I love my daughter. She’s got a unique perspective on life and she’s completely unfiltered with her observations and desires, which is a nice way of saying she’s a weird one.

Today she told us — yes, all of us in earshot — that she wanted an ankle mustache.

An ankle mustache.

Your mouth just dropped open and you probably tilted your head to one side. I know this because it’s the reaction from everyone in the room when she said the words “ankle mustache.”

I also know you’re wondering what the hell an ankle mustache is.

It’s where I would shave my legs except for a thin line around my ankle.

An ankle mustache.

Um, Maddi, why would you want an, um, ankle mustache?

So I can pet it.

An ankle mustache. So she can pet it.

At least she’s stopped asking for a kitten.

Confidence

One of my main goals as a parent is to instill confidence in my children. If they’ve got confidence in themselves, they’ll make good choices (most of the time), try new things, and basically be happy.

When Andrew was in the 1st grade, he wanted to get his ears pierced. We lived in Las Vegas so this wasn’t a completely out-of-left-field request; lots of older kids had their ears pierced in Vegas. But not too many 1st graders.

He asked me to take him to get his ears pierced just about every day for three months and I told him “no.” When he started wearing his little sisters stick-on earrings, I decided it was time for a conversation.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, Andrew, this is permanent.”

“I’m sure.”

I tried to talk him out of it telling him I wasn’t going to pay for him to get his ears pierced.

“My birthday’s coming up. I’ll use my birthday money.”

CURSE YOU, BIRTHDAY MONEY!

So I relented. Sort of.

His birthday was on a weekday and he had to go to school the next day, which I thought I could use to my advantage. So I took him to get his ears pierced at the girliest place I could think of: Claire’s, the fluffy pink tween-heaven stuffed with all things shiny and glittery.

Oh, how clever I was! One look at the pink glow emanating from the door and he was sure to turn around.

Oh, how wrong I was! He trotted up to the counter, told the clerk he wanted to get his ears pierced. I waited for the clerk to give a shrill giggle and tell him how cute he was (tee hee) as any typical Claire’s girl emporium employee would do. Instead, Greg, the manager, was manning the counter. Literally. It was a guy!

“Awesome, dude!” cheered Greg, whose own ears were adorned with bright CZ studs.

Yeah, awesome, Greg.

Andrew handed over his birthday money and the deed was done.

I wasn’t going to give up, though. When we got in the car, I said, “You know, Andrew, it’s not too late. You have to go to school tomorrow. If you want to take them out, no one will know.”

“No. That’s okay.”

One last ditch effort: “But, Andrew, really, no other boys in your class have their ears pierced. What will your friends say?”

“I don’t care. I’m just really happy right now.”

I’ll never forget those words from an 8-year-old: “I don’t care. I’m just really happy right now.”

I don’t think I’ll ever have that much confidence.

Andrew’s ears are still pierced. He got new earrings last month for his 16th birthday.

Yesterday, Andrew posted this status update on his Facebook page: “damn im gonna do something good with my life… besides everything else i’ve done… some that will really stand out i can just feel it”

What can I say? I believe him.

Birthdays are great for two things: cake with killer homemade frosting and jaunts down memory lane. In our house there’s a two-week period, beginning May 21 and ending May 29, where our cake and frosting quota exceeds the recommended yearly intake and jaunts become full-fledged treks.

On the 21st we celebrate Andrew’s birthday. He turned 16 this year despite his repeated attempts not to “make to your next birthday.” Andrew leads with his head – literally. By the time he was four, he had acquired four sets of stitches in his head: one above each eyebrow, one in his lower lip (which had been punctured by his teeth at 18 months), and one in the back of his head. He’s the kid who always has a band aid somewhere.

May 25th is Asher’s day. Asher, not to be outdone by his older brother, also makes valiant attempts at not showing up on his birthday every year. Not because he’s prone to knocking himself out like Andrew, though; he’s got legitimate health issues. We’ve actually celebrated his birthday in the hospital more than once. But, come to think of it, Asher’s also that kid who always has a band aid somewhere. Wait a minute…

Then there’s Madeline. Oh, dear, sweet Madeline. Her birthday is on the 29th, wrapping up the two-week-long festival of cake. Madeline who still rules her brothers threatening to shave off Andrew’s left eyebrow if he didn’t get out of bed so she could stop at Krispy Kreme on the way to school to bring donuts to her class to celebrate her birthday. (Of course he got up, do you have to ask?) Madeline who, upon looking at herself in the mirror the morning of her birthday, said, “I’m still short,” as if she fully expected to grow overnight. Madeline, age 14, who wore a “Happy Birthday” tiara to school “Just in case I forget it’s my birthday.”

Happy birthday, babies! I’m proud of each of you for making it one more year.

Oh, but I’m also proud of my oldest, Alex, who was gracious enough NOT to be born in May, thus easing the strain on my pocket book at least a little bit. He’s kinda my favorite for that.

“I know how I wanna die.”

Not words you want to hear from your kids.

Before you get alarmed and teary, these are MY kids, so there’s got to be some weird twist.

This statement was made by my daughter Madeline in a follow up to her “bucket list” announcement a couple of days ago. At dinner last night she finally remembered what was on it.

“I want to drink from a chocolate fountain!”

Sounds like a reasonable, normal thing for a 13-year-old girl to want to do.

“Oh, and I know how I wanna die. I want to jump out of an airplane without a parachute!”

(screeeeeeeeeeech) I really need to find a way to insert that sound into a post.

What?

“Yeah, that’d be awesome. You know, just floating, flying… the sky, the wind….”

The ground?

“Well, yeah, but it’d be awesome before that.”

I have four kids – three boys and a girl. They are gorgeous. I’m not just saying that because I’m their mom, honestly. They are really just beautiful.

And they all sort of look the same, you know, they “favor” each other, as my southern mother-in-law would say. You’d think since they all “had the same face” as a neighbor kid once described them, that onlookers would all be on the same side of the gender call. So why no one could ever get their gender right when they were toddlers remains a mystery to me.

It started with my oldest, Alex. Good lord, huge blue eyes, blonde loose curls, a smile (even the toothless one) that would melt you. With that description, I know you’re thinking, well, he kinda sounds like a girl. Fine. I’ll give you that. But when he’s covered from head to toe in fire trucks and John Deere tractors and the little old lady in the grocery store still says, “She’s so pretty!” I have to wonder. About her.

Then came Andrew. Green eyes, soft brown curls, and dimples. In both cheeks. “Oh, my word, she’s so pretty!” Yeah, and she’s all about dressing up like a COWBOY, too. Check out her six-shooter, lady. Good grief.

So, what happened to Madeline? Well, that little cue-ball had huge green eyes and an infectious giggle, but, alas, no hair. Only a smattering of reddish-blonde fuzz until she was 2 1/2.

“Look at him, he’s so cute!”

REALLY?

Cute in a he-likes-to-wear-frilly-white-tights-with-his-fluffy-pink-dress-and-bow-velcroed-to-his-head sort of way. I kid you not. She called my living doll a “boy.”

I wish I could say the gender confusion stopped there. It didn’t.

Asher, my youngest, has the most beautifully thick curly hair and milk-chocolate brown eyes framed in long, lush eyelashes. He’s ten years old.

Today, yes, TODAY, while sitting on the front porch counting trucks, a woman spreading the word of God asked me what “her” name was. Asher was wearing grey sweat pants, a grey Abercombie polo, and Diego tennis shoes.

I thought of all sorts of smart-assy things to say: “We call him ‘Bubby.’ It’s short for Beelzebub.” “We don’t believe in names. We’ve given ‘it’ a number instead.”

But “Sharon” was a woman of God and I didn’t want an even faster ticket to Hell, so I just smiled and said, “Ashley.”

Score one for God.

A trip to the dentist.

I’m not afraid of the dentist. Honestly. I’ve never has a bad experience at the dentist so there’s really no reason for me to not like going.

Wait. Does talking to you while you have a mouthful of metal, tools, and other people’s hands count as a bad experience?

Why is that? And I’m not just talking about a monologue where he details his latest golfing adventure. I’m talking about a fully involved two-way conversation:

Him: So what do you have planned for this summer? Going anywhere exciting?

Me: Umph, ooogglllurgle, uuhh aaagghh.

Him: What?

Me: AH U EEGIN IDDDIN EEE??!??!

Yeah, my dentist is hilarious.

Yesterday was a sharp reminder of the power of a sincere apology. And the need for genuine forgiveness.

My youngest son, Asher, is ten-years-old. He has epilepsy and cerebral palsy and uses a wheelchair so his school bus picks him up in front of our house every morning.

Yesterday, as my husband was helping load Asher and his chair onto the bus, a young woman drove her car slowly past the his stopped bus. She knew what she was doing. She caught my husband’s eye as she approached the end of the bus and he watched her drive through the intersection and away.

I wish I could tell you this was an unusual occurrence, but unfortunately it happens at least once a month, Someone is too busy, in too much of a hurry to stop while a bus is loading or unloading kids. What happened next, however, was totally out of the norm.

About an hour later, we heard a knock at the front door. It was the woman who had driven past the bus. She was shaking.

“I am so sorry for what I did. It was so disrespectful to your son and your family.”

We were in stunned.

“I was in a hurry, I was running late, I knew I should have stopped – that’s why I went so slowly – but all I was thinking about was where I needed to be. I am so sorry.”

I wanted to hug her.

Yes, she had absolutely done something wrong. She had, in fact, broken the law. But I have never encountered someone with such pain and remorse. I couldn’t believe she had the shear guts to come to our door to apologize not knowing the reaction she might get from us – especially knowing she would most likely encounter a man and not even knowing I was home.

What really hit me was that she was taking full responsibility for her actions. How often does that happen? This lady broke the law but was willing to own up and face whatever consequences we threw at her.

She was on our doorstep, physically shaking with anguish at what she had done. She needed to hear she was forgiven.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate that,” my husband told her.

She smiled, weakly but gratefully, apologized again, and left.

I think all of us came away from that experience better for it and with a deep appreciation for the power of being human.

My Life in Polaroids.

I love being from the south. Which is funny because I’m not really from the south at all. I’m not really “from” any where.

Nine years ago I was “from” Las Vegas. Four years before that, Pensacola (the first time). Prior to P’cola, I was a seventeen-year Texan. When I moved to Texas in 1977, I SWORE I would never utter the phrase “ya’ll.” No respectable Mile-Higher would ever say anything other than “you guys.” And before I became an Orange-Crush-Loving Bronco fan, I lived in an igloo in Alaska with a polar bear for a pet. At least that’s what my 4th-grade classmates thought at Aurora Elementary when I told them I had moved to Denver from Anchorage.

But even with all my “worldly” travels, I have spent the better part of my life in the south. Even Las Vegas qualifies (it’s just a smidge north of 36 degrees latitude). And I’ve absorbed a bit of each southern city I’ve had the privilege of calling home.

From Texas I learned strength and confidence, how to make tamales and love grits, and proper hat and boot etiquette. In Florida, I learned true southern hospitality, how to surf, and what a REAL beach should look like. And Vegas taught me I could be rough and dusty on the edges one day and glam it up like a rock star the next and not lose myself in the process.  I’ve fully embraced the southern culture.

So even though I’m not really from the south, I call myself a southerner. The best part? My truly southern (born, raised, and never left) friends accept me as their own. It’s the southern way.