The Pressure to Create the Perfect Pandemic Holiday in 2020

It’s bad when it’s not even Thanksgiving yet and I feel very, very, late to the Christmas party.

I get it, I really do, in the third wave of a pandemic “we need a little Christmas right this very minute.” So, if you had your house all gussied up for the holidays before your carved Halloween pumpkin had time to start decomposing on your front porch I not only applaud you but I’m downright jealous.

Jealous because thinking about Christmas makes me anxious. The reason is because I (like I’m sure a lot of people are) am putting a whole lot of pressure on the holidays. This Christmas has to be the best in an attempt to make up for what a horrendous and scary year 2020 has been.

I keep on telling myself that if I create a magical Christmas for my family then it will be the start of better days to come. It’s like I’m jinxing humanity if I can’t deliver a holiday masterpiece.

There are so many problems with trying to have the “best pandemic holiday ever” that not even looking through my collection of “Christmas With Southern Living” cookbooks could  ease my burgeoning panic. I even turned to the heavy hitter, the 398-page tome “Christmas All Through the South” that promises ways to build “joyful memories, timeless moments and enduring traditions.”

Certainly, a three-foot-high gingerbread pancake tower “glued” together with maple whipped cream for Christmas morning brunch sounds not only scrumptious but certainly memorable.

Then there’s a “hearty picnic in the pines” that seems very pandemic safe since you’ll be outside and who wouldn’t want to eat a caramel drop banana bread trifle dessert while perched on plaid “Royal Stewart” tartan wool blankets with matching flatware to celebrate getting your Christmas tree?

The small problem with that outing is that we get our Christmas tree from a nursery so although that trifle sounds next level delish I don’t think eating it in a parking lot would be quite the festive outing. Really, are there enough plaid blankets to make that excursion one for the memory books?

I did make a list of all the new things that I wanted my family to do since a lot of our traditions would be different this year due to the coronavirus. I then looked at that list and cried. Not a big boohoo but a few tears of anguish because the list I made meant one thing – a lot of work for me.

It’s not that I’m not exceedingly familiar with being the Christmas Sherpa in the family, I don’t know what mom isn’t, but to create new traditions and whip up a one-of-kind holiday, well, I don’t know if I have that in me.

To admit that freaked me out. It also made me feel old and a little bah humbug. But then I substituted the word “realist” for old and that helped. With my new self-appointed title of 2020 holiday realist I dove back into my Christmas books with a more pragmatic attitude.

Then in the 2006 “Christmas With Southern Living” I saw a note my mother had written on the inside cover. It read, “The magic of Christmas is being together and knowing that a family’s love is unwavering.”

I felt some of the pressure ease from my body, not all mind you, but some. We would be together for Christmas – just the four of us – and anything else will be icing on the gingerbread pancake tower.

Although, I still plan on trying some new traditions. I’m thinking of doing an outdoor Christmas Eve scavenger hunt.

Scratch that. I just told my daughter about it and she asked me, “Why do you hate us?” So, I’m guessing that’s a hard pass. At least I’ve got that pancake tower and I’m sure it will be glorious.

Dear Snarky – My Mother Won’t Share Thanksgiving Recipes With Me

Dear Snarky,

What do you think about a mom who won’t share family recipes with her daughter? Due to the coronavirus our large family has decided to not celebrate Thanksgiving together.

This means for the first time in my life I’m not having Thanksgiving with my parents. So, I asked my mom for three of her recipes so I could recreate her sweet potato pie, sourdough rolls and corn casserole. She straight up told me no.

I was shocked. When I asked her why she told me that they were “cherished heirloom recipes” and that she knew if she shared them with me I would post them on Instagram and my cooking blog.

So, what if I do that? I have more than 10,000 followers on Instagram and I didn’t get those without posting recipes.

I don’t understand what the big deal is? They’re recipes not her social security number. I think she’s being highly unreasonable and mean but she won’t change her mind. She said the recipes need to stay in the family and have been handed down for generations and don’t need to become “blog bait.”

I’m starting to think my mom may be losing it or is jealous of me. What’s your advice on how to talk some sense into her? She’s not rational at all.

Signed, Recipes Wanted

Dear Recipes,

I am totally gobbling up this letter (sorry not sorry for that lame attempt at humor) and laughing because talk about manufacturing drama when there really doesn’t need to be any.

In a surprise to some I’m going to come out and say I don’t blame your mom. It’s her right as the matriarch to be very protective of what she sees as family treasures and to be not a fan of sharing them on the internet.

I know this may sound ridiculous but a lot of people are super possessive over things like this. My family got in a fight over a sugar cookie recipe. True story.

I will admit to being a bit amazed that you never learned these recipes. It appears you like cooking because you have a blog which makes me wonder why you were never in the kitchen during Thanksgiving meal prep. If you were I’m guessing you would already know the “secret ingredients.”

That said, I’m going to bet that you’re a very good cook and clever and that with some trial and error you could probably recreate these dishes and better yet give them your own flair. If you publish the recipes (and I know you will because I’m guessing that’s the reason you really want them) I would suggest saying they were “inspired by warm family memories.”

Do this and move on. It’s a dumb ass thing to fight about and I think you already know that.

If you have a question for Dear Snarky – advice with an attitude – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com. 😉

Painted Into a Corner

One would think after recently recovering from a debilitating journey to wallpaper removal hell I would have come to the conclusion that I’m significantly challenged in all forms of home improvement.

But because I suffer from delusions of grandeur based on the hours I’ve spent watching HGTV I decided instead of giving up I was just going to use a very 2020 sensibility and pivot from wallpaper removal to painting. Never mind that in the past I have proven to be a very, very, unskilled wall artesian.

This time though was going to be different because I was just touching up walls not doing anything that requires skills like painting trim or the dreaded cutting-in (shudder). Before you judge me for being a big cry baby about cutting-in please note that there are like a zillion videos on the internet about the right way to cut-in. So, I ask you if it is so easy why are there so many videos telling you how to do it?

My problems started before I even picked up a paint brush. The issue was how to match the wall color. Now, I’m completely aware that a sane person would have saved the paint swatch perhaps even filed it under home improvement/house interior paint colors. I did this – kind of.

 The problem was I saved the paint swatch of every color I was considering a decade ago when the room was painted. This meant I was left with about 50 swatches.

News flash – it’s almost impossible to take a paint swatch and see if it exactly matches your wall especially when you have dozens and dozens of swatches and they all look almost exactly the same. Some more than others especially if you’re squinting.

It was time to call for help and I enlisted my husband’s advice about which swatch looks like the paint color on the wall. The amount of discourse we had was profound. Not only were reading glasses used but at one point I got out a jeweler’s magnifying thingamabob for up close and personal comparisons. (Note: I don’t even know why I own one or really where it came from. But that’s a discussion for another time.)

I felt like we were paint anthropologists going deep on the life of paint. Had the paint on the walls aged or been bleached by the sun? Was the sheen different on the sample thus making an accurate comparison suspect? Or had the swatches been degraded after spending ten years in a Ziploc bag and shoved in the back of a cabinet drawer?

 Honestly, the level of discussion and introspection we had over matching the paint samples was next level. I’m not sure we examined getting married or having kids with this degree of scrutiny.

I finally had a Eureka moment and unscrewed a painted over cable outlet and took it to a hardware store for a color match. It was a case study in déjà vu.

The paint professional began quizzing me about sheens. Hmm, was it eggshell or satin? I finally guessed satin because it sounded prettier than eggshell. Then he went deep on environmental factors affecting a perfect paint match.

As I felt myself losing my tenuous touch with reality I had to wave the white flag of surrender and just tell the guy to do the best he could and I would live without whatever that was.

Hmm, guess who had to repaint an entire room and do the dreaded cutting-in due to the paint being slightly “off?” That’s right -me. I guess there’s no such thing as a perfect match or at least that’s what this paint anthropologist firmly believes.

Dear Snarky – A Greedy Daughter Is Out to Fleece Her Parents

Dear Snarky,

I’m not sure you’re the right person to reach out to for advice because to be honest I only read your stuff for the laughs. It’s a little awkward to now be in the position to actually be writing to you but I usually agree with what you tell people so here goes.

 My 30-year-old daughter recently got married. Because of COVID it was a very small wedding. That’s not to say it wasn’t exquisite. It was just very intimate. Now my daughter has asked my husband and I to give her money we saved from “not throwing her a huge wedding.”

 At first we thought she was joking and my husband and I had a good laugh. Unfortunately, she’s dead serious. She even told us that by having a small wedding she saved us at least $40,000 but she would settle for $25,000.

 To say we were taken aback would be an understatement. My husband got furious and pointed out that we still spent a pretty penny on her wedding and that what we spent was what had been budgeted. There’s no extra money laying around.

 I told her that she’s a 30-year-old attorney and her husband is a 35-year-old executive and that they are at little too old to be asking for handouts.

 It got very heated and now our daughter is not talking to us. She’s even blocked both of us on her phone. I’m afraid the longer this lasts the harder it will be to heal the rift. Do you have any advice on how to move forward?

 Signed, Worried and Disappointed Mother

Dear Worried,

 Give me a second because I need to pick my jaw off the floor. Holy-Freaking-Crap that is some brazen daughter you’ve got there. That said I’m sure with those stones she’s an excellent litigator.

 To be clear a 30-year-old highly educated woman and her fast approaching middle-age husband who is also gainfully employed should not be trying to fleece their parents/in-laws. Because that’s  what this is – a fleecing.

 I don’t blame you or your husband for losing it. The greed and total lack of conscience and gratitude is alarming. Both your bank account and your feelings have to be feeling very raw right now.

 As for what to do to heal the rift my response is do nothing. That’s right, just sit tight because your daughter will come back around. It’s obvious that she’s having a temper tantrum and it’s also obvious that she’ll want you to do something else for her.

 My best guess she’s going to come back and try to negotiate for at least $12,500. Stand firm. It sounds like you need to establish some boundaries for your relationship moving forward.

 Also, and this may freak you out. But based on her actions I would never give her medical power of attorney or any power of attorney – EVER.  I don’t trust her and she seems to be very financially motivated in her dealings with you. I apologize if this has upset you further but I felt I had to point this out.

 Best of luck and remember you are not responsible for your adult child’s behavior! DO NOT beat yourself up over what she’s doing. It’s 100% on her.

If you have a question for Dear Snarky – advice with an attitude – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com. 😉

The Pumpkin Pie Walk of Shame

This pandemic has altered people. I, for one, have done something I vowed I would never do. I’m now a hoarder.

During the early months of the pandemic I cast aspersions at people who bought up all the toilet paper and flour. I smugly took solace in the fact that I was better than that while rationing squares of Charmin.

Then when rules were set in place with signage at grocery stores limiting purchases I made sure that I graciously stayed under the set limit. If you could only buy two cans of Lysol I made sure I only got one. Greed was not going to be part of my pandemic survival plan.

Well, well, well, how things have changed. I’m now the person I never wanted to be. I’m one of those people – an inconsiderate hoarder. In a surprise move it was canned pumpkin that brought me to this low point.

Apparently, we’re experiencing a wee bit of a pumpkin slow down. Not a shortage mind you but according to Libby’s Pumpkin the harvest was a “little delayed” this year due to wet weather so the canned pumpkin is arriving to store shelves later than usual.

This has meant that canned pumpkin is hard to find and when you do find it there’s a limit on how many cans you buy.

I discovered all this last week when the cold weather hit and I was jettisoned into a pumpkin baking spree. Except there was one large problem I couldn’t find any canned pumpkin.

I had to go to three grocery stores before I located a stash of 15-ounce cans of pumpkin. The only caveat was that there was a buying limit of two cans. Now, normally I would have  acknowledged the buying limit and also used my manners and purchased only one can.

But in that grocery store aisle it was like Satan was on my shoulder in the form of a pumpkin pie. I knew that this was not going to end well because pumpkin pie is my kryptonite.

I passionately love it. Classic pumpkin pie, cheesecake pumpkin pie, and most especially Martha Stewart’s Triple Layer Chocolate pumpkin pie are all so good, so irresistible, that I know I would sacrifice or do a lot to have a moment alone with each pie.

The moment alone is key. Because when eating a delicious pumpkin pie, you need your space so you can stay in the zone with zero distractions as you truly savor the splendor.

As I stood in the baking aisle of the grocery store I did my pumpkin pie math – two cans weren’t going to get the job done – not by a long shot. This is when I made the decision to go rogue. I was going to get four cans, double the limit, and then do the self-checkout so no one would be the wiser.

When I, oh so casually, sashayed up to the self-checkout I glanced around to make sure no one was watching me and got to work scanning those barcodes.

It was all going so well. I had those cans of pumpkin ensconced in a plastic bag and all I had to do was pay. Then it happened. I was busted by the “cashier supervisor” for “exceeding the pumpkin limit.”

NOOOOOO!

I pleaded total ignorance and then joked that counting wasn’t my strong suit. I could tell she didn’t believe me because I felt her immense and piercing scorn.

I left the store steeped in shame. A shame so monumental that I had to use the healing properties of pumpkin pie to ease my sorrow. Fortunately, three generous slices later I felt a lot better.

I Was the Problem Voter in the Family

It’s election day. If you want some keen insight on politics I’m not that person. What I do know is that I have never been more nervous about voting in my entire life.

I was the voting Sherpa for my entire family. My daughter got the worst of it because she was the farthest away. As a college student in California I was in turbo nag mode about voting. Starting on October 14 I sent her the same five-word text at least twice a day – “Have you gotten your ballot?”

When her ballot finally arrived, I made her Facetime me as she opened it. The sighing over that request was fairly intense.

She then switched to groaning while I stressed that she needed to be sure to vote the entire ballot. I know she was thinking that this was 10 minutes of her life she wouldn’t ever get back but a civics lesson on how the decisions you make down the ballot can be just as influential in your daily life as who you select as president was essential.

I also stressed that she must follow the instructions very carefully so her ballot wouldn’t get bounced due to a lack of signature or something else easily avoidable. I would have talked to her more but she said I was scaring her with my “election smothering.” Then the Facetime call “dropped.”

Yes, I know she hung up on me. So, to respect her voting privacy I gave her 20 minutes to get the job done then texted her to go to the Post Office, buy some stamps, and get that bad boy in the mail – pronto.

This is when I got scared for civilization in general. My 20-year-old daughter laughed and told me she had never bought stamps before. Dear God, help us all.

In the midst of all this with my daughter my son decided to pile on and share that he got a letter that his application for an advanced ballot got flagged due to the signatures on file not matching.

Seriously, what fresh hell is this? I asked him how his signatures could have been different. It’s not like he’s suddenly gone from writing with his right hand to his left.

He looked at me like I was a raving lunatic, granted I’m fairly certain I probably had some impressive crazy eyes going on, and very nonchalantly said, “I don’t know Mom. It’s not like I think about my penmanship on a daily basis. I just signed my name.”

Fortunately, he had worked it out and had gotten his ballot. I asked him why he didn’t lead with that newsflash and he told me, “Where’s the fun in that?”

I then might have overstepped my parenting boundaries when I asked him to please text me a picture of him dropping off his ballot. Sadly, he declined my request.

Thankfully my husband filled out his advanced ballot quickly. This meant I was almost to the voting finish line. All I had to do was take care of my ballot and then proceed to the Blue Valley Library official drop box.

Well, a funny thing happened on the way to that drop box. I spilled an entire large McDonald’s Diet Coke on my ballot. Yep, my ballot was ruined with soda and then my tears.

Thankfully, less than a week later I got my new ballot and was able to drop it off without incident.

All I ask of you right now is to never tell my children that I’m the one in the family who was the 2020 “problem voter.”

Dear Snarky – My Sister Pretended My Baby Was Hers

Dear Snarky,

I’m so angry at my sister right I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

I recently had a beautiful baby girl. My sister had been devoted to my baby and that made me so happy. We haven’t been very close for a while due to her making some really stupid decisions with her life and putting my parents through hell. But since my baby was born she has been with me a lot and seemed so proud of my daughter posting lots of pictures with her on Instagram.

Last week I found out that my sister has been using my baby to blackmail an ex-boyfriend into thinking it’s his kid to get money from him. All those pictures she was posting on her Instagram were just a way to make this guy and his family believe that my baby was my sister’s.

I found out when the ex-boyfriend AND his mom AND his two sisters came to my house to ask me if the baby was mine or my sister’s. One of his sister’s had been comparing my Instagram account with my sister’s and had her suspicions that the baby on my sister’s page was really mine.

When I heard this I got hysterical. I can’t believe my sister was using my infant daughter to get money from a former boyfriend! When I told my husband, he said my sister was banned from our daughter’s life forever. 

I totally agree but my mom thinks I should give my sister a chance to explain herself and she pointed out that this “ban” will ‘mess up every family holiday for the rest of our lives.’

What do I do? My gut tells me to stick with the ban but my mom is now pleading with me to not do this.

Signed, I Wish I Had a Better Family

Dear Better,

Let’s start with how you signed your letter. You do have a better family. The one you’re making with your husband and your baby. So, take great pride and solace in that fact.

Now onto your mother. It appears she has a history of making excuses for your sister and that, I’m saddened to tell you, is probably never going to change. The fact that after hearing how your sister used your baby – her granddaughter – to blackmail a former boyfriend for cash and your mom’s take away was basically don’t be mean to your sister because there goes Christmas dinner is beyond crazy.  Your mom, in my opinion, is as messed up as your sister.

As for your sister I totally agree with you on the ban. Your number one job as a mother is to protect your child and I think your sister has proven herself to be a threat to your daughter’s safety so in my book that means don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out of our lives.

If years later with extensive therapy your sister proves herself to be worthy of another chance you could reconsider your ban. But for now, I think you and your husband have made the right decision and if your mom gives you any attitude tell her she can also be banned. Hopefully that will shut her up.

If you have a question for Dear Snarky – advice with an attitude – email me at snarkyinthesuburbs@gmail.com. 😉

 

 

.

True Confessions of a Football Wife

Noooo! This can’t be happening? Hasn’t the pandemic been agony enough. Why, oh why, am I now in college football hell – again?

One would think that the fact a fan can experience Big 12 football during a pandemic would be a most supreme blessing. But sadly, in my case this is not what’s happening.

If you’re confused now and pondering why a fall afternoon spent luxuriating on a coach generously sprayed with a very aromatic Febreze Pumpkin Spice while watching a football game on your TV is anything other than nirvana I totally understand.

The problem is my husband is a graduate of the University of Texas and therefore a Longhorn football fan. This means every fall I’m forced to ride along with him on an emotional journey fraught with hope, disappointment, another brief shining millisecond of hope and then a turbulent tumble into a chasm of despair.

Longtime readers will note that this is the third time I’ve written about this topic and yet I still find it newsworthy because the misery index seems higher this fall and it’s not even that the football team sucks. As I write this they’ve only lost two games.

The anguish is rooted in how they play. To my very untrained eyes the activity on the field is sloppy and so painful to watch that not even a jalapeño pecan cheese spread can save the day and that’s saying something. This cheese spread is a multi-layered taste sensation that should be able to turn any football frown upside down.

For my own mental well-being I rarely sit through an entire game. My modus operandi  is to periodically check in on my husband to make sure he hasn’t stroked out. I will, in an attempt to be supportive, try to watch the game, but it’s hard.

To get through the last game I took to reading random stuff on my phone. A link on the proper way to re-grout your shower was so mesmerizing it got me through the second quarter. Who knew that you needed a “diamond bit grout remover blade” to do it properly? Seriously, what homeowner has that laying around in their basement?

I then switched to reading recipes. I found what I thought was a great one for pumpkin doughnut drops but it required two cups of lemon lime soda and that just seemed wrong. Soda in doughnuts sounded about as bad as U.T. losing in, I don’t know, two or was it three overtimes to O.U.?

Ugh, about that loss. It was brutal. My husband had to walk it off and after he got home he made the oft heard declaration that he was “done watching Texas play football.”

I swear even our two dogs rolled their eyes at this one. If there’s one thing that’s been said more in our marriage then “What’s for dinner?” It’s “I’m done watching Texas football.”

I just shook my head and tried not to audibly sigh. The chances of my husband not watching a Texas football game are slim to none. He can’t help himself. It’s like me with that cheese dip you just can’t stop even though you know it’s not exactly a bounty of nutritional good judgement.

Of course, I’ll be there for him as we spend another autumn on the Texas football hot mess express. I’ve suffered so much already from getting a 3rd degree sunburn back in 1980 while literally roasting in the stands at Darrell Royal Stadium to enduring the women’s restroom lines at the Cotton Bowl in 2000 while seven months pregnant. One hour people, one solid hour, standing in line to use the bathroom.

Frankly, at this point all the suffering has become a tradition. I’m not sure it would even feel like fall without it.

Wallpaper Removal is Bad for Your Mental Health

Why do the home improvement gods hate me? I have done nothing but worship on the altar of their divine greatness.

I watch TV shows celebrating their prowess, read magazines with the fervor of a zealot, spend hours on the Internet plunged deep into the teachings of renovation apostles and reverently walk the scared aisles of Lowe’s and Home Depot.

Trust me when I confess that I have been void of any transgressions that would warrant the wrath that has befallen me. But yet I have a tale of woe and it all started with me trying to save a little money.

 Let’s examine those last four words – Save. A. Little. Money. How many stories of desperation do you think have begun with that quartet?

My conservative estimate is to infinity and beyond.

In fact, there should be some kind of mental health evaluation for anyone who utters that phrase. Mainly, because so many bad choices could be headed your way you need to ensure you have the emotional strength to persevere.

Suffice it to say I did not.

The catalyst to my complete mental collapse was wallpaper, specifically the removal of hideous wallpaper in a bathroom that gave off a serial killer ambience.

I know I can’t do plumbing or electrical work but most certainly I should be able to remove wallpaper. According to the best online experts you get a spray bottle and fill it with hot water and the secret sauce – liquid Tide and basically go to town spraying and then lifting the wallpaper off with a large putty knife.

Sounds easy enough right? But when you live in an almost forty-year-old house where the wallpaper was put directly on the drywall this becomes a study in the dramatic mental decline of a fifty something woman.

The wallpaper had mated for life, like the macaroni penguins, with the drywall. I doubt a nuclear blast could have separated these two lovers.

When I did get a less than one inch  piece of wallpaper to finally surrender the backing still clung to the wall. It refused any attempt at removal, tenaciously embracing its one true love – the freaking drywall.

Now, this is when a sane woman would have realized that this was a job that was not going to end well. That same sane woman would have decided that the best course of action would be to hand it over to someone that was well versed in the many moods and glues of wallpaper.

I was not that person because the more the wallpaper fought me the more determined I was to get it off the wall.

Hours upon hours was invested in scraping off teensy pieces of the wallpaper. At one point I had to stop and wrap my wrists in athletic performance tape to have the radiocarpal strength to continue.

In my darkest and most desperate hours I took solace in a Halloween fun size bag of Snickers candy. Around 1 a.m. I found myself laying on the bathroom room floor covered in Snickers wrappers and wallpaper confetti. Had I fallen asleep? Passed out from excessive exposure to liquid detergent fumes? Or had a complete mental collapse. I’m thinking it was probably a combo platter of all three.

This is when I realized that I required a mental health intervention. The next day I called a professional – a contractor. He sent over a wallpaper guru who had had the paper off in under an hour.

I’d like to think it’s because I had already done most of the work, but that, I’m afraid, would be a lie.

Addicted to Grass

I have a problem. I hide things from my husband.

I don’t hide anything dramatic or something that calls out for a two-part docu-series on the Investigation Discovery channel. I don’t even hide my feelings because, well, I love expressing my feelings and I’m really good at it. For example, if I’m in a bad mood I’ll tell you why and have been known to use color coded charts to fully explain my current disposition.

I’m aware that a lot of people hide purchases from their significant others. My mother was the queen of the covert shopping spree. Her theory was that my dad didn’t need to see all the purchases at once and she was doing him a gentle kindness by slowly revealing what she had bought.

I fear I may have inherited my mom’s propensity for the consumer cover up. For hiding in my car is a 50-pound bag of sweet, sweet,  premium fescue grass seed. I’m very aware that this is, perhaps, a strange thing to be keeping from your spouse.

Some of you may be thinking, “Hmm, a designer handbag I can understand being sneaky about but grass seed – no.”

Well, you see the seed is an issue because I promised my husband I would quit buying it. I may have gone a tad overboard in the last month with my yard remediation program. In my defense it wasn’t entirely my fault.

I was seduced, yes completely seduced, by a siren song disguised as a YouTube video I watched on saving your yard. It spoke to me and stirred my very soul. I felt that now was my time to join forces with the mighty fescue and launch “Operation Over seed.” 

What I didn’t know at that time was that grass seed isn’t cheap. Holy freaking moly it’s expensive. At one point I told the guy at the landscape store that I wanted to clarify that I needed grass seed for my yard not gold.

This expense is why my husband was all about putting a kibosh on any more seed purchases. I agreed and yet I knew deep down in my heart that I needed one more 50-pound bag to complete “Operation Over seed.” The issue then became hiding my seed purchase from my spouse until I could dump it on the yard without him noticing.

 It’s not like it’s all easy peasy to stow a bag of seed that big so I asked my son to hide it in his car for me. This is when I discovered what child would really be there for me when times get rough. My son, come to find out, is not that child.

His response was curt, forceful and not in my favor when he announced, “I will not be a party to your sick seed subterfuge.”

I was left speechless and yearning for my daughter because you know what a daughter would have done? A daughter would have said, “Yeah, just throw it in my car, no problem.”

After I recovered from my son’s basest betrayal of me I said, “Well, I guess if I ever need to hide a body you’re not the kid to call?”

“Seed or body – count me out Mom. I’m not an enabler to bad behavior.”

Oh, how dare he throw back the very words I have used on my children for years. “Not an enabler to bad behavior” was my parenting calling card. The nerve! 

I finally had to come clean with my husband and admit I had purchased another bag of seed. I did solemnly swear that this would be the last one. But just between us that’s only because it’s getting a little late in the season to do anymore over seeding.