As we rode in the back of the Aerostar Minivan/taxicab, I felt the driver ripping through the empty streets of the Dallas suburb as if working to qualify for pole position. This formula one racer turned family truckster turned on-the-spot cabby could have been the next big up and comer on the NASCAR circuit. At least that’s what the two cups of coffee in my otherwise empty stomach in her backseat at 4 a.m. was telling me. But I just held on tight and thought to myself, “Stay calm. A few more miles and you’ll be on a plane headed for the islands. Destination: Paradise.”
But as we unloaded at the airport, I had no idea how many others would be en route to their own versions of paradise, until I saw the line stacked in triplicate all the way from baggage check-in to the doors leading to the street. Not to worry. I had e-tickets. And that little kiosk was calling my name.
I stepped to the automated check-in machine, an ATM for boarding passes, and put in all the required information, from our birthdates to our shoe size to the color of our underwear, and awaited my two tickets to paradise. Instead, the red, flashing police light that sits above the machine came on, and my do-this-the-easy-way check-in screen read: “You must see an agent.” This can’t be good.
“Don’t panic,” I told myself. In a few short hours I’ll be lying on the beach of the beautiful St. Thomas island-my sea sick hubby on one side and the crashing of the waves on the other-kids safely at home with grandparents. I can handle this airport agent. At which time I was promptly directed to the aforementioned baggage check-in line to my left.
It seems traveling at 6 a.m. on a Friday morning doesn’t do much to reduce the traffic at DFW. In addition to our two measly economy seats were seats for six generations of Lucy and Ricky, an irritable fellow with the demeanor of Ralph Kramden and Archie Bunker combined (and who had evidently been in the airport since 8a.m. the day before), and an entire high school soccer team, just to name a few. We were definitely not lacking for entertainment. Especially after the airline agent began spreading the word to the dozens of awaiting passengers that we would more than likely miss our flight.
As we finally reached the front of the line, a gentleman called us to his counter and asked for identification. He began typing on the keyboard in front of him, asking a few random questions along the way. I assumed things were good, until he called over a supervisor. The supervisor began typing on the keypad, and the two men were talking softly over one another’s shoulders. After what seemed like an excessive amount of typing from both men, I mustered my courage. “Is something wrong?” And like a scene out of a Ben Stiller movie, the guy just kept typing.
Finally, without even looking up from his screen, he said, “The problem is, the two of you are on the ‘No Fly’ list. Without even thinking, I cackled, “You’re kidding, right?” Lesson #1: Airport agents do not “kid”. Especially concerning characters as threatening to our national security as a high school baseball coach and a stay at home mom.
After a few more uncomfortable moments and what seemed like enough typing to pass half the state of Texas through baggage check, the agent informed us that we needed to be at terminal C26 now if we were going to make our flight. “And oh yes, by the way, it is too late to get your luggage on board.” And I thought raising kids was stressful.
As it turned out, we did make our flight, our luggage was in St. Thomas waiting on us, and our week of rest and relaxation was finally underway. The beauty and serenity of the water and the island were almost enough to make me feel guilty for leaving the boys at home. But I’m a firm believer that a battery will only last so long on a single charge, and it had been a long time since this drum-beating bunny had been given a rest.
While I refused to let myself think too long and hard about what the boys might be doing at home, it’s probably no coincidence that we got home with an insane number of photos of iguanas and pelicans and 747’s.
It comes as no surprise either, that after riding shot gun behind my daredevil of a husband on a jet ski going 60 mph in the over-sized waves of the windy Caribbean, I was forced to think at length about the future and welfare of my children (as my entire life flashed before my eyes).
It’s no joke that by the fourth or fifth day, we were both talking about how much this one would have loved the waterfall and how that one would have gone crazy over free vanilla ice cream any hour of the day.
It felt quite normal that almost every conversation we had with other couples along the way was about “my eight year old Tyler” or “my 25 year old in grad school” or “our three and four year old boys”.
No doubt, beaches are beautiful and vacations are vital, but our children are the real joy of our lives. It’s true that no matter where we travel or how far the journey, a piece of us remains a parent. It’s an inescapable role in which we revel and relish, even when we’re determined to retreat.
In the end, after seven relaxing days of sailing, snorkeling, sun baking and dining at sea, I know what I really knew all along: no matter how wonderful or well-deserved or exotic the location, coming home to our boys is my favorite destination.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Mom’s List
In case you have yet to notice, we are living in a world of lists. Open any year-end edition of any pop culture magazine or click on most any website on the Internet and you’ll find some kind of helpful-or completely useless-list to peruse. “10 Most Evil Disney Villains” “10 Failed McDonald’s Products” Or my personal favorite, “10 Survival Tips for People in Horror Flicks”.
It has become a money making industry, it seems, for folks to formulate their own “Top”. From Top Model to Top Chef to the literally dozens of lists compiled by ESPN’s Top Whatever-Sport-Happens-To-Be-In-Season. We can check out American Top 40 every hour of the day, thanks to satellite radio. Forbes is spending money to tell us the top 100 Celebrities making money, and they’ll even throw in the top earning dead celebrities if we’re willing to move our mouse.
We can find lists to teach us how to “talk text” with our teen. Lists to learn how to help our kids stop stuttering, and still others to tell us when we should be talking to our kids at all! But with this overload of useless listing that is pervading our web space, I’m yet to find a list that’s truly informative for the complicated, every-day tasks of parenting. So I decided to write my own.
I came to the decision to make The Mom’s List after an apparent lapse in judgment that occurred several months ago. Evidently, I decided it would be a good idea to take the boys to the skating rink. I suppose I thought it would be a fun, new experience for them. After all, I used to be a fairly decent roller skater. Surely I could handle them just fine.
But what I found after just a few short moments of adding wheels to the bottom of our shoes (which should have been my first clue) was that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe in life, there are certain things that we just shouldn’t do alone: Walking down a dark alley. Climbing Mt. Everest. Tandem skydiving. These seem so obvious, even to the faintly blond. But after our roller rink incident, I decided that maybe this mom needed a list. A list of the every day activities that any sane of mind parent might consider, but really should consider twice before tackling alone. Thus, “The Mom’s List” was born.
“The Mom’s List: Installment One”
Top five things a parent should never do alone
5. Take children roller skating
I’d say that’s been covered.
4. Take kids to the beach
First, we must clarify that the beach for us is the North Shore of Lake Altus-Lugert. Not so “beachy” as beaches go. But for a three and four year old, it does the trick. Let’s just say that if one were considering this as a fun outing, she might first realize that the journey from the car to the water is no day at the spa. From hot sand to red ants to “scratchy trees” and blowing cottonwood, getting to the beach itself with floaties, towels, children and treats is nothing short of a miracle. Having the energy to blow up the floaties, keep the sand off the Cheetos and explaining that we don’t pee where we eat is altogether another realm of the supernatural. Taking the kids to the beach: definitely a two-man job.
3. Promise to give them a spanking
This, I must clarify. In our house, we spank. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” and all that jazz. We take it to heart. But when the kids have no qualms about telling you that “your spankings don’t hurt”, the game plan, it seems, must change. I suddenly felt all alone in this spanking endeavor. My threats were idle. My spankings were wasted. My hand was sore. So, I decided I’d climb on board with the “Just wait till your Daddy get’s home” bit. But that didn’t quite seem fair to Dad, and let’s face it, I’m not quite ready to give over all my power just yet. So my best advice on giving spankings is this: Never give spankings alone. Always have with you your closest and most convincing friend, Dad’s leather belt.
2. Give them haircuts at home
Since the time of his youth, my husband has had haircuts at home. So when we got married, I just started giving him haircuts (and I use the term loosely). When the kids came, it just seemed logical that they too, would receive their haircuts at home. It probably needs mentioning here that I am in no way, shape or form a beautician. I have a comb and a pair of scissors. That’s it. So a haircut from Mom could take anywhere from 10 minutes to two hours. And that’s the truth. As you can imagine, “Sit still-Stop moving-Look straight ahead” are only a few of the phrases that I might utter in my distress. That is why haircut at home, at least at our home, should only be given if Dad is there too. He’ll sit and “take a haircut” so patiently that the boys are both begging to be next in line. There is of course one exception to this rule. If Dad is unavailable, the use of a straight jacket and a neck brace would probably suffice.
1. And the number one thing a parent should never do alone…(drum roll, please)…
Undertake the task of raising kids
I have found in my short span as a parent, that there are times when we just shouldn’t go it alone. Whether it’s my own kids’ Dad or someone else’s dad, a grandparent, a friend or a perfect stranger, sometimes a mom just needs an extra hand. From the helpful emails and notes of encouragement to the offers of trips to the park and kickball in the yard, when all a mom needs is 10 quiet minutes to clear her mind or a couple of hours to type her piece, those are the times when the kindness of others can make or break this job of being a mom.
And there you have it. The first official Top Five on “The Mom’s List“. After all, if “Craig” can do it…
And that’s All in a day’s work!
It has become a money making industry, it seems, for folks to formulate their own “Top”. From Top Model to Top Chef to the literally dozens of lists compiled by ESPN’s Top Whatever-Sport-Happens-To-Be-In-Season. We can check out American Top 40 every hour of the day, thanks to satellite radio. Forbes is spending money to tell us the top 100 Celebrities making money, and they’ll even throw in the top earning dead celebrities if we’re willing to move our mouse.
We can find lists to teach us how to “talk text” with our teen. Lists to learn how to help our kids stop stuttering, and still others to tell us when we should be talking to our kids at all! But with this overload of useless listing that is pervading our web space, I’m yet to find a list that’s truly informative for the complicated, every-day tasks of parenting. So I decided to write my own.
I came to the decision to make The Mom’s List after an apparent lapse in judgment that occurred several months ago. Evidently, I decided it would be a good idea to take the boys to the skating rink. I suppose I thought it would be a fun, new experience for them. After all, I used to be a fairly decent roller skater. Surely I could handle them just fine.
But what I found after just a few short moments of adding wheels to the bottom of our shoes (which should have been my first clue) was that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe in life, there are certain things that we just shouldn’t do alone: Walking down a dark alley. Climbing Mt. Everest. Tandem skydiving. These seem so obvious, even to the faintly blond. But after our roller rink incident, I decided that maybe this mom needed a list. A list of the every day activities that any sane of mind parent might consider, but really should consider twice before tackling alone. Thus, “The Mom’s List” was born.
“The Mom’s List: Installment One”
Top five things a parent should never do alone
5. Take children roller skating
I’d say that’s been covered.
4. Take kids to the beach
First, we must clarify that the beach for us is the North Shore of Lake Altus-Lugert. Not so “beachy” as beaches go. But for a three and four year old, it does the trick. Let’s just say that if one were considering this as a fun outing, she might first realize that the journey from the car to the water is no day at the spa. From hot sand to red ants to “scratchy trees” and blowing cottonwood, getting to the beach itself with floaties, towels, children and treats is nothing short of a miracle. Having the energy to blow up the floaties, keep the sand off the Cheetos and explaining that we don’t pee where we eat is altogether another realm of the supernatural. Taking the kids to the beach: definitely a two-man job.
3. Promise to give them a spanking
This, I must clarify. In our house, we spank. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” and all that jazz. We take it to heart. But when the kids have no qualms about telling you that “your spankings don’t hurt”, the game plan, it seems, must change. I suddenly felt all alone in this spanking endeavor. My threats were idle. My spankings were wasted. My hand was sore. So, I decided I’d climb on board with the “Just wait till your Daddy get’s home” bit. But that didn’t quite seem fair to Dad, and let’s face it, I’m not quite ready to give over all my power just yet. So my best advice on giving spankings is this: Never give spankings alone. Always have with you your closest and most convincing friend, Dad’s leather belt.
2. Give them haircuts at home
Since the time of his youth, my husband has had haircuts at home. So when we got married, I just started giving him haircuts (and I use the term loosely). When the kids came, it just seemed logical that they too, would receive their haircuts at home. It probably needs mentioning here that I am in no way, shape or form a beautician. I have a comb and a pair of scissors. That’s it. So a haircut from Mom could take anywhere from 10 minutes to two hours. And that’s the truth. As you can imagine, “Sit still-Stop moving-Look straight ahead” are only a few of the phrases that I might utter in my distress. That is why haircut at home, at least at our home, should only be given if Dad is there too. He’ll sit and “take a haircut” so patiently that the boys are both begging to be next in line. There is of course one exception to this rule. If Dad is unavailable, the use of a straight jacket and a neck brace would probably suffice.
1. And the number one thing a parent should never do alone…(drum roll, please)…
Undertake the task of raising kids
I have found in my short span as a parent, that there are times when we just shouldn’t go it alone. Whether it’s my own kids’ Dad or someone else’s dad, a grandparent, a friend or a perfect stranger, sometimes a mom just needs an extra hand. From the helpful emails and notes of encouragement to the offers of trips to the park and kickball in the yard, when all a mom needs is 10 quiet minutes to clear her mind or a couple of hours to type her piece, those are the times when the kindness of others can make or break this job of being a mom.
And there you have it. The first official Top Five on “The Mom’s List“. After all, if “Craig” can do it…
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Family 4th Traditions
On July 4th we usually find ourselves in Sentinel. Whether it’s standing parade-side on Main Street with our plastic, candy bags ready for collection or sweating it out at the park before retreating to the coolness of my grandmother’s house, for the better part of 25 years, I’d say I’ve been there more times than not. And now my own family is joining in the tradition.
Up until now, we’ve just been visitors, and for the last four years, visitors with little kids. Kids to chase and corral in a crowded park, to keep from getting pounced under prancing horse hoofs, to avoid concussions at the horseshoe pit.
Our boys faintly remember the parade from last year. They remember the candy and all the cousins being with them. They remember the earth shattering sirens on the emergency vehicles that had them ducking for cover in nervous angst. And that’s about it, after all they were only two and three. But this year was a little different. This year we were locals, and we seemed to be right in the middle of it all.
Being a year older-practically grown-I suppose is one reason (in my sleep deprived state of delirium) that I agreed they could be in the parade this year. At first, it might not sound so absurd-two little boys riding in a parade. But let me rephrase. This year, our boys drove in the parade, or raced might be a better word.
After discovering that Fisher Price and John Deere make child-size, battery-powered toys big enough for kids to actually climb into the driver’s seat and cruise, we have been unstoppable. Not at home, mind you. I can’t keep up with socks and shoes, not to mention a three and four year old with their own set of wheels. But having friends with cool toys is a plus-except possibly if they’re on a parade route with lots of people, loud tractors, huge trucks and large animals. Definitely too much traffic for the inexperienced four year old. Hindsight tells me this now. But at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, it seemed like a good idea.
So there we were, Cooper on a battery powered four-wheeler and Brisco at the helm of a miniature gator. I thought surely they would be ok with dad just feet behind in a man-sized golf cart. And I really had myself convinced until I saw my four year old passing traffic on Main.
I could see from a distance that someone was attempting to pull ahead of the pack. It wasn’t until I heard the family sitting just to the east laughing about the little speed racer that I realized, yep, that’s my kid. I stepped out in front of him, just as he was about to pass the floats, and said, “Cooper! What in the world are you doing way up here?” I could see on his face that my question was enough to almost send him over the edge. He puckered up and started to tear and through his whine I could just make out, “Well Daddy said I could!” Of course.
So I blindly stepped aside to watch my first born nearly take out the children next to us in his attempts to pass every entry in the parade so that he could be the first to cross that finish line.
I turned my attention to Brisco, the three-year old driver I thought I should be worrying about, only to see him playing bumper cars with a little green tractor. It was almost more than I could take, but at least dad was only a few feet away. That really put my mind at ease.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized how out of control the whole scenario really was. Comments like, “Cooper would get right up on the back of that bumper and then slam on his brakes.” or “I was gonna jump out of the pickup and stop him if he tried to pass someone on the highway.” And Brisco was caught trying to drive and pick up candy off the road at the same time, although that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows Brisco. It can really make a mother check her sanity after it’s all said and done.
In the end, it was a day filled with new family traditions and unforeseen learning experiences for this naïve mom. 1. Riding kamikaze around a cabin in the country does not qualify one to drive in a parade. 2. Multi-tasking behind the wheel of a moving vehicle is not in the male, Smith genes. 3. We are still too young and “auditorily sensitive” to enjoy the beauty of fireworks.
Of course, there’s always next year.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Up until now, we’ve just been visitors, and for the last four years, visitors with little kids. Kids to chase and corral in a crowded park, to keep from getting pounced under prancing horse hoofs, to avoid concussions at the horseshoe pit.
Our boys faintly remember the parade from last year. They remember the candy and all the cousins being with them. They remember the earth shattering sirens on the emergency vehicles that had them ducking for cover in nervous angst. And that’s about it, after all they were only two and three. But this year was a little different. This year we were locals, and we seemed to be right in the middle of it all.
Being a year older-practically grown-I suppose is one reason (in my sleep deprived state of delirium) that I agreed they could be in the parade this year. At first, it might not sound so absurd-two little boys riding in a parade. But let me rephrase. This year, our boys drove in the parade, or raced might be a better word.
After discovering that Fisher Price and John Deere make child-size, battery-powered toys big enough for kids to actually climb into the driver’s seat and cruise, we have been unstoppable. Not at home, mind you. I can’t keep up with socks and shoes, not to mention a three and four year old with their own set of wheels. But having friends with cool toys is a plus-except possibly if they’re on a parade route with lots of people, loud tractors, huge trucks and large animals. Definitely too much traffic for the inexperienced four year old. Hindsight tells me this now. But at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, it seemed like a good idea.
So there we were, Cooper on a battery powered four-wheeler and Brisco at the helm of a miniature gator. I thought surely they would be ok with dad just feet behind in a man-sized golf cart. And I really had myself convinced until I saw my four year old passing traffic on Main.
I could see from a distance that someone was attempting to pull ahead of the pack. It wasn’t until I heard the family sitting just to the east laughing about the little speed racer that I realized, yep, that’s my kid. I stepped out in front of him, just as he was about to pass the floats, and said, “Cooper! What in the world are you doing way up here?” I could see on his face that my question was enough to almost send him over the edge. He puckered up and started to tear and through his whine I could just make out, “Well Daddy said I could!” Of course.
So I blindly stepped aside to watch my first born nearly take out the children next to us in his attempts to pass every entry in the parade so that he could be the first to cross that finish line.
I turned my attention to Brisco, the three-year old driver I thought I should be worrying about, only to see him playing bumper cars with a little green tractor. It was almost more than I could take, but at least dad was only a few feet away. That really put my mind at ease.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized how out of control the whole scenario really was. Comments like, “Cooper would get right up on the back of that bumper and then slam on his brakes.” or “I was gonna jump out of the pickup and stop him if he tried to pass someone on the highway.” And Brisco was caught trying to drive and pick up candy off the road at the same time, although that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows Brisco. It can really make a mother check her sanity after it’s all said and done.
In the end, it was a day filled with new family traditions and unforeseen learning experiences for this naïve mom. 1. Riding kamikaze around a cabin in the country does not qualify one to drive in a parade. 2. Multi-tasking behind the wheel of a moving vehicle is not in the male, Smith genes. 3. We are still too young and “auditorily sensitive” to enjoy the beauty of fireworks.
Of course, there’s always next year.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A ballgame to remember
Even though we only have one official ball player at our house this summer, we have uniforms for two. Whatever big brother does, Brisco is never far behind, so each game day begins well in advance with the donning of the official Sentinel Red garb right down to the thick, heavy red leggings pulled straight to the top of the thigh. As we prepared to go to the ball field last Tuesday night, I suppose it was a good thing to be found dressed out in full uniform because for Brisco, it would be a ball game to remember.
As our eldest’s game was set to begin, a “scout” approached from the other ball field. Seems the Sentinel White coach pitch team had a few players missing and was looking for a couple of fill-ins. Before considering the consequences, I opened my mouth and said, “Brisco would probably play.”
The scout agreed to let him try, but Brisco wasn’t so sure. He considered it for a moment but declined. I suppose after I told him I’d go over with him, he decided it might not be so bad, so we trekked over to the other ball field and off he went. Like an old pro, with an entourage of six or seven pretty girls to cheer him on.
Now at this particular moment in time, two things were going through my head: 1. He’s gonna last about 10 minutes before walking off the field, declaring “I’m done”; and 2. How am I going to watch two kids play two different ball games at the same time?
The former is a trait that is probably true of most three year olds in general. It just wasn’t an issue for his older brother-ever. At least not where baseball is concerned. But to my surprise, Brisco jumped right out into left field-where he spends most of his time anyway-and had himself a ball.
He fielded several hits and made a few great throws. One time he even threw to one of the coaches standing near third when he saw the runner at second trying to advance. I had to be sure and let him know that in a real game, the grown ups aren’t allowed to play.
The spectacle of the night, at least for his parents, came at the plate. In coach pitch, they’re allowed five pitches. Balls or strikes, it doesn’t matter where they land, five pitches it is. So there he stood, all 35 inches of him, armed at the plate with a bat that’s almost as long as he is tall. He banged the bat on the plate. Dust flew about, and he reared back into his stance. Then came the pitch.
He struck out his first at bat, but the second time up, he just had that look in his eye. That “Brisco” look that only he has. That determination, all-business, get-outa-my-way look that says he’s hittin this ball so you better get ready. He swung at the first two, but let the third pitch go by. Turning to face the backstop-and his mother-he yelled, “That one was too high! It was a ball!” I reminded him he would only get two more pitches, and as he struck at the fourth, I couldn’t help but think to myself how small he looked up there. So small, and yet, (if you ask him) so big!
Here it was-the final pitch. Could the little man do it? The ball came sailing in. He swung, and with all his might, he hit a high fly just behind the infielders at second and short. He dropped that bat and ran to first as fast as his little legs would take him. I was yelling like a moron, and I guess everyone else in the park was doing the same--even the mothers on the other team. And…Yes! He was safe!
I’d like to say I didn’t get all sappy and teary, but any mom who’s ever witnessed one of her kid’s “firsts” knows that it isn’t true. I welled up, like always, with that purest of Mommy pride that only comes when one of my two boys gets it right.
I’d like to say I was most proud of the way he ran through the base at first, as fast as those two stubby legs would take him; or of the fact that when he got thrown out at second, the coach on the other team couldn’t bear to make him go to the dugout; or of the way he took his “giant” lead off second, even though they aren’t allowed to lead off in coach pitch.
But really I’m no different than the most relentless of the Babe Ruth or Hammerin’ Hank fans-I’m a sucker for the long ball. And, so, it seems, is my boy, because as he recounted to his fan club his first official hit, all he had to say was this: “I hit it so high it almost touched the sky!”
I have no idea the kind of fun we are in for or what the future holds for our boys and baseball. They love it like a long lost brother and a big bowl of ice cream all rolled into one. It’s the last thing they think about at night and the first thing they beg to do in the morning. No amount of playing catch in the yard or taking grounders on the field can seem to quench their undying thirst for this game.
So as we took off our cleats and hung up our hat, this night of swinging metal and popping leather came to a close. Tonight, chasing balls and running bases became more than something designed for “Daddy’s boys” or Cooper’s friends. Tonight, the game of baseball came alive for Brisco Berra. For him-and for us-it was definitely a ballgame to remember.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As our eldest’s game was set to begin, a “scout” approached from the other ball field. Seems the Sentinel White coach pitch team had a few players missing and was looking for a couple of fill-ins. Before considering the consequences, I opened my mouth and said, “Brisco would probably play.”
The scout agreed to let him try, but Brisco wasn’t so sure. He considered it for a moment but declined. I suppose after I told him I’d go over with him, he decided it might not be so bad, so we trekked over to the other ball field and off he went. Like an old pro, with an entourage of six or seven pretty girls to cheer him on.
Now at this particular moment in time, two things were going through my head: 1. He’s gonna last about 10 minutes before walking off the field, declaring “I’m done”; and 2. How am I going to watch two kids play two different ball games at the same time?
The former is a trait that is probably true of most three year olds in general. It just wasn’t an issue for his older brother-ever. At least not where baseball is concerned. But to my surprise, Brisco jumped right out into left field-where he spends most of his time anyway-and had himself a ball.
He fielded several hits and made a few great throws. One time he even threw to one of the coaches standing near third when he saw the runner at second trying to advance. I had to be sure and let him know that in a real game, the grown ups aren’t allowed to play.
The spectacle of the night, at least for his parents, came at the plate. In coach pitch, they’re allowed five pitches. Balls or strikes, it doesn’t matter where they land, five pitches it is. So there he stood, all 35 inches of him, armed at the plate with a bat that’s almost as long as he is tall. He banged the bat on the plate. Dust flew about, and he reared back into his stance. Then came the pitch.
He struck out his first at bat, but the second time up, he just had that look in his eye. That “Brisco” look that only he has. That determination, all-business, get-outa-my-way look that says he’s hittin this ball so you better get ready. He swung at the first two, but let the third pitch go by. Turning to face the backstop-and his mother-he yelled, “That one was too high! It was a ball!” I reminded him he would only get two more pitches, and as he struck at the fourth, I couldn’t help but think to myself how small he looked up there. So small, and yet, (if you ask him) so big!
Here it was-the final pitch. Could the little man do it? The ball came sailing in. He swung, and with all his might, he hit a high fly just behind the infielders at second and short. He dropped that bat and ran to first as fast as his little legs would take him. I was yelling like a moron, and I guess everyone else in the park was doing the same--even the mothers on the other team. And…Yes! He was safe!
I’d like to say I didn’t get all sappy and teary, but any mom who’s ever witnessed one of her kid’s “firsts” knows that it isn’t true. I welled up, like always, with that purest of Mommy pride that only comes when one of my two boys gets it right.
I’d like to say I was most proud of the way he ran through the base at first, as fast as those two stubby legs would take him; or of the fact that when he got thrown out at second, the coach on the other team couldn’t bear to make him go to the dugout; or of the way he took his “giant” lead off second, even though they aren’t allowed to lead off in coach pitch.
But really I’m no different than the most relentless of the Babe Ruth or Hammerin’ Hank fans-I’m a sucker for the long ball. And, so, it seems, is my boy, because as he recounted to his fan club his first official hit, all he had to say was this: “I hit it so high it almost touched the sky!”
I have no idea the kind of fun we are in for or what the future holds for our boys and baseball. They love it like a long lost brother and a big bowl of ice cream all rolled into one. It’s the last thing they think about at night and the first thing they beg to do in the morning. No amount of playing catch in the yard or taking grounders on the field can seem to quench their undying thirst for this game.
So as we took off our cleats and hung up our hat, this night of swinging metal and popping leather came to a close. Tonight, chasing balls and running bases became more than something designed for “Daddy’s boys” or Cooper’s friends. Tonight, the game of baseball came alive for Brisco Berra. For him-and for us-it was definitely a ballgame to remember.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
It’s just another day
Last week, I decided I would attempt to prepare our boys for Father’s Day. I let them help me wrap dad’s presents, and we talked about what exactly Father’s Day is. I’m pretty sure my time would have been better spent cleaning the gunk that accumulates around the bolts at the base of the toilet. (You know the ones.) What I found in my feeble attempts to acclimate two little boys to a government-created “day of appreciation” was that for us, Father’s Day is just another day.
The calendar has nothing to do with appreciating dad at our house. Twelve months of the year-seven day a week, our boys never tire of “appreciating” their dad. They appreciate wrestling matches and tickle fests. They appreciate slip and sliding and swimming at the pool. They appreciate working at the ball park and working in the yard. And above all, they appreciate endless innings of backyard baseball, no matter how many hours dad has already put in. Yes, our boys know how to “appreciate” their dad, although this might not be the exact word he would choose.
I learned a few new things myself this Father’s Day. I’m already making plans for next year.
1. They may be old enough to appreciate the theme song in the greeting card, but they are still too young to watch Raider’s of the Lost Ark.
2. Pallets in the floor are nothing more than an invitation to a body slam.
3. Slip and sliding may seem like a day-long activity, but it really only lasts 10 minutes.
4. Wet shorts on leather couches don’t do much for the décor.
5. No matter how many times you explain that it’s Father’s Day, the little one still wants to get a present.
6. Taking rides on a tractor and a combine create lasting memories in the mind of a child.
7. Three year olds won’t drink after their brothers, but they have no qualms about using their dad’s soggy toothpick.
8. Never put your finger in the peeling plaster of a wall. Evidently it’s a great place for hiding boogers.
9. Baseball can be played in the dark. What does the Mom know anyway?
10. Father’s Day has nothing to do with the calendar. At least at our house, it’s just another day.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A child’s concept of time
“What time will Daddy be little?” A strange question to most, but not to a mom. It’s just one of the countless quandaries our little ones throw our way every day. Questions to which we really don’t have an appropriate answer. Questions that don’t even make much sense in the mind of most. But then it registers just who it is who’s doing the asking, and we’ll almost kill ourselves trying to come up with an informative and responsible answer.
I can almost see the wheels turning in his mind when my youngest boy says it. “Mommy, when you grow up, are you gonna be a little girl?” It seems logical to him. I have to remind myself though, that he doesn’t understand “later” or “tomorrow” or even “just a minute!” Why on earth would he understand the cycle and sequence of human life?
A child’s concept of time is something that is only truly understood by the little people themselves. First, for us, came the stage where everything in the past happened “yesterday”. A birthday that was last year. A visit to grandma’s last month. Kirk Gibson’s game winning home run in the 1988 World Series. All “yesterday”.
Not only did the past perplex us, but the future held it’s own set of problems. It took me a while to learn that we don’t talk about events that are to come until about 10 minutes before they are scheduled to take place. Otherwise, the count down of “days till we go” or “Is today the day” of whatever we’re planning will send a parent straight to the nuthouse. Surprise them. That’s what I say.
I first noticed that my boys were confused about the notion of time when I would lay them down for a nap. I’d explain that we needed to rest because “Daddy has a ballgame today.” Cooper would always get so upset. I couldn’t understand it until he finally blubbered, “If you make us go to bed, we’ll miss Daddy’s game!” It seemed to him that each time he went to bed was the end of that day and the beginning of “tomorrow“. I was starting to understand his frustration.
Brisco still has a hard time understanding why he has to go to bed when the sun is still up. “But Mom, It’s a sunny day!” he’ll protest. Yes, this passing of time thing is a notion that’s almost impossible for my children to grasp.
The most entertaining and noteworthy conversations I’ve had about the passing of time, however, always seem to come in the form of questions.
Cooper: “Mom, what time will you get married?”
I explained how the whole marriage thing works-edited for a four year old, of course-that his dad and I were married before he was born and then years later along he came, and he stared at me for a moment, I assumed taking it all in-processing every word. After a short pause, he said, “Now, what does all that mean?”
On another occasion, concerning the same topic:
Cooper: “I love you every day!”
I responded in kind, with a big hug and smooch on the cheek. To this he responded: “I want to get married to you!” Seeing the two of us laughing and wanting to get in on the action himself, Brisco added, “I want to be married to Cooper and you!” And after getting such a big laugh with that, he added, “I want to be married to Cooper and Daddy and you!” Then, just as quickly as the thought popped into his brain he spouted, “Hey, Mom! What time will you have a wife?” Anything for a laugh. That’s my boy.
I was sitting at the computer one day while the boys were outside playing ball. Brisco came in the back door, head hanging, arms lying limply at his sides. He was looking rather dejected. He sulked up next to me at the desk where I was sitting and said in his most pathetic three year old voice, “Maaahom. It’s taking too long.” I decided to bite. “For what, sweetie?” He replied, still moping, “For me to be the Daddy.” “What? Are you kidding? Slow down there, Buddy!” I teased. But I could see he was not moving. And he was not kidding.
I turned to him and asked, “Why do you wanna be the Daddy so soon?” He responded through his big, smile and with his crinkled up nose, “Because it will be fun!” I gave him a big hug, all the while thinking to myself, “Yeah, kid, it’s gonna be fun. Fun for me, watching you raise a little Brisco!”
I guess that’s a testament to the light in which he sees his own Daddy. Or maybe he just likes the idea of being on the other side of the belt. Either way, it’s another example of the confusion created when kids start contemplating the passing of time.
Kids can come up with the craziest questions. “When Martha grows up, will she be a little girl?” Seems silly, right? Makes no sense? I don’t know. I think somehow they might be on to something. I kinda like the idea of growing younger every day. Maybe a child’s concept of time isn’t so crazy after all.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Monday, June 8, 2009
“Just a Mom”
The following passage came to me in an email, author unknown. I thought it good enough-and true enough-to share.
A woman, renewing her driver’s license at the County Clerk’s office, was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation. She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.
“What I mean is,” explained the recorder, “do you have a job or are you just a ....?”
“Of course I have a job,” snapped the woman. “I’m a Mom.”
“We don’t list ‘Mom’ as an occupation. ‘Housewife’ covers it,” said the recorder emphatically.
I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a high sounding title like, “Official Interrogator” or “Town Registrar.”
“What is your occupation?” she probed.
What made me say it? I do not know. The words simply popped out. “I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.”
The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair and looked up as though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly emphasizing the most significant words. Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written, in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.
“Might I ask,” said the clerk with new interest, “just what you do in your field?”
Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, “I have a continuing program of research (what mother doesn’t), In the laboratory and in the field (normally I would have said indoors and out). I’m working for my Masters (first the Lord and then the whole family), and already have four credits (all daughters).
Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities (any mother care to disagree?), and I often work 14 hours a day (24 is more like it). But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money.”
There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk’s voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door.
As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants—ages 13, 7, and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6 month old baby) in the child development program, testing out a new vocal pattern.
I felt I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than “just another Mom.”
Motherhood! What a glorious career! Especially when there’s a title on the door.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)