Where Does All The Money G(R)o? 
by Linda M. Sharp

My father, botanist/financial guru - NOT, taught me an important lesson while growing up. Money does not grow on trees. Well, back then my reaction was predictably young, "Duh, Dad." 

I could not understand why he would preach this concept to my siblings and I ad nauseum. Now that I am an adult with children of my own, I more than grasp what he was saying and the fact is, it now makes me ad nauseous. Money does not grow on trees and I would like to go on record as saying IT SHOULD!!!!

When I look back at life before my children, I am amazed at how money flowed out of the checkbook like water from a faucet. When dating my husband, we thought nothing of eating out four times a week. We went to see every new movie that hit the theater. That's a cute shoe, dresser, car -- BUY IT! And shopping for food? Only the trendy downtown grocery stores that stocked things like Confit de frou frou, handpicked caper relish and petit fours? Heck, everything they stocked was petite and costly. No warehouse sized bottles of mayonnaise for us! What a shock to give birth and find ourselves suddenly thrust into a world where you clip coupons, reuse teabags and bag your own groceries!

I must admit that in the beginning the adjustment was difficult, if not downright resented. We knew that my leaving the world of bi-weekly paychecks was the right choice, but the speed at which we went from "riches to rags" was astounding! Now the only frou frou in our house was on our baby's frilly little bottom, my capers consisted of changing ten poopy diapers a day (I did not relish that) and the petit items were her designer Pampers. In regard to the latter item, I learned quickly. By the second child, I had downgraded us to Luv's and by the third, she was filling store brand diapers as happy as can be. (Note to the new parent: If it holds it, buy it. It's only job is to catch POOP.)

Nowadays, I have elevated stretching dollars and saving money to an art. I am the Picasso of bargain hunting. Compliment me on my blouse and I will regale you with tales of how I found it on a clearance rack under a pile of jock straps in the Men's department. I am the Rembrandt of creative recipes. Three days till payday? No problem. I can make a gourmet dinner out of some rice, one chicken breast and a can of soup. And eating out? Chihoully might blow avant garde glass, but I blow away the competition at free eating. We eat like kings at the warehouse club every weekend. There are samples at every turn! And if we taste something we really like? We just go down that aisle again!

I admit that there are days when my tea tastes a bit weak (I have determined the lifespan of a bag of Lipton to be eight steepings.) and my bottom yearns for the soft caress of Charmin instead of that store brand, Sande Papeur. Butt, that's ok. In the grand scheme of things, that's a pretty small trade off to be here when the kids go off to school and to be here when they get off the school bus. For that privilege, I shall gladly cut coupons, wear outdated fashions and drive my old minivan. (And silently lament the fact that MONEY DOES NOT GROW ON TREES! WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!) 

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