As we waited for the final game of the District Tournament to begin, Cooper sat on my lap, watching his dad hitting in-field to “his boys”. The sounds of the game were all around: music on the loudspeaker; fans in the stands; players shouting, “Right!” “Left!” “Cut!” But the sound that stood out the most to my intense and attentive four-year old son was the sound of the baseball against his daddy’s bat.
“Watch Daddy out there,” I said to my son. “See how he knows just where to hit the ball?” I could tell he was watching, taking it all deep within. “I like the sound of the ball on Daddy’s bat,” he said with all earnest and intrigue. “It sounds different than when the boys hit it,” he observed.
“That’s because it’s a special kind of bat. It’s called a fungo, and it’s made of wood,” I explained. “What time will I get to swing that bat?” he asked with eager anticipation. “Maybe when you get a little bigger,” I promised. “It’s an awfully big bat.”
As the game began, my boy sat at my side focused on the plays before him. He kept track of each run and knew exactly which team was winning at all times. I’ve never seen a kid so enthused about a game he’s never “officially” gotten to play. He knows when the player makes it safely on base, and he knows when he’s been thrown out. And when the umpire makes a call he doesn’t understand, he’ll ask, “Why did he call him out, Momma?” I give him the only answer I can think of that doesn’t paint the official as always the villain, “Well, I guess he just didn’t see it the way we did, Buddy.”
He understands a run-down, but doesn’t like to call it “a pickle”. Figurative language is still a head-scratcher for a just four and a half year old. He likes to watch the base runners take their lead and slide, head first, safely back into the base. He spends hours of his “off season” duplicating their every attempt.
Practice, to him, is pure joy. No amount of running the bases, fielding grounders or sliding into home could ever be considered hard labor. He understands the axiom, “Practice Makes Perfect” and lives it to it’s fullest.
He may be just a little guy, but he’s all baseball, and all fan. To him, like so many of us, there’s just nothing like a hard fastball coming across the plate, or a hanging curveball that one of his “Daddy’s boys” sends crashing out of the park, “Yeeeeaahhhh! Home Run, Momma!!” And a hive five to top it off.
He seems to understand the beauty of a long, hard, well-placed line drive into the outfield, and asks questions I’ve never heard from a preschooler. “Why didn’t that boy tag up, Momma?” or “Man! He scored all the way from first base!”
He’s doing his best to understand the strike zone, but like so many of the greats, he still finds it hard to lay off the high ones. “Two strikes now, Momma, right?” he will ask, calling for a grown-up confirmation of his newly-learned observation.
He’s discovered that there is an end to this game, this obsession he has come by so honestly. “There are three big tournaments at the end of the year. Our goal is to try and win them all,” I tell him with all hope and expectation. He seems to have some kind of grasp of that idea, but more times than not, he’ll just take it as it comes. “Is today a game day?” he’ll ask in all eagerness. And so the day begins.
On a good day at the ballpark, these are the sounds of my game. Questions asked by a boy falling in love.
As I look at my children, I see a passion for this sport that can only be explained by genetics. From mom and dad, to aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins, there’s just something about this game made for kids that sticks with us long past childhood. It makes us yell like madmen when the ump blows a call. Makes us pump our fists with satisfaction at a strike out that ends the inning, and makes us whoop and holler in unadulterated bliss at a ball sailing over the outfield wall.
As the first baseman fielded his last slow roller and we prepared for the game to begin, I whispered to the ballplayer on my knee: “You remember that sound you hear,” I said. “Remember how it makes you feel inside when you hear the ball crack off that black, wooden bat. Remember it’s your daddy out there.” I urged. “Remember, and whenever you hear it-no matter where you are-it will always feel like home.”
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Something about an overnighter
It always takes us several days it seems to get back to reality after a trip away from home. There’s just something about an overnighter that inhibits the hearing, alters the attitude, and transforms the conduct of little boys under five. Our recent Easter weekend was no different.
We had a great time visiting and playing with friends and family that we hadn’t seen in a while, but it never fails that by the time we get back home, something inside them has snapped, and it apparently takes an act of Nature to turn things around.
It began on Monday with the nagging and whining and profound loss of hearing. It seems the oldest had learned to torture his brother and the younger had been stripped of all auditory capacity…overnight phenomena. From Cooper’s punching and growling to the point of tears to Brisco’s blatant ignoring of my every request, if I thought they could have survived out doors all night, I’d have tossed them a pillow and locked the door behind me. I opted for a more positive alternative, telling myself that surely tomorrow would be a better day.
As better days go, I’d say Tuesday probably didn’t qualify. From the moment they rolled out of bed, they were aggravating, annoying and antagonizing one another beyond reason. They had forgotten how to share, refused to work as a team, and had taken sides against one another, living out their new childhood motto, “Every Smith for Himself”. I must have died and gone to live with the Willy Wonka rejects-the absolute brattiest kids on earth.
But as the wind warmed and the sun emerged, one thought gave me a glimmer of hope: Send those boys outside. So I did. But just as I began to feel the peaceful calm for which I had so desperately been longing…that is when the real storm rolled in.
As I sat in the living room folding yet another load of dingy socks, I heard the back door open. I met the oldest as he walked in, shoes in hand. He sat down on the floor and asked me to put his shoes back on his feet, but as he did, a strange aroma wafted into my air space. Something must have given him a little nudge, because the look on his face and the words he then spoke were not ones that were easily said nor received. He looked at me with those big round eyes and said, “Uh, Mommy, I, uh, I…I had an accident.”
The next words I spoke were more ignorant than informative when, from somewhere outside my body I heard myself say, “An accident? In your pants!?!” Like there is any other kind.
For the next half hour, I was in a world of disbelief as I put one boy in the shower, only to see the other one trotting in the house soon after with the same, sly little grin. “What, you too?!!!” was all I could manage to say. And after cleaning and dressing them both yet again, the little one just couldn’t resist. “Hey, Mom! Wanna see where I pooped outside?”
I only remember random moments of time after that. Brisco was proud of the fact that he’d managed to squeeze between two buildings outside. He was also more than happy to show me where Cooper had unloaded, and demonstrate how he’d wiped his bottom on the side of the dog house. Cooper, on the other hand, had sense enough to hide.
As I sat dumbfounded at the ridiculousness of the scenario I was facing, I had not a single coherent thought in my mind but one: Call Randy. I decided a short email would suffice, and this is precisely how it read.
Attn: Mr. Smith: “Your sons just pooped outside and all over themselves. Do you mind if I kill them?” His response, so simple, yet so perfectly astute: “Cold water hose.” Now why didn’t I think of that?
The remainder of the week was filled with a variety of incidents from pulling Cooper out of the water meter in the front yard to picking acoustic out of their bed at night. We had science lessons on why one should not pick every green leaf and flower off the probably now-dead bush outside and lectures on relieving one’s self in public. We even had a real-life example of why Mommy says only one vitamin C per child per day.
We took belts to ball games and belts to church. We prayed for wisdom and self control, morning, noon and night. We perfected the disciplinary arts of time out, privilege restriction and going to bed early. And just about the time I thought we had things straightened out, I entered the bathroom Sunday night and discovered that Brisco had dumped the entire contents of every bottle he could reach straight into their bath water. I could barely see my children through the giant mound of bubbles.
It was truly one of those moments where I just had to get away. And as I stood outside the bathroom door trying to gather myself to re-enter, I listened to Cooper scolding his brother and preparing him for what lay ahead. “I can’t believe you dumped every bottle,” he said. “Mommy is really going to spank you this time.” And the little bubble-head simply replied, “Oh, Man!”
I couldn’t help but give up a little smile. It was the first time in seven whole days that my kids sounded normal.
I’m hoping against all odds that the week to come is less eventful than the last. I still haven’t quite figured out why these kids lose their minds after being away from home. But at our house, at least, it’s a fact: There’s just something about an overnighter that seems to do the trick.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
We had a great time visiting and playing with friends and family that we hadn’t seen in a while, but it never fails that by the time we get back home, something inside them has snapped, and it apparently takes an act of Nature to turn things around.
It began on Monday with the nagging and whining and profound loss of hearing. It seems the oldest had learned to torture his brother and the younger had been stripped of all auditory capacity…overnight phenomena. From Cooper’s punching and growling to the point of tears to Brisco’s blatant ignoring of my every request, if I thought they could have survived out doors all night, I’d have tossed them a pillow and locked the door behind me. I opted for a more positive alternative, telling myself that surely tomorrow would be a better day.
As better days go, I’d say Tuesday probably didn’t qualify. From the moment they rolled out of bed, they were aggravating, annoying and antagonizing one another beyond reason. They had forgotten how to share, refused to work as a team, and had taken sides against one another, living out their new childhood motto, “Every Smith for Himself”. I must have died and gone to live with the Willy Wonka rejects-the absolute brattiest kids on earth.
But as the wind warmed and the sun emerged, one thought gave me a glimmer of hope: Send those boys outside. So I did. But just as I began to feel the peaceful calm for which I had so desperately been longing…that is when the real storm rolled in.
As I sat in the living room folding yet another load of dingy socks, I heard the back door open. I met the oldest as he walked in, shoes in hand. He sat down on the floor and asked me to put his shoes back on his feet, but as he did, a strange aroma wafted into my air space. Something must have given him a little nudge, because the look on his face and the words he then spoke were not ones that were easily said nor received. He looked at me with those big round eyes and said, “Uh, Mommy, I, uh, I…I had an accident.”
The next words I spoke were more ignorant than informative when, from somewhere outside my body I heard myself say, “An accident? In your pants!?!” Like there is any other kind.
For the next half hour, I was in a world of disbelief as I put one boy in the shower, only to see the other one trotting in the house soon after with the same, sly little grin. “What, you too?!!!” was all I could manage to say. And after cleaning and dressing them both yet again, the little one just couldn’t resist. “Hey, Mom! Wanna see where I pooped outside?”
I only remember random moments of time after that. Brisco was proud of the fact that he’d managed to squeeze between two buildings outside. He was also more than happy to show me where Cooper had unloaded, and demonstrate how he’d wiped his bottom on the side of the dog house. Cooper, on the other hand, had sense enough to hide.
As I sat dumbfounded at the ridiculousness of the scenario I was facing, I had not a single coherent thought in my mind but one: Call Randy. I decided a short email would suffice, and this is precisely how it read.
Attn: Mr. Smith: “Your sons just pooped outside and all over themselves. Do you mind if I kill them?” His response, so simple, yet so perfectly astute: “Cold water hose.” Now why didn’t I think of that?
The remainder of the week was filled with a variety of incidents from pulling Cooper out of the water meter in the front yard to picking acoustic out of their bed at night. We had science lessons on why one should not pick every green leaf and flower off the probably now-dead bush outside and lectures on relieving one’s self in public. We even had a real-life example of why Mommy says only one vitamin C per child per day.
We took belts to ball games and belts to church. We prayed for wisdom and self control, morning, noon and night. We perfected the disciplinary arts of time out, privilege restriction and going to bed early. And just about the time I thought we had things straightened out, I entered the bathroom Sunday night and discovered that Brisco had dumped the entire contents of every bottle he could reach straight into their bath water. I could barely see my children through the giant mound of bubbles.
It was truly one of those moments where I just had to get away. And as I stood outside the bathroom door trying to gather myself to re-enter, I listened to Cooper scolding his brother and preparing him for what lay ahead. “I can’t believe you dumped every bottle,” he said. “Mommy is really going to spank you this time.” And the little bubble-head simply replied, “Oh, Man!”
I couldn’t help but give up a little smile. It was the first time in seven whole days that my kids sounded normal.
I’m hoping against all odds that the week to come is less eventful than the last. I still haven’t quite figured out why these kids lose their minds after being away from home. But at our house, at least, it’s a fact: There’s just something about an overnighter that seems to do the trick.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Dazed and confused
As a slight detour from the usual kiddy chaos that keeps our household running in circles, this past week, we added a little Daddy drama.
In his regularly scheduled Sunday night batting practice at the barn, an incident with a flying bat had my husband bleeding from the head and me, saying prayers that it would turn out to be “just a flesh wound”, if there is such a thing where a bat-to-the-head is concerned.
As it turned out, it was very mild and other than a little trim to the hairline and some really sticky EMT tape, he was relatively pain free and back to his busy-every-minute self by morning.
However, as thankful and relieved as I was at the outcome, it couldn’t stop me from taking a couple of pictures and sharing them with just a few of our closest friends and family online. And boy am I glad I did.
There’s nothing like a good laugh to make you appreciate the weightiness of a near-life altering accident, and there’s no one more equipped to help you in this task than the ones who love you most.
So as in the tradition of the old game show “The 10,000 Pyramid”, these are things you might hear your loved ones say after your husband gets hit in the head with a baseball bat:
“Hope Randy's brain didn't sustain too much damage.”
“Holy crap! Did he smart off again?”
“Bar room brawls are scary! Ahahaaaaa. Still, brag that you beat him up for not doing the dishes or something. Work it girlfriend.”
“Poor Randy, he is too sweet. But you would think he would know to duck, move, watch the bats, don’t stand too close. They make face masks and helmets too.”
“Oh My Gosh! Girl, my head hurts now!”
“I think I’ll use this face as the poster child for domestic cleaning abuse.”
“I’m so glad he is okay. He could have been seriously injured, blinded or broke his pretty face beyond being pretty anymore. Poor guy already had one strike against his brain being born a man. Hahahaha (that’s so between you and me.) I would have passed out if I saw my hubby like that.”
“He looks pitiful!”
“I bet he will never steal eggs from the Easter Bunny again! Rabies shot maybe?”
“By the way, I think that is going to leave a dent!”
“Wow what a headache! He may need to put some peppermint oil on that.”
“He did it in the barn? Last night? Tell him to turn on the lights next time. BP in the dark is obviously dangerous.”
“He looks like Homer on the Simpsons.”
“I’m glad I’m not Jolene’s son-in-law; the next one might not make it!”
"He still looks dazed and confused!"
"Oh my! Did one of the boys throw the bat at his head?...or was it you?"
"And they say baseball is a non-contact sport."
Surprisingly enough, our boys’ reactions were relatively subdued. Brisco kinda thought Daddy’s head band was funny. And other than the blood-and the thought of missing a game of living room football-Cooper too, was unmoved.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
In his regularly scheduled Sunday night batting practice at the barn, an incident with a flying bat had my husband bleeding from the head and me, saying prayers that it would turn out to be “just a flesh wound”, if there is such a thing where a bat-to-the-head is concerned.
As it turned out, it was very mild and other than a little trim to the hairline and some really sticky EMT tape, he was relatively pain free and back to his busy-every-minute self by morning.
However, as thankful and relieved as I was at the outcome, it couldn’t stop me from taking a couple of pictures and sharing them with just a few of our closest friends and family online. And boy am I glad I did.
There’s nothing like a good laugh to make you appreciate the weightiness of a near-life altering accident, and there’s no one more equipped to help you in this task than the ones who love you most.
So as in the tradition of the old game show “The 10,000 Pyramid”, these are things you might hear your loved ones say after your husband gets hit in the head with a baseball bat:
“Hope Randy's brain didn't sustain too much damage.”
“Holy crap! Did he smart off again?”
“Bar room brawls are scary! Ahahaaaaa. Still, brag that you beat him up for not doing the dishes or something. Work it girlfriend.”
“Poor Randy, he is too sweet. But you would think he would know to duck, move, watch the bats, don’t stand too close. They make face masks and helmets too.”
“Oh My Gosh! Girl, my head hurts now!”
“I think I’ll use this face as the poster child for domestic cleaning abuse.”
“I’m so glad he is okay. He could have been seriously injured, blinded or broke his pretty face beyond being pretty anymore. Poor guy already had one strike against his brain being born a man. Hahahaha (that’s so between you and me.) I would have passed out if I saw my hubby like that.”
“He looks pitiful!”
“I bet he will never steal eggs from the Easter Bunny again! Rabies shot maybe?”
“By the way, I think that is going to leave a dent!”
“Wow what a headache! He may need to put some peppermint oil on that.”
“He did it in the barn? Last night? Tell him to turn on the lights next time. BP in the dark is obviously dangerous.”
“He looks like Homer on the Simpsons.”
“I’m glad I’m not Jolene’s son-in-law; the next one might not make it!”
"He still looks dazed and confused!"
"Oh my! Did one of the boys throw the bat at his head?...or was it you?"
"And they say baseball is a non-contact sport."
Surprisingly enough, our boys’ reactions were relatively subdued. Brisco kinda thought Daddy’s head band was funny. And other than the blood-and the thought of missing a game of living room football-Cooper too, was unmoved.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
There’s a mouse in this house!
I walked into the kitchen one morning last week and my three year old looked at me with his swollen, morning face and his most concerned, adult expression and said in a most matter of fact manner, “There’s a mouse in this house!” What a way to start the day.
Now his revelation was not news to me. I’m well aware of the fact that the four of us are not the only ones living in our new house. We’ve got friends. The four-legged kind who like to rummage through my potholder drawer and leave nightly presents in the drip pans of my stove.
If I were a bit younger, I’d probably be too embarrassed to admit that we’re sharing our home with the nasty little vermin. The kind who prefer chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in brightly-colored foil buried deep in the cupboard to the wide variety of fruit left lying accessible on the counter. It’s true. But I’ve lived enough places and met enough people to know that most folks have had a mouse in their house, at one time or another. Of course that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
And having two little boys who don’t share my freakishly irrational fear of mice…well that just leads to far too many questions. Questions to which I’m not all that excited about sharing the answers, and answers that, quite frankly, they aren’t yet equipped to understand.
However, I began answering their questions, as mothers do, by letting the boys know that yes, we do have a mouse in this house. Immediately, Brisco’s eyes lit up and he said with pure joy, “I’m gonna give this wiggly truck to the mouse!” Heaven help us all if we have a mouse that big, but I just smiled and said, “OK” and went on to tell them only as much information as I felt they needed in order to stay out of trouble.
Dad had put a mouse pad in the back of their closet, but I made the mistake of calling it a “trap”. Well, I suppose to a couple of little boys-whose greatest hobby at Granma’s house is trapping kittens in an old rabbit cage-the term “mouse trap” brings to mind images that are much different than the one’s that come to mine. Which probably explains Cooper’s first question: “Is the mouse in the mouse trap?”
Immediately, they both ran to the closet, and Brisco yelled, “Close the door so it can’t get out!”
Of course this took some explaining and led to more intriguing questions such as, “Do mouses eat skin?” and “Where do mice come from?” I did my best to answer all their questions, but I’m not sure I did any of them justice. They spent the rest of the morning scouring the house for “holes” and “cracks” and reporting back to me concerning just where “these mouses might be getting themselves in”.
Thankfully, by the end of the day, they seemed to have forgotten all about our uninvited guests. They were no longer fascinated with “checking the traps” or “hunting them down”. No more “bat and mouse”. No more flashlight brigade. And that was just fine with me. Because no matter how long I live, or how many little boys go scurrying through my house, I’m still the kind of gal who yanks my feet off the floor and screams like a baby at the mere thought of even one pesky little mouse in my house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Now his revelation was not news to me. I’m well aware of the fact that the four of us are not the only ones living in our new house. We’ve got friends. The four-legged kind who like to rummage through my potholder drawer and leave nightly presents in the drip pans of my stove.
If I were a bit younger, I’d probably be too embarrassed to admit that we’re sharing our home with the nasty little vermin. The kind who prefer chocolate Easter eggs wrapped in brightly-colored foil buried deep in the cupboard to the wide variety of fruit left lying accessible on the counter. It’s true. But I’ve lived enough places and met enough people to know that most folks have had a mouse in their house, at one time or another. Of course that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
And having two little boys who don’t share my freakishly irrational fear of mice…well that just leads to far too many questions. Questions to which I’m not all that excited about sharing the answers, and answers that, quite frankly, they aren’t yet equipped to understand.
However, I began answering their questions, as mothers do, by letting the boys know that yes, we do have a mouse in this house. Immediately, Brisco’s eyes lit up and he said with pure joy, “I’m gonna give this wiggly truck to the mouse!” Heaven help us all if we have a mouse that big, but I just smiled and said, “OK” and went on to tell them only as much information as I felt they needed in order to stay out of trouble.
Dad had put a mouse pad in the back of their closet, but I made the mistake of calling it a “trap”. Well, I suppose to a couple of little boys-whose greatest hobby at Granma’s house is trapping kittens in an old rabbit cage-the term “mouse trap” brings to mind images that are much different than the one’s that come to mine. Which probably explains Cooper’s first question: “Is the mouse in the mouse trap?”
Immediately, they both ran to the closet, and Brisco yelled, “Close the door so it can’t get out!”
Of course this took some explaining and led to more intriguing questions such as, “Do mouses eat skin?” and “Where do mice come from?” I did my best to answer all their questions, but I’m not sure I did any of them justice. They spent the rest of the morning scouring the house for “holes” and “cracks” and reporting back to me concerning just where “these mouses might be getting themselves in”.
Thankfully, by the end of the day, they seemed to have forgotten all about our uninvited guests. They were no longer fascinated with “checking the traps” or “hunting them down”. No more “bat and mouse”. No more flashlight brigade. And that was just fine with me. Because no matter how long I live, or how many little boys go scurrying through my house, I’m still the kind of gal who yanks my feet off the floor and screams like a baby at the mere thought of even one pesky little mouse in my house.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Real Mothers
(A collection of thoughts sent to me from one of my favorite mothers, and a few I’ve learned on my own!)
Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers are experts at patching “broken” jeans.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably buried in the sandbox.
Real Mothers accept kisses no matter how slobbery, muddy, greasy or snotty.
Real Mothers deliver on their promises to color or cut or play slap jack-no matter how exhausted they are.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers read The Pumpkin Goblin “one last time” even though it’s 30 minutes past lights out.
Real Mothers know that dried paint doesn't come out of carpets.
Real Mothers put themselves last in line for the shower, no matter how many ballgames they sat through.
Real Mothers undoubtedly have a vision of the Ideal Mother in their mind’s eye, a picture to which they so often fail to measure up.
Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, “Why me?” and get their answer when a little voice says, “Because I love you best.”
Real Mothers cook supper, paint the kitchen wall and create zoo animals out of play dough-all at the same time.
Real Mothers know that their children love them in spite of their faults, regardless of their flaws, and without fail.
Real Mothers know that a child's growth is not measured by height or years or grade. It is marked by the progression from Mommy to Mom to Mother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Real Mothers don't eat quiche; they don't have time to make it.
Real Mothers are experts at patching “broken” jeans.
Real Mothers know that their kitchen utensils are probably buried in the sandbox.
Real Mothers accept kisses no matter how slobbery, muddy, greasy or snotty.
Real Mothers deliver on their promises to color or cut or play slap jack-no matter how exhausted they are.
Real Mothers often have sticky floors, filthy ovens and happy kids.
Real Mothers read The Pumpkin Goblin “one last time” even though it’s 30 minutes past lights out.
Real Mothers know that dried paint doesn't come out of carpets.
Real Mothers put themselves last in line for the shower, no matter how many ballgames they sat through.
Real Mothers undoubtedly have a vision of the Ideal Mother in their mind’s eye, a picture to which they so often fail to measure up.
Real Mothers don't want to know what the vacuum just sucked up.
Real Mothers sometimes ask, “Why me?” and get their answer when a little voice says, “Because I love you best.”
Real Mothers cook supper, paint the kitchen wall and create zoo animals out of play dough-all at the same time.
Real Mothers know that their children love them in spite of their faults, regardless of their flaws, and without fail.
Real Mothers know that a child's growth is not measured by height or years or grade. It is marked by the progression from Mommy to Mom to Mother.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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