A Dream Come True

It's been said, "Good things come to those who wait." And for two boys, just 25 days away from being 10 years old, all the waiting has paid off.

Tackle football (or "real football" as they would say) has been something Jack and Charlie have wanted to do for years. Yeeeeeeaaaaarrrrrsssssssss. This summer, they met all requirements to join PAL football. This stuff is hard-core, folks. There were sign ups in May. Then came the 2+ month wait for the draft. Yes, I said draft. The coaches met Tuesday night and chose teams. The boys knew from the get-go there was a chance they may not get drafted, in which case they would be assured a spot on a team next year. You have no idea how much I hoped and prayed they would make the cut. Because, seriously? Waiting another year -- another loooooong year -- would just about put me over the edge. Why? Because whether associated with a bona fide football-playing organization, these kids will throw together a pick-up game with the boys in the neighborhood and tackle anyway. That's tackling without pads and (most importantly) helmets.

But the call came Tuesday night. Jack and Charlie are officially Raiders.

At the informational meeting/equipment pick-up last night, their coach reviewed rules and expectations for the kids. Some were returning to the PAL program; others, like Jack and Charlie, were fresh-faced and new. The coach spoke to us as you would expect a coach to speak -- loudly, forcefully and full of enthusiasm. There was no putting it lightly when he told the boys grades and schoolwork come first. And if the parents have a disciplinary problem at home and want to enforce sitting out of a practice or game, all we have to do is let him know. He highlighted the past local football players (mostly high school) who had been part of the "Raider family." Even Rod Woodson, of the Pittsburgh Steelers and new Hall-of-Famer, had been a Raider.

As predicted, about two-and-a-half minutes after leaving the meeting, the boys were already fitting pads into the football pants. When we arrived home, they were in full garb in the front yard, tackling each other all over the place.

I tried snapping a few shots of them to mark the occasion, but I got "the look." OMG. The "MOM!-Don't-embarrass-me" look. I know when to take a hint, though, and have my ways of getting what I want, too. Which led me to feel slightly stalker-ish when I snapped this shot from Sam's bedroom window upstairs:

But, seriously, when these two football-crazy boys get their full uniform? And are dressed for their first game? Yeah,... they WILL be posing for an official Mom Photo. Because I won't hesitate to remind them not only is this one of their dreams come true, but it's one of mine, too.

He's so lucky....

After much cajoling, I finally got Jeff to sign up for a Facebook account last week. As in, last Thursday or Friday night. As in less than a week ago. And in the less than seven days that have passed, Jeff has become quite the FB afficianado, finding old friends and building an impressive network of 64 friends in a few days' time. That's all good, but it's this Farmville stuff that has me wondering if an intervention isn't in order. Tyler started the Farmville buzz several weeks back, planting cyber crops, harvesting and tending to whichever lonely cow or goat happened to wander onto his farm. Then Kate got in on the action. Seeing the two of them so enthusiastic about this cyber-agribusiness must've piqued Jeff's interest. By Saturday afternoon, he was aligning errands so that he'd be free by 1pm to harvest his strawberries. I have managed to somehow resist the charms of the farmin' life while my family seems to be donning their virtual straw hats and overalls.

Until today.

Jeff is on duty for the next 24 hours, and asked me this morning via text if I could harvest his crops for him. "I don't suppose you want to harvest my strawberries?" he wrote. My guess is that the look I'd have given him had he asked face-to-face would've translated well in the gap of silence he'd hear over the phone. Being the dutiful wife I am, and with the love I have for my husband, I agreed.

And, now I'm planting a farm full of soybeans for him.

Pray for me...

The Happiest Place on Earth

Sitting here at the desk, giving Bobby a bottle (and hoping for a nap to follow!) I find myself drawn to the photo on the memo board above the desk. It's the obligatory Main Street USA/in-front-of-Cinderella's-castle photo from our day at Disney last summer. In fact, it was almost exactly one year ago.

My, how things have changed. I look at the seven people smiling back at me... in the past year,
One got his driver's license.
One has grown several inches.
One now has a boyfriend. (No, not me.)
Two have much, much longer hair.
One person turned 39. (Not me either -- hello, 40!)
And the last person became a mommy. Again. (Ah, yes. THAT would be me.)

But that day... that single, hell-hot day the Cameron family decided to take on the Magic Kingdom was a happy day. We didn't tell the kids we were going. All Jeff said was that they might want to go to bed early, because we were going to be on the road the next morning by 6. "We're going out on a river to look for alligators!" he blatantly lied. The kids let out a collective groan. We'd had them up equally early that day to go on a deep sea fishing trip. The next morning, the kids woke, piled into the van and promptly fell back asleep. Jeff and I smiled slyly at each other. We wanted this day to be a surprise. Tyler and Kate had been to Disney before, but it was the first time for Jack, Charlie and Sam. By the time we reached Orlando, some were beginning to stir, and I still laugh as I remember Jeff practically climbing out the driver's window at a toll booth to whisper, "What's the quickest way to the Magic Kingdom?"

As we neared the park, the kids began waking up. One of the younger boys asked about a sign that said something about Disney. Tyler told him the place we were going was nearby. (Still not sure if he really knew where we were headed or not. But a million thanks to him for not blowing the surprise!) Finally, we arrived and parked. A tram pulled up immediately, its loudspeaker blaring, "REMEMBER YOUR PARKING LOT. YOU ARE IN GOOFY 22." I looked expectantly at Jack, Charlie and Sam.

"Do you know where we are, guys?" I asked.
Sam looked up at me and wrinkeled his freckled nose. "Florida?" he guessed. Adorable!
"Yes," I said, "but do you know where in Florida?"
Silence.
I couldn't stand it anymore. "DISNEY WORLD, BOYS! WE'RE AT DISNEY WORLD!"

Needless to say, there was much excitement and merriment as we entered the park. Rides were a top priority -- for everyone but newly-pregnant me, that is. Jeff and I hadn't told the kids yet, as it was still quite early. However, Tyler had some fairly high expectations about me and my willingness to ride roller coasters. Especially since I'd admitted a few months earlier I love, love, LOVE rollercoasters. As we approached Big Thunder Mountain, I lagged behind, telling the six others I'd sit this one out and take a picture of everyone. I tried that excuse again on Splash Mountain, too. When Tyler began growing irritated with the excuses, I wondered how long we could keep our little secret. Later, he all but demanded I ride with them on Space Mountain. As luck and height requirements would have it, Sam was too short to ride, so my excuse was to stay with him. I managed to join everyone for other rides, though: The Haunted Mansion, Mickey's 3-D show, Buzz Lightyear and the most agonizing of all... It's a Small World. Actually, it wasn't so bad -- the boys even enjoyed it. Mostly because it was a slow boat ride in an air conditioned building.

The day went quickly, and before we knew it, Jeff, Tyler, Jack and Charlie were in line for the final ride on Space Mountain. Kate, Sam and I headed to do our souvenir shopping on Main Street. We all met up again to watch the fireworks show, narrated through loudspeakers by Jiminy Cricket. Let me tell you -- if you have never seen or waited around for Disney's end-of-the-day fireworks show, do yourself a favor and go. Yes, you are crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and there will probably be a little kid standing next to you having the mother of all meltdowns. But I'd be lying to you if I said it wasn't worth it. We stayed. We watched. A few of us even teared up. It was quite honestly one of the best days of my adult life. The last time I was there was 1976, and I was Sam's age. Watching the excitement through the kids' eyes was a priceless gift. And despite the fatigue, despite quite a few waves of morning/all-day sickness, despite the oppressive heat we had spent a wonderful day together at the happiest place on earth.

A week later, back at home, we took the kids our for ice cream one night. Jeff came back to the patio table with cones, and everyone quickly noticed there was one extra... an itty-bitty baby cone.

Suddenly, Tyler's face lit up and he laughed, "So THAT'S why you wouldn't ride any rollercoasters!"

Things have been a bit crazy lately.

Adjusting to being out of "real world" work, trying to whip together something that resembles a home office and bracing for the kids' return to school (and a few of you know THAT ordeal...) has left me feeling beaten. Perhaps even left for dead. My adventure to the unemployment office alone left me with the impression I was about one tattoo and a skipped shower away from being declared "white trash."

Yesterday I experienced yet another lesson in swallowing one's pride. I discovered that with my recent lay-off, we are technically eligible for the free/reduced lunch program. You never really know how much you pass judgement on things like that until you are face to face with the application. Hopefully, I will land a job out of the seemingly million apps and resumes I've got out in limbo. BUT... for the time being, every little bit-o-help is ..., well, a great help.

I gave myself the pep talk during the drive to the school administration office. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Nothing wrong with accepting a little help when it's available. But then I remember not too long ago, certain people I encountered had a very different opinion of the free/reduced lunch program. From where they were sitting on a couple of extremely high horses, they looked down upon it as a tell-tale sign of worthlessness and disgust. As in, if you use this program, you might just as well throw in the towel because anything you have to offer the world isn't good enough. And you bring down everyone else -- drag them down and keep them from achieving all they can.

Well. That is not entirely true.

Of course, taking half a step into the administration office and being greeted BY NAME by an old acquaintance didn't help matters any, but you know what? This situation? It is what it is. And we are not some bunch of deadbeats who are trying to ride "the system" and get freebies because it's easier than actually working. Jeff and I work hard to provide for our family. And if the current economy stinks and we're experiencing a small hiccup in the scheme of things, well then... so be it. We're definitely not alone. And, as our entourage of family and close friends keep reminding us, things will get better.

Things. Will. Get. Better.

Why I love age 7...

Driving in the car:

Sam: Mom?

Me: Yes, Sam?

Sam: Can Bobby chew on my ear?

Me: ??? Umm... no.

Sam: Oh. OK.

Me: Any particular reason, or were you just checking?

Sam: Just checking.

She wore what...?!

There's an urban legend circulating of a woman who was embarrassed beyond belief at an OB/GYN appointment because the washcloth she used to "freshen up" was the secret hiding place for her daughter's glitter. And I remember hearing of another woman who was in the same situation, but grabbed a tissue from her purse to "freshen," only to have the doctor discover a postage stamp stuck to her nether-regions.

My story involves neither glitter, nor postage stamps, but it was mortifying all the same.

*NOTE: If you are a reader who considers knowing what type of underwear I wear as Too Much Information (TMI), come back tomorrow. This may include but is not limited to anyone under the age of 18, my parents or any other family member whose name isn't "Jeff."

So, I had an appointment at the dermatologist last Friday to have a once-over done on all my freckles. A non-sunscreen using tanner in my youth, I'm just positive there's something unpleasant lurking just below one of those innocent-looking brown patches. Since a number of them are on my back, and I can't always get a good read on how they look, much less how much they've changed, I have made a point of seeing the doctor once a year for a check up. I was escorted to the exam room and given the mandatory paper two-piece suit: the vest to open in the back and large sheet to wrap around my middle. I was told to leave my undergarments on. Fine.

The doctor came in (first time seeing this particular gentleman) and after initial chit-chat, he started the exam. Face. Neck. Ears. Right arm. Right leg. Left arm. Left leg. Upper chest. Abdomen.

"OK, flip over and we'll have a look at the back of your legs and your back," he says.

I turned over on the exam table, careful to keep the large, paper sheet wrapped around my middle. He examined my back first. Then. My. Heart. Stopped. Because as he examined various freckles and such on my legs, I felt the back of the paper sheet tug and he proceeded to examine the back of my upper thigh. This might be a good time to mention that I had forgotten about this particular part of the exam from last time. The part where the doctor will UNWRAP THE PAPER SHEET from my midsection, thus exposing my behind. My behind that was barely covered thanks to the thong underwear I had put on that morning. And not just a thong -- but a lace thong. Now, before you judge... let me explain that many years ago, I had heard of a particular brand of thong underwear that women swore were the most comfortable pair of underwear they'd ever worn. I tried one pair and was sold. They are, indeed, THE most comfortable underwear I've ever worn. Now they're basically all I wear. No elastic pinch. No bunching into your butt -- despite, yes, it being an actual thong.

So, there I was, with my very out-of-shape butt exposed, yet delicately framed with lace. And a doctor who was undoubtedly stifling laughter. And my face turning bright red, as I tried to pretend no one noticed. I glanced up at the nurse standing at the desk, taking notes in my file as the doctor commented on different areas. I could swear I saw her biting her lip so as not to smile. Or laugh. And I'm sure somewhere in my file she wrote, "OH MY GOD, SHE WORE A THONG!" I have never wished so hard for a huge, gaping hole to open in the planet right beneath me -- falling head-first into a rocky abyss would've been a piece of cake compared to rolling back over and finishing up the conversation with the doctor. Nervous laughter (mine, not his) was rampant.

And, undoubtedly, after I left the office (which I couldn't do fast enough!) I'm sure I was referred to as "Thong Lady," in sentences which began, "You won't believe what just happened..."

My diagnosis? No dangerous, pre-cancerous looking freckles or moles. Just a major case of embarrassment. Next on the calendar is my yearly GYN appointment. Humility and embarrassment be damned... Bring. It. On.

Welcome Home, Again, Mama!

Yes, so this is the post that should've appeared Wednesday. Where did this week go?

I was sitting down to feed Bobby on Tuesday afternoon, after making it to Kate's new orthodontist appointment. Remember how I failed at the first one? Anyway,... I sat down, got the baby situated on my lap and he went to town on his bottle. Perhaps I was lulled into relaxation with his rhythmic slurp, sigh, slurp, sigh, slurp, sigh -- or my brain was numbed by some ridiculously inane article I found to read online about a Hollywood "wanna-be-somebody." I was instantly snapped back to reality with all the ruckus coming from Bobby's general direction It was the mother of all BMs, which he expelled with such force, it shot out the side of his diaper and into my lap.

Tap, tap, tap. Is this thing on?

Did you hear what I said, people? Shot. Out. The. Diaper. Into. My. Lap.

All the while, Bobby's just sort of got this relaxed, ho-hum, just-another-day-in-my-life look on his face. Slurp, sigh, slurp, sigh, slurp, sigh...

The carnage: one large bath towel, my shorts, baby blanket, romper, wash cloth, diaper, too many wipes to count.

Welcome home, Mama!