Twenty-one nail holes, four trips to town and $50. It took all that to successfully hang one mirror on the laundry room wall. How can something so simple turn out so difficult? Well, it all started with a plastic panel… We moved to a new house with white and beige everywhere, including, oddly, a narrow, white plastic panel in the middle of the laundry room wall.

While my husband was out of town, I thought I’d surprise him by covering up the panel. A long poster might do the trick, so I picked up an inexpensive print, but it was too short.

Realizing I should measure the panel before I bought anything else, I hauled out my trusty wooden yard stick, wrote down the panel’s width and the length and headed to the local resale shops.

If a poster of Elvis or Hannah Montana was what I wanted, I was in luck. However, I wanted something a little more subdued.

Since I knew about a few consignment shops in Houston, I braved Westheimer at rush hour. But the right-sized choices were a faded 1985 poster from the balloon festival in Albuquerque or Elvis. I passed on both choices.

So I filled up my car, again, and went to one of the huge box stores. I found an inexpensive abstract picture but realized I’d left the measurements at home. Still, it looked to be the right size, so I bought it.

Bad choice. The picture was six inches too short and two inches too narrow.

This simple project had now turned into a grit-your-teeth mission.

Once again, I headed into town, measurements in tow, and found a nice mirror for less than $25. The only drawback was the mirror weighed 40 pounds and required two heavy-duty picture hangers.

Not a problem for a do-it-yourselfer, so back at home, I measured, carefully marked and nailed in the first picture hanger. Then I attempted to nail in the second picture hanger.

But less than two strikes in, I hit metal. I moved the hanger over a couple of inches, knowing I could move the clip on the back of the mirror. Ting! Hit metal again.

This job was harder than it looked.

I decided to use a nail and tap a few holes in the wall to avoid hitting metal again. Six holes later, I found a good spot, but that meant I had to move the hangers on the back of the mirror.

An hour later, I’d measured and moved the hooks on the back of the mirror so they lined up exactly with the hangers on the wall. I hoisted that mirror up and placed it on the hooks. Whew — it was straight.

Unfortunately, the picture was two inches to the left of the plastic panel.

I yanked that mirror off the wall, dropped it on my foot — that mirror really is heavy — and eyeballed where I thought the hanger should go. This time, by sheer luck, I managed to get it hung so it covered the plastic.

However, there was that little matter of all those holes in the wall. I have a collection of paint chip samples and found one that seemed to match the wall color.

Ten dollars and an hour later, I had a small can of custom-mixed paint, spackling and a paint brush. When the paint dried, it was quite obvious someone had tried to cover up a poor patch job.

I called the neighborhood builder, and he promised to send over a painter and my husband would never know the damage I’d inflicted on that wall.

The grand total for covering a piece of plastic? Twenty-one nail holes, a professional painter, four trips to town, two tanks of gas, a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my foot and $50 worth of pictures.

Nothing to it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been writing a weekly column for The Fort Bend Herald, a daily newspaper in Rosenberg, right outside of Houston. Working for a newspaper came naturally. My grandparents owned a newspaper in Bridge City, Texas, and my grandfather, Herbie, was a well respected editor in that town, always championing the working person, and my dad was the newspaper’s Linotype operator. My mom was the editor for the newspaper at the Exxon Plastics Plant in Baton Rouge, and my siblings are writers, artists and poets.

So the path was well laid for me. My family accepted my absences and late-nights at the computer, and my siblings pushed me to reach for the stars. My mom still posts my articles on the refrigerator, and my friends keep my spirits high. My fabulous editor at the Fort Bend Herald, Bob Haenel, encourages me when I’m discouraged and continues to persuade me to follow my dreams. I especially thank the Hartmans for allowing me to continue writing for them now that I’m a teacher.

People sometimes ask what’s my favorite part of being a reporter, and the answer is easy — people. Every person I’ve interviewed has left an impression on my soul, and it’s mostly to be thankful for what I have, grateful for opportunities and eager to greet each and every day. I stopped complaining about seeing the mess in my sons’ rooms after interviewing a mother who was blind. I stand when the American flag passes by, remembering the sacrifices the World War II, Korean, Vietnam and Iraqi vets I’ve interviewed gave so I could be free. Every person I interviewed reminded me that life is a gift and life, with all its flaws, is a wonderful, joyous journey.

Thank you for visiting here. I’ll do my best not to disappoint!

For all of us who learned how to sew on a Singer sewing machine…

My granddaughter loves dressing up, and my daughter-in-law is always scouring stores and garage sales for dress-up clothes. Watching my granddaughter wrap a blanket around her waist, pretending it was a ball gown, I knew I had to make Kylie a princess outfit.
Luckily, my grandmother taught me how to sew when I was in my early teens. Marguerite was a fabulous seamstress, and she made all her clothes and her daughter’s clothes.

One summer, she agreed to teach me how to sew. The two of us went to the local TG&Y, and she showed me how to look through the big pattern books to find what I wanted.

There were patterns for everything — dresses, coats, pants and jackets. As we flipped through the pages, Grandma pointed out which patterns would be good choices for a novice.

We settled on a Simplicity pattern with a dropped-waist dress, a thin belt and cap sleeves. Grandma showed me how to read the back of the pattern so I’d know how much material I needed, what length of zipper to buy and to check for any extras, like interfacing or lining material.

I remember we paid less than a dollar for the pattern, and we chose bright red material and thread to match.

Laying the material on the kitchen table, Grandma made me carefully cut the pattern pieces out of that thin tissue paper and then showed me how to pin the pattern pieces in place, paying close attention to the pieces that needed to go on the fold.

Sipping her coffee, Grandma patiently explained what all the pattern markings meant — this was a line for hand stitching so the material wouldn’t fray on the curve and the black, diamond notches were markers to make it easier to line up the pieces.

Grandma said it was important to press the curves and all the seams as we went along, so the iron and ironing board were set up next to the sewing machine.

She showed me how to weave the thread in and out of all the metal loops and gears on my mom’s black Singer sewing machine and how to load the bobbin. Grandma showed me how to use the foot pedal, easing up around the curves and a little faster on the straight seams.

Day after day, we sat down together, Grandma guiding me through every step, checking my seams and making me rip them out and start over if they were wrong.

I learned how to make darts and how to sew a gathering stitch. I learned how to baste a zipper in place and to clip the curves on the collar and sleeves.

When the dress was almost finished, she showed me how to make a belt loop by hand and how to hem, my grandmother’s stitches so tiny, the thread practically disappeared into the material.

That initial sewing lesson has served me well in life. Not only have I made my own clothes, but also my sons’ play clothes, curtains for our home and doll clothes for my nieces.

Now with a granddaughter, it was time to haul my trusty Kenmore out of storage. Running my fingers over the metal gears, I remembered those long-ago afternoons with my grandmother.

At the time, I thought I was only getting sewing lessons, but Marguerite was really passing on life lessons.

She taught me to stitch carefully, press out the wrinkles as you go and know it’s possible to create something beautiful from the small pieces and moments in your life.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Every once in a while, I take a detour from looking at life through a humorousl lens. This is one of those rare weeks. And, yes, there’s a bumper sticker going on my car the minute the relentless rain, courtesy of Hurricane Alex, stops.

I was stuck in Houston recently in rush-hour traffic. Looking around, I noticed a beat-up truck in the lane next to me. The back of the F-150 was covered with bumper stickers, and it wasn’t hard to figure out where this person stood on the issues.

A member of the National Rifle Association, this person also was a staunch Republican, disliked the Obma administration and said the only way someone was going to get their gun was to pry their cold, dead finger off the trigger.

I realized, as I read all the signs on the back of that truck, that I seldom see political bumper stickers any more.

Back in the Volkswagen bus days, it seemed everyone proclaimed their political beliefs on their bumper from conservative Richard Nixon supporters to anti-establishment stickers calling for society to “Make Love, Not War.”

The young team of Bill Clinton and Al Gore generated their own red, white and blue presidential hopeful stickers, and a new generation was introduced to political bumper stickers when Barack Obama began his run for the presidency.

However, we often hesitate to publicize our political preferences for fear of being labeled a right-wing nut case or a spend-thrift liberal.

But the real reason is worse than being afraid to offend. People today are less concerned with the environment, politics or civil rights because we’re an “all about me” generation.

Forget saving the planet, being involved in politics or promoting a social cause. If we do have a bumper sticker, it’s usually about our own business or that our child made the honor roll.

Most min-vans and SUV’s have some type of child bumper sticker on the back, and we all know said child is a member of a ballet troupe or an athletic organization. There’s nothing wrong with congratulating one’s child, but we no longer take a stance about anything that doesn’t personally involve us.

I found myself thinking back to the last time I had a bumper sticker on my vehicle, and I realized it was almost 30 years ago.

When I was in my 20’s, I was affiliated with an active church on the Louisiana State University campus. The priests at this parish were Claretians, an order primarily involved in churches on college campuses.

In talks with Father Chris, I discovered the Claretians took vows of poverty, and they were committed to social concerns and issues of peace and justice.

When the diocese decided to abruptly terminate that order’s service on the campus, a major uproar broke out in the city. I proudly affixed a “Keep the Claretians” bumper sticker on my car.

The next Sunday, my parish priest pulled me aside and said he’d noticed the sticker. I asked if it was a problem, and he said it might be better if I removed it.

I politely refused and, just for principle, kept that sticker on the back of my vehicle until it literally fell off.

Sitting in traffic, looking at all those bumper stickers on the back of that truck, I found myself wondering if I still have the courage to put a controversial bumper sticker on my vehicle.

The voices in my head said I might not for a variety of reasons — I don’t want to offend and I want to keep my personal religious and political beliefs private.

But those days of fighting the establishment made me feel alive, willing to stand up for what I believed. And, yes, proud that I took a stand.

My back bumper is quite plain these days. I think it’s about time to spruce it up.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our parish priest is being assigned to a new parish, and we’re really going to miss him. Here’s a letter I sent to the bishop, thanking Father Howard for his service.

Your Eminence:As a life-long Catholic, I’ve been blessed to know dozens of priests. But Howard Drabek, our departing pastor at Sacred Heart in Richmond, is a true blessing.

I know Father Howard both as a parishioner and as a reporter. For years, I was the Religion editor at our local newspaper, and Father Howard was one of eight rotating column writers for the Religion Page. His “Pastor’s Point” columns are extremely popular in the community because he writes with humor and intelligence, gently calling the lost to seek solace in God.

Whenever I’d report on a benefit for the fire or police department, Father Howard was there, good-naturedly serving chicken or barbecue, helping set up and then taking down equipment. In the middle of the night, he would ride with the officers, listening to their worries and saluting them in public on a regular basis.

He also is one of the few men of the cloth who can successfully bridge the gap between faiths. In our area, where non-denominational groups actively solicit our young people, Father Howard keeps our teens and young adults committed to their Catholic roots. In years past, some Catholics had drifted away from the church, but they came back in droves, thanks to Father Howard. Many non-Catholics have asked me about becoming a Catholic because they heard of Father Howard and the dynamic parish he’s building here. Many in our parish are disheartened to see Father Howard transferred, just as his years of work bringing others into the Catholic faith begins to take root on a tree that is starting to bear fruit

At Sacred Heart, his sermons reach all levels of Catholics, from the ones lingering in the back foyer to the faithful on the front row. Under his pastoral leadership, we’ve seen our parish grow to include a renovated chapel and new office buildings. We’ve added outreach programs for adults, teens and parents. Our Mothers Day Out program is a huge success in the community. Sacred Heart’s religious education program has grown exponentially, both for youngsters and adults. As a 20-plus year religious education teacher, I have personally witnessed the positive effect his leadership and personal devotion to God has had on the young.

His humor, insatiable appetite for knowledge, especially about science, and keen insight into the human psyche is evident in the way he lives his personal life and his pastoral life. I remember when he regularly celebrated Mass at the Spanish church in our area. His willingness to laugh at himself, and falter with the language in public, allowed him to build another bridge in the community. As a native of Fort Bend County, he serves as a peaceful liaison between all the parishes, not an easy task, Your Eminence.

Seeing the Drabeks at Mass, including his parents, sister, brother, nieces and extended family, is a living reminder of the importance of family in the Catholic Church. As a writer, I find myself watching people in church, and they are actively involved in the Mass (even the back-row sitters) because they know Father Howard is the “real deal.”

I selfishly wish Father Howard could remain with us at Sacred Heart, and I envy the people in League City. They are receiving a sincere leader, an honorable man of God and one of the most respected and beloved people in Fort Bend County. Father Howard is a true gift from God, and I wanted to thank you for allowing him to shepherd us over the past decade.

We often take our clergy, doctors, teachers and neighbors for granted. But sometimes, it’s good to step out and say “thank you.” Father Howard, we’ll miss you.

It’s 6 a.m. I’m reluctantly slipping on an old T-shirt, lacing up my battered sneakers and searching for my sunglasses, preparing for my daily walk. One of the downsides of getting older is that exercise becomes necessary.

When we were young, the words “high blood pressure” were only used in context with our parents — “You’re gonna give me high blood pressure with that room of yours!”

Now in mid-life, those words drag along quite a bit of baggage — lose weight, watch your salt and, the most dreaded word of all, exercise.

Over the years, I’ve tried to find ways to make exercising more enjoyable. I tried aerobics. Klutzy people should never try intricate dance moves in a skin-tight leotard. Tried swimming. People who can’t swim in a straight line should never try swimming laps at the Y.

Walking, a feat I mastered at the age of 2, seemed my ticket to good health. Early on, I bought a portable CD player that strapped onto my waist. Of course, the belt is made for a young, fit person, not someone whose waist measurement is akin to a yardstick. So I ended up carrying the CD player.

“Swing your arms” was advice I read in a magazine article, so I swung my arms. Which resulted in my ripping the headphone cord out of the CD player. On the last high swing, I sent the CD player sailing, and that was the end of music distracting me from sweating.

I bought a portable radio that clamped to my arm. The plastic band was meant for someone whose arm diameter was the size of a small branch. What about we tree trunks, I thought as I yanked and pulled on that Velcro band.

Finally, the radio in place and earphones on, I set out for a walk, and was disappointed with all the static on that little device. I switched from a country station to talk radio to rock and roll, and all were tough to hear.

As the sweat poured down my arm, the band became loose, the radio slipped off and I stepped on it, smashing it into a dozen pieces.

So I decided to walk without music, telling myself I could enjoy the quiet of the morning. Instead I choked on the exhaust fumes from the dozens of cars whizzing past me and the sounds of every type of music imaginable blaring from said cars.

But, I told myself, I wasn’t out there for the entertainment. I was out pounding the pavement getting healthier. I believed that lofty notion until sweat dripped into my eyes when, mixed with left-over mascara, caused my eyes to sting like crazy.

The blister on the back of my left heel was starting to scream and sweat was dripping down my back and chest.

As I stood there, rubbing my eyes with the bottom of my grimy T-shirt, I wondered why exercise has to be so hard.

Why can’t exercise be combined with something fun, like eating? If there was a way to pair exercise with a banana split, topped with nuts and mounds of whipped cream, or a thick steak accompanied by a fully loaded baked potato, I’d be all over that.

The practical, pesky voice inside my head came through loud and clear: “Those are two of the main reasons you’re out here. Besides, exercise makes you feel good.”

I muttered back — “The only time I feel good exercising is when it’s over.”

The end results of walking, biking or running are better health and longer life. Now if we could get to that healthy end accompanied by chocolate cake and a scoop of ice cream, then life would be grand.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

She asked Roderick if he wanted one of her world-famous burgers for a late dinner. With her silky hair cascading seductively over her shoulder, Nora began cooking, the twinkling lights of Paris visible outside the window. In less than five minutes, Nora slid a perfectly cooked hamburger — with caviar in the middle — in front of the muscular, tanned Connor. “Dinner’s served,” she purred.

I lowered the mystery book I was reading, glanced down and saw the ketchup stain on the front of my polyester shirt.

Adjusting my inexpensive reading glasses, I wondered if there would come a day when authors wrote about the adventures of the everyday woman — those who battle grocery lines instead of international spies — and not about fantasy women.

Leaning back into our worn corduroy recliner, I began to daydream…

“The alarm clock beeped incessantly as Nora rolled over in bed, the hole in the knee of her faded flannel pajamas ripping as she made a mental list of her duties for the day, both at home and at work.

The smell of burnt toast pushed her out of bed, and she walked into the kitchen, where her son was dressed and ready for school.

‘I got up early and made my own breakfast,’ said Nora’s 8-year-old son, a huge smile on his jelly-smeared face.

A stick of margarine was on the floor, and jelly was all over the counter. Nora ripped a few sheets of cheap paper towels from the holder and complimented her son’s cooking skills as she wiped his face clean.

‘Mom, I can’t find my homework,’ came her daughter’s cry from upstairs.

‘Look under the couch — I saw your papers there last night when I was looking for the TV remote control,’ yelled Nora, kissing her son goodbye as he left to wait for the school bus.

A few minutes after he left, Nora noticed he’d left his lunch box on the table. Her attempt to catch the bus was thwarted by her daughter, who stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, reminding Nora she’d promised her an early ride to school.

Nora ran toward her bedroom, stopping long enough to retrieve her daughter’s homework. Then she pulled on a pair of oversize sweat pants and snatched the car keys from her cluttered nightstand.

Within seconds, Nora was behind the wheel of their battered minivan. Twenty minutes later, she’d safely deposited both her daughter and the lunch box in the right places.

On her way home, Nora stopped for gas and spied a young woman behind the wheel of a red Mercedes-Benz convertible. Her long hair was impeccably groomed, her nails professionally manicured and her beige Armani suit fit like a glove.

Closing her eyes, Nora escaped into her familiar dream world, where there were no crow’s feet, extra chins or gray hair. For a moment, she was the heroine in her own novel — curvaceous, bubbly and on her way to the next exciting case in Paris.

The clicking of the gas pump jolted Nora back into reality. For beautiful women, men worship at their feet. But most women know if a man’s at her feet, he’s probably looking for the remote control.

Nora might not solve international banking crises, nor would she ever taste caviar. But she knew how to stretch a dollar, find the best deals on back-to-school clothes and put a smile on her family’s faces.”

Examining the hole in the toe of my socks, I realized that in any real woman’s world, those are pretty decent story lines.

Even in Paris.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past dozen years, I’ve written a weekly column for our local newspaper, The Fort Bend Herald. I have to thank my family for being supportive of the hours I spend in front of the computer, my fabulous editor at the Fort Bend Herald, Bob Haenel, for being the wind behind my back and the generous Hartman family for allowing me to work with them.

For someone who agonizes every single week about what she writes, having my words published for people to read is quite terrifying. Writing, like drawing and painting, is a reflection of the angels and demons inside our heads. It’s difficult to tell someone face to face about our fears and insecurities, but it’s easier, somehow, to put those not-always-rosy thoughts down on paper or a computer screen.

I read other people’s blogs, particularly my brother, Jeff’s, and marvel at how articulate they are and how they deftly use words and pictures to illuminate life. What I write won’t win prizes, but it’s the world as I see it. If you have insecurities, can laugh at your own foibles and stumble through life instead of gliding, then you’ve got a klutzy soul mate in me.

Come along for the ride. It might not always be picture perfect, and there will be bumps along the way, but it’ll be a truthful voyage. I’m glad for the company.

I pulled into the driveway about 7:30 p.m., tired, hungry and cranky. I wearily walked to the front door and, trying to balance my purse on one shoulder and a bag of groceries in my left hand, blindly groped around in my purse for my keys.

Frustrated because the sun was getting lower in the western sky and angry rain clouds were moving in, I dropped my purse, found the keys and got the lock opened. I dragged myself into the kitchen and dumped everything onto the center island.

Heaving a sigh of relief I’d made it inside, I went back to the front door, pointed my keys at the driveway and locked my car from inside the house using my key fob.

My stomach was growling as I hadn’t had dinner yet, but because I was home alone, I locked the front door before heading back into the kitchen.

Passing through the living room, I glanced out the windows to the patio and noticed workers had been to our house and finished some work in the back yard.

I kicked off my shoes and picked up my new cell phone to call my husband who was out of town. I stepped onto the patio and closed the back door behind me to keep dust from blowing inside the kitchen.

Immediately, I realized I’d made a mistake.

My heart sank as I jiggled the door knob. In my quest to make sure I was safe, I’d effectively locked myself out of my house and my car. Because we’re in a new place, we hadn’t gotten around to having spare keys made.

At our previous house, our neighbor had an extra set of keys to our house and, more than once, Dwight and Neta saved me. But we hadn’t met anyone here yet. My husband had the only other key, and he was a hundred miles away.

Feeling tears welling up, I suddenly remembered a magazine article that stated when something goes wrong, stop and think for five minutes before taking any action. Usually the brain calms down and workable solutions surface.

So I stopped, sat down on a lawn chair and let my mind ponder possible solutions. Breaking a window was out because none of the windows were near a door knob. Besides, I’d have to have new glass installed, and that seemed more hassle than solution.

Then I remembered the garage had a door that led into the house through the laundry room. If I could open the garage, that inside door might be unlocked.

I first had to find the spare key hidden somewhere on the chassis of my car. I laid down on the driveway and gave the underside of my car a search worthy of any New York City police officer.

No luck.

At that point, I realized I had to call in the cavalry. I called a friend and asked her to find a locksmith. Pat sent me a text message with possible phone numbers, and I made a mental note to treat her to dinner.

In less than 20 minutes, Bill the Locksmith was at the house and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, I was inside the house just as the sun was setting.

I learned some valuable lessons that day. First, always put my keys in my pocket, not on the kitchen counter. Second, hide a key outside for the days I forget to put the keys in my pocket.

And third, avoid at all costs telling my husband why Bill the Locksmith is on my cell phone’s speed dial list.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My son and I were coming home one afternoon, and we saw an elderly man loading an ice chest in the parking lot. He was wearing blue and red plaid pants, a bright yellow shirt and his rather wide posterior was at the same level as his shoulders as he placed sodas in the chest.

“At what point do you lose your dignity,” said my son. “At what point do you stop caring what other people think? Look at that guy – he’s bending over from the waist and he doesn’t care what he looks like or how he looks.”

Ah, the impertinence of youth. At the age of 21, my son cannot understand how a person, say his mother, could walk out to the curb in the morning wearing a ratty bathrobe and mismatched socks. Nor can he understand how a person, say his mother again, could walk into the grocery store in broad daylight wearing shorts splotched with dried paint, no make up and water sandals.

The answer to his question is we lose our dignity because children take it away from us. We parents have had our dignity ripped out from underneath us by our darling, adorable and unpredictable children.

Many a morning I dressed the boys for church in their best clothes, only to find them undressing themselves during Mass. Afterwards, when other children were quietly eating their doughnut, my children were running around with sweat pouring down their faces, their shoes untied, their shirt tails hanging out and a red moustache from drinking five glasses of punch.

There are moments when that dignity emerges – our child makes a good grade on a test or hits a home run. But there are the other highlights of parenthood – the day your child burps the loudest in a quiet room and when they are the mischievous child in the school play who refuses to recite his or her line, steps on the feet of the child standing to them at the awards day ceremony and brags they won the contest for making the most obnoxious noise with their armpit and their hand.

Our dignity wasn’t lost – it was taken away by our children. At what point it happens is hard to say. Perhaps I lost it the day my youngest boy decided to ram the shopping cart in the end display at the grocery store and send dozens of boxes of cereal flying. Or maybe it was the afternoon one of them decided to undress completely in a department store.

I could’ve lost my dignity the time I lost track of my son and ran through the aisles of a store screaming his name at the top of my lungs. Or maybe it was when a stomach virus hit and they thought my lap was the best place to be sick.

Or maybe it was the day they decided to give each other haircuts right before a family event. My dignity could’ve vanished the day one of my sons sneezed into my hair as we were walking out the door to a party.

My dignity could’ve vanished that afternoon at the beach when my four-year-old decided to play Godzilla with the sand castle a young girl spent hours building on the beach, and her mother looked at me with a horrified expression as her daughter cried and cried.

I might’ve misplaced my dignity the day my son exclaimed to my parents he knew some new words and promptly let loose with a string of obscenities I still find difficult to repeat.

And just when I thought I’d managed to hang on to a sliver of dignity, I discover I’m wrong. I was at the stop light the other day, and I heard loud music blaring from the car on my left.

With a disgusted look, I rolled up the window and saw my teen-age son swaying to some rock and roll tune. When he honked and waved, I barely turned my head and briefly nodded, not wanting the mortified people around me to know that was my son disturbing the peace.

When we got out of the car, I told my son we parents don’t lose our dignity – we’re robbed of it. He shook his head, stopped and smiled.

“Hey, see that cup over there?” he said, pointing to a fast-food cup on the ground. “Wanna see me hit it with a spit ball?”

Like I said, we parents don’t lose our dignity – it’s taken from us by our children.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.