbye, saying “I’ll be thinking of you—tonight, when I flip my pillow over to the cool side.”

But we knew. We KNEW how to have fun. Not like those wimpy home bodies. We had hotdogs and tater salad and all the makings for perfect s’mores. First, we built a fire. My husband thinks of everything. Nevermind it was ninety-five degrees without a breeze. How else would we cook the hotdogs? While the fire blazed, the kids complained. Even the lake—by now one huge bathtub—offered no comfort. I gave my children ice from the cooler, which they rubbed on their reddened skin. The dog hung his head.

“It’ll be find once the sun goes down,” my husband reassured.

But he was wrong. Somehow the temperature increased after sundown. Even melted chocolate and marshmallow could not lift our spirits. In the darkness, we sat—around the place where the obligatory campfire had been. When it got too hot to expend the energy necessary to make up stories, we went bed. And by bed, I mean the ground, cushioned by a thick layer of nylon tent floor. Our spacious four-man (yeah, right) tent offered the added benefit of trapping the now liquid air.

The children and I whined and feverishly fanned ourselves with paper plates. Finally, we pleaded with my husband to go home. He wouldn’t hear of it.

“It won’t be so hot if you quit complaining.”

Our protests affect the air temperature, apparently. But you know what they say: pick your battles. So I sucked it up and persuaded the kids to do the same. We suffered in silence until I felt I might actually suffocate. I sat up and pressed my face next to the tent “window”, hoping to get some oxygen through the nylon mesh.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“Oh, nothing, Babe. Just breathing.”

That’s all it took—fear of spousal asphyxiation—to convince my husband it was time to go. The kids leaped into action. In the dark we packed the boat in record time. Our quickness was fueled by the joyful anticipation of sweet, cool A/C. I swear the dog smiled. Five minutes out of the campsite the air temperature dropped ten degrees. But that was nothing compared to the icy cotton at home, on the flipside of my pillow.

Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.

Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”

Because it was a date, and because my husband was coming from work, where he is still expected to wear something a notch up from yoga pants and flip flops, I dressed for our appointment with the banker. As I pulled on big girl slacks, I thought I’d better not gain weight, or lose it either. Ever. These may be the last nice clothes I’d ever own.

We were greeted, served coffee, and showed to an office where our retirement specialist explained to us the process of mapping out best case and acceptable case scenarios for our non-working future. We spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time discussing the age at which my husband would retire.

“Fifty-five is ideal,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s in ten years. You have no hobbies. What would you do with the rest of your life?” And, I thought, I’ll be fifty. My need for cosmetic procedures will just be ramping up and those are not cheap.

“Okay, sixty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“You know,” the nice woman with the calculator said, “there are considerable benefits to waiting until you’re sixty-seven to stop working.”

“Ha!” I said. Such a romantic.

After a brief discussion of Social Security and far fewer questions about our saving and spending habits than I expected, we came to the “extras” section of the interview. This is where my husband asserted his need in retirement to buy a boat—a big one.

“Except I want to buy it now,” he told our trusted counselor.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll work that into the calculation.” She turned to me. “One last question—how do you want me to treat your income? Should I count it as extra or include it in the overall forecast.”

“Put it toward my world travels,” I told her.

“Your travels?”

“Best case scenario.”

She turned to John. “Did you know about the traveling?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t like my boat.”

My name is Lela and I have a housekeeper. Don’t judge me. I’ve done enough of that myself. I’ve also tried to handle the housework myself—even enlisted the kids in a weekly ritual to rid our home of the odor of dog and used Kleenex. The routine consisted of making a list of chores, cranking up the Jonas Brothers, and setting a timer for an hour. It was ugly, but at the end the house was clean—not white glove clean, but good enough. I followed up throughout the week nagging the children to pick up their things until I ran out of saliva. This system worked for a while, but the kids complained and I got tired of yelling. We slacked off until I was once again afraid I’d pick up a Staph infection from my own bathroom. I knew I needed help.

Step 1: Admit that you are powerless over your poor housekeeping.

It’s like a disease, this inability to scrub grout and polish porcelain. So why do I feel so guilty about outsourcing? I’m only trying to set a good example. None of us is Superwoman. The grime coating my best wedding gift vase was so thick I’d forgotten its original color; dust bunnies had morphed into a pack of vicious jackrabbits under my sofas; and there were leftovers in the fridge from the Bush Administration. Clearly, I was not in control.

Step 2: Realize that the solution lies in a power greater than yourself (ie. a housekeeper).

I called the woman who used to clean our house back when I had one big paycheck instead of the handful of small ones I now receive. She was available. And she’s great—with baseboards, stainless, and my fingerprinty glass-topped desk. I justified the luxury by telling myself that now the kids and I will have time to work on the deep detail cleaning and organizing. We’ll thwart the landfill-o-crap that threatens to overtake their bedrooms. Mmm-hmmm. That’s exactly what we’ll do with the time. We won’t sit around eating Sour Patch Kids and Raisinettes and watching American Idol. No way.

Step 3: Commence with the cleaning.

Naturally, I had to clean up the house before the housekeeper’s first visit. I won’t be judged for hair-clogged drains and fuzzy ceiling fans. More important, I don’t want her thinking we’re trouble like those slobs across the street. I can’t afford a rate hike (or the stress of negotiations). Her first day back I held back a giggle as she worked and let out a hearty “YES” when I saw the tidy of rags next to the washer after she’d gone. I floated through the house on a lavender and Pledge scented cloud. Goodbye tiny hairs and pet dander. Hello shiny wood floor.

Judge me if you must, but not until you have walked a mile through the devastation that was my home before I got help—and the housekeeper.

Lela Davidson’s award winning essays appear in magazines throughout the country. She is the parenting columnist on HubPages.com and a regular contributor to ParentingSquad.com. As long as she gets paid to write, she’s keeping the housekeeper. Find out more on her wildly entertaining blog, www.afterthebubbly.com.

We are dependent on machines: hair dryer, coffee pot, television, thermostat, washer, dryer, Toyota, microwave. Too many to list, right? And sometimes—like after my family watches The Matrix for the 412^th time—I wonder if we’re not getting a little too used to the electrical and mechanical conveniences, if we’re not getting just a little too soft. On a recent morning when the dishwasher wouldn’t start and my phone froze, I didn’t realize it was just the beginning.

After working for two hours, my computer angrily displayed the message that I had better switch over to real power before my battery died. Afraid to lose any portion of the Important Masterpiece I had been writing, I immediately checked everything—the plug that goes into the computer, the black box it feeds into, and the wall socket. All plugged in. My machine died. I switched outlets. Nothing. Over and over I powered up and the computer shut back into hibernation—trying, I assume, to save what little juice was left in its battery. Finally, it made a high pitched wheezing sound and then gave up humoring me completely.

I’m dead already!

The black screen stared at me. The blinky-blinky orange light on the power button disappeared. I inspected the cord and found it was broken, possibly mistaken for a rawhide by the dog I feed and bathe and medicate. (Not cool, Simon, not cool.) When I whined to my husband that I was on my way to Best Buy for a new power cord, he told me we had a universal cord in the desk drawer. When you hear that–universal–it sounds like something even a technophobe writer could figure out, right?

Right.

The universal cord had several tips to choose from and too many pieces to fit together. I eventually figured it out, but even fully assembled, the master of all power sources wouldn’t turn my computer on. Again, I checked all the holes and connections that could be amiss. All were in order so I gave up on the omnipotent power cord and took everything to Best Buy where two guys younger than my Compac told me I needed a new cord. Perhaps I would like the $149 model. (Not that they’re on commission or anything.)

In desperation I visited the Geek Squad desk. I was outrageously lucky to get a wildly talented geek. She listened to my story and offered a few tricks. While she spoke–and without breaking eye contact–she gently turned my computer over, effortlessly located the battery release, moved the battery slightly, and closed the compartment. So elegant and completely without ego. She sent me on my way.

At home, the tones of the power up sequence melted my shoulder tension and let me know that I would live to log in another day. All it took was a loving touch.

Maybe the machines aren’t so different from us after all.

Lela Davidson’s award-winning column, After the Bubbly, appears regularly in Peekaboo magazine, and periodically in other magazines throughout the country. She is the parenting columnist on HubPages.com and a regular contributor to ParentingSquad.com. She loves ALL her machines and tries to treat them nicely. Find out more on her wildly entertaining blog, www.afterthebubbly.com. Or just Google her. She loves to be Googled.

Self improvement is overrated. This year instead of vowing to be better and then letting myself down two weeks later, I’m taking a different approach. I’m making anti-resolutions. That way if I succeed I’m successful, and if I fail I’m successful too.

I resolve to gain weight.

This should be a fun one. Who wants to be skinny anyway? Just think of all the new shopping I’ll get to do when I can no longer zip my jeans—to say nothing of the joy of Brie and chocolate. And once I gain all that weight, I’m going to start a foundation similar to Locks of Love, except instead of donating hair to cancer patients, we’ll get lipo-sucked and donate the results to runway models.

I resolve to stop working out.

It might be difficult to find the time to not exercise, but a little determination goes a long way. Marathons of the Real Housewives on Bravo will help. And hello—double bonus, no workout clothes means less laundry! Who needs extra energy and long life?

I resolve to start smoking.

So many people smoke, I’m starting to wonder what I’m missing. Seriously, if it’s so hard to quit it must be pretty good, right? However, I’ve heard smoking helps keep the weight off so this could make my resolution to gain weight more difficult. I’m willing to take the chance. Besides, considering the state of my retirement account, a shorter life expectancy makes sense.

I resolve to up my alcohol intake.

Next year at my annual physical I’d like to move my answer from the 3-5 drinks per week to the 5-8 category. It’s a realistic goal. Combined with the weight gain, lack of exercise, and smoking, this resolution has the potential to make a real impression on my overall health—and my physician.

I resolve to mess up the garage.

I’ve been trying to organize our garage for five years. (Maybe it’s more accurate to say I’ve been trying to get my husband to pick up his stuff and get rid of the junk he calls tools.) At this point I’m ready to give it up to the family of squirrels that have taken to eating the dog food the children drop on the floor.

I resolve to spend less quality time with the family.

Do you ever get the feeling your family takes you for granted? I do, and I think a little extended absence from Mama is what they need to make their hearts grow fonder. I’m thinking of a solo tour of Europe.

I resolve to decrease my tithe.

Okay, so I don’t actually tithe, but I can cut back on what I drop into that wicker offering basket. Aren’t I helping the world enough by spending money on my $4 cups of coffee and my 38 pairs of black shoes? All those unfortunate people don’t need the money like I do—Retrinol doesn’t grow on trees you know.

I resolve to decrease my vocabulary.

Some of the words floating around my brain have very little purpose in my everyday life and frankly I need to free up some capacity to stay on top of Facebook updates. Autumn for example—who needs it? Fall is shorter and more descriptive. Autumn, you’re dead to me.

I resolve to make less money.

This one needs some clarification. Let’s be clear that I don’t want to have less money or spend less money, I just don’t want to be the person who makes it.

In the third grade my son’s class put on a Thanksgiving program. Imagine my pride at having him appear as both a turkey and a rapper and read the essay he wrote about being thankful for his education. We value overachievement here. As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one expected to perform.

Two weeks before the show, I received a note from the music teacher saying that because my child had been chosen to be a turkey, I needed to cover a white t-shirt completely with feathers. Use a hot glue gun, it said. The tone had a distinct air of condescension: if you’re not able to make the costume, please call the music teacher. That’s a dare if I’ve ever heard one.

I’m not too interested in competing with other moms via my child, but I’m also not one to back down from a challenge. I skipped off like a good mommy to Hobby Lobby where an entire aisle is devoted to feathers. These are not cheap, especially the turkey-appropriate colors like brown, white, and black. How badly could a fuchsia and chartreuse turkey stand out from the crowd anyway? I compromised, buying one packet of the good feathers and a value pack for filler.

I also bought a natural colored t-shirt because I figured that might make up for my feather scrimping. At least if I ran out of feathers he’d have a turkey-ish color showing through. I bought glue sticks and said a little prayer that my trusty glue gun still worked, because no way was I buying another one of those. At the register I smirked at my ability to get out of there for under ten bucks.

That night I waited impatiently for the glue to melt in the barrel of my ancient gun and started sticking. I attached a few feathers to my own shirt and burned off some fingerprints, but overall I rocked the turkey shirt. After about a half hour, I called it good, even if there were a few spots of natural showing through.

Judging from the feedback I received the next day after the dress rehearsal, I should have kept going. 

“You forgot the sleeves,” a neighbor girl noticed. As if turkey legs have feathers. Sheesh.

My son, ever the encourager, pointed out that one kid wore a plain t-shirt. Plain! I’d done a better job than at least one mom. That was good enough for me. 

On show day, as I took my seat in the cafeteria, tens of turkeys graced the bleacher stage. Some of them looked like Vegas acts and others looked like, well, kids being forced out in public with feathers glued to their shirts. My son may not have been the most attractive fowl, but his ‘Turkey Boogie’ blew the others’ out of the barnyard and his essay proved that he is one smart bird.

I just feel sorry for all those competitive moms whose kids had no t-shirt showing through.

A couple of summers ago I was unloading an obscene amount of groceries when I noticed a thick, pink substance on the garage floor. Lemonade maybe? But it appeared to be coming from inside the car. After I got my dairy and frozen goods out of the sweltering trunk, I dipped my finger into the pink stuff. It didn’t smell like anything and looked about as worrisome as IHOP syrup, which is only dangerous to my thighs.

About an hour later I had to run an urgent errand. (Running low on string cheese, most likely.) Because my husband was out of town, I had another car to drive, one which did not have pink goo oozing out of it. However, I chose to drive the leaky car. It started and drove fine, until the thermometer light came on. I tensed when it started to blink, even though I had no idea what that meant.

If I designed cars, there would be a light that said, Pull Over. And if you didn’t immediately comply, another light would come on that said, NOW! If you still didn’t get the hint, the car would turn itself off. But my car doesn’t have this handy imaginary feature. Despite the warning light, my trip was uneventful. I finished my urgent errand and drove home.

The next afternoon, after loading into my car five children, four snorkels, two masks, a box of crackers, forty-five fruit snacks, a gross of beach towels, and enough juice to flood a small country, the car wouldn’t start. I tried again while the children whined, hot and cranky. Clearly this was another urgent situation so I did what I had to do. I switched cars and went to the pool.

Then I had to make the call. “Do you want to hear the bad news?” I asked my husband.

I told him about the harmless smelling gunk, the flashing red thermometer, and the non-starting car. Luckily I married a man who remains calm in the face of mechanical trouble.

“Was the car leaking while you were driving?”

“No,” I said. “It was in the garage.”

“And the light, when was that flashing?”

Here’s where things started to turn against me. “Oh, well…. see…. I needed to go to the –”

“You drove the car?”

He’s even calm in the face of four-digit repair bills, but he felt bad for the car. I couldn’t feed his panic, but had to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about, just a task to accomplish. “What I need to know is whether I should have the car towed to the dealership or if you think we can put in some more of that pink stuff and drive it over.”

My husband sighed from another state and I heard the hang of his head. “I hope you didn’t seize the engine.”

“No.” I brushed it off. “I think it’s something else – something easy to fix.”

Neither my husband nor the mechanic agreed that it was something ‘easy’ to fix, but it didn’t matter. I may not be good with machines, but things always work out for me. For instance, my new car is very shiny.

When I was a kid I never wanted to run away and join the circus. Now that I’m older, I get it. Although it’s not my dream to tame lions or become the bearded lady, I understand the lure of escaping to some exotic life where the tightrope you walk is literal as opposed to the figurative balancing act we do here in the world of diapers, homework, and ear infections.

My mother tells a story about her mother, who would tell her children that if they didn’t behave she would run off to Tucumcari, New Mexico and they’d never find her. To which my mother calmly responded that they most certainly would find her – in Tucumcari, New Mexico.

Mom shouted similar warnings to my brother and I as kids. She would run away and never return. We didn’t have reason to believe her empty threats, but then again, you never knew. Moms are crazy like that. Our mothers and grandmothers didn’t mess with balance – work-life or otherwise. They didn’t have spa days or antidepressants or Oprah. They just woke up in the morning and did what needed doing. And if they lost it once in a while, well, they were entitled.

Genetics notwithstanding, I have yet to issue such a circus-running-off sort of threat. I prefer short periods of actual escape to fantasies of long-term flight. Running off for weekend writing classes and conferences recharges my depleted mama batteries and gives me strength to face the days of infinite laundry and incessant requests for Nintendo DS cartridges. I schedule my respites months in advance and write them on the calendar – in pen. In Sharpie even.

My retreats may not be as exciting as swallowing swords, but for me, some quality time with a spiral notebook and a half decent pen is usually enough to return equilibrium. And if it’s not, I run off to yoga class, where we make like a tree and stand on one leg, or rest our thighs upon our biceps. That’s balance. These are the things that keep me from losing it.

So next time you’re tempted to run away and join the circus, remember that you can juggle fire in your own kitchen and rig up a tightrope in your backyard. Just make sure you wait until after you’ve finished all that other balancing  – you know, the checkbook, the food groups, and the quality time spent with each child.

And if you hear of any writers’ meetings in Tucumcari, New Mexico, don’t come looking for me.

Lela Davidson is a Northwest Arkansas writer seeking to balance life, love, and laundry with a husband, two children, a dog, and an ever-changing number of fish. Read more at www.afterthebubbly.com.