A Night Out

Better late than never

By Renee Phile

It was a brisk Saturday night and we ventured up to Raleigh. Destination: The Cheesecake Factory.

“Shouldn’t we make reservations?” I asked.

“Nah, we should be good,” he said.

The drive was uneventful until we pulled into the parking lot of the Crabtree Valley Mall. The cars maneuvered like ants marching to a fallen morsel of chocolate chip cookie. After 20 minutes we found a spot deep in the parking garage’s Siberia section — nestled between a blue SUV and a white Ford Ranger. Taste buds at attention, we hiked to the mall and upstairs to The Cheesecake Factory. Men, women and children littered the hallways, many sitting on the floor. The noise overwhelmed my brain.

“They must be waiting for takeout . . . or something,” I mumbled.

“Probably,” he said.

We filed in, took spots at the end of the line and inched up slowly. My stomach growled.

“What was that?” he asked with a laugh.

“What was what?” I said.

Pictures of luscious cheesecake covered the walls. Strawberry, chocolate, salted caramel. My mouth watered.

Minutes ticked by. We inched deeper into the chaos. Finally, we arrived.

“How many?” the hostess asked.

“Two,” he said.

“OK.” She tapped something on the screen of her computer and handed us a blinky piece of plastic.

“How long will that be?” he asked.

“Oh, about an hour and 45 minutes.”

He looked at me. I looked back and shook my head. No way. My stomach screamed.

“We’re good,” he said and handed her back the blinky thing.

We walked out, picking our way through the standing, sitting and leaning bodies, past the pictures of cheesecake — salted caramel, chocolate, strawberry.

“Where do you want to eat?” he asked.

“Somewhere without an hour and 45 minute wait.”

He took out his phone and began to search.

I willed him to hurry. My stomach rumbled like the mating call of a moose.

“What the heck was that?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

I didn’t answer.

He tapped a number into his phone.

“Hi. Uh, how long is the wait for a table for two?” he asked.

“Two hours.” I heard a voice say. I gasped.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and clicked off.

“Let’s just go to McDonalds,” I suggested.

“No McDonalds. What are you craving?”

“Cheesecake.”

“What about seafood?”

“That too.”

He tapped his phone and began searching.

“Red Lobster is 3 miles from here,” he said.

“Good.”

After 20 more minutes freeing ourselves from the parking garage, we were on the road to our third choice.

We parked, shuffled out of the car and walked up to the hostess stand.

“How many?” she asked.

“Two, but how long is the wait?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she said.

I groaned, but at least there wasn’t an hour before the 45. We were handed another blinky piece of plastic, and the minutes ticked by as we sat by the lobster tank.

After the full three-quarters of an hour mostly spent staring at crustaceans with bad intent, we were seated in a distant a corner. An angel appeared, eyes bright and smile wide, movements fluid and secure.

“Welcome to Red Lobster! My name is Penny. What can I get you to drink? Oh wait, I always start with the lady first.” She turned and grinned at me.

She filled my soul with warmth . . . and cheesy biscuits, creamy seafood dip and chips, boiled shrimp covered in butter, sweet coconut shrimp, and garlic lemon tilapia.

“This,” I said in between bites of pretty much everything, “was worth the wait.”

He nodded.

She kept appearing to fill our drinks and bring us more cheesy biscuits.

He asked her if she was in school.

“No, I’m a mommy and I work here on nights and weekends.”

“Boy or girl? How old?” he asked.

“A little boy. He’s 6.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket to show us a gorgeous kid with her eyes and smile. He held a soccer ball and grinned back at us.

He tipped her way more than 20 percent that night, and when she realized it, she bounced back to our table.

“Thank you so much! No, really, thank you!” she exclaimed.

Then it was his eyes, that wonderful blend of blue and green, that sparkled.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Birthday Battles

Hiding behind a piece of cake

By Renee Phile

Most of my life I have struggled with social events, but birthday parties are the worst. I admire people who can go to them, smile politely and enjoy themselves, which must include just about everyone. But me? My heart falls when one of my boys brings home a birthday party invitation accompanied with eager pleas of, “Can we go?” Sometimes, I’d try to hide it in the junk mail pile and hope they would forget about it.  No chance. I got the occasional reprieve if I could claim a work conflict but, most of the time, there was no excuse other than anxious-mom-who-thinks-talking-to-new-people-is-the-scariest-thing-ever.  So I went. Most of the time I’d try to hide in a corner, a bathroom or even my car, usually behind a piece of cake. Anytime someone talked to me, my sorry attempts at conversation would be something along the lines of, “I like bread. Bread is good.”

It was the best I could do.

I’ve been working on this, and have gotten better, although most birthday parties are still handled strategically with a plan and an escape route.

A few summers ago I was at a birthday party that I couldn’t avoid. Kevin had gotten the invitation three weeks prior and marked the birthday party on his calendar with a drawing of a big blue cake. Every day, usually multiple times a day, he would remind me of this event and that we should start preparing. If anyone mentioned doing anything else anytime near the party, Kevin would immediately shoot down the idea. “We can’t because we have a birthday party that day,” he’d say. I tried to keep my feelings on the back burner since 1) I was getting better; 2) Kevin was obsessed; 3) the whole family was invited; and 4) the party was within walking distance. The perfect storm.

So, that particular morning around 8 a.m. Kevin started reminding us about the 1 o’clock party. The reminding continued like a cuckoo clock. The presents were wrapped. The card was signed. We were ready. It was 1:04 p.m. We were still at the house. Kevin said with a bit of hysteria, “I feel like you all are acting like the party hasn’t already started!”  

So much for fashionably late.

We walked there. Water games, a bouncy house, a Slip ‘N Slide. Kids with drippy green and blue popsicles were scattered around the yard.  I told myself I did not have to stay, but I chose to. A few minutes in, I thought to myself, “This party will go down in the books as the first one I didn’t have to hide somewhere.”

The birthday fun was exploding through the yard.  Older brother David was standing beside me, and a dad and his kid arrived.  The kid, who I will call Jake, was a friend of Kevin’s at school. So, Jake and his dad walked up to David and me. Jake’s dad introduced himself as Jake’s dad and stuck out his hand. I froze. A few seconds passed and I finally said, “I’m Kevin’s dad.” He looked at me, but just nodded. “Nice to meet you,” he said. 

When Jake’s dad walked away, I realized what I had said. I turned to David. “Did I just introduce myself as Kevin’s dad?”

David laughed and said no, that he is pretty sure I hadn’t, because that would be funny and he would have remembered that, but he admitted he wasn’t really paying attention.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, about 75 percent sure.”

Great. I had a 1-in-4 chance of being a moron.

Maybe Jake’s dad didn’t notice. Of course, he did. He looked at you weird. David said you didn’t say “dad.” No, he said he wasn’t sure. You’re an idiot. You can’t even survive a child’s birthday party. Most people aren’t like this.

The birthday revelry continued. I watched the kids play, and ate some cake with fondant icing that tasted like plastic. I rebounded enough to have a semi-normal conversation with someone  that wasn’t about liking bread.

To make matters worse, David was invited to a birthday party that evening. Two birthday parties in one day. At the time David was 12, so my attendance was not required. Fine with me. As I was driving him to his friend’s house, he said, “Mom?” 

“Yep?”

“The more I think about it, the more I think you did say ‘dad.’ In fact, I know you did, but I said you didn’t because I didn’t want you to worry about it.”

Mom got a present that day, too. PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Rush, Rush, Rush

You said you need a what?

By Renee Phile

A few months ago, around 6:50 a.m., the boys and I were on our way to school when David, my 14-year-old, from the backseat says, “I guess I’m not going to my band concert tonight. It’s really not a big deal.”

I nearly swerved off the road. There are only two concerts a year, and they are both quite the events. “What? Of course you’re going. Why would you say you aren’t?”

“My white shirt and the black pants are too small.”

I nearly swerved off the road again. “Really? When were you going to tell me?”

“I forgot.”

“So you decide to tell me on the way to school on the day of the band concert when you know I have to work all day.”

“Sorry. I don’t need to go. It’s not a big deal. My band teacher will understand.”

“Oh, so she has been preparing you for months for this concert and you think she will totally understand if you don’t go because you failed to tell your mom in time that you need new clothes?”

“Maybe.”

I was afraid of anything that might spill out of my mouth and I guess they were, too, because  we drove to school in silence.

After work I rushed to Kohl’s to find the required white dress shirt and black pants and, of course, they weren’t on sale. What choice did I have? I was being held up at the point of a band concert. I bought the clothes and picked up David from wrestling practice 30 minutes before he had to be at the concert.

“You really didn’t need to worry about it Mom. My band teacher would understand. She’s pretty reasonable.”

Um, you’re welcome.

***

A few weeks later Kevin and I were sitting at David’s wrestling match. Now, these matches typically last around three hours or more, so a wrestling match night is a late night. Kevin, my 9-year-old, between bites of popcorn, said in the most nonchalant voice, “Mom, can we stop by Walmart on the way home?”

“Why?”

“I need something for a project.”

“What project?”

“Something about solar systems. It’s due tomorrow.”

“Kevin, please tell me this is a joke.”

“I forgot about it until just now.”

Frantic, I sent a text to his teacher, apologized for bothering her at home, and said Kevin told me he has a project due tomorrow and this is the first time I have heard anything about it. (No smiley face.)

She texted back promptly and said that, yes, there was a discovery project on the solar system due in the morning, and it was also the end of the grading period, so he couldn’t turn it in late.  (Smiley face and a thumbs up.)

That night was spent gluing and coloring Mercury, Venus and Mars. Around and around we go.

The rules are simple: Tell me your due dates; give me notes from school when you get them; let me know what you need for a project a week ahead of time. Nowhere in the rules do the words “last minute” appear. I know they’re genetically capable of advance planning because when a friend is having a birthday party in two weeks, Kevin hands me the invitation right away and reminds me about it five times a day. They can do it, I just know they can.

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Christmas Q&A

Some local translation required

By Renee Phile

I asked my boys to help me write this. At first, I was met with “Ugh,” and “I don’t like to write — you do,” and “I already have enough homework.” After I coerced them with Christmas music and hot chocolate with marshmallows, they obliged, sort of.

Nestled in, armed with my questions, pens, and Christmas ambiance, here’s what they had to say:

David — age 14.

What does Christmas mean to you?

To me, Christmas is a time to see family and eat good food. It’s also fun to spend time and do activities with people. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without Grandma Jean spinning around the house making dinner.

What he really meant: I like to eat.

What do you like about Christmas?

I like the snow and the feeling where you just relax and have fun watching Christmas movies. The Christmas church service. All of it is a good time. I like seeing Grandma Jean getting ready for dinner. She makes good dinner.

What he really meant: I like to eat.

Speaking of movies, do you have a favorite Christmas movie?

Elf.

What he really meant: Elf is funny and it’s not in black and white and old like It’s a Wonderful Life.

What foods do you like to eat over Christmas?

Ham, corn, beans, turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and candy canes. Sometimes overcooked ham.

What he really meant: I’m omnivorous.

Do you have a favorite Christmas memory?

My favorite Christmas memory is being at Grandma Jean’s and having everyone there and eating and having fun.

What he really meant: I really, really like to eat.

What is another favorite memory?

Another one is being at Pop’s church at nighttime when it snowed and we ate dinner at the church. Also, one time Nanny overcooked the ham and it was hard to eat, but I still ate it.

What he meant: I will eat absolutely everything in sight.

What about a funny memory?

Hmmm . . . I can’t think of one. Wait, one time my dad gave me a present and accidentally wrote “dad” instead of Santa, so he crossed it out and it looked like this: Dad  Santa

What he really meant: It’s still worth giving Santa the benefit of the doubt.

What are your thoughts on Santa?

Well, I don’t like him because he’s fake.

What he really meant: I may still believe in Santa . . . a little.

Anything else you want to add?

I will be glad to be away from school for three weeks.

What he really meant: I’m stuck with my brother for three weeks. I’ll miss my friends and maybe even my math class.

Kevin — age 9.

What does Christmas mean to you?

Critmas means to me that Jesus was born.

What he really meant: Critmas means to me that Jesus was born.

What do you like about Christmas?

I like that you are able to have time off school (of course) and that you get to spend time with family and get presents and that reminds me this year could you get me Minecraft Legos?

What he really meant: I really really want some Minecraft Legos.

Do you have a favorite Christmas memory?

When I was in kinder garden we got to make an ornament and watch the polar ‘spres and have hot chokolet.

What he really meant: I like hot chokolet.

Do you have a funny Christmas memory?

There aren’t anything funny about Christmas that I know of.

What he really meant: There aren’t anything funny about Christmas that I know of.

Is there a food you enjoy over Christmas?

Yes, I like Critmas cake and Critmas cookies.

What he really meant: I like Critmas cake and Critmas cookies.

Do you have a favorite Christmas movie?

Yes it is the polar ‘spres.

What he really meant: Polar ‘spres is the best movie in the world.

What are your thoughts on Santa Claus?

The only thout about Santa Clause is that he is nice and caring.

What he really meant: I hope Santa Clause brings me Minecraft Legos.

Do you have anything else you want to add about how you feel about Christmas?

Yes the fackt that I like carol of the bells song.

What he really meant: The fackt is that I like carol of the bells song.

I tried to sneak in a few questions after they had finished their “assignments,” but they thought that would mean extra credit, which meant more hot chocolate and as Kevin suggested, Critmas cake.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Oh My, Kevin

Just, and unjust, desserts

By Renee Phile

Kevin, my younger son, turns 9 this month, and to be honest, when I think of the first moments following his birth, the image that I most vividly recall was his wide, and I mean wide, open mouth and his head twisting from side to side. He was looking for food, that hefty 9-pound 4-ounce boy was, and he hasn’t stopped since.

Fast-forward a few years to when he was around 3 years old and going to a day care. It was Thanksgiving time, so the teachers threw the kids a party. Each child was given a cupcake slathered in brown icing with little eyes, a beak, and candy corn acting as turkey feathers. When I picked up Kevin that day, his teacher said she needed to have a word with me, that something needed to be discussed, that there was an issue. Oh no . . . I thought. What could he have done?

“Mrs. Phile,” she said, studying me above her glasses. “Kevin went into the bathroom quite suddenly and locked the door and was in there a long time. I was worried and waited a while, but then wanted to make sure he was OK. When I got him to open the door, I saw he had been eating two of the other children’s cupcakes, along with his own. His cheeks were full, and I could smell it on his breath.”

Oh my. Images of the cupcake-less children flashed through my mind as I offered a measly apology. “I am so sorry. We will deal with this,” I assured her.

On the way home I tried to get an explanation from him. “Why would you eat the other kids’ cupcakes, Kevin?”

“Kevin ate Jazmine and Miguel’s cupcakes in da bafrroom,” he proclaimed.

“Yes, but why would you do that?”

“Kevin was hungwy.”

Oh my. I didn’t know what was more troubling, that he pilfered cupcakes or referred to himself in the third person.

A few months later I woke up one morning and stumbled out to the kitchen to make coffee and noticed, sitting on the counter, the previous night’s brownies, no longer covered with the plastic wrap. At closer glance, I saw what looked like the markings of a wild animal pawing through them. Only mounds of brownie and scattered crumbs remained.

I saw brownie crumbs dotting the counter and trailing from the kitchen floor into the living room. I followed them . . . to the couch where I found a mound of something alive moving around under a blanket. I yanked the blanket to reveal the culprit. Kevin, cheeks full of brownie, eyes wide. Oh my.

Over the years the most common questions out of Kevin’s mouth are, “Can I have dessert? When is dessert time? Can I have two desserts?” This kid thinks he needs dessert after every meal, even breakfast, even if breakfast is chocolate chip pancakes. One evening I suggested the sweet potato counted as dessert. No deal.

The other day my friend Alison took Kevin out to Dairy Queen for a tasty treat. He ordered a mini funnel cake with a side of vanilla ice cream, topped with caramel, hot fudge and whipped cream. The young man taking the order looked a little confused. This particular item wasn’t even listed on the menu, but after a short conversation with another employee, the two decided that this magic could happen.

“Is this what you wanted, buddy?” the young man asked as he placed the treat in front of Kevin.

“Yes!” Kevin’s brown eyes danced.

So, it’s Kevin’s ninth birthday this month, and he has had his cake picked out since, well, February. He wants a vanilla and strawberry Minecraft cake with extra blue and green icing.

Any type icing is fine, Mom, I just need extra icing, that’s all.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Mom, Inc.

A Better Plan

Secrets to a saner morning

By Renee Phile

All siblings have that recurring argument, the one that will sometimes give a false sense of resolution because it may lie dormant for a few days. Then, it’s back again, as fierce as ever:

Act I, Scene 1

It’s Monday morning, 7 a.m. David (13) is still in the bathroom getting ready for school. Kevin (8) is slamming both hands on the bathroom door yelling, “Hurry up, David! I’ve got to brush my teeth! You’ve been in there foorreevvveerr!”

It dawns on me that Kevin is wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, but we simply don’t have time for him to change. Wait, a stench passes through my nostrils. 

“Kevin, when was the last time you changed your socks?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Ugh! Change them! Now!”

Sigh. We have got to go. The dog acts crazy, racing around the house, knowing. We are around seven minutes behind schedule, and because I teach an 8 a.m. class, those seven minutes are (were) necessary.

I leave the boys in the house and start the car. After about two more minutes, David and Kevin tumble out of the house, slam the front door, race for the front seat . . . and it begins.

“I was here first!”

“No, it’s my turn!”

“You sat up front last time! MOVE!”

“Mommy said it was my turn!”

“I said MOVE!”

I am so done I contemplate leaving them both in the driveway. They can find another way to school.

“Both of you! In the back! NOW! This is ridiculous!”

They make a dramatic entrance, throwing their book bags on each other and falling into the backseat.

“Move!”

“You!”

“STOP IT!” I yell. “No one talks. No one!”

We are all in a bad mood now, and the silence can be sliced like deli meat.

I was talking to my best friend from grade/middle/high school the other day and told her about this constant battle. She reminded me of our “backseat middle” call. You see, “backseat middle” is what she and I used to “call” on road trips in order to “claim” the backseat middle, to make it appear as if it was, indeed, the treasured seat. Actually, we didn’t really want the backseat middle, especially not while riding in a car in the mountains of West Virginia where we grew up. But after calling “backseat middle,” others would decided that they, too, wanted backseat middle and then we would, of course, fight over the backseat middle, and finally give it up to get the front seat, which was the goal all along. Psychological warfare at its finest. It worked great, until others caught on.

“You need to tell one of them to claim the backseat middle, Renee. There’s no other way around this,” she said.

I thought about this for a few days. It couldn’t hurt to try.

Act II, Scene 1

Another Monday morning. 6:50 a.m. rolls around. The hustling begins. David’s in the bathroom, like always way longer than necessary. The dog is darting around. Kevin needs to brush his teeth, but he is wearing clean clothes. We have a few minutes before we need to be in the car.

“Hey Kevin?” I say.

“Yes?”

“I have a secret, kind of, to tell you . . . ” He leans in. “This morning I want you to do something a little different . . . ”

His eyes widen as he listens, and a grin spreads across his face.

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

The Galloping Stroller

What is it we will tell our toddlers? Don’t run!

By Renee Phile

One Saturday morning a few Julys ago, Kevin, then around 3 years old, and I decided to walk to downtown Southern Pines. By “walk,” I mean I walked and pushed him in his stroller with one wobbly wheel, a stroller I am pretty sure he had outgrown anyway since his head hit the top and his feet scraped the pavement. Still, he insisted on “taking a wide.” We stopped at the farmers market for some cucumbers, green peppers and tomatoes, and then wobbled on over to our main destination, the park.

Kevin played in the sand, while I parked myself on a bench. An hour or so passed and my stomach started growling. Kevin continuously slid down the big metal slide that stung his legs, since it was so hot. Right after he landed with a thump in the sand, he brushed himself off, ran back up the ladder to the scorching hot slide and started again. After watching him go up and down around 37 times, I decided I was starving, but not enough to break out the cucumbers and green peppers I had in the stroller. I told him he had five minutes, which turned into 17 since he had this ritual of saying goodbye to each part of the park he had come in contact with.

“Goodbye swing. Goodbye yellow slide. Goodbye ’nother swing. Goodbye little slide that goes reaw fast.” After every piece of playground equipment and the sand, yes, the sand, heard Kevin’s goodbyes, I loaded him in the stroller and we started back to our house. We lived probably a mile from the park, so it was a good 15-20 minute walk. Usually good.

After about five minutes, my stomach reminded me that I didn’t have much more time before I turned into an evil, hungry human. I decided to jog and push Kevin’s stroller. After all, I had seen other people run while pushing a stroller. Now, I know his stroller had one wall-eyed wheel and was not an officially sanctioned “running/jogging stroller,” but I still decided to give it a shot. I took off in a trot and he scraped his feet on the pavement — a definite drag on our progress. “Put your feet up, Kevin!” He did for a minute, and I ran, er, jogged the best I could. The stroller was hard to maneuver, but would work OK for a minute before a rock or dent in the road hampered our mission.

“Go faster, Mommy!” the foot-dragger squealed.

At this point, I was feeling pretty good. Confident. Upbeat. I thought I must look really cool to all the cars passing by. Surely they would think, “Wow, there’s a woman running with her son in the stroller . . . in this heat too . . . she must be dedicated . . . wait, why are his feet hanging out like that? Is that a child or a teenager in that stroller? Hmmm . . . awkward.”

Then, I tripped over a rock or maybe a stripe painted on the road, or maybe my own feet. And fell.

HARD.

Face down. On the pavement.

Kevin squealed. The car that just passed us squealed.

“Are you OK?” an extremely handsome military-looking guy yelled out his window.

“Yes, just fine, thank you,” I murmured, utterly embarrassed, avoiding eye contact, pebbles imprinted in my forehead.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The car sped off and I stood up too quickly and blacked out for a few seconds and sat back down on the pavement again.

“Mommy! What’s wrong?” Kevin cried.

I couldn’t answer or get up for a minute or so. I felt like I was going to throw up, and the trees above me were spinning. I had the stroller whirlies.

Finally, the haze diminished enough that Kevin and the stroller and I could wobble the last half mile back to the house. My ankle and face were killing me and sweet 3-year-old Kevin, clearly a bit traumatized, kept asking if I had died and come back to life — which I eventually did, as a cheese quesadilla.

So, do not think you’re cool running in the summer heat, showing off mad skills you don’t possess with a shaky stroller filled with farmers market vegetables and an overgrown 3-year-old. The hot slide is the cooler option.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Tight Squeeze

Not exactly the Flying Finn

By Renee Phile

Scene: June 2016. 4:30 in the afternoon. 80s. Humid. Kids and parents tired from traveling all day. Finally at our destination, an RV park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Second trip with our newest addition, Finn, a 33-foot 2016 Passport Ultra Lite Camper.

“You are at site 52, right by the pool,” she says, blowing her bangs out of her eyes, and handing me the map after circling our space with a Sharpie.

“Yay! The pool! Yes!” the boys yell, pretty much in unison. 

At first glance, I think there is no way we are going fit in site 52, right next to the pool. It just seems tight, and this will be only my husband, Raymond’s, second time backing the trailer into a tight place. 

The boys and I hop out of the truck, and Raymond drives around the campsite’s loop and then begins the test: backing the 33-foot Finn into site 52, by the pool.

My job is to direct him with little hand signals, and since we have only practiced this teamwork a few times, we don’t really “have it.”  Typically, I will wave one way or the other, and I can’t tell if he sees me, so I continue to wave one way or another, more dramatically wave-by-wave, pretending I’m one of those people who helps a pilot park an airplane. Then he nods and says smugly, “Yes, I see you. Got it.”

Anyway, back to site 52, by the pool.

Finn’s hitch creaks and pops, and the guy at Camping World said it would do that. He said not to worry, even though it will sound like a gunshot, and then a cow in labor.

Raymond attempts his first back-in. Too far to the left. He nearly hits the water spigot. Pilot error.

He pulls up and starts over. Still too far to the left. Pull up! Pull up!

Then again.

And again.

The other campers start to watch. The more experienced RV drivers. I feel the need to announce, “This is our second time, everyone! We are newbies! Can you stop staring?” But I wave my arms instead.

Some people smirk. Maybe they don’t, really. Maybe I just think they are. Actually, I just see one guy and he is smirking, for sure. He is sitting in a chair by the RV across the road, a Budweiser in his hand.

David, my then-12-year-old, decides now is a  great time to get out his juggling balls and juggle.

Kevin, my then-7-year-old, exclaims, “We have a lot of neighbors! Can I start visiting them, Mom?”

I feel sweat drip down my back.

Our truck and trailer are sprawled across the road, blocking all traffic. Raymond’s still trying. Creak. Snap. Pop. Time seems to slow.

A man driving a truck stops, waiting to pass. The man raises his hands in an exasperated manner and mouths something that looks like, “What the hell?”

At that moment, David glances up from his juggling performance and says, “That guy needs to calm down!” 

The man continues with the rude impatience, Raymond continues backing up and straightening up Finn, David continues juggling, and Kevin is now knocking on another camper’s door.

The smirky, beer-drinking guy from across the road walks over to our truck and says something to Raymond. The smirky guy then moves his own truck out of the way to give Raymond more room, or maybe out of fear. Raymond straightens the truck and drives Finn around the loop again, to start over. The impatient man passes, revving his engine as he does.

Then the smirky guy takes my place in site 52, beside the pool. He reeks of beer, and his words are slurring a bit. I have been replaced by this? He flaps his arms around and yells to Raymond, “Turn it sharper! Yes! Like that! Back up! Turn! To the right! Perfect!”

By this time, both boys are standing next to me.

“Parking these things is a bitch!” the guy says, half to us, half to Raymond.

Kevin clamps his hand over his mouth and looks at me, eyes big. “Mom,” he whispers loudly, “that guy said Dad is a bitch!”

“No, that’s not what he said. You heard him wrong. We will talk about it later,” I whisper.

Finally, Raymond backs Finn in perfectly.

“Your dad did a great job! It took me years to learn how to park these things,” the guy says, less smirky.

“It took him forever!” Kevin exclaims. David juggles.

“We are new,” I say to the guy.

“Yeah, I figured!” the guy says and laughs, slapping his knee.

The drunkish smirky guy stumbles back to his campsite.  Kevin thinks, in site 52, by the pool, the language gloves are off. The Finn adventures have begun.  PS

Renee Phile  loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

When Snacks Go Wrong

Where there’s a will, there’s always someone sneakily grabbing the powdery doughnut holes

By Renee Phile

Even though my boys are 13 and 8, most of the time I go grocery shopping without them, because, well, it’s just less stressful that way.  However, if they do go with me, I make sure to fill them up with snacks before we reach the store, which usually means rummaging under the seats of the car to see if there are any old granola bars or maybe some peanuts or dried bananas leftover from some trail mix. If they don’t have something to eat before grocery shopping, we become the owners of aisle 5.

When they were younger, a mysterious transformation would happen as soon as they crossed the threshold of the automatic doors.  In those short steps, they would become whiny, irrational, obnoxious little beings. 

Sometimes random items would appear in my cart. Organic blueberry Pop Tarts? (Where did these come from? We get the regular kind.) Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups? (Once these entered the cart, I couldn’t put them back on the shelf because of my own addiction.) Depends?  (Not yet.) My boys thought they were funny. The conveyor belt was one embarrassment after another. “Oh, we didn’t need this, nor this, how the hell did this get in here? I’m so sorry . . . ”

If we went to a store where there were, God forbid, samples, my kids would tear off in opposite directions and fill up on turkey, cheese, cookies, whatever, as though they hadn’t eaten in days. 

I found myself saying the following over and over on any given grocery store trip:

“Stop touching the cereal boxes.”

“Get out from under the coffee display!”

“OMG!  Get OUT of the freezer!”

“Stop dancing!”

“Watch where you’re going!”

“No, you cannot open the string cheese right now.”

Anyway, today they are old enough to behave themselves in the grocery store.

Or so I thought.

Though I’d already been to the store, I had forgotten the bread, the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, the Cheetos, all the staples. So, after I picked up the boys from school, I said, “We’re gonna run in Food Lion real quick. You can stay in the car if you want.” No, they both wanted to go in with me. “We’re gonna be quick,” I said at least nine times. As we walked through the produce aisle, I tossed some oranges into the cart. As I turned my back to examine an avocado, I saw David sauntering off texting and Kevin wandering the other way.

They’d already struck. I peered into the cart and noticed some peculiar items. Cheese puffs. White powdery doughnut holes. An entire coffee cake. How mysterious. I took the foreign items out of my cart and placed them on a shelf, not where they go. Sorry, Food Lion.

“Wait!” Kevin exclaimed, appearing from . . . somewhere. “Those are my snacks for school!”

“No, they aren’t. I already got snacks.”

“But I want these snacks!”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I heard my mother’s voice, “Because I said so.”

David, at this point, reappeared in time to chime in, “Because Mommy says so, Kevin.”

With no warning whatsoever, Kevin flung himself on the floor, right in between the pickles and the salad dressing, sprawling across the entire aisle.

“Get up, Kevin,” I said.

He didn’t move. 

“I can’t. I’m so mad.”

I was simply not sure what to do. People were starting to watch us, and my face felt hot. I breathed, like I had learned in yoga class. Then I thought, fine. I did the only thing I knew to do. I walked away, down the aisle, through the dressings and ketchup and mustard. David looked at me, puzzled. No one was going to kidnap Kevin. They would return him faster than week-old meat.

“Aren’t we gonna get Kevin?”

“He’s fine.”

We strolled through the aisles. I suddenly needed more items than I initially thought. Funny how that happens.

A few aisles later, Kevin, scowling, arms crossed, shuffled up behind us.

“Hi Kevin!” David said cheerily, to annoy.

Kevin glared at David.

We maneuvered down the aisles, picked up the eggs, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin mumbled to me.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For my attitude. But I really wanted a snack for school.”

“I forgive you.”

“Then do we have to talk about it?” he sighed.

“No.”

I dropped some yogurt into the cart.

“OK, both of you go grab one snack each for your lunches this week.”

“Oh yes!” Kevin exclaimed and dashed down the chip aisle, David close behind him.

Kevin grabbed Cheetos and David, Cool Ranch Doritos.

I was so incredibly done. And no one had even climbed into the freezer.  PS

Renee Phile  loves being a mom, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

Mystery in Pieces

Here’s a clue — Walmart is not guilty

By Renee Phile

A few weeks ago, my bestie from high school, Caren, flew up from Orlando to spend the week with me. I have only seen her maybe four times since we graduated from high school nearly 16 years ago, so, as you can imagine, we wanted to fill our time with plenty of meaningful, friendship-building activities.

After she arrived at the airport, we grabbed a bite to eat and then headed to the store to pick up groceries for the week. We decided, as we were throwing salad, quinoa and other organic items (I mean ice cream and four types of cookies) into the cart, that we needed some type of bonding activity. A puzzle was just the answer. We spent around 45 minutes in the puzzle aisle examining every single one while the ice cream in our cart melted. Right before we walked out of the store puzzleless, because I didn’t want to tackle an under the sea scene and she didn’t care to work on a Star Wars one, the answer, once again, became very, very clear: a 750-piece with a pink and purple sky, with mountains, a river and trees in their autumn peak, all surrounding a white castle flashed right before our eyes.

Our eyes met and we knew.

This was the one.

That night we started construction on the border. Our border. She took the sky, and I took the foreground, which were those blasted, confusing swirls of autumn trees.

Caren’s job allows her to work from her computer, so she stayed home with our puzzle while I went to work the next day. Around 2 p.m., a nagging feeling appeared in my mind. I sent her a text:

Me: 2:14 You better not be working on the puzzle

Caren: 2:16 I’m not

Me: 2:17 Yes you are

Caren: 2:18 Only two pieces

Me: 2:18 Stop!

Caren: 2:19 OK, no more. I will wait for you

An hour later. . .

Me: 3:15 Stop working on the puzzle!

Caren: 3:17 Only two more pieces

Me: 3:20 Ugh! I’m leaving work. Be there soon. Leave the puzzle alone.

We worked on our puzzle on and off through afternoons and evenings. Occasionally, my boys would help, but they typically lost interest within a few minutes. As the days crept by, we realized something was off. We had yet to connect the sides with the border, and we just kept thinking we had not found the right piece or there were missing pieces. The bottom border was almost a wavy line. I had put the bottom together and, while it was just a nagging feeling, I truly thought maybe Walmart had sold us a defective puzzle.

“I think this piece goes here, but I just need some scissors to trim the edge, and then it will fit,” I said, halfway kidding. Caren exploded with laughter, and we continued to work on our project.

One night after a very exciting SCC basketball game, we plopped down at the kitchen table to work on our puzzle. Caren peered at the bottom border pieces and burst into hysterical laughter, like to the point where I thought something might be wrong with her.

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “These don’t fit! This one doesn’t fit! This one doesn’t fit! Renee! You have been forcing pieces together that don’t fit!” I was a bit embarrassed, but mostly relieved, even if the problem was me.  Laughing, she pulled apart the border. She connected some, reconnected others, the wavy border straightened, and the mystery was solved. Shew. No more blaming Walmart.

Caren left for home before the puzzle was finished. A bunch of trees were left, and they literally looked as if autumn had thrown up. The oranges, reds and yellows all swirled together near the bottom of the puzzle. I didn’t go back to it right away. One Friday night, though, I decided I wanted to finish the puzzle, glue it together, and frame it.  I spent an hour or so connecting piece by piece until it was finished. Every piece fit. I snapped a picture of the masterpiece and texted it to Caren.

The next morning, I woke up, and with coffee in hand, I admired my work. Suddenly, I noticed something very peculiar. There was a piece missing from the sky. Just one. Gone.

I figured one of my boys snagged it to be funny. I asked each of them, “Have you seen this piece?”

“Nope.” David said, “Maybe you should ask Kevin.”

“Kevin, have you seen this piece?”

“No! I promise! David probably knows!”

With each passing hour, my technique changed:

“I really want to frame this picture and hang it up. Could you please give me back the missing piece?”

“Look, I don’t care who took it or why. Just put it back. Have it back by the morning at 6 a.m. I don’t even need to know who stole it.”

“No one is leaving the house until the piece is back.”

“We aren’t eating again until the piece is back.”

“Stealing puzzle pieces from your mom’s puzzle and lying are sins.”

“GIVE IT BACK!”

No admissions. None.

I even questioned Bailey, my 2-year-old Rottweiler, and she claimed that she had no idea where the piece had gone.

Days later, the piece is still gone. No one will admit to it, and if it doesn’t appear by Friday, I’m just going to glue the puzzle and frame it with a hole in the sky. I’m done questioning the suspects. I don’t know what else to do.

I’m completely puzzled.   PS

Renee Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.