In my house, we sing a lot of songs. Not #1 hits. Not even Top 40. We sing mostly made-up -- and often inappropriate -- songs. I got the habit from my husband, who's been doing this as long as I've known him and probably long before that. Typically he changes the words from well-known anthems to suit whatever he's doing or whoever he is talking to at the time. For example, he co-opted the 1971 tune "Signs" by Five Man Electrical Band and turned it into a ditty about our first Boston terrier and his unfortunate encounter with employer discrimination: "Sign says long-eared fuzzy puppies need not apply..." For the record, Patch was neither long-eared nor fuzzy, and to my knowledge he never applied for a job. But why let facts interfere with good lyrics? Sometimes the hubs makes up original, heartfelt lyrics on the spot. One notable hair-band-esque riff he repeatedly sang during our courtship, while we spoke on the phone long-distance, was "ta...

T-minus 14 days Have acquired potty training operations manual from local library. Book helpfully explained myriad ways in which I have sabotaged myself by waiting until almost age 3 to begin potty training. Threw book angrily onto coffee table next to random collection of five plastic baby spoons and one mutilated Cube-Bot. That book isn't the boss of me. It can't tell me what to do. Target identified. T-minus 12 days Dropped off toddler's preschool registration documents, which clearly state that said toddler's attendance is contingent upon ability to use a toilet successfully without assistance. Retrieved discarded potty training manual from table where it was concealed beneath December issue of Thomas & Friends magazine.   T-minus 9 days Procured book for toddler referencing one Daniel Tiger and his urination proclivities. Features not-at-all-realistic sounding toilet flush when button is pressed. Toddler seems to enjoy pressing button, but refuses ...

So here we are. My hometown: a few square miles of Southeast Texas known for rice elevators, ill-timed trains, a Sam's distribution center, and a couple of state prisons. It's probably been 10 years since I was last here, and I didn't picture coming back. Some say you can never go home again. I can't seem to leave. South of town, about 2 miles past the old high school with the wrong-colored tiles, there will be a street on the left. It used to be called Oak Lane and was gravel, but now it's paved and goes by a different name -- as most things do when they've been upgraded. This house on the left at the dead end, this white brick one, is where I moved the summer before 2nd grade. That's the spot on the street where I fell off my bike on my 7th birthday and got stitches in my head. Right there by the trees is where we buried our Siamese cat. This is where I first learned about utility bills, and how the city could shut off your electricity in the middl...

L. O., 65, was declared dead February 24, 2016. He was found by police in his rusted10-foot travel trailer which stank of mildew and stale cigarette smoke and was piled with trash, old newspaper clippings, and indecipherable notes written on the backs of Wal-mart receipts. In the absence of knowing what he wished done with his remains, L.'s family opted for the easiest and least expensive route of cremation. Pace-Stancil Funeral Home is handling arrangements, because they happened to be the mortuary on call that morning. Born on March 11, 1950, in greater Cleveland, L. was a graduate of high school and college, though he made no discernible use of his education. He was a veteran of the U.S. Air Force for which he flew large, angry planes over Vietnam. Throughout his adult life his chronic unemployment was interrupted by an intermittent series of jobs, each apparently less skilled than the one before, which resulted in his living in several states including Arkansas, Missouri, C...

A friend of mine, god bless her, had her second child a few days ago. She's home from the hospital now, where they kick you out 48 hours after you squeezed a miniature human out of your body (72 hours if doctors had to slice through your innards to retrieve the baby), and in the throes of the stage I like to call What The Hell Have I Done? In a recent email I congratulated her, and she wrote back -- under the mistaken belief that I have this motherhood thing figured out -- asking "How do I parent 2? How much wine is too much? Tell me everything." I replied: "The best advice I can give is to figure out who has the most pressing need and take care of that first. Sometimes it's you. And that's okay. It's hard. In about three months you'll come up for air, wondering what the hell happened. But you will have survived, and probably the baby and the toddler will too, and that's what's important. Hang in there. Also skip the wine and go stra...

Free to a good home - 3 postpartum maxi pads Designed to absorb Lake Erie For the discerning woman who recently pushed something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a walnut. Pink-wrapped, NWOT pads are genuine hospital-issue and approximately the thickness of a queen pillow-top mattress. The high-end luxury hotel kind, not the bargain-basement mattresses found in Motel 6. Designed to absorb Lake Erie every eight hours without any pesky leaks or troublesome Asian carp. Generously sized, these formidable pads will easily span any woman's mangled undercarriage, from her gelatinous post-baby bellybutton to the top of her tremendously sore ass crack. Works nicely with ice packs. Suggested use: from first days home from hospital until you can sit down without wincing (approximately 7-14 days). Also would work as a comfortable resting place for any medium-sized dog, such as golden retriever or basset hound. As a bonus, you can compare your once-perky boobs to the ...

I don't think everything happens for a reason. I don't believe events take place when the time is right. I don't see -- or look for -- signs from God, or the universe, or a higher power. Which is what made this particular addition to my family all the more special. It was a random Wednesday in October. Isn't that when signs appear, when you least expect them? At almost 8 1/2 months pregnant with baby #2 , I was enjoying near constant backaches, heartburn after every meal, and the kind of fatigue that leaves you exhausted after unloading the dishwasher. You know, the fun pregnancy stuff. To add insult to discomfort, somewhere during the previous months I had lost my well-honed ability to nap. All of my adult naps up to this point were mere practice for the afternoon rests which I now really, really needed...yet suddenly I could not reach my goal of drifting off to sleep for a few precious minutes of recuperation during the long days. I was tired, I was frustrated, I w...