When I am old, I will smoke a pipe with vanilla tobacco. By the time I am 85 years old, smoking a pipe of vanilla tobacco will not negatively affect my health. I will be too old to negatively influence my children, and my great grand children will remember me. There will be, I am sure, many things I will not want to do, but I think the hardest thing will be to resist the urge to speak to my children, my grandchildren, and my great grand children in Disney Language (Disneyese).
So that when my son says, “Mom, I was thinking . . . .”
I will not answer, “A dangerous past time, I’m sure”(Beauty and the Beast).
Nor will I respond to misplaced temper with, “…and most of all…Control your temper(Beauty andthe Beast)
When somone askes me who the older gentleman is with my 10th grandson’s wife, I will not say, “The crazy old coot is belle’s father.”
No matter how temping, when my great grand-sons are whining about pulling some weeds, I will not say, like Grumpy did, “A fine bunch of water lilies you turned out to be.”
Nor will Ion any occasion sing to my sons, my grandsons, and my great grandsons about what kind of man they need to be:
“[men] BE A MAN
We must be swift as a coursing river
[men] BE A MAN
With all the force of a great typhoon
[men] BE A MAN
With all the strength of a raging fire
Mysterious as the dark side of the moon”(Mulan)(This one is going to be a hard one to resist!)
Neither will I encourage the eating of lettuces: romaines, butterheads, radicchio, arugula or endive by saying, “Eating greens is a special treat, It makes long ears and great big feet. But it sure is awful stuff to eat”(Bambi).
And when my 2 year old great grand-daughter jabbers to me, in a languge I cannot understand, I will not say, “Look, you’re really cute, but I can’t understand what you’re saying” (Finding Nemo).
Despite their good intentions, when my children try to wake me up at 5 a.m. to take me to the beach with them, I will not sound like Madam Mim, “I hate sunshine! I hate horrible, wholesome sunshine! I hate it! I hate it! I hate, hate, hate!” and pull the covers back over my head (The Sword and the Stone).
Nor will I ask the tiny child rummaging through my candy box, “Who are You?” Catepillar from Alice in Wonderland (because I will know all their names).
And when that tiny child eats my last favorite piece of candy, I will not shout or even whisper, “Off with their heads,”(Alice in Wonderland).
When I ask my 4 year old great grandaughter what her name is because I am so old and have so many new names to remember, when she just stares mutely, terrified of the little old lady smoking a pipe with vanilla tobacco, I will not impertintly answer,”At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then” (Alice in Wonderland).
I will not wish strangers, “A Very Happy Unbirthday”(Alice in Wonderland), and when my son tells me the doctor has ordered me to never eat ice cream again, I will not answer, “Never say Never whatever you do”(An American Tail).
When they asked, “What’s for dinner Great Grannydoodle?” I will not answser, “Kidney of a horse, liver of a cat, filling up the sausages with this and that” (00ps–Les Miserable, but it is one of my most favorite lines).
If my sons dared to ask, just because they are in their 50s and think they are old enough, “Why did you do it, Mom” when I visit and eat all their ice cream at 2 a.m. I will not say, “I’d like to make one thing quite clear: I never explain anything”(Mary Poppins).
How many times do you do something wonderful, and your children, whom you think sparkle like the moon and stars, do not appreciate your Sparkleness? Sometimes that attitude can dull your sparkle, though it is not supposed to. I guess that is the humanness within.
Shirley at 
And then the amazing 
Halloween is digging down into the costume chest and pulling out something to dress up your imagination. It is a breast plate, shield and cape, with a worn grey sword that wilts more than jabs. It is a cowboy vest, sherriff’s badge, and a frayed cowboy hat that has seen more than its fair share of fights. It is a bumble bee, leopard or Peter Pan. It is a dressed up witches hat or black cat ears, black smudged nose, and painted whiskers.
It is knocking on neighbor’s doors who brought your mama “Welcome to the neighborhod” cookies or the little red-headed girls house who has a crush on your brother. It’s a door opening and friends spilling out of the dark dank, dreay night into the golden warmth of the Pumpkin House(which is what I called our old house because it was orange brick with black shutters). It is filling jack-o-lantern buckets with candy for your neighbor’s children who share school rooms, teachers with your children, who stop by for hot chocolate on fall afternoons.
Then, after the pumpkin lights are blown out, the costumes tucked away, the candy stored out of reach, then it is time to thank God for the blessings of children, family, and fellowship, the joy of giving, laughter, and imagination, for a moment where the daily struggles dissipate in the steam of good food, respite from the world that figuratively buffetts each day. Thank you for a moment to enjoy, refreshing myself in the gifts you have given me and the gifts given out.
Trick or Treat
My sons looked at me blankly. Hmmmmm, apparently, I needed to put this into the U-14 venacular.” Passing houses with pumpkins filling door ways, black cat flags, and other ghoulish festivities, I pulled an idea out of the figurative candy basket of my brain.
I countered my 8th grader, “But he is your Dad, you have to do what he says. Just like the president is the president-you have to do what he says, too. Socialism is like your dad telling you you must share, whether you want to or not. Socialism is when the leader of your country decides how many other people you have to give your hard-earned halloween candy to.”
I used to think moms with just sons were pretty scary, until I became one of those moms. 
A truly SCARY MOMMY makes sure Santa stuffs stockings for the older sons with things like Payne’s Common Sense, Tocqueville’s Democracy in America or C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity. However, for every Scary Mommy high moment, there is an equal Scary Mommy low moment, like when I reviewed every Def Leppard song with my son who disagreed that every Def Leppard song is about sex. We were trying to eliminate the sin-with-a-good-beat music choices. All Scary Mommy had to do was raise an eyebrow. My son conceded victory, but Scary Mommy was rather red-faced. Def Leppart no longer blared at the house.
The boys would really think I was SCARY MOMMY if they knew what I was like without God in my life giving me the strength, the courage, the inspiration, the never-give-up-ness to believe in their innate goodness when it’s on sabitacal, to believe they are walking in God’s plan for their lives when it seems like every plan has been thrown away, to believe they have generous hearts when they are tight-fisted with their brothers, and to love passionately and unconditionally even when they don’t want to love me back. SCARY MOMMY drops to her knees in prayer when life is scarier than she is!
The ACLU and timid school administrators keep trying to squash prayer in school.
I am forgoing Simply Saturday this week to promote Monday as a day of Prayer to Stop Violence in our Schools. A few years ago, when my one son was 
“The world is governed by the aggressive use of force,” was played out last week with the 
One of my sons had a similar, but more threatening experience in 7th grade. As the principal explained to me, it all stareted when the class bully kept throwing tootsie rolls at a girl and hitting her in the eye. My son told him to stop. It was Halloween. After Thanksgiving, this same student pulled a knife on my son and threatened to use that same knife to stab him in the back and kill him the next week.
I was assured that my son had just as fine of privacy rights as the student who pulled the knife. I countered that my son didn’t have anything to hide, so I didn’t need those privacy rights.
I want the school system to teach that right is might.
I love Fall. The smell of crisp, musty leafy air. The crunch and skittering leaf sounds. Blustery wind that sasses. It is the only time of year that I orange is my favoarite color. Otherwise, I abhor it. It is the only time of year a black cat gives me pause.
When autumn comes, I pull out my very favorite autumn children’s book, ”When will the Snow Trees Grow?” by Ben Shecter. The little guys and I wrap up in our blankets, snuggle up with some hot chocolate for them and warm apple cider for me. Because the “lemonade isn’t as sweet.” The blankets feel just right. And the wind rustles around the house trying to find a way inside. Shector poignantly shows how tastes and needs evolve with the seasons.
Another favorite book pulled out, for the older, more adventuruous among us is The Oxford English Edition of Classic Ghost Stories. The stories collected in these pages are to horror movies what Belgian truffles are to cheap chocolate. No gimmicks, just stories passed own through folklore, sprung out of supersitition, imagination, and a dark night. It is one of my husband’s favorite books to read, too I heartily enjoy it, but don’t like reading it if he is out of town–BOO!
Of course, since lemonade doesn’t taste as sweet, it’s time to pull out the crock pot and stir up some mulled apple cider, topped with homemade whipped cream and Starbucks Caramel Sauce. My favorite hot chocolate recipe is the way my aunt used to make it when I’d spend the night. Milk warmed with Hershey’s Unsweetened Cocoa and made just like it says on the back of the box:
One of my favorite parts about autumn will be different this year. For years, the boys and the neighborhood kids would stop by in the midst of their afternoon play, no matter how cold the weather. I would pull out my S’More indoor grill. The gaggle would pull up the stools to the counter, and S’More Snacks for everyone-a regular autumn event! The neighborhood kids might be in another state, but the S’More Maker is with me! 
Last Fall my now 5th grader chose The Youngest Templar: Keeper of the Grail by Michael Spradlin. We were at Barnes & Noble having mom/son time. Mom/son time most often consists of a book and a treat. 
After he finished the book, I started avoiding Barnes & Noble for mother/son outings. Everytime we visited, he’d ask, “Has the author published another one?” I explained that sometimes it takes a year or two for an author to write and publish a new book. This book had only come out. Petco was looking pretty good as an alternative Mother/Son outing.
A lot of excitement brewing in our house: October 29 heralds the release of the much-anticipated sequel, 
My youngest has a solution to his Dad’s snorning. While he’s sleeping, dress him up as a racoon, and carry him outside. What a solution! I can’t stop visualizing that.
Problem Solving? Unraveling mysteries, deciphering handwriting, solving a riddle. Sherlock Holmes, watch out, Ms. Marple, step aside. Rumpole, it’s not your turn.. The Great Mommy Detective – that’s me.
“Nine,” he answered.
The first award, given by
Mocha Mama 
Thank you 
Women have been blogging since man taught them to read, gave them a pen, and told them to write. Some women wrote letters, some kept household records, some wrote on the request of the pope.
In an every expanding world where all the big voices drown out the little voices, the blogasphere is a spot where a common-man voice can be heard. Maybe Hollywood had something to do with it. Maybe people got tired of people like Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn having the soap box to spout their opinions because they are in the movies and have a lot of money. The common people wanted their turn on the soap box. After all, America’s right to free speech is not only available to people who get their voices on t.v. Free speech is for regular folks, too.
Women communicating, just like they did 700 years ago, except it is a lot easier today! Do not fall for the media definition of blogging. The potential for nobleness in this communication is vast. My mission statement is to write about what being the mother of 5 sons has taught me, the challenges I face raising those sons, the environment I create in raising them.
Simmer one chicken in a soup pot with celery. Puree the celery in the food processor if you want your kids to eat all the soup and not leave little green chunks. Add salt and pepper while simmering.
Add spaghetti or bow-tie pasta. Chop chicken while the soup simmers. Add to pot. Soon you will hear slurping and spoons scraping the bottom of the bowl, in addition to voices asking, “May I have some more?” Afterwards, wrap up in a quilt and sleep off that dead boar of a flu!
Katie over at 
One son loves to give, but he does it with wisdom and insight. Not rashness. Not guilt. When you receive a gift from him, you know he puts a lot of thought into it. He and the oldest one gave me a chess set one year on my birthday. They planned, saved their money, and gave me the most perfect gift. 
Love hugs with food when hugs aren’t “in.” Love opens your heart to your kid’s friends. Love quilts! Love prays! Love hopes in the face of adversity! Love lectures! Love sees past the tantrum into the goodness! Love is unconditional! Love offers friendship! Love Champions!
The Mother of Sons gig comes with a bag of issues. Paul Dean has broken the glass ceiling, though. Nobody questions her ability to cook or entertain as the mother of sons. Of course, she doesn’t have 5.
In Peter the Great by Robert K. Massie, Peter cannot sit still. He wants to stand and learn. He doesn’t want to learn math, science, history, astronomy; however, he wants Russia to have a navy. As a result, he learns through unit study where he learns everything there is about a navy: architecture, astronomy, math, history, literature, languge, engineering, science.
