The end of 2012 is right around the corner, and many of us are jotting down New Year’s resolutions. There’s the promise to get in better shape, eat healthier and remain calm in rush-hour traffic.

Everybody,  it seems, has advice for those of us wishing to turn over a new leaf for 2013, and most of the suggestions are valid. Who can argue with deciding to forgive our enemies or vowing to keep the house neater.

But sometimes bad advice is shrouded in good intentions. Over the years, I think I’ve received more bad advice than good.

The first piece of bad advice I got was from Ms. Thomas, my high school typing teacher. A no-nonsense woman, Ms. Thomas spent most of her time correcting our posture and lifting our elbows.

Her advice to me was to be a secretary because I could type fast. With that one piece of advice, I decided to follow a two-year curriculum at a small college and become a secretary.

It never occurred to me to question that advice, and although I enjoyed being a secretary, I secretly yearned for a four-year college degree. It took 25 years, but I finally earned that diploma.  

Then there was the advice I got as a first-time mother. Nick was a colicky baby, and I always rocked him to sleep. A friend told me I was spoiling him and I should let him cry in his bed so he’d learn to go to sleep by himself.

Later that day, I put him in his crib and let him cry for about three minutes. When I went in to check on the baby, his little face was covered with spit-up. I cleaned him up, promising I’d never let any of my babies cry themselves to sleep.

In fact, the list of bad parenting advice, especially about discipline, is as long as my driveway. One of my boys loved to bite. I don’t know why he used this form of revenge, but biting was his favorite way to aggravate his brother.

All the parenting books said to never bite a child back.

All my friends said to use time out.

Old-timers said to bite him back.

One day, I was standing at the sink, and my little angel came up behind me and bit me on the back of my leg hard enough to leave a bruise. I turned around and bit him on the arm. He was astonished, and it was the last time he bit anybody.

After that, I vowed to only consider child-rearing advice from people over the age of 65, and that philosophy has served me well.

Relationship advice bombards us from all directions. When I was young, friends told me to never learn how to put gas in my car or fix anything around the house because that was a husband’s job.

If I’d followed that advice, I wouldn’t have known how to fix a broken toilet when my husband was out of town.  

Truth be told, there are advantages to listening to bad advice because those gems of well-intentioned but misguided words of wisdom have provided me with important life lessons over the years.

I learned nothing takes the place of a thirst for knowledge; and once we stop learning, we stop growing.  

I know how to trouble shoot an unhappy toilet and how to maneuver my way through our breaker box.

 I learned to cherish time rocking my babies to sleep and, even though I regret a lot of things I did as a parent, letting them cry themselves to sleep wasn’t one of them.

In 2013, I’ll vow to eat healthier and keep my road rage under control. After that, I’ll toss the advice books on my bookshelf.

And always rock my grandchildren to sleep.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When my boys were young, they’d often ask questions for which I had to scramble for an answer. For instance, how a car works. When my 4-year-old son asked the question, I thought about telling him something up that would give him a general idea about internal combustion, but I changed my mind.

  “Magic,” I told him, and he was satisfied.

  During a scary thunderstorm, my sons asked what caused thunder.

  “It’s the angels bowling,” I said. They looked dubious.

  “Well that’s what my mom said,” I told them, and they were satisfied.  

  As parents, we try to answer all the questions our children ask us; and even though we try to be as truthful as possible, sometimes we have to make up explanations.

  But there are times when the only truthful answer is “I don’t know.” Such is the answer I give when asked why someone would open fire on a classroom and kill 20 innocent children and six innocent adults.

  There are numerous possibilities – he had mental issues, he came from a broken home, he was depressed or there were readily available assault weapons in the house. There are questions as to why he chose Sandy Hook Elementary, what set him off and why he murdered innocent babies instead of just taking himself out.  

  I keep thinking someone knew this piece of human garbage was unhinged. Somebody was aware things were not right with him, and they did little to stop him.

  Perhaps they were afraid they’d be considered biased or prejudiced against people with mental issues. Maybe they didn’t want to get involved in something a family is supposed to take care of behind closed doors. Maybe his family was completely exhausted and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of caring for someone so relentless and sick.

  Right now, we’re grieving for the loss of these 6- and 7-year-old babies who were sitting at their desks one minute and then being shot at close range the next. We sob and thank God for the adults who died trying to save the children.

  Still, our children ask us why bad things happen, and we can’t come up with a reason that makes any sense. I can’t begin to explain why 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by Taliban gunmen while riding her school bus.  

  Malala was an outspoken proponent of rights for girls, and she was opposed to the oppressive tactics of the Taliban. This young Pakistanian was shot in the face earlier this year in front of her friends and other young children while on her way to school.

  There are no suitable explanations as to why a lunatic opened fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colo. this summer. During a midnight screening of “The Dark Knight,” 12 innocent people were killed and 20 were wounded as the movie played on the screen.

  We’re still trying to understand why, in 1999, two evil teenagers decided to shoot their classmates in Columbine, Colo., an unbelievable act of terror that continues to reverberate throughout the land.

  These heinous acts shattered our belief that we live in a world where children and the weak are safe from men with machine guns and assault rifles, fueled by hatred and lunacy.

  So when our children ask us to explain why bad things happen in this world, I hope we can honestly say we don’t know but we’re working to make sure they never happen again.

  And then keep our word.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 With this latest snap of cold weather, the standard holiday songs are making a little more sense. We identify with Frosty the Snowman when we’re wrapping our pipes against a freeze, turning the knob on the mini-van air conditioner to the red zone and hauling heavy jackets out of the closet. 

  Frankly, I’d rather visualize cold holiday moments instead of experiencing them, and because we live in southeast Texas, we can watch other people dig themselves out of the snow while we’re running air conditioners year round.

  A Southern Christmas is different.   

  We don’t roast chestnuts over an open fire. When confronted with a roaring campfire, Southerners are scrounging around for hot dogs and Shiner beer. If Jack Frost tried to nip at a Texan’s nose, ole Jack might find himself with a nose as red as Rudolph’s.

Still some people wish for snow, sleigh rides and throwing snowballs. They think they’re missing something by not experiencing frigid temperatures and four feet of snow outside.

  But let’s consider the positives of a snow-less Christmas. First there’s the mild temperatures. We picked out our Christmas tree while wearing shorts and sandals.

 While holiday shopping, I wasn’t bundled up in a scarf and a bulky overcoat. I was strolling along from shop to shop wearing sunglasses and short sleeves.

  No snow and sleet to slosh through.

  No blowing snow in my face. 

  Just an easy saunter under a bright blue sky.

  Like me, our granddaughter loves a Southern winter. The temperature was still around 80 degrees this past Sunday, and she wanted to splash around with the water hose.

  Why not, I thought, and I let her dance around the back yard in her pink bathing suit.

I can hear my cold-weather loving friends whispering my granddaughter could’ve had just as much fun in the snow; but we spent one minute hanging up a wet bathing suit to dry versus spending 30 minutes thawing out snow boots, socks, a scarf, a heavy jacket, long johns and mittens.

  I know of what I speak. I grew up in Olean, N.Y., about 60 miles from Buffalo, one of the coldest places in the country. We lived five blocks from the elementary school, and we literally walked through hills of snow on our way to school.

  Getting ready required an extra 10 minutes just to snap up snow boots and layer on a woolen vest, sweater, scarf, a hat and gloves and then 10 minutes extra at school taking all those layers off and hanging them up where they’d dry out by the time the 3 p.m. bell rang.

  But no matter the perks of a warm, Southern Christmas, we still love holiday songs that revolve around snow and cold weather. I wish songwriters would come up with songs that reflect a Southern Christmas. Instead of “Winter Wonderland” lyrics, what about:

  “Cowbells ring, are you listenin’

  On the gulf, waves are glistening

  A beautiful sight

  We’re happy tonight

  Sitting on the beach in Whiskey Bay.”

  Or what about changing the words in “Frosty the Snowman:

  “Ole Mike the Tiger

  Loved the purple and the gold

  Dashing all around Deaf Stadium

  Growling make ole Bama fold.   

  There are many more perks to a Southern Christmas. We never have to worry about strapping snow chains on tires nor do we have to spend time protecting the truck’s undersides from salt damage after snow ploughs clear the roadways.

  We don’t spend money on a winter wardrobe and a summer wardrobe – I own one long-sleeved shirt and there’s not a sweater in my closet. I never have to rotate my clothes because I know even when the temperatures are in the 30’s, warm days are right around the corner.

  In fact, the weather forecasters are predicting the weekend weather should have high’s in the mid 70’s.

  Halleluiah, y’all.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  

  The jig is almost up. Our 5-year-old granddaughter discovered some unwrapped toys in her parents’ closet, gifts a jolly ole elf was going to leave on Christmas morning.

  Young Kylie inherited her reporter genes from both her mom’s side of the family and her dad’s side, and those “seek-and-find” antennae were on full alert when she just “happened” to stumble on the gifts hidden in the back of the closet.

  I can’t say I’m surprised. When I was a young girl, snooping and looking for Christmas gifts was my prime mission. The best source of information were conversations my mom and aunts had when they thought we weren’t listening.

  One year I overheard the words “Barbie Dream House” and hoped they were helping out Santa Claus because that dream house was at the top of my list. On Christmas morning, a fully assembled cardboard Barbie Dream House, complete with a Barbie and a Ken, was waiting for me.

  After that, I figured my moms and aunts had a secret line to the North Pole because we always seemed to get exactly what we wanted for Christmas. That charade went on for years but I gradually unraveled the myth of Santa Claus.

  When I was in the fourth grade, I opened a closet in our laundry room, and I saw a white helicopter on one of the top shelves. I didn’t think much about the toy, figuring I’d find it wrapped up underneath the tree for my brother.

  But when I woke up on Christmas morning and saw the helicopter with a tag on it that said “From Santa,” I knew right then and there that my friends were right – Santa really was my mom and dad.

  Contrary to what psychologists say, I wasn’t traumatized by this realization. Instead, I was miffed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. After that, the only true mystery was figuring out what was in the wrapped boxes my mom put under the tree in the days before Christmas.  

  I shook, rattled and probed every box under the tree almost the minute she put them under there. I was a master spy at slowly but accurately removing Scotch tape from gifts and peering underneath the wrapping paper to see what was inside.

  And, just as stealthily, I’d re-tape the paper and act extremely surprised when we opened the gifts. Every once in a while, I’d tell myself I shouldn’t sneak a peek so I’d genuinely be surprised.

  Just as quickly, I’d talk myself out of that rationalization and go to work removing the tape from the rest of the gifts. My mom didn’t figure out I was a major snoop until years later when I caught her doing the exact same thing to a mystery gift my dad had left under the tree for her.

   The true generosity of Santa Claus wasn’t clear to me until I had children of my own. At night, as I’d tuck my boys into bed, they’d ask if Santa would really get them what they wanted. And on Christmas morning, when they saw that special gift with their name on it, the man at the North Pole got all the recognition, not mom and dad.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t want the credit for those gifts. Seeing the light in my sons’ eyes as they thought about how good they’d been that year and that someone with a hearty laugh and twinkling eyes was rewarding them was the best Christmas gift of all.

  This year, what my daughter-in-law and I will do is switch out toys as my granddaughter hasn’t yet discovered where I’m hiding her Christmas gifts. Hopefully, the secret identity of the jolly man in the red velvet suit will stay secret.

  At least for one more year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.