I told my husband years ago that we could watch as much baseball on television as he wanted and I would never complain, as long as we didn’t have to watch football. Of course there are special OU-casions and the Super Bowl-which let’s face it, is all about the commercials anyway. But for the most part, football, in my opinion, is a beast that’s best left outside for neighborhood kids in backyards and family gatherings on the holidays.
So, when April rolls around and until the cool months of October, when folks ask me if I’ve seen the latest episode of this or the season premiere of that, I just smile and say, “No. But did you see that walk off homer the Yankees hit last night?”
I can’t imagine that two little boys would be satisfied with watching a three and a half hour baseball game when they know there is a brand new episode of “Thomas the Train” on the kid channel. But our boys seem fine with it. In fact last night, after a big Yankee win, Cooper picked up the remote as if he actually knew how to use it, and said, “Hey Momma, I’m gonna find another ball game to watch.”
Brisco’s not far behind. He knows he’s watching a ballgame, and he laughs and points and claps his hands. He gets his bat out and swings a few times, and then tosses it in the back of his school bus and gives it a ride up and down the hall.
Cooper is big enough to sit still and take in every pitch, although I have to admit he doesn’t quite have a firm grasp on the strategy. He tries his best to follow, asking questions when he doesn’t understand, and adding his own whoops and hollers when it feels appropriate. It’s not unusual to hear him shout, “Get a score!” or “Strike him out!” at any given moment in the game, regardless of who is playing defense or who is running the bases. And you can bet if someone hits a homer he will point and shout, “He hit a bong!”
Last night was a big win for our team. The boys and I were sitting on the edge of our fuzzy, Thomas, lounge chairs, hanging on to every pitch, and wailing at the umpire when he didn’t call it our way. They were really getting into it.
The game was finally over after the ace and closing pitcher walked the bases loaded, only to get the final out at the plate with a top of the 9th strike out for a Yankee win. It was high drama; nail biting at its finest. And when the game was over, the boys and I celebrated big with a glass of cold milk. The only thing missing was Dad.
As I looked out the back window to see my husband spending yet another late night on the ball field with his team, I longed for the days when I could go help shag balls or just sit back, relax, and spit sunflower seeds while watching him share his knowledge and talent and passion for what some know only as a game intended for children.
I felt a twinge of sadness that our favorite ball club had pulled out a big win, and he wasn’t here to enjoy it with us. Then I looked over and saw our boys: sitting side by side, cross legged, eyes glued to the television watching with what appeared to be true interest and listening intently to the post game interview with the winning pitcher. Those boys were taking it all in-the crowd, the field, the fireworks. I could see in them that spark that must have been in their daddy’s eyes when he was a boy just their age.
Suddenly, I wasn’t sad anymore. I was thankful that I had been there to share in that evening of “child’s play” with my boys. I know the outcome of the ball game was probably a meaningless victory to most, and yes, probably even to the boys. But what could never have been more monumental was witnessing that moment of connectedness between a father’s passion, and its effect on his two sons-boys who will someday share the drive and the love for this same child’s game that has shaped their father’s life. A game that when taught correctly, and accepted willingly, will help fashion them, also, into admirable young men.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Lost boys
As you can imagine, losing your kid is a kind of take-it-to-the-grave story; not one that you might share with your local social service worker over coffee and donuts. However, since this frightful (and infuriating) event has happened to me on more than one occasion, I decided that I cannot possibly be alone. Surely scores of attentive parents have “lost track” of their precious cargo more than once over the years, and have simply sworn themselves to secrecy? I’m convinced that this is so.
The first time it happened to me, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All it took was a split second of my diverted attention for the boys to escape into the back yard…in the rain…wearing nothing but diapers. It didn’t seem to bother them one bit as they cheerfully drove their dump trucks around the yard, screaming ecstatically at the freedom they had found.
Their first outdoor escape was just into the back yard, but the second time, when Dad had to leave the fence to check on them, they were on the ball field in Daddy’s dugout. This is when we started looking for a child proof lock for the back gate. Now all we need is electricity along the top and a row of barbed wire.
While it’s hard to admit, it has been more than once that Cooper has gotten out of the backyard and taken Brisco and Bessie the dog with him. Usually, either Randy or I see them as they are making a run for it. We drudge outside to get them and drag them back while they all three wear looks of bewilderment, not having a clue why we are so upset.
We did find that child proof lock, but it seems it’s more effective when we use it. I recently heard from a neighbor that Cooper and Bessie had been out jogging thru the school yard while Brisco and I had gone to the store. (Well, I guess I’d call him a neighbor. He lives three blocks over.) Come to find out, Daddy was on the computer (and the telephone) and the lock was not engaged. I didn’t ask for details on the resolution of that situation. I’m just glad everyone lived through it.
Not two days after I mustered up the nerve to rib ole Dad about his “lost boy” experience, I had one of my own. The boys were playing outside after supper as I was clearing the dishes from the table. I had been looking out the window every few minutes to make sure they were alright. I turned to wipe the kitchen table, when I looked up to see my neighbor walking into my open, backyard gate. I knew immediately why she had come.
I met her at the back door with my shoes in hand. As I stomped off after the boys, she tried to keep pace with me, but could probably tell by my set jaw and the smoke coming out of my ears that this was something I preferred to do alone. She stood at my back gate while she watched me march across the baseball field, through the school yard, and onto first base of the softball field where I finally caught up with the baby. I could see the dog, but my first born, the instigator and escape artist, was nowhere in sight. After scanning the area, I noticed a small figure hunched down on the back side of the outfield fence. It was Cooper, trying to pick stickers out of his shoeless feet.
When I finally reached him, I really wanted to force him to walk on those stickery feet the entire half mile back to our house, but instead, I pulled the stickers out, looked him straight in the eye and told him he would be getting a very hard spanking as soon as we got home.
We walked the whole way home in silence, me with my gnarled face and flaming head, Brisco with his sippy cup and snotty nose, and Cooper with his sore feet and the anticipation that he was about to get the beating of a lifetime.
As we neared our house, I could see in the distance a small figure, still standing by the gate of our back yard. I knew at once that it was our Gladys Cravits-like neighbor who had spotted the boys escape from the front window of her house. I thought it strange that she was still standing there waiting, when it occurred to me that from my demeanor and the looks of my boys-both crying, faces streaked with dirt and snot, no shirt, no shorts, no shoes-she might actually have been afraid for their well being.
I humbly thanked her for her “attentiveness” to my children’s escapades, and assured her that we were all fine and that after a long, hot soak in the tub we would all be turning in early. She didn’t seem convinced because it took me another 10 minutes to make my own escape into the house to tend to my now delirious little runaways. Thirty minutes later she rang the door bell, and an hour and a half after that, she left a message on my machine. I’m afraid if she witnesses one more incident, she may decide to send over a social worker or at the very least put us in her prayer chain.
After soaking, spanking and spending the rest of the evening alone in his room, I think Cooper finally got the picture: “I am not wowd to weave the yard wiff out a dult.” Although with a two-year-old I am never quite sure of which concepts he has a firm grasp until the excitement begins to unfold.
There are times I think I might not survive this life of raising two such adventuresome boys. Of course with the job of raising any child, there is always a little drama to endure. I guess it’s drama and adventure now with two little boys or drama and attitude later for those raising girls. I think I’ll take the adventure any day.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The first time it happened to me, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All it took was a split second of my diverted attention for the boys to escape into the back yard…in the rain…wearing nothing but diapers. It didn’t seem to bother them one bit as they cheerfully drove their dump trucks around the yard, screaming ecstatically at the freedom they had found.
Their first outdoor escape was just into the back yard, but the second time, when Dad had to leave the fence to check on them, they were on the ball field in Daddy’s dugout. This is when we started looking for a child proof lock for the back gate. Now all we need is electricity along the top and a row of barbed wire.
While it’s hard to admit, it has been more than once that Cooper has gotten out of the backyard and taken Brisco and Bessie the dog with him. Usually, either Randy or I see them as they are making a run for it. We drudge outside to get them and drag them back while they all three wear looks of bewilderment, not having a clue why we are so upset.
We did find that child proof lock, but it seems it’s more effective when we use it. I recently heard from a neighbor that Cooper and Bessie had been out jogging thru the school yard while Brisco and I had gone to the store. (Well, I guess I’d call him a neighbor. He lives three blocks over.) Come to find out, Daddy was on the computer (and the telephone) and the lock was not engaged. I didn’t ask for details on the resolution of that situation. I’m just glad everyone lived through it.
Not two days after I mustered up the nerve to rib ole Dad about his “lost boy” experience, I had one of my own. The boys were playing outside after supper as I was clearing the dishes from the table. I had been looking out the window every few minutes to make sure they were alright. I turned to wipe the kitchen table, when I looked up to see my neighbor walking into my open, backyard gate. I knew immediately why she had come.
I met her at the back door with my shoes in hand. As I stomped off after the boys, she tried to keep pace with me, but could probably tell by my set jaw and the smoke coming out of my ears that this was something I preferred to do alone. She stood at my back gate while she watched me march across the baseball field, through the school yard, and onto first base of the softball field where I finally caught up with the baby. I could see the dog, but my first born, the instigator and escape artist, was nowhere in sight. After scanning the area, I noticed a small figure hunched down on the back side of the outfield fence. It was Cooper, trying to pick stickers out of his shoeless feet.
When I finally reached him, I really wanted to force him to walk on those stickery feet the entire half mile back to our house, but instead, I pulled the stickers out, looked him straight in the eye and told him he would be getting a very hard spanking as soon as we got home.
We walked the whole way home in silence, me with my gnarled face and flaming head, Brisco with his sippy cup and snotty nose, and Cooper with his sore feet and the anticipation that he was about to get the beating of a lifetime.
As we neared our house, I could see in the distance a small figure, still standing by the gate of our back yard. I knew at once that it was our Gladys Cravits-like neighbor who had spotted the boys escape from the front window of her house. I thought it strange that she was still standing there waiting, when it occurred to me that from my demeanor and the looks of my boys-both crying, faces streaked with dirt and snot, no shirt, no shorts, no shoes-she might actually have been afraid for their well being.
I humbly thanked her for her “attentiveness” to my children’s escapades, and assured her that we were all fine and that after a long, hot soak in the tub we would all be turning in early. She didn’t seem convinced because it took me another 10 minutes to make my own escape into the house to tend to my now delirious little runaways. Thirty minutes later she rang the door bell, and an hour and a half after that, she left a message on my machine. I’m afraid if she witnesses one more incident, she may decide to send over a social worker or at the very least put us in her prayer chain.
After soaking, spanking and spending the rest of the evening alone in his room, I think Cooper finally got the picture: “I am not wowd to weave the yard wiff out a dult.” Although with a two-year-old I am never quite sure of which concepts he has a firm grasp until the excitement begins to unfold.
There are times I think I might not survive this life of raising two such adventuresome boys. Of course with the job of raising any child, there is always a little drama to endure. I guess it’s drama and adventure now with two little boys or drama and attitude later for those raising girls. I think I’ll take the adventure any day.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Hover mother
I sat at a ball game last week and watched a young mother hen peck her six year-old daughter to near tears. The child wasn’t allowed to play with my kids or their toys. She wasn’t allowed to move up or down the bleachers. She wasn’t allowed to chew gum or get dirty or wiggle around very much at all. After about 30 minutes, the poor child was so frustrated, she became almost inconsolable when her mother said she couldn’t get something to drink. I thought to myself, “What a hover mother.”
I never want to be the kind of mother who hovers over my kids’ every move. I try to make a point of leaving the boys to themselves to play, when it is safe and appropriate. Some days the boys can be very constructive-reading or building towers or putting puzzles together like they’ve been doing it for years; other days, I can turn my head for a split second and they are on the verge of burning down the house. Yes, what children can get themselves into when their parents aren’t looking-that is what keeps us on our toes. I’ve learned that in our house, when all is quiet…that’s when I should be most afraid.
It wasn’t long after Cooper learned that he was big enough to open the fridge that I found him, after what seemed too long of a quiet spell, sitting on the bottom step of the refrigerator with the door open. He had climbed to the top shelf, grabbed the carton of strawberries, and proceeded to take a bite out of every one, after which he carelessly tossed each half-eaten berry onto the kitchen floor.
Or there was the time I caught him just as he was about to step from my computer chair onto the desk to reach for the video camera, which was sitting on the shelf directly above the laptop. In my moment of horror, I shouted his name. Startled, he turned and said, “Mommy, I was just going to get that camera right there so I can smile in it.”
And of course anything Cooper can do, the little guy can do better. Just this morning I caught Brisco standing in the middle of the kitchen table gumming up “fun-flower seeds” and spitting them all over his feet. Guess maybe I should do a little more hovering.
As far as I can tell, there is little good that comes from being a hover mother. I will admit, there would probably be fewer messes to clean up and less frustration experienced on the part of the parent. But who wants a clean, quiet, clingy, broken-spirited little child who can’t move or breathe for fear of getting his ear chewed off by a nagging mother?
I’ve discovered that there is a delicate balance between swarming my kids’ every move and giving them the space they need to play and explore and problem solve without simply getting in their way. Children will seek us out when they are in need; they will learn to be independent if we allow them. What they need is a little freedom and a lot of guidance…and a really good bar of soap.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I never want to be the kind of mother who hovers over my kids’ every move. I try to make a point of leaving the boys to themselves to play, when it is safe and appropriate. Some days the boys can be very constructive-reading or building towers or putting puzzles together like they’ve been doing it for years; other days, I can turn my head for a split second and they are on the verge of burning down the house. Yes, what children can get themselves into when their parents aren’t looking-that is what keeps us on our toes. I’ve learned that in our house, when all is quiet…that’s when I should be most afraid.
It wasn’t long after Cooper learned that he was big enough to open the fridge that I found him, after what seemed too long of a quiet spell, sitting on the bottom step of the refrigerator with the door open. He had climbed to the top shelf, grabbed the carton of strawberries, and proceeded to take a bite out of every one, after which he carelessly tossed each half-eaten berry onto the kitchen floor.
Or there was the time I caught him just as he was about to step from my computer chair onto the desk to reach for the video camera, which was sitting on the shelf directly above the laptop. In my moment of horror, I shouted his name. Startled, he turned and said, “Mommy, I was just going to get that camera right there so I can smile in it.”
And of course anything Cooper can do, the little guy can do better. Just this morning I caught Brisco standing in the middle of the kitchen table gumming up “fun-flower seeds” and spitting them all over his feet. Guess maybe I should do a little more hovering.
As far as I can tell, there is little good that comes from being a hover mother. I will admit, there would probably be fewer messes to clean up and less frustration experienced on the part of the parent. But who wants a clean, quiet, clingy, broken-spirited little child who can’t move or breathe for fear of getting his ear chewed off by a nagging mother?
I’ve discovered that there is a delicate balance between swarming my kids’ every move and giving them the space they need to play and explore and problem solve without simply getting in their way. Children will seek us out when they are in need; they will learn to be independent if we allow them. What they need is a little freedom and a lot of guidance…and a really good bar of soap.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
No fear
It seems like kids can get precocious over night. One day I’ve got two kids who can play semi-unsupervised for decent periods of time without me worrying that they are writing on the walls or drinking paint. The next minute they have grown into brazen explorers who fear nothing…not even the belt.
What do the words “be careful” mean to a toddler anyway? It wasn’t until I saw my kid hanging by one hand from the top row of the back side of the bleachers looking straight at me saying, “Look, Mom. I’m being careful,” that I realized just how different the meaning of that phrase is to a parent and a child.
I suppose I can remember having a fear-nothing attitude. It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I imagined myself breaking my neck while attempting to water ski behind my need-for-speed brother-in-law. Before that, it seemed ok to wake up the next morning with a sore back and arms and legs that wouldn’t function, not to mention a wild case of whiplash that took weeks to go away. So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that my kids scale refrigerators, kitchen cabinets, and chain-link fences every chance they get.
I know part of what I perceive as orneriness is simply curiosity, and of course I want my kids to be curious. I believe curiosity helps instill a love for learning. So when the kid takes his wet, pink, sidewalk chalk and-out of curiosity-attempts to see if it is just as effective all over the side of the house (and the new white storm door) as it is on the porch, I must be careful how I approach the situation. I certainly don’t want to stifle any creative tendencies he may have.
And if he pours an entire bottle of Tilex into his freshly-run bathwater, it is surely a manifestation of his possible future in the field of chemical engineering?
And if the little one is obsessed with the garbage can, constantly tossing needed, household items in and taking rotten, repulsive items out, I should feel blessed that he has such advanced developmental coordination for his age (regardless of the fact that he has dripped tomato paste all over my carpet and I’ve recently “lost” one shoe, two steak knives, and three sets of keys)?
There are times when I long for the days of worry free play, oblivious to the dangers of germs or sharp objects, or the effect eating dog food can have on little boys’ intestines. But I guess the days of being fearless and carefree are best left to children. My task now is to ensure that my children survive long enough to reap the benefits of their ornery, curious, fearless childhood, just as I did mine.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
What do the words “be careful” mean to a toddler anyway? It wasn’t until I saw my kid hanging by one hand from the top row of the back side of the bleachers looking straight at me saying, “Look, Mom. I’m being careful,” that I realized just how different the meaning of that phrase is to a parent and a child.
I suppose I can remember having a fear-nothing attitude. It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties that I imagined myself breaking my neck while attempting to water ski behind my need-for-speed brother-in-law. Before that, it seemed ok to wake up the next morning with a sore back and arms and legs that wouldn’t function, not to mention a wild case of whiplash that took weeks to go away. So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that my kids scale refrigerators, kitchen cabinets, and chain-link fences every chance they get.
I know part of what I perceive as orneriness is simply curiosity, and of course I want my kids to be curious. I believe curiosity helps instill a love for learning. So when the kid takes his wet, pink, sidewalk chalk and-out of curiosity-attempts to see if it is just as effective all over the side of the house (and the new white storm door) as it is on the porch, I must be careful how I approach the situation. I certainly don’t want to stifle any creative tendencies he may have.
And if he pours an entire bottle of Tilex into his freshly-run bathwater, it is surely a manifestation of his possible future in the field of chemical engineering?
And if the little one is obsessed with the garbage can, constantly tossing needed, household items in and taking rotten, repulsive items out, I should feel blessed that he has such advanced developmental coordination for his age (regardless of the fact that he has dripped tomato paste all over my carpet and I’ve recently “lost” one shoe, two steak knives, and three sets of keys)?
There are times when I long for the days of worry free play, oblivious to the dangers of germs or sharp objects, or the effect eating dog food can have on little boys’ intestines. But I guess the days of being fearless and carefree are best left to children. My task now is to ensure that my children survive long enough to reap the benefits of their ornery, curious, fearless childhood, just as I did mine.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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