Motherhood & More: Taking a stand against the bedtime routine* **

For the safety of my children and the preservation of my mental health, I have given up on bedtime routines.

For as long as I can remember of my time as a mother, since my son was born, bedtimes have been the worst. They are fraught with anguish, disagreement over exactly how tired the particular child is and futile attempts to persuade said heathen to just go to sleep already because Mama needs a break.

Whining and fighting and refusal to listen to reason or yelling have been the norms.

As soon as my son got easier, my daughter was born. She gives new meaning to stubbornness and outright ignoring any attempt to bend her to my will.

Somehow we got into a ridiculous routine of stories and snuggling and various feats of mental persuasion and voodoo trickery that had to be performed in a certain order before she would consent to stay in her bed.

Of course, this only worked part of the time, maybe 60 percent. The other times I wouldn’t do something properly so there would be screaming and flailing about and I would lock myself in my own bedroom in hopes that by ignoring her she would eventually tire herself out.

I know that everything got out of hand because I allowed it, but I only allowed it because I was so tired and wanted, just once, to be able to walk downstairs and feel good about how bedtime went. So I went along with the crazy.

My husband, who had bedtime every other night, never encountered these issues. Ask me how I felt about that. Go on. Ask.

Ahem.

So after a particularly bad routine recently, wherein I was kicked in the face by one of my lovely angel children after the other one had worn my patience down to the quick with a refusal to be agreeable about anything, I stomped downstairs announcing loudly to my husband that I was done. Finished. Never again would I be subjected to this torture because I refused to participate in it anymore. No more bedtimes. None. Zero.

It was liberating.

In the time since my stand, I have had to endure minor whining about how Dad’s had too many bedtime turns and now it’s Mama’s turn, but I refuse to be persuaded. I’m not walking up those stairs anymore, kids. As I say to them daily, you are responsible for your own actions and those actions have consequences. You did it. You suffer through the penalties.

Now, obviously this doesn’t mean that I ignore them at bedtime. I’m happy to read them a story downstairs on the couch and give hugs and kisses. But I’m not setting foot into their rooms because that’s how it will start. That’s how they’ll draw me back into their madness and in no time I’ll be performing again in the minor hopes of a smooth transition to sleep.

I figure I’m only helping them out by ensuring they become self-sufficient people.

Tuck yourselves in, kids. I’m out.

*This column was originally published in The News-Enterprise on August 24, 2016.

**Alternate title: Go The Fuck To Sleep

Motherhood & More: Trip allows time to recapture the old, discover the new*

As parents, many times we put our lives on hold to make sure our children have everything they need. They always are fed first or clothed first. Their needs always are met before anyone else’s.

But sometimes, we have to do things for ourselves.

In the spirit of that, my husband and I took a trip — a no-kids, only-have-to-worry-about what-we-want, no-complaining-allowed trip. And it was glorious.

We have been married for 10 years this past April — a long time, right? And in that entire time, we’ve never had a trip together that lasted longer than a day or two. We actually never had a honeymoon because of work commitments.

So we were long overdue. I actually wasn’t convinced we’d really get to go until we were more than half way to our destination. I am an optimist at heart, obviously.

But go we did. We went to Savannah, then Tybee Island in Georgia. It was hot and muggy and gorgeous and fantastic. We had actual conversations that weren’t interrupted by arguing children in need of a referee. We ate in restaurants without having to make sure there was a kids’ menu, because heaven forbid they eat something other than a burger or chicken nuggets.

We drank grown-up drinks at 3 in the afternoon.

We were together. Just us.

I took three midday naps.

I remembered what it was like to spend days with just my husband and we were able to be us again, not Mama and Daddy.

I walked miles each day without listening to one person with tiny legs complain about their feet.

I didn’t have to brush anyone’s hair but mine, or help anyone dress, or argue about the importance of clean underwear.

I didn’t have to follow a tiny tyrant’s schedule that includes more than frequent bathroom breaks.

And yet.

I didn’t get to show the kids the ocean or force them to try new foods under threat of lost screen time. I didn’t get to swim with them or people watch with them or stay in a hotel with them, which obviously is the best part of any trip away from home.

I didn’t get to stay up too late with them, watching a movie they probably shouldn’t be watching or share the history of a gorgeous old town.

I think it’s good for our kids to see us as separate from them, not just Mama and Daddy, or “The Ones Who Make Us Do Things We Don’t Want To Do.”

They need to see us as who we are as individuals, who we were before them. But it’s hard when you can’t quite remember who that is. Taking a few days to just be me, to just be us, let me have a bit of that back. And I was able to see how different of a person I am now, eight years later.

And maybe it let my kids miss me a bit and appreciate me just a little bit more.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on June 22, 2016.

Motherhood and More: It's not a parenting failure to seek the help you need

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the time after my daughter was born. I was a new stay-at-home mom and my son was 2 years old.

I’m not sure what has brought on these reminisces, but it’s hard to compare where I was then to where I am now. At the time, I made plenty of jokes about not having adult conversation, but was silent about my real struggle.

Over time, I spiraled into a deep depression. I don’t know how else to say it. There were many days when I didn’t think I’d make it through, many days when I locked myself in the bathroom to cry. Many days when I lashed out at the kids when I shouldn’t have.

I felt guilty every day. I felt anxious and sad and lost and hopeless. I didn’t know what to do or how to ask for help. I didn’t tell anyone, because how do you tell people you’re failing? How do you ask for help when to do so you’d have to admit that failure?

It’s only now, years later, that I feel OK with sharing because I’m so far removed from it.

I assume I was suffering from post-partum depression. At the time though, I just thought I was bad at being a mother. But I powered through. I trudged along each day making breakfast, playing games, coloring, but all the while feeling desperate and lost.

I felt alone. I felt that no one could be as awful a mother as I was, so I didn’t seek out people to talk to because I didn’t want them to see exactly how bad I was.

We didn’t have much money and only one car, so we weren’t able to go out to places. And when we did go out in public it was like running a marathon. My daughter was not the best child to take places. She was easily frustrated and easily irritated and ridiculously impatient. Add to that an older child who was testing his boundaries and you have a disaster waiting to happen.

I was terrified to take them out by myself, so most days we stayed home.

We did have fun, though I know it doesn’t sound like it. I tried to plan activities to keep them entertained, but sometimes it was physically painful to have to be on and available all day. I’m an introvert, which means I desperately need alone time to function. That doesn’t happen when you have two small children who need you 24 hours a day.

I became obsessed with my son’s first memory. I was convinced it would be of me yelling over something stupid and silly and that would color our relationship for the rest of our lives. I lay awake at night thinking about it, feeling terrible, feeling the weight of my responsibility pressing on my chest.

Eventually, I realized I needed to do something, that I had to fix what was broken, because something obviously wasn’t right. I knew I needed anti-depressants, but also felt, again, like I was a failure for needing them. I didn’t want to be like this. I felt weak and childish, like if I only was stronger, if I only tried a little harder, I’d pull myself out.

But I think it took strength to finally ask my doctor. I was shaking and crying, trying to explain the issue without making myself seem too terrible.

And the anti-depressants worked. They worked so well. I felt so much better, like a black cloud had gone, like the pressure and the weight and the desperation were lessened.

It wasn’t a quick fix and it wasn’t 100 percent. It took time and effort and there still were days I locked myself away to have a few minutes to myself.

But I was better and functioning and not spiraling any deeper. I was able to see clearer and to be the mama my kids needed.

So if you see a friend or loved one struggling, even a small amount, look a little closer. Ask questions, offer assistance. They might be searching for help but not know how to ask for it.

We’re all in this together, right?

This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on May 25, 2016.

Motherhood and More: Tackling the kids’ rooms leaves feeling of accomplishment*

I spent a day and a half cleaning out my children’s rooms.

I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. We try hard to instill work ethic and values and independence into our children. As in, it is their responsibility to keep their rooms clean, because it is their own space and they are the ones who messed it up.

But we all slack off a bit. Their rooms are upstairs and they don’t like to spend much time in them, so I don’t actually see the mess all that often — bedtime, every other night is it. Usually by that time I’m too tired to care about anything, much less a pile of papers under the bed and toys out of place.

Enough of that, though, and you’ve got a gigantic problem in the form of endless hours of cleaning. Plus, it had been years since I’d done a true toy overhaul.

Their rooms and closets were a packed plot of broken bits and pieces of discarded, never-used toy cars and fast-food toys, broken Legos, crumpled paper, many, many tote bags to hold the crumpled paper, too-small clothing and shoes, Lego boxes, (because we had at some point decided we had to keep all of them) and other childhood detritus that didn’t have a home with us anymore.

It was time.

It was past time.

We shipped the kids off for the day. If they knew I was throwing out toys that hadn’t been touched in two years, those toys suddenly would become their most loved and prized possessions.

I spent hours gleefully tossing half-finished drawings, old books and old toys into bag after bag to toss or donate. I did not waste much time on sentimentality. At one point in my life I would have considered everything my children touched as keepsake worthy. Now I am ready to purge.

However, before you think I am a cold-hearted mama, I did save all the stories my son has written — and really I should be commended for that because he has written a lot of stories. For now, they can stay.

My daughter’s room has two huge closets and they’ve become a sort of storage area for junk we hadn’t found a home for yet. Not anymore. Old candles, old decorative items, old junk — all gone.

The beauty, the release I felt once everything was disposed of was tantamount to climbing a mountain – I assume. I’ve never actually climbed a mountain, but I’m sure it totally feels as much of an accomplishment as cleaning your kids’ rooms.

The book organization alone was enough to make me feel I’d been a catalyst for world peace. The bare floors inspired poetry.

My children, when they returned to clean, lightened rooms, were understandably pleased. Probably because they didn’t see the amount of bags of their stuff I’d given away.

My son, always the one to offer a helpful comment, came to me after surveying his room and said admonishingly, “You didn’t really clean much in my closet, Mom.”

This was, of course, not true as that was where most of the garbage bags I filled came from. It also wasn’t all that nice of a thing to say.

But I let it pass. Sooner or later he’s going to notice what I’ve taken away. I’ll be sure to reply, innocently, “I have no idea where that went. I didn’t clean very much in your closet.”

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on April 27, 2016.

Motherhood & More: When your child is a lot like you, try pickin’ together*

My son is too much like his mother.

I can see parts of his personality grow­ing to become mirror images of mine. We’re both entirely too sensitive and take everything personally. We see the world in black and white, right and wrong and are hard to dissuade when we’ve made our decision on which is which. That one I’ve almost grown out of and am much more flexible these days, I promise.

However, the hardest one to overcome is our need to be good at everything we decide to attempt – drawing, music, soccer. No matter what it is, we don’t want to do it if our natural abilities won’t let us start better than everyone else.

Now, my son is having this issue with music.

I was raised with music as a large part of my life. My dad is a musician – guitar, bass, Dobro – and my sister and I grew up watching him perform in countless bands or have jam sessions at family pig roasts and get-togethers. We both took piano lessons; however, I quit early on over a difference of opinion with the piano teacher. She was mean and I didn’t like mean teachers.

But I still can play a tiny bit of “Stand By Me” and “Heart and Soul,” and, of course, “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” We all sang, although my mom insists that she “only plays the radio.”

I decided around 15 or 16 I wanted to learn the guitar. I was pretty ob­ses­sed with Janis Joplin and “Me and Bobby McGee” was No. 1 on my learn-to-play list. Plus that was when Lilith Fair was happening and there was an explosion of girl folk singers. I fit right in.

So I got a guitar, my dad taught me some chords and I started playing. I learned classic rock songs and oldies and angsty, acoustic girl power songs, then began writing my own angsty, acoustic girl power songs. I played guitar in church on many Sundays with a group of friends and a couple of times played at school chorus events.

But I slowed down considerably in college and stopped all together once I had my first kid. Time, you know? There’s only so much of it.

So when my son showed interest in music, I pushed for the guitar. My dad, who stresses the importance of nurturing musical talent, fixed him a left-handed one and we scheduled lessons with a local teacher.

But the problem is there was too much time between scheduling and the start of lessons. He had a couple of weeks to think and too much time to try it and see he’s not going to be able to play the guitar well without practice. He’s worried he’s not going to be good enough and so we had many, many discussions on why it’s important to work at skills, to push yourself, to just try. Because it’s in the trying and the effort that you see what you can accomplish.

He went into his first lesson excited and nervous and came out ready to learn. I can hear him in his room after bedtime and early in the morning strumming, trying as hard as he can to fret the G chord using his pinky.

What’s really great is that this is something we can do together. He wants me to work with him, to play with him. So now I’m excited and ready to pick my own guitar back up and play.

I wonder if he wants to learn any Lisa Loeb?

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on March 23, 2016.

Motherhood & More: When the kid's right, he's right — even if he's wrong*

I have a kid who knows more than me.

At least, that’s what he believes. And he’s right in some instances. For example, I do not know whether emeralds are stronger than diamonds in Minecraft or how to work the Playstation remote or the different life cycles of certain bugs.

I do, however, know that Valentine’s Day always, every year, falls on Feb. 14, not Feb. 7. The child was adamant to the point of frustration and near tears that he was right and we, his parents, were absolute idiots for not knowing the true date of the holiday.

This type of thing happens often. When he is sure, he will fight you with the determination of a stubborn 7-year-old dealing with his out-of-touch parents. Sometimes he’s right, sometimes he’s wrong. Always he’s obstinate.

I try to think back to when I was his age and wanted to be taken seriously and whether I was as much of a jerk to my parents. (Yes. The answer is yes. I am still not quite clear how my parents didn’t regularly drop me and my sister off somewhere for extended periods of time just to get away from the enormous amount of attitude heaped upon them daily.)

I know it’s horrible to be dismissed and not respected as an intelligent, thoughtful person, even at 7. I try to be as supportive as I can while still needing to banish the child to his room until he stops talking to me as if no one in the entire world could be as “un-with it” as I am.

And the thing is, he’s super, crazy smart. He does know much more than I do on certain subjects, which makes all of this that much harder.

I honestly thought I had more time before this became an issue. Twelve? Thirteen? Isn’t that the age the eye rolling starts? But now I can see years and years spread out before us, with him being increasingly right and me being increasingly wrong.

We, the parents, will become progressively out of touch with what “the kids these days” are doing. Already I can’t keep up with technology, so I am becoming a stereotypical mom who needs her kid to show her how to use all the new-fangled phone apps. I also now am using words like “new-fangled.”

So he will grow ever away from me — seeking more time with friends and less time with his boring, dorky parents.

For now, though, I still can get him to discuss books and movies and whatever else is interesting him, though I tune out when he starts in on Minecraft. There is only so much interest in Minecraft I can fake and I met my limit a year ago. (Sorry, kid. This blank stare totally doesn’t mean I’m not interested in seeing the new house you built. Swearsies.)

And maybe, if I am lucky and patient and can ignore the eye rolling, he will continue to teach me new things and I will be able to learn with him.

At least until he turns 13, right?

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on February 24, 2016.

Motherhood & More: Finding time, energy to be available for demands on Mama's time*

Parenting is a hard gig, right? I mean, no one disputes that, or the fact that it’s draining and exhausting. But it’s also wonderful and life-changing and happiness-bringing and awesome, obviously.

Lately I’ve been having trouble feeling the awesome. What I mean by that is I am wishing greatly for more time to be me, not Mama. My sweet heathens are all loved and fed and clothed and happy, and I am being as good of a parent I can, but I don’t seem to relish it, you know?

I have hours to myself – I work at home while the kids are in school so rarely do I hear a noise other than my own thoughts and my fingers typing on the keyboard. And I like it – no, LOVE IT – that way. I am sort of an introverted extrovert in that I am very comfortable at home, quiet, doing my own thing. But I am also thrilled to be around other adults.

But the kids – they come with much more work than do grown-ups. They return home from school each day with demands for food and homework help and pent-up energy and whining from having to behave. I have to mentally prepare myself for a culture shock each weekday at 2:20, when the complete silence turns into complete chaos.

And then there was the holiday break and the endless snow days, and what I’m saying is that I’m really missing the quiet. I am having a hard time being a present, involved mama. I am spending too much time at my computer and not enough time playing horses or Barbies or Star Wars or monopoly.

I’ve begun tensing up when I see the children heading my way, because I know it means they will want something from me, or have a question for me that will only lead to more questions, and then even more questions because my son never stops talking. Like ever.

I feel myself resent the interruption, and then resenting the fact that I have that feeling. I resent the need to be alone, and yet desperately need to be alone. I am working daily, hourly on trying to be more in the moment and to actually enjoy those moments. 

I want to say ‘yes’ instead of ‘not now’ to my daughter when she asks me to play another game of monopoly or work another puzzle. I want to want to answer my son’s 178^th ‘Did you know’ question on his latest obsession (Star Wars. Pirates. Minecraft. Weather. Rocks. Bugs. Animals.) 

I am trying. It is so very hard. But I figure if I force myself to get out of my head, to be present, to say yes even when I don’t feel like I can, soon it will be easier. I will not inwardly sigh when they come to me. My smile will be more enthusiastic. 

And they might just better remember all the times I was available to them instead of all the times I was too busy.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on Jan. 27, 2016.
  

Motherhood & More: Hoping kids remember more than Christmas magic misses*

I think I may have single handedly ruined the magicalness of Christmas for my kids.

I mean, there’s only so much enchantment I can create, you know? As much as I would love to present my children with a Pinterest Christmas, I gave up on that attempt the year my daughter destroyed the homemade applesauce cinnamon ornaments just because.

They have an advent calendar with a daily treat (mostly cheap chocolate because I am not an idiot) but we had to move that surprise to the afternoon because someone (my son) wasn’t sleeping past 4:30 a.m. He was too excited because of all the anticipation, and I was too tired because of all the early rising.

But sometimes I forget to have their treat out when they get home from school. They run expectedly, eyes bright hoping for their tiny snowman chocolate. I have to inform them that no, their mother wasn’t prepared. Again. But hold on a minute and I’ll get it for you. I guess that ruins the surprise, or something.

We also acquired an Elf on the Shelf a few years ago as a family gift, though we probably would have gotten him ourselves because everyone has to have an elf now, right?

Guess how happy I am about that little nuisance? Not only does he absolutely have to be in a different spot every night, but parents now are creating ridiculous scenarios where their elf is squirting toothpaste all over the bathroom because he’s just a silly, naughty thing. Excuse me, but I have enough junk to pick up after my children. Sorry, kids. I’m not cleaning up after the elf, too. You will just have to make do with our boring Mr. Christmas.

I also don’t understand how people leave their elves in places low enough for kids to reach. My kids know they’re not supposed to touch him. However my daughter will look you right in the eye as you tell her not to touch and poke the poor guy’s leg. That’s because no one is allowed to tell her what not to do, obviously.

And now my son has started writing to our elf. Usually he tells me when he’s written a letter and asks that I make sure the elf knows about it because we have a special bond, Mr. Christmas and I. But sometimes my son doesn’t tell me and is greatly disappointed when there isn’t a response. That means, of course, that now I have to search for a letter every night, just in case.

As much as I complain, I actually wish I were better at all of this than I am. I’d love to be the type of mom who has everything organized enough to fill every day of the Christmas season with magic. I’m having a difficult enough time keeping up with all I’m supposed to be doing that isn’t Christmas related, and many times I drop the ball. But I hope they don’t remember all the times the elf didn’t respond to a letter, or how we still didn’t put up the outside Christmas lights.

Maybe, instead, they’ll remember cookies we made, the tree we decorated, the Christmas music and hot chocolate, and the holiday shows we watched snuggled up together and offer a bit of forgiveness to their imperfect Mama.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on December 23, 2015.

Motherhood & More: With the holidays upon us, I am thankful for coffee*

Every year I wonder how it is that the holidays have come so quickly. I’m not nearly ready for any of it and it’s become a tradition to rush around crazily at the last minute. I don’t think this is so much because I put things off, but rather I pile too much stuff on in hopes of being everything to everyone.

So, in the spirit of giving myself a break, I’m copping out on this column. I’m going easy on myself. So this will not be literary genius of a piece, as they normally are, of course. This will be a last-minute, thrown-together list written in between work and laundry.

You are so welcome.

Without further ado, I give you my Thanksgiving List Of Things I Am Thankful For:

• I’m thankful my daughter slept all night in her own bed without crawling into mine, snoring and stealing all the covers.

• I’m thankful for interesting work I can do from my dining room table.

• I’m thankful my son enjoys reading as much as I do, even if his favorites employ toilet humor instead of complex plot development. “Captain Underpants,” I’m looking at you.

• I’m thankful we have a house that is a cross between 1920s craftsman, 1980s renovation and 2010s my-children-have-too-much-junk-and-refuse-to-clean-up-after-themselves.

• I’m thankful for coffee.

• I’m thankful I have a husband who sometimes makes me lunch when I’m busy writing a column that is past due.

• I’m thankful for laughter and corny jokes and friends and family who indulge me in both.

• I’m thankful for people who buy and appreciate the jewelry and hand knits I so love to make.

• I’m thankful for parents who raised me to know how to do things for myself, like making a pie, sewing a dress or growing a garden.

• I’m thankful my backyard is shady so I have an excuse not to plant a huge garden that requires a lot of work.

• I’m thankful for warmth and good food.

• I’m thankful both of my children are thoughtful and kind.

• I’m thankful for health.

• I’m thankful for coffee.

• I’m thankful for the village in our real village — we have a good set of friends/neighbors who always are willing to help each other when needed.

• I’m thankful for a husband who doesn’t complain too much when I leave the living room strewn with yarn and project materials.

• I’m thankful for feather blankets on cold mornings.

• I’m thankful for good wine and good bourbon.

• I’m thankful for knit sweaters and socks.

• I’m thankful for hair dye to hide all of my gray hair.

• I’m thankful for friends who remain friends, even when we hardly ever see each other.

• I’m thankful for Minecraft entertaining my children sometimes so I don’t have to.

• I’m thankful my husband fills up the car’s gas tank so I don’t have to worry.

• I’m thankful for love and acceptance.

• I’m thankful for coffee.

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on Nov. 25, 2015.

Motherhood and More: Don't lose your head over Mom-made costume*

I have a Halloween problem. Or, more specifically, I have a homemade Halloween costume problem.

You see, ever since the first time I sewed my oldest child his Halloween costume, I haven’t been able to go back to store-bought ones. I just have a problem paying upwards of $20-$40 for a costume that will be worn once, then fall apart.  That’s not to say that we’ve never rocked the premade ones, but this way makes us all happier.

Plus, as with everything I do as a parent, I have Mom Guilt. My mom made our Halloween costumes. They were always fun and awesome, especially that one year in high school where I made her sew me a sunset costume.

Yes, yes I did. And yes, yes she did.

So I feel it’s my duty to carry on the tradition because I have the capabilities. And it’s just fun. I like saying that I made it, and to me, Halloween should be all about creativity. You can be anything you want and should take full advantage of that.

So I’ve made ninja costumes, wizards, Batman, Harry Potter, an Elsa cape, and, though it wasn’t for Halloween, I’ve made a Luke Skywalker costume.

This year my son has been adamant that he will be the Headless Horseman. It took me awhile to figure that one out. We had a cape from last year’s Harry Potter costume, so that part was simple. But the pumpkin head has given me trouble. I’ve looked at Styrofoam pumpkins, plastic pumpkins and any other pumpkin I could find before dismissing them all as too small, too large, too difficult or too plastic-y. I finally realized that a Paper Mache pumpkin would be perfect. I could make it the size I wanted, easily cut a hole for his head, and it still would be light enough to sit on his shoulders without causing harm.

He wants it painted black with dripping blood, and he also wants to be able to throw it at people because of course he does.

He’s worrying a bit because it’s not quite finished yet.  Don’t worry, kid. I may be last minute but I always get it done.

I started the pumpkin head late because I’ve been fighting with my daughter’s fairy costume. This one was ridiculous. I’ve never sewn satin or organza, and never will again after this. Maybe if I’d done a bit of research before jumping in I wouldn’t have had such trouble, but if I had then I wouldn’t be me.

The costume has a dress and flowing skirt, plus a vest. And it was supposed to have handmade wings but I had to throw in the towel on that and use store-bought ones. There’s only so much torture I am willing to take in the name of homemade Halloween costumes and I had met my limit with all of the hand sewing required.

So I’m excited for Halloween because my kids are pumped about their costumes, which makes me feel good. And I hope that this is something they let me do for years and years to come.

I’ll even sew a sunset costume if that’s what they want.

Halloween 2012 can be found here and here. Sebastian's Luke costume can be found here. And Halloween 2013 is here. I don't have a post for Halloween 2014 because I got lazy, but I do have instagram photos! 

*This column originally published in The News-Enterprise on October 28, 2015.