For a woman, walking across a parking lot after the sun goes down can be scary. The sound of strange footsteps behind us makes it easy to picture a stalker with a knife or gun, ready to rob or rape us.

Most of the time, that person is unaware their presence is frightening. I once confronted a young man who was walking too close, and he was shocked that I’d think he meant me harm.

But that’s what happens with unintended consequences.

My son and daughter-in-law were the victims of unintended consequences when she was shopping in their home town. She and her friend were at the huge box store when they realized a lone man was following them.

When they left, he left, and they saw him get in a truck and pull out onto the same road they were on. Frightened, they tried to lose him on the way home, taking a different route.

When they finally got home to their small farm out in the country, they ran in and locked all the doors and windows.

Throughout the rest of the night, vehicles drove slowly by their house, a few even coming into the driveway, until my son scared them off. They called the local police who didn’t seem to think this was a big deal.

But my daughter-in-law was terrified. They have four small children, and there’s not a lot of traffic around their home. They decided to stay up all night and guard their home, their children and themselves.

They called the police again the next day, and a young deputy wondered if the people were looking for Pokemons.

And that’s exactly what was going on.

Seems my son’s house was the original site of the post office in that area back in the early 1900s. The people behind “Pokemon Go” put one of the more desirable Pokemons in my son’s back yard, never checking to see if someone lived there.

The unintended consequence of putting a Pokemon on their property caused my son’s family to be terrorized for almost two days.

People were getting pretty bold trying to catch the Pokemon, even driving onto their property and trying to sneak behind their house and into the yard without thinking that they were trespassing and scaring the people who lived in the house.

They finally found a hotline number to call to take their house off the “Pokemon Go” site, but they couldn’t get the company to remove their property from the game. Their request is “under review.”

So now my daughter-in-law has to constantly capture the Pokemons, wait for them to regenerate and capture them again.

The unintended consequences of a “game” has taken this young family hostage and won’t let go. My son had to miss work when this first happened because they didn’t know who was stalking their house, and he was going to protect his family and property.

Before this game started, they never thought twice about letting their children play in the back yard, climb the trees near their garage or ride their bikes.

Now my son and daughter-in-law have to worry about strangers coming onto their property day and night, all because they want to capture a Pokemon.

For those who forget that their actions have consequences, think before you act and have the decency to change a game or a fad when it negatively affects innocent people. 

So no “Pokemon Go” here.

It’s “Pokemon Get Out and Stay Out.”

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Denise Adams’ email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

Just stop it.

Stop it right now.

Those were the direct orders I issued to my two youngest sons whenever they were fighting. Which, when they were growing up, was at least once a day.

The bickering was usually over small things – “he’s staring at me!” to more substantial accusations – “he broke my Wolverine guy!”

After one major dispute, paying for broken staircase spindles and spending a few afternoons sanding, painting and replacing the broken ones pretty much put an end to resolving differences with body slams.

In today’s explosive climate of hate, prejudice and bigotry, perhaps stopping the violence and retaliations could boil down to three simple words – just stop it.

Nancy Reagan tried something simple back in the 1980s in her war against drugs. Her slogan was “just say no.” Even though people laughed, that’s not bad advice.

People will say this idea, too, is naïve, and perhaps it is. But the highfalutin ways of spending billions of dollars in arms to scare others into not bombing a democratic society hasn’t worked.

So maybe we need to try something within our communities, families and in the groups we belong to and get to the root cause of the hatred. Look at the rhetoric being spewed and stop it.

Instead of looking for ways to inflict pain and suffering on innocent people so the “guilty” will pay, why not look for peaceful solutions that, after all the bloodshed, just might work.

Those who wear the uniform, if you know of anyone on the force who targets minorities, tell them to stop judging someone by the color of their skin or their accents because their prejudices are costing innocent lives.

Those who feel they’re being targeted because of the color of their skin – you might be right. But that won’t keep you alive. What will is establishing communications between law enforcement and our neighborhoods so everybody understands we’re all on the same side.

Nobody wants to be robbed.

Nobody wants their car stolen.

Nobody wants their son, daughter, mother or father arrested and sent to jail. Let’s work together to make sure that those who choose to make bad decisions are reprimanded.

Not just those born into poverty.

Not those who put their lives on the line to protect and serve.

Not those whose skin color is different than ours.

People are tired of reading that innocent children, fathers, mothers, teachers, secretaries and laborers were killed because some mentally unstable person decided to show America, France or England a lesson.

Instead of looking for a knee-jerk reaction that causes untold harm and havoc to people who had nothing to do with the carnage, find peaceful ways to establish trust and acceptance between the countries.

Even as I type those words, I have serious doubts we’ll ever find a solution. I never thought my sons would stop fighting, but they eventually did when they understood the word “brother” did not mean “enemy.”

That only came when they decided to look at each other as human beings and potential friends. Older brother learned that younger brother had guitars he could borrow and was willing to run errands for him.

Younger brother learned if he stopped annoying his older brother, he’d be asked to go along on shopping trips and was included on Nintendo game nights.

By getting along, they both benefitted. As a bonus, they didn’t have to put up with their mother breaking up fights, punishing them, yelling at them, threatening them and losing privileges. Life was a lot easier when they learned to get along.

Maybe some basic parenting could work in the real world.

So just stop it.

Stop the bombing, the hating, the retaliation, feeling like you have to live “an eye for an eye” and understand when we all get along, everybody benefits.

Mostly, everybody lives.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

I’ve said goodbye twice this week. Thank God they were not permanent goodbyes, but they were farewells, knowing I wouldn’t see that person again for quite a while.

The first was to my mom. Even though we talk every day on the phone, it’s not the same as seeing her sitting at my kitchen table, working the newspaper’s crossword puzzle, a cup of coffee nearby. 

I watched her as she worked the puzzle – in pen, she’s that confident – and knew to treasure these mornings. Soon she’d be back home, both of us going about the routine of our lives. So I savored every moment of the week she was here.

The next goodbye was to my eldest son, Nick. He’d flown in from Taiwan for a quick one-day stayover before jetting off to his step-brother’s wedding in Cancun.

On his way back through, he had a seven-hour layover in Houston, and I wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to spend time with him for anything.

He arrived on the day I came back from Mom’s. Before leaving her house in Louisiana, I hugged her one last time in the driveway, sniffling after I turned the corner, knowing I’d miss having her all to myself, hating to say goodbye. 

But I knew I had a hello waiting for me in Houston with Nick during his layover. He’d arranged to have dinner with friends, and I didn’t want to intrude. So we spent two hours shopping and then had to say our goodbyes.

He hugged me so tight, I couldn’t catch my breath. But that was okay because I was squeezing him back with the same force.

I smiled as big as I could, told him to have a great dinner and to call me when he landed. He drove off with his friends, not seeing me boo-hooing as I drove away in the other direction.

Life is a series of hellos and goodbyes. They start when we’re a baby. One day, we’re big enough for a big-kid bed, and we feel so grown up.

Mom and Dad, on the other hand, feel a pang of sadness because their little one is taking steps toward being independent and not needing parents as much.

There’s the first day of school. Every year, I took a picture of my boys getting on the school bus with fresh haircuts, new socks and shoes, and a slightly worried smile on their faces.

I remember saying goodbye to them, waving until the bus was out of sight, and then following the bus to make sure they got off and into their classrooms safe and sound. I’d wait around until I knew they’d said “hello” to the teacher, and then I’d leave.

They thought I was being ridiculous, and maybe I was, but it was hard to let go to their needing me.

One of the hardest goodbyes was when they left for college. I knew nothing would ever be the same again once they checked into that dorm room.

They could come and go as they please, attend class if they wanted or sleep the day away. So when I hugged them goodbye and drove away from the campus, I knew I was saying farewell to much more than their physical bodies.

I was saying goodbye to their childhoods.

But they were saying “hello” to their adult lives. Instead of crying, I had to smile because the best, for them, was yet to be. And that’s the way life is – a goodbye on one end means a hello on the other.

Now when we say goodbye, we give each other hugs and say “love you” before breaking away and going our separate ways.

And look forward to the next hello.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

We were late for our connecting flight and made it to the gate minutes before they closed the doors. It wasn’t our fault – our originating plane was late leaving the Houston airport, giving us less than 20 minutes to catch our connecting flight in Phoenix.

On Southwest Airlines, there’s no assigned seating, so my husband and I found ourselves in the very back of the plane and on separate rows. I sat between a middle-aged man with his iPod buds firmly planted in his ears and a young man punching away on his phone.

At least the flight would be quiet, I thought, as I settled in and took out my paperback.

After a while, though, I needed a break and decided to watch the landscape below us. We’d long left the flat lands of Texas, and mountain ranges stretched out below the plane.

The business man was sleeping, but the young man next to me was looking out the window, just like me. He was wearing a ball cap and a plain T-shirt, and he reminded me of my sons.

“Where are you going?” I asked him.

“Portland,” he replied. “I’m meeting my dad there and we’re heading out on a trip down the coast, just the two of us.”

That was more information than I normally get on an airplane these days. Before iPods, laptops and iPads, people usually chatted with the people sitting next to them on airplanes.

Today, what’s on an electronic device is more appealing than a live human being in the seat next to us. But this young man was willing to interact with me, and so we started talking.

Over the course of the next hour, I found out Joey wasn’t some dumb Millennial. He was a college student studying business and marketing. He hailed from Las Vegas, Nev., but wanted to get away from the glitz of Vegas.

“I didn’t go far,” he said with a laugh telling me he attended school in Arizona. “But it was a good break from home.”

He told me he and some friends were at the front end of a brand-new business venture. The excitement was evident in his voice as he described their business of setting up machines to dispense ballerina shoes in casinos.

He said he always noticed the girls who worked in the casinos would walk around barefoot after their shift. They had to wear high heels while on duty, and they couldn’t wait to put on comfortable shoes.

He thought it would be a neat idea to offer soft shoes to anybody who had to stand on their feet all day, or all night long, and so he drew up a business plan, patented it and they’re now in the fine-tuning stage.

Joey was quite excited about his venture, and I marveled at his enthusiasm and willingness to embark on a business venture at the age of 23. So many young people are interested in what’s on their cell phone, what Beyonce’s up to and they haven’t a clue about what’s going on in the world.

I realized I’d sorely misjudged this young person. He had brains, ambition and a willingness to follow his dream. This summer morning, Joey took a chance on a stranger, hoping she’d listen to his dreams and perhaps see the same possibilities he saw.

That’s a big chance to take, and I was grateful he’d talked to me. The flight was over before I knew it, and I wished him well on his endeavor.

“Maybe one day I’ll see your machines in airports and casinos all over the place,” I said as we were retrieving our carry-on luggage.

“I sure hope so,” he said with a smile and wished me a good day.

Little did Joey know, my day was already good because of him.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Forty-nine young men and women.

      Dead.

      The reason? A madman shot and murdered them with no feeling or remorse. He systematically killed innocent people before police were able to put an end to the rampage.

      Our first reaction is to fight back. We did that after 9/11 and where did that get us? In a never-ending war in the Middle East and terrorists still vowing revenge on us.

       Sure we killed Saddam Hussein, but another radical stepped up to take his place. When that one’s gone, another will take his place. The list of angry, bitter, hate-filled assassins ready and willing to kill Americans is endless.

      So we decide to search for reasons to peacefully end the situation. In a war with radical terrorists, to back away and do nothing is to show cowardice and weakness.

      More than public perception, Americans don’t want to back away from a fight. We were reared with mythical heroes like Batman and Indiana Jones who fought back and got even. They didn’t cower and they always won.

      There’s no easy answer nor is there a short-term answer to ending terrorism. We have to look at where these terrorists are learning to hate, and that’s in the home. It’s where our core value system is formed. Children reared in homes where parents live compassionate lives, help their neighbors and always strive to make the world a better place usually turn out to be that type of adult.

      Children who grow up in homes where hate and intolerance are taught as a direct order from God are almost impossible to reteach. First of all, God is always right. Secondly, Mom and Dad are always right.

      Each generation decides to change the way their parents think, and mine was no different. I grew up in the 1960s. That was a tumultuous time when young people balked at what their elders taught them – Negroes were property who didn’t need an education, drink from different water fountains and stay poor.

      Minority parents taught their children that an education was their way out. Some preached violence but most taught to patiently and stubbornly stand up for what’s right.

       Many white kids listened to what black leaders were saying. They rode the buses with people of color and stood up to their parents.

       The young generation consistently chipped away at the belief that minorities were sub-standard Americans. They pushed to change the way someone of a different culture, color or faith was viewed in America.

      Blacks and whites went to school together, and young children learned that a person is more than the color of their skin and more than the higher power they worshipped. They discovered friendship crossed cultural and racial boundaries and that they had more in common than they thought.

      They all dreamed of a better life. They all made wishes on shooting stars and they all grew to understand that the only way change happens is when it starts within people’s hearts and grows from there.

      The talk of getting even and showing power and dominance grows louder and louder, and it’s no wonder why candidates who scream for erecting fences along our borders, isolating ourselves from the world and attacking others first are popular.

       But the words of Mahatma Gandhi still ring true – “an eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”

        Let’s hope we can continue to search for peace while we can still see.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m a sucker for “life hacks” in magazines and on the Internet. If there’s an easier way to get dinner on the table, I’ll follow you on Twitter. If there’s a video on 50 ways to use WD-40, I’m all over that.

All that glitters isn’t gold, though. It’s not until you’ve been burned by some seemingly brilliant idea that one starts to question whether or not the idea was really that good.

One article that looked appealing was keeping pot lids in order. Mine are thrown in the middle of the cabinet, so I was eager for a better way.

The site said to take plastic coat hooks, measure the width of the lid and then stick the hooks to the back of the cabinet door.  

I had one of those plastic coat hooks a few years ago. It stuck to the door and then the hook snapped off.

If I followed this hack, I’d have broken coat hooks permanently glued to the back of our kitchen cabinet door and the pot lids would still be all over the place.

Keeping shoes in order is a tough one for me. Most of my shoes are either stacked on a shelf in my closet or shoved underneath the couch. So I looked with skepticism at the picture of a cubby holder with a hole for each shoe.

Most women I know kick their shoes off in the car or at the back door. If I had time to put each shoe in its own holder, I’d have time to grow my own crops and churn my own butter.

One hack looked pretty nifty – use muffin tins for all kinds of chores, including holding stuffed bell peppers in place for baking and as a portable ketchup, mustard and pickle holder at a barbecue.

After 25 years of use, our muffin tins have so many layers of baked on-grease that they’re brown instead of silver. There’s no way I’d put that gunked-up muffin tin out as a serving dish.

This one made me laugh out loud – clean out a plastic ketchup bottle and fill it with pancake batter for an easy and no-mess way to create round pancakes each and every time.

First of all, these people have obviously never tried to get anything back inside the narrow hole in the top of the ketchup bottle. It’s about as easy as scraping off the glue strip from one of those plastic coat hangers after it breaks off on the back of your closet door.

Worse, by the time you washed out the ketchup bottle, found a funnel and waited for the batter to slowly drip from the funnel into the bottle and then onto the griddle, you could’ve already had a 12-inch stack of flapjacks on the table.

Another hack advised breaking the ends off of store coat hangers and using the clips for potato chip bags. I tried that and all I got for my effort was a broken pair of scissors and two broken fingernails.

Another tip called for using a hanging shoe rack to store cleaning supplies. I don’t know what kind of dirt requires 20 different kinds of cleaners, but a bottle of Windex, a can of Comet Cleanser and a squeeze bottle of Ty-D-Bol are all I need.

And, last but not least, there’s a new attachment for your cell phone. You clip a tennis ball to it so you can take the perfect selfie with your dog. Like your dog would ever sit still when there’s a tennis ball in sight.

I guess the people who’d buy that attachment are the same people who have individual cubby holes for all their shoes, make pancakes with a used ketchup bottle and have a dozen bags of chips in the pantry sealed up nice and tidy.

I could save these folks a lot of time and energy – throw the shoes by the back door, use a soup ladle for the flap jacks and eat all the chips in one sitting.

That’s life hack advice I can use.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

      This weekend, our high school seniors will put a square hat on their heads and walk across a stage to accept their graduation diploma.

For some, reaching this goal has been pretty easy. For others, the finish line was as tough as running a marathon.

      The community will welcome these graduates as young men and women, not teenagers any more, and that safety net called “high school” suddenly vanishes.

       The responsibilities of paying their own way and deciding to go to college or get a job will smash into their lives like a piano dropped out of a second-story window.

      But all is not doom and gloom, Class of 2016. There’s a huge world of opportunity out there, and it’s yours for the taking.

      If you have the guts.

      But, first, let’s talk about all the perks of being a fresh-out-of-school young adult.

      You can go to the restroom without asking for a pass from a teacher.

      You can be late for appointments without providing a written excuse from your parents. 

      There’s no more assigned reading for a grade. No more trying to decipher the complicated works of William Faulkner or suffering through sonnet after sonnet, courtesy of William Shakespeare.

       You can choose what you want to read – TMZ online, Reddit or the latest graphic novel. Better yet, if you want to play games on your iPhone until 4 a.m., nobody’s going to nag you about getting up to catch the bus.

      Yep, the adult world is pretty laid back.

      Until you have to pay the mortgage.

      Or fix the leak in your roof.

      Or figure out how to fill out your income tax form all on your own.

      The adult world, you suddenly realize, isn’t all strawberry shortcake with whipped cream on top.

      There are responsibilities, some of which seem overwhelming.

      But for each one of the responsibilities you inherit as an adult, there’s so much knowledge you’ll pick up along the way.

      Paying a mortgage makes you realize that all those math and algebra classes you took in high school weren’t always a waste of time.

      Fixing the leak in your roof gives you the confidence to lay a new floor in the living room, build a piece of furniture or replace a leaking toilet.

      As far as filling in your income taxes, the main lesson you’ll come away with is the government gets a whole lot of money, especially your money, and that in itself will motivate you to get down to the courthouse and register to vote.

      And as a voter, you’ll see the American judicial system in action. You might get a jury summons and you’ll gripe and complain just like every other adult.

But when you’re in the courtroom waiting for your name to be called as a prospective juror, you’ll see why having a jury of one’s peers is so important.

You could be one of 12 people deciding whether or not someone walks out of the courtroom that morning or is handcuffed and led away to the county jail.

      You’ll see police officers in a role other than someone to hassle you when you’re out past your curfew. You’ll understand why wearing jeans and a T-shirt is unacceptable when interacting with judges, lawyers and other jurors.

      Regular people are there seeking a fair and just trial, and they deserve respect. If you don’t weasel out of jury duty, you’ll come away with a deeper understanding of civic duty, much deeper than you learned in that high school government class.

More than anything else, you’ll learn that at least one person had their day in court, all because 12 people decided to accept the responsibility of being an adult.

So welcome to the adult world, Class of 2016.

Go get ‘em.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the television shows my Aggie Boy and I enjoy discussing is HBO’s “Game of Thrones.” Aggie Boy is a long-time science-fiction reader, and he gave me the boxed set of George R.R. Martin’s epic stories one Christmas.

He wanted to have somebody to talk with about the mysterious world where kings battle each other to see who will ultimately sit on the Iron Throne.

This week, my husband came into the living room as a new “GOT” episode was coming on. He said he wanted to see what we were talking about so he could join in on the conversation.

He’s heard me talk about Throne’s major character, Jon Snow, for weeks, and he was curious about the question my son and I had been hashing out for months – is Jon alive or dead.

“Well, he was alive and then he was dead and now he’s alive again,” I explained when Jon appeared on the screen. “That beautiful woman in the red brought him back from the dead, but she’s really not young and beautiful – she’s an old woman.”

I found myself explaining about Jon’s siblings – one lives in a tree, one’s in a medieval cult and the youngest just got captured by the worst of the worst rulers in “Thrones.” I started in on the story of the Lannisters where a brother and sister have three children together – two of which died violently – the youngest has been banished for killing his father and the other has a golden hand.

And then I stopped myself. Trying to explain family histories on “Thrones” is like trying to unravel a knot.

“Just enjoy the sword fighting,” I said. “I’ll tell you who to root for.”

Luckily the scene changed to one of my favorite characters, Tyrion Lannister. I launched into an explanation of how he’s really smart but he did kill his father but can now talk to dragons.

“Dragons?” he said.

I launched into the back story of Daenerys Targaryen and how she hatched three dragon eggs in her husband’s funeral pyre and how she was queen and now she’s not the queen, and then my husband yawned.

I couldn’t blame him. I sounded like I was explaining the ridiculous plot to a daytime soap opera.

Which is exactly what “Thrones” is, I realized — a pricey soap opera set in some far away land. I have no room to poke fun at my mom for being a constant “Young and the Restless” viewer.

The last time I visited her, we sat down to watch her soap. That show was one of my favorites when I was in high school, and I was surprised to see some of the same people still playing their devious roles.

“Isn’t that Jack Abbott?” I asked, spotting a familiar face.

“He’s such a snake,” Mom said. “He’s in the hospital, but it’s not really him. It’s an imposter pretending he has amnesia.”

And, bingo, there it was. The amnesia card. No soap opera is complete without at least one incident of amnesia.

And, come to think of it, no season of “Thrones” is complete without a beheading.

I was starting to feel a bit foolish, but then I realized nothing beats real life for crazy stories.

Let’s see – a man who was an Olympic gold medalist will become a woman and host her own reality show. A billionaire with a ridiculous comb-over who once hosted a television show will be running for president of the United States.

So maybe a world of fire-breathing dragons and people who come back from the dead – still sporting the best hair on television – isn’t so farfetched.

Hey, maybe Trump will sit on the Iron Throne.

Stranger things have happened.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

      The 3-year-old couldn’t decide. Did she want a cupcake with Superman icing or one with a purple sugar butterfly on top? She took her finger out from between her lips and pointed at the girly butterfly cupcake.

      “That one,” she said with a big smile.

      When we handed her the cupcake, she stuck out her tongue and licked all the icing off in one quick motion.

      That’s the way kids are, I thought, chuckling to myself.

      And kids are kids, even special needs children like the ones I was interacting with this past weekend at Gigi’s Playhouse, a 501(c)(3) charitable organization in Sugar Land.

      I know about Gigi’s Playhouse through Amanda Hudson. We’ve been friends for many years, and her granddaughter was born with Down syndrome two years ago.

Amanda and her family embraced their precious grandchild with love and a commitment to provide the best education possible for her.

      They helped open a center through Gigi’s Playhouse, a national organization of over 28 achievement centers that serves children and adults of all ages. They offer a variety of educational and therapeutic programs for free to families in an atmosphere and format where individuals with Down syndrome learn best.

      At Gigi’s in Sugar Land, the rooms are painted in bright pastels, and each room serves a special purpose. There’s the arts and crafts room where crayons, paints, stickers and pom-poms are within easy reach for the children.

      The toddler room is specially outfitted with safe toys to stimulate motor development but, at the same time, stimulate the child’s imagination with colorful toys and decorations.

      Professional therapists and teachers donate their time and knowledge to create stimulating programs and therapy sessions. I overheard a volunteer talking with a mom about the upcoming speech therapy session, and the volunteer patiently answered every question this mother asked.

      That’s because this volunteer has a child with Down syndrome, and she understood this mom’s need to find as many answers as possible.

      As her daughter was getting her face painted, one mom told us she’d come from the other side of Houston. She saw Gigi’s Playhouse online and couldn’t wait to bring her daughter to the carnival.

      Doctors didn’t know exactly what syndrome her daughter had, but it didn’t matter when that child was bouncing in the bounce house, a huge smile on her face. Nor did it matter that some children didn’t want to have their faces painted, but a big flower on the back of their hand was simply delightful.

      The youngsters at this carnival enjoyed the prizes they won at the duck pond, loved throwing the baseball at the empty paint cans and giggled with delight when they won a cupcake at the cake walk.

      But as much as the children enjoyed the carnival, the teen-age volunteers received just as much satisfaction. Many came because they wanted the service hours to fulfill a requirement for graduation, but that duty quickly vanished as the children climbed up on the teens’ laps and freely gave hugs.

      I volunteered because I thought I wanted to give back because my three sons and my four grandchildren don’t have disability hurdles to climb. I thought I was doing something for children in need when I got out of my car.

      But I was wrong.

      I learned that having a disability like Down syndrome doesn’t hinder a child from the pure joy that comes from having fun at a kid’s carnival. Those youngsters had given me more than I’d given them – the understanding that we’re all created special. Some a little more than others.

      If you’d like to volunteer at Gigi’s Playhouse or if you’d like to be involved in this worthwhile learning environment, email sugarland@gigisplayhouse.org or call 832-939-9919.  

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

Some of the best lessons in life are learned from the women in our lives. So it’s fitting that this week is not only Teacher Appreciation Week but also Mother’s Day.

I’m fortunate in that the males in my life were good role models, and I couldn’t be a mom without my three wonderful sons. But it’s been women who’ve created the most indelible memories for me.

First and foremost is my mom. She taught me to believe in myself, to love unconditionally and that no matter how much someone protests, offer them something to eat.

She’s doesn’t play favorites yet we all secretly believe we’re the favored one, an incredible balancing act she accomplishes every day.

My grandmothers were polar opposites. Marguerite always dressed in high heels, the latest fashions and smelled like Chanel No. 5.

She taught me how to sew, a skill I silently thank her for every time I thread a needle. She also taught me to put my feet up whenever possible to give my calves and ankles a rest.

My mom’s mother believed if she was wearing an apron and you were eating, everything was right in the world. From her, I learned the importance of filling a house with the smells of home-cooked foods.

My aunts were fabulous teachers, and their visits were ones I cherished. My Aunt Kathy taught me how to laugh at life and that pretty isn’t what’s on the outside. Aunt Claudia taught all of us that a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich is the perfect meal.

My Aunt Bev taught me how to knit, and she taught me to see the delicate beauty in antique china cups. She remembers my childhood, and she’s always willing to fill in the gaps.

But having a font of wisdom and knowledge doesn’t always come from the older generation.  

My two younger sisters not only shared a bedroom with me, they’re my confidants. Even though they know my most humiliating and embarrassing moments, they don’t sacrifice me for a cheap laugh.

      I’m blessed to have four sisters-in-law who love my brothers and me unconditionally. They taught me how to cook and season, set an elegant table, make sure our dog is part of the family and how to live prayerfully with a chronic illness.

My nieces are a reflection of their mothers. In them, I see strong young women who are charting their own paths, making smart life decisions and laughing at life when a curve ball comes their way.

From my daughter-in-law, I’m blessed to watch the loving seeds she’s planting in our grandchildren blossom. She’s brought new ideas and traditions into our family, and I’m thankful for her every day.

Even though my granddaughters are young, they’ve shown me it’s possible to love unconditionally. Seeing how they open their hearts without holding back has been a humbling lesson.

From my female cousins and friends, I’ve learned the cattiness depicted in the media between women is highly exaggerated.

I know I could call any one of them day or night and they’d be at my house in a flash, even if that meant showing up in a bathrobe and flip flops.

The female teachers in my life are made up of much more than someone in a classroom. The women in my life teach me life lessons every time we’re together, and I’m eternally grateful they’ve allowed me into their hearts.

So Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there, whether you’re a biological mom, a dad fulfilling that role, a step-parent, foster parent or someone willing to take on the title of mom.

By default, that makes you one of the best teachers around.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.