Snapshots

How many kids does it take to dislodge a football from the neighbor's brilliantly colored tree? Apparently just four. Because the adult who walked over to help (me) was absolutely no help at all.

Sam hard at work carving his pumpkin. While it struck fear into the depths of my soul, I let him use a safety knife to do the dirty work. Yes, even a safety knife makes me uneasy. 'Cause, really? Any implement called a "knife," isn't 100 percent safe to me.

These are the rest of the pumpkin creations. From left, Jack's, Charlie's and Kate's. These were made at James & Jenny's annual pumpkin party last weekend. It's a great party -- you BYOP (bring your own pumpkin) and they provide all sorts of decorations. And food. Lots of delicious food. Unfortunately, Sam had a rough time last weekend and found himself grounded... thus missing the party. Hated to do it, but when you're seven, you don't mouth off to and disrespect your mother. Ever. It all worked out OK, though, because he and I went to pick out his pumpkin Monday and we carved it together. Well, HE carved. I took pictures. And prayed the "safety knife" lived up to its name.

Little life lessons

This past weekend, we took a day-trip to see Tyler and Kate's marching band perform at regionals. One of my oldest and best friends, Maria, (and by "oldest" I mean we've been friends for 27 years) happened to be attending this competition because her daughter is on color guard for another high school. We were so excited to be able to see each other and watch our kids all perform. Unfortunately, her son developed a fever, so she stayed home with him.

The afternoon took a few weird turns, due to weather in the area and seemingly poor planning on behalf of the music association. A wave of rain left the football field too muddy for the bands to use, relegating them to the host school's back parking lot. That left spectators (us) to stand on our choice of adjacent pavement, tennis courts or muddy grass. Damned if the muddy grass had the best view, so that's where we ended up. Pair those tidbits with the fact that the weather also delayed the start time by and hour (due to more impending rain), and there were half-a-gazillion people trying to find parking spots in a relatively small lot, and you've got a potentially volatile situation on your hands.

In the end, it wasn't a bad experience. The second wave of rain held off, we were able to watch Snider give a wonderful performance (including Tyler's trumpet solo) and we got to see the kids right after they finished. Because of the conditions, we didn't stay as long as planned, so that allowed a little more time to visit my brother's family who lives in the area. We picked up pizzas and soda, and pretty much invited ourselves over for a while before heading out on the two-hour drive home.

On the way home, I reflected on the day and realized the little life lessons encountered along the way:

* Always be flexible with your plans. Having a Plan B waiting in the wings helps.
* Gold lame is neither a flattering, nor forgiving fabric. (Special note for color guard costume decision-makers.)
* When the kids have been working hard on their show, almost every day since August 3, enduring outdoor practice in sweltering heat, rain and (most recently) 40 degree weather, you DO NOT get to bitch about standing to watch them perform or getting a little bit of mud on your shoes.
* Often times, the more expensive the car, the more inconsiderate the driver. Not always, but I'm just sayin'.
* Getting teary-eyed with pride at your stepchildren's performance can take you by surprise, and clearly erases the word "step" from the beginning of that word.
* When you invite yourself to someone's house (even family) come bearing gifts -- or at least food.

And, proving that every dark cloud has a silver lining, both our school and Maria's daughter's have advanced to semi-state. This means, while we missed getting together last weekend, we can look forward to seeing each other in Indianapolis this coming weekend.

I love it when Karma smiles on us.

Up, up and away!

You just know this is water-cooler talk across the country today: the "Balloon Boy debacle."

Jack, Charlie and I found ourselves pretty glued to the television as Headline News broadcast every last breaking detail about the situation. They were captivated by such an idea -- a homemade helium-type balloon, big enough to carry away a 6 yr. old. I made mental note to keep Sam in sight for, oh... say, the next 10 years, so these budding geniuses didn't create schematics and send their little brother sailing through the friendly skies above Indiana. Or take a jaunty joy-ride themselves.

Oh, believe me. In my life, it would happen. But they'd go about it a bit differently.

1.) They would hatch their plan and execute it without alerting anyone, including myself and Jeff. We happen to pride ourselves on staying one step ahead of these guys, nipping potential problems in the bud, before things that seem like "such a good idea" turn into disasters. But this project? A giant, shimmery, gas-filled balloon? Yeah, this would be the one they succeed in hiding. Well.

2.) A flight plan would be created. Taking a joy-ride is one thing. Taking a joy-ride with a destination in mind is pure genius when you're 10.

3.) Snacks would be packed. And none of those jinky, vacuum-packed peanuts. There would be a cache of chewy granola bars, cereal and Gatorade. Probably a case of Mtn. Dew, as well, since I won't be there to say "no." And don't forget all that Halloween candy.

4.) Self-defense? A keen arsenal of Nerf guns and foam-rubber darts should do the trick.

5.) Personal DVD players, movies, and Nintendo DS games would be made available for in-flight entertainment. Don't forget the iPods.

6.) Of course, no need to worry about life-threatening crashes or similar worst-case scenarios. They would have everything planned and accounted for... because when you're 10, you have an immediate plan to tackle any situation. And live to tell about it.

I left a title off this one simply because I just couldn't think of clever words to sum up the head-banging-against-a-brick-wall frustration called my visit to Target last night with two 10-yr olds.

Jack and Charlie wanted to go out shopping for Halloween costumes. Having amassed a collection of gift cards from past birthdays, I saw a win-win situation here: we go to Target, they get costumes and pay with gift cards... without so much as a swipe of our debit card. See? Win-win.

They had $35 each to spend.

Charlie was the first to choose a costume. As we strolled the aisles, we happened by the back wall display -- a seemingly endless trough filled with bags upon bags of "fun size" candy bars. The boys? Lost. Their. Minds.

Them: "Can we get some?"
Me: (hesitant, but trying to avoid turning into the Sugar Nazi too early) "Ummm, sure."

The boys practically dive head first into said trough, coming up with armloads of bags.

Me: "STOP!"

I explain that in two short weeks, they will be hip-deep in candy. Jack counters with, "So, what's your point?" I suppress the urge to throttle him, and further explain that they really don't need a head start on destroying their body chemistry and depleting their (much needed) immune systems with all that sugar right now. (OK. I went a little Sugar Nazi on them right there.) I talk them down to two bags each. Moving on, Jack finds a costume. Then they both spy little, ugly, useless, rubbery skulls on elastic bands. Of course. So then, Jack, being the ever-talented, budding math whiz quickly calculates his purchases in his head: costume, $17; walking staff with light-up skull on top, $10; two bags of candy, $6; rubbery skull, $2. Perfect. $35 on the nose.

I'm all, "Hang on there cowboy... you have to figure in sales tax." He balks. And by balks, I mean a visible show of disgust, as if I'd just told him I'd fixed chicken beak tacos for dinner. With a side of mealworms.

"I don't wanna pay sales tax!" he laments. Oh, sweet child. Welcome to life.

"Yes, Jack... no one does. But you have to," I say.

"Well.... can't you cover the tax for me?"

"Um, that would be a solid n-o."

Again, he balks, trying to make me feel like the worst mother in the history of the world. Ha. You're going to have to work a little harder, since you've shared that opinion quite a few times over the past decade.

"You could always put a bag of candy back," I say. "That might help."

He is horrified at such a thought. In fact, in the ensuing conversation/debate/argument (which, I'm sure, was enjoyed by all Target patrons within earshot) I explain the seven percent tax, and what it means for the bottom line of his purchase. He finds it necessary to keep wailing about the injustice of how I won't cover a few measly bucks. Of course I could. But by this point, I was rolling with the principle of the situation and teaching a life lesson on spending within a set budget. I mean, grown ups don't pick out groceries willy-nilly, get to the check-out and wheel around to the person in line behind them to say, "I'm a tad short here. Howzabout you cover me?" You stick to your budget. Period.

We finally find a mutually-acceptable agreement that in no way demanded me plunking down MY debit card for his purchase, and him chucking the ugly, rubbery skull back into the bin, and snarling, "Are you happy now?" Pfft. Like I was the one to invent sales tax just to ruin a 10-yr. old's good time.

In the end, they ended up with pretty cool costumes. And a shitload of candy.

You want to talk scary? I've all but debated economic principles with a 10-yr. old. In Target of all places. Bring on Halloween.

Sweet dreams are NOT made of this...

So, I haven't really had a memorable dream in a long time. Then, after being up with Bobby around 5am, I decided to sneak in one more hour of sleep, rather than just calling the night over and going downstairs for coffee.

I had one of the worst dreams. Ever.

In it, I was watching Jack and Charlie at football practice. The coach... for some insane reason... lined up the boys for tackling drills, and paired each of them with a member from the varsity squad. These kids look like giants next to my two -- who happen to be two of the smallest on the entire team. (Of course, what they lack in size right now, they totally make up for with heart. They're like the "Rudys" of PAL football. But I digress...) So I'm watching this with a very uneasy feeling. The older boys grab my boys' hands and each pair take off running for the tackling dummy. KA-POW! The older kids shrug off the impact, but my boys are left lying on the ground. Charlie manages to get up, takes off his helmet and starts walking away, but Jack is still and not responding. I leap from the bleachers and have the moment I have always dreaded -- which kid do I go to first if they're BOTH hurt? I glanced over at the trainer and coach attending to Jack and sprint after Charlie. He looks dazed, but relatively coherent. I tell him we need to go check on Jack, who is now conscious, but is completely out of it. I ask him what year it is, and he responds, "1932." Then he proceeds to tell me about how he and his friends are graduating from high school... At that point, I commence freaking out. There's a doctor who "magically" shows up (as people often do in dreams) and tells me to take him home and keep an eye on him. I'm all, "I don't think so. I mean, my child thinks it's 1932!" I begin piecing together any bit of head injury knowledge I have EVER picked up, and realize a brain injury only gets worse before it gets better. I begin obsessing over swelling, brain bleeds and cranial pressure. And I am convinced that Jack will not make it.

Soon after that, I woke up. My first thought is that wave of relief, realizing it had all been a dream. The second thing I realized is that I was crying. Really? Crying in my sleep? Never had that happen before. But oh. my. gosh. What a crazy dream!

About 10 minutes later, I went to the boys' room to make sure they were getting up. Charlie got up and came downstairs with me. I gave him such a tight "good morning" hug, and kissed the top of his head. I contemplated telling him about the dream, then decided against it. They are the most high-spirited, give-it-everything-they-have little guys. They run hard, tackle hard, go for the ball... I wouldn't want either of them to hold back simply because "Mom had a bad dream..." After Jack and Sam joined us downstairs and they were all getting ready for school, I did tell them both about the dream; but I made sure I told them that I love the energy they bring to the field, and I still want them to have fun and play well...

Just. Be. Careful.

Today is my mom's birthday. Ordinarily, I would have sent something... flowers most likely. However, she and my dad are currently on vacation in Myrtle Beach and visiting friends in Sumter, SC.

I'm pretty confident she would have no problem with me revealing her age, which is 72. (And if you cringe when you read this, Mom,... sorry!) My mom has never "looked" or, for that matter, acted her age, and would often amaze friends when they found out her age. That is not to say she is immature -- not by any means. She likes to laugh and have fun; apparently many people assume aging depletes your sense of humor and zest for life. Even if that were true, my mom would be the exception to that rule.

Likewise, my dad has not lost his grip on his sense of humor as he's aged either. Having just turned 66 a few weeks ago, he's still very able to see the lighter side of life.

When I was younger, I'm sure I may have assumed folks in their 60s and 70s would fall anywhere in the range from stodgy to grumpy. For some people, those words are right on the mark; but I am so thankful that my parents are anything but.

So, Happy Birthday, Mom! And a Happy Birthday (again) to you, Dad! I love you both so much, and wish you many, many more years of love, health and happiness.

...and breathe...

I feel like I've been holding my breath for the past two weeks. My dear friend, Stephanie, called two Fridays ago and told me she'd be having major surgery on September 28.

So I prayed.

Whenever she crossed my mind in the days that followed, I prayed a small, silent prayer for a successful surgery and great recovery. This past Monday, the day of surgery, I prayed. Then I found that I was fortunate enough to be in the "loop." I received text updates on the surgery and how well she was doing. Once that was over, the next step was to wait for lab results. Today I received another text with great news. All is well and Stephanie should be recuperating in her own home this weekend.

Stephanie has been a close friend for over 10 years. She was my supervisor at work and continues to be an amazing role model and mentor. Personally, she has been one of my closest friends, whose experience and words of advice/wisdom have been carefully weighed and (in most cases) acted upon. She saw me through my first pregnancy, and predicted I was carrying twins just by looking at me one day. (This came before my OB even ordered a single ultrasound.) She has been a wonderful friend to me and my family.

And now I can breathe easy... knowing she's doing well.

May 2007