A Lesson About Mammals

Both of my sisters recently told me that I need to watch a documentary called "Babies".  They made it sound awfully intriguing, so I decided to give it a whirl.  

It happens to be one of the movies you can stream from Netflix, so I was sitting at my computer completely dumbstruck by the way babies are raised in different cultures, when my seven year old son, Ethan, came into the room.

I hit the pause button on that movie so fast, it was like lightning.  Ninja skills with the mouse kind of speed.

Why?  Because I was watching a documentary that showed bare-chested African women, that's why.

My sons have never seen a bare-chested woman of any race, and I wasn't sure if this film was how I wanted them to first encounter that, or if they are even ready to encounter such realities.  I remember the first time I saw a National Geographic magazine, and I recall with perfect clarity the feeling of regret over the loss of my innocence.  So I shewed him away.

I know that it's the culture in many parts of the world to go without much clothing, and I know that breastfeeding is natural...  But we're talking about a seven year old boy and a whole bunch of boobies.

It took me about three days to finish watching this film, and during the last twenty minutes or so, both of my older boys came in to my room again, wanting to know what I was watching.  I gave it about twenty seconds of thought and decided that if I prepared them, they would be fine.

"Boys", I said, "this is a movie about four real life babies who are growing up in different countries around the world, and it shows naked women.   If that's something you're OK with seeing, then you can watch this with me.  If you don't want to see that, then you should go find something else to do."

They both said they didn't mind, (no shock there), so I hit the play button and away we went.

Not too far into it, the African woman is walking along a road with her small son, and he begins to cry, so she bends down and offers him her breast for a drink.  Ethan scrunched his eyebrows up and said, "Is that a bottle or something?"

How did my children get this far into life without knowing about breastfeeding?  I never imagined they were so sheltered.  They've seen people doing it, but I guess they didn't know exactly what was going on.

I explained what it was to Ethan and Cameron, and you would not believe the shock.  I asked them what they knew about mammals, and they told me all the basics - they give birth to live young, they have hair, etc...  I said, "Yes -- and they feed their young with milk they make from their bodies."  And then I uttered the words, "We are mammals."

Cameron immediately bolted from the room, and Ethan screamed and lifted up his shirt to inspect his chest.  "Are you telling me I'm going to grow those things??"

I was laughing so hard I had to end the lesson there.  Imagine their horror if they knew that they were both breast-fed for the first few weeks of their lives. 

T-E-N

Cameron turned ten years old on Easter Sunday.  Yeah, I'm behind on the posting.  I know.  Anyway, any kid who has had a birthday fall on a holiday knows that it stinks to have to share the spotlight.  So instead of celebrating his big day on the actual day of his birth, we spent the entire week leading up to it doing ten fun (and cheap) things in honor of his achievement.  (You know - not being so horrible over the last ten years that I had to kill him.)

I present to you the list.  Along with pictures where I remembered to take them.

#1

We went to a new park.

#2

We got Blizzards from one of the many, many Dairy Queens within a mile radius of our house.  The Dairy Queens here are an odd phenomenon.

#3

We went to the zoo.

#4

We went on a pic-nic with Dad.  Why do Subway sandwiches always taste better than any sandwich you can make yourself?

#5

Nerf gun war.

#6

Late night movie fest.

#7

Sleep-over with cousin, Aiden.  (And what sleepover is complete without a few tricks with matches that give you Mason jar hickies?)

#8

We made sugar cookies.  (And I took some to the neighbors, but that's another story entirely.)

#9

We decorated Easter eggs.  Yes, we would have done this anyway, birthday or no, but I'm counting it.

#10

We had a pizza and brownie sundae party complete with presents.  We sorta forgot to put candles on his brownie, (the kid hates cake, and I don't blame him), and we neglected to sing to him.  But someone brought it to my attention about the time he was half-way done eating, so we just did it midway through.  Better late than never applies here.

Happy Birthday to Cameron, who will not receive such good treatment for such an extended period of time next year.

Still Pluggin' Away

We're still neck deep in homeschool, in case anyone was wondering.  It's going pretty well, I suppose.  My kids know all about viscosity, so I don't know what else the state could ask of me.  I haven't really figured out how a knowledge of viscosity can be applied to real life just yet, but Cameron and Ethan can sit down to breakfast and say, "Mom, I prefer my maple syrup with a slightly lower viscosity, so could you microwave it for me, please?"  And one of them did say that, so they sound smart, if nothing else.

Today we did a science experiment called The Incredible Can Crusher!  We crushed a can using nothing but air and a little cold water.  The sound of a gunshot was involved, so it was a huge success, of course.  When in doubt - loud noises are popular with boys.

Cameron and Ethan are learning to play the piano, courtesy of Grandma.  Just today Cameron mastered Ode To Joy - and after only six lessons, too!  Here's a little video of their recital, which took place after four lessons.  (My mom requested the footage, so if you're not my mom, don't feel obligated to watch. - Mom, you have to because it took me six years to download the 70 second reel.)

Reading, math, language arts, PE, and spelling are all coming along nicely, too.  And after seven months of this, I can say that I am very grateful for public schools.  Cause dang.  I'm beat.

A River Of Vomit

The hubs and I have never had a Thanksgiving dinner in our own home.  Having family around for the holidays is both a blessing and a curse.  I can't imagine not being with my loved ones for Thanksgiving, but going somewhere else for the feast means never having turkey and trimmings leftovers.

So every stinking year we have to cook our own Thanksgiving turkey, dressing, yams, etc, the day after Thanksgiving so that we can have a turkey sandwich and the very best of all - turkey soup.  The whole thing is a bit of a pain, and not much fun after the real deal has been done, but it's worth it.  

You may not know it, but there are many phases of leftover turkey.  Allow me to expound.

Phase 1 - Roasted turkey, of course. (As in, the whole bird taken in it's virgin form from the oven.)

Phase 2 - Plain old leftover turkey.

Phase 3 - Fried turkey.  Oh, yum.

Phase 4 - Mashed potatoes with turkey gravy.  Just like they used to make in the school cafeteria, minus stray hairs. 

Phase 5 - Turkey sandwiches.  (And for lunch for the next two days as well.)

Phase 6 - Turkey soup.

Phase 7 - Turkey soup with a block of cream cheese melted into it.  It's the culmunation of all things beautiful about Thanksgiving turkey.

So this year we cooked our turkey on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and then skipped phases three through six and went straight for the joyous and fattening cream cheese turkey soup.

Cameron is a huge fan of Phase 7 Turkey.  He drooled all afternoon while smelling the soup simmering on the stove.  And when dinner hit the table he attacked the soup with a vigor usually reserved for delicacies like baskets full of fresh summer strawberries and banana splits (hold the banana).

Not long after dinner Cameron complained of a stomach ache.  I told him he'd probably eaten too much too fast and to just take it easy until he felt better.  About an hour after that I heard him call me from the bathroom.  I was in the middle of a very important task and couldn't personally attend to him.  I figured he needed a toilet paper refill or something.  So I sent Ethan to find out what he wanted.  

The next thing I hear is Ethan screaming, "MOM!!!!" and retreating back down the hallway.

Jumping from my computer chair, I bolted to the hallway and found a river of turkey soup vomit flowing out from under the bathroom door and oozing slowly toward me.  I straddled the river and flung open the bathroom door.  There stood Cameron looking somewhat relieved, but mostly afraid.  As well he should have.

Who stands in a bathroom and pukes on the door instead of in the toilet?  My kid, apparently.

There was so much vomit I honestly couldn't believe Cameron's stomach had held that much liquid.  There were unchewed baby carrots floating on the bathroom floor, and some of the bow-tie noodles I had put in the soup had miraculously gotten underneath the bathroom door and were drifting down the hall - also unchewed.  Good hell, that kid must have really wolfed that soup down.

Andrew and I stood there and tried to figure out how to clean up a mess that size.  We considered the shop vac, but opted for bath towels that we could just toss into the trash afterward.  Two bath towels, six rags, half a roll of paper towels, and one bottle of Lysol later, the bathroom still smelled like Lake Vomit.  

I tried sprinkling baking soda on the floor and all down the hallway to get rid of the smell, but that didn't work either.  The problem is, we have a tile floor in our bathroom, and the bozo who laid it didn't bother to seal the grout, so the vomit just kinda soaked in and set up camp.  

I finally had to call my mom for suggestions, and she said I should try vinegar.  I basically just dumped an entire bottle of the stuff on the floor, and that worked in the end.

I am happy to say that the experience did not kill my love for Cream Cheese Turkey Soup.  I had some for lunch the next day, and it tasted just as divine as it did before I associated it with barf.

You Know You're a Mom When...

...you're so desperate to get a good picture of the kids that you're willing to have a Carmel Apple sucker in the photo.  Bribery - it's the mark of a desperate parent.

The Truth About The Tooth Fairy

"Mom, don't forget I put my tooth under my pillow."

"Why would I need to know that?"

"You know, just in case the tooth fairy doesn't exist."

Well, it happened.  Cameron is beginning to figure things out.  I felt kinda sad about this exchange we had, but I've known this was coming, and was even a little worried that he was catching on too slowly.

I sent him off to bed for one more night of believing, and tomorrow, I'll have the unfortunate task of taking the magic out of every holiday he's ever lost sleep over.

Because I can't tell the truth about the tooth fairy and expect that Santa will remain unscathed.

But if he knows the truth about the Tooth Fairy, do I still have to fork out a dollar every time he loses a molar?

Hints Of Puberty

My kids spent about a week watching nothing but iCarly last month. I was completely weirded out by it at first because that show deals with things like crushes and kissing...not topics my older boys have been interested in before.

About two weeks after that started, it seemed that the boys had drifted back into Cartoon Land, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Until I heard a conversation they had last night when they were watching Scooby-Doo. Cameron and Ethan were talking about which girls on the show were hot. Ethan seemed to think that one of the Hex Girls was hot, while Cameron insisted that Daphne was the hottie.

These are cartoons.

So, with Cameron at nine and Ethan at seven, I'm taking bets as to how much longer I can get away with postponing the sex talk. I'm thinking it could be a matter of days.

And for the record, Daphne is a twit. Brains are sexy, so Velma has my vote for hottie. Plus, the mini-skirt? She's got a naughty librarian thing going on.

This Is My Life

I had to make a really early run to the bank yesterday morning, (one of those times where you're trying to make a deposit before a check clears and ends up costing you an arm and a leg in fees...). So I had to rouse my kids from bed before they were ready to be awake and herd them into the car.

There were a lot of complaints about it being five in the morning, (it was actually 8:30), and how I wouldn't let them bring pillows. (See? I totally know what it's like to have girls sometimes.)

So we drove to the bank and I pulled into a teller line, filled out my slip, and sent it through the magic chute.

And then I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my nine year old standing up in the back of the van, peeing into a Mt. Dew bottle.

Guess I should have made him go to the bathroom before we left.

Hope the bank teller enjoyed the view.

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A Role Model

My lil' bro, Joel, is just a great big kid. Big as in, 6' 7" or something like that.

And 110 pounds.

He could poke your eyeballs out with his elbows for sure.

It's that big kid factor that makes him such a wicked awesome uncle. My boys adore him. They absorb everything from his vocabulary to his facial expressions.

I love that Joel loves my kids so much, and that they have such a great pal in him, but honestly, there was a time not too far back when I thought I might have to schedule supervised visits because I was worried about what kind of stuff he might teach my kids next.

Like how to build a flame thrower.

So far, though, there have been no flame throwers. Only a mace, a battle axe, and some kind of sword with horns; all made out of foam and PVC pipe. They all beat the crap out of each other with them.

I just know that one day soon I'm going to find all of them at the park, dressed in medieval garb, having pretend battles with their Dungeons and Dragons buddies while their slutty wenches cheer them on from the sidelines. I will deal with that by pretending I don't know any of them.

The upside to all of this is that my kids can take a hit like a man. (Parenting tip: If you have a pansy for a son, just make a foam weapon and hit him with it until he stops crying.)

Joel has other areas of expertise, too, though. For example, my seven and nine year olds went to a water park with him recently and came home saying things like, "Bow-chick-a-bow-wow", and "Foxy Lay-day!", while curving their hands around in the shape of an hour-glass. They do not say this about ugly girls, so Joel must have taught them how to spot the hotties.

You can be sure I thanked him for that.

So imagine my elation when Joel taught my boys something that didn't involve violence or pre-pubescent lust! He taught them how to ride his new long board.

The kicker is that he made them wear a helmet!

So maybe there's nothing to worry about, after all.

How Parenthood Can Be Detrimental To Your Sleep

Our family has been very busy making memories this summer, and today Cameron got to make some without us. He went to Boy Scout day camp. It was about 90 minutes away from our house, and he was to meet with the other scouts and leaders at our church at 6:00 this morning to carpool.

So guess what I did all night last night? I lay awake in my bed playing out horrific scenes of rollover car crashes with my 9 year old being smeared all over the highway. Honestly, it was four AM, and I was trying to force images of Cameron's funeral out of my head.

I really, really don't like to let other people drive my kids anywhere. Especially at six AM when the drivers might be tired and doze off while going 65 MPH down the freeway. Or what if the tires on someone's minivan are bald and there's a blow-out? All kinds of horrors passed through my mind.

Consequently, I was dead tired today. I dragged myself through my daily chores, and finally, at 4:30, my son came back in the front door, all in one piece.

Hallelujah! I am gonna sleep good tonight!

Being a parent is exhausting.

Or maybe it's just being crazy that makes it so rough.

Summer Fun

Our summer rocks! Just sayin'.

Mom decided to go to the drive-in for her birthday and see Karate Kid. (Way more awesome than the original, by the way.) The drive-in is one of my favorite places ever. It's just cool.




My mom's a pretty hot 52 year old, huh? And speaking of hot...






Payback. You know what they say.




This is after four sodas, popcorn, licorice, blow pops, skittles and strawberry shortcake. Sugar is bad. But it's fun!




We've spent many a day at Lagoon, too. Buying those season passes was a really, really good idea. Whenever we're bored we just load up the car, drive for five minutes, and ride roller coasters until we puke.

I love Andrew's face in this one.


I love the names of these rides. I wish that was my job - Amusement Park Ride Namer. I would rock it! However, someone is doing a fairly decent job. Above, we have The OdySea, then below are the Jumping Dragon, Turn of the Century, and Tidal Wave - my favorite from my childhood. Hope you and yours are making some awesome memories this summer, too!

Mom, I'm Bored!

I took some of my own advice, added some from this blog, and created the Boredom Jar today. I didn't decorate mine, cause I have boys and they don't give a damn if there's ribbon on it.

So our rules are that if you complain of boredom, you can draw a slip of paper from the jar, but once you commit to being so bored that you have to have help to pull yourself out of the pending doom of depression, you have to do whatever is on the slip of paper. Even if it says that you have to clean a toilet. Yes, there are chores in the jar. (But not many - I'm not 100% mean.)

The boys were excited to try it, so I let them pull a paper this morning. The slip they chose was perfect. It said to visit someone. We all threw our shoes on and went down the street to see the baby chickens that a sweet little grandma had invited us to see last Sunday at church.

The boys had a ball! They saw the chicks, even got to pet one, fed the hens some scratch, learned how the chickens are taught where to lay their eggs...it was fun and educational! The sweet couple who hosted us were really good with the little kids and I am so glad we went.

On the way home, Cameron said, "All this excitement is making me want to be a farmer!"

Lessons At The Berry Farm

I have fond memories of berry picking with my mom and siblings every summer. We went to blueberry farms and plucked dozens of pounds of fruit from the heavy branches. Those outings were always one of my favorite parts of summer; I felt peaceful and happy.

Yesterday I took my boys plus Bryan to a local farm to pick strawberries in hopes that they would find the same simple joy in filling buckets that I had found in the task when I was young.

It almost went well.



I hadn't really taken into account that I was making this journey on my own with two one-year-olds, one three-year-old, and two school-age kids who were so anxious to fill their containers that they didn't bother to check that the berries were ripe before they plucked them from the vine. Grrr...



Add to that the babies who were stepping on the plants, taking bites out of green strawberries and then throwing them, and Drew who ... well, he pretty much did the same thing as the babes. There wasn't enough of me to keep up with them.



Then the wind kicked in and began to blow dirt into all of our eyes. My contacts were screaming in rebellion, while tears streamed down my cheeks.



I completely lost my cool and was chewing kids out for wandering off, picking unripe berries, and everything in between. I felt really bad for turning our outing into an unpleasant experience, but I decided to just fill the stinking boxes as fast as I could and get everyone back in the car before my eyes turned all that dirt to mud.



The day was not a total loss. I learned to never take toddlers to a u-pick berry farm without reinforcements, stay home if it's windy, and that no amount of squashed fruit or sticky hands is worth me becoming the uptight mom who rains on the parade. The kids still had fun, and we used those berries to make some killer smoothies.

Dear Whoever May Be Reading,

Wow, have things been crazy lately. I'm trying to re-vamp myself and prepare for summer, (providing the snow ever decides to stop), and I've let these little updates slide. Well, enough of that.

Last night I asked Cameron if he wanted me or his dad to go on the field trip with him to the zoo today. I reminded him that I am the cool one who compulsively buys things like candy and souvenirs.

But there's just something about a boy's bond with his father. So today, Andrew went with Cameron to the zoo and the planetarium. I was really glad that Cameron chose Andrew because Andrew never gets to do that kind of stuff with the boys. And really, the only reason I gave Cameron a choice is because I like to put my kids in awkward situations of having to chose their favorite parent and then guilt the hell out of them for it later on.

But if he had chosen me, that would have meant one entire day of not wiping bottoms or noses, and I would have been more than ok with that, too.


Cameron at the zoo with his group. I gave Andrew a ten so he could be the cool dad and get the kids some candy from the gift shop. We like to take every opportunity we can to buy friends for our kids.

Today, Ethan got his first library card. I announced that I was going to the library tonight and he volunteered to come along. (Cameron couldn't come because he was being punished for favoring his father.)

Ethan felt so grown up holding that gray piece of plastic. We spent a half hour perusing the books and when he found out the he could check out a movie he nearly burst with pride. When finally we got in line to check out our selections, Ethan turned to me and said, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll pay for these with my card."

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at him.

And when we got home, I had to take a picture of him pretending to read this book that is 135 pages long, has no pictures, and is far too advanced for him. He's been an avid pretend reader for two solid years. He really does sit there staring at a page for about two minutes before he turns to the next page and pretends to read that one, too. About three days after this process begins he announces that he's finished with his book and would like to start on the next one in the series. He's nuts, but I'll keep him.


Drew has finally mastered the potty. I can happily announce that I have not thrown away a pair of poopy underwear in at least three days. He hasn't had an accident of any sort in quite a long while, and he attributes his success to his tri-cornered hat. It's good luck. He also finds it helpful to bring a snack - thus the empty baggie previously containing potato chips.

We don't really take snacks into the bathroom or wear costumes when we go, I just thought this one incident of both happening was pretty comical. I can't even walk into the bathroom if I'm still chewing something - I have to stand in the hallway and swallow before I go in. So don't go calling the sanitation police or anything.


And our caboose - Trent. This picture depicts the reason I hate giving him a bath.

Because it isn't just him that gets a bath - I end up soaked, too. There have been times when he has gone four or five days without a bath because I couldn't bear to clean up the mess. I hope he grows out of the splashing obsession, because the other parts of bath time are kinda cute:


Just not cute ENOUGH.

So until next time folks, me hopes you are well. I'm going to fold laundry now.

The Homeschool Decision

Alright, folks, lets get down and dirty. I've decided to home school Cameron and Ethan next year.

There are two reasons I decided to do this, and neither of them include a desire to turn my kids into reclusive freaks who have no social skills and go on to spawn inbred children in their adult years.

The first reason is that Cameron has focus issues, not ADD or ADHD, mind you... He just likes to think about what he wants to think about - not what you tell him to think about.

For a variety of reasons, Cameron is lacking a lot of crucial building blocks in his education and consequently has a shaky academic foundation. And in a school system where we spend a maximum of about three days on any topic and then move on, ready or not, poor fundamentals are not going to fly.

The second reason for this decision is that Andrew works Tuesday through Saturday, and for three years now we have not had a proper family day. Sure, there's Sunday, but we go to church for three hours and then do not do other things because we do, believe it or not, attempt to keep the Sabbath holy. My kids need more time with their dad. (And that right there could spark an entire dissertation on how I think a lot of society's trouble today is based on lack of family time, poor priorities, and absent fathers. But I will refrain in attempt to keep on subject.) So there you have it.

Currently, the plan is to do this for one year only, but we won't know that for certain until we've tried it.

I know a lot of you have adverse opinions about home schooling, but I have to say that no system is perfect. If you've ever stepped foot in a public school, you know there are pros and cons, and I expect the same from home school. But home school allows me to put my children's needs first with the proper pros and cons - if that makes any sense.

I have to do what is right for my kids, and Cameron needs to catch up before he becomes a lost cause. He is so smart, and I know that with some one-on-one instruction he can really blossom. We're going to work on those fundamentals that he is lacking, organization, how to take tests, focus, listening skills, and maybe even have time to get a jump start on fifth grade if we make it through the fourth grade curriculum early. (Which is entirely plausible when you consider the amount of time he'll get individual instruction compared to what he would get in public school.)

I will be spending a good part of the summer mapping out where our journey will take us. I have no intention of making this a "fly by the seat of my pants" kind of school. Utah law states that Cameron and Ethan must spend the same amount of time in school at home as they would in public school and that the same subjects must be covered. Utah also states that no one can ask for proof or records showing what we've done. I will be keeping records anyway, for my own use and to cover my butt. It will not be an easy road and there will likely be a lot of trial and error involved. I'm ready for it.

If you have any questions or thoughts, please feel free to leave them in the comments section. Unless they are rude and then you can keep them to yourself and have a lovely day!

(Also, if you found any misspelled words here or poor grammar, etc., you go ahead and think that I have no place teaching my kids because I'll mess them up entirely. It'll make you feel better to just let yourself go there. Thanks!)

Sports, Parenting and Rage

Cameron's baseball team has had, I think, three games and several practices. They have had a player on base only two times, never scored a run, and they walk about a dozen batters from the other team every time they play defense.

It's the first year that the kids are doing the pitching, and it's been a painful experience.

All of the pitchers that have pitched to our kids are throwing the ball so fast that our kids can't connect to save their lives, and yet, when we pitch, we're lucky to get it in the strike zone and when it does the ball is going so slow that it barely makes it to the plate and it's a cinch to hit.

It's been very, very ugly.

I am not one of those moms who signs her kids up for sports to groom them for their college days and Andrew, believe it or not, is certainly not the kind of dad who pushes his kid to train and practice their sport every spare moment they have and yells criticism from the sidelines. We put our kids in sports if they express a desire to play and to learn skills and have fun. We have no grand assumptions or requirements that they use these experiences to secure a scholarship down the road.

But no kid likes to lose. It's much more fun to win, or at least to score.

And I think that everyone on Cameron's team is getting discouraged. But that's no excuse for the behavior of one kid on our team.

We happen to have a kid on our team who thinks he is the star, and while he probably is one of the best players on the team, he is certainly nothing to get excited about. He gets excited enough about himself without help from anyone else.

So this kid decides last night that because he is the self-proclaimed star of the team, he has the right to coach the other players. He tells them where they should be standing, how they should be standing, when it's their turn to bat, how to swing when they are on deck - the whole bit. By the time the first inning was half over, I was ready to knock him up side the head. And where was his mother? In the bleachers, completely aware of what he was doing and saying nothing.

So obnoxious was this child that I was standing at the sidelines plotting evil things to say to him, but deciding that I would be satisfied if he just struck out. (Yes, I was wishing for a kid on our team to fail, but trust me, he needed a little humbling.) I got my wish. He stood there at home plate waiting for the perfect pitch and consequently struck out by failing to swing at three perfectly acceptable pitches. Arrogant little punk.

So what does Star Player do? He uses his bat to beat the heck out of the dugout wall and points his finger at the pitcher and yells about how the pitches were not in the strike zone. (They absolutely were.)

What kind of parent raises a child to feel such disappointment at failure, to blame it on someone else, and to act in such a violently inappropriate way? His mother hollered from the bleachers that it was OK!

No, it was not OK.

She should have walked her rear-end over there and explained to her kid that while it was alright to be disappointed, it was not alright to take out his frustrations on the city's property, nor was it OK to be such a poor sport.

Perhaps her jeans with the fashionable holes much too close to her bikini line were too tight to allow her to walk at all.

So on we went with the rest of the game/massacre, and it was our turn to play in the field. We had a poor little pitcher who was trying his hardest to throw the ball into the catcher's mitt, but it was all over the place and often never made it all the way to the plate. He walked five players before he started to cry. Our coach went out and gave him a pep talk, told him not to give up, and let him continue pitching.

And that's when a kid on the other team started heckling our pitcher. He was standing on second base, right behind the pitcher's mound. He was on second base because our pitcher had thrown him four balls. Not because he had hit the ball, so he really had nothing to feel superior about - but that didn't stop him.

"Throw another ball, we could use some more runs!" He was yelling. "Just throw another crappy pitch and let's get on with it!" And they just kept coming.

I was scanning the opposite bleachers, looking for the despicable parent of this jerk of a kid who was taunting our already crying nine-year-old pitcher. Not one adult said anything to this kid. I was disgusted.

I figure there are three possibilities as to why this kid's parents did nothing about their child's behavior.

A) They weren't there. (Shame on them.)

B) They saw nothing wrong with his behavior. (Shame on them again.)

or C) They didn't want to embarrass their kid or themselves by taking any sort of discipline action in front of the crowd. (So it's ok for their kid to humiliate another player, but not for them or their child to suffer any embarrassment? Right.)

If Cameron had done something like that, I would have yanked his ass out of that game, dragging him off the base by the ear for everyone to see, and he would not have gone back in, even if it were going to cost his team a win. No kid of mine is going to belittle another child, especially one who is already perfectly aware of his own shortcomings.

My blood was boiling.

Of course, our turn to bat came around once again, and this same horrible kid with idiot parents was covering third base. Our kids had no chance at hitting a ball thrown by their pitcher, but this kid just couldn't stop himself from taunting the batters anyhow.

"Swing and miss! Swing at everything! You're going to miss it!" And he waited to shout all this crap until the pitcher had just released the ball, in hopes that the shouts would startle the batter and make him lose his focus.

It was so bad that I could actually see myself rushing the field and slapping this kid across the face and not feeling out of line at all. I probably would have received applause from every intelligent person at the park. These are nine-year-old kids. Maybe taunting and heckling is acceptable behavior for a high school game, but this is little league. We were loosing by something like ten runs; we hadn't even scored.

Andrew got agitated enough to yell, "Hey, third base! How about you shut your mouth!"

If you think that stopped him, you're wrong.

Can you just imagine what kind of parents this kid has? Think about it. What kind of lessons are they teaching that mongrel?

Our teams are facing off again on the 27th of May, and you can bet your life that I will not sit idly again. If we have to listen to this kid harass our children, then he can listen to me telling him exactly what I think of him and his baseball skills.

I need a Valium.

Birthday Boy

Cameron was born on a...Tuesday, I think, (I'm tired), just before seven in the evening. He emerged into the world silent and white. I wasn't worried because everyone around me was calm. I was hungry, though.

The nurse rushed him off somewhere even before the placenta had made it's appearance, and later brought him back looking a little more colorful and wide-eyed. The only reason I know that he wasn't swapped for another baby is because he looks so much like Andrew.

All of that was nine years ago today, and those nine years have been full of cruel experimentation. Poor Cameron. That's how it goes for first children. (Just think of all the only children who's parents never have an opportunity for a do-over!) But because Cameron is such a good, resilient kid, he has overcome most of what Andrew and I have done to him. We had his best interest at heart, really.

Everything good about Cameron, his intelligence, his compassion, his bravery and persistence, are all qualities he has in spite of his parents. I can take credit for his solid understanding of sarcasm and his inappropriate sense of humor. That's about it.

Cameron is a blessing every single day of my life. I've said it before and I'll say it again. He, more than any other person on this Earth, makes me want to try harder and be better. I can see in his face the kind of person and mother he needs me to be, and while I will always feel like that goal is just a little too high for me - he gives me something to reach for.

Love you, Cameron.

Cameron at eight.........Cameron at nine

Young Love Makes Me Sick

I understand that kids are into style and being cool at a much earlier age than they were when I was young, but I was floored at what happened with my almost nine year old yesterday.

Cameron walked in the front door after school and announced that he had invited two friends to his birthday party on Saturday and that they could both come.

I about shot through the roof, because this wasn't the first time that Cameron had invited kids to a party without me telling him that he could have a party. We only let our kids have parties every other birthday because they are just so stinking expensive, and honestly, it takes me two years to get over the trauma of a birthday party, so there you go.

I told Cam that he would have to call those two friends and tell them that he was not having a party. He was really good about it - didn't cry or scream or threaten to run away or even tell me that he hated me. He just picked up the phone and called Megan.

M-E-G-A-N. As in a girl.

And that wasn't a complete shocker, because he had two girls at his party last year when there were several kids in attendance. I was just surprised that he had invited only two people to his impromptu party and that a girl had made the cut.

So he told Megan that there was no party, they had the whole discussion about what to do with his present that she had already bought for him, (cringe), and then he said goodbye, waited a minute and began giggling like a maniac. The next words I heard from his mouth were, "No, you hang up first."

Oh, no he didn't!

And then the giggling again, followed by another, "No, you hang up first!"

He did.

Are we really going to do this already? You hang up, no you hang up? I have never even done that! (I don't think.) I couldn't decide if I was more amused or nauseous.

I am so glad that I didn't let him go ahead with this party thing because he had intended it to be an outing to a movie theater. I can't imagine what would have gone on in the dark. I bet he would've pulled the move where he'd yawn and end up with his arm around Megan.

This is all happening too fast.

Coasters

Five season passes to Lagoon: $450.00

One ball throwing game measuring the speed of Andrew's pitching*: $2.00

Video taping your kids' faces as they ride their first roller coasters: Priceless


I recommend you turn your speakers down because there is screaming involved. (Mostly on my part, I'm afraid.)


* 68 mph, by the way. Worthy of a giant, inflatable bat, but Andrew felt ashamed that he hadn't hit at least 75 mph, and I would not give him another $2.00 so he could feel like a man. So he pouted while he took Drew on the carousel. Also, this wasn't "technically" Cameron's first roller coaster. But it was his first that went upside-down. Good stuff.

In Case Of Emergency, Dial All Of Your Relatives.

This one is going to be a rant because there is no other way around it. And sometimes that's what a blog needs to be - a place for me to vent my frustrations so that I don't do anything I'd later regret.

About a year and a half ago, I got a call from my son at school. Mr. Drama Queen. He calmly told me that he might have broken his arm at recess. Well, oh, my hell! Why was he the one calling me instead of a school administrator? I grabbed my keys and hit the road to rescue my kid. I got there and the school office is buzzing with activity, but none of it is over my son. The secretaries are all answering the phones and making chit-chat with other moms and teachers in the office, and my son with the possibly broken arm is sitting in a chair by himself with his arm cradled in his good hand.

Long story short - he was fine. Not a thing wrong with him. He bumped his arm a little and was sent to the office, likely because of the amount of fuss he was making. But let me tell you this - I was livid that those secretaries allowed him to call me and tell me that he might have a broken bone. Perhaps if anyone had been paying attention when he called or if they were using the space inside their heads for things besides storage of dirty gossip information, they may have caught on to the fact that my kid nearly gave me a heart attack.

Let's fast forward about three months to the next phone call from Cameron. He was really, really sick this time and needed to come home. Really and truly! I promise, Mom! Well, okay, I'll just wake up the two babies from their naps, load them plus Drew into the wagon and drag it up a snow covered hill for a half mile to come get him. Of course, as soon as I got Cameron home he was magically healed.

The next time Cameron called I was smart enough to make him let me speak to a secretary. I asked her about his condition and she confirmed that he was coughing pretty badly and should probably be picked up. So up the hill through the snow we went to get Cameron, who gave a total of one hacking cough during the remainder of the day. Starting to feel like those secretaries just don't want my kid in school. So I kept him home for two more days, just to be sure that he wasn't going to infect any of the other students with Nothing Disease. I place fair blame on Cameron for faking, but some of the blame should go on the women working in the office who should know when to actually think about and properly react to what's happening right in front of them.

Not long after that, Cameron called home again and was near death for the third time. I asked to speak to a secretary again and told her that our new rules were that Cameron either had to have a fever or had to have thrown up in front of at least one witness if he wanted to come home. Lacking that necessary testimony, I asked her if she had a thermometer to take his temperature with. She replied that, yes, they did and proceeded to check him and find that he was within normal range. Back to class he went.

What the heck happened to school nurses? Where are the sick rooms where you could lay down on a cot covered with crinkly paper until you felt better? I have a great idea! - Lets just let the kids call their parents once a week with symptoms of a major disease or life threatening injury! It'll do wonders for their education!

Today was the best though. This time it was gold medal at the Olympics, first prize at the county fair, promotion at work with accompanying ten percent raise kind of stuff. This one is the winner.

We all remember Cameron's head injury from last week, right? The one that bled a lot but stopped with a little pressure and did not need stitches or prayers or anything like that? Well, apparently some girl in his class, who obviously does not have brothers, hollered that Cameron's head was bleeding, so the teacher sent him to the office to get it taken care of.

You know what the office does? They call me, (I was vacuuming my car and did not hear my phone), they called Andrew, (also vacuuming), they called my mother, (no answer), they called my grandfather, my father, my sister, and finally, my aunt, bless her heart. She immediately jumped in her truck and drove fifteen miles to pick up my son from school. Meanwhile, I check my phone and see that I have two missed calls from the school and so I call them right back. The woman on the other end of the line tells me that Cameron's head is bleeding and someone ought to come look at it, but Aunt Lisa is already on her way to get him.

Let's all take a deep breath here. It's a little cut. He probably picked or scratched at the scab and made it bleed a little. No big deal. But now Aunt Lisa is on her way, so I have to come intervene. I met Lisa in the parking lot and we chatted for a while, because I'm fully aware that there is not an emergency issue going on inside, and then she went home and I went in to tell the office personnel where to stick it.

Inside the office, I find Cameron sitting on that same chair that he sat in with his not-even-close-to-being-broken arm all those months ago, and this time, with no bleeding head. Maybe it did bleed for a second earlier, but he's not even holding a tissue or anything with which to stem the flow, so it can't have been that bad. And again, no one is paying any attention to the kid with the supposed head injury. I guess that in our day and age with law suits over anything and everything, they are required to play it safe and call me, but we're talking about a picked scab here.

I choked back all the swear words that were crawling up my throat and asked if they had any first-aid supplies. Of course they did! (They why in the name of Florence Nightingale didn't they put them to use??) Any gauze? "Of course! Let me just find it.... Nope, probably not in this box labeled "Sterile Gauze Pads", it must be something else..." I had to explain to this secretary how to read a box label and what gauze was. I bandaged his not bleeding head myself and sent him back to class. Completely infuriated that they would call everyone in the valley who shared some of my DNA to come to the aid of my perfectly healthy and well child, I decided that it was not the moment to confront their stupidity and walked out of the office taking deep, calming breaths.

These are the people responsible for the care and education of my children. But not for long.

End rant.