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We have received an invitation to an event where the suggested dress code is smart casual. This has thrown us into a tizzy, prompting us to ask a lot of dumb questions about smart casual.

Does smart casual require we bring academic transcripts? Perhaps pin them to our chests or randomly pull them from our pockets when the conversation lags?

If there is such a thing as smart casual, doesn’t that infer that there must also be a not-so-smart casual? If there are pictures of what not-so-smart casual looks like, we might be better able to deduce what smart casual looks like. We are the people who learn more by looking at “what not to wear.”

If we don’t come dressed smart casual, will the assumption be that our intelligence levels are subpar?

Does a hoodie sweatshirt emblazoned with Oxford or Yale count as smart casual?

I didn’t think so. Just asking for a friend.

Further complicating matters, how does smart casual differ from snappy casual, glitzy casual, dressy casual, party casual and business casual?

Of course, the bottom-line question with every stated dress code is, “Can I wear jeans?”

Jeans have become the global default.

Often, we get ready to go somewhere and the husband asks, “Can I wear jeans?”

It’s a trap and I’ve learned how to maneuver around it.

“The jeans you just did yardwork in?” I ask.

“No, of course not.”

What he’s not saying is that he’s thinking of wearing the jeans he did yardwork in a couple of weeks ago, which look better than the ones he did yardwork in today.

My answer is usually no, just like it will be no to jeans for smart casual. But that’s just me and it certainly doesn’t mean you can’t wear jeans for smart casual. Casual is in the eye of the beholder.

Of course, there will also be those wondering if ripped jeans with the horizontal shreds qualify for smart causal.

Absolutely not. Those fall into the category of “over-priced casual.”

The trend is toward more and more casual. I’m waiting for the pendulum to swing back in the other direction – you know, when putting bling on jeans doesn’t mean you’re ready for the theater and when Casual Friday becomes collared-shirt Friday.

A friend recently received a wedding invitation that stated the attire will be “picnic casual.”

That’s certainly better defined than “picnic formal.” Jeans would be entirely acceptable. Perhaps even jean shorts. It might even be a good idea to toss swimsuits and trunks in the back seat of the car. Guests might also consider bringing their own fried chicken and potato salad.

Going casual is a lot more work than it used to be.

A slew of grands were coming and we were out. Completely out. Not sunscreen. Not bug spray. Ice cream.

And I call myself a grandma.

You don’t go to Grandma’s on a hot day, fan yourself in her freezer and not see ice cream. A grandma could be stripped of her title.

Just like that, life turns on a dime. Or an ice cream sandwich.

The last time some of them came and the freezer was empty, one of them looked at me in bewilderment, her expression slowly morphing to a smile of pity. The look said, “When was the last time that woman was credentialed?” and “Isn’t there a grandma refresher course she could take?”

My parents were legen-dairy. They always had three kinds of ice cream in the freezer for grandkids and boasted of an open-door policy. The kid who enjoyed all that ice cream the most, is now lactose intolerant. She can no longer eat ice cream, but at least she has fond memories of ice cream.

The husband, “any time is a good time for ice cream,” is the one who never disappoints. He considers Hershey’s syrup a staple. You think the man isn’t popular? The grands follow him like the Pied Piper. Hershey’s syrup is the way to win devotion and wield influence. Politicians should try it—a  Hershey’s syrup giveaway funded by federal money. (Your money.)

By the way, I don’t cone-done that behavior.

I don’t cone-done ants in the house either, which is why I make the kids eat ice cream outside. That’s what I’ll be remembered for—yelling: “Take that mess outside!”

Meanwhile, the Pied Piper is holding the door open squirting chocolate syrup into their mouths as they file out the door.

Watching kids eat ice cream gives you a window into their personalities.

The ones who smash ice cream with the back of a spoon, squish it against the side of the bowl and turn it into soup, are the same ones who consider kicking dirty clothes under the bed as “cleaning up.”

Kids who layer toppings deliberately, or are particular about the even distribution of sprinkles, have perfectionist tendencies and are the ones with building and engineering bents.

Naturally, there are wild variations even within the same gene pool. Two grands who are sisters, ages 6 and 3, have diametrically different approaches to the fudge pop.

The 6-year-old cajoles the fudge pop, lapping it neatly and methodically, slowly turning it as it vanishes into thin air. There is not the slightest bit of evidence she ever held one in her hand. Even the wooden stick has disappeared. Maybe she ate that, too.

Her 3-year-old sister approaches a fudge pop like a full-body contact sport. She attacks wildly, smearing ice cream on her forehead, cheeks and chin, throughout her hair, up and down both arms and all over her clothes. She gets more on her than she gets in her.

All of which brings us to the second summer essential to always have on hand: a wand attachment with a spray setting for the garden hose.

 

For months I have been hearing about the Brood X singing cicadas that will be coming to a tree near me. I’d rather they go to a bar near me and sing on Karaoke night, but I have little say in such matters.

Besides, they are not coming—they have arrived.

I was in the garden recently saying a few words over the two-inch stub that remained from a beautiful 5-foot purple clematis. If I catch the rabbits that destroyed the clematis, I will say a few words over them, too. They will not be kind words.

Wrapping chicken wire around the paltry remains of the clematis, I noticed small holes in the hardened ground nearby. The cicada nymphs had begun to emerge.

I’m a mature grown-up. I’m not going to panic over an invasion of millions (perhaps billions) of cicadas and run screaming toward the house.

I walked briskly and sobbed softly.

Safe in the house, windows shut, doors barricaded, I calmly reviewed what I know to be true about cicadas, drew a line down the middle of a yellow legal tablet and labeled one side “Reason to Panic” and the other “Reason Not to Panic.”

The first Reason Not to Panic is that insect experts unanimously agree Brood X prefers heavily wooded areas.

Reason to Panic: We live in a heavily wooded area.

Reason Not to Panic: People think they are called Brood X because of their size, but they are Brood X because it will be the tenth time scientists will have observed the 17-year cicadas.

Reason to Panic: X may indicate a Roman numeral, not shirt size, but the locusts  have a 3-inch wingspan and are 2.5 inches long, which in the insect world makes them an XXXL.

Reason Not to Panic: Brood X loves to sing and will provide music around the clock.

Reason to Panic: A 4-year-old grand who said, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a singing cicada in the house?”

Yet another Reason to Panic: They may be so thick in some places that they drop from trees, land on humans and cover outdoor surfaces. Clearly, Brood X does not practice social distancing.

Reason Not to Panic:  We have a leaf blower.

Perhaps the greatest reason to not panic is that (almost) everyone in our family enjoys cicada shells. Last year, the grands wore them on their shirts, in their hair and parked them on their noses. One of our grown daughters, married, mother of three, seemingly rational and sane, picked up a locust shell, dipped it in ketchup and pretended to eat it.

Reason to Panic: The family is loosely wrapped.

Facebook has been toying with plans for Instagram for children, declaring it would be a “parent-controlled experience” allowing kids to keep up with friends. Just the “experience” every busy parent is clamoring for, another online arena to monitor.

If you believe Mark Zuckerberg’s $114 billion fortune revolves around the best interests of parents and children, I have some asbestos to sell you.

The truth is, Facebook is considering a platform for children because kids are one of their few untapped markets and every entrepreneur knows that the earlier you establish brand loyalty, the greater the chances of having a consumer for life.

Cha-ching!

Naturally, a platform for children would come with the same dangers of platforms for adults—personal data leaks, sexual predators lurking, and long-lasting loss of privacy, often accompanied by long-lasting regret. All the aforementioned are why Facebook has previously prohibited anyone under 13 from opening an account. But now, they’re rethinking things.

So should we.

Is it healthy for 7-year-olds to be posting selfies?

How does an 8-year-old process an online snub or outright ridicule?

Will children post pictures of peanut butter sandwiches cut into the shape of hearts or go directly for the political jugular?

If parents post pictures of kids without permission, will kids post pictures of parents without permission?

Shortly after the death of Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, a reporter who had interviewed him wrote a thoughtful retrospective. He recalled asking Jobs what his kids thought of the iPad after it had been released. The reporter was surprised when Jobs answered, “They haven’t used it. We limit how much technology our kids use at home.”

A number of chief technology executives have expressed similar opinions. A developer in the early days of Facebook has even expressed remorse for helping create the dopamine effect of the platform that keeps users coming back and wanting more.

Maybe children have all the platforms they need.

The great outdoors is a platform for exploration, adventure and discovery. Birds are laying eggs in nests; butterflies are fluttering and the cicadas are coming.

Gardening could be your platform; you never know until you try. If nothing else, you’ll learn a lot about squirrels and rabbits.

Sidewalks are a solid platform for bicycles, scooters, skates, chalking, dog-walking and lemonade stands.

Most every home has a shelf or box jammed with craft supplies—paper, markers, paints, scissors and glue sticks. The platform is imagination. Go for it.

Books are a platform for time travel. Have a good trip.

Games can be platforms for developing logic, strategy and an acumen for property development.

Our kids were not allowed to say they were bored when they were young. If they couldn’t find something to do themselves, I would find something for them. Like cleaning the bathroom.

Our youngest was in fourth grade when she had a friend over. The friend wandered into the kitchen, heaved a sigh and said, “We don’t know what to do. We’re —” Our daughter quickly put her hand over her friend’s mouth and said, “You don’t ever say you’re bored around our mom.”

Now go find your platform.

Our wilderness wing of the family acquired four ducklings in an effort to expand their menagerie, which to date consists of a mouser cat built like an NFL linebacker, an extremely energetic black lab that in mellow moods doubles as a pillow for the little ones and a lop eared rabbit given free range as it is litter box trained.

Theoretically, the rabbit is trained.

I don’t argue with theory; I just watch where I step.

A flurry of activity made way for ducklings. First came building a duck house, a simple wooden structure surrounded by aging black hickory trees nestled near the edge of the pond. The duck house features a welcoming front porch, an eastern exposure to the morning sun and a roof that catches the pitter patter of rain. It is a miniature of the lake house of my dreams, although the lake house of my dreams is not surrounded by muck and mud where one false step sucks the boots plumb off your feet.

In any case, the idea behind the duck house is to give the ducks a place to roost and shelter from predators—and I would include the rambunctious black lab in that group.

The Cayuga ducklings arrived only days after hatching, four irresistible puff balls of brown down that will eventually turn a striking greenish black. They stayed in a box at first, then were promoted to the bathtub. They zipped the length of the tub back and forth like Olympic contenders madly racing for the gold.

Everyone who saw them thought to themselves, “You know, ducklings in the bathtub would be a nice addition at our place, too.” No one admitted it aloud, but we all harbored duck envy.

Several days later, cold and nasty weather circled back and we received a photo of one of the boys sitting in a chair, reading a book, a duck cuddled to his chest.

Oh, to be that boy. Or even to be that duck.

Sadly, on the Sunday morning after the ducks arrived, we received word that the tiniest one had died.

Several days later, I had a video call from our son and their youngest daughter, who just turned three. I tactfully said that I was sorry to hear one of the ducklings had passed.

“What do you mean passed?” our son asked.

“I’m trying to be sensitive to young ears present,” I said, nodding toward the towhead swaying in the hammock with him.

“The duck died,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Da duck died,” the little one said, echoing her daddy.

They both shot me looks of pity.

“OK, fine!” I snapped. “The duck died!”

Silence.

The toddler batted her long eyelashes and softly said, “We put da duck in a hole.”

And to think I was trying to shield her. It is probably better that she is exposed to the hard edges of life now, rather than grow up shielded, overprotected, and be taken by surprise when she is an adult.

She said it well: Da duck died.

Grandma was taking it hard.

I will try to toughen up before their baby chicks arrive.

There are always a few taken by surprise by Mother’s Day. Or at least they claim to be taken by surprise.

“Mother’s Day, again? Seems like we just had it.”

We did. A year ago.

“That thing sure moves around on the calendar, doesn’t it?”

No, Mother’s Day does not move around. Easter moves around, Christmas moves around, New Year’s Day moves around, but Mother’s Day is always the second Sunday in May.

Here’s a tip for remembering that: The second Sunday in May is also the time you can set out cold sensitive plants where we live because it is considered the last “frost date.”

That is what your mother will be if you fail to acknowledge her on Mother’s Day.

Frosted.

Royally frosted.

Frosted flake frosted.

This year may be an especially good year to recognize Mom as there are murmurings about using the title “Mom” less and “Parent” more.

Happy Parent’s Day!

I didn’t think so.

“Mom” has been the moniker of choice for thousands of years. “Parent” is unlikely to grab hold on a widespread basis.

“Momma!” is what toddlers instinctively cry when they need the one who makes them feel safe and secure.

“Muh-ther” is what kids huff in exasperation when told “no” once again.

“Mom” is the one you call with good news about a job, a milestone, or your baby’s first tooth.

“I love you, Mom,” is what you whisper to yourself over and over as she is lowered into the grave.

Mother is a name of honor. It’s a term of love and endearment earned through morning sickness, colic, potty training, medical emergencies, calls from the school, financial strain, lack of sleep, days that are too short, waits that are too long, the big launch and the empty nest-with countless joys, lots of laughter and tender moments woven in between.

If you believe your mother may have fallen short in some areas, congratulations. You have discovered that mothers are human. That said, most mothers have been battle-tested. You don’t strip an honorable veteran of a well-earned title.

If you’re wondering if a gift is necessary this year, one of our grands may have already answered the question. She overheard us talking about getting Personalized Mother’s Day Gifts and other plans, and she immediately sat up straight, eyes twinkling, and confidently proclaimed, “I don’t need to get my mom a gift for Mother’s Day – I AM the gift!

“Every mom already has her gifts!” she exclaimed, giggling. “Her kids!”

I think she’ll be able to pull it off. You could try it too, but you’re probably not 6.

If you haven’t talked to your mom lately, a call only takes a couple of minutes. Why not? She gave you years.

We are dinosaurs who still have a landline phone. It sits in the family room of our home tastefully decorated with hieroglyphics on the walls.

One of us is a progressive dinosaur who periodically pushes for ditching the landline. But I am married to a beloved old-school dinosaur who wants to keep the landline because we could miss something important.

He then enumerates a half-dozen marvelous calls we would have missed during the past year if we had disconnected the landline.

It’s hard to argue with a dinosaur in possession of a phone log.

Our landline is a tall, thin portable with caller ID and voicemail. I rarely answer it, but you-know-who runs to check caller ID whenever it rings. He rarely answers it either. The primary benefit of keeping a landline is that it provides exercise.

Some of the grands were over and discovered an old phone in a closet where we stash board games.

It is a Trimline, a sleek phone with lighted push buttons and a coiled cord that keeps you on a short leash. They wanted to know if it worked, so I unplugged the portable landline and plugged in the corded wonder.

I proceeded to call the landline from my cell, but the child kept picking it up before it had a chance to ring.

“Set it down, so I can call you.”

She set it down. Then she picked it back up.

“No, you have to put it down and let it sit there.”

I realized this child is of the generation that has never known a phone not permanently attached to its owner’s flesh.

She set it down once again into the receiver. Upside down.

I repositioned it correctly and again called the landline from my cell.

The phone let out a shrill, piercing B-R-R-R-R-ING and the kid shot straight up into the air; her eyes were wide with fear.

“Answer it,” I said.

She did.

“Hello,” I said. “This is the past calling.”

You can’t get this on an app, kids. Grandma and Grandpa have the coolest toys ever.

A few moments later, one of her sisters was passing though the kitchen when the landline let out another loud, shrill B-R-R-R-R-ING.

That one jumped into the air with an arc to her back as though she had been tackled. “What is that?” she yelled.

Soon everybody was vying for a go at answering the landline with the shrill, piercing ring.

Naturally, after receiving calls, they then wanted to place a call. They agreed to call their aunt but couldn’t because nobody memorizes phone numbers anymore. We’re all on speed dial.

I said they could find her number in the Rolodex on my desk.

“What’s a roll-o-deck?”

“We’ll save that for next time, kids. This has been enough history for one day.”

Maybe their Grandpa will be home next time they stop by. No doubt, he has some old phone books stashed away somewhere. We’re in the book listed under “Fun.”

Seeds for conflict are being sown in the U.K. over whether to mow one’s lawn or let it become a small patch of wilderness. It’s a new twist on an old drama. Call it Lawn Order.

More simply put, it is Grass Warfare. Pro-wilding advocates are squaring off against pro-manicured lawn advocates.

One article on the turf wars featured a photograph of Prince Charles standing in a suit and tie with a boutonniere in a lovely meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers. The implication being that he was gazing about in approval of the naturalization, but for all we know he may have been wondering what was for lunch.

What was missing were subsequent photos of when the prince returned to the castle, violently shook out his shirt, tie, suit coat, suit pants, socks and the undergarments he was wearing, then endlessly twisted about with a hand mirror checking his body for ticks.

We received a birthday party invitation from our oldest granddaughter about to turn 12 who lives in the country surrounded by woods and tall grasses. She thoughtfully specified dress requirements for the party: “Wear long pants, socks over your pants, tuck a long shirt into pants and don’t forget bug spray!” No mention of a suit and tie.

Her mother routinely finds several ticks on a couple of the children every day. Checking for ticks on a child’s skin is far different from checking for ticks on aging skin. My left arm alone has enough freckles and markings that one can visualize the entire Milky Way in the stretch of space from my elbow to my wrist.

The husband’s skin is similar, which is why the last time I checked his legs for ticks, I may have drawn blood with the tweezers. What I thought was a tick was a very tiny mole. I was told that “sorry” is not a legal defense for medical malpractice.

Tall grasses are home to ticks carrying nasty diseases, as well as snakes, chiggers, mosquitoes, small vermin and invasive weeds. This is why even people who live in the country mow the green space around their homes. Reptiles, insects, weeds and vermin are not known for respecting boundaries. And I am sure, that this is surely not a problem only in the UK, but also, in countries like the USA! No wonder many would opt to have artificial grass installation in Castle Rock (or similar services in their vicinity) done in their backyards at least!

However, some on the naturalization side have put forth a compromise suggesting that people only mow the lawn once a month. This is referred to as “managed messiness.”

We once had neighbors who practiced “managed messiness.” Here it was a naturalization choice and all that time we simply thought they did not know how to start a lawnmower.

Going natural always sounds so free and wonderful, but in the case of not mowing lawns, unintended consequences could have some serious bite. Not to mention scratching, swelling and redness.

The important thing is that we respectfully listen to one another’s ideas and – above all – stay grounded.

She is five years old, skipping across the parking lot with a paper map squeezed beneath her arm and against her body like it is a top-secret document. She shakes wild curly hair out of her face and reminds the group that she has the map the park ranger handed us on entry to the state park. She shouts this with an air of importance as though being in possession of a map will elevate her standing among her older cousins.

A map is a novelty to a 5-year-old; built-in dashboard GPS navigation is not.

In-car navigation is still somewhat of a novelty to me; a map is not.

Ten of us cross the parking lot and regroup near trailheads.

She shakes the map loose from its folds and it billows like a parachute. She wrangles it under control, studies it intently, traces lines with her finger and yells, “Trail 7! Let’s take Trail 7!”

“Trail 7? What’s on Trail 7?” the group murmurs.

“Look at Trail 7, Grandma!” she demands.

“I can’t see Trail 7 because I can’t find my glasses,” I holler over the wind.

Isn’t that how all good navigators respond?

Lewis says to Clark, “Well, we’re lost again, and I can’t find my glasses!”

Clark says to Lewis, “Where did you last see them?”

Lewis snaps, “If I knew where I last saw them, I wouldn’t be looking for them!”

The tiny navigator points to the top of my head, indicating the location of my glasses, just as a strong gust of wind rips one side of the map from her two-handed grasp.

We jump and lunge and flail against the wind, and finally the cumbersome map is once again under our command. I begin studying the map, which is somewhat of a challenge as the dotted lines marking the trails are very faint. What’s more, I need to find our position in relation to the parking lot, but I am having trouble finding it.

“You do know you’re growing up in the digital age where everybody does everything on their phones, right?” I ask.

She squints her eyes and glares. It’s a menacing glare, even from a half-pint.

“I don’t have a phone,” she deadpans.

Good point.

The kid wants to use the map.

I point out that we are standing by the start of Trail 1. “I’ve been on Trail 1 before,” I say. “It’s wonderful.”

“But I want Trail 7.”

“Well, we’re nowhere close to Trail 7.”

Another eye squint.

“Trail 1 has a suspension bridge,” I say.

The glare softens.

“And it takes us through a deep canyon carved into enormous rocks.”

Her eyes widen.

I lean close to let her in on the best part. “And we might see a teeny tiny waterfall.”

She’s all in.

“Tell you what, next time we come we’ll do Trail 7. OK?”

She relents and relinquishes Trail 7. But not the map.

 

When the husband announced we were getting a sizable tax refund this year, I froze. It was one of those moments when you remember where you were and what you were wearing. (Middle of the kitchen, black workout pants, gray hoodie – same thing I’ve worn every day since the pandemic began.)

“That’s terrible,” I whispered, barely able to talk.

“I know,” he said, visibly shaken.

“It’s all right,” I said, “we still have each other.”

Refunds terrify us. Not only because it means we miscalculated and overpaid estimated quarterly taxes, but because anytime we get a windfall of any sort, it is always followed by another wind. Something along the lines of a tornado.

Our first rule of finance is that unexpected money means unexpected expenses. They’re coming. You know they’re coming; you just don’t know when they’re coming.

The first one hit – literally – the next week. Heavy rain turned to ice and coated all the needles on all the branches of a large white pine next to the house. Branches at the top cracked under the weight and took lower branches out with them, hurling themselves against the house then crashing to the ground. It sounded like a wrecking ball in slow-mo.

We surveyed the damage. Nearly one entire side of the tree was on the ground. Branches had dented siding, scraped brick, cracked a window frame and ripped the electrical box for the AC off the house.

“It could have been worse,” I said, which is our second rule of finance right after “unexpected money means unexpected expenses.”

The next day we bought new windshield wipers for the car. The nice man who put them on said he heard a little sing-song noise from the engine that we might want to have looked at. We took it to our mechanic who called within the hour. He said it was bad news and that we needed to take it to the dealership. “It’s gonna cost big time,” he said. “Hope you guys got a tax refund.”

That night I said, “Well, the house has spoken, the homeowners claim has been filed, the car is at a spa at the dealership enjoying two grand in the sun, but at least the appliances are all working.”

“How could you say such a thing?” the husband snapped. “You think appliances don’t have ears?”

The refrigerator let out a wicked laugh, followed by a clunk, dropping the last ice cubes we would ever see. For five days we hit the on/off switch to the ice maker and tripped the little bar. Then we bought a bag of ice from the grocery. Now, since I routinely forget to buy ice at the store, we make our own ice cubes in two blue plastic trays. We’ve gone retro.

I have a dental appointment this week. Last year, the dentist replaced two old fillings with crowns and has his eye on a third. If we go for broke on another crown, I will insist on being called “Her Majesty.” It may not stop the outflow of money, but I’ll enjoy a new title.