Where For Art Thou, Baseball?

My life will be significantly different this summer. My high-schooler has decided he's had enough of high school sports. And my almost nine-year-old has decided if his brother ain't playin', he ain't playin', neither.

That means no baseball.

It's taking a while for this to sink in. I mean, I could still go to games and watch. But that's not really what baseball season meant to me.

Baseball was sweating my ass off as the fattest (and probably oldest, I reckon) mom working in the Snack Shack. Doling out nachoes and hot dogs and shivering with revulsion when I learned the secrets of the Snack Shack nacho cheese and hot dogs. Let's just say there's no guarantee that cheese or that dog is fresher than say, last week.

Baseball was interacting with the parents of the other players. Some I like a whole lot. Some, not so much. I'm sure they felt the same way about me. But they missed out on making friends with a fabulously funny gal (right?)

Baseball was figuring out how I could get out of work early enough to get my son to his game or practice.

Baseball was waiting -- waiting for practice to be over. waiting for the game to start. waiting to see if my son would even get in the game. Waiting for a plateful of nachoes from the Snack Shack.

Baseball was worry. Worry when the phone rang with a call from the coach saying my son had been hurt yet again. Worry that the shot to the head would hurt his brain, which I am counting on for med school. Worry that my son just didn't seem to be all that dedicated or interested in getting better or playing more.

Of course, that turned out to be true. And now that I think about it, it might just be fun to spend a summer going to a few baseball games as a SPECTATOR, not a PARENT.

I will miss the nachoes, though.

Maybe I'm the Crazy One

Several times at our Christmas Eve family gathering, I heard different relatives express the opinion that they were "tired" of the traditional Christmas gathering and gift giving and we were all crazy for not being in Arizona. Or New Mexico. Or Florida. Somewhere, anywhere, decidedly warmer than Omaha, Nebraska, in December.

I have no interest in these holiday travels. Why it just would not be Christmas without the family gatherings.

The "loud" discussions that, yes, can deteriorate into arguments. The nephews who mix strong drinks for themselves, their friends and their uncles. Which sometimes contribute to the "loud" discussions. When you can smell the CC in a CC and Coke from three feet away, that's a strong drink. Strong enough to loosen quite a few tongues.

Is it really Christmas until Grandpa gives somebody some unasked-for or unwanted advice? No. Is it really Christmas until some child (usually one of mine) sneers at one of the gifts he's received instead of just saying, thank you so much? Is it really Christmas without the sour-cream mashed potatoes, the peanut butter cup cookies, fudge, chicken and noodles and staggering home so tired you can hardly stay awake? Is it really Christmas without a nap?

I would miss all these things. They will be gone soon enough. Grandmas get older and eventually they stop getting older. They are gone. Then, the big family gatherings don't seem to be a priority for anybody any more. It can only take one year, maybe two, and the extended family get togethers break up into nuclear family celebrations.

Which are good too. But let's not rush their onset. Let's enjoy it while we can.

Driving Lessons

My 15 1/2 year old is learning to drive.
I'm of two minds about this.
On the one hand, I would love to lose some of my chauffeuring duties.
On the other hand, his driving scares me shitless.
I do not consider myself a great driver. I'm still a nervous, cautious driver. But I guess my 30 or so years of driving experience must count for something. Because when he's behind the wheel, all I can think is "Why are you doing that? How can you not know to NOT accelerate through a turn? How will you ever drive without me in the seat next to you saying, "Slow down! Move over! Are you going to stop? STOP!"
His assignment for drivers ed class this weekend is to observe his parents driving and note any mistakes they make.
What is this teacher thinking? I'm the one who wrote the $375 check to PAY for the drivers ed class. The last thing I need is my kid sitting in the seat next to me saying, "Slow down! Move over! Are you going to stop? STOP!"
That's my job.

3 Innings -- That's a Baseball Game

My eight-year-old son is playing real baseball for the first time. No tees to hit the ball off. No coaches pitching to you when the kids your own age can't get the ball across the plate. No coming to games in whatever Mom scrounged out of the dirty clothes hamper. You are expected to have a full uniform -- clean of course -- that matches all your teammates uniforms. Oh, and you have to wear a cup.

You know how they say little pictures (or is it pitchers?) have big ears. My son asked me what purpose the cup served. I tossed back to him, "It's to protect your family jewels."

Mistake. After spending about 20 minutes explaining what family jewels are, why they call them that, what could happen to your family jewels, I was ready for a new topic of conversation. But my son was still fascinated by his jewels. He ran about the living room, punching himself in his new cup, and saying: "Hard family jewels, Mom! Look, my jewels are hard!"

Good thing grandma wasn't around to see that.

I had forgotten what baseball games at the lowest level are like. The rule is 3 outs or 13 batters. None of the kids can pitch consistently. So, if you stand there long enough, chances are you are going to get a walk. Most of our team stood there and got their walks. Not my son. He was going down swinging. He was swinging like he was hanging from the ceiling of a front porch. He was swinging like a broken gate. He was going to strike out.

But the third pitch hit him in the hand, so he got to take his base. "I took one for the team, Mom!," he yelled at me in the stands. "Just don't take one in the HEAD for the team," I yelled back. The cardinal rule at our house: Protect your melon. Now, our second rule: Protect your jewels.

It took one hour to finish that first inning, what with everybody walking. Still, I'd rather be shivering in the stands watching that than at any corporate function I've ever attended or ever dreamed of attending.

Come One, Come All, To The Kwanzaa Hut

My 15-year-old son made the reserve squad of his high school baseball team. So at least twice a week and sometimes more I am hauling him and his gear three miles out of town to a classmate's house where they practice in the quonset hut nestled near the practice field this particular boy's dad just happened to build on their land.

1) I would love to be able to build my kids a baseball field. I don't think I can, since I'd have to appropriate parts of at least 4 neighbor's yards and remove their fences.

2) I'm really not sure it's a quonset hut. It might be a pole building. Rural folks oughta know the difference, and if pressed I'd say it's a pole building.

But, quonset hut is fun to say. More fun than pole building.

And I've saying it a lot, but apparently not quite clearly.

From the back seat of the car, I hear Christopher ask: "When are we picking up Jeffery at the Kwanzaa Hut?"

I love the idea of a Kwanzaa Hut. A large building where people would gather for fellowship. Maybe there would be food. A good time would be had by all.

And we now have a new entry in our family vocabulary. Kwanzaa Hut.

The Proud Mamma

Parent teacher conference night at the high school. The teachers are arranged at little desks throughout the gym. They had you a map. I can't read the map with my glasses on. I can't find the teacher's names on their desks with my glasses off.

I know why people have their kids in their twenties. 47 is too old to be doing this.

The nice thing for me -- Jeffery apparently is some kind of genius. Straight As. All the teachers love him. It takes me about 30 seconds at each desk.

I told Jeffery the only thing I wanted from him was for him to shave "Mamma" into the back of his hairstyle, ala Kanye West, before baseball season.

He said he's do it for $100.

He ain't no genius. I got $100. And I just might want to spend it.

Twilight Zone or Twilight of My Life Zone

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. Funny strange. Not funny ha-ha. Although it may be funny ha-ha to you. Which, of course, is why I'm writing about it. I crave positive reinforcement.

I got on the elevator after lunch (Yes, I take the elevator for a two-floor trip. Yes, I am pathetic AND lazy -- the million dollar combination.) and punched the buttom for Floor 3 -- ladies apparel, sportswear and the DTN newsroom.

Three other ladies got on the elevator (I hate that. I like to ride the elevator by myself. It's my alone time.) They wanted Floor 2 -- Domestics, mens wear and shoes. So I punched the 2 button.

At floor two, the ladies left. The elevator doors closed. The elevator moved. The doors opened. I disembarked. And then realized I was back on Floor 1 -- Sundries, kitchen appliances and toys.

I couldn't run back on the elevator -- the people who saw me get off as they got on might wonder what was wrong with me. (Of course, they might not even notice or think anything about me at all, but that's not within my personal personality misfunction to even consider. )

So to avoid odd looks, I went in to the ladies bathroom, came back out and waited for the elevator again.

So... I can't figure out if I had a little mini-stroke and missed the trip from Floor 2 to Floor 3 and only recovered back at Floor 1. Or if there is some kind of wrinkle in the space-time continuim that can be accessed from the DTN West Tower elevator.

But something odd is definitely going on in that elevator.

Is Linkin Park the Best Band Ever?

My 15-year-old son is at a rock concert tonight ... oh my.

Linkin Park, the band Jeffery boldly proclaims is the "Best Band Ever," is playing in the nearest big city. His father and I offer up lists of other bands and performers we might put on the list ahead of Linkin Park -- The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, CCR, Springsteen, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello, REO Speedwagon (this one is my husband's) -- and Jeffery just laughs at us and our oldness and lameness.

Jeffery's friend's dad offered to take the boys to the concert. I took a deep breath and said yes.
It's not that I don't trust his friend -- this boy has been coming around our house since 4th grade and he's one of my favorites. And his dad is a good, dependable guy.

I'm just a worry-prone freak.

I didn't attend my first rock concert (Adam Ant and the Romantics, for all you 1980s rejects out there) until well into my college years. And I don't really think I grew a working brain until about 25.

So I worry that my baby is out late on a school night, in a place where people might (you know they might) be smoking pot or drinking al-key-hall. And I worry he might make a bad decision.

I worry that he'll go to the bathroom by himself and somebody will snatch him (don't tell me it would be hard to snatch a 6 foot tall, 200 pounder -- reality rarely cuts my worry). I worry that somebody won't like the way he looks (he will give off too much of the straight A student or too much of the semi-jock for some punk or freak's taste) and will be beat up, or cut, or shot.

I gotta quit watching so much television.

Anyway, I will go to bed at the usual time, in preparation for my 5:30 a.m. workday start. But I doubt I will sleep until I hear the garage door open and my son, my baby, my first born, slam the door to his bedroom.

Then, and only then, will I stop worrying.

At least until tomorrow.

Oh My God, You are My Soul Mate

My husband and I have been together for about 23 years and we have entered that stage of our relationship where our compatability is based on shared parenting responsibilities, home-ownering, elderly parent taking care of-ing and just getting through the days unscathed-ing.

I love my husband. But I never thought of him as my soul mate. We are too different. We are interested in different things; we have different outlooks on life and humanity (mine considerably more optimistic than his); I like Chinese food -- he does not.

Still, I was happy and satisfied to have a lover, friend, husband, father for my children -- albeit one who occasionally drove me crazy with his inability to see the humor in Spaceballs or the beauty in Elvis Costello music.

One thing that particularly drove me nuts about my husband was his sympathetic illnesses. Whenever I was laid low by a cold, flu, infection of any kind, amazingly enough my husband came down ill at the same time. I secretly suspected he became ill to avoid being saddled with the responsibility -- if even for only a day -- of fetching or creating supper, doing laundry, supervising homework. He denies this -- but I still had my suspicions.

This week I was laid low by an upper respiratory infection, necessitating a trip to the doctor, a very frustrating hour-long phone call to the health insurance company and missing some work. My husband is on temporary duty out of state, so imagine my surprise when he called, sicker than a dog. He actually became sick without knowing that I was sick.

I was flabergasted. This, I believe, is proof that despite our differing tastes and interests, he truly is my soul mate -- so much so that when I am ill he DOES become ill, even if we are not in the same state to share germs. We are not just your run-of-the-mill, hopelessly-devoted-to-you, we-both-love-spaghetti, he-will-rub-my-feet-and-paint-my-toenails soul mates. We are such souly soul mates that our health, our fiber, our very being is inexplicably tied together. I sneeze and he wipes his nose.

Does this mean that we are going to be one of those couples that die within hours of each other, their love for one another is so great? Perhaps... but i'm thinking it will probably be him following me out of this worldly plane. If he goes first, I want to stick around for at least a short while, eating Chinese food for supper every night, watching Spaceballs and listening to Elvis Costello.

Prejudice

My youngest son is not prejudiced. He does not care about the color of anybody's skin. He isn't really even fully aware that some people do care and some people are wrong to care. He doesn't know that white people came here from Europe, black people from Africa, brown people from Mexico or South America, he doesn't know that yellow people came from the Asian countries and he wouldn't understand that anyway, because they are not yellow, really.

So he inadvertantly said something this weekend that was probably taken as racist. And he knew something he had said was not quite right, because of the reaction it got. But he can't quite put his finger on it.

Driving home from a goodbye party in Gibbon, Neb., for my goddaughter who is going to study in Australia for about 10 months, my son said quietly: "I think I made one of Tristan's friends mad."

"Which one?" I asked.
"The boy whose sister was in the Snow White costume," he said.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"They were talking about how some scientists say a meteor is going to hit the earth," he said, only he said "earf" because he's having some pronunciation issues. But I love that -- EARF -- pronounced errrf.
"And I said, well maybe it will hit Africa. Who cares about Africa," he continued.
Well, the boy whose sister was in the Snow White costume cared about Africa, being of African heritage. He told my son, "My ancestors came from Africa."

Christopher hadn't said "Africa" for any other reason than trying to say the name of a place as far away from us as he could think of. He wasn't thinking about people who lived there and especially not about what race of people lived there.

But he said it. and it was inappropriate. So I tried to explain why. I'm not sure he gets it yet. But the two boys he had this conversation with (older than him) got it.

"Mom," Chris then asked, "Am I Poland?"
"Are you what," I asked, thinking about the pronunciation issues and suspecting I had heard wrong.
"Am I Poland," he said, "Because after I said that Tristan asked me, What if the meteor hit Poland?"

I explained to my son that he is about one quarter Polish and some of his ancestors came from Poland, but neither his father or grandfather had ever been there, so he was pretty far removed from being "Poland."

Political correctness is a pretty difficult concept to explain to an 8 year old. But caring about other people's feelings is a lesson I think he's learning. He's a loving and fun-loving boy who has many friends from many different ethnic backgrounds. He's still not quite sure exactly why what he said was wrong, but he knows it hurt somebody's feelings, and he's sorry for that.

That's as good a start as any.

Today, I am a Chauffer

I hope I spelled that correctly.
A typical day -- drop Chris off at the elementary school; drop Jeffery off at the high school; drive to work, drive to lunch later, pick up Chris at day care, drive to get him some fast food because he is STARVING (his emphasis, not mine. Clearly at 80 pounds the boy does not know what starving means); field request from Jeffery who wants me to drive to the high school, pick him up, haul him to Subway so he can get a sandwich, take him back to the high school so he can watch the varsity basketball game, then come back when the game is over to bring him home.
I can't wait until he is 16 and can drive himself.
My plans for this evening included bath at 6:30 p.m., in bed by 7, reading, hopefully asleep by 9.
Now, i'm wondering -- do i dare get in the tub and drive to pick him up in my PJs? what if there's an accident? will the sarpy county sheriff go easier on me if i'm dressed in my pink flannels?
I know -- i could have said no to Jeffery. But i remember what it was like to not have transport in high school before my dad purchased the Vega. and i know that just 3 1/2 short years from now, he'll be out of my grasp, eliminating even the possibility for me to say "yes" or "no." So I say yes as often as I can. I say no when that's the best answer.
I'll have plenty of time for bedtime reading when he's at college.

Today's Discovery

A vanilla latte with skim milk and sugar-free syrup is worth neither buying or drinking.

more later

Cushings Disease Creates a Cushiony Dog

Four years ago we rescued our dog Shiloh from the pound. He was clearly part Beagle (and part garbage disposal -- although that part wasn't so obvious at the pound.)
In those four years he has more than doubled his weight.
I blamed myself.
What is wrong with me, I lamented. Not only do I make myself fat -- I clearly am leading this dog down the obesity path.
BUT, the vet has made me feel better.
"You don't see many 80 pound beagles," he said to me.
OK -- THAT didn't make me feel better.
But then he said Shiloh's symptoms and aggressiveness about food and seeming ability to never be full and willingness to eat used kleenexes and Q-Tips (yes -- it's gross) leads him to believe Shiloh suffers from Cushing's Disease. He thinks.
In order to confirm, I'd have to pay for a $200 test and then $30 to $40 a month for meds the rest of his life.
Note to my husband: If your health deteriorates to the point where you need this amount of money spent on your upkeep, well, let's just say don't count on me, big boy.
Anyway, the vet said I could help Shiloh without the test or meds. Watch his food intake. Feed him diet dog food. Help him get as much exercise as he can tolerate.
And discard the used kleenexes in a safe place.

Are Those Your Pajamas? Or Are You Just Glad to See Me?

My cell phone rang at 9:20 on a Tuesday morning. It was a 332 number. Phone numbers from my little town outside Omaha start with 332. That meant either something was wrong with my 15-year-old or my 8-year-old.
Crap.
In my haste to find out who had hit whom, who had said what, or who had thrown up where, I dropped my cell, rendering it inoperable. "I broke my phone!" I cried. Luckily, being at work, there were lots of cooler heads to help me.
"Turn it off and turn it back on," Susanne said.
Seriously, it hadn't occurred to me. In my panic I went right into "I'm screwed" mode.
When the phone rebooted, I had a message. A child's voice, not really recognizable as one of my own, crying and whimpering, "If it says leave a message does that mean she's not there?" Then some school office type noise. Then nothing.
I called the elementary school. Yes, my 8-year-old had called me. They put him on the phone.
Hysterics isn't even a good enough word to describe what he was going through. Sobbing, wailing, all I was able to make out from his rant was: I'm at school in my pajamas.
Now, I personally helped him get his track pants, shoes and socks on this morning. So I knew he wasn't at school in his pajamas.
"Put an adult on the phone, honey," I said.
The nice school lady said my diva -- I mean son -- had approached his teacher not long after school started, upset because he said he was still in his pajamas.
He was wearing a gray sweatshirt type shirt with a Huskers logo on it.
It doesn't look like you are in your pajamas to me, she said.
But he must of persisted, because at recess she let him go to the office to call me.
Truth is, that shirt is not a pajama shirt. But he wears it for pajamas. AND he had worn it to bed the night before. We don't put a clean shirt on him in the a.m. until he finishes breakfast, because he's a spiller. A clean shirt before breakfast just means another clean shirt after breakfast.
That morning, in our haste to get to school on time, get the dog to the vet (more on this in another post) and get mom to the office on time, so she can switch her brain from Mom Mode to Work Mode, thus saving her sanity for yet another day, I neglected to notice that he hadn't changed his shirt yet.
"Why didn't you say something to me," I asked later.
"I couldn't see it," he said.
"What do you mean you couldn't see it," I asked. "You were wearing it."
"Mom," he said, with all the exasperation an 8-year-old can feel for an obviously dumb adult who let him go to school in his pajamas, "I was wearing my coat."
Well, that explains it. He's like some kind of aborigine. If I can't see the shirt, the shirt doesn't exist. Wonder if he thinks my camera steals his soul, too.
Later, on the phone with dad who is working out of town, I heard him say, "This was the worst day of my life."
Jeez -- my kids are spoiled. The worst day of his life? Because he wore the shirt he slept in to school? Wait until college, kid. Somedays, you'll be lucky if you have clean underwear and socks during the same week.
Where do my children get this penchant for hyberbole? The worst day ever. The worst Christmas ever. But I know where they get it.
After the phone call from the school, I put my head down on my desk and said, "I 'm the worst mom ever."