After years of begging, pleading, whining, and torture…we finally got a puppy. With a house full of boys, you can probably guess who the holdout was. And, if my cats had a voice, I’m pretty sure they would have been on my side of the fence as well.

There are many reasons I didn’t want to get “man’s best friend.” First, I’m a woman and have plenty of friends, thank you very much. Second, from what I’ve heard from other dog owners, having a puppy is like having a newborn. And quite frankly, whether this newborn comes out of my body or not, being a mommy again at the age of 44 was not really on my radar screen. Third, I’m not a big fan of dog smell, dog fur, or wet, stringy dog slobber. In fact, I’ve been greeted and slobbered on by enough dogs in my day to know that none of these things make my heart go pitter-patter. And lastly, despite my children’s pleas and declarations of, “We promise to take care of her,” let’s be real…it’s going to be mommy doing the daily poop scooping.

So, what’s a mother to do? On one hand I feel strongly about the subject, but on the other hand, I don’t want to deprive the men in my life of getting a new best friend. So I was willing to cave…on one condition. OK, maybe it was several conditions. We had to get a dog that was small, non-shedding, and non-smelly. Believe it or not, there are a few of those out there that meet those criteria. After some research and a visit with a friend’s pup, we decided to get a cockapoo. As the name suggests, she is a cocker spaniel/poodle mix and takes on characteristics of both dogs. However, as we’re trying to house train our little ball of fur, I’m quickly learning why they call it a pup-pee and a cocka-poo!! Thank goodness I had enough sense to pull up all of my rugs in her designated “area.”

And, just when I thought the days of living in a “gated community” were over, up they went again, draped across my front hall and my kitchen in an effort to keep our beloved hound in one place to minimize doom, doo-doo, and destruction. I can’t tell you how many times each one of us has fallen flat on our faces as we try and straddle these barriers between the sane and the insanity.

But fear not…dog lovers. Slowly, but surely I am getting closer to coming around to your side of the fence. When I see my boys laughing with glee as they play ball with her in the front yard, when her tail wags like a crazed metronome when I enter the room, when she relentlessly teases our cats (which we now refer to as Shadow TV, the best program out there.), or when she cuddles up on my feet to take her morning nap, I can clearly say why dogs are man’s and women’s best friend. Woof!

If you’re not a planner, let me start by explaining our thinking process.

Stage 1 – The dream! The planner starts by conjuring up some dream or goal they wish to accomplish. Usually the conversation in their mind goes something like this. “Man if I had “A” I’d really be able to do “B” and if I had “C” well I’d be able to do “B” like nobody’s business.” At this stage, the planner is in a starry dream-like state just floating along on a billowy cloud. They’ve created their own little piece of heaven that keeps them going until they’re ready for…

Stage 2 – The list! Every “true” planner is a devout list maker. The to-do list is our drug of choice and spreadsheets, well, don’t even get me started. The other day I was even browsing the Internet looking for project-management software. Not for my business, but for me, so I could plan more efficiently, better, faster, more powerful than a locomotive.

But recently, I’ve learned that often times planning doesn’t go quite as well as you had, well, planned. Or more profoundly put by poet Robert Burns, “the best lain plans often go awry.” Here’s a great example. You may have noticed, I haven’t written a column in a while. Why is that? Well, there are many factors, but a big part of it has to do with the following incident. A couple months ago my brilliant, tech-savvy nephew came to me and said, “Hey, Aunt Kathy, I think you need to update your Web site. It’s getting a little stale and there are so many cool things you could add to it.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Well, first of all you could make it more dynamic, add a blog, and bring it into the 21st century so it’s not so lame.” Spoken like a true 16 year old.

“You know, my Web designer was saying the same thing.” And, here’s where Stage 1 kicks in. “Yeah, then I could add some of my cartoons, videos, and pictures. Wow, it’ll be awesome! And once the site is up, I’ll blog every day, start writing my column regularly, and maybe even another book. Sure, let’s do it.”

Two months later…

“Aunt Kathy, I can’t get the Web site to work. The database won’t load and I keep getting error messages. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I think it’s your Web host.”

“Great, just great.” On to Stage 2.

1. E-mail host to see what problem might be.

2. Research problem on the Internet.

3. Research other hosts.

4. Make a decision.

Meanwhile, none of this really explains why I haven’t been writing except for the fact that we planners like to do things in order. So in my mind, until this site is up and running, I can’t write. Obviously, since you’re reading this column, you’ve realized that I’ve “seen the light,” and know I was operating under the “without order comes chaos” theory. However, I’ve just proven that too much order can also cause chaos.

Anyway, I know I’m not the only one who suffers from this over zealous organizing tendency, so I was thinking about starting a support group. Of course this would take some “planning,” starting with a name for the group. I wanted to make sure it was something relatable, but also had a cool acronym. Over Organizers Anonymous is an option, but although OOA might be something you yell when your planning goes awry, I’m really leaning toward something more like Over Planners Anonymous or OPA. It reminds me of the movie Big Fat Greek Wedding and OPA is a Greek exclamation used to express joy, approval, or encouragement. Thought that was quite fitting ‘cuz we planners sure do love our planning.

I don’t know when I’ll actually get around to starting this group, but I do know one thing, I better start planning. OPA!

Remember joy? It’s a feeling people get when they’re immensely happy. I’m sure you just witnessed it this Christmas on your children’s faces as they ripped through their gifts. It’s the same look they probably had as they were wobbling down the street on their bike for the first time without training wheels. It starts with a sparkle in the eye, then a grin that goes from ear to ear, and it’s usually followed with a full-blown exuberant scream of, well, JOY! So think about it.

When’s the last time you had that feeling? That look? I know I didn’t see it on too many people’s faces prior to the holidays. Mostly what I saw were a lot of people running around with their heads down, grumbling, spending way too much money on “stuff.” I must admit I was one of those people. I was stressed to the max. And, it’s not just at Christmas time. Look around. People are haggard. And why wouldn’t they be. There’s a war going on, the economy is bottoming out, people are working harder and longer just to hang onto their jobs, and quality family time is virtually something of the past. Hence the reason I came up with the New Year’s resolution to “bring back the joy!”

Since it seems that children do so much better at the “joy” thing, I thought I would go back in time and try to remember what things gave me joy when I was a child. This is what I came up with:

• Going to a movie with friends and eating all of the popcorn, candy, and soda my stomach could hold and not worrying about the calories!

• Jumping through a sprinkler on a hot summer day wearing a bikini!!!

• Standing outside during a snowstorm and catching snowflakes on my tongue.

• Laying on the grass and deciding what animals the clouds made.

• Eating a humongous ice cream cone until half of it was on my face and the other half was on my shirt.

• Talking to my friends for hours on the phone about nothing and enjoying every minute of it.

• Cranking REO Speedwagon in my bedroom and singing with reckless abandon for my audience of stuffed animals.

Well, I think you get the point. I’m not sure how many of those I would actually consider doing now as a 40+ year old woman, but there are definitely a couple. But, the point is, I think we, as adults, need to bring the same joy we so often witness in our children back to our own lives. Granted, we can’t just leave our jobs and run off to Europe, but there are definitely things we can do to lift our spirits. Here’s my adult list:

• Ordering Boston Creme pie for dessert and not caring if the top button of my pants flies across the room.

• Going outside and wildly chasing my boys around the yard until we all collapse in laughter.

• Planning a monthly “date” with my husband and not worrying about how much the babysitter is going to cost.

• Taking a family hike to the top of a mountain and screaming…”Life is Good.”

• Sitting on the couch on a Sunday afternoon with a good book and not worrying about the dirty laundry that is stacked higher than my eight-year old.

See, they’re not huge things. In fact some of them are pretty darn simple. It’s just making a decision to do them. So, that’s the challenge my friends. Take it on if you dare. And if you suddenly feel an unusual pulling sensation in your cheeks, don’t worry, it’s just you, bursting into a full-blown ear-to-ear grin “bringing back the joy.”

I’ve always known the value of friendship. Heck, without my girlfriends, I’d probably be in the nut house by now. Let’s face it, we can’t talk to our husbands about the things that really matter in life like a new bra that truly does lift and separate, whether we should get frivolous fawn or awesome amber highlights, how hot Matthew McConaughey is, or how we’re going to hide the fact that we just spent our weekly grocery money on a pair of shoes and a purse.

So, I wonder, is my husband just realizing what I’ve known all along about the importance of camaraderie with people of the same sex, or are these latest dalliances a way to escape his wife and family?

When my husband first started planning these outings, I thought it was cute. I mean, it’s nice to know your husband is well liked and has friends. After all, his plans were pretty innocent. He was just going biking, kayaking, hiking, and doing other outdoorsy male bonding stuff. I figured at least these were all healthy activities compared to the days of old when we were dating and he would go out with his pals drinking and presumably scoping chicks or to somebody’s house to smoke cigars and play poker.

So, back to my original question. Is my husband suddenly going out with his friends just for fun and to blow off steam, or is it because he is trying to escape the reality of an aging wife and two sons that think swinging from the chandelier is a commonplace activity?

I’m starting to think I need to nip this thing in the bud. Right now it’s just a couple of hours on a Saturday or Sunday, but soon he’ll want to attend the male equivalent of a Pampered Chef or Mary Kay party where we sit around, talk about our husbands, spend lots of money, and drink buckets of wine. Of course, I’m not exactly sure what the male equivalent would be, but perhaps it would be a party where the host is selling the latest in leather jackets and Harley Davidsons and the guys are sitting around drinking beer and, heaven forbid, talking about the fact that their wife’s idea of lingerie is flannel jammies and her firm attractive body that they once loved has finally met its match…gravity! Oh no, this definitely isn’t good.

And after that, he’ll want to do what I do and go away for a whole weekend with his friends to a spa! No way am I going to let my husband go somewhere where a female masseuse with long flowing blonde hair and hands like silk are at his ready to massage all of his manly body parts. Not going to happen.

I definitely need to stop this impending train wreck. There’s simply no room in this marriage for both of us to have friends. It wasn’t long ago that he was perfectly content mowing the lawn, painting the house, and going to the town dump for fun. I think it’s high time he goes back to enjoying these leisure activities. Yeah, that’s it. I’m putting my size nine, formerly a dainty eight and a half pre-pregnancy, foot down and laying down the law. From now on…no friends.

“Honey,” I begin, in my stern ‘I wear the pants in this family’ voice, “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he responds.

Hmmmm. Could he possibly be ready to tell me that he thinks he’s been spending too much time with his friends and realizes he would much rather be home spending time with his wife and kids. Say it isn’t so?

It isn’t so. “Honey, the guys and I were thinking about going to Las Vegas for a week this fall to hit the casinos and stuff. Whadda ya think?”

I’m doomed.

I think I’m having a mid-life crisis. The good news is…if I’m truly at the middle of my life, I’m going to live to be 84. The bad news is…my husband is having a mid-life crisis too. Personally, I’ve been moping around the house for weeks questioning everything and unable to make a decision about anything.

“Honey, do you want chicken or beef for dinner?”

“Should I wear the red shirt or the blue shirt?”

“Should I blink every five seconds or every ten?”

And, since my husband is in a similar state, there’s a lot of blank staring going on and not much talking. Fortunately, our two children jolt us back to life every few minutes with their antics. I liken it to the shock paddles used to revive a patient when their heart stops. I just wish my kids would yell, “CLEAR” before they jolted us back to life. A couple of times they almost caused a heart attack!

The day I realized my husband was looking the way I felt, I confronted him about it.

“Honey, do you think you’re having a mid-life crisis,” I asked not knowing if I really wanted the answer.

“Yeah, I think I might be,” was his subdued reply.

After checking the driveway for a convertible and his shirt collars for a foreign shade of lipstick, I decided not to panic and just muttered, “Yeah, me too.”

He admitted he was a little frustrated lately and I admitted I just felt “lost.” Then we talked about what changes we could make to get out of our proverbial “funk.” Fortunately, none of these included a change o’ spouse.

But first we wanted to see if we were definitely having a mid-life crisis or if it was just something like SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) or a fleeting case of the blues.

According to Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia, a mid-life crisis is…

“An emotional state of doubt and anxiety in which a person becomes uncomfortable with the realization that life is halfway over. It commonly involves reflection on what the individual has done with his or her life up to that point, often with feelings that not enough was accomplished. The individuals experiencing such may feel boredom with their lives, jobs, or their partners, and may feel a strong desire to make changes in these areas. The condition is also called the beginning of individuation, a process of self-actualization that continues on to death. The condition is most common ranging from the ages of 35-50, and affects men and women differently. Mid life crises last about 3-10 years in men and 2-5 years in women, but length may vary in some people.”

The definition sounded pretty accurate to how we were feeling, but the last sentence was a little disconcerting.

“Did that just say it could last 3-10 years?” my husband nervously questioned.

“Yeah, but it also says the length of the crisis ‘may vary.’”

“I hope so, ‘cuz I don’t have time for no stinkin’ mid-life crisis.”

I took this as a good sign. I mean, rationally we both know we are truly blessed and that there is so much to live for, but for some reason we were just “stuck.”

Then I thought of something my soon-to-be 80-year old father said to me recently. “You know what? You better snap out of it, because life is not a dress rehearsal.” And, although I’ve heard that expression before, this time it really hit home.

So today is the day I take my life back. I haven’t written this column in weeks because of my glum mood and I decided it was time to get off my butt and “just do it.” I mean, humor is the best medicine for anything that ails you, right?

And my husband, well, I’m happy to report that he seems to be emerging from his blue mood as well. Yesterday he dusted off his twenty-year old Rollerblades and played roller hockey in the driveway with our boys. He looked renewed, refreshed, and quite frankly, pretty darn handsome to his wife of 15 years.

So, you know what mid-life crisis? We’ve got no stinkin’ time for you. Game over!

It all started innocently enough. As I was pulling my sons’ folders and notebooks out of the bag, I thought I would label them with their names just in case they misplaced them (as children often do). But before you knew it, I was printing off a flurry of identifying information covering every inch of their new belongings. My sons were unaware of my labeling frenzy until the first day of school when my eldest son opened his backpack and was mortified at the contents inside. In his mind, I might as well have stuck pink flashing neon signs all over everything screaming “nerd, nerd, nerd.” I guess it probably wasn’t the best way to start off middle school.

What can I say? I’ve always been one who was big on organization. And this labeling fetish really isn’t new, it’s just resurfacing from my youth. As a kid, I had a manual orange DYMO label maker that by a click of a wheel and a squeeze of a trigger I watched each individual letter appear on a colorful piece of adhesive tape. I pretty much labeled everything I could get my hands on and my grandmother even let me label some things at her house. In retrospect though, I realize she was probably humoring me since I’m pretty sure she could tell the difference between small plates, large plates, bowls and cups.

So after I labeled all of my sons’ back-to-school items, I got itchy to find some new things to classify. I grabbed my P-touch and like a divining rod leading to water, my P-touch led me to some unruly recycling bins in the garage. “Ah, this is a job for P-touch,” I said with superhero pride. “But, first I must consult with Recycling Man” (a.k.a my husband).

“Honey, I want to label the recycling bins. How should I label them?”

“Why do you want to label them? They’re see-thru plastic containers. I think I can figure out what’s in them.”

“Oh, stop being such a pain and just tell me.”

“Alright, well, there’s newspapers, #1 plastic, cans, corrugated cardboard, non-corrugated cardboard, and non-peat plastic.”

“Who’s Pete?” I naively questioned.

His glare was enough to send me back inside to seek out something else to sort and categorize.

My next destination was the basement where I found stacks of stuff littering the shelves and spilling onto the floor. “Ugh. This is a disgrace,” I said with a grin. After purchasing ten very large plastic bins, I proceeded to contain this chaos and label each bin accordingly. When I was finished, it was a sight to behold.

Since then, the kids have gotten involved in this labeling craze, but I had to cut them off when I caught them printing unsavory words and labeling each other’s corresponding body parts. And the cats run as soon as they see me waving my new “toy” in their direction.

Sadly, I’m afraid I might have finally run out of things to label, so my P-touch sits quietly tucked away in my desk drawer just waiting to emerge.

Well, there is always my husband’s tools and underwear drawer. “Hey, honey….”

“Through a series of connecting computers the scientists were able to form a wetnork to send their data.”

“Maria did you know you just said wetnork?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Uh, yeah ya did.”

“OK, let me just keep going.”

“And via this wetnork the scientists were able to…”

“Uh, Maria, you just did it again.”

“Oh no! My speech is tomorrow. I hope I don’t do it then. I’ll feel like such a, such a…”

“Wetnork?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t remember if she repeated this blunder in her speech, but what I do remember is this word stuck around for months after. When anybody did anything stupid, one of us was right there to say, “Dude, you’re such a wetnork.”

Well, it’s been about 20 years since that fateful phrase was uttered and I had forgotten all about it until recently when I was attending my third Erma Bombeck Writing Conference in Dayton, Ohio. The conference is attended by 300 humor writers from all over the United States and Canada and is a great opportunity to attend seminars given by professionals in the industry, and also a time to do the thing I dread most of all…network.

I love the part of the writing life that involves working from home, setting my own hours, wearing anything or not wearing anything my heart desires, and drinking coffee until it’s seeping out of my pores, but what I don’t like is having to interact with those two-legged creatures called “people.” It’s not that I dislike people per se, it’s the fact that when I meet someone new I tend to get tongue-tied or say something stupid. It’s something I’m constantly working on, but I did find comfort in the fact that according to this year’s keynote speaker, Dave Barry, this “foot-in-the-mouth” syndrome even happens to the pros.

To humor writers like myself, Dave Barry is the god of humor writing and the late Erma Bombeck was the goddess. So, when Dave Barry spoke, we all listened. As expected, his speech was very humorous especially the story he shared about his early days as a journalist. He was at a press conference at the White House covering a story and was asked to pose with the then first lady, Barbara Bush, and the rest of the press crew for a photograph. He was positioned next to Mrs. Bush and he joked in his speech that, “In my brain I knew I should keep my mouth shut so I wouldn’t embarrass myself, but apparently my mouth wasn’t on board.” He was living in Florida at the time and as the photographer was getting ready to snap the shot Mr. Barry blurted to Mrs. Bush, “I shop in the same grocery store as your son, Jeb.” Clearly not a stellar moment for this then struggling writer, but as you would expect Mrs. Bush didn’t put salt in the wound by saying what she was probably thinking, which was, “Who the heck cares.” Instead, she just chuckled and smiled graciously. And what did Mr. Barry do? He was captured with a red-faced grimace in this once-in-a-lifetime photo op.

So what did I do when getting my picture taken with Mr. Barry during his book signing at the conference? I said, “Well, I’ve been standing in line trying to think of something witty to say to you, but instead of embarrassing myself like you did with Barbara Bush, I think I’ll just stand here and say nothing.”And what did Mr. Barry do? He chuckled and smiled graciously while I was captured with a red-faced grimace in this once-in-a-lifetime photo op.

The good news…at least I know I have one thing in common with Dave Barry. The bad news…I’m such a wetnork!

Americans have come to accept this process as a right of passage for living in this great country, but for some of us, it’s still a pretty overwhelming and intimidating event. In fact, I really don’t know anyone who looks forward to this annual occasion except maybe accountants and the IRS. Both make a pretty penny from the whole ordeal and I bet some individuals even get downright giddy about all of the number crunching.

Not me! I’d rather be crunching a bag of chips or simply watching paint dry. No matter how many years I’ve gone through this process, every time it’s the same thing. Dread. Dismay. Despair. And downloading data until I’m blue in the face. And here’s a question for you. Anybody else wondering why the popular program people use to do their taxes is called Quicken? Personally, I didn’t find it to be too quick. But then again, perhaps that’s because I hadn’t downloaded any data since 12/31/04. And let me tell you, what a difference a year makes! When I started downloading my 2005 data it was January and there was a blanket of snow covering the ground. By the time I finished, it was March and the daffodils were popping up like H&R Block offices during this time of year.

I really don’t know how I became the “chosen one” for this miserable task. It’s definitely not because I’m the financial whiz of this marriage. I mean, c’mon. I’m a writer and everybody knows that creative people use the non-tax filing side of their brain for their creativity. This is also clearly the reason I switched my major in college from accounting to communications after my third semester. I mean, what was I thinking?

What’s even more ironic is the fact that my husband works for a software company that generates 1099s and other tax forms for brokerage firms and banks, so it’s obvious who wears the financial pants in this family. But here’s the thing. Because of my husband’s job, during the height of tax season he is in such high demand making sure all of these forms are produced without a glitch that he is literally putting in 80 – 100 hour weeks. Obviously, it’s not his favorite time of the year either. So, what does that mean? It means he’s exhausted and I get the honor of doing our taxes.

I guess that’s OK. I suppose I can “take one for the team.” After all, I did promise, “for better or for worse.” So what’s a floundering financial housewife supposed to do? Pass the buck! Since I strongly believe you should let the professionals do what they do best, it makes sense to let an accountant file our taxes. Sure, an accountant costs more than the latest version of Turbo Tax, but in my mind, it’s worth every penny. I mean, one person’s write-off could be another person’s red flag to the IRS screaming, “Please audit me.” And with my luck, if I filed our taxes the IRS would be banging on my door waving a sea of red flags prepared to perform the nation’s longest audit ever. No, thanks. I’ll gladly hand over the reins to my trusty CPA.

The good news…we’re getting a refund back from Uncle Sam. The bad news…well, Ben Franklin said it best. “In this world the only thing that is certain is death and taxes.”

Hmmmmm. Suddenly, I love taxes!

By placing his hands behind his knees and kicking his feet, my son realized he could make twice the noise as the armpit method, and to him, it was twice as funny. His brother and father seemed to agree. My husband even commented, “Hey Drew, you should do that trick on David Letterman’s stupid human tricks.” The comment was lost on my son as he continued to “toot” with glee, and I just rolled my eyes in disbelief at this, this…guy thing.

One week later:

“Hey Mike, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What?”

“Letterman is having an open casting call in Boston for stupid pet and stupid human tricks.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No, seriously. It’s next week.”

“You gotta take Drew.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“C’mon. Who knows? Maybe he’ll make it on the show. You can’t deprive your son of his 15 minutes of fame.”

OK, that got to me. I knew my son’s trick wasn’t Letterman worthy, but even so, I felt compelled to make the trip to Boston. I couldn’t ignore the irony of my husband’s initial comment, I was curious what tricks other people would come to perform, and I surely didn’t want to deprive my son of his 15 minutes of fame.

Day of the audition:

We were sitting in the lobby of Boston’s CBS affiliate surrounded by dogs of all sizes, a parrot, kids with an array of instruments, and a mailman cowering in the corner trying to avoid said dogs. You could tell everyone was curious why the others were there and I managed to eavesdrop on a few conversations.

“What does your dog do?”

“He swims above water.”

“And, your dog?”

“He sneezes for cheeseburgers.”

Not sure if these were feats that would shock and awe, but knowing my son’s trick was of equal lackluster caliber, I tried not to judge too harshly. I also hoped no one would ask me what his trick was. I mean, what was I going to say? “My son makes the sound of a large man passing gas after attending an all day chili cook-off.” Didn’t really want to go there.

Then, it was my son’s turn to do his trick. He was thrilled right up until…

“Hi, what’s your name?” the producer asked.

“Andrew.”

“And what trick are you going to do for us today, Andrew?”

“WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”

OK, we learned one thing. Drew doesn’t perform well under pressure, so we sat off to the side and watched the other auditions while he tried to pull himself together. While we waited, this is what we saw.

The mailman played “Yankee Doodle Dandy” by tapping his fingers in random melodic fashion on his large sparkling teeth, a German shepherd did addition and subtraction by tapping the answer with his paw in his owner’s hand, and finally, a parrot and poodle team took the stage. The parrot was supposed to give commands to the dog (sit, rollover, beg, etc.) and the dog would follow. However, I had overheard the owner in the lobby say, “Yeah, my dog has ADD (attention deficit disorder). He already blew his audition in New York because he kept getting distracted.” It turns out not much had changed. The parrot was on point, but the poodle-paralyzed.

Then Drew announced, “OK, I’m ready to do my trick.” He got down on the ground, kicked his little feet as hard as he could, and was proud as a peacock. I, on the other hand, was turning as red as the peacock’s brightest plume realizing this trick was cute when performed in the comfort of our own home, but rather embarrassing when performed for one of the top rated late night shows.

So what did we learn from this experience? 15 minutes of fame can easily turn into 15 minutes of shame, I might want to rethink my son’s career path, and I will never, ever listen to my husband again!

This summer, my husband and I decided to start a new family tradition-hiking with our boys. Yep! Every Sunday afternoon we plan on heading into the wilderness and being one with nature. We used to hike a lot, pre-kids, but like most parents, you tend to give up a lot once the wee ones come along. Now that our boys are five and nine we felt they were old enough to get out there and experience an activity that we used to love. We hoped it would bring us closer as a family and also create some fond memories for our boys. It was a good thought-in theory.

“Do we have to go for a hike?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“C’mon, it will be great! Fresh air, mountain breeze, birds singing.”

“But, Mommmmmmmmm!”

“Get in the car!”

Off we went. Our first destination was Mt. Monadnock in Jaffrey, NH. The trail we would be hiking was about two miles long and at its highest peak was about 3,165 feet high. I knew my eldest son, Tyler, could handle it, but I was a little skeptical about my younger son, Drew. He wasn’t the most athletic child and the only thing he ever hiked up was his pants.

“Hey, Mom, look at me, look at me,” Tyler yelled as he bounced from rock to rock like a mountain goat after a double espresso.

“Tyler Michael, slow down, you’ll get hurt.” For a moment there I thought my mother was following us, but then I realized it was just me yelling that tired old motherism.

All of a sudden, I heard somebody else yelling something from down below. I wasn’t sure exactly who or what they were yelling, but as they got closer it sounded like they were yelling, “I LIVE!” Except it sounded more like a two syllable word with an extra emphasis on the second syllable, “I LIV-AH!”

“Drew, is that you?”

“Yup!”

I was used to him quoting phrases from his favorite TV shows or movies so I asked, “Where did you get that line from?”

“I dunno. I just made it up.”

“OK.” I was wondering if he was experiencing hallucinations from the altitude, but since we had only hiked about 100 yards I decided it was simply his five-year-old imagination at work.

“Hey, honey, how are you doing back there?” I asked my husband who was bringing up the rear.

“Great (Pant. Pant.), just great!” I looked back and he looked like one of those over burdened mules whose only purpose in life was to carry people’s stuff up and down the Grand Canyon. I had enlisted him to carry our backpack filled with all of the basic necessities; food, water, bug spray, makeup, cute outfit for me to change into after the hike, 10 latest issues of People magazine, you know, the essentials.

Well, after about five hours we were finally back to our car. The good news-we made it to the top of the mountain and back in one piece. The bad news-I had a rash on my legs from the circa-1990 wool hiking sox I was wearing, my husband had to carry my youngest son the last half mile, and my oldest son was covered with mud from head to toe. But, you know what? Despite it all, I think we all had a great time. It was definitely a heck of a hike!