I created this list last summer, and am surprised that these truths still stand after a year. There is no greater joy than timeless statements, facts and information that prove eternal, despite the time period or generation in which they are found.
Maybe that's why I love the Bible so much.
Wait a minute. Maybe this list could have been included in the Word. Maybe tucked away in the ambitious description found in Proverbs 31, which might help us like that woman a little more.
Oh, I kid. I would never support such blasphemy.
(Or how about as a small blip in the book of Psalms? I could re-write it as a poem? Anybody?)
You Know It’s Summer When:
1.Suppertime is random as well as the food you serve. Five thirty one night, seven thirty the next. Well-balanced meals become off-balanced meals, sometimes in the form of pure additives and preservatives. (There are vitamins in preservatives, right?)
2. The mommy is joyfully the last to awaken and usually it is to a poke in the forehead rather than the beep of an alarm.
3. Your children’s attire chosen for the day resembles that of fugitives, but you are too hot and too unconcerned to put together anything remotely resembling precious.
4. A highlight of the day is retrieving the mail. You watch for the mail truck like a child watches for the ice cream truck, and you begin to seem borderline creepy and stalkish-like to the unsuspecting mailman.
5. You crave barbecued anything like a pregnant woman craves pickles and a glimpse of her swollen ankles. Suddenly everything tastes better grilled and topped with a little barbecue sauce including deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and summer squash.
(I’m kidding about the mashed potatoes.)
6. Your calls to your husband at work increase ten fold. Highlights of The View are surprisingly not received warmly from your spouse even if the segment on bikini waxing was highly informative.
7. You see canning jars at the local grocery store and for a brief moment consider canning vegetables for the upcoming winter. That is, until you remember you don’t know how to can and wonder how canned vegetables can be better than the miraculous “steam in the bag” vegetables found in the frozen section. Not to mention that it is tough to get the daily summer dose of preservatives in fresh vegetables.
8. You reluctantly put on a bathing suit for ALL to see, all in the name of taking your children to the local pool, even when normal, every day modesty prevents you from allowing family members (or friends for that matter) to EVER see you in your undergarments.
9. Every time you glance in the mirror you see a multi-colored ring around your lips because you can’t seem to stay out of the children’s Popsicles.
10. You realize the enormous amount of “summer grooming” that has to take place after the ongoing neglect that has occurred during the school year. Appointments attended for highlighting the hair, pedicuring (I’m sure this is a word) the toes, and waxing the eyebrows begin with your “specialist” saying, “So exactly how long has it been since your last visit?” After wiping your eyebrows out of your eyes, you lie, and say just a few weeks.
That's how you know it's summer.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I Didn't Deserve You, But My Children Did
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. Years ago when we first met, I was wild and flighty; you were steady and so sure. My faith was on shaky ground, your feet were planted firmly. Two people could not have been more opposite, but by the grace of God, ended up with everything in common.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You never left my side during those unremitting hours of newborn terror. Neither one of us was all that capable, but your encouragement and confidence led me through those sleepless nights and fearful days when I was paralyzed by inadequacy. I became a good mom because you were a great dad.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You were immediately engaged and enamored with each of our children. It was an instant bond that came as natural to you as breathing, as instinctive as the beat of your generous heart. You simply could not get enough of them. Your patience and your pride allowed for endless rounds of patty-cake and peek-a-boo, then transitioning into hours of UNO and playing catch in the yard.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are a gifted and compassionate physician, with patient burdens I cannot comprehend. Your workload and schedule demands all of you, but you have never given in. Starting your day extra early and working through lunch, you make it home for dinner with your family, and then tuck each child into bed with a heartfelt prayer, knowing that you will be up to midnight to work on charts that fell second place to your children.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. The way you look at our children cannot be manufactured or contrived, a mixture of love and wonder, amazement and joy. I never tire of watching you watching them. School performances and awards, ballgames and recitals, you always sit in the seat beside me, squeezing my hand with tears in your eyes, still in awe that you are allowed the moment.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did. You are my closest friend, my most trusted confidante. My love for you defies available words and still stuns me at its overwhelming capacity. The children unabashedly adore you, look up to you, and want to be just like you. And the dog thinks you’re the best.
I didn’t deserve you, but my children did.
Happy Father's Day,
Joni
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Crazy Women....The Only Kind I Know
There used to be a song I listened to in college, a song that somewhat encompassed the females I called friends, girls who were funny and spontaneous and gifted with lots of personality. And a little crazy.
Not cuckoo crazy or straitjacket crazy or even snakes in the head crazy. It was a kind of crazy that demonstrated more courage than sense, more carefree than careful. This song would play, and I would catch the eye of one of my compatible comrades, and with more off-key singing than the law should allow, we would join in on the lyrics as though the words were written with us in mind.
Crazy women.....they’re the only kind I know.
Crazy women....keep me running for the door.
Crazy women...I guess they’re all the same.
Crazy women...got my foolish heart to blame.
Many years after college and graduate school, I would occasionally hear the song and smile – and sometimes grimace – at the memories provoked by the much loved tune. Life barely resembled the former, even with intermittent glimpses provided by yearly reunions with the NOGS and sporadic shopping trips with friends from South Carolina. A momentary break from domestic responsibilities and calendar driven demands that allowed a brief visit to the days when we were ungratefully young and gravity not yet the kryptonite to select parts of our bodies.
Don’t misunderstand me, days are fulfilling and exactly what I have always imagined my life would be, but also completely opposite of a time when I answered to the outrageous whims that would direct me to the next adventure.
Courage has eventually been replaced with good sense and carefree transitioned into careful. A natural progression of adulthood when there are others who live out the consequences of decisions considered and made, actions pondered and fulfilled.
Traveling back from the beach last week, after a trip with Martha and Mandy and the seven children between them, I surprisingly heard the song once again. Before it had always reminded me of fun, crazy days before the delightful arrival of offspring. But in a slight moment of clarity, I realized for the first time, that the crazy is still there, it just now includes, and is most likely caused by, my children.
Who, but crazy women, minus their capable and quite sensible spouses, would take 10 children to the beach, vacationing under the same roof, praying that everyone still likes each other at week’s end?
Who, but crazy women, would ask the wide-eyed hostess for a table for thirteen, fully expecting and not caring that drinks would be spilled, service would be slow, white pants would be stained, and meals would be half-eaten?
Who, but crazy women, would hunt crabs close to midnight, wielding oven mitts and plastic buckets, capturing squiggly-eyed crustaceans, all while squealing louder than the youngest child?
Who, but crazy women, would tip-toe to the third floor porch, only speaking in hushed tones and wild hand gestures, so that those who can identify us as a parent would be unable to find us?
Who, but crazy women, would seek out the fountain in the town square, encouraging their energetic children to frolic and splash to their heart’s content, only for the sake of pure, adolescent joy?
And, who, but crazy women, after assembling 20 preservative rich meals, applying 60 coats of sunscreen and responding 180 times to the word “Mommy, would still find themselves smiling when it was all over?
Crazy women. They’re the only kind I know.
Not cuckoo crazy or straitjacket crazy or even snakes in the head crazy. It was a kind of crazy that demonstrated more courage than sense, more carefree than careful. This song would play, and I would catch the eye of one of my compatible comrades, and with more off-key singing than the law should allow, we would join in on the lyrics as though the words were written with us in mind.
Crazy women.....they’re the only kind I know.
Crazy women....keep me running for the door.
Crazy women...I guess they’re all the same.
Crazy women...got my foolish heart to blame.
Many years after college and graduate school, I would occasionally hear the song and smile – and sometimes grimace – at the memories provoked by the much loved tune. Life barely resembled the former, even with intermittent glimpses provided by yearly reunions with the NOGS and sporadic shopping trips with friends from South Carolina. A momentary break from domestic responsibilities and calendar driven demands that allowed a brief visit to the days when we were ungratefully young and gravity not yet the kryptonite to select parts of our bodies.
Don’t misunderstand me, days are fulfilling and exactly what I have always imagined my life would be, but also completely opposite of a time when I answered to the outrageous whims that would direct me to the next adventure.
Courage has eventually been replaced with good sense and carefree transitioned into careful. A natural progression of adulthood when there are others who live out the consequences of decisions considered and made, actions pondered and fulfilled.
Traveling back from the beach last week, after a trip with Martha and Mandy and the seven children between them, I surprisingly heard the song once again. Before it had always reminded me of fun, crazy days before the delightful arrival of offspring. But in a slight moment of clarity, I realized for the first time, that the crazy is still there, it just now includes, and is most likely caused by, my children.
Who, but crazy women, minus their capable and quite sensible spouses, would take 10 children to the beach, vacationing under the same roof, praying that everyone still likes each other at week’s end?
Who, but crazy women, would ask the wide-eyed hostess for a table for thirteen, fully expecting and not caring that drinks would be spilled, service would be slow, white pants would be stained, and meals would be half-eaten?
Who, but crazy women, would hunt crabs close to midnight, wielding oven mitts and plastic buckets, capturing squiggly-eyed crustaceans, all while squealing louder than the youngest child?
Who, but crazy women, would tip-toe to the third floor porch, only speaking in hushed tones and wild hand gestures, so that those who can identify us as a parent would be unable to find us?
Who, but crazy women, would seek out the fountain in the town square, encouraging their energetic children to frolic and splash to their heart’s content, only for the sake of pure, adolescent joy?
And, who, but crazy women, after assembling 20 preservative rich meals, applying 60 coats of sunscreen and responding 180 times to the word “Mommy, would still find themselves smiling when it was all over?
Crazy women. They’re the only kind I know.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Yet Another School Year
With the onset of baseball madness, and the chaotic activity that ensued from said madness, something miraculous occurred. A phenomenon that could only have materialized from the distraction caused by cleats with caked dirt and uniforms with red clay stains, and schedules that ate away at any remaining minutes that might be considered my own.
The event? All of my children graduated from one grade level to the next without the usual histrionics and overreaction from yours truly. No drama, no emotional outbursts. I didn’t even take to bed, distraught that my little ones were one year closer to calling my nurturing abode their second home.
(I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Wicked baseball, see what you have done to me?)
My oldest is a rising 5th grader. Clever and quick witted, very few can make me laugh out loud like this quirky little ten year old.
Recently, we were walking to the car after dining at a local restaurant, when I noticed that Chase was wearing his baseball cap somewhat cock-eyed.
“Chase, your hat is crooked,” I told him.
“No, this is the way I am wearing it now. I’m GANGSTA,” was his absurd reply.
“Oh really?” I continued. “ What is it about your starched, short sleeved polo shirt tucked into your even more starched khaki pants that would remotely suggest you roll gangsta-style?”
And without missing a beat, Chase responded, “I’m a new kind of gangsta. I’m a gangsta with manners.”
For the entire trip back home, we were subjected to a type of free-styling rap sung by Chase that I can’t possibly imitate or do justice, but here is a small excerpt of the “lyrics” created by my ten year old gangsta:
(Get a beat in your head, feel the groove and then imagine a pre-pubescent voice rapping the following:)
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I put my napkin in my lap.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I say yes sir and no ma’am.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I chew with my mouth closed.
I’m a gangsta with manners, but for you, I’ll open the door.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My middle child, Chandler, is a rising second grader. He is obscenely smart – and I say this in the most biased manner possible – stunning us on a daily basis of concepts he has learned, or desires to learn. He is a thinker and a dreamer, but also somewhat of a perfectionist in his daily approach and mode of operation. Chandler especially wants to please his parents, his teachers, and most recently and most importantly, his coaches.
Early on in the baseball season, Chandler was just starting to get the hang of all the nuances and rules of baseball. One particular game, he found himself playing third base with runners on first and third and one out for the inning. I watched Chandler’s face, imagining the wheels in his brain turning over the many scenarios and possibilities the next batter could bring, when suddenly, in almost Rain-Man like fashion, he blurted out across the field to his coach and for all in the stands to hear:
“HEY COACH! I’M GONNA NEED A LITTLE INSTRUCTION HERE!”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My baby, my five-year-old daughter, Mary Mac, will begin kindergarten in the Fall. Just typing that sentence makes me week in the knees, a little short of breath and momentarily dizzy.
(Or it could have been the rush of sugar I just experienced when swiping a S’mores pop tart off of my child’s paper plate which we refer to demurely as our “summer plates”. No wonder my children streak through the house like tasmanian devils after breakfast.)
Sassy and so smart, daring and so dramatic, Mary Mac embraces each day looking for the adventure it will bring. She loves school, loves her teachers even more, sobbing uncontrollably in the car ride home each of the years she has experienced a school day that was her to be her last, in true Mary Mac form.
Last day of 3K:
“WAAAAHHHHH. I’ll never see Mrs. Jones ever, ever, never again! Waaaaahhhhh!!! She will be gone forever and I am going to be sad FOREEEVVVVVERRRR!!!.”
Last day of 4K:
“WAAAHHHHH! I’ll never, ever, in my whole life and in the whole universe be able to see Mrs. Edwards again! WAAAAHHH! She won’t remember me but I’ll remember her and that’s not fair because I’m going to miss her FOREVVVERRR! WAAAHHH!!
Oh, she brings me joy. Aggravation, and a whole lot of dramatics, but she definitely brings joy.
So another school year is behind us, and because of baseball, I barely felt the impact. My lip only quivered a little when final hugs were given to teachers on the last day of school, the teachers crying more than the students.
My heart only raced a little when I took the final picture of each child with their school friends, smiling with ecstatic grins that are mercifully unaware of the speed in which time passes.
And my throat only constricted a little, at the reminder that God has only gifted them to me for just this short period of time - barely a blink of my wrinkled eye-and that while they are mine, I will fully inhale them with deep, lingering breaths and then slowly and purposefully exhale with all love, laughter and joy.
The event? All of my children graduated from one grade level to the next without the usual histrionics and overreaction from yours truly. No drama, no emotional outbursts. I didn’t even take to bed, distraught that my little ones were one year closer to calling my nurturing abode their second home.
(I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Wicked baseball, see what you have done to me?)
My oldest is a rising 5th grader. Clever and quick witted, very few can make me laugh out loud like this quirky little ten year old.
Recently, we were walking to the car after dining at a local restaurant, when I noticed that Chase was wearing his baseball cap somewhat cock-eyed.
“Chase, your hat is crooked,” I told him.
“No, this is the way I am wearing it now. I’m GANGSTA,” was his absurd reply.
“Oh really?” I continued. “ What is it about your starched, short sleeved polo shirt tucked into your even more starched khaki pants that would remotely suggest you roll gangsta-style?”
And without missing a beat, Chase responded, “I’m a new kind of gangsta. I’m a gangsta with manners.”
For the entire trip back home, we were subjected to a type of free-styling rap sung by Chase that I can’t possibly imitate or do justice, but here is a small excerpt of the “lyrics” created by my ten year old gangsta:
(Get a beat in your head, feel the groove and then imagine a pre-pubescent voice rapping the following:)
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I put my napkin in my lap.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I say yes sir and no ma’am.
I’m a gangsta with manners, ‘cause I chew with my mouth closed.
I’m a gangsta with manners, but for you, I’ll open the door.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My middle child, Chandler, is a rising second grader. He is obscenely smart – and I say this in the most biased manner possible – stunning us on a daily basis of concepts he has learned, or desires to learn. He is a thinker and a dreamer, but also somewhat of a perfectionist in his daily approach and mode of operation. Chandler especially wants to please his parents, his teachers, and most recently and most importantly, his coaches.
Early on in the baseball season, Chandler was just starting to get the hang of all the nuances and rules of baseball. One particular game, he found himself playing third base with runners on first and third and one out for the inning. I watched Chandler’s face, imagining the wheels in his brain turning over the many scenarios and possibilities the next batter could bring, when suddenly, in almost Rain-Man like fashion, he blurted out across the field to his coach and for all in the stands to hear:
“HEY COACH! I’M GONNA NEED A LITTLE INSTRUCTION HERE!”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My baby, my five-year-old daughter, Mary Mac, will begin kindergarten in the Fall. Just typing that sentence makes me week in the knees, a little short of breath and momentarily dizzy.
(Or it could have been the rush of sugar I just experienced when swiping a S’mores pop tart off of my child’s paper plate which we refer to demurely as our “summer plates”. No wonder my children streak through the house like tasmanian devils after breakfast.)
Sassy and so smart, daring and so dramatic, Mary Mac embraces each day looking for the adventure it will bring. She loves school, loves her teachers even more, sobbing uncontrollably in the car ride home each of the years she has experienced a school day that was her to be her last, in true Mary Mac form.
Last day of 3K:
“WAAAAHHHHH. I’ll never see Mrs. Jones ever, ever, never again! Waaaaahhhhh!!! She will be gone forever and I am going to be sad FOREEEVVVVVERRRR!!!.”
Last day of 4K:
“WAAAHHHHH! I’ll never, ever, in my whole life and in the whole universe be able to see Mrs. Edwards again! WAAAAHHH! She won’t remember me but I’ll remember her and that’s not fair because I’m going to miss her FOREVVVERRR! WAAAHHH!!
Oh, she brings me joy. Aggravation, and a whole lot of dramatics, but she definitely brings joy.
So another school year is behind us, and because of baseball, I barely felt the impact. My lip only quivered a little when final hugs were given to teachers on the last day of school, the teachers crying more than the students.
My heart only raced a little when I took the final picture of each child with their school friends, smiling with ecstatic grins that are mercifully unaware of the speed in which time passes.
And my throat only constricted a little, at the reminder that God has only gifted them to me for just this short period of time - barely a blink of my wrinkled eye-and that while they are mine, I will fully inhale them with deep, lingering breaths and then slowly and purposefully exhale with all love, laughter and joy.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
.....To The Ballgame
I grew up watching baseball. I played softball, both slow and fast pitch, through all four years of high school. My summer job until the age of twenty was working in a ballpark, keeping score in a small wooden building behind home plate, crossing my fingers that I accurately counted every run crossing home plate all while chatting it up with friends who frequented my little hut about the latest teenage drama unfolding in our small town.
I have always loved the game. And then my children started playing.
This isn’t the first year of little league for my sons. They have played previous seasons, on various teams, for several years now. However, the difference this year is that at the ages of nine and seven, they became serious about their love for the sport that brings them such joy. And to make matters worse, so did their coaches.
The season began with nightly practices, for both Chase and Chandler, held at different times and different locations all of which initiated my descent into baseball purgatory. Keep in mind that school was still in session at this time, and for some reason, those rascals known as their teachers still expected my children to perform. Even as they had baseball practice until the wee hours of the night, homework assignments and projects deadlines continued at the normal pace one keeps to successfully leap into the next grade level all in the name of progression.
All while having baseball practice 180 hours a week. Those teachers have some nerve.
Practices transitioned into games, and with a sigh of relief, I falsely anticipated that the frenetic activity in our home would slow somewhat. But then I realized that those in charge of the league schedule were not concerned with bedtimes, or proper baths using washcloths and soap, or the learning of multiplication tables, or the inherent evil associated with the overconsumption of preservatives tossed haphazardly from drive-thru windows.
Those baseball schedulers have some nerve.
The month of May found us attending eight games a week. Some nights there were two games at the same time and we found ourselves in a parental quandary: which parent goes to which child’s game and how do we each see each child play without borrowing a parent that does not belong to our family?
And could you follow all of that?
End of year school activities and performances and parties and award ceremonies were all somehow folded into the dust cloud of red dirt that followed my Expedition from one field to the next. I’m pretty certain Mother’s Day and my birthday occurred in between some of the innings, but it could have been my imagination, or temporary delusion caused by the numbing of my backside when sitting on bleachers for hours on end.
School ended and tournament play began. This would deem the champions of the world in each age division, bestowing a large shiny trophy to the winner and some coveted normalcy to our lives.
Chandler, 7, finished his tournament first. Unbelievably, they ended up winning first place, designating his coach as the one who would choose the all-star team to represent our league.
(You know where I am going with this. And why I am chewing on sedatives as I type.)
Chandler was chosen for the team, sending us back to square one of nightly practices followed by insane scheduling of games. It was like the Groundhog Day Movie version of the baseball season with a perpetual cycle of beginnings and ends.
Chase finished his tournament play in a nail biter that landed them in second place. A beach trip with two friends and their families was delayed by a day, but worth the hours lost when witnessing the maturity with which my son held up his chin as he clapped for the winning team that was not his.
We travelled back from the beach a day early for Chandler to play in the all-star tournament. They have lost two games and won another, and I am starting to see this baseball chapter mercifully come to a close. At the end of yesterday’s game, my five year old daughter looked up at me, seriousness and fire in those green little eyes, and said, “Mommy, you know that I am going to play next year, don’t you?”
To which I responded, in as sugary tone as I could summon, “Honey, that’s not going to be possible. There is not a league in our town for little girls.”
And the lie tasted as sour as the hundreds of dill pickles purchased and consumed from the concession stand this season, but one I refuse to retract. Maybe when this season – and the sedatives - are but a distant memory will I reconsider my regrettable and untruthful statement.
But for now, I’m going with it.
I have always loved the game. And then my children started playing.
This isn’t the first year of little league for my sons. They have played previous seasons, on various teams, for several years now. However, the difference this year is that at the ages of nine and seven, they became serious about their love for the sport that brings them such joy. And to make matters worse, so did their coaches.
The season began with nightly practices, for both Chase and Chandler, held at different times and different locations all of which initiated my descent into baseball purgatory. Keep in mind that school was still in session at this time, and for some reason, those rascals known as their teachers still expected my children to perform. Even as they had baseball practice until the wee hours of the night, homework assignments and projects deadlines continued at the normal pace one keeps to successfully leap into the next grade level all in the name of progression.
All while having baseball practice 180 hours a week. Those teachers have some nerve.
Practices transitioned into games, and with a sigh of relief, I falsely anticipated that the frenetic activity in our home would slow somewhat. But then I realized that those in charge of the league schedule were not concerned with bedtimes, or proper baths using washcloths and soap, or the learning of multiplication tables, or the inherent evil associated with the overconsumption of preservatives tossed haphazardly from drive-thru windows.
Those baseball schedulers have some nerve.
The month of May found us attending eight games a week. Some nights there were two games at the same time and we found ourselves in a parental quandary: which parent goes to which child’s game and how do we each see each child play without borrowing a parent that does not belong to our family?
And could you follow all of that?
End of year school activities and performances and parties and award ceremonies were all somehow folded into the dust cloud of red dirt that followed my Expedition from one field to the next. I’m pretty certain Mother’s Day and my birthday occurred in between some of the innings, but it could have been my imagination, or temporary delusion caused by the numbing of my backside when sitting on bleachers for hours on end.
School ended and tournament play began. This would deem the champions of the world in each age division, bestowing a large shiny trophy to the winner and some coveted normalcy to our lives.
Chandler, 7, finished his tournament first. Unbelievably, they ended up winning first place, designating his coach as the one who would choose the all-star team to represent our league.
(You know where I am going with this. And why I am chewing on sedatives as I type.)
Chandler was chosen for the team, sending us back to square one of nightly practices followed by insane scheduling of games. It was like the Groundhog Day Movie version of the baseball season with a perpetual cycle of beginnings and ends.
Chase finished his tournament play in a nail biter that landed them in second place. A beach trip with two friends and their families was delayed by a day, but worth the hours lost when witnessing the maturity with which my son held up his chin as he clapped for the winning team that was not his.
We travelled back from the beach a day early for Chandler to play in the all-star tournament. They have lost two games and won another, and I am starting to see this baseball chapter mercifully come to a close. At the end of yesterday’s game, my five year old daughter looked up at me, seriousness and fire in those green little eyes, and said, “Mommy, you know that I am going to play next year, don’t you?”
To which I responded, in as sugary tone as I could summon, “Honey, that’s not going to be possible. There is not a league in our town for little girls.”
And the lie tasted as sour as the hundreds of dill pickles purchased and consumed from the concession stand this season, but one I refuse to retract. Maybe when this season – and the sedatives - are but a distant memory will I reconsider my regrettable and untruthful statement.
But for now, I’m going with it.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Take Me Out.......
It was supposed to be a Spring like all the others. A SEASON that found us enjoying the transition of one period to the next, our children progressing from one grade level to the next, and this worn out mom from one anti-wrinkle cream to the next. (For one that promises all out war on the parentheses mark between my eyebrows and considerable and unfortunate dent in my checking account.)
Just normal joy in a household that has passed through this time of year before, maybe at a slower pace, but a familiar WALK nonetheless.
And then, out of LEFT FIELD, the family life we have always known - the one that provides untold joy in all of its hilarity and spontaneity, comfort in its somewhat predictable routines and schedules, and brief, precious TIME OUTS in the mommy bubble, the place where I can hear myself think and reflect about these days STEALING by way too fast without a child wrapped around my right leg and a request and/or complaint chattering in my left ear - is turned completely upside down in the same way I positioned my oldest son when choking on a potato chip seven years ago.
(For the record, I have now learned and even taught others that the American Red Cross does not support, condone or excuse any emergency maneuver that entails holding a toddler by his feet with the unrealistic hopes that said potato chip clogging the airways that belongs to your offspring, will defy gravity and FLY OUT of the mouth.
In fact, one should only resort to this type of impulsive, bug-eyed manner of rescue if a more reasonable adult is standing by to offer help, pushing you out of the way so that the child is not even more frightened by your antics bordering on hysteria than the sour cream and onion flavored chip STEALING all oxygen.
Not that this really happened. I’m just offering a hypothetical, a “what if “ situation that could potentially occur, all in the name of helping others, of course.)
We could have never predicted how this one SEASON would STRIKE to our family’s very core. The CURVE BALL out of nowhere that would consume us, drain us, and keep us up all hours of the night, with little energy remaining for proper nutrition and barely satisfactory hygiene.
BASEBALL.
It is from the devil.
I used to love baseball. I grew up not only watching the Atlanta Braves on television, but attending most games at Atlanta Fulton Stadium on a $2 ticket, carrying a sack full of sandwiches we would eat for supper in left field in one hand and my worn out glove in the other, expecting with childlike confidence to catch the homerun ball sure to be hit directly to my seat. Chief Knock A Homa (so clever) was the mascot then, dancing and hopping around the teepee built squarely in the middle of the cheap seats in which my family sat, entertaining all of the peewees that insisted on mimicking his every move.
At the end of each game, my family and I would wait patiently in an area of the stadium known as “the Tunnel”, the place all of the Braves players travelled through after showering in the locker room, signing graciously any object offered by a kid with stars in their eyes and jumbled words on their tongues. Dale Murphy, Phil Neikro, Claudell Washington and others signed any ball, bat or hat I brought to their attention, even once signing my school yearbook, as though they were good friends who sat next to me in geometry.
I have always loved baseball. And then my children started playing it.
(continued tomorrow)
Just normal joy in a household that has passed through this time of year before, maybe at a slower pace, but a familiar WALK nonetheless.
And then, out of LEFT FIELD, the family life we have always known - the one that provides untold joy in all of its hilarity and spontaneity, comfort in its somewhat predictable routines and schedules, and brief, precious TIME OUTS in the mommy bubble, the place where I can hear myself think and reflect about these days STEALING by way too fast without a child wrapped around my right leg and a request and/or complaint chattering in my left ear - is turned completely upside down in the same way I positioned my oldest son when choking on a potato chip seven years ago.
(For the record, I have now learned and even taught others that the American Red Cross does not support, condone or excuse any emergency maneuver that entails holding a toddler by his feet with the unrealistic hopes that said potato chip clogging the airways that belongs to your offspring, will defy gravity and FLY OUT of the mouth.
In fact, one should only resort to this type of impulsive, bug-eyed manner of rescue if a more reasonable adult is standing by to offer help, pushing you out of the way so that the child is not even more frightened by your antics bordering on hysteria than the sour cream and onion flavored chip STEALING all oxygen.
Not that this really happened. I’m just offering a hypothetical, a “what if “ situation that could potentially occur, all in the name of helping others, of course.)
We could have never predicted how this one SEASON would STRIKE to our family’s very core. The CURVE BALL out of nowhere that would consume us, drain us, and keep us up all hours of the night, with little energy remaining for proper nutrition and barely satisfactory hygiene.
BASEBALL.
It is from the devil.
I used to love baseball. I grew up not only watching the Atlanta Braves on television, but attending most games at Atlanta Fulton Stadium on a $2 ticket, carrying a sack full of sandwiches we would eat for supper in left field in one hand and my worn out glove in the other, expecting with childlike confidence to catch the homerun ball sure to be hit directly to my seat. Chief Knock A Homa (so clever) was the mascot then, dancing and hopping around the teepee built squarely in the middle of the cheap seats in which my family sat, entertaining all of the peewees that insisted on mimicking his every move.
At the end of each game, my family and I would wait patiently in an area of the stadium known as “the Tunnel”, the place all of the Braves players travelled through after showering in the locker room, signing graciously any object offered by a kid with stars in their eyes and jumbled words on their tongues. Dale Murphy, Phil Neikro, Claudell Washington and others signed any ball, bat or hat I brought to their attention, even once signing my school yearbook, as though they were good friends who sat next to me in geometry.
I have always loved baseball. And then my children started playing it.
(continued tomorrow)
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