He has always had good hair.

In the Battle Between Napkins and Squirrels ...

First of all, congrats to our boys, both of whose teams were runner ups in their leagues' silver division championship games!  Here they both are receiving their trophies:

And after all that was said and done, I finally made time to take my car in to get an oil change.  What is it about taking your car in for any one little thing?  It's like they can't wait to take the whole thing apart looking for other problems that you might not know about.  This doesn't happen when I go to the doctor or when my students submit papers.  I just get checked out for whatever I came in for, and my students get feedback from me that reflects the objectives of the lesson from which the submission came.  And yet mechanics ... those conniving know-it-alls.  (Gracie, if you're reading this, I'm sure Chris is not like this at all, and would actually like to meet him -- would he consider becoming my PCM (primary care mechanic?)

See, back in 2010 I went in for normal maintenance and discovered that Chick-fil-A napkins had gotten lodged in the "blower door" (a lovely name that one cannot forget once discovering), and because of this, the AC, when on "recirculated air" made an incessant clicking sound that would've cost a grandish to fix.  That prompted this blog post.

And then this week I went in for an oil change, and 30 minutes later, a young man came out with what looked like a filthy old, dust-covered wash board with rodent droppings and acorn shells lodged in it.  It was my AC's filter.  A squirrel had apparently used it to make a lovely home for him/herself.  I had wondered why there were acorns in the vents and on the floorboard, but of course with boys, one never bothers to ask questions about things such as this.  This mechanic encouraged me to take a picture, "so that your husband will believe you," and so I did:

You can see acorn halves, poop, an eaten-out part, etc.  Good stuff, y'all, Crazy, exciting stuff that just doesn't happen to you in your 20s.

So, in other news, Brian and I went to Arizona for our 13th anniversary.  And below are some of my favorite shots from our trip:

We flew Southwest and got "C" boarding passes, which basically meant that I was out on the wing and Brian was co-pilot.  So, he told them it was our 13th anniversary and VOILA, we got to sit together.  At the end of the flight, they announced our anniversary and gave us a bottle (yes, bottle) of champagne, which we left in the hotel as a gratuity for the the housekeeper.  During the time they were announcing us, people were exiting the airplane.  We could not exit because my original seat (where my luggage was located) was behind us.  So Brian weaved his way back there amongst the passengers, and I meanwhile took up with a child who was flying unaccompanied.  He had heard the announcement, and asked me if I was proud of my 13th husband.  So, I explained to him the differences between marriages and anniversaries.  He then started singing a song featuring the books of the Bible (which I knew), so I joined in.  When I got to Ecclesiastes, he stopped me an dsaid, "Jehovah's witness?" I replied that no, indeed, I had grown up Baptist, at which point he informed me that the Bible said I was a JW.  Kids these days.

Driving north from Phoenix, this was our view of the desert.

Ah, Flagstaff in June.  It's always 70 or below and breezy.

We went to our favorite hiking spot and did a morning hike overlooking Mt. Humphreys.

Brian's breakfast.

Mine.

On the way back to Phoenix, we stopped in Sedona for a hike.  The scenery wasn't bad.

Oh Phoenix.  You hot mess.

There is much more to say about June, but unfortunately I am writing this in July.  I'm trying to keep a once per month posting schedule, but working 3 days/week is proving to be too much of a burden.

Perhaps in the fall I can do better ...

ous,
k

End of May 2014

It's the end of the month, and I had a New Year Resolution to do this once each month.  So here I am.  This picture is the gist of it:

We spend a lot of time at baseball fields, and now our oldest is coaching our youngest.

Which only means one thing:  We. Have. Made. It. In. The. World. Y'all.

Yes, that's really all.

Love to each of you,
k

Dear Baseball,

Alternate Title:  In Which It Was Just Christmas, But Now It's Spring, Which is Not a Big Deal. (Alternate, alternate title:  In Which Baseball:  The End)

Once a month blogging was my only goal.  No need to be an overachiever despite how hard it tugs at one's heartstrings.  It's really not my fault.  Watch this.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFQfylQ2Jgg   Then you'll understand.

So now.  Here we are.  I would try to write something witty except that my M-i-L gave me an awesome new camera which is totally not distracting.  I really like cameras.  Thanks Jane!

But what I like even more than cameras, is writing letters ... and so ...



Dear Baseball,

First, let me say that you have totally swept me off my feet.  I once saw you as this stupid, boring unending thing that may have involved cute guys but was totally not worth the time commitment.  Now, I am older.  I can appreciate you for what you really are.  (In a word, complicated.)  I can (almost) understand and value your baggage, your required patience with multiple and often ceaseless innings, and your extreme need for sustained knee-area pants scrubbing, which, by the way, I would be way cooler with if you weren't always in dire straits to be so WHITE.  A girl appreciates a good healthy color, sometimes.  Roll with it, dude.  So, despite the fact that I love you, let's both agree to be less complicated, how 'bout it?

Second, let's be real about how much time you require.  I didn't mean to have two boys, Baseball.  I didn't mean for them to love you and be actually quite good at maintaining a relationship with you.  I just wanted everybody to be happy and have fun.  In my naive, pre-baseball-boys mind, which never involved pants scrubbing or bats in the house ... especially not the bats ... Lord, those things ... how do they end up in the dining room?  See, if you could explain all of that logically in a five-paragraph essay with attention to author, audience, and purpose while avoiding logical fallacies, I might fall even deeper in love with you.  But for now, please back off:  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Finally, baseball -- could you please not be so fickle?  I like a good challenge, but you are living at the mercy of your umpires, Sweet Game.  They are totally controlling you.  Take back your manhood and make some clear-sighted decisions for once.  Stand up to those "He's-Safe-No-He's-Actually-Out" calls.  Don't let those Umps control you, friend.  They are working for the man.  The white-pants man.

I hope this finds you well, B.  The weather hasn't been good for the last couple of days, so we've missed each other at the field, but spring is full of hope and promise.  There will certainly be more opportunities.  In the meantime, can we please commit our attention to self-betterment?  I will stop sneaking hunks of Trader Joe's Goat Cheese if we can come to this agreement, which I think provides total mutual compromise.  Until next time, B,

Sincerely,
Mama K

You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time. ~Jim Bouton, Ball Four, 1970

With those who don't give a damn about baseball, I can only sympathize. I do not resent them. I am even willing to concede that many of them are physically clean, good to their mothers and in favor of world peace. But while the game is on, I can't think of anything to say to them. ~Art Hill

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. ~A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind," Yale Alumni Magazine, November 1977

In Which I “Mama Up” (or at least consider it)

Sam has also discovered SELFIES.

If you had told me 10 years ago that I would have two boys, a snake, and a membership at an Isshinryu Karate Dojo, I wouldn’t have even bothered to laugh in your face. I probably would’ve walked away from you and started telling people that you have a mental illness.

And here I am with all of the above (plus a betta fish that we traded for the four hermit crabs because one of those suckers pinched me and after that it was all over).

Tonight I said what may take the cake in terms of parenting quotes. And I don’t say that lightly, because I have had my share of “we don’t eat our boogers because they are too high in sodium” moments.

I should preface this with an explanation that Sam has been difficult lately. And not difficult in an eating boogers sort of way … much more than that.

He is emotional. He is hostile. He is unreasonable. He is mad because he cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in one hand. (He also cannot hold all of his Pokemon cards in TWO hands, but he does NOT want a Ziploc bag or a rubber band!) He is upset because he doesn’t understand his immense pile of Pokemon cards and their various damage levels. He is pretty angry just in general. He is also offended that he cannot eat donuts and Cheetohs (Cheethos? Cheetos?) for every meal.

Additionally, he pretty frequently gets in trouble at school. And now -- per my request -- I’m getting phone calls instead of notes-home-in-his-lunchbox about this behavior.

Phone calls at work.

So, things aren’t smooth right now. They could be much worse, I know. And I seriously thank God and Jesus and Mary and Joseph and John the Baptist (and sometimes even Elijah and Moses) every night because I know that hidden underneath my delusion of difficulty is the reality that my life is pretty smooth overall. Maybe even easy. (Although if you repeat that to anyone, I will punch you in the throat.)

Tonight I said, and I quote (obviously): “Do NOT wipe your nose with the crotch of your dirty underwear!”

Should I just go ahead and ask for help, or wait until someone offers?

What would I even say at a support group meeting? Hello. My name is Kimberly, and my child actually took off his dirty underwear and used it to wipe his snotty nose.

Feel sorry for me.

What is the point of all this anyway? This parenting nonsense is making me take pride in such ridiculous things as successfully painting all of my fingernails purple except the ring finger, which I painted turquoise.  Because somebody told me that was the new thing.  And it is sorta pretty in a non-symmetrical kinda way.

What am I supposed to do with these difficult children that I’ve had?  I think they’ve finally outgrown the fire-station drop off threat, so now we’re accepting real serious proposals.

Some days I think: It’s them or me.  I can’t hear another fake fart or senseless nonsensical babble that ends in “face” (e.g., Mamaface, Peepeeface, Johnface, Stupidface, etc.).  It makes me want to peel away my epidermis (let’s face it, cuticles are an ORGAN!  Part of the biggest organ in our bodies – the skin!  This is way seriouser than anyone acknowledges.)

But I can’t just sit around peeling.  Because I’m.The.Mama.  And Mamas have to be more mature and responsible than their children.  (I know, right?  Who made up that crap?)  I’m always stuck with this feeling that even when Mamas feel that neither the mature nor the responsible trait has ever existed naturally in their DNA, they must still strive.

And so I’m writing this to console myself.  I’m writing this to say that I know I need to … I’m sorry, can we please do away with the phrase “Man up”?  I think “Mama up” gets more to the spirit of the idiom. 

And now, I’m off to Mama Up.  (Which likely includes lying down.)

OUS,

k

It's my party, and I'll ____ if I want to.

Brian and I have birthdays that are 12 days apart, so each year we celebrate together.  Normally this happens in between our birthdays, but due to inclement weather and viruses, this year it happened about 2 weeks late.

We decided to go to Ken's Sushi, one of our favorites, and afterward we attended a movie (we are SO adventurous).

At this point it becomes necessary for me to insert two very important side notes.  Normally my side notes are meant to be comic relief from whatever mundane thing I'm attending to, but these are actually integral to the plot, so please read them in full, no matter how painful.

Side note #1:  Two months prior to our birthday celebration, I had had a couple of bad days.  On Thursday, December 12th, we had a holiday potluck at my work.  I signed up to bring Green Bean Casserole (GBC).  But of course I can't just make a plain old GBC, I had to go over the top with it -- local, organic green beans, extra sauteed mushrooms, real bacon bits, etc.  Upon arriving at work, I exited the driver's seat and proceeded to the backseat to procure the GBC.  However, instead of gracefully hoisting it from the floorboard, I clumsily let it slip from my hands and crash into the backseat like, for lack of a better simile, projectile vomit.  Forgive me.  There's been a lot of projectile vomit in my backseat over the years.  Now.  Could I have handled this situation better?  Yes.  But I was pre-menstrual.  See, that TMI moment was almost worse than the projectile-vomit moment, but you're still reading.  Hang in there.  I could've just said, "Oh phooey," and salvaged what was left.  But no.  I proceeded to fling my oven mitts (and some mild swear words) across the parking lot while stomping my feet angrily.  And then the worst of it all happened: A handsome young man appeared, holding out my oven mitts (which were lovingly knitted by my mother's across-the-street neighbor, Peggy -- thanks Peggy!  We love those things ... they're so thick and protective!) as if they were a peace offering for the war I was fighting with the GBC.  I stopped stomping and cursing.  I accepted the mitts with a slight smile and "thank you," and he walked away, presumably to call all of his young, hip, single friends, and tell the story of the middle-aged mom throwing a tantrum in the parking lot.  His nonchalant behavior inspired me to pull it together, and I ended up saving about 75% of the GBC and -2% of my reputation.

Side note #2:  The next day, Friday, December 13th, I created for myself an itinerary that was -- if you can believe such a thing -- much much worse than the previous day's minutiae.  When I got up, my phone had a reminder notification about my Sunday school class's Christmas party.  But of course, this was at 6 a.m., and I hadn't yet had coffee, so I dismissed the reminder without looking at the details, and proceeded to frantically text every potential babysitter I know in an attempt to find a way to go to the party at the last minute.  Then I remembered that it was a potluck, so I started making a grocery list.  Next, I recalled not having bought any new clothes since the children were born, so I wrote down "Find new outfit -- at least a decent shirt" on the to-do list.  A babysitter texts back that she is available.  Score!  I go to work.  At some point midday, I emailed Brian to inform him that our Friday night plans had changed a bit and to please not exhaust himself teaching 6th grade math.  I worked until about 2 p.m. and then went to the mall, got a new shirt, came home, downed a coupla cups of coffee, and cleaned the house so the babysitter wouldn't call the DCS on us.  There was a poptart under Sam's bed.  (Just realized that the downside to side notes is that one feels compelled to keep it to one paragraph.)  I make a black-eyed pea and feta with quinoa salad to bring to the potluck.  I slow cook the black-eyed peas from scratch.  I go and picked up the boys.  Brian arrives at 5ish, and we are to leave at 6:30.  The party starts at 7:00.  The babysitter arrives at 6:15ish.  I'm in the shower.  I quickly attempt to make myself presentable in my new shirt and standard black pants.  By 6:45, I'm totally ready.  Where is Brian?  The boys note that his car is still in the driveway.  The sitter corroborates this allegation.  I go to the laundry room to check.  (???)  He's not there.  I check the bathroom, his car, and I even call the neighbors to find out if they've seen him.  Finally, I go into our bedroom because I had forgotten to put on earrings (the horror!), and notice him sound asleep next to a ginormous pile of clean clothes that I had not had time to fold and had dumped on our bed.  I clap my hands twice.  Because, you know, husbands like that.  He bolts up, confused.  I clap again, twice, to the rhythm of my words, "Let's GO!"  And he is so sleepy that he actually and amiably gets up and walks to the car.  At this point, we're late, so I'm in a hurry, but I'm trying to avoid the babysitter's car in the driveway.  I'm backing down with what I think is a careful eye when all of a sudden I realize I'm on top of the low brick wall which lines our driveway (again -- my car had just gotten out of the body shop because I had straddled the wall in Novemberish and caused significant damage), and Brian is yelling STOP! STOP! STOP!  So, I go with my instincts, which were to put the car in forward and drive off of the brick wall.  This cued more STOP! STOP! STOP! so I stopped.  Brian got out, surveyed the damage, and yelled for me to climb into the passenger seat and roll down the driver-side window.  I complied.  He climbed through the window (the door was stuck on the brick wall) and successfully reversed the car back onto the driveway.  I was so happy!  Brian had saved the day like always.  I let him drive while I input the party address into my phone's GPS.  We arrive.  There are no lights on in the house, no cars parked in the driveway, nothing, in fact, that even hints that there is a party at said house.  But I am sure that everyone else is late and we are just the first ones there.  I skip up to the door, black-eyed pea salad in hand, and knock excitedly -- yay!  A holiday party!  After a few minutes, my friend shows up at the door in sweats and graciously greets us.  I'm like, "Where is everybody?" and she's like, "Um.  The party is ... um, the party is not until tomorrow night."  And then we laugh like hyenas because there is nothing else to do in the face of such awkward idiocy.  Brian promptly turns and sulks back to the car.  She and I laugh for a few more moments, and I insist that she keep the salad for tomorrow night, giving instructions about how to serve it cold with lemon juice.  I walk back to the car and totally, completely burst into tears that can only be likened to the kind of thing that teenage girls do.  The sort of tears that turn your face into a speckled trout, and if you are, say late 30s or so, can cause your right eye to twitch uncontrollably for hours.  Brian intrusively announces that we are going to end this pity party and go get sushi; he is starving.  I'm heaving.  Sobbing hysterically about how unorganized and unfit I am -- why did he ever even marry such a stupid loser?  We park at the sushi place, and he waits a bit for me to stop crying.  I don't stop.  We enter the restaurant.  I proceed to cry throughout the ENTIRE meal.  The waitress keeps bringing me green tea ice cream because I haven't ordered anything -- I'm too upset.  As we leave, she says, "Honey, you have GOT to get rid of that cold, and I start boo-hooing again and practically yell, "I'm not sick!!!"  Brian respectfully berates me in the car for  not catching on to her attempt to cover for me.  The end.

So, tonight we go back to the restaurant where, two months ago, I had sat compulsively crying and eating green tea ice cream.  We sit in the same place.  We have the same waitress.  I tell Brian that tonight I'm going to redeem myself.  We order slowly, taking a long time between soup and entree.  The waitress is attentive but not nagging.  Finally, we're done and she comes to bring the check and remove the plates.  She asks how was the sushi, and I say, "Delicious!"  I'm thinking, "Thank GOD she doesn't remember us."

As she's leaving to get our change, she says, "I'm so glad you enjoyed it.  And (looking at me) you held up quite well through the whole thing."

At first, I sat astonished.  Then I said, "Right!  I didn't even cry! Yay!"

She got our change, and we left ... even though I wanted to tell her all of the above.

But I didn't.

Because despite my supercoolness, I'm mysterious.  Which makes me more supercool.

There's no lesson here.  Were you waiting on one of those, "This is what I learned" concluding sentences?  Well, you're going to leave disappointed.  There is no take-away from this except that waitresses have good memories.  I wish I could find a silver lining in the compiled narrative of it all. But sometimes I think it's enough just to tell the humiliating story.

Onward and upward,
k

January 2014

One of my NYRs was to write one blog post each month.  I'm already three days behind schedule.  But we shall carry on.

(My other resolutions, in case you're interested, were as follows:  (1) Save ALL coins -- so far I've cheated only once to buy coke at the vending machine at work; (2) Look at my calendar every now and then to avoid missing parties and/or showing up on the wrong night -- this is going well thanks for my nifty new phone; (3) Not let coffee be the first thing down my throat every day -- this is mostly just about remembering ... I haven't found it difficult to do this.)

So, here I am three days into February doing my January 2014 update, which shall be divided into parts:

Part 1: New Years

We traveled to Austin for New Years (by car, not that it matters), and I was able to finish two entire novels on the way there and back.  Texas shouldn't be allowed to be that big; however, I guess chopping it up would still keep Austin 12 hours away from Nashville.  Here are some pics from the trip (taken by MiL, OFP (Official Family Photographer).

John's Big Project

We took the kids and grandparents to a dangerous hiking area.

11 months apart and both are something.else.

I love this one so much!

The Lucy/Kimmy tradition of mani/pedis.

Bruce got a new hat.

Sorta normal.

cray-cray

Part 2:  School Begins Again

Brian and I quite enjoyed the return to normalcy.

The boys weren't exactly thrilled about it.

I began taking karate.

Part 3: Other Random Good Stuff

John got to attend a reading of Jeff Kinney's newest Wimpy Kid book and meet the author.  This was a thrilling literary event for him, and now we have a signed copy.

I have turned 37, and since it's now the 3rd day of February, Brian has turned 42.  I had BBQ and carrot cake.  He chose Indian buffet and "punkin" pie, as Sam calls it.  On the morning of Brian's birthday, we ate 1.5 punkin pies with our breakfast burritos.  The second half was polished off during half time of the Super Bowl.

My work has changed big time.  The coordinator of our ESL program has gone on maternity leave and left me in charge.  I have already done lots of ridiculous things such as hiring an instructor to replace her without checking his references first.  It all worked out well in the end, but still.  Lesson learned.

John is working very hard in 3rd grade and making all As.  He'll take the state test this year, and he's been practicing at home using a website.  His pre-test math/science scores are through the roof (and might I point out that he learns all of that first in Spanish, then takes the tests in English).  He's still working on the English/reading/writing piece.  He's such a crazy hard worker.  He's playing basketball right now and rocking the court.  Baseball will start soon.  He's also still doing piano and has now decided to also take karate.  So, every Tuesday night he and I treck down to Smyrna, Tennessee, which is where my sensei at school has always practiced.  Her sensei was trained by one of the original four marines who brought Isshin-Ryu karate to the U.S.  Yes, I am worried about all of these extra curriculars, so please do not ask if it's too much.  It probably is.  There are worse things in the world than quitting karate, however.

Sam is trying not to spit on people or poke them in the eyes.  He is also working hard not to call people a "mama head," which is way better than "fart gas."  He's taken to calling himself my "baby cat" and rubbing his head on my legs or shoulders like a cat, making a noise that simulates purring (or blowing one's nose).  Inevitably there is something disgusting on his mouth/nose while this is going on, which then gets transferred to my professional attire.  He will also start baseball next month, and is more than excited about shopping for a new glove, bat, and cleats.  He is really into beyblades and has learned how to take them apart and put them back together with other parts such that they change from "stamina type," for example, to "attach" or "defense" type.  He just spent an entire week (minus last Monday) with good reports sent home from school, so he got a new beyblade this past weekend named Pirate Orochi.  He's a balance type.

Brian is trucking along this semester riding on a cloud of his students' great practice test scores.  They were so improved that he won a half day off, which of course he won't take because, according to him, "If I want a day off, I'll take a day off -- no need for awards."  He is planning spring break trips of hunting and camping and summer trips of kayaking in Colorado.  I'm just trying to remember when the kids have birthday parties, practices, and school, so I'm grateful for his event planning skills.

I think that's all the news around these parts.  Hopefully I can crank another one of these puppies out before March.

OUS,
k