We got some skills.

That’s what I believe most teenagers are thinking when confronted with an adult who starts every sentence with “Back when I was your age…”

Most of us who sing the entire theme song to “Gilligan’s Island and “The Beverly Hillbillies” believe we have the upper hand with these youngsters.

We got some skills too. We can drive a stick shift, we know how to change the oil in our cars and we know how to use a rotary phone.

But today’s teens have skills we will never master.

They can read what’s on their cell phone while walking down the street, all the while avoiding potholes, little dogs and other people.

When I walk through the mall, I bump into other people every 10 steps and I’m not even looking at a cell phone screen.

Not today’s teens. They have a sixth sense about who’s around them even when they don’t seem to be paying attention.

They can text blindfolded. I’ve seen teenagers put their hands in the front pocket of their hoodie and text someone nonstop while looking me in the eye and without once looking at the front of the cell phone.

I’m still trying to master text messaging. When I try and hit the comma, most of the time I accidentally hit the GIF button and all kinds of stupid emojis pop up on the screen.

I don’t have a clue how to use an emoji in a text message. That’s not a skill most of the people my age have mastered.

These teens find dozens of new artists within days of their releasing a song on the Internet. Back in the day – yes, cue the “Old Geezer” music – we had to wait for Dick Clark to play the song on “American Bandstand” and see what score the teen judges gave the tune.

We’d wait patiently for new artists to find their way on Kasey Kasem’s “America’s Top 40” radio program and hope the ones we liked inched their way from #39 to #1.

The internet, most notably Instagram and Snapchat, make instant stars out of the most obscure musicians who have some incredible music. And, let’s face it, those of us who loved the Dave Clark Five are still trying to figure out the difference between Instagram and Snapchat.

Today’s teens do not know how to use the card catalog at the library. They haven’t a clue what an encyclopedia is and if we mention the word “Childcraft” to them, they think it’s a new installment in the Harry Potter series.

But they can find information, cross check it, watch a video about the event and see pictures in minutes.

They don’t need to memorize history – it’s at their fingertips, and they can be up to date on everything from Franklin D. Roosevelt to Donald Trump faster than we can say Dewey Decimal System.

Young people can order dinner from their phone, have their meal delivered to wherever they’re standing and then pay for it with a credit card on their phone. If we were hungry, we scrounged around in the pantry for some stale Wonder Bread, jelly and peanut butter.

To have the ability and the skill to order Chinese food, a pizza or a Santa Fe salad and have it in your hands in less than an hour is something we might’ve seen on “The Twilight Zone.”

So before we bash this young generation, let’s give them some snaps for having some pretty incredible skills.

Because back when I was their age… never mind.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The Internet is filled with slide shows and quizzes about the dozens of gadgets the younger generation will never know or remember.

I recognize every single thing.

I  know what a floppy disc was used for, I still remember waiting for the neighbor to get off the telephone party line so I could talk to my friend and I remember when there were only three television channels.

What brought that realization home was when a young person told me she couldn’t find her way because Google Maps was down.

Her friend had a hard time telling her how to get from Point A to Point B because she also relied on Google Maps for directions.

When we first moved to Fort Bend County almost 25 years ago, a friend gave me directions to Needville High School.

“Drive south on Highway 36. Turn left at the light,” he said.

“What light?” I asked.

“The light,” he replied.

So in keeping with accepting I’ll never understand video games or digital downloads, here’s a few of my observations about what the younger generation will never experience.

Home-fried chicken. I remember my mom putting a few cups of flour in a paper bag. She’d then season the raw chicken with Tony Chachere’s, add the chicken pieces to the bag and shake it. As kids, we took turns shaking the bag and then peeking in to make sure all the chicken was coated with flour.

The smell of that fried chicken was heavenly, and even better was the crispy skin on the outside. My arteries are cringing at the memory, but this new generation will never know the steps required to make really great home-fried chicken.

A real fireplace. We have a fireplace in our house. It has real gas flames. We flip a switch and the flames instantly start dancing behind a pane of glass.

Few youngsters will experience what it’s like to get firewood from an outside stack of logs – always on the lookout for scorpions, spiders and snakes. There’s an art to rolling up newspaper and tiny twigs to get the fire started.

Adding logs to the fire takes care because, too many, and the fire takes a long time to get back up to the place where you can hear the crackle and pop of the burning wood. The smell is heavenly as well and one does not experience that from the image of a fire on the television.

The family portrait used to hang over the mantle. Most of the time, it was a picture taken at church, courtesy of Olan Mills Portrait Studio. Now, there’s a flat-screen TV over the fireplace, and the family portrait is on somebody’s phone.

Home-made bread. There are still some who go to all the trouble of making bread. The last time I did that, one loaf cost me about five dollars, was as heavy as a brick and the kids wanted to know why I didn’t buy a loaf of pre-sliced Sunbeam bread.

I wondered myself.

The closest I come now to making my own bread is cracking open a can of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and serving them hot out of the oven.

There are some antiquated things this younger generation will never have to experience – waiting 10 minutes for the television or radio to warm up, not having anything to do on a sleepless night because the television stations all signed off at midnight and remembering telephone numbers.

Talking about fried chicken and home-made bread has made me hungry. Maybe I’ll look up those recipes in my dog-eared and well-used “River Roads” cookbook because I still know what a genuine plastic spiral-bound cookbook is used for.

As our country folk might say, I’ve got a hankerin’ for something good.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The Astros band wagon’s rolling through Texas, and everywhere I look, at least every other person’s wearing an Astros T-shirt or hat.

The morning after the incredible Jose Altuve hit a double to clinch a spot in the World Series, I saw a man in the grocery store wearing an Astros American League championship shirt.

I’m guessing he was one of the hundreds of fans that waited in line the night before to buy anything with an Astros logo on it.

The Lone Star state’s no different than any other state, and Texans usually find a way to go over the top.

Most SEC college football fans are over the top – the Florida Gators, the Georgia Bulldogs and the Aggies. But they come in second to a college team whose fans go above and beyond every single year.

Those who support the LSU Tigers.

Game days find the Baton Rouge area covered with purple and gold, from tiger-striped chairs, jackets, hats, blankets, barbecue mitts, license plates, people’s shutters and their tailgating gear. Those who move out of state consider purple T-shirts necessary attire.

But Astros fever is about as high as I’ve seen it, and with good reason.

We love winners.

When we first came to Texas over 25 years ago, getting tickets to see the Astros play in the Astrodome was a cheap afternoon.

We attended quite a few games with our boys, and we always came home with some Astros loot – a foam pillow, a tote bag or a foam bat.

The tickets were inexpensive for a Major League game, and the boys could run up and down the Astrodome aisles because there weren’t too many people there.

The boys all wanted Astros hats and Dome dogs, and we could pick those up for a few bucks.

When my grandson wanted a Jose Altuve jersey two years ago, that youth shirt set me back over $50.

For a shirt. And an Astros World Series official jersey is over $140.

But that’s what happens when the winner emerges.

True die-hard fans aren’t surprised. They know this fandom happens every time their team wins. But what about the fan that hangs in there year after year with a team that has a zero in the win column?

I know about those fans because my dad was one of them.

For all his adult life, my dad believed in the New Orleans Saints.

They were one of the worst teams in the NFL and I thought that anybody who supported them had to be crazy.

But every summer, my dad would tell us that this would be the year. Yes sir, this would be the year the Saints would go to the Super Bowl.

And their record would be the worst in the league.

But my dad’s faith never wavered. He passed away before the Saints won the Super Bowl in 2010, but I had a feeling he was sitting in heaven’s bleachers yelling “Mais oui, I told you so!”

He never begrudged anyone who joined the Saints band wagon. He was always happy when fans saw the light and cheered on his favorite teams.

And so it is with the Astros.

People walking around with an Astros shirt on should be proud of their home-town team. They beat the odds, proved the naysayers wrong and stood behind one of the shortest players in professional baseball to watch their team go for a second World Series pennant in less than five years.

They say everything’s bigger in Texas, and the love Texans have for the Astros is about as big as it gets.

Just don’t tell an LSU fan.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s been over 15 years since I’ve waited in an elementary school carpool line.

Fifteen years of forgetting the highs and lows of being an impatient parent in the long, torturous tunnel known as the drop-off line.

Lots of movies poke fun at the people who monitor the school drop-off and pick-up lines. The guards are usually blowing a whistle, redirecting parents going the wrong way and smiling at the children.

They’re strict about which way cars drive, and parents better not even think about cutting the line, driving in on the out driveway or taking too long to drop off their darling.

Those are all infractions that can get your tires slashed and, worse, get you shunned by other parents in the drop-off line.

My two oldest boys liked riding the bus. I didn’t question my good fortune, but that luck ran out with the youngest child. He claimed he got car sick on the bus, so I had to take him and pick him up from school every single day.

So I got to be quite familiar with the unspoken rules of the drop-off and pick-up line.

First, no lollygagging. When your car pulls up to where a teacher is waiting, your child better be ready to jump out of that car, backpack zipped, and lunch box in their hand.

No last-minute hugs and kisses, no time to comb their hair one last time and definitely no time to tie their shoes.

Because if you do any of those things, you face the wrath of all the parents in the line behind you, and they can be a ravenous mob, especially as their coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.

Afternoon pick-up lines are bit more laid back. After all, when you pull up to the curb and the teacher on duty opens the door for your child, the cool jazz music you enjoyed while waiting in the line evaporates into a burst of “guess what we dids” and “guess who threw up on the floor” stories.

Or they’re crying because they lost their lunch money, somebody looked at them with the “stink eye,” they have way too much homework and everybody hates them.

That’s when you’d gladly go to the back of the pick-up line and wait all over again.

I thought about all those memories when I was dropping my grandchildren off at Huggins Elementary one morning. I was new to their system, but no worries. I was an old hand at the drop-off line etiquette.

People coming from the north had to merge with people coming from the south. Two long lines had to merge into one line which would then go past the curb where smiling fifth graders would help children out of the car.

“This’ll never work,” I thought. I could see where the north-bound lanes would think they were lined up correctly and so could the south-bound lanes.

But people were civilized and the cars merged just as they’re supposed to do on the driving training video. People pulled as far up as they could, and smiling fifth graders were right there opening the doors and children were jumping out, ready to face the day.

And then it was my turn.

I didn’t pull all the way up because I was too busy making sure everybody had their backpacks zipped up and their lunch boxes were securely closed. I gave last-minute kisses and affirmative directions to have a great day and keep smiling.

Then I realized I was letting my grandchildren out at the last spot at the drop-off lane instead of way up ahead where I was supposed to be.

I thought for sure whistles would sound and people would lay on their horns, but none of that happened.

Teachers and fifth graders smiled and waved as I drove off, and I didn’t feel as guilty as I would’ve 15 years ago for being the kink in the garden hose.

I’m glad to see forgiveness is there for “that” person in the school carpool line. Now I just hope nobody asks me to pick the kids up in the afternoon.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Usually I don’t check my email on Saturday mornings, but I had a little time before heading out to run errands.

I’m glad I checked.

There was a message from my cousin Kathy that our cousin Pamela was in town for a few hours – did I want to get together at her mom’s house for a quick visit?

My first thought was my long to-do list for the day.

My second thought was a promise I made last year – no regrets. If I didn’t head into Houston and see my cousins, I’d get everything done on my list before 2 p.m. We didn’t grow up together, so it might not be a big deal to decline.

But I knew the right answer. Family’s important. I pointed the car toward Memorial City Mall and thought about the cousins in my life.

On my dad’s side, I have 25 first cousins, and there was always somebody our age when we got together for family crab boils.

Sylvia is a year older than I am, and we’re more like sisters than cousins. She helped guide me through the turbulent teenage years, and she’s still helping me cope with tough situations.

On my mom’s side, there’s also 25 first cousins. We spent many hours together at a grandparent’s house or an aunt’s kitchen, and those smells and scenes are as fresh to me today as they were all those years ago.

Kathy lives in the Houston area, and I get to see her from time to time. However, Pam lives in Virginia, and I hadn’t seen her in over 30 years. We call her mom Aunt Vickie, and I’ve looked up to her ever since I was a little girl.

Aunt Vickie was always on the go. She’d come over to my mom’s house in the mornings, pushing a stroller loaded down with all five of her children.

She’d bring along a loaf of freshly baked banana bread, articles she’d cut out of the newspaper for my mom and enough positive energy to fuel us for the day.

She ran marathons long before they were popular, wrote a booklet for incoming college students and taught business classes at the local business college.

My Aunt Mary is 89 and still going strong. As the eldest cousin, she was one of the first women in our family to go to college, and, as she put it, threw open the gates to equal opportunity for Lebanese girls.

When Pamela answered the door, I would’ve recognized her anywhere – the gorgeous ringlets so much like my Aunt Bev’s, the high cheek bones and her mom’s beautiful smile.

For two hours, Pamela and I sat at Aunt Mary’s kitchen table and compared memories about our hometown, the familiar smells in our grandmother’s kitchens, our children and grandchildren.

On the way home, I called my sister to tell her about the visit, and she looked Pamela up online. Pamela never gave me a hint that I was talking to one of the most prestigious educators on the East coast.

She’s a professor and chair at the exclusive William and Mary College. She’s written multiple books, was a Fulbright scholar in Dublin and has published numerous academic papers.

Bragging isn’t in Pamela’s DNA, nor is that trait evident in her siblings who are all highly-ranked professionals and scholars.

A true educator, Pamela quietly taught me something about grace and selflessness –take a genuine interest in the person sitting with you instead of figuring out what to say next. Our mothers, aunts and grandmothers taught us the same lesson, and they were all taught at the kitchen table.

I’m humbled and thankful to have five generations of strong, intelligent women as role models.

The next time an opportunity comes up to spend time with a remarkable woman, count me in.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Saturday morning at Sam’s Club isn’t exactly how I pictured spending my day off.

With 12-hour work days Monday through Friday, Saturday and Sunday are when I get the chores finished that had to wait during the week.

Changing the sheets on the beds, a little sweeping, getting the laundry under control, filling out lesson plans and grading papers fill up those two days.

I slip in fun activities for sure, but it seems work and the to-do list are never far from my mind.

That worry must’ve been evident on my face as I walked the aisles at Sam’s, pushing a big basket with snacks for our grandchildren and paper goods to last a few months.

I noticed a man walking my way. He was middle-aged, his eye glasses on top of his head and a slight spare tire around his middle.

He had a friendly grin on his face and, when he got to me, he slowed down and whispered something close to my ear.

“Smile. It’ll make you feel better.”

The encounter happened so quickly, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly, and he was gone before I had time to realize what he’d said.

One word kept rolling around in my head.

“Smile.”

I didn’t realize I wasn’t smiling until he pointed it out.

I slowed down and, for the first time in a while, paid attention to my face.

He was right.

My mouth was downturned and my eyebrows were tense as were my shoulders and back.

A total stranger jolted me out of the “woe-is-me” mood I’d been in for hours, maybe even days with a willingness to look at me, not past me.

I looked around the store, and most of the shoppers were wearing frowns, or at least looks of intense concentration.

The children weren’t smiling either, especially as their parents were hurrying them along so the shopping would go faster.

I’ve always thought of myself as a happy person, one of those glass is half full kinds. But it had been a long time since I really felt that way.

Slowing down, I relaxed my shoulders and put a smile on my face. That smile could’ve looked like a fake one, you know, the “fake-it-till-you-make-it” persona most of us project through life.

But the smile on my face wasn’t fake.

Neither was the smile reflecting a sunny disposition.

The smile was one of hope.

Because of that man, I could feel the tiredness riding on my shoulders lifting. I began to concentrate on all the good, wonderful blessings in my life instead of the dreary have-to’s.

And guess what. The smile did its job.

That stranger’s willingness to take a few seconds to whisper a few words of encouragement made me see the world through a different lens.

For the rest of the day, I made a conscious decision to smile at people in the store. To smile at the check-out clerk in the grocery store and especially to smile at my husband.

I even smiled at our dog.

They all smiled back, and although I was tempted to pass on the words that stranger gave to me, I knew my smile hadn’t taken a strong enough hold for me to be assured I’d keep the smile in my heart.

Anything worthwhile requires practice, whether it’s trying out a new sport, learning how to cook a new dinner or learning a new song.

And so I’m practicing.

Something as fundamental as happiness especially requires practice, and the best practice for living a life filled with joy starts with a smile.

So smile.

It’ll make you feel better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today is my mom’s birthday. Telling her age wouldn’t bother her, but she reared me to have manners, so I won’t tell her age, only that she’s a smidge over 80.

Delores Eade was born in Olean, N.Y., the second child to Henry and Albedia Eade. They were hard-working immigrants from Lebanon, and they welcomed their new dark-haired daughter with open arms.

She was quite a willful child growing up, or so the stories go. Her sister still has a scar on her hand from when my mom threw a fork at her and it stuck in her hand.

Then there’s the time she let go of the baby stroller carrying her little brother at the top of the hill and raced the buggy to the bottom. Luckily, she won.

Delores was a smart girl, but her parents were stubbornly old fashioned. Good Lebanese girls got married, had babies and lived near their parents. They did not go to college, but that wasn’t what my mom wanted.

She wanted to go to business school. So she told her father that her cousin was going and she supposed they weren’t as wealthy or as good as her cousin.

She knew her father could never accept that his children weren’t as good as his brother’s children, so my mom got to go off to business school.

A young coed, she met a handsome sailor in Virginia Beach one fun weekend. Old black-and-white pictures in an album show a vivacious woman on the beach with her friends, not a care in the world.

The young sailor was smitten with her, and she discovered, like her, he was Catholic and wanted a big family. They fell in love and thought they could figure out that she was a protected daughter from the North and he was a carefree, handsome son of a printer from the South.

They married and moved to the South, but when my dad’s father passed away, they moved back to the North, right next door to my grandparents. That lasted as long as it could, and then my dad moved his six children and his wife down to Louisiana.

It wasn’t easy. Her mother sent her hurtful letters about how she’d abandoned them, and week after week, my mom read those vile letters but never told us.

Instead, she went to work every day and then came home to prepare a hot dinner for her now seven children every single night without complaining.

I don’t remember being without anything I really needed, and I don’t remember my mother being gone – she was always there for all of us.

She stayed with an alcoholic husband who divorced her. But when he was terminally ill, she allowed him to move back in with her because she knew his grandchildren adored him and they needed each other.

She taught me it’s possible to forgive, even the most hurtful actions, and it’s possible to move forward and blossom, even when one thinks the roots are dead. She taught all of us to laugh at ourselves first and that there’s sunshine in even the darkest days.

She tells the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it, and having a hot cooked meal is the answer to almost all of life’s problems. We were never allowed to miss Sunday dinner with each other, and she always had a tablecloth on the table for those weekly meals after Mass.

She is adored by all seven of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings, nieces and nephews. Yet she takes that in stride, always claiming she’s the lucky one to be surrounded by such an incredible family.

So happy birthday, Delores Hebert Eade, mom, Siti, Sit-Siti and my best friend. I love you more than I can ever say. Thank you for not only being the best role model but for being someone who has shown me how to live and, more importantly, how to love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Friday night football games are legendary in the South. From small towns to big cities, people love to rally around the home-town team, honoring athletes, wearing matching jerseys and filling the stadium seats. Doesn’t matter if it’s 98 degrees or 10 below, die-hard football fans show up.

What helps fuel the passion is often a cross-town rivalry. Growing up, my alma mater, Baker High School, was always in competition with Glen Oaks High School situated a few miles away.

Those games were always the most fun with chants and school pride thrown around like Mardi Gras beads.

Terry High and Lamar Consolidated High School are similar rivals. Lamar CHS was the first high school built when the Richmond and Rosenberg high schools combined into one school district, Lamar CISD. Terry was built soon afterwards.

Other high schools have come into the area, but Terry and Lamar have always maintained a friendly rivalry. So it was with good cheer fans from both sides crowded into Traylor Stadium for the fourth annual Battle of the Berg.

The schools have played each other numerous times, but the good-natured rivalry heated back up about four years ago. Since then, there’s a big bell that goes to the winner of The Battle of the Berg as well as bragging rights for the next year.

Each year, the schools choose a worthy organization to donate funds to and an organization to honor.

Firefighters and police officers were chosen this year and rightly so. Our first responders put their lives on the line every time they go out on a call. Most of us can’t say our jobs require us to risk our lives, but first responders sign up and then carry out that promise.

Before the game, police officers ran onto the field with the Lamar team, and firefighters ran onto the field with the Terry team.

Some of these brave men and women stood alongside the players on the 50-yard line for the coin toss to see who’d be receiving the ball first.

They were then invited to stand on the track as bystanders for an up-close view of the game, and they had huge smiles on their faces as they watched the football game unfold.

That is until they heard shouting in the stands and people pointing into the crowd. Immediately, these wonderful officers turned around and immediately jumped up and climbed over the fence to get to the person who’d passed out.

Men and women officers were on their radios as officers ran up the stands carrying medical equipment. With first responders giving him oxygen and monitoring his vital signs, the young man regained consciousness and the officers carefully brought him down on a stretcher where he recovered.

When things calmed down, the first responders came back down to the track to finish watching the game. I commended them for their quick action, and they said it was part of their job. They never know when they’re needed, but when they are, they’re there.

These first responders came to the Battle of the Berg to watch two rival teams compete to see who’d take home the trophy.

Instead, they saved someone’s life.

That’s the difference between what first responders do and the rest of us. At a minute’s notice, they are called upon to save a life, and the trophy was immediately forgotten. A life was much more important.

We are beyond blessed to have these fine men and women in our midst.

Thank you, first responders, for all you do, no matter where you are.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our neighbors did a huge favor for us last week, and I wanted to thank them.

A card didn’t seem like a big-enough effort, so I thought about ways to express our gratitude to Arthur and Courtney for the many ways they look out for us.

It’s hard to find ways to thank people these days. When I was growing up, my Aunt Vicky baked banana bread to show her appreciation.

I can still remember the sight of the bread as it sat on the counter, wrapped snugly in aluminum foil, a promise of a sweet snack later that day.

These days, it’s hard to bake something for someone to reciprocate for a variety of reasons. First, health. Most baked goods are fattening, but that’s also why they’re so popular.

Then there’s the whole sugar debate. Articles put sugar right up there with Satan, and those with little children look at you as if you’re trying to poison their child if you dare offer them a chocolate-chip cookie or a Little Debbie cake.

So baking goodies is out of the question.

I thought about baking a casserole, but diet and sugar comes up again. Plus, most people are trying to eat a healthy diet, and most of the recipes I have that transport well all have a ton of cheese and cream in them.

That’s why they taste good.

If I tried to make something healthy, I’m not sure how an asparagus zucchini soufflé would go over as an appreciation gift.

I thought about a gift bag, but non-perishables are often high in empty calories. Still, a gift bag with a DVD and some chips and salsa sounds like a great gift.

Until I remember that most people don’t have DVD players any more – they download their movies from Netflix or use a cable subscription.

I’ve given a board game and included bags of microwave popcorn, but the last time I checked, the fat and calorie content in Orville Redenbacher’s movie theater popcorn was higher than the bag of cookies I was considering, so I had to rethink that idea.

Plus most young people haven’t a clue what a board game is all about – they don’t know one can play solitaire with a real deck of cards.

Besides, I’d have to explain the use of a deck of cards.

There’s always candles, but I haven’t a clue who’s allergic to the smell of dandelions or lilac. Plus candles can be considered dangerous because people forget they’re burning them while they’re trying to convince themselves that air-popped popcorn does taste just as good as the kettle corn.

Checking off the list in my head, I could give serving dishes as a gift. A nice serving tray always comes in handy.

But with two young boys, I don’t think Courtney wants to wash and dry a chip and dip tray. Most of us just rip open the bag, take the lid off the jar of dip and everybody dives in.

There’s picture frames, but nobody prints out pictures any more. They’re all online or in our phones.

I could go with a bottle of wine, but I don’t think they like wine. Besides, I don’t really know the difference between a pinot noir and a cabernet, so I’d probably make a huge mistake when trying to find something suitable.

I think I saw a wine-of-the-month truck cruising our neighborhood, so I’d probably be giving a gift they’d already bought.

So I’m back to Square one. Looks like a hand-written thank-you card, delivered in person, is the final answer.

But that sweet banana bread is calling my name.

Now where’d I put that recipe from my Aunt Vicky?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Even though the temperature’s still in the upper 90s, Christmas decorations are filling store shelves.

From artificial green garland to the creepy Elf on the Shelf, retailers are hoping to get our money early and quickly.

Toy manufacturers already have their top Christmas lists for kids posted online so parents can start buying and hiding gifts in the backs of closets.

Some of the hot toys include Baby Shark Fingerlings, based on the hit song “Baby Shark” that filled the airwaves this summer. These are just in case you did not hit overload from hearing “Baby Shark” a thousand times.

Predictions are that Blume dolls will be the most collectible toy this holiday season. Kids sprinkle water on top of their heads and they grow. At least that’s better the gross game where kids pop a pretend pimple and watch it squirt out something gooey.

For the kid that loves the bizarre, there’s a Treasure X aliens toy where kids perform an alien autopsy on creatures and dig through slimy innards to get a mystery prize.

Doesn’t every parent want to see an autopsy kit underneath the Christmas tree?

Crayola has a sprinkle art shaker where kids can sprinkle glitter all over their art work. You can stop right there – anything that has glitter is a definite no for your home.

Yes, kids love it. Yes, it looks pretty cool. But glitter is impossible to sweep or vacuum up. Tell your children that toy is for Grandma’s house.

Play Doh is fun.

Play Doh is inexpensive.

Play Doh is impossible to get out of your carpet.

Sand Art kits look like a lot of fun. Until your child spills the sand – which they are guaranteed to do – and you’re stepping on a gritty floor for two weeks.

Manufacturers are trying their best to get parents to buy kits where kids can make their own bubble bombs, lip gloss and perfume. Children will spill all the ingredients for all these kits. Children will become upset when the lip gloss tastes like glue. They will also become upset when the perfume smells like a cardboard box.

Instead, spring for Mr. Bubble, Chap Stix and inexpensive floral sprays and save yourself the trouble of trying to create your own Chanel No. 5.

One toy that kids will love is a Doodle Bear where they can draw all over a cute Teddy bear. Sounds like a fun toy as long as you can convince your 4-year-old that the Doodle Bear is the only toy they can draw on.

Not the walls.

Not the bedspread.

Not each other.

Just the Doodle bear.

You can buy foam that looks just like ice cream.

Kids will eat it.

Kids will grind it into the carpet.

Kids will paint the wall with the foam.

So forget the foam and stock up on Blue Bell ice cream instead.

There’s a slow-motion race game where the slowest person wins. Somebody designed this game who was never picked to be on a sports team or still believes games where you don’t keep score are a reality.

Barbie turns 60 this year and she’s still a go-getter. Our favorite blonde is now getting a dream plane where she can fly all over the world. That goes along with her Barbie Jeep, Barbie Dream house, Barbie Boat, Barbie Scooter and Barbie Glam Pool.

I’d love to be Barbie.

Paw Patrol is still popular. Now they’ve added the Mighty Pups figures, so even though you have all of the original Paw Patrol figurines and accessories, you’ll need to buy the Mighty Pups figures for a complete set. These franchises never miss a beat.

One that’s bound to be a hit with the kids and a nightmare for parents is Carpool Karaoke – the Mic. All you need to complete the descent into insanity is for your kids to be singing “Baby Shark” in unison while you’re stuck in traffic as they act out the song with their Shark Fingerlings.

So go ahead, start planning your strategy for getting the hottest toy of the season early. Just be sure and leave the Play Doh to the unsuspecting. You’ve been warned.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.