To My 1st on (actually one day after) Your 10th

Dear John,

Yesterday you crossed over into double digits.  I'm still 28 of course, but somehow you are ten.  Never again after this year can you count your age on your hands.  Toes will need to be involved, and I have seen your toes, and this is not a good thing.

This is my 10th letter to you.  The first one included a minute count of how long I had known you (525,600 minutes) and a Broadway tune.  I fear this one may not hold a candle.

We have been celebrating your birthday over the last two weekends -- one fun day with friends at Nashville Shores and another weekend with The Paternals, one of whom made an apple pie (your request), which you scarfed almost singlehandedly in a matter of two days.

I really don't have a plan for this letter.  I want to write down some things that you're doing these days and might let that be my overarching theme, lame as it is.  You love that word lame, by the way.

Right now you are obsessed with Legos, soccer, and your "Clan" that lives in my phone.  I get automatic messages all day to update how your clan is doing while you're away.  "Xiangyong1988 has just raided your village!"  or "The troops are ready to attack!" or "Our arsenal of supplies is almost empty, chief, WHERE ARE YOU?"  I'm quite sure this sucks my battery down, but I can't bring myself to delete the app because you enjoy it so much.  (And also, I can get you to do basically anything if I threaten to delete it.)

You waxed political yesterday, comparing America's wars in other countries to youth travel sports teams -- they never fight it out on their home turf.  I thought that was pretty brilliant, but on the other hand you've been bringing home Ds and Fs in social studies, so who knows?  (Side note:  I secretly like that you're getting bad grades because it forces me to practice Spanish in order to help you get better.  I am so proud of my new knowledge of 4th grade geological terms en Espanol -- suela, meteorizacion, formas de rocas, etc.).  I will enjoy it much less when the homework is in English, so please do try to improve and/or consistently attend a Spanish immersion school.

You're still taking piano lessons although this will probably be the last year.  I told you last year that you could quit when you get to middle school because you would be playing a band instrument at that time.  You have your heart set on the saxophone.  I guess I have to be OK with that.  It's just that you're good, JB.  You have an ear for it.  I think your foot for soccer and arm for baseball are great too, but those have nothing to do with me, and son, here's the deal: Soon you will learn that it all has to do with me, unfortunately.  I want to see you shine BOTH in activities that I pursued AND in things that I could never fathom.  I want to live vicariously through you.  I want you to do all of the things I did, and out-perform me.  It's not even a lot to ask, love.  It's just you at your best.

Too bad there's that whole HOMEWORK thing.  It is really holding us you back.

Let's discuss our time in the car, JB.  What is this calling cars thing?  You and your brother do it both individually and collectively while I drive you all to various extracurriculars.  "Oooooh!  Call that mustang!"  or "Oh yeah, call that monster truck."  or "OOoh yeah baby -- that motorcycle is mine." (An important unnoticed fact here is that we live in a city where we see sports cars, motorcycles, and monster trucks driving around daily -- how many other cities can brag about that?)  My most important question is this: Why is it important to call cars/trucks when you're the only one who sees/wants them (e.g., when it's just me and you in the car and Sam is with your dad? --  I drive and wonder about these things.)

John-John -- you know that we love you by now.  But do you also know that we like you most of the time too?  You have matured into a lovable, hard-working, funny kiddo about whom we are more than proud.

I am especially interested in your athletic talents (but would also love it if you tried, say, theater or ballet), but all of you is pretty cool at this point, JB. You seem to be learning yourself and applying that knowledge to good decision making about the choices that you/we make.  I feel proud to be part of Team John, and I can't wait to see what the future holds for you.

You are loved, liked, respected, (catered to, not that it matters), and honored ...

With all my hugs and love,
Mom

Thursday Night Special

I used to always blog on Thursday nights.  Because I only had one kiddo. Because I wasn't working full time.  Because Brian was always at work until late.  Because I had finished mopping for the, um, week.

Now I have two kiddos, am working full time, have a husband who no longer works late, and a cleaning service that mops, um -- don't judge -- once a month.  (We have a small house.)

Tonight I worked until 8 p.m., had dinner with a colleague until 9ish, and got home at 9:30 p.m. after a long day of dealing with what I like to refer to as triple I's: Important Immigrant Irritations.  Who amongst us doesn't love alliteration?  Let him cast the first stone.  (Short aside:  I once joined a book club that was just forming.  We were all having a discussion about when we should meet, and "First Fridays" was my suggestion.  However, some important member was always busy on that day, so I came up with the following to satiate my alliterative drive:  Book Club will meet the Friday Following the First Friday of each month (FFFF).)  

And when I got home at 9:30 p.m., all the house was quiet and completely dark.  I chose not to take this personally, and felt Thursday calling.  So, here I am.

The following is on my mind ...

• It's not possible, but still, I will soon have a child whose age is in double digits.
• I don't record enough of the hilarity of the everyday, which I used to do ad nauseum.
• I can't possibly be taking enough photos of poor, sweet Sam.

Note that they're all negative.  I noted that, and my well-trained, self-aware mind said, "Write 3 positives to counteract negative thinking."  So, here:

• I feel that I make a consistent & concerted effort to be a better parent mostly daily.
• I go to bed earlier on average these days than in the last few years.
• I try to live a balanced life that is focused on neither me nor my family, but us as a whole.

And now for the love of all that is good in the world ... on to just some photos... no more psychobabble.

It is soccer season, and I'm reminiscing about John-John's first year on a team.  He was three and serious, but as fate would have it, he got on the pink team.  It was appropriately named the Pink Panthers, and not to worry because John -- as fate would have it -- was in a pink phase.  

Not such a pink phase that he didn't insist upon orange socks. 

 Then there came the in-between year where one was playing and one was watching.  There were moments like this, which are simply magnanimous mama music (MMM), as far as I'm concerned.

John scored a goal.

John's team won the game.

And then came Sam's first year, which was marked with utter adherence to the rules.  NOT.  I once ran into a college friend at the fields (his kid was playing on an opposing team) and during our catch-up-on-the-last-almost-20-years conversation, Sam pulled down his pants and mooned the referees. TRUE STORY.

Obviously, we don't have a pic of him engaged in the act of mooning, but we do have proof that he played soccer for the Black Bears because of black uniform top, of course.

And those are all the pictures I have.  Hopefully I can do better this year in terms of sports memories.  

But until then..

OUS..

k

The Relative Permanence of Mohawks

Sam had been begging for a mohawk for months (years?) when Brian finally gave in.  Normally I would have stepped in and ended this dream for him, but I was heavily involved in a grading frenzy of essays with titles such as, "My All in Love with Mathematics" and "My Testes Anxiety" (yes, really -- the plural of the word "test" proves to be quite difficult for non-native speakers, as it turns out).  So, I was a bit distracted when the shaver came out.

At first, it was a mohawk version that went all the way to the nape of his neck.  Now y'all.  I am from Mississippi, but I'm sorry, I couldn't do it.  It was just too much.  I encouraged them to edit it a bit ... suggesting that perhaps a more "army-guy flat-top approach" might be better.  They bought it.  So, this is what we ended up with:

If only you could see the difference where his beach-brown skin meets his hairline.

They actually eat all the time and haven't been in a concentration camp, but the main point of this is the distinct hair qualities.

So, the day after the mohawk was complete, we decided to go to Radnor.  The boys were going to scooter and I was going to exercise by keeping up with them.  Sam wakes up that morning and runs into the kitchen, looks at me seriously, and says, "Do I still have my mohawk?"

"Yes," I say, surprised that he thought it might go away in the night.  "It's a haircut, so it's not going to go away."

With much conviction, he snaps at me, "It's not a HAIRCUT!  It's a MOHAWK!"

Right.

So, we're getting ready to go to Radnor, and Sam comes up to me and whispers, "Can I take my mohawk to Radnor?"

"Um..... of course!" I reply, thinking that something is really wrong with his understanding of object permanence.

"YESSSSSSsssssssss!" he says, and runs out of the room to tell John the exciting news.

Now when we go somewhere and people admire his "haircut," they are met with a very curt response:

IT IS NOT A HAIRCUT.  IT'S A MOHAWK.

Indeed.  And, for now, it's still there.

ous,
k

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