Author: Laura Packard

Sometimes, I feel like I can never do anything right.              I walk into the pantry and wonder why. Why I am standing here in the dark? Did I need a box of gluten-free spaghetti, maybe a 40-watt light bulb; was it the last Little Debbie or just a little quiet with a whole lot of peace?

It finally happened. And just as I was on the brink of losing my ever lovin’ mind . . . or deciding to pack up a house full of junk, dogs, kids and unmatched socks and move North.

Well…..It’s finally almost here. The scent of it teasing us with the faint wisp of woody, tinny pencil shavings; hope springs from perpetual despair with every sure-solid snap of a 3.99 plastic three-ring binder; and anticipation runs flush within the reflection of a set of see-thru dividers, a double pack of neon note cards and paper-thin protractors laid out like a three card brag.  

I’m hot.          Temperature hot, that is.          I’m a certified sticky, sweaty, frizzy, soaked mess.          I go out with good intentions, but quickly crawl (not run) back in.

I loved Nancy Drew growing up.      Adored her, actually.       Why, you may ask? Well, who wouldn’t look up to a blue convertible-driving sixteen year old, recent high school grad and amateur sleuth who could single-handedly solve the greater mysteries of the universe with only a flashlight, intense studies in psychological behaviors, and a magnifying glass to guide her? Simply put, she was my hero.

The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays. What’s not to like? The overwhelming swell of pride, the flags secured to porches, the cute little Jell-O molds made out of blue and red gelatin with Cool Whip lovingly smudged in between. It’s the time of year when everyone is reminded of what we all have in common, to preserve what we hold dear: those precious concepts of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Being a dad is tough stuff.        There’s a lot of heavy lifting.        A dad is usually the one who has to hoist the awkward and obscenely large ladder from the basement, unscrew all the light bulbs, mow the lawn on Sundays and carry 30 pound toddlers to bed after they have fallen fast asleep and slobbered all over their head, limbs and feet.

I come from a long line of porch sitters.             I was trying to explain this to my mid-western raised friends, Mark and Suzanne, while we rocked, sipped, ate, talked and talked some more on our back porch last weekend.  The heavy rain that torpedoed the tin roof and the industrial-sized fan almost as big as the great state of Texas, and just as loud, made it bearable in the god-forsaken June heat.

I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching lately; trying to figure out how to raise children in challenging times. The way I remember it, growing up was so much simpler than it is today. And with every generation that ticks by, we lose even more of an appreciation for the smaller, quieter things in life. To me, innocence is becoming as fleeting and as fine as the white blur of the blown dandelion weed.

It happens every year.               And for the life of me, I just can’t figure out why.  Whenever they come out with the “Top Ten Most Dangerous Jobs List” every year, it always leaves me wondering who “they” actually are and what type of qualifications “they” possess to come up with the list in the first place.