Hi, baby thing. Today, you graduated from high school. You got yourself up at 4:30 in the morning, got dressed, got your parking pass, had your cords and cap and gown all ready, drove yourself to the auditorium, parked, rehearsed, graduated, hugged your friends, hugged your teachers, and then drove your own car and met us out for brunch.

That slew of activities – none of which required any additional help on my part – got me thinking about all the things, big and small, that you have done over the past four years and how much you’ve grown.

Since freshman year, you  went from age 14 to 18. You went from riding the bus to driving a car. You went from “one of trumpets” in marching band to becoming a leader and someone the younger peeps looked up to. You found theater and stole the show in multiple ways – including taking over a last-minute role that included a solo and full dance number. You dealt with challenging teachers (bless their hearts) and had some amazing experiences with others, especially because you are the kind of kid that they love, remember, and go out of their way to encourage. You made art, so much cool art, and found your point of view in multiple different mediums.

You made friends. You busted your butt in classes, especially junior year. You had heart attacks (literally and figuratively.) You had crushes. You figured out who you really are and had the courage to become even more yourself. You learned how to do things in the way that works best for you and to ask, without apology, for what you needed.

You fed yourself breakfast. You put gas in your car. You took your kid sister to school as well as to Brewsters to get the gossip. You went to homecoming and to the prom and to late night Waffle House. You travelled the world, thanks to school trips (and by “the world,” I mean Disney World, of course, where you rode all the Star Wars rides before Daddy did.) You painted a mural in the library. You aced IB Lit. You got a fat scholarship and graduated with a huge tangle of cords around your neck. And if that wasn’t enough, you even went to go vote for the first time today, even though you’d been up since 4:30 for graduation.

The bittersweet thing about raising a kid is that one of the core goals is to teach them to function without you. You hold them up and feel so proud of them for every step, even while you know (and secretly hope) they will leave you in their dust. Their job is to beat their own path, and your job is to pay for the shoes they’ll do it in – from booties to cleats to black Converse high tops.

Oz, watching you walk through the world so far has been an unmitigated joy. You are one squared away little dude, as your father once said, and I have no doubt you’ll have a rich and beautiful future. I am grateful I get to be your mom, grateful to have you as my kid, and grateful I get to marvel at you being you, and I hope you know without a doubt how much we love you.

And when you’re ready for that next pair of shoes?  Kiddo, just call.

I know your size by heart.

You just need to tell me the style and color.

Originally posted on BlogSpot on Wednesday, September 24, 2008
​
Bowling Green/ Be Sure You Know How to Use Your “Comode”
 
















​Successful Acquisition:
So on Monday, we showed up at our local RV rental joint promptly at 1:00 p.m. to acquire the beast. We weren’t sure what to expect as far as RV training goes, but surprisingly enough you need little to no training nor a special driver’s license to drive an RV – a fact that makes me more frightened than ever to ride next to them on major highways. Before we could get the keys, we learned the ropes of the electrical, sewer, and water systems by watching a low-budget video hosted by a dude that talked like Johnny Cash (“You see, this here’s the e-lectric system – and if you get yourself an a-dapter kit, you can …”). After learning that grey water means sink water and black water is what comes out of the “comode” (spelled as such throughout the video), we hopped in the 33 foot Mirada with our names on it and were on our merry way.
 
Our plan WAS to leave Tuesday morning -- however, due to the crazy day we had and the sedative effect of the training video, we decided that was not really going to happen, so we opted to call Tuesday a packing day and sleep in our own bed one more night. We crammed our crap in over the course of the day Tuesday, and bright and early this morning, we saddled up for the first ride.(note the look of concern on Roxie's face as she gazes at the 18 wheelers
flying by just to our right)

The good news is, we successfully navigated all the way to Bowling Green, KY, safely out of the way of the gas supply shortage, and set up the beast in a lovely KOA campground just off the highway. Johnny’s little RV video turned out to be surprisingly helpful, and after about 20 minutes of fumbling and a little black water leakage as DJ fought with the sewage hose, we had power, water, and a functional toilet. After another 20 minutes of fumbling, DJ successfully hooked up the television, and we are now able to enjoy all 23 channels of basic cable, including two channels of CMT.

In fact, we were feeling so confident in our Rving abilities, that after taking in the sights at the RV park -- which included the mini-golf course, a dog run, and an inexplicable fenced off area that was decorated to look like a tiny farm, complete with ceramic pigs and roosters -- I made sloppy joes for dinner. This required lighting the stove, a live flame that’s fed from a tank filled with several gallons of highly flammable compressed propane (LP, in Rving terms), so I am very proud that we lived to tell the tale. Anyhow, so far, so good, as they say, and DJ and I are looking forward to drifting off the hum of the cars off the highway and prepping for day 2. Indianapolis, here we come!

Originally posted on Blogger on Sunday, September 21, 2008 

​Twas the night before pick up ...

​"When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money."
~Susan Heller

As many of you know, dear friends and family, the Dobbses are about to embark on a little adventure. We have rented --for one FULL MONTH -- a 33-foot, class A recreational vehicle and are preparing as we speak to load up many of our worldly possessions, as well as our 10-month-old daughter Roxanne, and drive this vehicle through the vast wilderness we call America. Intended ports of call include Chicago; Twin Lakes, Wisconsin; Niagara Falls; Boston; Maine; New Jersey; Virginia Beach, and various other stops on a round trip from Atlanta; however, stop number one on the tour occurs tomorrow, when we pick up the beast and attempt to guide it safely to our driveway to load it full of crap.

To give you a small idea of just how much crap we will be taking, I'd like to call your attention to this photograph.

This is a glimpse of our dining room table, which holds ONLY the stuff we will be taking for Roxanne. Given that Roxanne's clothing is sized for someone 24 inches tall, you can extrapolate the sheer volume that this represents. I am not sure we will have room for much else, except for the burlap sacks marked with dollar signs that we've prepared to hand over at each gas station.


But, we are starting to get excited, and we all have our fingers crossed that DJ's impeccable driving skills and my quick skim of the multiple-page direction manual will soon have us on our way to steering 25,000 pounds of steel, glass, and canned goods in the direction of some old-fashioned fun.

Tomorrow, we ride!

Rushing to the city, only to catch the very end of St. Patrick’s Day parade. Being none the wiser that my friend Jessica and I were being swept away from our parents by the crowd.  

Sitting on the sunny steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and jumping from one concrete step to another.

My parents buying a knock-off Transformer from a guy with a mustache on the street corner and me playing with it while I was sitting in the floor of the theater not watching the musical CATS.

The knock-off Transformer breaking, and me understanding that the show CATS was not, in fact, as interesting as actual cats.

Coming back decades later and seeing a Death of Salesman, and then realizing I was sitting in the exact same theater where I broke that fake Transformer 40 years before.

Joyfully eating at Juniors after the show: Black coffee and excellent cheesecake after a sloppy, lukewarm pastrami sandwich. Knowing it was even MORE New York that way, since we were doing the most touristy thing and getting the most touristy food.

Knowing how to ignore the airport Gypsy cab drivers and guys with fliers on the street.

Knowing to take the Staten Island Ferry to see the Statue of Liberty for free.
​
Knowing that the R train will go right to 49th street.

Knowing all that thanks to ChatGPT.
 
Seeing a homeless lady in the bathroom pretending she was waiting in line and being impressed with the cleverness of that.

Peeking through the windows of the 9/11 museum to see a hunk of the rubble from the one of the Towers. Examining the choice to honor people who died in falling buildings with water that falls and falls.

Eating at the slightly trendy place in Chinatown (half-regretting missing the hole in the wall noodle place with the line out the door). Sitting in the park in the sunshine listening to two old Chinese men play traditional instruments and a warbling old lady sing in Mandarin. Watching the two guys behind them share a joint.

Meeting the cab driver with an MBA and a daughter who is interning in the summers with Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor.
 
Walking the cemetery at Trinity Church. Telling the janitor who asked if we were there to see Alexander Hamilton, “Hell no. We’re here to see Eliza.” Him laughing and saying that he would tell them we stopped by.

Sitting in that same churchyard listening to the noon time bells ring down Wall Street and off the headstones.

Walking 20 blocks for the “best bagels.” Acknowledging fully that they were, in fact, the best goddamn bagels, and the best goddamn coffee, too.

Scratching the butt of a stranger’s pug dog outside of an Italian bakery. Remembering the taste of the sprinkles that come on a sugar cookie if the bakery is doing things right.

Springing for tickets to the Daniel Radcliffe one man show where he names brilliant things about the world in an attempt to cheer up his depressed mother. Trying not to reach out and touch his fuzzy grey sweater as he runs through the audience. Appreciating the play's solid use of a disco ball.

Discussing mental health norms and manhood in the 1960s versus the 2020s over three strong gin martinis and a plate of hummus in a trendy theater district restaurant.

Going ice skating at Rockefeller Center, perhaps under the influence of those gin martinis.
​
Spending a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art hungover.

Blowing off our reservations at the historic steakhouse in favor of pajamas and room service.

Eating cheesecake in bed.

Sitting in the lobby of a hotel overlooking Times Square with a laptop, writing.

​Feeling cool.
Feeling like a pretentious douche.
Feeling like a writer.

A writer in New York.

Tuesday Blues 2024
 A Poem by Amanda Dobbs
 
There’s a gas leak at my workspace.
The dog has scratched up his left eye.
The kid’s got a heart flutter,
(Is COVID freakin’ why?).
My meeting starts at 12:15,
I’ll call in from the car,
While in the Walmart parking lot
(the drive home’s much too far).
While I am here, do I need groceries?
A toilet part? Some socks?
Let me check the app I have
To monitor my stocks.
The new prescription for anxiety
Is ready to pick up.
I’ll slot that in for Friday
After a vet stop for the pup.
Volleyball at 6pm,
An away game, make a note.
Grab the coach a present.
Try not to think of Tuesday’s vote.
Oh shit, I need a gift card.
Oh shit, it’s Christmas soon.
Book the family pictures.
Book myself a padded room.
Call your sister and the neighbor,
Lock the gossip in the vault.
And don’t forget the future
Is entirely your fault.

I signed up to know Cullen pretty early in my life. And I am very lucky, because I have decades and decades of good Cullen memories.
 
We met each other when we were 9 years old, and I had just moved to Georgia. She loved to tell the story of how we were at a school function, and she noticed I was slowly eating an entire bowl of mints. We were friends ever since.
 
She taught me how to make rings out of acorns in her driveway, and how to swing on the giant swing in her backyard. We went to the first day of fourth grade together, the first day of junior high school, and the first day of high school. I helped her get ready for the prom.
 
I came with her to Dunwoody United Methodist Church, and I sang in the choir and went with her to youth group and even Appalachian Service Project. I am sure the church representatives here at her funeral today will be glad to know that she made an honorary Methodist out of me.
 
We went to college together and lived in the same dorm. We even shared a set of bunk beds in the condo we moved into sophomore year. She, as always, was the first to excel and to join multiple clubs and to take us along with her on the path of responsibility. But, she also drove us around singing ABBA late into the night in a minivan packed to the gills with us goofy (and possibly inebriated) college friends.
 
We graduated from UGA together. We got our first jobs around the same time. I once travelled to stay with in her in hotel room in Vancouver when she was on a business trip, and I watched daytime television and ordered room service in her suite while she worked. She obviously had a better job than I did.
 
I knew her when she met her husband Tom, and I knew her when they fell in love. She was at my wedding and I was at hers. I got to see her grooving on the dance floor to Dancing Queen in Las Vegas – her and her momma, Kitty, too.
 
We were actually pregnant around the same time with our first kids, and I eventually got to meet her two younger sons. In fact, we had the very special honor of knowing each other’s children when they were 9, the same age as when we met.
 
For years, we’d see each other across the paths of busy life, at brunches or birthday parties. Most often it was at Sunday lunches at Cullen’s mom’s house with Cullen and Cameron and Hannah and sometimes Carr his family and the cacophony of kids – the “circus” as the family lovingly calls it. I am convinced they bought Girl Scout cookies from me just so I would deliver in person, and they would have a new audience to tell stories to.
 
It was at those lunches that I got to see first-hand Tom’s loving ministrations when it started to get hard for her to move and walk and stand.
 
For the last year or so, I got to see Cullen once a month on Zoom calls with our friends Ryan and Jean, who have both known her nearly as long as I have. And even when she couldn’t talk any more on those calls, we all got to see her smile and see the twinkle in her eye.
 
Just last week, thanks to our friend Jean -- who has an uncanny knack for showing up and making sure we do, too -- I got to hang out and hold her hand while she was in hospice. And on her very last day on earth, I got tell her that I loved her, and that we intend be around for many, many more decades to help take care of the people she loved.
 
I am so lucky to be able to say I got to do all that, and to have so much stored up Cullen in my body and my mind.
 
Because as you all know, she will be sorely, sorely missed.
 
And her memory is a blessing.
 
 

It’s Tuesday.
 
So far today, you’ve been up, out, worked, lunched, worked, called, worked, commuted. You texted your family about the dinner you planned. They will eat protein and vegetables, hot from the CrockPot. You will eat Cheez-Its in the car straight from the box because you won’t have time to go home before the volunteer leadership meeting.
 
After all, it’s Tuesday. 
 
You check your texts as your tires rumble across the gravel parking lot to the Fellowship Hall. You stumble on that same gravel in your uncomfortable business shoes that you can’t take off because your feet stink from being shoved inside them all day.
 
You find the right door. You look for the sign in sheet. You smile politely at that one mom whose name you don’t know but she knows yours. You grab a nametag. You find a seat. Maybe you grab a roll of Smarties from the candy pile as your dessert.
 
The meeting begins. You talk about the newsletter. You talk about the fundraiser. You talk about who will put down the tablecloths. You stare into the middle distance when they ask for additional volunteers. You know better than to make eye contact. Besides, you already made three dozen brownies for that thing last month. Homemade brownies. Not even store bought.
 
The meeting goes long. You would at least like a bite of the CrockPot vegetables while they are still hot, but one of the moms in charge of training has one last thing. She’s going to teach you a fun song to sing with your children. She’s excited. She brought a ukulele.
 
You consider stuffing Smarties in your ears.
 
She starts to sing. You start to sigh.
 
Then … you pause.
 
She has a pretty voice. It’s high and clear and confident. She’s singing an end-of-night campfire song that’s soft and lyrical. One of the other moms knows the chorus and jumps in to sing along. They hum the in-between parts together.
 
You want to make fun of this, but they are charming. You think to yourself, “When’s the last time I heard a real person sing? Just sitting around the proverbial campfire? Just for me? Hell, when’s the last time I sang anything?”
 
The mom strums the ukulele and starts another verse. You feel your teeth unclench. You feel your shoulders drop. You start nodding your head to the rhythm. You hum along quietly with the chorus too.
 
You listen.
 
You feel their voices in your body.
 
You forget about your stupid smelly shoes.
 
You remember why people have sung throughout history. You think of your ancestors singing hymns, singing songs while they worked, singing Christmas carols. You think about how long it’s been since someone sang to you. You try to remember the last time you sang a lullaby to your children.
 
Soon enough, the song ends. You clap and smile a wide and genuine smile. You compliment the lady on the ukulele and her cheeks flush pink. You hug her on the way out.
 
Then, you go home to load the dishwasher. You wipe down the counter and take out the trash. You check in with the children. You return that text.
 
After all, it’s Tuesday.
 
But that night, as you putter, shedding your dirty clothes and getting on your pajamas, you hum the song out loud, softly. You feel your breath moving, feel how your lungs and your voice box get warm. You turn out the lights and grin a little, thinking of the strum of a ukulele.
 
And you still feel the lullaby in your body as you put yourself to bed.
 

Honey, hush! I got another piece published by the lovely folks at Salvation South. Go read it!

https://www.salvationsouth.com/strangers-with-doughnuts-amanda-dobbs/

I am pleased as punch to report that Salvation South (founded by The Bitter Southerner co-founder and generally delightful Southern guy Chuck Reese) has published on of my essays.

Go read my essay, The Casserole Mindset, on Salvation South's site right now!!