Adventures of the Three Boys

Tuesday Night's Games

I have been staring at a blank screen for several minutes.  Mostly because the baby is supposed to be sleeping and I just heard him crying.  And it could be that the carpet cleaner I rented yesterday is due back today and I am not finished.  It could be that I just have no words to recapture that sinking feeling that I used to get the day of gym class.

(I just got the baby up, by the way.  Now the dogs are fighting.)

Back to gym class.  My husband, who translated my enthusiasm for the possibility of starting a neighborhood futsal (type of indoor soccer) team into a REAL neighborhood futsal team, is to blame. He somehow roused about 14 grown people to voluntarily go to the local sportsplex and play futsal with other grown-ups.

And when I say "with" I mean "against".  As in, someone is keeping score.

Our second game is tonight and I am fighting the ninth-grade-girl feelings about this entire experience.  It is supposed to be FUN!  Not stressful!  Deciding about the H1N1 vaccination yesterday was stressful.  This is supposed to be fun. 

Last week I made a shopping trip to Dick's Sporting Goods and dropped way too much money on shoes, pants, shin guards and socks.  For both of us.  We then showed up at 8:55pm for our 9:00pm game.

No, I have never played futsal.  No, I have never really played a sport that required hand-eye coordination and actually forces you to interact with others on a team.  Yes, I was mildly terrified.

We got there and saw the competition.  The looked like the cast of Twilight.  They were half our age.  One was named Luis (yes, say it with the accent) and one had a mohawk.  Somehow I had pictured us playing a bunch of over-the-hill suburban parents.  Oh, wait.  That's us.

Having never played a real sport, I was not ready for the whole physicality of it.  Since it is a coed league we have to have two women on the field all the time, so the girls HAVE to play.  With the boys -- in this case, literal boys.  After I got used to the running, kicking, having people all up in your face, etc., I actually had FUN.  Real fun!  I was terrible, but who cares?!?  OK, I really cared because I hate being bad at stuff, but I really did have fun.

We were getting killed and made a comeback in the second half.  The dads somehow managed to get fired up and we only lost 8-4.  Our outrageously good (mom) goalie kept the other team from scoring 20.  At first I was intimidated because I thought we couldn't play.  Then I became intimidated when I saw that people on my team COULD play!

As our neighbor and coach put it, "They might have had more talent, more experience, fancier footwork and a 19-year-old dude with a mohawk, but we had...we had a bunch of moms and dads with new shoes."

Amen, Coach Bill. 

We did ask their ages after the game, and they ranged from 19 to 25.  Ha. Our team boasts 23 children between us parents.  Then Kurt offered to buy them beer in case they didn't have fake IDs.  

Word about the futsal team has been getting around, as has my lack of skill, so I was allowed to attend a futsal practice with the 8-year-old boys at school.  As a participant. 

So I am looking forward to tonight's game with a bit of trepidation.  I get to wear my new shoes again.

Girl Scout Cookies

OH MY GOSH.  This is the funniest ever.  I am still sort of laughing about it.

The neighbor kids were making the rounds delivering Girl Scout Cookies this afternoon.  It turns out that the brother of the Girl Scout is in Nick's first grade class, but the two boys have never made the connection that they are neighbors.

The mom and I are chatting about this and she says, "Well, you know how the kids remembered that this was the house that we were taking cookies to?  When they sold the cookies, your husband answered the door with no shirt on. We were just now walking up and they were like, 'Ohhhhh...this is the house where the man answered the door with no shirt on!!"

No.  Shirt.  On.  Just think about that for a moment.

OH MY GOSH!!!  

She went on to say that her husband had brought the kids around so she couldn't vouch for the story, but the little girl added, "Yeah, he had a towel around his neck."

And the little boy/classmate threw in, "And he was brushing his teeth."

So there you go.  Welcome to the neighborhood.

A Reason for Blogging

Or photo-taking or journaling or saving old newspaper clippings or anything else that helps you remember how things really were at any given point in time.

I am just forgetting stuff.  I forget why I walked out into the garage. I forget the load of clothes in the washer that needs to be dried. I forget that it is green-and-white day and my kids have to dress appropriately.  I forget that it is six o'clock and I still haven't cooked dinner, although that it selective memory at best.

Generally, I have trouble remembering the way things used to be and think of them only as they are right now.  Or conversely, I remember them exactly the way they were and forget that they have changed --case in point, anyone on Facebook I have not seen in 20 years.  I think they are just like they were in high school.

So every time I think it is silly to write down little anecdotes from the kids, I realize I can't even remember what happened yesterday and why we were laughing so hard until tears rolled down our faces.

I am cleaning out a basket on the desk and just found an envelope marked "blog" which presumably was for me to store little bits of paper with words about recent anecdotes to remember what I was supposed to write down.  

Of course I never did, so here is what I found on the bits of paper:

Dog ate the hair wax.  (self-explanatory although I can't remember anything else about the story)

Chicken thighs/science fair.  (could not begin to imagine what that was about)

Sneezed and a pixo blew out.  (that IS funny! can't remember who did it, though. probably Nick.)

Nick said, "Why do you call her Splenda?" (her name was Linda)

Nick corrected me when I called him Nick.  He preferred to be called Corbin or Troy Bolton from High School Musical. (that was a fun, short phase)

Gavin said, "I was just vacuuming his hair."  (also funny)

So there they are! I am so glad I wrote them down.  I can throw away my envelope and continue cleaning out my basket!

Thought for the Day

Be kinder than necessary because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.

--Jen Hodder

Random on Monday

1.  I was trying to find a wedding card for friends who recently tied the knot and almost every wedding card is full of advice. Do my 40-year-old newly married friends need advice?  Listen to each other...enjoy each moment...don't take these special times for granted...love like there is no tomorrow.  Had never noticed that before. How about a card that just says we are thrilled for you!  Congratulations!  No advice from here! 

2.  Never buy anything online without first searching for a promo code online.  I have just started doing this and it is crazy.  Just Google "Lands End Promo Code" or whatever and you will be amazed.  It's like hidden treasure on the Internet.  I have saved bunches of money.

3.  "Again" and "given" are not words that rhyme with "Heaven."  Never have been.  Never will be.  The  next time you write a hymn, don't be fooled by these pseudo-rhymes.  You can look up rhymes at www.rhymezone.com to find actual rhymes.  Of course, they suggested:  seven, eleven, Evan, and McNevin.  Not sure of any Biblical people named Evan or McNevin.  So maybe "again" and "given" aren't such bad choices after all.

4.  The above are things that push into your mind to push out the unpleasant thoughts, such as seeing the dogs fighting over one of the baby's diapers that he willingly took off and gave to them, or listening to your third-grader practice the violin!

Halloween Costumes

Halloween is now one of the most fun times of the year for me.  As I child I was not allowed to trick-or-treat because it was considered a pagan "of the devil" holiday in my house (don't ask -- that's another very long topic altogether).

Anyhoo, we love Halloween around our house now and the boys get a huge kick out of the whole costumes-and-candy rituals.  The grown-ups enjoy the tailgate factor of dragging a fire pit to the front yard along with a cooler and some hot dogs, and picking through the kids' candy to find the Snickers bars. 

This is the time of year that my heart especially goes out to the mothers of girls as they select their costumes.  Boys' costumes are easy.  They want to be super heros or someone with a light saber or pretend weapon of some sort.  They want to run around making loud screamy noises for days in other people's faces.  

Boys have no desire to wear mature makeup, bare their stomachs, or wear boots and shoes that used to only be advertised in nasty magazines. 

My friend was lamenting last year that her young daughter wanted to go in the costume generically called Pop Star, complete with a cropped shirt and low-waisted pants.  I have another friend who calls it whore-a-ween, excuse the salty language. It's hard to resist when the pirate-wenchy costume looks so cute/attractive/when-else-would-you-wear-this.

Boys (and men) are just not subjected to the same trends. 

Not to say women's costumes are any different from the girls'.  I have never seen Little Red Riding Hood in real life, but if I did, I would think that her dress would not be that short.  Neither would the girl devil or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.  I have seen female police officers in real life and that is NOT what they wear.  Also, Alice in Wonderland didn't wear over-the-knee white stockings with platform Mary Janes, I am sure of it.  

I am certainly not immune, although I don't recall my Courtney Love ensemble many years ago being very provocative.  My favorites are the really crazy, inventive ones, like the guy who dressed as a bust (totally white body paint on top, column on bottom) at a party we attended.  

This year Nick is going to be Mario, from the famed Mario Brothers video games, Gavin is going to be tried-and-true Jack Sparrow, and Keith is going to be Diego.  He is actually going to be Diego dressed as a bat, like in the Diego Halloween episode, so that should be a good one. 

As long as they aren't egging houses or smashing pumpkins any costume should be fine, right? And Kate from Jon and Kate Plus Eight is supposed to be the most popular Halloween costume this year, so I guess the appropriateness of any costume can be debated!

It Just Goes So Fast

Yesterday I was writing an email and heard the dog licking, and it sounded like a licking that should not be happening.  I turned around and 2-year-old Keith was standing there totally naked, eating an ice cream sandwich, while the new puppy was trying to help herself. None of what I just said was what I expected to see when I turned around.

After my long and heartfelt, "Noooooooooo...", the necessary corrections were made, such as putting the treats a little higher in the side-by-side freezer and re-clothing the baby, much to his chagrin.

All those expressions about time passing "so fast" are trite but true. Just seconds before the ice cream sandwich we were being peaceful and well-behaved.  The big spans of time and the little spans of time go just as fast.  They all pass quickly.  

I remember learning that the reason time feels so much faster as we get older is that the individual moments make up a smaller percentage of our lives as a whole.  A week's vacation to the beach at the age of six is a good percentage of your total life so far!  After you have lived forty or so years...not so much.  

It is fascinating how we try to hold on to time.  (I am reminded by this as of late because I recently saw leg warmers for sale in DSW, not to mention the mannequin at Target looks just like I did walking into my sophomore homecoming dance. No thank you, this time around.)  

It makes me reflect on how, with the advent of digital photos, blogging, digital scrapbooks, family web pages and such, I feel challenged on how to best capture memories for my kids. It doesn't make the time go any slower, but it certainly helps trigger the memories to savor.  So far, my old reliable has turned out to be an actual photo album that still sits in the floor of the bedroom. 

I put it together haphazardly and vow to someday get it in chronological order, but for now, the boys will drag it around, look at the photos, and ask me to tell all the stories to go with them. Keith likes to think he can name everyone in the pictures, with every baby being "Me!"

So it doesn't matter that it goes fast.  It goes fun and it goes good and bad and it goes.  And I am going to stop lamenting the "it goes so fast" and realize that really, the good stuff can't be orchestrated and planned but it can be remembered for a very long time.

Don't Stop Believing

It is embarrassing to admit that the kids fight over the audio/video options in the van.  It is embarrassing to know that they have the choice to listen to a number of radio stations, or any number of DVDs or any of the multi-CDs that are playing at the moment, full of our choice of songs.  

I remember I got my first FM radio in the third grade, at the age of eight.  I got my first boom box/jam box in the eighth grade, I think, and many afternoons after school were spent with a blank cassette tape in the compartment, fingers on the REC button, ready to hit it when my favorite song came on.  You only got that one opportunity to capture your song until who knows when, and you had to be SUPER-careful not to record over it!  

It was not one of my mom's favorite days when Van Halen's "Jump!" ended up accidentally spliced into her Hooked on Classics tape.

Those mix tapes from 25 years ago still exist in our basement, and they are worth reading the song titles just for a laugh -- Raspberry Beret, Footloose, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and anything by Huey Lewis and The News (a seriously underrated band). 

Now when Gavin and Nick hear a song, they just ask me to download it and they know they can hear it on the computer, their iPods, or on a CD in the van.  They only know music-on-demand, and pretty much any song they can hum or think of, we can acquire through iTunes. 

The great part about the way they listen is that a song is a song and genres are excluded.  If they like it (thank you Kelly Pickler) we get to listen to it 562 times.  If they don't like it (sorry John Mellencamp, I am trying) they scream "SKIP IT!!!"  So in a recent mix tape I made for them, I was surprised at what made the cut.

They loved the old Gary Glitter hockey song and the "old" version of Kiss him Goodbye.  

But the clear winner of the whole CD is Journey's hit, "Don't Stop Believing".  The boys beg to hear it over and over and now they sing the guitar solo.  Nick even sings on key.  Gavin is a bit pitchy.  Nothing like hearing the lyrics "smell of wine and cheap perfume" from the kids.

When I was in high school, Journey was my favorite band and Don't Stop Believing (followed closely by Stone in Love) was my favorite song. Never Faithfully.  I hated that song. I never saw Steve Perry sing with the band, although my husband and I had second-row Steve Perry tickets (not with Journey) for a show that he cancelled.  

Waaahhh -- waaahhh.

Anyway, studies show that people love music many times not for the music itself but for the nostalgia that the music brings to the person.  In the 1940's, everyone listened to the same music, so everyone felt nostalgic about the same songs.  In the 1950's, the crazy kids and Elvis changed all that with music that did not appeal to all generations, and memories were attached to different songs by different age groups.

Now I am just rambling.  My point is my feelings were slightly hurt when I saw Journey's Don't Stop Believing shoot to the top of the iTunes charts after the Sopranos ever-so-skillfully used it in their series finale. It became a pop culture phenomenon.  I was happy because a whole new generation of kids was being introduced to the band, but sad because my old associations with the song were being replaced by new ones.

Now Nick is singing it at every opportunity at the top of his lungs, it is featured in the new show "Glee", and it is everywhere.  Everyone has HIJACKED MY HIGH SCHOOL SONG!  

So Kurt and I got the opportunity to see Journey with their new lead singer a few weeks ago.  I was skeptical because really, could anyone replace Steve Perry?  The answer is, at the right time, yes!  We were blown away once they stepped onstage.  When you hear these hit songs, one after another, and you see the people who wrote those songs, and you see the joy they get from continuing to do this thing they love, it is a sight to see.  They were amazing.  Our excellent seats did not hurt, either.  Then there is the new lead singer, like the icing on the proverbial cake --the singer plucked from obscurity in the Philippines because of a You Tube video to be the front man of one of America's most famous bands. What a story.

He was on Oprah yesterday.  Oprah!  Even he couldn't believe it.  Arnel Pineda's literal rags to riches story was the opener of Oprah's show themed, "Don't Stop Believing", and Journey, most of the members pushing 60 years old, performed their hit song for an audience of screaming mommies.  Arnel shed a few tears, gave many thanks to God, and the song took on a new meaning.  Their story was followed by the stories of other people who had not given up on their dreams, and had seen them come true.

And all of a sudden they hadn't hijacked my school song anymore.  And all of a sudden it became a new favorite in a new way.

Transformer

One of my favorite things about communicating with children is how so many things get lost in translation from the grown-ups to the kids.  

Nick was horrified to hear that his Nana was getting knee replacement surgery and he pictured some sort of robotic Doc Ock metal knee on the outside of her skin.  We had told him that she was having surgery to replace her old, worn-out knee with a new, metal one, but we neglected to mention that the new knee was going INSIDE her body.

We had to very explicitly explain that the metal would go INSIDE the leg, then the doctor would put in stitches, then she would have a scar, etc.

We had a similar miscommunication a couple of nights ago, driving home from our Saturday night run to Wawa for ice cream.  On the way home, Kurt and I saw a huge flash of green light over the trees, very near the Central Garage and Police Station in our town.  We both exclaimed out loud things like,"Wow!" and, "Did you see that?" and "What do you think it was?"

Kurt suggested that it might be a transformer, and I didn't suggest anything because I could think of no logical reason for a flash of green light in the air. I did comment that the big field near us looks like a UFO landing spot right out of a movie set -- rows of waving corn, big water tower, white picket fence -- in the middle of suburbia.  A transformer seemed like the next best answer. 

 We rounded the corner in search of the source of the green light but saw nothing. Of note was the fact that all the street lights were out as far as we could see, but that was it. Clearly something electrical.

It didn't strike me that the boys had been unusually quiet after the flash of light.

As we came into the house, one of them asked if we really thought it might be a transformer, and we replied that considering the lights were out, it almost had to be a transformer.  Then it hit me.  They thought we meant a Transformer, not a transformer.  They thought a big, scary robot like Optimus Prime was roaming the neighborhood knocking out power.  Hilarious.  Once we got that straightened out, they ate their ice cream with peaceful hearts and were able to sleep without nightmares :)

The Two-Year-Old Doctor Visit

My favorite line of the day was uttered by the nurse at the pediatrician's office this afternoon.  

At some point earlier in the day, Keith decided to draw all over his legs with red marker.  Not unusual.  I did not really make an effort (omit "really" since I didn't even think about trying) to get the marks off his legs.  That's what bath time and eye makeup remover are for.

So I get him undressed at the doctor's office and when the nurse comes in to take his vitals, she coos, "Awww...did somebody have a fun time today at day care?" 

It took a few minutes for the insinuation to sink in and I realized that the only person who would let a child mark all over their legs with marker would be someone who was also responsible for at least a dozen other children and didn't have time or attention to stop him!  Then the second part sunk in, that the only mom who would bring her kid to the doctor's that way would be one who had just picked him up from said day care and had no access to either a bath or eye makeup remover!!

To make things even worse, the doctor comes in and apologizes profusely for being late, to which Nick makes hand gestures near his face and says, "Yeah, blah, blah, blah blah!"

Heavy sigh. Aside from the rudeness, I'll just chalk the marks up to being artsy and free, not disorganized, lazy and apathetic.  I am excellent at rationalization.  

It does remind me of a story of a friend of mine whose husband drew a giant smiley face on her big pregnant belly with a black Sharpie and then she ended up in the hospital not feeling well later that night -- the doctors got treated to a nice bit of semi-permanent art.

And of course, instead of removing Keith's marks, I'm here writing about it.

Suckers at the Doctor's Office

Not that kind of sucker.  I'm talking about the lollipops after the doctor visit for the kids.

So a couple of weeks ago Nick comes to me almost in tears saying, "Mommy, my ear hurts."  When I take a look, I find clearish, yellowish runny fluid coming out and crusting up around the outside of his ear. Nice.  A quick trip to the doctor confirms a nasty case of swimmer's ear and apparently a high tolerance for pain on Nicks' part.

After getting a prescription for the world's most expensive ear drops (at the pharmacy when I saw the bill I said, "Does insurance not cover this?" and the pharmacist said, "Yes, it did.  That is the cost after the insurance. These are really expensive."  Oh.) we make our way past all the DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING OR BREATHE ON ANYTHING AND MAKE SURE THE MOMMIES GET THE SUCKERS OUT OF THE JARS INSTEAD OF THE KIDS AND PRAY TO HEAVEN THAT YOU DON'T HAVE SWINE FLU signs and I carefully extract three suckers from the jar, using hand sanitizer before and after. 

The boys are enjoying their suckers on the ride home and all of a sudden Keith lets out a blood-curdling scream.  I look in the rearview mirror and based on his facial expression and hand position, it looks like he just rammed the sucker stick into his right ear.  He was a wreck. Just thinking about it made me cringe up.  Who knew the stick would be more dangerous than the possible germs?  He wasn't even running with it!

There were no big signs about that at the doctor's office.  In his defense, he had just paid special attention to the doctor poking around in Nick's ear with various things, so this made sense to him.  Poor baby.  He seemed to recover after several long minutes of silent crying added to the loud crying and I think he scared the other two so badly that they learned a good lesson about ears and pointy things.

Shoe Shopping

This is Keith thoroughly enjoying a trip to the shoe store.  Gavin and Nick found their school shoes and Keith desperately wanted the Dora shoes.  They were pink, so I passed.  He was not pleased.  Gentlemen, this is what takes us SO LONG when we go out to run errands with the kids!!!  Yes, you can click on it to make it bigger and see the corner of his sad, scrunched-up sweet face.

Another Fish Funeral

Yesterday we had to perform a fish funeral.  It was sadder than most fish funerals because of the bizarre circumstances of the fish's death. We were gathering some wax paper and supplies for doing some Magic Crystal Rocks on the kitchen counter and suddenly Gavin exclaims, "MY FISH DIED!"

We all look up and sure enough, his enormous goldfish is floating.  This is completely unexpected since the fish was perfectly healthy just hours before.  Usually fish get sick and they swim slowly and get very dramatic and melancholy before they die.  Not so with this one.  It was very sudden.  Gavin then said, "Look at his mouth" and sure enough his mouth was frozen in a big "O" shape which looked pretty weird.

Once the initial shock wears off, the boys decide that a flushing is more appropriate than a burial, considering that they want the dead fish to go to the Chesapeake Bay. We take the fish, say a brief prayer of celebration and thankfulness for the life of the fish and God's gifts of pets to us, then Gavin flushes him.

We are all very perplexed at this point, and it occurs to me that maybe the snail died and somehow the decomposing snail contaminated the water and killed the fish.  I start digging around with the net to pick up the snail and check him and suddenly Gavin gasps, "My snail is gone!!"

My green aquarium net pulls up the emptiest, most perfect little snail shell I have ever seen.  Snail shell?  Check.  Snail body?  Nope.  As a veteran of many 48 Hours Mystery television episodes, I deduce that the fish ate the snail and died.  Since I had flushed the fish I could not perform a fish autopsy, which I admit, I wanted to do.

We cleaned out the entire tank looking for the snail body but it was nowhere to be found.  We did find the hard little disk that covers the bottom of the shell, but that was all.  Gavin had already burst into tears but somehow the pain was lessened by the fact that it was something we could not have done anything about.  The other fish, (Nick's fish, of course, the luckiest child on the planet) was still healthy as far as we could tell.

At this point the baby is on tiptoes on a step stool saying, "I see!  I see!" which doesn't help the madness.  

We make it to PetSmart in the afternoon and the nice blond girl with facial piercings, several multi-colored hair bows and enormous cat-eye eyeliner tells us that yes, indeed, goldfish eat snails and some people buy snails just to feed to their goldfish. WHY DID NO ONE TELL US THIS WHEN WE BOUGHT THE SNAIL?  Did they think we were buying it for food?

The realization hits me that at pet stores, you can buy snails for pets...or for food for other pets.  Same goes for mice, I guess.  Gross.  This also led me to think about the giant fishtanks at sushi restaurants. They're a pet.  Their cousins are your dinner. 

Anyway, we left the store without a fish and will make a decision later. The remaining fish seems a little lonely and he keeps swimming aimlessly around looking for his pals, though.  Gavin is a little lonely about it, too, and it didn't help that the neighbor came running over later that day to tell Gavin about her new pets...six frogs obtained in Ocean City -- two for her and two for each of her sisters.

In the meantime we will grow our Magic Crystal Rocks and make plans for more additions to the aquarium.

In Defense of Yellow Mustard

I am trying to keep the boys from influencing each other and the baby by saying, "EWWWW..." about foods that they think are gross.  Surely we, as a society, can maintain enough common decency to avoid being overly critical of others' food choices.  What I am I saying?  Everywhere we look there is criticism about what Americans eat, and I agree with most of it.

Too much fried, too much processed, too much High Fructose Corn Syrup (I had to Google that one to see what the fuss was all about) and I even have a girlfriend whose kids don't eat anything with scary red food coloring.  I understand that some food choices are objectionable and that we should all be eating organic and local and blah, blah, blah.  I am totally on board with all of those things.  I am just tired of being stigmatized for letting my kids consume nitrate sticks, aka hot dogs.  Really, a Pop Tart every now and then is just necessary.  But I understand the criticism.

I get the shame over bad or unhealthy or even dangerous food, but what about food snobbery for no reason?  I am just going to put it all out there and say that I like yellow mustard.  Love it.  Can't eat a hot dog or hamburger or sandwich without it. And I know that it is gauche.

BUT WHY?  I know I am supposed to like dijon mustard and walnut-basil-basalmic mustard and spicy brown mustard.  And I like those, too.  There is just something nostalgic about the plain yellow "prepared" (as opposed to the mustard with no plan) mustard.  I always feel a little like a heel, though, when I am the only one reaching for the $1.19 French's Family Size at the buffet.  I understand that Dijon is the new Yellow and Twitter is the new Facebook, etc., but at what point will using yellow mustard be akin to putting ketchup on your steak? 

Thankfully, there seems to be an avid fanbase for yellow mustard and they are called...professional sports fans.  Apparently there are some folks (according to my vast 5 minutes of online research) that would prefer plain yellow mustard on a stadium dog any day and would be willing to debate which stadium actually has the best mustard.  These people are also willing to shoot you if you put ketchup on your hot dog or mayonnaise or commit any other gastronomic sin in their eyes, so it is a fairly biased group, but whatever.

I guess what I am saying is, in watching the confirmation hearings for Sotomayor earlier today with all the talk of personal bias and background and preference and judgement and tolerance -- maybe we should start with the simple stuff before we move on to the big issues.  You can practice your tolerance by not judging me on my mustard choice.  I will remember to do the same. 

Badminton

I distinctly remember playing badminton in the 70's as I child.  I mention the 70's because I can't picture anyone in the 80's playing badminton.  I picture myself playing it in plaid pants after having just eaten fondue but I am sure this is just historical fiction in my brain and not a real memory.

So Kurt brings home a badminton set at my request last night.  This morning we put up the net and it took me, Gavin, a screwdriver, a hammer and two landscape rocks to make it happen, but up it went.  We started playing about 10:00 this morning and there have been several matches throughout the day.  Now there are three other neighborhood kids involved and there seems to be some sort of single elimination tournament going on.

What Gavin has in determination and competitiveness, Nick equals in enthusiasm and optimism that never wilts. I visited the badminton match a little bit ago and Gavin was (of course) a ruthless scorekeeper.  When it was Nick's turn to play, one has to be mindful that he is only six years old and has never served anything except a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to himself.

He was unflappable, though, and fortunately was playing against a very kind 12-year-old.  He stepped out onto the grass, took the birdie, and tried to serve no less than 28 times. He was a wreck. Gavin (again, of course) tried to count a point against him every time that he missed the birdie but no one listened to him. 

Nick just kept swinging and throwing and throwing and swinging.  He looked like a manic woodchopper.

Out of some sheer force of luck his racquet made contact and the birdie went sailing over the net, to the surprise of everyone.  Nick's reaction?  He slams the racquet into the ground, looks through the net to his opponent and with bent knees and curled arms says, "YEAHHH!!!  BRING IT ON!!!!"

Gotta love the spirit.  There's a lesson in there somewhere.

Clay

This is a picture from the day the boys and I did some art, including sculpting with clay.  Can you tell?  And no, they did not put it on her.  She cleverly picked up a ball of clay and was playing with it under the dining room table!

Answer: The Cauliflower

Question to Nick:  What was the name of the ship that brought the first Pilgrims to America?

Journals

Fortunately for me, Nick was required to keep a journal in kindergarten.  He was required to write a sentence about whatever was on his mind at that moment.  Grownups have their journals and their blogs but it is rare that you see an entire book filled with a school-year's worth of stuff from the mind of a five or six-year old.  

He came home at the end of the school year with wonderful journals of his thoughts and pictures to match. He was thinking about...pretty much what I thought me might be thinking about.You can tell where the teacher did and did not help with spelling.  For example, although "maf" might be the way he says it, "mouth" is the correct spelling.

Here is a sample with translations as needed:

I lv alligator.

I love m dog.

I lv fish.

I luv spaceships!

I lfv robots.

I like to see bats!

I lv Indiana Jones bcs he has  a wep!  (because he has a whip)

I like goss bcus thea can floe.     (ghosts because they can fly)

I like dragans bcu they can brethe fire aot uv ther maf.  (they can breathe fire out of their mouths)

I like spacemen thea have roct sipbs.

I like kagrows becus thea can jump.

I like Sdr Wos becus tha have lit savrs.  (light sabers)

I like pirhana.

I like Spidr Man bcus he is cool and spls webos.

I like zo-bese becus zo-bese utoc pepllooe.  (I like zombies because zombies attack people.) My personal favorite.

I like scuba divers becuse they go down to the botam of the oshine.

I like Clone Wars becus fits hapin. (fights happen)

I like grgols becas they look skareye.  (I like gargoyles because they look scary.)

I like derdee woshin mushens because they are cool.  (I like dirty washing machines because they are cool.)

I like scqwids be cas they scwert out ingk.

Did I Miss the Skirt Memo?

Today is the last day of school, hurray!  This means sleeping late, going to the pool, endless lunches of sandwiches, fruit and chips, and general sunny-ness.

I am in the process of that thankless job of switching the closets around for the boys.  In the midst of my thankfulness that we have been so wonderfully provided for and have so many clothes for the kids, I often wing up a prayer that I get some sort of organizational insight so I can be responsible for the piles.  Shirts here, swimming trunks there...bring out the shorts and put away the pants.  Make sure that everyone gets the maximum use of their correct size in the correct season.  Don't want to find that 4T Christmas vest shoved in the back of the closet when the kid is in second grade and it never got worn.  We have to be responsible for our stuff!

In my own closet, though, I just direct my attention from one stack of jeans to the adjacent stack of shorts.  WHICH ARE PROVING TO NOT BE APPROPRIATE ANYWHERE THESE DAYS.  Not that they are too short, too ratty, too denim or too tight.  It's just that they are. Shorts.  And no one seems to be wearing them now.  WHAT IS UP WITH THE SKIRTS, LADIES?  

Look, I know Nike and UnderArmour and whoever is making the knockoff brands can design some pretty happening sport/active/whatever skirts.  But do you have to wear them everywhere, making my shorts seem collegiate and frumpy?  Do ya have to wear them to the playground?  The lacrosse games?  The grocery store?  Do you get up and say, "Wow.  Feels like a skirt day.  In 90-degree heat.  To chase my two-year-old around in the bark mulch under the monkey bars."  Then you have to decide whether to sport the Fit Flops, Sketchers or actual Tennis Shoes.  I've seen you try to bend down, wipe a nose or give a drink out of a sippy cup.  I promise you that shorts would be a more practical, comfortable choice. 

Obviously I am just resentful and wished I looked as cute as you do.  Truly. You know I would totally wear the skirt ensemble if someone put one together for me.  My khaki shorts and white T-shirt (another poor choice for playground activity) look like I am headed to the 7-11 for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and quite possibly a pack of smokes.  When I feel like dressing up I upgrade from the flip-flops to...OK, you got me.  I don't really have an upgrade.

Next season could I get a heads-up on this whole situation, though?  A memo would be great.  Thanks!

Not As I Do

I spent a week recently with a friend and cared for her two young daughters, ages eight and four.  In anticipation of the trip I had visions of me, by the end of the week, immersed in American Girl vocabulary and singing Hannah Montana songs and being very well-accomplished at ponytails and such.  I was looking forward to a week of girly things, the agenda driven by them and followed by me.

This was not the case.  Now they were pretty girly, in spite of the older sister's love for The Clone Wars, so I got my fill of girly stuff.  I did get to try a couple of hairstyles on them (harder than it looks) and I got to pick out cute dresses and tights for the younger one each day.  I tested my knowledge of Disney Princesses, honed my trampoline skills (tough on the ol' bladder after birthing three kids) and noticed that the girls' feet are much slimmer than my boys'.

But by Thursday, I noticed that we were  baking cakes, downloading songs from iTunes and having dance parties in the living room.

Hmmm...those are things that, uh, I like to do.  Me, not them.  

How much of what my kids like to do is really in them and how much is fostered by me or my husband?  Then I started thinking about the parents I knew and their kids.  Most of the girls have the same hairstyle as their mom (exclude the teens, please) and dress in similar styles of clothes.  The Hanna Anderson mommy does not have a Chuck Taylor daughter if you know what I'm saying.  Do you think all those little Redskins fans have daddies that are Ravens fans??  

And the older daughter I stayed with does martial arts.  Her mom?  Yep. Is very close to being a black belt. They learn their sports choices, hairstyle tastes and ultimately moral lessons somewhere.

I would love to think that I can just run around with my immature self doing whatever the heck I want and listening to Fall Out Boy and drinking adult beverages at will and my kids will somehow be imbued with the right messages and lessons.  The old saying, "Do as I say, not as I do" is on the tip of my brain these days, since it is clearly impossible for our kids.  They will be doing what we do.

Geez.  I sound like my mother.  

Signs and Chick-Fil-A

I am a firm believer in signs.  I believe that signs are sent to us for our own good, or forewarning, to remind us of something important or to make us smile.

Today I received a sign that I have been eating ENTIRELY TOO MUCH CHICK-FIL-A.  Now this may sound silly or contrived, but can I tell you that I eat so much Chick-Fil-A that the baby recognizes the logo and says, "chicken!" when he sees it.  I eat so much Chick-Fil-A that I have actually considered asking for a $500 gift card to Chick-Fil-A for Christmas.  I eat so much Chick-Fil-A that I have not looked at a menu, for either food choices OR prices in I can't remember how long.  I know the exact mileage from my house (in TENTHS of a mile) to the closest Chick-Fil-A.  I still have the packet of franchise information that I wrote off for a few years ago.  Once I went to the cash machine to get cash to buy lunch to avoid having to use the debit card so "Chick-Fil-A" wouldn't show up on my bank statement.

For every time you and your family choose Panera, Atlanta Bread, McDonald's, etc., I choose Chick-Fil-A.

I was in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport last week and I ordered a sweet tea from the Chick-Fil-A.  The lady poured it, made a face because it wasn't the right color, and handed the cup to me.  She said, "Try this.  I don't think it's right, though."  I tried it and sure enough it was way too sweet -- they had only added half the tea they were supposed to.  She was pleased with my assessment and they corrected the whole batch. I was actually an impromptu taste-tester for Chick-Fil-A!

My last Chick-Fil-A meal was last Friday.  Today I thought I would swing through the drive-through since Keith fell asleep and made my scheduled errand useless.  As I approached the drive-through I noticed it was extremely crowded and there was a small sign posted near the menu that said the speaker was down and all ordering had to be done from the window.  I was prepared to wait.

Then a nice employee came down the whole row of cars giving some sort of information.  As usual, with their exemplary customer service, they wanted to make sure everyone in line was informed of the situation.  Any guesses as to why the speaker was out of service?  IT WAS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING.

The speaker system had been struck by lightning a couple of days ago.  I can't have Chick-Fil-A today because LIGHTNING LITERALLY STRUCK THE EQUIPMENT and I can't place my order.  With a sleeping baby in the back, it was time to turn the car around, go home and have a turkey sandwich.  If that is not a sign, I don't know what is.  I would have been a fool to stay in that line.

So regarding the whole Chick-Fil-A thing, point taken.  Got it.