A Virtual Cow Sunk My Battleship

A cow cannot beat a cocker spaniel in Battleship. Just saying.

Tonight our boys did not want to sleep. They had an excuse every other minute about why they were unable to get any rest. It was like they were two again, hopping out of bed just because they finally understood the old stall tactic. They needed water. They needed to be tucked in. They were missing their favorite stuffed animals. They’d forgotten to brush their teeth. They were wearing me out. Their final excuse for why they could not fall asleep was that they needed to check on their stuffed animals in Webkinz World. Seriously? I don’t think they have been on Webkinz World once in the past month, but suddenly it was situation critical. What if their animals needed them? Desperate to get them to sleep, I assured them I would check on their stuffed animals to make sure they weren’t lonely, starving, or sick.

So, that’s exactly what I found myself doing at 9:30, forty-five minutes after the boys had gotten into bed. I was in my office on my laptop offering a virtual plush koala named Casey some chocolate milk and tucking virtual Googles (a plush platypus) named Grandpa into its bed, which happens to be shaped like a pancake with bacon shaped pillows. Only my Baconator son, Luke, would purchase that bed for a pet. At one point, I was trying to improve the health and attitude of Luke’s cocker spaniel, Rover, by playing a spirited game of online Battleship against someone else’s virtual pet cow. As I was getting my ass kicked by an imaginary cow, it occurred to me that despite how hard I am on myself I really am a fairly good mom.

I mean, how many moms would sit and play online Battleship in Webkinz World just so their son could go to sleep knowing his virtual animals were loved? I’m no June Cleaver, but I’m not exactly Mommy Dearest either. I do my best. Sometimes it feels like my best isn’t nearly enough, but it is. At the end of the day, I know my boys feel loved, cared for, and safe. If it’s playing online Battleship in a virtual world filled with stuffed animals that proves to them that I love them, I can live with it. And, just wait until I tell Luke that Rover lost one game of Battleship but killed his opponent in the other 2 out of 3 matches. Okay. Okay. Playing online Battleship for my kids’ virtual animals is not exactly parental torture for me. I’m not about to let them know that, though. As far as they’re concerned, my time in Webkinz World is a personal sacrifice because parenting is a tough, selfless gig. I’m willing to take on the unpleasant assignments because that’s just the kind of mom I am. In fact, I’m going to finish writing now and go back and teach that stinky cow not to mess with Rover again because that’s how I roll.

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Always Bring A Buddy

The dress that stressed me out.

For the past couple weeks, I’ve been engaged in a monumental battle. I have been trying to figure out what to wear to a wedding. As I’ve mentioned previously, fashion is not my strong suit. When it comes to fashion I’m like a politician: I know just enough about it to sound knowledgeable, but in actuality I am utterly clueless. This marked lack of the female fashion gene makes doing simple things, like buying a dress to wear to a wedding, a veritable nightmare for me.

Humor me while I prove my point. A couple weeks ago, I steeled my nerves and stepped foot into the dress department at Nordstrom. My goal was to find a dress that relayed that I have the style, class, and confidence befitting a 44 year old woman. Yes. I wanted a dress that would lie. I wanted a magic dress. If Cinderella could have magic shoes, certainly I could have a magic dress. I brought with me only two things…a knowledge of what I like and a knowledge of what looks good on me. I had no idea what constitutes appropriate attire for a fall, evening wedding in Boston. I had no idea what size I wore. I had no idea where to start. I took a leap of faith.

I spent a little over an hour in Nordstrom’s dress department that day, trying on approximately 14 dresses, and eventually leaving the store feeling fairly confident that I had made a good choice. I brought the dress home, put it in my closet, and began staring at my shoe collection (which is really more a flip-flop collection). That was when I realized I had surmounted the terror of dress shopping only to land myself smack in the middle of a worse problem. I now had to buy shoes to match my dress. Holy hell. Being the fashion dolt I am, I spent the next week shopping for shoes to match my beautiful dress. I visited four stores to no avail and ultimately ended up ordering four pairs online to try on and choose from. When they arrived and I decided I needed help determining which of two pairs of shoes to wear with my lovely dress, I texted a few of my fashion savvy friends some photos to get their opinions. It was, I thought, the final step in my shopping process. I was wrong. Two friends liked one pair of shoes. Another liked a different one. Momentary confusion. But, wait…majority rules, right? It was fine. I took a deep breath. And then, just when I thought the decision was made, the unthinkable happened. The waters got muddied.

Rebecca: For an evening wedding, and it might be cold, I would wear tights.

Tights? Tights did not figure into my equation when I was shoe shopping. I had purchased only peep toe pumps to try on. While I know it’s now a widely accepted practice to wear tights with peep toes, my head began to throb. I found myself short of breath. I went looking for a paper bag.

Me: I want to cry. I can’t picture that dress with tights. I’m stressed out.

Rebecca: Don’t cry. You totally have time to figure that out.

Me: I thought I HAD figured it out. That’s why I want to cry. It took me a long time to pick the dress. Then I had to order shoes. Now I see I went the wrong direction.

Being the wonderful friend she is, Rebecca held my hand (all the way from Illinois, mind you) through my mental breakdown. I told her about the other dress I had considered buying. She thought it might be a better way to go. So, I ran back to Nordstrom, tried on the dress, and texted her a photo. It was a go. Next stop: shoe shopping. Over the course of three days, I texted Rebecca about 10 photos of booties and pumps. She helped me choose a couple suitable pairs, one that could be worn with tights and one that could be worn without. I would no longer have to freeze if it was a cold day in Boston. Today, a full two weeks after what began as a simple trip to buy a dress for a wedding, I finally feel like I have an appropriate outfit. Finally. Now all I have to do is find jewelry, a purse, and a wrap. Insert eye roll.

The point of this whole blog, and I do have one, is that the old rule “always bring your buddy” is crucial. Most things in life are better executed with a friend along. Fashion, apparently, is no different. All these years I have been shopping incorrectly because I’ve been going it alone. Big mistake. In the future, I will try to remember that sometimes my independent streak needs to be tamed. Sometimes I need to accept that it’s okay to get by with a little help from your friends. The buddy system was created for a reason. It’s good for safety, sanity, and shopping. Who knew?

(PS…My darling husband said I should keep both dresses. I agreed.)

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Something Completely Different – Part Two

Part 2 of 2

Blue Ribbon Banana Bread

Feeling it was my duty to investigate the situation, I went into the kitchen, opened my freezer, and grabbed a loaf of my Blue Ribbon Banana Bread. I always keep some of my banana bread in the freezer because you never know when you might need to cheer up a convalescing friend or greet a new neighbor. My banana bread is famous here as it won the Blue Ribbon at the county fair for three consecutive years. The judging is done by blind taste testing, so I am one hundred percent certain that my membership on the county fair steering committee has no bearing on my prize-winning baked goods. I tied some of my signature royal blue ribbon around the bread and fastened it with a lovely four-loop bow on top. I stopped at the mirror to make sure that my hair was in place, straightened my skirt, and casually strolled across the street to find out what Ms. Purple was up to.

 
As I walked past her car, I noticed that the license plates were from California. At least that explained the car. Hard to believe that yellow clown car had made the trek over the Rockies and across the country to land here. If she was from California, she was going to have a rude awakening in six months when winter came to Waterton. Good luck to her.

 
I approached the front door and rang the doorbell. It was odd to be ringing the bell like a perfect stranger when for most of my life I had come and gone through this heavy wooden door without so much as a knock. Liz Carville had been my best friend since the day she moved in when we were 9 years old. Of course, we grew up, went to different colleges, and life took us in different directions. I stayed here in Waterton, and Liz moved to Atlanta where she got a job as an emergency room nurse. She met her husband, Brian, and I was maid of honor at their wedding. Then, I met Gary and she was maid of honor at my wedding. Liz and Brian have three little girls now. They are my virtual nieces. When the whole family would travel back from Atlanta to visit her folks, they would stay in this house across the street from mine. It was almost like when we were 9 and would play Barbies, ride our matching pink, banana-seat, Huffy-brand bicycles, and play the Mystery Date board game. Her parents died within two months of each other last year, though, and that changed everything. Liz, as an only child, had to come take care of the estate. It broke my heart to see her suffering through the loss of her two wonderful parents, but when she said she was selling this home I thought I would die along with them. She was the best friend I’d ever had, and it wasn’t the same here without her. I’d kind of hoped maybe she and her family would have moved into it. But, they both had good careers in Atlanta and they were warm weather people. So, the house went on the market. I took care of the roses. I hired a local kid to mow the lawn and keep the home’s exterior in tip-top shape for Liz. It was on the market for nine months. Every day I looked out of my living room window at this house and imagined who might move into it and become my new best friend.

 
I rang the bell again. I had no idea what she could be up to that would make it so difficult to answer the door in a timely fashion. I’d seen her go in. I knew she was in there. I rang the bell one last time, just in case she’d been outside or for some other reason had been occupied. Finally, I gave up. There was an old wrought iron plant stand on the porch that had remained behind when Liz sold off her parents’ estate. I used the hem of my skirt to dust it off a bit and left my Blue Ribbon Banana Bread there for her as a welcome gift. I figured even crazy Californians with measled, yellow cars and purple-spotted leopard shoes would appreciate the gesture of a handcrafted, homemade bread delivered by a kind neighbor. I just hoped she wasn’t one of those vegans you hear about because I have no idea what those people eat.

Posted on by Me 4

And Now For Something Completely Different

(Author’s Note: I am absolutely sick to death of listening to myself whine on this blog, so I am trying something new today. Here is a bit of fiction I wrote a while ago. I figured anyone who reads this might enjoy the respite from my whining too.)

Part 1 of 2

Want these shoes? http://www.heels.com/womens-shoes/senorita-purple-leop-glit.html

Hadley Barker. Hadley Barker. If I had a dollar for every time someone in this town mentioned Hadley Barker, I’d be richer than she is. Ever since the day she stepped those peep-toed heels onto the porch of the Carville place, I’ve heard nothing but Hadley Barker stories, Hadley Barker quips, and Hadley Barker wisdoms. It makes me so sorry that I ever reached out to be neighborly to her in the first place. Since that afternoon, I’ve ceaselessly wondered when she would take her carpet bag of goodies and leave. I’ve even tried to encourage her in that quiet, sneaky way I have to traipse off onto a new adventure. She’s been on her own too long if you ask me because apparently the only one who influences Hadley Barker is Hadley Barker. There isn’t a thing another person could say or do to get her to move on until she is good and ready to move on.

 
I remember every detail about the day that woman arrived. I play them over and over in my mind trying to figure out the exact moment when everything changed. I was standing on a ladder in my living room vacuuming the top of the drapes, like I always do on Thursday, when I happened to glance out the window and see the most curious car I had ever seen. It was one of those little European cars, the kind they have to have there to get through those narrow cities where only the tiniest of people could possibly live. It’s not that it was unusual to see a car like that here. Some folks have them, the folks who insist upon showing off how green they are and the folks who would be too small to see over the steering wheel of a proper vehicle. What caught my eye was that the car was the brightest shade of yellow I had ever seen painted on a car. It was so bright I had to look away from it for a minute and when I did I saw haloes as if I had been staring straight into the sun. I nearly fell off my ladder. When my eyes recovered, I went to stand at the window to get a closer look. That was when I noticed that the car wasn’t just yellow. It was yellow with red polka dots. Yes. Red polka dots. The dots were roughly the size of a ripe cantaloupe, which made the car look like it was sick with the measles. Why on earth would you do that to a vehicle?

 
The appearance of that sick car against the backdrop of that stately red brick home with the perfectly pruned white rose bushes was abhorrent. Certainly the driver of that car was lost. Perhaps they’d seen the For Sale sign and stopped out of curiosity, I thought. The car door opened and out popped a curious-looking woman. She was very tall and very thin and wore a gigantic, black, floppy-brimmed hat with a clump of brightly colored feathers that stood straight up at the back of her head. I couldn’t see her face because it was obscured by that monstrosity of a hat. She wore a long skirt the color of an eggplant and a prim, white blouse with audacious ruffles on the front. From her shoulders hung a furry-looking, lavender-colored sweater. I was too far away to be able to tell if she had a wedding ring on, but from the looks of her I guessed she was single. You can’t wear an outfit like that and expect the men to come running. She was as covered up as a preacher’s wife on Sunday. The thing that really stood out about her were her shoes. While they matched her color scheme, they were completely inappropriate for her outfit. They were leopard-printed, peep toe pumps in sparkly shades of purple. They were nearly as distracting as her car.

 
The woman straightened her sweater and started up the front walk. Then she stopped at the For Sale sign. She cocked her head to one side and regarded it for a moment. Then she stepped into the lawn, pulled up that sign, and carried it up to the front porch. I leaned a bit closer to the window wondering what she was up to. I knew the realtor selling that house. His name was Sheldon Shankly. He sold many of the houses in our area. He had a large billboard in town which prominently displayed his balding head along with his catch phrase, “Shel Sells.” I had seen him just two days before at the grocery store and had asked him about the Carville place. He hadn’t mentioned that it had sold, which is why I didn’t see why that tall, skinny, purple woman with the sickly car should be removing that sign from the lawn. It seemed awfully brazen of her. I was about to cross the street and tell her as much when I noticed she’d gone inside the home.

Posted on by Me 3

10,000 Ways That Won’t Work

Joe on Mt. Sherman

“I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” ~Thomas Alva Edison

Had yet another rough day. Seems like there have been too many of those recently. So, I came here to write with a brain spinning with frustration and, therefore, too spun out to be creative. In these instances, one thing that often gives me a jumping off point for my writing is finding a quote I can relate to. I flipped through one of my books and found this one by Thomas Edison. It’s a quote about perspective and perseverance, and it perfectly fits what I feel I’ve been going through lately with my boys. I have been researching, reading, investigating, and conjecturing about every possible way I can help improve their lives as they struggle with learning disabilities. Yet, for all my effort, the results have been seemingly inconsequential.

Then I saw this quote. It made me laugh. Maybe I’m just approaching this all from the wrong angle? Yes. I’ve tried a whole heap of things to help them. I’ve felt worthless because nothing has worked out. But, just because I haven’t found the answer yet doesn’t mean I’ve failed. Like he said, I’ve simply found 10,000 ways that won’t work. That’s not negative progress. That’s 100% progress in the right direction. That’s 10,000 steps closer to my goal of finding a solution. I simply haven’t found it yet. But, I’m narrowing the field down and, sooner or later, I will hit upon what I’ve been searching for. I’ve eliminated enough variables that the solution must be getting close.

I need to stop being so damn hard on myself. I’m doing the best I can. I need to tell the little boss inside my head to shut up. I’m busy working.

 

Posted on by Me 3

The Zombies Have My Boys

This is how my boys spend their computer time.

My house has been taken over by Creepers, Zombies, and Endermen. Just three months after the Skylanders invaded our home, they are out and Minecraft is in. Our neighbor’s son, helpful kid that he is, turned our boys onto Minecraft just two weeks ago. Now, they are obsessed. (Minecraft, in case you are not game savvy, is one of the hottest games out there right now with over 41 million registered users and about 7.5 million games sold.) In just two weeks, we’ve already threatened to take the game away from them no less than 10 times. It’s that powerful.

When Joe convinced me to download it to his iPad using the last little bit of the iTunes gift card he got for his birthday back in June, I had no idea that this would become the new “thing” in our house. But, sure enough, the $7 app for his iPad became the $27 computer version so both boys could play. The first night Joe tried out the online game on his Mac, he made me sit and watch.

“What do you do in this game?” I asked.

“You try to survive,” Joe said. “See? Look…I am swimming. It’s daytime. When night falls, the Zombies come out. They can kill you so I have to try to find a village for safety. I’m looking for land so I can find a house.”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. When you told me about this game, you told me it was a game where you build stuff in another world. Now suddenly you’re killing Zombies?”

“And Creepers too,” he went on.

“So, if you’re in a house, the Zombies can’t get you?”

“No. They can break down the door. Then you have to find a way to kill them,” he said.

“Oh, holy hell,” I said under my breath to no one in particular since he was already absorbed back into the game.

Just hearing about Minecraft began to stress me out. Fearing I might start dreaming about killing Zombies, I stopped asking. Today though, after weeks of denial, I finally accepted that it is not going away. I asked Luke to describe it to me so I could better understand their new favorite activity. This is what I found out. The Creepers can’t really kill you, but for some reason they can explode so if you’re near them when they explode you die. There are four game modes (Creative, Adventure, Survival, and Hardcore), but Joe only likes Survival and Luke only likes Creative. According to Luke, at night the Creepers are “highly aggressive” and in the day they are “semi-aggressive.” You cannot kill Endermen with a bow and arrow because they “just teleport away.” You can revive Endermen, Creepers, and Zombies, although I have no idea why you would want to revive something that is trying to kill you. In Creative mode you can’t die and in Survival mode you can revive yourself if you are killed, but in Hardcore mode when you die you’re done. Creepers and Zombies are both green but Endermen are black with pink eyes. You can keep Creepers in a zoo. There are all kinds of animals in this world, including cows that grow mushrooms out of their backs. (Somebody was tripping when they came up with that animal.)

Luke confidently and competently explained to me how he was able to build a fortress that included rollercoaster tracks that run right through the house. He described how you survive your first night in the game. He told me how you can smash bricks and turn them into other things. My 9 year old son talked for 7 minutes to the Voice Memos app on my iPhone, explaining this new obsession in ridiculous detail. When he was done talking, I asked him how to spell “blare,” one of the words on his spelling list that he has written down no less than 16 times in the past four days. He got it wrong. I shook my head. Apparently, the Minecraft Zombies have already eaten my sons’ brains.

Posted on by Me 1

Nice Shot, Son!

A letter for my son

Tonight I did something I’ve been meaning to do for years. I wrote a letter to my son. Yes. My son is 11. He lives in our house. I see him every day. I talk to him every day. But, I’m not sure he knows how much I adore him. That seems to get lost in translation somewhere between his ADHD mind and my mother’s heart. I want the best for him and believe it’s my duty to prepare him for the realities of the world, but that task is much tougher with a kid who is impulsive, inattentive, and sensitive. So, I thought that perhaps if I wrote him a letter then maybe he would believe that I care. Maybe it’s the writer in me that thinks that things said mean more when put into writing. There’s something about reading how someone feels that makes it more tangible, I guess. I never want to get too far in this life without putting something in writing to the people I love because you never know what might happen. You just never know.

So, when Steve, Joe, and Luke backed out of the driveway in my car, bound for Joe’s tutoring and Steve and Luke’s weekly father-son reading time at Starbucks, I let out a deep sigh. Then I walked to the kitchen, grabbed several pieces of wide-ruled notebook paper and a pen, and got to work. I knew this letter would not come easily. I mean, how do you relay to your child adequately the depth of your love for them? But, I want Joe to know that I understand how much he struggles and that in every one of his struggles I am right there with him. It breaks my heart to see how hard he tries and yet how for every step he makes forward he is still in someone else’s shadow. I can’t imagine how frustrating that is for him. He is the strongest person I know. And, I would not be the person I am today if it wasn’t for my experiences being his mother. Still, I can’t say all that to him. That’s more than he can take in at this point.

I finally decided to stick to basics. I told him that I know he thinks I’m mean and impatient. I get that. I am mean and impatient, although I am working at being less mean and impatient. I told him that I think he’s smart, loyal, gentle, kind, and an amazing big brother. I told him that I admire him for his ability to keep working even when things are incredibly difficult for him. I told him that he’s brave and that I am proud of him. I told him to be patient with himself because he’s doing a great job at being a good kid. I told him that I love him more than anything. I also told him that I would not sell him to the gypsies, sign away my parental rights, or drop him off at a boarding school or home for wayward boys, no matter what he thinks or how many times he asks me to.

The one gift I’ve gained from parenting is an appreciation of how hard it is. I’ve found that I am much less likely to judge other parents when I see them struggling with their children because I get it. Everything you do as a parent is another potential topic for the psychiatrist’s couch your child will undoubtedly be sitting on one day. Some days, I picture myself as the Steve Martin character in the movie, Parenthood, when he stops to imagine how badly he is screwing up his son, Kevin. In this reverie, his son is up in a bell tower shooting at people below because Steve Martin made him play second base. A bullet comes close to hitting Martin’s character and he yells, “Nice shot, son.” That’s me. I’m going to be there, cheering my son on as he tries to take out his college classmates because I screwed him up.

When Joe got home, he read the letter. (I bribed him. I told him he wouldn’t have to do his book report reading if he read my note instead.) After he finished reading it, he went directly to play Minecraft on his Mac. After a while, I came in to see how he was doing.

“I have no intention of selling you to the gypsies, you know. Even if you beg me,” I told him.

“I know. I read your letter,” was all he said.

“And?” I prompted.

“And, I liked it,” he said with a shy smile. Then, he voluntarily hugged me.

Maybe instead of shooting people from the bell tower he’ll be shooting friends with a paintball gun like Sheldon and Leonard on The Big Bang Theory? I could totally live with that.

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 1

Putting The “Fantasy” In Fantasy Football

I coach the Cougars. No. It’s not ironic.

In 2008, I signed up to play Fantasy Football with some girlfriends. My first year as coach and I drew the second spot for the draft. While the top three draft picks were all running backs, I decided to skip the usual protocol and draft Tom Brady as my quarterback as my first round pick. I thought it was a move of pure genius. The previous season, Brady had led the Patriots to a 16-0 regular season before losing the SuperBowl by 3 points to the Giants. Despite their disappointing loss, I knew Brady was a two-time SuperBowl MVP. And, not to sound totally girly but, I had always thought he was reasonably handsome. I figured that if I’m going to be watching football, I might as well be staring at someone worth looking at, right? I ended up with a fairly decent team, and I could not wait for the season to start.

Then, as my stupid luck would have it, midway through the first quarter of the first game for my fantasy team, Brady was hit by Kansas City Chiefs’ safety, Bernard Pollard. Brady limped off the field assisted by two trainers and did not return. The news was bad from the get-go. Matt Cassell would be starting for the rest of the season. Seriously? I wasted my first round draft pick on Brady and he was done in 7 minutes? I was deeply, bitterly upset. He’d given me 7 lousy minutes and he was gone. Typical man. From that moment on, Tom Brady was dead to me. The next day, still fuming, I hastily backtracked. I dropped Brady as my QB and picked up Aaron Rodgers who was stepping up to replace Brett Favre. I’m smart that way.

Ever since that game in early 2008, I’ve lived to root against the Patriots and, most especially, Tom Brady. I’ve reveled in every single loss they’ve had. The day that the Buffalo Bills beat the Patriots, I jumped off my couch, screamed, and ran around my house hooting and hollering like a hillbilly who just found two possums in one possum trap. People have tried to reason with me. They’ve told me that Brady didn’t intentionally leave me high and dry. They’ve told me it wasn’t personal. It’s just a game. I wouldn’t listen to them. The bottom line was that I went out of my way to choose him and he’d let me down. It’s hard for a guy to come back from that in my book.

This year, I went into our draft with the same game plan I’ve kept all four years. Draft quarterback first. The past two seasons I had drafted Brees and Rodgers. This time, I had second draft pick again. I was thrilled. I counted on the number one pick being Arian Foster. That was going to leave my go-to QB, Aaron Rodgers, open for me. Guess what? Rodgers was the first draft pick. I was reeling. I thought about picking up Foster, but I really believe it’s more important to have the best QB you can get. So, I made a big decision. I swallowed my pride and drafted Tom Brady. It was epically disappointing to have to do it, but I’m a coach. You can’t let personal feelings get in the way of your team’s success, and Brady was the second best quarterback pick, in my opinion. It had to be done.

Well, so far this season, Brady has done okay. He’s not been knocking my socks off, but at least he’s managed to play without acquiring with a crippling injury. (Knock on wood, fingers crossed.) Today, though…today it occurred to me that perhaps Tom Brady and I are like some unholy union spawned in hell. My team won last week. Brady had not put up nearly the points he was predicted to, but at least it wasn’t dismal. I was feeling optimistic as the projected scoreboard for my fantasy match-up this week had me winning by 12 points. We’re not 5 minutes into the first quarter and I check my scoreboard to see Tom Brady actually has a negative 2 points. Are you kidding me? We’re cursed, Tom Brady and me.

I quickly whipped off a text to my friend, Andrew.

Me: You know…if Tom Brady was determined to screw me, I could think of a nicer way for him to do it than Fantasy Football.

Andrew: You’re giving a whole new meaning to a fantasy league.

Me: Hahahahahaha!   (Then I thought about it for a minute…was that a cut?)   Hey….he could do worse!

But, seriously, of all the ways for Tom Brady to screw me, his performance on the football field thus far this season is not what I had in mind. I could come up with myriad scenarios that would be infinitely preferable. And, you know, he could do worse. I mean, I know he’s married to a stunning, lingerie supermodel and….wait. Where was I going with this?

Tom…if you’re listening, picking you for my QB this season was a colossal leap of faith on my part. It required a level of forgiveness of which I wasn’t sure I was capable. I know the fate of my entire team doesn’t fall squarely on your shoulders, but it sure would help if you’d step it up a bit. I’ve got lots of fantasies involving you, but the best one was the one where you actually take my silly team to the championship game.

 

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 2

Your Kids Can Only Grow Up If You Let Them

These once were our little boys. Not any more.

Hubby and I tried something new tonight. We left our boys, ages 11 and 9, home alone while we went to a wine dinner nearby. Admittedly, Wine Group (when we’re sober we’re not clever enough to come up with a better name and when we’re drunk we forget we need one), was just a block away from home tonight. Still, we knew we would be trusting our boys to stay at home for three to four hours, including a couple hours after dark, without us. It was a big deal. We talked about it with them for weeks beforehand to make sure they were up to the task. We lined up a back-up sitter in case they decided they wanted to have someone here with them. But, in the end, they said it was no big deal. So after too many cautious instructions (“text if you need us” was mine, “don’t stand on the counters” was Steve’s), we walked out the door and up the street.

When we were growing up, both Steve and I were given great freedom and responsibility. We wanted to share that kind of upbringing with our own boys. Over this past summer, I tried at small intervals to leave them home alone. Thirty minutes here and there during broad daylight, just to let them know we have faith and confidence in them and to let them see that they are capable. Colorado law does not specify an age at which it is legal to leave your kids home alone and unattended. I checked. The suggested guideline is 12, but the law also notes that some 15 year olds might not be safe alone while some 9 year olds would do perfectly well. Our boys, while a bit young, are responsible kids. Joe, following in his father’s footsteps, is the King of Safety. We know, therefore, that he won’t let his brother do anything stupid. On the flip side, Luke is our level-headed, problem solver when things go wrong. We’ve lived with them long enough to know that we could leave them tonight and return home to a clean, cared-for, not-burned-down house.

We left them at 6. At 9, Joe texted that he wanted us to come home because he was scared. Joe often makes claims like this when we know he’s fine. We had just started dessert, so we asked him to FaceTime my sister, who was our back-up babysitter. After a while, another text arrived. Joe said he had talked to his aunt and was fine but that he still wanted us to come home. We stalled as long as we could, wanting both to savor the wonderful dessert our friends made and to let our sons remember that they were fine. We left Wine Group at 9:33 and walked home. When we arrived at 9:38, both boys were fine. They were in the process of cleaning up the mess we specifically told them we expected not to find. The house was in tact. The dog wasn’t covered in anything sticky. They weren’t even finished watching the movies we’d rented for them. Joe had simply been a bit lonely. When it was all said and done, we’d spent 3.5 hours up the street, and they had done a pretty great job of taking care of themselves and being brave. We were proud.

I am certain there are people who will chide me for leaving our boys alone, but I don’t care. I know my kids. They’re well-behaved, smart, and competent. I know that about them, and I want them to know that about themselves. I don’t think there was anything wrong with leaving them alone for a few hours while we were three-tenths of a mile up the street. These are the things that teach a child that they’re not helpless. These are the things that give them self-confidence. These are the things that help them to know we trust and believe in them. These are the things that will ensure they are not living in my basement and delivering pizzas for a living when they’re 28. Knowing how much to trust your kids is a delicate thing. You don’t want to shield them too much, but you don’t want to expose them to too much too soon either. In the end, tonight’s experiment was a success. We expect these situations to be few and far between because we spend far more time with our children than without them. It’s nice to have proof, though, that they’re strong, smart, and independent boys. We’re making small deposits in their self-esteem banks. I’m sure they will pay off greatly with interest down the road.

Posted on by Me 5

The Cricket That Judged Me

An approximation of tonight’s judge…enlarged to show detail

Tonight I watched a tiny cricket crawling along the floor next to the baseboard. A teeny, tiny cricket. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say it was slightly less than a quarter inch long. When I was a kid, I hated crickets. They lived in droves in our unfinished basement, and they would chirp all night long. I could hear them from two floors up in my bedroom. Occasionally, I would wake up in the middle of the night and hear one a bit louder than the others and wonder if one had (as they occasionally did) made the perilous journey up the wooden basement steps to our living room.

When my mom would send us to the basement to retrieve something from the freezer, I feared that one would jump at me. It happened once and, apparently, the post-traumatic stress disorder sent me over the edge. Jumping bugs are the worst. You just never know where they’re going to go. With a nervous eye, I would glance downward as I weaved my way through the clotheslines full of my mom’s drip-dry lingerie on my way to the freezer for a container of lemonade or Cool Whip, praying the entire time that I would not see one. Ridiculous, but those small musicians freaked me out.

Then, one day a friend told me that crickets are good luck. What? This was news to me. If I had known that, I would have thought we were the luckiest family in the world. I certainly never would have killed one. Since the day that my friend told me about the fortuitous nature of crickets, I have been superstitious and unable to kill one. This is not to imply that I like them. I don’t. And I never liked killing them. (They are crunchy when you step on them.) After my friend’s suggestion, however, I began a new tradition. When I find a cricket in my home, I pick it up and carry it outside alive because heaven knows I need all the good luck I can get. Still, the 13 year old girl inside of me squeals every time I do it.

When I went off to college, my then boyfriend gave me a Jiminy Cricket plush toy from Disney. I thought it was odd given my sketchy relationship with crickets, and my expression must have betrayed me because he then felt the need to explain the gift. He told me that Jiminy Cricket was Pinocchio’s conscience. This cricket was to sit in my room and keep an eye on me while I was away to make sure I was being good. I can’t tell you how much I hated that cricket toy. That damn thing sat there judging me all through my freshman and sophomore years of college. I would hide it in the corner of my room and when my boyfriend came to visit he would again move it someplace prominent. It was downright creepy how that cricket kept an eye on me. One night toward the end of my sophomore year, I tossed that stuffed cricket into a pile for Goodwill and cheated on the aforementioned boyfriend. Oddly enough, I’ve felt pretty good about myself ever since.

Tonight when I saw that teeny cricket, I got out of bed, picked him up, and carried him downstairs. I opened the patio door and set him carefully on the back porch so he could go watch someone else. The last thing I need is another critter monitoring my actions and checking my conscience. Crickets in the home may bring good luck, but I’m a lot more at ease when they’re outside where they belong.

Posted on by Me 2