It’s pretty plain to those who know us really well. Brisco is his momma made-over, and Cooper is a little Randy. We see it in pictures, in the smiles on their faces and in the way in which they carry themselves. Brisco is up for getting a laugh, and Cooper wants to work hard and play.
And while this play-boy has been ready for months, I’m the one who has been reluctant to get started. See, I know this little boy inside and out. He is a little Randy, and he will tackle Little League and all of life just like his Daddy: full force.
I plan to be chasing boys and baseball for at least the next 20 years, so I figure why not enjoy the carefree days while we can? But last Tuesday when Sentinel White turned out with only four players, they called up the first scraggly little three year old who chanced to walk by. That just happened to be little Randy.
After a long day on the field with Dad, no supper and no nap, we agreed to let the little guy play his first official game of T-ball. With a speedy shower, a quick peanut butter sandwich, and a moment to get into his official Bulldog uniform (complete with black socks, black belt, and red hat with an “S”), we were off to the ball field, full of anxiety and uncertainty about how the whole evening might turn out.
On the way over, I gave the boy a pep talk about taking turns and listening to the coach and having fun with the other kids. He answered every mommy instruction with, “Ok, Mom. I’ll listen to the coach. Ok, Mom. I’ll take turns. Ok, Mom. I’ll tell the other kids ‘good job.’” His mouth was moving, but I wasn’t sure I believed everything coming out.
Typically, for us, a game of back yard ball includes several at bats where the boy is adamant about the quality of his hits. He’s decided he knows what a good hit is, by the location at which the ball comes to rest. I’ve tried to explain that sometimes hitting well has less to do with where we hit the ball and more to do with how quickly we make it to first base. Full insight into that concept has yet to be comprehended. Cooper’s philosophy? If I don’t like where I hit it the first time, I’ll just take another turn.
This was my biggest worry for our first night of official play. That, and hiding behind my leg when he realized there would be actual people watching him. But as we pulled into the park and met his coach for the night, all signs of shyness disappeared. His personality and demeanor were transformed into a geared up, ready, and raring to go little Bulldog, and he couldn’t wait to get on that field.
The coach brought him a shirt to match the rest of his team, and when he saw that he would be dressed like the others, I thought he would burst with excitement.
If there was a tiny shred of doubt in his mind that tonight he was a real ball player, it all faded when he saw genuine, red numbers on his back. The poor kid has simply become accustomed to the last-minute, pre-wrap tape-jobs we usually slap on the back of his T-shirts. But tonight, it didn’t even matter the number he’d been given. It seemed “one-dee-one” (that is, eleven) would do just fine.
As the game began, I looked on with my camera, and wondered how this tired, excited, in-love-with-the-game guy would do. It turned out that I had nothing to fear. He took his turns hitting and ran around the bases. He played catch with the others and did his best to field the ball as well as any three year old can. But most of all, he had the time of his life.
We still have a long way to go before the days of eight games a week and high-levels of competition, but one thing’s for sure-for this boy, baseball is serious business. And if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times: He is definitely a “Little Randy”.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Cowboy boots
I have an awesome friend and mother of four who knows just what I need and when I need it. She’ll send me stories in the mail or email, and it never fails that whatever it is, it is always so timely for me and my boys.
Not long ago, after a similar bout with my little “I do it myself” child, she sent me the following story. It’s nice to know when they finally come and take me away to the pokey (or the nut house) I’ll be keeping company with others who can empathize.
“Cowboy Boots”
Did you hear about the Texas teacher who was helping one of her kindergarten students put on his cowboy boots? He asked for help and she could see why. Even with her pulling and him pushing, the little boots still didn’t want to go on. By the time they got the second boot on, she had worked up a sweat.
She almost cried when the little boy said “Teacher, they’re on the wrong feet. She looked, and sure enough, they were.
It wasn’t any easier pulling the boots off than it was putting them on. She managed to keep her cool as together they worked to get the boots back on, this time on the right feet.
He then announced, “....These aren’t my boots.”
She bit her tongue rather than get right in his face and scream, “Why didn’t you say so?”, like she wanted to. Once again, she struggled to help him pull the ill-fitting boots off his little feet. No sooner had they gotten the boots off when he said, “They’re my brother’s boots. My Mom made me wear ‘em.” Now she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry, but she mustered up what grace and courage she had left to wrestle the boots on his feet again.
Helping him into his coat, she asked “....Now, where are your mittens?”
He said, “I stuffed ‘em in the toes of my boots.”
She will be eligible for parole in three years.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Not long ago, after a similar bout with my little “I do it myself” child, she sent me the following story. It’s nice to know when they finally come and take me away to the pokey (or the nut house) I’ll be keeping company with others who can empathize.
“Cowboy Boots”
Did you hear about the Texas teacher who was helping one of her kindergarten students put on his cowboy boots? He asked for help and she could see why. Even with her pulling and him pushing, the little boots still didn’t want to go on. By the time they got the second boot on, she had worked up a sweat.
She almost cried when the little boy said “Teacher, they’re on the wrong feet. She looked, and sure enough, they were.
It wasn’t any easier pulling the boots off than it was putting them on. She managed to keep her cool as together they worked to get the boots back on, this time on the right feet.
He then announced, “....These aren’t my boots.”
She bit her tongue rather than get right in his face and scream, “Why didn’t you say so?”, like she wanted to. Once again, she struggled to help him pull the ill-fitting boots off his little feet. No sooner had they gotten the boots off when he said, “They’re my brother’s boots. My Mom made me wear ‘em.” Now she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry, but she mustered up what grace and courage she had left to wrestle the boots on his feet again.
Helping him into his coat, she asked “....Now, where are your mittens?”
He said, “I stuffed ‘em in the toes of my boots.”
She will be eligible for parole in three years.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Boy oh boy
As I think back to the time when I was pregnant with Cooper, I remember being frequently asked whether we wanted a girl or a boy. Of course our first priority was a healthy baby, but given the choice, we were both geared up for a little guy.
The news came and so did the baby, and 12 months later I was having the same conversation about child number two. Happy, healthy, and hopefully a boy.
We didn’t figure we’d be quite so lucky seeing as my husband grew up in a house with six sisters. And, of course, we’ve already established that God has a sense of humor. But He blessed us twice and gave us our boys, and is probably lounging happily on a cloud thinking, “If they’d only have asked for a sweet little girl!”
But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Aside from the anatomy differences and the early onset of man-vision, I think I’ve adjusted pretty well for a girl who grew up in a house with no boys.
People ask us a lot if we wish we’d have had a girl. “Aw, come on. Don’t you need at least one little girl?” It makes me think they know something I don’t. All I can remember about girls growing up is the harshness and the cattiness and the know-it-all attitude.
Of course now that I’m grown, I see perfectly the benefit of having girls. They tend to stay close to Mama. I pray every day for the wives of my boys, that they will be kind and loyal and God fearing. And that they will promise to keep my boys close to home until I am ready to send them packing.
Before the kids came along, I was always a little nervous about the parenting styles we would claim. Would I coddle them and baby them and give in to their every whim? Would Randy be too harsh in his discipline, never change a diaper and see them only from the dugout of the ball field?
In my mind I knew these things weren’t good, but parenting is one of those experiences that we are never really sure how to do until it is our turn to take the wheel. Kind of like backseat driving.
While there is always room for improvement, I’m proud and thankful that my children are seldom coddled. They are probably told “no” a little too often, and their Daddy is a whiz at changing diapers. But best of all, they get to spend hours and hours on the job and in the company of their dad-watching and helping, learning to work hard, and loving every minute of it.
There’s no replacement for a good father, especially in the lives of two little boys. And one day, with a little guidance (and a good wife) I know each of our boys will have the ability and fortitude pass on this legacy to their own children... even if they have a house full of girls.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The news came and so did the baby, and 12 months later I was having the same conversation about child number two. Happy, healthy, and hopefully a boy.
We didn’t figure we’d be quite so lucky seeing as my husband grew up in a house with six sisters. And, of course, we’ve already established that God has a sense of humor. But He blessed us twice and gave us our boys, and is probably lounging happily on a cloud thinking, “If they’d only have asked for a sweet little girl!”
But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Aside from the anatomy differences and the early onset of man-vision, I think I’ve adjusted pretty well for a girl who grew up in a house with no boys.
People ask us a lot if we wish we’d have had a girl. “Aw, come on. Don’t you need at least one little girl?” It makes me think they know something I don’t. All I can remember about girls growing up is the harshness and the cattiness and the know-it-all attitude.
Of course now that I’m grown, I see perfectly the benefit of having girls. They tend to stay close to Mama. I pray every day for the wives of my boys, that they will be kind and loyal and God fearing. And that they will promise to keep my boys close to home until I am ready to send them packing.
Before the kids came along, I was always a little nervous about the parenting styles we would claim. Would I coddle them and baby them and give in to their every whim? Would Randy be too harsh in his discipline, never change a diaper and see them only from the dugout of the ball field?
In my mind I knew these things weren’t good, but parenting is one of those experiences that we are never really sure how to do until it is our turn to take the wheel. Kind of like backseat driving.
While there is always room for improvement, I’m proud and thankful that my children are seldom coddled. They are probably told “no” a little too often, and their Daddy is a whiz at changing diapers. But best of all, they get to spend hours and hours on the job and in the company of their dad-watching and helping, learning to work hard, and loving every minute of it.
There’s no replacement for a good father, especially in the lives of two little boys. And one day, with a little guidance (and a good wife) I know each of our boys will have the ability and fortitude pass on this legacy to their own children... even if they have a house full of girls.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
The ornerienss of number two
I’ve heard lots of parents say about their children that if they’d have had the second one first (or the third or the fourth), that one would have been the only child they’d have had. I should probably be careful, as I’m sure I provoked my parents to those thoughts a time or two growing up. But there’s something about this number two child of ours that makes me shake my head and fear the future.
I should have known from the beginning that he would be the one to keep things interesting. He cried from the time he was six weeks old until he finally learned to walk. Since then he has been ninety to nothing, happy as you please, and trying his best to keep up with Cooper. But his fussiness of the early days has been replaced with something else: Orneriness, pure and simple.
It started small, with crazy eyes and wrinkled-nose faces-just enough to make a parent raise her brow and wonder where in the world he learned such a thing.
But the silliness progressed to more twisted incidents like biting the heads off the animal crackers, and even more heinous, removing the arms and legs as well. Not long ago, I found dozens of decapitated, appendage-free animal bodies strewn lifelessly around the living room. I guess that’s my payback for years of licking the cream out of the middle of the Oreos and tossing the cookies behind the couch. (Sorry, Mom.)
He can be a bit neurotic at times as well. For whatever reason, he has a fascination for flushing the toilet. He’ll randomly walk through the house, checking on the status of every potty in the place.
And the insanity doesn’t stop there. He’s also profoundly fixated on opening and closing the dishwasher door; it doesn’t matter whether it’s empty, full, or in the middle of the rinse cycle. When the compulsion hits him, he’s unstoppable.
His latest infatuation is with our seating arrangement at the kitchen table. It seems everyone has a place, and there’s no shifting far from it. If, by chance, I happen to sit in “Daddy’s chair”, Brisco firmly and promptly directs me to reposition.
Sometimes his orneriness manifests itself in the most mundane daily rituals. Every morning and afternoon when he wakes up in his crib, we are met by the same, simple phrase, “Mommy! I’m done!” He yells for a rescue in his relentless, high-decibel manner until someone appears at the door. It is then that we are met by the best Mary Poppins impersonation ever given by a two year old boy: “The sun is out! It’s time to wake up! It’s a pretty day!”
When we finally reach in to lift him out of the bed, it never fails that he insists on taking everything out of the crib and into the living room with him: three blankets, two pillows, Abbot the rabbit, Bear Bear the dog, his sippy cup and two pretzels…the same two he had to have before laying down the night before.
Then there are the times when his orneriness causes total mommy meltdown and is anything but cute. He has always been a “hider”. First it was things; now it’s himself. I have lost valuable objects for weeks, only to eventually find them in the back of a closet or at the bottom of a sock drawer. Sometimes it is himself that he hides, but he forgets to tell anyone to come and seek. Maybe he’s just taking a moment to plan his next adventure.
He is also the king of making senseless messes. He disappeared into his room the other night, and when I went back to find him, he had emptied every dresser drawer he could reach, as well as the tub of summer clothes I had stored in the closet. He was playing “back-set-ball” by tossing them all into his crib. What a fun game.
Much of the time, his messes involve food, in particularly, ketchup. The boy loves ketchup with anything, and although I may soon need a skin graph on my knuckles from constantly scrubbing it out of our clothes, I’ve decided if it’s the only way I can get him to eat green beans, then that’s ok by me. I seem to remember a liking I once had to dousing ketchup on my scrambled eggs.
He’s recently discovered Ranch dressing and gravy as well, but I think it’s the simple act of dipping to which he is so fond. One day, as I was putting on my makeup, he came into the bathroom eating a cookie. Just as I was about to shew him out the door, I caught him bringing his potty-soaked cookie up out of the bowl and heading straight for his lips. Yes, that little boy sure loves to dip.
People ask us all the time if we’ll have more kids. I usually just smile and say, “Well, it’s not really in the plan,” all the while I’m thinking to myself, “Don’t I look like I have my hands full with two?”
It’s pretty easy to weigh the pros and cons of nursing and night wakings and mustard in the carpet. But when I get a hug and a kiss and a bear hug on request; when I look back at old pictures and see my own silly, camera face-the same one my number two child has perfected without urging; when I remember how ornery a toe-headed little girl once was, I can almost consider the possibility. Almost.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
I should have known from the beginning that he would be the one to keep things interesting. He cried from the time he was six weeks old until he finally learned to walk. Since then he has been ninety to nothing, happy as you please, and trying his best to keep up with Cooper. But his fussiness of the early days has been replaced with something else: Orneriness, pure and simple.
It started small, with crazy eyes and wrinkled-nose faces-just enough to make a parent raise her brow and wonder where in the world he learned such a thing.
But the silliness progressed to more twisted incidents like biting the heads off the animal crackers, and even more heinous, removing the arms and legs as well. Not long ago, I found dozens of decapitated, appendage-free animal bodies strewn lifelessly around the living room. I guess that’s my payback for years of licking the cream out of the middle of the Oreos and tossing the cookies behind the couch. (Sorry, Mom.)
He can be a bit neurotic at times as well. For whatever reason, he has a fascination for flushing the toilet. He’ll randomly walk through the house, checking on the status of every potty in the place.
And the insanity doesn’t stop there. He’s also profoundly fixated on opening and closing the dishwasher door; it doesn’t matter whether it’s empty, full, or in the middle of the rinse cycle. When the compulsion hits him, he’s unstoppable.
His latest infatuation is with our seating arrangement at the kitchen table. It seems everyone has a place, and there’s no shifting far from it. If, by chance, I happen to sit in “Daddy’s chair”, Brisco firmly and promptly directs me to reposition.
Sometimes his orneriness manifests itself in the most mundane daily rituals. Every morning and afternoon when he wakes up in his crib, we are met by the same, simple phrase, “Mommy! I’m done!” He yells for a rescue in his relentless, high-decibel manner until someone appears at the door. It is then that we are met by the best Mary Poppins impersonation ever given by a two year old boy: “The sun is out! It’s time to wake up! It’s a pretty day!”
When we finally reach in to lift him out of the bed, it never fails that he insists on taking everything out of the crib and into the living room with him: three blankets, two pillows, Abbot the rabbit, Bear Bear the dog, his sippy cup and two pretzels…the same two he had to have before laying down the night before.
Then there are the times when his orneriness causes total mommy meltdown and is anything but cute. He has always been a “hider”. First it was things; now it’s himself. I have lost valuable objects for weeks, only to eventually find them in the back of a closet or at the bottom of a sock drawer. Sometimes it is himself that he hides, but he forgets to tell anyone to come and seek. Maybe he’s just taking a moment to plan his next adventure.
He is also the king of making senseless messes. He disappeared into his room the other night, and when I went back to find him, he had emptied every dresser drawer he could reach, as well as the tub of summer clothes I had stored in the closet. He was playing “back-set-ball” by tossing them all into his crib. What a fun game.
Much of the time, his messes involve food, in particularly, ketchup. The boy loves ketchup with anything, and although I may soon need a skin graph on my knuckles from constantly scrubbing it out of our clothes, I’ve decided if it’s the only way I can get him to eat green beans, then that’s ok by me. I seem to remember a liking I once had to dousing ketchup on my scrambled eggs.
He’s recently discovered Ranch dressing and gravy as well, but I think it’s the simple act of dipping to which he is so fond. One day, as I was putting on my makeup, he came into the bathroom eating a cookie. Just as I was about to shew him out the door, I caught him bringing his potty-soaked cookie up out of the bowl and heading straight for his lips. Yes, that little boy sure loves to dip.
People ask us all the time if we’ll have more kids. I usually just smile and say, “Well, it’s not really in the plan,” all the while I’m thinking to myself, “Don’t I look like I have my hands full with two?”
It’s pretty easy to weigh the pros and cons of nursing and night wakings and mustard in the carpet. But when I get a hug and a kiss and a bear hug on request; when I look back at old pictures and see my own silly, camera face-the same one my number two child has perfected without urging; when I remember how ornery a toe-headed little girl once was, I can almost consider the possibility. Almost.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)