Make it a Mystery proudly presents...

A Christmas Movie Murder 

Brixany is trying to become a partner at her big city firm which doesn't seem to do anything other than acquire tiny companies in small towns and close them down at Christmas. With her red carry-on, big city scarf and non-sensible boots, Brixany heads to Christmas Angel Mistletoe Town to spend Christmas. She has one objective while she’s there. 

Shut down the tinsel factory. 

The tinsel factory is headquartered in an old barn, which is dilapidated on the outside yet stunning on the inside, and employees a handful of minimum wagers., and technically only produces one product, yet is somehow single-handedly destroying all the profits for Brixany's nameless big city firm. 

But wait right there...because before you can say romantic lead with no red flags, Brixany walks right into a murder scene. Suddenly she and the other townspeople are suspects in a tinsel factory murder. This was not the happy ending Brixany had been hoping for as she dodged all those phone calls from her workaholic city boyfriend, but can she and the others prove their innocence? 

Will the murderer come forward and learn the true meaning of Christmas before we have to sit through Brixany’s not-at-all traumatic backstory? Will we have to endure one more snowball fight before we find out, who did it?

Find out in this exciting new Zoom Murder Mystery Party Game, A Christmas Movie Mystery!



email me:

8 Characters (at least 2 males, at least 2 females, the rest are changeable)*

Hi everyone! 

I'm excited to offer a ZOOM holiday party!  I am NOW booking A Christmas Movie Murder. You have two options: 

A. HOSTED - I set up the zoom call, I send out the characters and I facilitate the entire game. This option takes up to 2 hours and is offered at a flat rate of $125.  Date availability varies, I can work with you. 

B. SELF-HOSTED - I supply you with all the materials needed to host, play and solve the mystery for your family and friends. $40

C. ADD-ON - For an additional $25, I can customize to incorporate inside jokes, personal details, etc. 

* you can have more than 8 people on the call, that is just how many characters there are, you can have unlimited watchers. 

The Turner Christmas Newsletter

Dear Everyone,

I'm sending out my annual Christmas newsletter in June. We are in week i-don't-even-know-anymore of quarantine. Well, honestly, not all of us are in quarantine. By the looks of things, I think several people apparently finished quarantine early. I just tell my kids that some people are naturally gifted and finish things quicker than others. 

But us? We are still trying to pretend like we don't "need" to go to Target several times a week, all willy nilly (okay, that's just me, I miss willy nilly).  But did Target do anything to help make this easier, NO. They kept their perfectly curated target whimsy and their dollar bins and then just sat there and watched us TRY to not need them. Meanwhile, my Target Red Card  sadly collecting dust while my Cartwheel app uninstalled from my iPhone. I'm surprised there's been no wellness check.  

To quote mostly Joan Jett, "I hate myself for loving you, Target." 

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash
Anyway, in my copious amounts of free time, I'm     getting our Christmas newsletter out early this year. Also, I've never actually sent a Christmas newsletter out and likely never will. 

Soooo...this is basically just a letter. 

First time letter. In a blog. With Christmas pictures. 

...So it's just like a blog post or whatever. 

Anyone got something to say? Good.'s how we've been doing. Let's begin with my standards. 

I no longer have any. 

*unscrews cap to giant barrel of cheeseballs I promised I would buy over my dead body and begins to stress eat*

I thought I could kick it old school for a bit. I approached quarantine like a fun reality show experiment. I can sit at home. I can teach my kids school. We can be "off the grid" for a time, making our own fun and planting freedom gardens. I'll stock up on dry goods and we'll play board games and watch movies together. I'm the mother, I'm in control of the ambiance of this house - plus I've watched an obscene amount of homesteading YouTube videos. It can't be hard. So I bought a pair of clippers and some hairdresser scissors, a bug-out bag for four and 54 gallons of water. 

Was I ready? I dunno. I was reading a lot of random prepper blogs at the time. 

But, as it turns out, my kids won't actually eat dry goods. *hears your comments regarding starvation and being a short order cook, keeps shaking head no, grabs more cheeseballs*. They won't. You don't get it. They are fine with starvation. They don't want to get to that level of the apocalypse where beans and rice are their only option. 

Also, no one wants me to cut their hair. It doesn't matter how many instructional videos I've watched. They don't believe I can do a "fade" or whatever. They'd rather fling it out of their face forever. I have no reasonable explanation as to why I now own a bug out bag. I was panicky when I didn't have one...and now I'm not. I can handle buyers remorse way better. It's a skill I've been developing for YEARS. 

At least we've made a decent dent in the 54 gallons of water that I'm never going to live down. 

Thank God for Amazon Prime. It's been the Pony Express for middle-aged women. No less than three times a day, a brave Amazon driver faces the dangers of EVERYONE OUT DRIVING BECAUSE WHAT'S A QUARANTINE to drop off something at my door. They are bringing much needed supplies to get us through the long quarantine. Literally, one package at a time. Some of the quarantine necessities include: more phone chargers, colorful paperclips and post its (so pretty), organic plant based protein powder (y'all I don't know), and the man-sized barrel of cheeseballs I am currently spending time with. 

So with supplies at hand, and a complete fluke buy that lead me to be fine in the toilet paper department, the only thing I had to worry about was teaching my kids at home.  Is that all? 

I'm not gonna lie, distance learning started off rough. It got rougher from there, and that's when, through the tears, I decided that book smarts were overrated and just taught my kids how to play Blackjack instead. 


Well, the whole idea behind homesteading is passing down useful family skills to the up and coming generation, right?  Then I stand by the unit titled "Antes and Bankrolls". Maybe my kid doesn't know his Teddy Roosevelt facts, maybe he doesn't know or care about how hurricanes damage ecosystems and economies and just MAYBE the only handwriting practice he's getting is by writing "Deez Nuts" on every piece of paper he finds... but if things get rougher and he has to troll towns scrounging a living a la Kevin Costner in the Postman, he'll at least know how to bluff. 

What's your kid gonna accomplish armed only with the Pythagorean theorem?  

My oldest son has not lost one single beat in his social life. He plays Playstation like it's his job. I finally decided to come clean with the fact that I didn't care. When he isn't playing video games, he's asking what we're eating for the next meal. During this quarantine, he's lost six teeth. I had to google if he was supposed to be losing them since I stopped milestone counting either child in 2014. Now that his voice is deeper, I have no idea if he's talking to his local school friends or like a 55 year old in Cleveland. I don't even care. A bunch of 12 year olds can form teams, coordinate skins, make decisions, have arguments, decide they need better gear, get $10 from their parents in one collective fundraiser, apologize for the fight and beat the game way better than a country full of over qualified experts can agree on whether or not to wear a money is on him. 

Let's see, what else. Oh, I stand firm in the fact that inherent, wild dog instincts are completely bred out of
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash
a dog once they are a Doodle of any kind. I mean, lay on your chest when you are having a bad day, yes. Cuddle with you on the couch while you binge New Girl and drink Rose in a can with a bendy straw- yup. But...forage for food or even indicate a bug crawling on the carpet right in front of their nose...negative Ghost Rider. What an utterly useless breed to have in the apocalypse. I should have known. There are no wandering Doodles in The Walking Dead.  

My husband was furloughed from his restaurant for three months. That was three months of staring at each other suspiciously from across the room and assuming we were in trouble for something. He might be in trouble for parading in three roofers on quarantine week 2 to inspect a leak on the ceiling that was so small it COULDN'T BE SEEN WITH THE HUMAN EYE and I might be in bigger trouble for allowing my son to order spray cheese off the internet. Sixteen years of marriage folks, the success of which is somewhat contingent on both of us having something else to do for the majority of most days.

He's back at work now and we feel no further along than we were three months ago. Cheers to us all that we get through whatever this is, and when we do, let's lock it in, seal the portal and sacrifice whatever so it stays away. 

I hope you all have a Merry Christmas and what not. 

The Turners

Here is our video spot for Guideposts. My article can be found under Portfolio.

Chicken Salad Relationship Status: It’s Complicated

Photo by Jordan Arnold on Unsplash
From an early age, I was taught to eat the food that was put in front of me. No matter what it was. My mother was determined to raise polite girls who showed appreciation as dinner guests. We would roll up to a friend or relative's house only to be gently reminded by my mother that, “Even if you are served dog food, eat it, smile and ask for seconds.”

My mother was not someone I wanted to challenge. So for years, I ate whatever was served without questioning it, my mom, or the person serving one.

Until one day, I met chicken salad.

Chicken salad would become my lifelong nemesis. As far as I was concerned, and with the deviled egg running a distant second, chicken salad was the very worst thing to have to put into my mouth and feign flavor bliss. It was the official food of my very worst nightmares and if I was going to stay in the South, I needed an avoidance plan.

Many of you have likely gasped at me mentioning my distaste for not one, but two traditional southern dishes. I get it. It’s a shock to find out that the people you thought you knew have dark secrets. What’s next, you might be thinking? Sweet tea? Fried chicken? GRITS!!!???

I swear on the Bill Gaither choir that I mostly don’t have any more southern confessions. Mostly.

Why do I have a lifelong dislike of chicken salad? Of course, it must be some offensive ingredient.

Was it the chicken? 
“Her grandma probably didn’t know how to season it. Gotta season the chicken.”
The mayonnaise? 
Shaking head, “Didn’t use Dukes.”
The other random (and always different) ingredients?
“Well, she hasn’t tried my chicken salad yet.” 

The answer is...I don’t know why I don’t like it. It smells funny. Also, there is something about the combination of cold meat, mixed with an ever-changing combination of other things swirled together and doled out with an ICE CREAM SCOOP (desecration) and then sculpted (Jesus take the wheel, they sculpted it). Plus, people that like chicken salad, LOVE chicken salad. I’m sorry, but it’s a cult. I love you, but. you. are. in. a. cult.  (and Molly, you in danger, girl).

And even though my great grandmother Anna Mae is probably turning over in her grave as we speak, I just could never bring myself to fake liking chicken salad. Stick it in a thousand pastry swans, I will never like it. Go away, Sam I Am...I'm not your project.

When I was young, it wasn’t the most difficult thing to get around. Chicken salad was a ladies lunch type of food or it made its appearance on the potluck table among a cast of thousands. The southern food competition was fierce and with the main ingredient being mayonnaise, everyone understood you avoiding it if you even hinted at a war story involving room temperature mayonnaise and your insides.

But as I got older and my friends were all getting married, it became very clear where chicken salad chose to make its mark in our civilized society. Chicken salad craftily played itself to the adult female crowd. All this time, I thought I was dodging these to-add-grapes-or-not-to-add-grapes landmines so that I could hit adulthood and declare my disgust for the food openly. And live authentically for once - unless living authentically was bad manners.

But she was waiting. On the table of every graduation party, every bridesmaid luncheon,
Photo by Andre Hunter on Unsplash
every time someone busted out pastel streamers, chicken salad was there, making her promises about being universally loved by all women. She clung to her self-proclaimed “crowd pleaser” title and became the food anti-mascot of my twenties.

I truly believe I was the skinniest I’ve ever been in my twenties because I spent an impressive portion of the decade side stepping chicken salad.

No disrespect to our fair maiden, Atlanta’s Swan House. She is majestic and regal, but when you are anti-chicken salad, there are only so many lunches where you can sustain yourself on a frozen fruit salad and two cheese straws. I attended every single event, searching for an ally plate to slip my chicken salad timbales fashioned into a swan onto. It was always a covert operation that could only be done with very specific, and forgiving friends. Or even better, if I was sat among a group of strangers, I could build a quick rapport and guiltlessly offload the item with the knowledge I’d never see these people again, and if it was the black sheep aunt from Wisconsin who was chicken salad neutral, even better.

If I found the crowd to be particularly pro-chicken salad, those hostiles who perceived negative chicken salad sentiments as blasphemous, my tactics would have to be taken up a notch.

I’d have to stage my plate.

Moving food around a plate in an attempt to make it look “enjoyed” is a fine art. Southern kids raised in the world of “eat what you are served,” have this skill as fine-tuned as our ability to play in trace amounts of snow every 2-3 years.

First, you have to show that you enjoyed the food. Your plate scene can’t be viewed as someone who “tried” the chicken salad and did not like it. No, it is much more complicated than that. It must look like you very much “enjoyed” the scrumptious ladies luncheon staple (lies), but are such a wispy girl with a dainty appetite that you simply couldn’t finish it all (still more lies).

Such intricate plate staging, while never allowing for a conversation lull, is a fine art. The talent for which is sharpened through motivation by the deeply rooted and, oh by the way, irrational southern fear of sharing with someone that you actually don’t like something. Wait a minute, to their face?

Feigning one’s love for chicken salad while never allowing it to pass your lips is so much harder than avoiding something like deviled eggs...and here are some reasons for this - all rooted in science.

Deviled eggs are a side item. Different rules apply entirely. Most notably, never in the history of a potluck has someone managed to get every offered dish on their Dixie Paper Plate. You can skip it with promises to add it to your “second round” and no one will ever know.

Also, if you skip side items, you are once again seen as a dainty, wispy girl with a bird-like appetite.

An early coven of Southern grandma witches (all named Mildred) decided a long time ago to classify chicken salad as a main dish. Chicken salad is the centerpiece and you can’t have a plate with no centerpiece - even I know that that’s problematic as the side dishes would clearly be lost.

Side dishes are meant to surround the main dish and sort of do jazz hands around it, blessing its faultlessness. With no focal point for the side dishes to do jazz hands, chaos ensues.

The congealed salad would jiggle aimlessly.

The coleslaw already suffering from a crippling inferiority complex would think it needed to rise up to the centerpiece occasion but would ultimately crack under the pressure - coleslaw will never be as great as potato salad, after all, much less match the fame of this southern icon.

The random cheese cubes would wander the perimeter of the floral plate with no purpose

Don’t get me started on the morale of the deviled eggs I’d have to put on my plate to throw off suspicion - after all, they already know I don’t like them.

Even the sweet tea would pucker and lose its flavor. Oh sure, we’d all take polite sips and try to act like it was sweet enough, but we’d secretly be blaming the failure on that one lady from joy club who always waits to add sugar once the tea is cooled.

See. It’s a dilemma. A delicate balance. The balance of the entire ladies luncheon gets thrown off when one person can’t handle the chicken salad. It would be a blessed hot mess.

So why don't I just have the courage to proudly declare my personal distaste when asked instead of this complicated long con I'm playing?  

I wasn't drug up. That would be rude.

So, for now, I’ll continue scooping the offending salad-you-can-sculpt onto my plate and comment on how wonderful it is while I secretly stage my plate accordingly. Side note: don’t look my way while gifts are being opened.

No balance to restore, I won’t rock the boat, but my relationship to chicken salad will remain, for now and forevermore, complicated.



Hometown Blues

I've never really left the area where I grew up. So many people I meet are geographically nowhere near where they started. Sometimes I envy their new adventures. I never intentionally decided to stay, but I guess I just never really left - there was never a reason to go, so I didn't.  I spent one year of college in Tennessee (my first freshman year - there were 2.5 freshman years if you're counting - my parents were). Also, I'm technically raising my family in an adjacent county.

But for the most part, I still navigate the same curves, hills, and streets where I learned to drive.  I didn't leave and yet sometimes, it feels like a completely different place. A few of those curves have been improved. One bridge in particular that used to terrify my mother has now been made safer and easier to navigate and I do miss the adrenaline I would get taking that curve in the dark woods, over the creek at night. Kids these days - they'll never know.

When my parents and grandparents would talk about the changing landscape of their hometowns, it was because land and trees and forests were overtaken by suburban sprawl. Perfectly good green spaces were sacrificed for businesses and tract homes. My own family built our home in a brand new development, sacrificing "family land" for stucco, fancy brick designs and incredibly clever mailboxes that totally lacked functionality, not to mention they would fall over even if you BARELY touched it with the car. It was 1988 and the Atlanta suburbs were beginning to burst. Homes were being designed and built everywhere it seems. Homesteads and farms were sold off to developers for homes left and right...and why not...the Baby Boomers were raising families - times were good.

But the wave of change that crashed over my childhood and teenage years was on land already developed. Now as I drive the same path that I used to take to my best friend Jenny's house in my mom's old Audi 5000, I strain to remember the original houses that existed before they were torn down and small mansions erected in their stead. As the homes are being upgraded, the businesses for which buildings were built are long gone and have since either fallen too far from code or have been five other "concepts" since the 90's. The family-owned video store I used to work at is a restaurant, but it was three other things in between. I vaguely remember the gas station that is now a Zaxby's and an old Blockbuster became a gold exchange before settling on a dental practice. Only, one of the three dry cleaners we owned is still a dry cleaners. One is a sub sandwich chain that I recently went into and bored the teenager behind the counter to tears with my stories of the "good old days."

Even the old skating rink where I spent MANY weekends turning circles to pop music, wearing blue eye shadow, a Forenza shirt with rolled sleeves and Exclamation! perfume in the hopes that some boy would notice me...even that place has had a few iterations, one as a restaurant, before becoming a Goodwill.  To me, it will always be Sparkles.

Most days I don't really think about how much the "old town" has changed. It definitely feels more crowded. Less people that grew up here going about their day with no appreciation for it's past - and why should they care really? Most days I am too busy to look up and be nostalgic. I'm in that time in my life where full days fly by. I follow children, keep a house, a job and crawl into bed a little later than I should each night with nothing significant to show for my day except the fact that we made it. But other days, I notice it. I try to remember what everything looked like. I try to remember being 16 (minus the horrible bangs and angst) and heading out with $20 that would more than cover an entire evening of fun which might include an arcade (you see, kids, an arcade is when your screentime was managed by quarters and whether or not you had a ride).

Today we cleaned out my dad's closet. We took a lot of his things to MUST Ministries, but we took other bags down the street to Goodwill. It was overwhelming to think that almost 30 years ago, a carefree pre-teen zipped around in that very building with big dreams, bigger hair and so many ideas...and today, that woman left a piece of her dad there in that very same place. It was a sad full circle moment that I've been trying to shake all night.  Maybe it was the collision of the happiest times with one of the saddest. I think my dad would have gotten a kick out of it actually - there was a moment when the building was sort of the new Houcks - and my dad loved Houcks.

The old town has changed a lot. That girl has changed a lot. The sadness I feel is because those times were good ones. The heartbreak I have is because my dad was SO amazing. On these days when I feel the weight of grief crashing in on me, I force myself to stop looking back...instead I look down, at the two children I am eternally grateful to be able to raise. It feels like a circle, because life is a circle.

I hope, now that it's my turn to be the parent, that I'm doing a good job. I hope I'm creating a life in a place that they are not hurried to escape. I hope they feel the freedom to leave if they must, and though the landscape will most certainly change, I hope they drive through the streets of their childhood one day smiling about all the good times.  And, one day, if they have to leave my things at a Sparkles - I hope they know that it's okay to let go a little - and that THAT is where I'd want to be anyway.

Just don't forget to bring my blue eye shadow and hair crimper.


Healthy Living for Six-Year-Olds

I am having the most difficult time trying to keep my six-year-old on a diet.

I know this is for his own good and I have tried to explain this to him several times, but he refuses to adhere to the aforementioned (and simple) eating plan that I have laid out for him for this particular weekend. It's absolutely the most frustrating journey to healthy living I've ever been on. This includes the healthy living journeys I start every Monday.

You see, for two days, my son has been up sick all night only to then stay awake all day sneaking food out of my pantry with the stealth and skill that would school Oliver Twist. He’s a food stealing prodigy and he has absolutely no concern whatsoever for his current lack of gastrointestinal fortitude.

Seemed Simple.  Bananas. Rice. Applesauce. Toast. I’ve seen worse diets. I’ve been on worse diets. You know what I would give for someone to insist I eat a pile of toast? With gluten? Without all seven grains sprouting? Bread that looks like Tom Sawyer whitewashed it to the color that God our Lord and Savior MEANT for bread to have. A couple of slices of America’s favorite Wonder Bread and an exercise regime that includes deep diving into a pile of blankets on the sofa with complete clicker control? That is some cardio I can get behind.

If that were a real diet, cheat days begone.

But the reaction around here has made me realize one thing.  Hell hath no fury like a kid foodie on the BRAT Diet.

All weekend he’s looked from me to his plate of yellow and white to me again. He starts to cry and tell me how hungry he is. Tells me he’s not sick anymore. Tells me he’s a good boy. Promises to clean his room. Asks if it’s because he’s too young (because in addition to torturing my children with traumatic diets, I’m also a raging ageist) Makes me feel like pretty much the worst.

Excuse me while I pause Mommy Dearest.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” I lie to him. Easing his gastro fussiness is my main concern I testify because that’s part of the long con I’m playing. Parenthood is nothing more than strategic maneuvers to see the long con play out to our advantage.  It’s not for his own good...he’d EVENTUALLY stop throwing up whether he’s on this diet or not.

I’m doing it for me. The BRAT Diet is my luxury. I’ve done enough laundry to last me a lifetime. I have hit my disinfecting limit. This is why I keep Zofran tucked in strategic locations on my property like a prepper would keep firearms.

I don’t do vomit for long. You can lay on my couch for two months with a cold. I’ll suction your nostrils like I’m in training for the upper respiratory olympics. But vomit? Don’t bring that mess in here. I rebuke you in the name of Urgent Care and Tide Pods. Get thee behind me Rotavirus also E. coli, Salmonella, Shigella, Campylobacter, Clostridium, Norwalk agent, and all the major parasites.

If paint came with an antibacterial finish option, I’d be at Home Depot tomorrow.

God gave me one kid with a dietary conscience who will listen to my advice and heed it, and the other...THAT kid got the propensity for gastro infections. I mean on a healthy day, I have to hide the six pecan swirls in six secret locations so the pack will last longer than it takes me to unpack the groceries. He eats and he eats. He’ll polish off a bag of chips during a fifteen minute Peppa Pig show, and his body responds by staying in the 50% for weight - because apparently, I’m not resentful enough as a person.  

I’ve pulled empty packages of goldfish out of his closet. I’ve surrendered the second 1/2 of whatever I’ve been enjoying because he’s standing so close to my plate that I’m afraid I’ll pass out from only breathing in his carbon dioxide. This kid’s passion is food. I shouldn’t complain. He eats everything. He has a wonderful palate but also, a tremendous case of hollow leg.

So when the puking flu hits the house and we have to do a palate pullback on all the foods we typically eat in the day (which is all of them), I get some objections from this perpetually starving boy. Already today, though I’ve hired armed guards to watch the pantry, I’ve managed to rescue the Halloween Candy from a serious hostage situation (I did have to shoot the hostage, or in this case, eat the Almond Joys - parenting is about the hard choices) and we’ve had to have a fairly ugly Teddy Graham intervention.

So after a long day of being on sick kid patrol, that did include a few decadent snuggles, I decided to salute all the Pedialyte forcing parents who have to surrender 48-72 hours to the BRAT diet.

Cheers from me, a mom perpetually on the wine diet.



Is It Too Much?

Not too long ago I was chaperoning a field trip for my son's class. We went to a museum that had this authentic living exhibit about everyday life in Colonial days.  For those people who aren't history buffs, this is a time before Cheez-its. People didn't have cars. Couples didn't get in fights over the thermostat because you either had a fire or you didn't. Also, dinner was whatever had been killed alongside whatever was in the spooky root cellar with the spiders and possibly snakes. It was a dark, dark period. One plus, kids ate everything because they literally didn't know when they would eat again.

I love history. I'm fascinated by how people lived in different time periods, what they wore, how they cooked. It's all very interesting to me. I wish I had a Bill and Ted's phone booth just to go back and see how people lived...and then jump back in and get home in time for The Walking Dead. Just a glimpse now...I don't want to actually do any hard labor. 

Photo by Nicola Tolin on Unsplash
Knowing how rough people had it though, makes me feel a little useless to be honest. As a kid, Laura Ingalls books were magical - but as an adult, the fact that Ma Ingalls never sat down unless she was darning socks, produces a little Stouffer's Lasagna guilt. I make myself feel less guilty by believing that Ma Ingalls would have made a frozen pizza at least once a week if she had had the option. 

On this field trip, I was pretty mesmerized by the authentic cabins we toured and the different stations where they showed us a blacksmith shop, how to wash clothes with no Tide and how to make Pumpkin Spice Lattes from their garden. 

What really stood out was the description of what kids my son's age (roughly 8 at the time) did to help around the house - excuse me, homestead. Things like staying up all night to keep the fire lit, predator lookout (this involved unsupervised rifle handling), intensive field labor and lastly, let's not forget the 10-mile marches, sometimes in the dark, to retrieve fire from the closest neighbor in the event that the family let theirs die out (also involved unsupervised rifle handling - in the dark). 

And I'm standing there taking all of this in while holding a giant bottle of filtered spring water and a can of SPF 155 sunblock spray in the event that my own 8-year-old began to show signs of dehydration or was unintentionally confronted by the sun while on an overly chaperoned field trip. I have to admit, as a mother, I felt like a failure. What would my foremothers say about the fact that my little family is equipped to do nothing?

Our society just isn't about survival anymore. We don't have a lot of natural predators in these parts.

It's true though. A few years ago, parents were arrested for letting their kids walk to a park, unsupervised, in broad daylight. It's called free-range parenting and it's apparently illegal? Not that long ago, it was called, "you're 3 and 1/2 Phineas, time to go get a job three towns over, here's a lunch pail with a half a sandwich and a still twitching hog tail. You'll find some water along the way."
Photo by Alan Emery on Unsplash

I mean, let's put all the life-risking stuff aside. I was born in the 1970's and I don't remember ANYONE caring about my water intake as a kid. My mother didn't know the signs of dehydration. If she had, she probably would have handed me a Tab. I would hit the door at 8am on a summer day in Georgia, play all day, never take a sip of anything except a half a glass of Five Alive at my friend's house midday out of her Smurf glasses courtesy of McDonald's' Happy Meals. 

Nobody cared if I had had enough water. There was a garden hose, everyone assumed the kids would drink something BEFORE they passed out. And if you didn't - well - that's what you get. I had large water bottle for tennis matches, but other than that, I was the Phineas of the 1980's...except without a rifle...or imminent life danger. 

And yet, I feel like, we are supposed to be SO cautious of everything these days with our own children: 


Dear Colonial Parents,

Coyotes have surrounded the school, please send your kids to class with their loaded rifles to help protect our building. 


Dear 2018 Parents

Tomorrow, Mrs. Smith's class will be heading to lunch via Hallway B instead of the usual Hallway A. This will route us past a fairly large window. We'd like you to make sure your child is prepared for all possibilities by making sure he/she has:

1. Light-colored breathable clothing as the window lets in a lot of light and heat
2. Layers in case it's chilly
3. A light jacket in case it's windy
4. A heavy jacket in case there's an ice storm
5. An umbrella and rain boots in case the window is leaking
6. A comfort item for emotional support during the change in route
7. A snack for hallway congestion which would keep us there longer than expected
8. Two forms of ID
9. Sunblock to avoid skin cancer.
10. A bottle of filtered spring water so no one DEHYDRATES
11. Will be sending a sign-up list for volunteers to chaperone the hallway change. 

Now hear me well - I am NOT making fun of teachers. Most teachers are parents and EVERY parent I know wants to turn to their own kid at least once a week and say FIGURE OUT HOW TO DEAL WITH IT YOURSELF. So I KNOW that when someone else's child is whining about how they can't figure out how to tie their shoe, they are NOT coddling them.

But two years ago a well-meaning nurse scared my son into a summer of water terror with her drowning statistics. 

This is just the life we live in. I think it's ridiculous but I'm STILL worried about my son's electrolytes and his back-to-school ability to communicate with the three-dimensional people after a summer of video games. I still don't like for him to walk to our mailbox in the middle of the day. I tell him to not talk to ANYONE he knows or doesn't know that's in a car or a van, talking about puppies, offering candy, AND YET I also tell him to look new people in the eye and give a firm handshake. I want him to eat more carrots. I'm sometimes afraid he'll get scurvy, even though I've never actually Googled how you get scurvy. You know...all the normal mom stuff.

But it STILL seems ridiculous sometimes.

I just think there has to be a middle ground. A place where we continue to encourage kids to be brave and independent but fewer black bears and dysentery.