Momnesia

Augusta, Ga. - Emmie made friends with the boy next door about 28 seconds after we moved into this house. She was so delighted to have someone her age to play with, that it almost made up for the selfish mean dog owners on the other side.

We've lived here for 5 months, now, and Emmie and her friend have been getting along great. A couple of days ago, though, as they were playing, she was calling his name and trying to get him to catch a ball. He looked at me, with a smirk beyond his kindergarten age: "My name not Jose," he said.

LOL! We've been calling this poor kid Jose for the whole time. Turns out Emmie didn't understand his name, Zaquan (Zah-kwan), when she first met him, and we've all been calling him the wrong name ever since. Poor guy.

So we've been working on getting her to use his correct name, but you know how it is when you meet someone. Your brain attaches a name and your reasoning self is pretty much left out of it. Heck, I worked at a newspaper in Athens for two years, during which time the publisher never once called me by my name. She called me Katherine every day, and I never had the heart to correct her.

This, too, might be a losing battle. Because what Emerson has in recall - seriously, do not play Memory with her; you will be horribly embarrassed - she has equally in stubbornness.

Augusta, Ga. - Walking back from lunch at Blue Sky Kitchen, we passed a new thrift store called Once Again on the 800 Block of Broad Street. I spied a neatly organized children's section and found four or five well-cared-for pieces for Emerson.

"Look, Doodle," I said to Emerson when I picked her up, and held up a T-shirt. She gasped and screamed.

"Iss YOGABBAGABBA!" She danced around in a circle.

Dude. It's a $1 T-shirt.

"I goeend ta wear dis EBRY DAY," she declared, clutching it to her chest. "An EBRY morneen you goeend put it on da chair, an' if I don't see it, I goeend say, 'Mommmeeeee!' An' den you goeend get da T-shirt an' I goeend wear it. I goeend ta wear it EBRY DAY, Mama! I'm SERIOUS."

"Um... Okay," I agree. "Unless it's dirty, and then we have to wash it."

"YES," she agreed. "But - OOOOOH, I'm so ett-SITED!"

Um... It's a shirt?

"And dank you SO MUCH, Mama. You berry sweet to buy dis Yo Gabba Gabba shirt for me."

(Laughing silently) "You're very welcome, darling. Mommy loves you, and I'm very glad you like the shirt."

She squeals and laughs, but suddenly her brow furrows.

"Mama?" She asks quietly. "Was it berry 'spensable?"

I grin: "No, darling."

"But... how many dollars and moneys was it?"

"Just one."

"What?! Das AWESOME! Can we go to dis store all da time?!"

"Yep. I think we can manage that."

Side note: We also got a Paas Easter Egg-making kit for 50 cents!

Augusta, Ga. - The radio's playing "Breathe," by Faith Hill. Emmie cocks her head, then turns to me: "Mama? Why can't she breeve? Do she need a doctor?"

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Augusta, Ga. - We're rushing around, getting ready for Babypalooza, and I can't figure out what happened to my driver's license after the accident yesterday.

"Mommy needs to clean out her car," I mutter.

"Yeah," Emmie chimes in from the backseat. "You gotta lotta stuff in here. You gotta a box, an' sum trash, an' sum toys, an' some books, an' sum shoes, an' a sweater..."

"I get it," I laugh, but she continues.

"An' a DBD, an' some old yucky snacks, an'... an'... A DOODLE!" she laughs.

"Yep, she's in the backseat," I laugh.

"But don' frow ME out!"

Augusta, Ga. - Emerson's in a mood. She dances as I read her a story. She rapidly zips and unzips her footie pajamas. She bounces her forehead off the couch when I have her sound out a word (yes, you read that right). And she's flat-out getting on my nerves.

It's bedtime, and nothing I do calms her down. Finally, I just tell her that it's time to go on to her bed. Her eyes well up, and she runs away, wailing.

Uh... What?

"Emmie, come here, please," I call.
She runs back in, still wailing, and buries her face in my chest.

"Honey, what's going on?" I ask. More tears.

Ah. Okay. She's disappointed about something. I know she won't be able to tell me, because she can hardly define disappointed. So, instead, we rock, and snuggle, and slowly she calms down. When she seems back to her usual self - minus the forehead bouncing - I remind her that it's still time for bed. She smiles and toddles off after "more mooches."

Soon after, as I'm engrossed in the lives of the Miss Dashwoods, I hear what sounds like a duck quacking. And we don't have any ducks... yet.

"Emerson, bring that here," I call.

"Aw, MAN!" she exclaims, and trots out the kazoo she'd been playing with.

"Thank you," I say, give her "anudder mooch, and wave her to bed.

Five minutes later, another small sound catches my attention. But I can't identify it. Whrrrrrrrrrrzzzzz! Whrrrrrrrrrrzzzzz!

I sigh and put down the book. Elinor isn't going to get Edward tonight.

"Emerson -" I begin, but she pounds out of her bedroom with a wry grin before I can continue.

"Here ya go!" she grins, places the noisemaker beside the kazoo, and trots back off to bed.

I try to contain my laughter as my stash grows. Mr. Tamborine and a pair of maracas join in. Finally, I go in and take away the wooden box of musical instruments.

"Sleep. Now." I command, but only half-heartedly. She is endlessly amusing.

She yawns and nods, and snuggles down into her comforter. Her eyes close, and I can see that she's down for the night.

Dang.

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Augusta, Ga. - My co-worker was putting her 4-year-old in her car seat to take her to school, when she heard the spring birds chattering away in the surrounding trees.

"Oh, Hannah, do you hear the birds?" she asked. "Listen to what they're saying!"

Hannah gasped and whirled around to stare at her mother: "Mama! You speak bird?!"

Augusta, GA - I'm at the Augusta State University Communications Festival as a guest professional. Some people I've fooled - former professors of mine - have asked me here to help current students get a handle on what they need to have my ultra-fabulous career.

One of the speakers is introducing the newest members of Lambda Pi Eta, the communications honor society. She talks a little about the name being derived from Artistotle's Logos, Pathos, and Ethos.

"What was that?" I ask, oblivious. "The Three Muskateers?"

The students at my table look at me, incredulous. "Logos, Pathos, and Ethos," they repeat, with trepidation. They couldn't tell if I was serious, or if I was testing them.

Unfortunately, I was serious. I know I must have taken a speech class, because it was required. I also won some public speaking awards in college. But, I swear, though I have heard those terms, I have never heard them in conjunction with a communications class.

Oops.

Visiting my alma mater made me wonder how much I "learned" and then forgot. All the media law, the genetic disorders, algebra, how to find the standard deviation without referring back to the textbook I never sold back (side note: I'm pretty sure "The 39 Steps" is a cinematic metaphor for that formula; but more on that later).

I've done little since graduating to expand my knowledge base, other than the practical, hands-on things I've learned as a professional. So what am I to do? Grad school is not within my current reach. Time. Distance. Money. And every time I pick up an old textbook or a new educational tome, I lament the absence of vampires, zombies, Dashwoods and Bennets. And, yes, I've read Pride & Prejudice & Zombies. It wasn't that great.

What I think someone should compile is a list called "Books That Are Both Educational and Fun to Read and Were Not Written By James Mitchener." If anyone knows where I can get my hands on that last, please let me know.

Augusta, Ga. - I called home to chortle with Scott over my dress being inside-out at the doctor's office. And he said, "Oh, you'll love this."

Scott does a lot of recording out of our little "home studio" (an iMac and a mixing board, essentially), and sometimes, when he's on a tight deadline, he has to do an interview over the phone. For that purpose, he has rigged this combination of cordless hand set, digital recorder, tiny ear phones, and tape in order to capture the sound. It was very McGuyver of him, and it's done okay for him for the past couple of months.

But he scoffs at himself: "If I had bothered to actually look at the handset, however, I would have seen the big yellow speakerphone button."

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I left Emmie with Scott for the afternoon, so that I could go do that thing called work. I called home to see if there was anything I needed to pick up on the way home.

"No, but let me tell you what I did today."

Uh oh.

"I gave Emmie a bowl of ice cream, but she didn't eat it. So I picked up the bowl, which was all melty, and slurped down a huge mouthful... only to have my throat start burning."

"What happened?!"

Emmie is what happened. She had won a "prize" of air freshener at a giveaway earlier that day. I don't know what it's supposed to freshen, since it smells like strawberry-freaking-beer. But anyway. She had decided not to eat the ice cream. She had decided, instead, to "freshen" it.

"I swallowed a whole mouthful!" Scott exclaimed, and I burst into laughter. "I had to call poison control!"

Poison control had to research the brand to make sure it wasn't going to kill him. Ultimately, he's fine. But if you get a whiff of strawberries-and-beer over the next few days, you know where to look.

Augusta, Ga - Sleep-deprived, we show up at the clinic for treatment of an apparent ear infection that kept Emmie up all night (and me with her).

Of course, right now she feels just fine.

"Dis is a plie (insert accent mark)," she says, and demonstrates. "An' watch DIS!"

She spins around, then folds her arms with a look of intense self-satisfaction: "How 'bout DAT!"

"So, anyway, uh... She was sick all night. Crying from ear pain, and we're exhausted."

I glance over at her, practicing a tendu against the wall, in the hodge-podge of mismatched clothing that culminates with a shiny, quilted, pink, fur-lined vest.

"Okay, I'M exhausted. And mommy let her dress herself."

The Physician's Assistant grins and glances sideways at me: "Mommy's dress is on inside-out."

I look down. Dang.

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Augusta, GA. - We're starting our morning with gossip.

"You guys, Corey Haim died," KJ says.

"Which one was he?" I ask.

"He was a 'Lost Boy,'" BO answers.

"Yeah, but which?" I ask.

"The cute one," KJ answers.

"Umm...." (neither were particularly attractive to me)

"The blonde one," she clarifies.

"He was a total methhead, wasn't he?"

"Oh, he was a horrible drug addict," she answers.

"Well, that'll getcha," I answer. Drugs bad.

"Yeah, they're saying accidental overdose," BO says. "But I guess almost anytime you die, it's accidental."

"Nice, B."

Augusta, GA. - Emmie's just out of the bath tub, running around in her "Memo" towel.

"Mama? Do you wanna smell me?"

"Sure, honey," I laugh, and inhale at her neck. "Mmmmm. You smell like flowers and rainbows and unicorns."

"Do you wanna smell my bootie?"

"Uh, no."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Come on."

"No, thank you."

"Come on."

"No, sweetie."

"I promise you it won't be stinky."

"I believe you."

"Just smell it."

"No."

"Come on. Just one time."

"Emmie, I do not want to smell your bootie. I'm sure it smells like flowers, but no thanks."

"Maybe Daddy will give you some candy," she sings.

"No, I don't need any candy."

"Mama, I promise. It won't be stinky. And you get candy. Really."

"No, ma'am."

"Please."

"No."

"PRETTY please."

"NO. Emmie. I do not want to smell your bootie. That's it."

She begins to walk away, dramatically dejected, when an idea occurs to me: "Actually, why don't you go ask Daddy?"

AUGUSTA, GA. - Out of only six entries submitted to the national competition, Metro Augusta Parent Magazine won four awards this year from Parenting Publications of America (PPA).

"I am extremely proud of the award winners. To take home four national awards out of six entered is phenomenal. It truly proves their talent level and dedication is second to none," said Bryan Osborn, group publisher for the company that produces Metro Augusta Parent Magazine, The Metro Spirit, and Bites & Sights.

The award underscores the talent and hard work that goes into each issue. Without the passion that drives the staff and contributors, the 40,000 women who depend on us each month to bring them the most honest and entertaining information about parenting in Augusta would be left wanting. The magazine has won a gold award every year for the past five years.


Editor's Letter
Silver: Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "This column takes an interesting stance and then explains it to readers as a way of starting the conversation. This is a strong voice driving the publication."

Amy Christian is a perennial winner in this competition. Last year she won a silver award for her story about Richmond County School Superintendent Dr. Dana Bedden. Read some of her recent columns here:

* Managing the transition
* No longer little

Inside Illustration
Silver: Leonard Zimmerman, illustrator
The judges said: "An unusual drawing style and an interesting vantage point bring the reader into this illustration and successfully reflect the lighthearted tone of the text. The colors of the children's shirts contrast nicely with the background color."

Leonard Zimmerman is a talented painter, graphic designer, and illustrator. While this is his first PPA win, he was part of the Wierhouse creative team that took home more than 30 ADDY Awards at this year's ceremony. Take a look at his work below:

* Robots' meaning is in the eye of the beholder
* Nominated for Metro's Best Visual Artist
* Joint effort



Profile Writing
Silver: "Year-long Learning ... and Then Some," Eric Johnson, staff writer; Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "An effective and efficient (column-length) look at a remarkable private school that perseveres by sticking to educational priorities and human principles, with a compelling figure at the center of the tale. Convincingly demonstrates that "alternative education" doesn't necessarily mean something way out of the mainstream."

Eric Johnson is a solid and enthusiastic news and education reporter, whose profile of C.H. Terrell Academy is just a single drop in an ocean of quality work. This is a first PPA award for this writer, who studied fiction writing with Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Russo.


General Feature Writing
Gold: "Intensive Care, " Stacey Hudson; publisher; Amy Christian, editor
The judges said: "From the beginning, readers are drawn in to the story about a family in the midst of crisis with a father's life in the balance. The writer openly talks about the choices she made with her own family in dealing with the situation and uses professionals to explain how children respond in such situations. This is a great combination of memoir writing and service journalism all wrapped into one touching story."

Stacey has previously won for her pregnancy memoir, "Rabbit Done Died"; and for a look at the irrational suspicions that plague parents those first days of day care called "Miss Rachel Must Die." She doesn't know why all of her award-winning pieces mention death in some way.

"Are those Reese's Peanut Butter eggs, or just chocolate?" a pregnant M.L. asked.
"They're some of each. But we're not telling you which is which," I grinned.
"That's okay. I'll just eat them all."

Augusta, Ga. - Emerson attended a school-wide sock hop at her elementary school recently. Emmie and her friends were having a blast when I arrived.

At 4 and 5 years old, these kids are still at the point when all they desire is love and attention. So those who recognized me ran up for hugs and exclamations over their hair, their clothes, their accessories, their general fabulousness, while Emmie jumped up and down beside me, shouting, "Das MY mommy! She's goeend dance wif us!" Uh, no, she's not.

And then a little girl walked up with something in her hand.

"Miss Emerson's Mama?" she asked. "I couldn't come to Emerson's birfday party."

"Oh, that's okay," I assured her. "You can come next time."

"Wull, I bring her a present," she said, and handed Emmie a cellophane bag. Inside was a giant pickle that she had purchased from the concession stand with her last two snack tickets.

"Ohh, DANK you!" Emmie exclaimed, and gave her friend a hug. She looked at me uncertainly. She really doesn't like pickles. But she gave it a cautious nibble before trying to hand it back with a frown. Oh, I don't think so.

I leaned down and murmured in her ear: "Your friend gave you that pickle as a gift. You will not hurt her feelings. You will take four bites with a smile on your face, and then you may give to me to hold for you."

And she did! She took those bites, put the pickle back in the bag, handed it to me to hold, took her friend by the hand, and lead her back to the dance floor.

And three days later, when I pulled the bag out of the fridge and tried to toss the pickle in the trash, Emmie took my hand and put me in my place.

"My fren' gib dat to me as a present. You don't frow presents away, mama."

So we put it back. And it stayed there until two days ago. Then Scott ate it.


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Augusta, Ga. - Scott has been working all day, and I'm not sure he's eaten a thing. He's really tearing into dinner that I cooked (asian pork with edamame and baby carrots). Emmie's sitting at the table with him, and suddenly she exclaims:

"Good God, Daddy! You really eatin' da CRAP out of dat food!"

Whoa. There is a moment of shocked silence as Scott and I lock eyes, and then I do the worst thing possible. I burst into laughter. I laugh so hard that I send myself into a coughing fit.

"Mama, why you laffeend?!" Emmie says.

"Good God, did you hear that?" I ask Scott with a chuckle, and then stop. Oh. So THAT's where she got it from.

Aw, crap.

We're just a small family, the three of us, and we've always had a close, attachment kind of parenting style. We're not slack on the discipline, but we focus on helping Emmie make the best choices, as opposed to requiring that she do what we say. (Of course, at the end of the day, the best choices are the ones we'd have made FOR her, but it's all in the presentation. I hope...)

We have always involved Emmie in everything, having her tag along wherever we may go - work, friends' visits, community events - desiring to expose her to as much as possible, within reason.
We want her to be knowledgeable, comfortable, and confident. We don't want to expose her to things that will confuse her. That's one of the reasons I rolled up the car windows today, despite her protests, when some dude pulled up next to us on Wheeler Rd. His car stereo was crooning, "Ah, birthday sex... Yeahyeahyeah, birthday sex," and he bought the car stereo system THAT GOES TO ELEVEN. (Thanks A LOT, dude)

But maybe we still aren't being the role models that we could be. Because I remember when saying "crap" got me a pop on the bottom. I didn't understand it then, but I am within reach of comprehension now.

So, for Lent, I'm giving up a few of my favorite words and phrases: "crap," "good god," and "mother of god." I'll consider giving up "son of a biscuit," but I haven't made up my mind on that phrase, yet. I'm definitely keeping "for crying out loud."

I'm sure I've forgotten some things that I should stop saying. Mother of God, I'm sure there are other aspects of our crappy parenting that can be improved, for crying out loud. Like our constant sarcasm, and our inability to take things seriously.

But happy Lent, everyone. Here's to all of our efforts to change the bad habits we've fallen into. Good God, I hope you beat the CRAP out of them!

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Augusta, Ga. - Scott's talking about Tiger Woods' press conference, which is scheduled for later today.

The speculation - especially in this home of the Masters Tournament - is really over the top.

"I know how we could get rich," Scott says. "Start a Tiger Woods channel."

"Nah. You wouldn't have any sponsors," I reply.

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Augusta, Ga. - My husband has psoriasis like you wouldn't believe. I've bought him a multitude of creams and lotions over the last five years that I hoped would give him some relief. But a couple of months ago, I got an idea that finally paid off.

Super Skin Softener / Psoriasis Stuff

1. Buy a bottle of oil. We used Neutrogena's unscented seseme oil, but you can use just about anything that won't make you smell like a roast turkey. I know a woman who uses straight olive oil on her hands, elbows, feet, and hair. It works, but it's not for me.

2. Buy a tall container of coarse sea salt. The brand doesn't matter, but the texture does.

3. Buy a small transparent or translucent container with a covered spout and an attached lid. I picked up a small plastic measuring pitcher for $1 in the kitchen section at Wal-Mart, but anything will do. Just make sure the lid is attached so that you don't have it slipping around all over your tub; and it has to be translucent so that you can see whether the salt is mixed properly.

4. Fill the container halfway with salt.

5. Finish with oil, leaving an inch open at the top.

6. Shake well.

Voila! Just a few drops make enough to use everywhere - except your face - and a supply of moisturizing exfoliant that will last for months. One use, and my ashy winter skin turned these tree trunks I've been scratching back into real, live, lady legs. Just remember to shake well before each use.

Total cost: $7


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Augusta, Ga. - Emerson has pneumonia, and has been instructed to eat only light foods - like saltines and chicken soup. But by Day Four, this child would take down a buffalo and eat it raw if we'd let her out of the house... in South Dakota. Anyway.

So we let her "choose her choices," within reason, for dinner. She chose French Toast from 3 Squares. But I didn't know that it came with a packet of butter and a side of fatty bacon.

"Sorry, Doodle, but the doctor said to stay away from oily foods."

She let me take the butter. But I was getting that bacon over her tiny, 5-year-old, dead body. I could swear that she took a chomp at me. Ooookay, then.

"Fine. But later, when you're frowing up, I'm going to do this..."

I danced around and shook my bootie, singing "Nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-nyah!"

She grinned and giggled: "Dass not nice, Mama. Den I'm goeend punch you in da belly!"

"What?! I don't think so, young lady," I said. But I knew she was going along with my humor.

Not 20 minutes later, she went into a torrent of deep, growling coughs. At the end of the spasms, she clutched her stomach and made a mournful face: "I ammost frow up, Mama!"

I jumped up and shook my bootie, dancing in a circle: "Nyah-nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah-OOOOOFF!"

Well, she warned me.

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Augusta, Ga. - With Emerson sick with pneumonia, I'm not in a cooking mood. We had frozen pizza for lunch, if that tells you anything. Hint: we don't much care for frozen pizza around here.

But tonight, I was in need of a healthy meal. Enter fast food - no, not THAT kind. I'm talking even FASTER than that.

Here's my recipe, and it may be the shortest thing you've ever seen:

• 1 box Near East Couscous with pine nuts and olive oil (you can sub a flavored rice, if you want, or even orzo).  Cost: $1.49
• 2 boxes Gorton's grilled lemon butter salmon fillets (or any kind of fish fillet, heck, I don't care). Cost: 2 for $3.
• Half-a-bag of leftover bag salad (mixed greens, spring greens, Mediterranean, spinach, or something else dark green and leafy. Iceburg and romaine will not do). Cost: Maybe $2.50 a bag, divided into two separate meals. We had the first half on Sunday.

1. Chuck the frozen fish filets into a skillet on medium heat, with a drizzle of olive oil to keep them from sticking
2. While they're cooking, start the directions on the back of the couscous box. Put the water on to boil, dump in the spice packet, and add some chicken bouillon and a dash of garlic to the water.
3. Divide the leftover bag salad onto the plates, drizzle with a tiny bit of vinaigrette (I used honey mustard vinaigrette, but you can use anything not too sweet or too strong. If you're wearing your fancy pants, and you have Meyer lemon vinaigrette, that would be amazing).
4. The water should be boiling, so pour in the couscous. Give the couscous mixture a good stir, then take it off the burner, cover the saucepan with a lid (or a plate, if you're like me and couldn't find the dadgum lid). Let sit - AND DON'T TOUCH IT - for five minutes.
5.  Finish cooking the salmon.
6. Fluff the couscous with a fork, all the way through, then divide on top of the salad on the plates.
7. Chuck a salmon fillet on top, and voila!

Total prep time: However long it took me to open two boxes and a bag.
Total cook time: 10 minutes, give or take
Verdict: Emmie had never had couscous before, and she ate every bite.

Emmie knocked off my boss's Phillies bobbleheads off his desk the other day and broke them. I was SO PROUD that I was able to seamlessly Super Glue them back together, until I brought them back today.

"You messed 'em all up," Bryan said.

"Nuh-uh! They look great!" I argued.

He laughed: "You glued a bat onto the pitcher's hand!"