Month: January 2026

Three of our grands have their learner’s driver’s permits, but somehow, I seem to be the one receiving instructions on how to drive.

“You probably should have waited ‘til that car passed,” advises our oldest daughter, as I pull into traffic. She’s my front seat passenger and mother of twins with drivers’ permits.

“Excuse me? I pulled out just fine, thank you. And, by the way, I’m not the one with ‘Please Be Patient: Student Driver bumper stickers plastered all over my vehicle.”

I always wondered who put those stickers on their cars. Now I know. She’s sitting next to me, scrutinizing my every move. I won’t be surprised when she pulls out a clipboard and begins taking notes.

“Brake!” she snaps.

“Seriously, girl? You’re going to tell me how to drive? Even your father knows not to do that.”

“Well, I’m teaching two teenagers to drive, so I’m practically like a real driver’s ed instructor now.”

Sure she is.

“I taught you to drive, didn’t I?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Dad did. Remember, you taught J to drive, so neither of us girls wanted you as a teacher.”

Great. I know where she’s going. One time, one time. OK, maybe two or three times. “But I taught your brother to drive a stick shift in a Ford 150,” I say.

“Yeah, and every time he killed the engine you punched him in the arm.”

“It was reflex,” I say.

I come from a long line of impatient driving teachers. My grandfather taught my mother to drive a stick shift. She got in, shut the door, started it up, let out the clutch and killed it. “Lesson over,” my grandpa said. He got out, slamming the door, and my mother didn’t learn to drive until she got married.

I’m not sure the kids need to know that story. Come to think of it, they absolutely do not need that story.

My driver’s ed instructor and I grab fast food for lunch and use drive-thru. Two very long lines wrap around the building and then merge to exit.

“Zipper, Mom. Zipper.”

“I’m going to merge,” I say.

“No, you zipper. The car in that lane goes, then our lane goes. You know, like a zipper.” She holds up her hands demonstrating how two sides of a zipper go together.

I may have gotten my license in the last century, but I don’t need hand motions explaining how a zipper works. What I might need are stickers on the back of the vehicle saying, “Please Be Patient: Dueling Driver’s Ed Instructors in Vehicle.”

For the record, I merged then, I merge now and will continue to merge.

 

You know winter is knocking on the door when the go-to topic of every conversation is wind chill. You know winter has moved in and made itself at home when the house settles with loud cracks, the hardwoods creak and kitchen cabinets along an outside wall have the interior temperature of a cave. Winter is the lingering houseguest with no departure date in sight.

Experts claim that exposing oneself to light is the best defense against a long, dreary winter. I have taken this wisdom to heart, frequently rotating from the glow of the light in the refrigerator to the warmth of the light over the stove, to the radiance of the light in the oven.

Yes, there is a correlation between all those appliance lights and seasonal weight gain, but when you pull a warm apple crisp from the oven, that idea completely disappears – often beneath a mound of vanilla ice cream. It’s hard to hear rational thought when you’re chewing.

In the long days of winter, I often take my laptop into whatever room has sunlight streaming through the windows. I do this in hopes of increasing productivity, and it does. Naps increase exponentially in the warmth of the sun.

A friend announced she wasn’t going to suffer through another long, dreary Midwest winter and was taking preemptive steps. This is commonly known as “Freezing the Day.”

She and her husband booked a rental on the coast of Alabama in March. They have planned every hour of every day of their trip — absorbing the sun.

My first newspaper job out of college was in North Dakota at the Fargo Forum. I started in January. The temperature was 19 degrees below zero, which means the windchill was probably 70 below.

Every time I stepped outside, the moisture on my nose hairs froze into tiny icicles. With every breath taken, I could feel a burn deep in my lungs. Covering a story in Minot, I was informed their claim to fame was having more mentions on the Weather Channel than any other town.

The people were warm and hospitable, but the frigid temperatures were unbearable. I left before a second winter. I regret not having a shirt that says, “I survived winter in Fargo.”

I have recently spied an enormous squirrel on our patio. He is so large that when he sits on his haunches, he can fold his tiny hands and rest them on his enormous protruding belly. He has no definable neck.

When he’s not shaking the daylights out of the birdfeeder, I suspect he competes as a sumo wrestler.

The squirrel is either a warning we’re in for a North Dakota winter, or a sign to quit warming myself in front of all the appliance bulbs.

 

 

It’s too late now, but I probably should have become a chiropractor.

Why? Two words: tech neck. It’s when a neck has been bent over a screen for so long that it needs medical attention. The phenomenon is everywhere. I’m not neck-saggerating.

I was in line to check out at a doctor’s office, and a mom and a little boy were in front of me. The boy was about 4, cute as a button with super long eyelashes. He was holding a tablet with his hands while his head was bent over it and braced against the wall.

His mom was having difficulty with checkout paperwork and the boy just stood frozen, mesmerized by animated figures running around on the screen.

I was watching the boy staring at the screen, wondering if he would blink. After five minutes, the tablet fell to the floor. Here’s the thing – the boy remained frozen with his head still bent and braced against the wall. It was nearly 10 seconds before he leaned over to pick up the tablet.

Maybe not today or tomorrow, but some day that child may need a neck adjustment.

Experts say that keeping your head, which may weigh 8-10 pounds, bent over a device is like holding a gallon of milk from the end of your outstretched arm. Your arm and your neck weren’t designed to dangle such weight for a prolonged period.

Some call it tech neck, others call it text neck. If the neck fits.

The other morning, I was outside when a car pulled up and let out a middle school boy so he could walk to the bus stop at the end of the block without other kids noticing his mother drove him.

The boy walked to the bus stop with his neck stretched out as flat as a diving board with face glued to his phone. If there was a neck craning event in the Olympics, the kid could bring home the gold. USA! USA!

I’m not a professional, but my understanding is that removing the phone is easy part. It’s getting the head and arms back to their original position that takes week$ and month$ of therapy.

Why aren’t chiropractors in mobile units cruising the city going from bus stop to bus stop, coffee shop to coffee shop or from dinner table to dinner table?

My primary care physician, Dr. Google, says: Tech neck is treatable and can be fixed by correcting posture, performing regular stretches, strengthening exercise and taking frequent breaks, but if symptoms persist or worsen, it is recommended to seek professional advice from a doctor or physical therapist. Or a family life columnist.

I added that last sentence. Yes, on the downside, I am untrained and unlicensed. On the upside, my fees are reasonable.

 

One of the girls gave me a tube of lotion guaranteed to reduce neck wrinkles in 14 days. “Thanks,” I said, “but it took me decades to develop these wrinkles. They’re not going away in two weeks.”

“How do you know that for sure?” she asked.

“Because I bought a tube of this myself a year ago.”

The only wrinkles I’ve had success smoothing are in clothes, using a powerful little steamer. My face may have wrinkles, but at least my clothes don’t.

What is it about women and cosmetics that make us believe the unbelievable?

I don’t believe in the tooth fairy, but I believe the dark circles under my eyes might magically disappear with little half-moon shaped patches promoted by a cosmetic line featuring close-ups of a 24-year-old. At that age, the model still has baby fat.

I don’t believe in leprechauns, but I believe the anti-frizz product a stylist used on my hair in a temperature- and humidity-controlled salon might really work in 95-degree outdoor temps with matching humidity.

Hope springs eternal. And so does my hair.

I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny, but I just might believe that a certain mascara can thicken eyelashes. And then my sensible-side kicks in and says, “You can’t thicken what isn’t there.”

I don’t believe the stork delivers babies, but I can be mesmerized by products that claim to reverse aging, defy time and turn back the clock. So maybe unicorns are real, too?

If you can make peace with the wear and tear of time, you eventually find a comfort zone that comes with aging. All those lines –laugh lines, smile lines, worry lines and prayer lines – are signposts of years gone by.

They are souvenirs from the seasons of life – the rough waters and the smooth sailing. They are character lines silently etched as you maneuvered the challenges of infants, toddlers, adolescents, teens and then letting go. Crinkles are from the joys of welcoming the next generation.

You know you’ve hit the sweet spot when the promises of turning back the clock lose their allure. You work with what you have, look in the mirror, and say, “It is what it is and today is a good day.”