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.