in which green girl brags a little

So far 2013 is a great year.  Saturday night the Packers POUNDED the Vikings into submission.  Season 3 of Downton Abbey has begun.  I worked out the kinks and planned an awesome girls getaway weekend for my pals.  I beat Mr. D in a game of bowling Friday night.  I single-handledly fixed the air pressure issues in the Momvan's tires.  I taught preschool on Sunday on the fly and I arranged for Jess Riley to join the Bumble Book Club next month to discuss her newest work, All The Lonely People.  I helped Mr. T accomplish half of one of his required Boy Scout merit badges and we had FUN!  I got a complement from Mr. D because the boys' ball handling skills have already improved thanks to my daily dribbling in the kitchen requirement. 

And then there's the matter of Mr. G.  He's a bit of a sports nut, chattering away all day about the NFL, dribbling, throwing, shooting, hitting, catching at every opportunity.  Over the weekend he played in a basketball tournament, his second one.  I missed his first because Mr. D and I had to do a zone defense--Mr. T was in a different tournament across town during the same time.  Anyway, Mr. D told me Mr. G didn't play all that great.  He turned over the ball more than once, had poor handling skills and barely even took a shot.  No matter, he had fun, his team took 1st place and heck, he's only in 2nd grade, right?

Saturday we watched Mr. G play in his second tournament and the kid poured it on.  He forced countless turnovers, grabbed rebounds, made fast breaks, sunk free throws.  In short, Mr. G was a basketball studmuffin.  It was amazing to watch.  I'll be frank here, I adore my sons, but my first two are mediocre athletes--we're all gifted in different ways here at Chez Green Girl.  It's incredible to be the mom in the bleachers watching one son who owns the court and another son who passes off the ball as soon as it lands in his hands because he's so nervous about what to do next.  Talk about extremes, right?  I'm gobsmacked to discover I have a kid who is fast, aggressive, skilled and understands the game.  As if that weren't good enough, he was pissed when I told him it was time to go home.  "What?  Don't I have another game?"  "No, buddy.  Each team plays 4 games in this tournament and that's it.  Everyone's going home."  "So I'm DONE?!?!"   He was so mad to be finished.  Back home he grabbed a basketball and worked on his lay ups in the driveway.  Who is this kid?

But the coolest part about watching Mr. G this weekend was the chemistry he shares with his whole team.  Seven boys, all buddies who play baseball together, too, and they come from the nicest families who cheer on the whole team with enthusiasm.  Each of these kids is polite and mild-mannered.  One is kind of hyper, but none of these boys have ego issues or act bratty or mean ever.  All of these boys are friends outside of sports and I truly enjoy their parents, too.  When these seven boys walk onto the court, a switch flips in them and they change.  They become aggressive and intense and competitive!  Their coach is a pretty mellow guy, so it's not because of him that they act this way.  They don't have the kind of attitude that would get them in trouble, but they play so rough and hard--you'd hardly recognize them from the way they act everywhere else.  In 2nd grade they play as a team, build each other up, and demonstrate a lot of athletic talent.  It's going to be a lot of fun to follow these boys through the next ten years of sports. 

I'd post a photo of this team, but I didn't get permission--so here's a gratuitous shot of Mr. G who is happy the Ravens advanced in the playoffs this weekend.

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clinger

Mr. G has always been an early riser.  For years he'd crawl into bed next to me and patiently wait for 6:00 when I'd turn on TV and we'd watch Curious George for a half hour on PBS.  Always George--"George is a monkey.  He can do things we can't do."  And I'd tease Mr. G who is also a monkey and just as clever.  Then I'd head to my morning shower while he'd watch The Cat in the Hat  or Big Cat Diary alone.  That early morning ritual was our time to snuggle.

He's always been a tactile kid.  As a baby, he'd wrap his fist around my bra strap and push his fingers into my face.  If he was alone, he'd rub his fingers against his thumb, just to have something to touch.  Given the choice of every spot in the room, he'd pick the one on my lap or tight against my side.  He's the son who sleeps on a mountain of stuffed animals.  He's the son who never stops moving but always requires contact--a held hand, a quick hug. 

But he's 8 now, and has taken to coming downstairs at 6:00, quietly shutting my bedroom door and turning on the living room TV to play Madden 12 or watch Discovery Channel alone.  Growing up and becoming independent, the way a boy should.  We've outgrown Curious George and there's no going back I guess.

I only get a whiff of his morning smell these days--faintly metallic and sweet--if I grab him for a hug while he's still wearing jammies.  I don't have to shove over and make room for him on my bed.  I don't have to give up control of the TV remote.  But while I flip through the channels to find my favorite weatherman, I often pause on Curious George and miss those special mornings with my youngest.

This morning he came into my room at 6:15 and climbed across my body to nestle in beside me.  I reached for the remote and began flipping through the channels.  When I ran past PBS, he saw George and said, "go back."  I did.  We lay side by side and I leaned my head against his so I could inhale.

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over and over

I kept hearing the same things out of other mother's mouths all weekend long:

"I'm having a hard time buying another violent video game/gun toy for my son this Christmas."

The biggest battle most of us with boy children face is raising them in a world saturated with violence.  Turn on a football game and every other commercial is for a video game rated "M" for violence.  Every movie geared toward them is based on violence.  Films rated PG-13 lure in boys far too young to be interested by making Happy Meal toys and action figures, it's not remotely shocking that most 8-year-olds have seen Transformers, Spider-Man and Batman--films NOT rated for general audiences.  But it should be, shouldn't it?

Yet most parents haven't bothered to question it.  Including me.

Every boy I know wants Call of Duty and an Airsoft gun.  Including the boys that live under my roof.
I've drawn a line in the sand on the video games.  We deliberately got a Wii because most of the games for that system aren't as violent.  I've refused to download certain apps on Mr. T's ipod because they cross that line.  No shooting at people.  Zombies?  Yes.  Aliens?  Yes.  Space ships?  Yes.  But no shooting at people.

I'm that mom, but he insists all his friends are playing the games rated "M."  Tough cookies, kid.  And then I let them pelt each other with Nerf bullets and really wouldn't bat an eye at paintball.  Is that hypocritical?  I'm toeing the line of keeping them sensitized but realizing their proclivity for making every toy into a gun.  I try to limit the images locked into their brains when they play games and watch TV, I try to steer them towards the building toys and sports, but they live in a culture where shooting is the most advertised and beloved pastime.

I've accepted hunting and guns in my household, but the boys have to pass Hunters' Safety before they get their own firearm.  We believe firearms belong locked in a gun safe.  Not displayed in a cabinet, not tossed in a corner of the garage.  Firearms get put away unloaded.  Period.  The privilege of hunting comes with proof that you're responsible to handle it.  Those guns are not automatic or semiautomatic, they shoot one bullet at a time for sport and food.  No one living at my house believes anything else is sensible or necessary in any situation. 

And I look again at my sons' wish list this Christmas:  Call of Duty, Airsoft machine gun, football jersey and I think of what the other moms have been saying to me all weekend...

"I'm having a hard time buying another violent video game/gun toy for my son this Christmas."

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tradition

Last night the boys had their school Christmas program.  I cannot express to you how quaint this Catholic church is to me, the lavish old-fashionedness of it.  I tried to take a picture--to give you perspective, Mr. D and I were about halfway back on the far left side in one of the small pews.  It's always funny to me how people don't really "pack in" pews, they leave a lot of space between each other.  Mr. D and I were probably in a pew designed to seat 4, but no one asked to sit beside us so we had plenty of room.

The program always begins with little kids and moves up through the grades.  The small ones sing loud, enthusiastically and off-key.  Mr. G is looking serious as a snowman, isn't he?

Mr. B told me he had a solo--a big surprise!  I had NO idea he knew how to play the bells!  Yes, he's wearing his suit from Halloween.  My middle boy is a dandy.  His performance was perfect in front of all those people.

The program wrapped up with middle school kids--the girls self-important and the boys loathing the experience.  I must say, it was one of the best shows I've seen.  The final procession of the Nativity was nice.  There's something kind of sweet about seeing the same costumes worn by the angels, wisemen, shepherds and holy family year after year.  The 8th grade boys gave one of the best shows I've ever seen, the teacher let them "rock around the Christmas tree" dressed up like KISS. 

Afterward we had cookies and juice in the basement and admired the children's artwork.  Above is Mr. G's fine snowmen.  Below is the most hysterical picture of a cardinal I've ever seen.  No idea whose work it is, but it charmed me.

 

Tonight we rest from a week of too many late nights.  I've got a head cold and the boys are cashed.  We're breaking out the cookie cutters and a Christmas movie.  The Momvan is back in our garage with a brand new battery and all is mostly right in our little corner of the world.

Stay safe this weekend--and pray for those poor families in Connecticut. 

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competitive much?

 

 a hard-headed kid wearing a hard hat.

It's black belt candidate training again and this time Mr. G's testing for 1st degree and Mr. B's testing for 2nd degree.  One of the requirements for candidate training and the test is a 3-mile run.  Each week the candidates are supposed to beat the previous week's time.

Because I am a seasoned (read:  2nd degree black belt, yo) karate mama, I made my boys run every week all summer long to prepare.  Mr. B did so willingly.  He hates to run and isn't particularly fast, but he knows from experience that you're better off training ahead of time.  He ran gamely and consistently.  Mr. T ran with us because he's out for cross country this year and needed to train.  I ran to encourage them.  Mr. G?  Well, my baby was a huge baby about running.

Every week he'd whine and cry and complain.  He'd run a slow half mile and then walk the rest of the way home.  He kick rocks into the ditch and stop to look at ducks swimming in the creek.  I'm tired.  I'm too little.  It's hot out.  I'd yell at him to toughen up, of course, but that did no good.  I'd run slower and say things like, "Just run slow, buddy.  Pace yourself.  Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth."  I began to doubt his ability to test.  After all, he just turned 8, one of the youngest kids to go through this.  Mr. T was almost 9 when he tested.  Maybe Mr. G needed more time.  Maybe we should wait until the next cycle. 

By the end of summer Mr. G still hadn't run a full 2 miles, so I figured one of two things would happen:

1.  He'd cry and whine and dog it the entire 3 miles at training, proving to me that he was, in fact, too young to be out there.

or

2.  He'd tap into his competitive spirit and try to beat all the kids his age, amazing me and making Team Testosterone look good and live up to our tribe's established dojo cred.

I was hoping hard for #2.  I confess, my ego was on the line.

After some internal debate, I opted NOT to run with the boys.  I'm not that fast of a runner and maybe, just maybe, if I wasn't running, Mr. G would run better.  I knew Mr. B would be fine.

We drove the kids to the course and I parked at the final corner before the finish line with another seasoned karate mama.  We hung out and chatted while we waited for the runners to come down the stretch.  After a while, the first runners appeared.  Predictably it was Mr. H, an adult 2nd degree candidate who has trained hard all summer for this run and is in great shape, and Mr. P, a 3rd degree candidate who has the advantage of youth on his side since he's 16.  On their tail was Mr. G.  The kid buzzed past me grinning and happy.  

Well.

The voice of reason assured me he'd slow down during the 2nd lap and it would hit him, but still, a great start.  Mr. B came past,  #7 in the pack of 20 runners and right on pace with my expectations.  He was doing fine and not about to quit.

The second lap around I was gobsmacked to see Mr. G right on Mr. H's tail, coming in a solid second place in the run.  No freaking way.  He barely ran a MILE all summer and here he is sweeping past on the end of his third mile like no big deal.  That little knucklehead!

Mr. B kept up his steady pace and finished fifth.

After the last of the runners passed us, we joined the kids at the finish line and I asked what Mr. G's time had been.  Just shy of 24 minutes.  Son of a gun.  Not only did he dig into his deep competitive nature, but he chose grown men with legs twice as long as his adversaries.  

Mr. G and Mr. B, more fleet of feet than your average penguin.

 

Way to go Mr. B and Mr. G--you made your karate mama wicked proud.

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we're there

Years ago I started taking this picture of Mr. D walking the kids to school. It's kind of a cool way to measure their growth since Mr. D stopped getting taller years ago...

Yesterday was the first day of school here in the Dairy State.  Last night after shuttling Mr. T home from cross-country and feeding the gang I had a meeting at church.  It was a rush of paperwork, excited conversations and carb-loading. Before I could issue job assignments, Mr. G and Mr. B bolted outside to play with their buddy who'd rolled in to his grandparents' driveway next door.  Mr. D called from across the state to check in and Mr. T chatted to him on my cell phone.  I left the house and children in a state of chaos, I also left my phone.

On the drive home it was already dark.  Lightning flashed to the north and the weather guy interrupted Matchbox Twenty on the radio with storm updates.  The Momvan's fuel gauge was on "E." I worried about whether Mr. T fed Jax and pulled the clothes in off the line. Was Mr. G fretting about the thunder (he really hates storms)?  Was Mr. B shutting the windows?  Or were they so tuned in to Cartoon Network that they were oblivious to the details?

I walked in to find the remnants of dinner still strewn across the table and a basket of dry clothes sitting on the floor.  Mr. T told me I'd "left the phone behind" and the neighbor guy had called.  His grandson, Mr. G and Mr. B were playing in a field he'd treated with weed killer that day.  Lightning flashed.  The wind gusted through window screens.  I turned off the TV, shut a few windows and listened to Mr. T explain that he made his brothers strip out of their clothes and jump in the pool to clean off any poisonous residue.  "Mr. B's eyes were itchy, so I gave him a wet washcloth.  Then we watched TV and waited for you." 

You done good, kid.  By any measure you've really grown up.

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she's THAT mom

All day long I squawk at the boys, "FIND SOMETHING TO DO."  I'm forever shooing them away from TV sets and video games all week and offering to help them figure out what to do if they're so bored.  The minute I think I have them settled into an activity, I turn away to try to accomplish something myself (because I, unlike them, have no shortage of THINGS TO DO) and I hear the electronic theme music from the Wii.  And we're back to step one where I'm shouting "TURN OFF THE DAMN SCREEN AND FIND SOMETHING TO DO!"

Because it's summer vacation and for the love of all things holy we live in Wisconsin where you're snowbound for 6 months out of the year with nothing better to do than zone out in front of a screen.

Sheesh.

So, last night Mr. T, Mr. B and I rolled in from karate class and found Mr. G (guess where!  You'll never guess ...) in front of the TV.  He'd discovered WWE and was ecstatic.  The holy grail of male entertainment.  Comic book heroes and villains,  and man-on-man violence come to life.  In other words, Nirvana.

The gang starts school next Tuesday, so I had this foggy notion that we'd get to bed kind of early all week in a feeble attempt to put our bodies on a schedule.  After the next commercial break, I told Mr. G (and now Mr. B who sat beside him, breathlessly watching the drama play out on Live Television!) to shut her down. 

Upstairs we went and on went the jammies and in went the toothbrushes.  And then?

Those knucklehead kids started TO PLAY.  In their room.  They dragged out the dusty Brio train set and began laying track.  Mr. G stacked pillows and began practicing the pile drive move he'd learned from Sin Cara.  Together they giggled, talked, stacked, arranged and PLAYED.

Just like I'd been begging them to all day long.

You can imagine my conundrum--remind them that they had all day to goof around and do these things and now it's time for bed OR close the door and let them play it out.  But school starts next Tuesday and I have an obligation to get these goobers on a schedule.  On the other hand, they'll get off schedule over Labor Day weekend when we have plans.  It's so hard being a mom, I tell you. 

You bet I told them good night, shut the door and went to bed.  I think they played until about 10:30 before they dropped.  I guess some battles aren't worth the fight.

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midsummer assessment

There are rabbits all over our yard and yet the DOG who is supposed to be a CARNIVORE is napping in the shade and eating raspberries out of my garden.  We also have mice around our house, but the dog doesn't seem to mind them terribly.  I don't care that he enthusiastically greets us every time we roll in the driveway.  He's as happy to see us as he is to see the UPS man or our neighbors.  Having now lived with a cat and a dog, I can only say my skepticism of devout dog lovers continues to grow ...

The dry weather means NO mosquitoes (heaven!) but we've got prolific amounts of WASPS.  One stung my arm a couple days ago and it's still all puffy and itchy. 

My children are alternately fighting or bored.  I should start wearing black and white striped shirts and a whistle around my neck.  Their work ethic is deplorable.  All they want to do is lay around watching TV or playing video games.  It's a full time job keeping them off-screen.  I know a lady who cancelled cable for the summer and I think she's brilliant.  What did we do during summer vacation back in the olden days, before 150 channels and video games and the internet?  I don't ever remember being BORED as a kid--was I?  I remember swimming and hanging out with friends and reading books and riding my bike.  My kids have a pool, pals, books and bikes--so is this a boy thing or something else? 

The more my kids push to watch TV and play video games, the more I push back by refusing to entertain them with trips and treats.  Why should I reward their whining with a trip to the zoo or an amusement park?  I'm thinking they need some austerity to better appreciate the simple pleasures in life.   We're redefining "Summer Fun" as trips to the library, the occasional ice cream cone, maybe a movie rental one night.  Am I being too harsh?  Or preventing them from becoming entitled, spoiled, selfish brats?

Also, I've realized Mr. G doesn't know any strokes despite knowing perfectly well how to swim, so we've got to work on that. 

On a hopeful note, the Supreme Court showed some common sense and decency yesterday.   And I've discovered the joy of reading Penelope Lively.

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water crimes

Yeah, so Mr. B had this water thing when he was little.  It started when he was about 2 years old, coinciding with the birth of Mr. G for anyone wishing to apply the stuff they learned in Psych 101.  He flushed a toy boat down the upstairs toilet, causing the toilet to back up just in time for Christmas when my folks were staying with us.  My father valiantly attempted to snake the pipes, but we ended up calling a professional.  The company we called was appropriately named "Flush."  For $300 they removed the entire toilet (blocked to the gills with ewgrossickickick) and extracted the plastic boat from the bowels (pun intended) of our house's pipes.  This incident also resulted in some nasty flooding on the bathroom floor.  We wrote it off as the natural combination of possessing a toy boat in a bathroom--of course a kid would want to see if it would float after flushing the toilet--a typhoon test of sorts.

About a month or so later Mr. B flushed another toy down the toilet in the master bathroom.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  The bill was more, no frequent customer discount from "Flush."

At this point I began searching for toilet lid locks.  Trouble was, Mr. T was only about 5 years old and required access to the toilet.  There is no toilet lid lock designed to keep out a 2 year old while allowing access to a 5 year old. 

 
The grand finale to Mr. B's flushing obsession happened when he and Mr. T got into a fight over an action figure.  Mr. B grabbed the toy and flushed it down the stool in the 1/2 bath, the third and final toilet in our house.  Why flush the toy?  So his brother couldn't play with it, of course.  A toddler's logic is always jaw-dropping.  I called "Flush" and reported the issue--we ascertained what had been flushed days after the fact when the plugged up toilet and inventory of our household items corroborated with Mr. T's testimony.  (They don't call me "Sherlock" for nothing.) 

The lady who answers the phone at "Flush" is one of those genuinely funny people--she asked if Robin (the Boy Wonder, sidekick to the Dark Knight AKA Batman AKA Bruce Wayne) had worn his scuba suit and taken his water purification pills before his foray into the depths of our waste removal system.  Even a worn-out, sleep-deprived, overwhelmed and underpaid SAHM like me had to laugh. 

And I had to laugh.  My sense of humor is one reason why I saved the receipts from each of our "Flush" service calls in Mr. B's baby book.  A study of these receipts indicate that it's less expensive to get through the pipes of a second story bathroom--straighter route perhaps?  I save copies of the BIG bills incurred from parenthood so that when the boys ask for college tuition someday, I'll explain how they are SOL because they actually owe ME for home renovation costs.  I'm kidding!  But I will show them what they cost us because wouldn't you want to know?  Plus it is kind of funny--years after the fact--that Mr. B cost us almost $1,000 (including the cost of 3 tried-and-rejected toilet lid lock kits) during this flushing phase.

When he was 3 or 4 Mr. B ran a garden hose from the back patio through our living room window and left it running.  That flooded our living room rug, soaked several toys, couch cushions, books and stacks of magazines.  Yes, yes I did lose my shit that day and screamed myself hoarse. 


Mr. B's final act took place when he was in preschool.  He and Mr. G played in the basement one morning and then came upstairs for lunch before I walked Mr. B across the field to school.  While Mr. G refused to nap (because all of my kids quit napping at age 2 which is another justification I give people asking "Don't you want to try for a girl?"--but seriously, who asks the mother of 3 boys if they're going to try for a girl?  And if you ARE one of those people who ask that question, just quit already.)  I tried to clean up the debris from lunch.

After clearing the table, I heard Violet meowing from the basement where we kept her litter box.  She normally only meowed for a reason, so I headed downstairs to explore.  I got to the bottom of the stairs and my foot splashed.  Water was pouring out of the basement bathroom from beneath the door.  The locked door.  I ran upstairs for the key, unlocked the door and discovered the bathroom sink was plugged and both faucets were running full blast.  They'd been running like that since before lunch sometime. 

Half the basement was under water, although the damage was limited because years ago we'd had a pipe burst in our old house, so this veteran didn't use cardboard boxes for storage anymore.  Mr. G ratted his brother out and Mr. B was one lucky kid to be safe across the field sitting in his preschool classroom.  I spent that afternoon on my knees with rags and a bucket, cleaning up yet another mess Mr. B had made with water.

Thankfully the kid was cute and outgrew this phase.  He turned out to be the best swimmer of all 3 boys and he's still mad for water.  We always joke that he's growing gills because he can stay under water so long.  Mr. B loves to swim and read books and watch TV shows about all things water-related.  Maybe he'll be a marine biologist, deep sea explorer, scuba instructor or plumber someday.  It would make sense.

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true

*  I'll have a teenager by the end of the week.  Good grief.
*  Mr. G told me the other day he knows where he wants to go for his birthday dinner.  (this kid plans ahead for his birthday all year)  He wants to go to Golden Corral.  He saw the ad on TV and is all jazzed up for the chocolate fountain and strawberries.  So it'll be me, 3 kids and a few busloads of senior citizens en route to the casino at Golden Corral come July...
*  SO irritated by our pool.  Total first world problem that I'm almost embarrassed to have.
*  Our evening schedule is imploding all week with games, practices and other fun stuff.  I'm beginning to think I need a hired driver instead of a hired cook.
*  Trying to kill weeds with vinegar--suspect I have a super-genetically-altered breed of weeds growing in my garden...
*  Of course when I'm in the throes of spring chores and editing manuscripts for my writing group I'm getting the best ideas for my own work.  I should be writing this stuff down, right? 
*  We have a baby oak growing in one of our gardens--where is it from?  Obviously I know the answer, but how did an acorn get beneath a pine tree?  I never, ever see squirrels around here...
*  I found a pair of high heeled sandals and I cannot find them online so I'll take a photo of them tomorrow because now I have to go to Farm Services to sign off on our annual Crop Report.

Spill it, reader.  Do you have a teenager?  Is it great?

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in the corners

It's amusing to look in the corners at my house.  Team Testosterone leaves a trail of their life all over the place.  Behold:

A Lego space ship near the Sunday comics--suddenly reading the Sunday comics is as trendy as cherry bomb kickball at Chez Green Girl.




 


 Toy soldiers, tinker toys, a Nerf bullet, magnet toys and a cow from the farm set.  There's always a battle scene set up somewhere, or I'm stepping over the wreckage of one.

  

 Always, always, always Nerf bullets.

 

 And the grocery list--they've added to it since our last trip to the store.



 Sometimes I find good things in the corners--like this pair of sandals with orange stitching that goes very nicely with my new Gidget Dress for a casual look.  They were in the corner of my closet.

 

Speaking of the Gidget Dress, here I am in the corner of Mr. D's boyhood bedroom at my MIL's wearing the Gidget Dress on Saturday night.  Mr. B and Mr. T directed the photo shoot and this was our favorite pose.  We call it "A Study in Empowerment for Super Heroes."
 

Told you I look good in that dress!

Spill it, reader.  What's in the corners at your place?

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the mom code

I'm lucky on Mother's Day.  I get to spend the day alone with my boys, which is kind of like any other day of the year, but different in that I get to boss everybody around.  Okay, this Sunday's really like any other day of the year.

I didn't want to be a mom when I was younger.  I never had a wedding/marriage/motherhood fantasy.  All of my childhood dreams involved living in Paris ALONE as some type of artist.  Getting married didn't occur to me until I was in college.  I still never planned on it (as evidenced by how awful my wedding was--no class, no taste, no panache--just a thrown together mess of a ceremony and party) until the last minute.  Having babies was part of the deal I made with Mr. D.  You see, he really wanted kids.  I didn't.  We compromised by me agreeing to go from zero kids to two--he wanted to have ten.  (I'll let you absorb that for a moment.)

Obviously the story ended differently, we have 3 boys.  When Mr. T was born I felt pretty stunned when I first saw him.  I didn't fall immediately in love with him like you see on TV or in movies.  I looked at his tiny body and felt incredibly responsible, however.  Loving him was a process that happened as we spent time together.  (Don't fret, I adore my tribe, more and more as the years pass.  The more time I spend with my boys, the more I get to know them, the more I love them.  My point here is that I grew into motherhood, it's been a journey for me, not a destination.)

My sons are a gift and one of my main responsibilities is to keep them safe, healthy and growing strong.  Moms have various methods in raising children, and I'm big into cool names and code words.  Like "The Drill" is what you do before bed--go potty, wash your hands, brush your teeth, put on pajamas.  "TFT" means "Total Free Time," which is what you earn when all your chores and homework is done and you can use TFT to do whatever you want.  The big rule about nutrition at our house is "Eat something green every day."  Whether we're in the pool or the Momvan, all rules fall under the blanket law "Safety First."  This blanket law includes The Mom Code.

As students at a martial arts dojo, my tribe gets exposed to a lot of "Stranger Danger."  Karate teachers love covering that stuff.  But the truth is 90% of all assaults/kidnappings on children involve people the kids already know.  Since I'm big into statistics, I always debriefed my kids after the "Stranger Danger" lessons, explaining to them that the nice man at the grocery store saying hi to them is NOT a scary stranger.  He's just a nice man at the grocery store saying hi to them and they should smile and return the greeting.  "Odds are, nobody's going to attack you and if they do, it'll be somebody you know.  Don't be rude to people.  Most strangers are like you or me, just ordinary nice people.  But your body is your property and you always say NO and BACK OFF if someone's crowding your space or making you feel uncomfortable."

But then I make sure to cover The Mom Code.  "What's the deal with your belly button?" I'll ask.  "We have belly buttons because we have moms."  "Exactly.  Your belly button is proof that you have a mama who loves you."  (Profound, right?)

"Now, if you're in trouble or lost, who do you go to for help?"  "Another mom with kids,"  Team Testosterone answers because we've been over this before.  "Exactly.  That's because us moms have something special called The Mom Code.  If some other mother's kid is in trouble, we have to help them out.  So if you're in a store, at the park, wherever, you find another mom with kids and they will help you out.  They have to--it's The Code."

Sure, police officers and store employees wearing badges are great, but they're not always around.  And they're not always trustworthy.  But you can almost always find another woman with kids wherever you go and that is the safest person for a kid to approach--and the statistics bear that out.  After I explained this to Mr. O, he now includes The Mom Code as part of his Stranger Danger stuff in the dojo. 

Happy Mother's Day to my fellow moms.  I hope you enjoy a little TFT on Sunday.

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the ebb and flow of memory

Poetic title today, isn't it?  And apt, too.  Yesterday I got an email updating me on Mr. G's tournament team practice schedule and I noted that he did NOT have practice for Tuesday, though I'd written on the calendar that he did.  Yippee!  We'd gone 4-4 ballplayers/coaches Monday night, so the prospect of a totally free evening without any practice/game/karate/church (excepting Mr. D coaching out of town) sounded delightful.  Team Testosterone arrived from school with light homework burdens and after they finished that, their chores and supper, we headed outside for the perfect trifecta of evening fun:  catch, around-the-world, kickball.
 I gained the lead in around-the-world, but then Mr. T and Mr. G were being mean to Mr. B so we quit playing without any declared winner.  The boys are finally old enough and skilled enough that we can all play catch, and we did for nearly an hour.  I threw pop-ups and rolled grounders.  I threw long and short tosses.  I missed more catches than they did, which was fine.   Mr. B and I went up against Mr. T and Mr. G in a game of driveway kickball where we racked up plenty of points but didn't keep score.  We raced and ran (with Jax getting in the way every time I was up to kick the ball), our sneakers brushing over dandelions in the grass.  We cheered and laughed and relished the balmy breeze on our arms and faces. I was truly wiped by the time we returned inside.  What a glorious evening!
In the hour remaining before bedtime we read and watched a bit of Frozen Planet.  The boys asked me what sports I played when I was their age and I explained that when I was a kid, we didn't really do sports like kids do now.  No one played soccer, for example, and all the other park & rec teams and tournament teams really weren't the norm back in my day.  "When I was a kid, we just played.  I took swim lessons and rode my bike a lot.  In middle school and high school I played a little basketball.  I took dance lessons and piano.  That was about it.  We mostly just hung out and played in our spare time."
"That sucks," they told me.  "Did you get a lot of homework?"
"Not like you do now," I told them.  
"Well, that would be cool," they opined.
"In the summer we'd play kick the can and stuff with all the neighbor kids.  We were never bored, but grown-ups didn't organize our fun like they do for you now."
Hm, they thought, "that might actually be okay."
This whole conversation got me to thinking about other stuff from my childhood.  Like the green Toughskin jeans I loved to wear, how toilet paper used to come in pastel colors to coordinate with bathroom decor and how my favorite smell was Tinkerbell perfume.  Remember Tinkerbell perfume?  It was the most delicate scent...

It's weird what you remember from your childhood.
And it's weird what you forget. 
This morning I opened my email to find one from Mr. G's league team coach--regarding last night's practice.  Oh crap, I thought it was a tournament team practice that had been cancelled...never even thought about it being his league team practice...
I feel bad that we missed his practice, but I'm glad we did because last night was perfect.
 

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and speaking of

The clock change made my kids really, really crabby this morning. I'm pretty certain whoever's in charge of daylight savings time does NOT have children. If they did, they'd never, ever screw with the clock in 60 minute increments. Mr. T was positively grumpy like an old man, Mr. G cried and Mr. B refused to speak or eat. Tomorrow has got to be better than today.

The pro-haircut votes were overwhelming, so I've got an appointment with Kristy tomorrow. Just in time for these events:

This Thursday, 10:00 a.m. Atlas Coffee Shop--cafe conversation as part of the Fox Cities Book Festival

This Friday, 2:30 p.m. UWSP Alumni Book Club
What's needed to participate: 1. An email address from Google (gmail). If you don't have one, you can register for gmail on the Google website. It's free! 2. Access to a webcam. Many laptops have built-in cameras. 3. Questions for Melissa about her book.

So, if you're local or not, you can participate--cool, eh?

And speaking of books, Sex With Kings by Eleanor Herman was a fascinating study of mistresses through history. I definitely wouldn't want to be queen or mistress the the king. Sure, the clothes and architecture were gorgeous, but all the disease, backstabbing and bleeding to death after childbirth makes Medieval times seem pretty awful. And the politics. Good grief.

And speaking of politics, I'm trying to find spots for my few remaining campaign signs. My kitchen is clean, I hung laundry outside and I got to babysit the sweetest baby boy on Saturday. No kidding--this little bean sat on my lap and watched Mr. G play basketball without making a single PEEP, then he slept for 2 hours, then he woke up and ate a whole bottle, then he laid there smiling and making cute noises. I never had such an easy baby in my life. I followed up babysitting by nursing a few excellent margaritas at a friend's house--a group of karate gals got together and hashed out all the drama and intrigue at the dojo.

The hot dojo gossip was nothing compared to the heat wave that blew in Saturday night. By midday Team Testosterone had their shirts off. We played basketball, baseball and football. We swung on the swingset, rode bikes, tooled around the field, chased Jax and generally relished the fact that spring has arrived.

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would you rather fight lice or zombies?

Yesterday Team Testosterone came barging through the door shouting "We don't have school tomorrow!" Gleefully they began stripping off their winter coats and backpacks and I helpfully corrected their assumption, "Maybe you won't have school tomorrow. We don't know for sure--the snow might miss us." (See: Winter Storm System Rolling Thru Midwest) They insisted, "No, Mom! Really we won't! Because of the lice!"

Before I staggered back too far clutching at my heart, one of the boys thrust a note into my hand that explained how the school would, in fact, be closed for intensive cleaning after several cases of head lice have been reported. It took about 3 seconds to scan the note and make executive decisions. (See: Reasons Why Green Girl Would Rock as President)

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" I commanded.

They froze.

"Strip naked--leave everything in the laundry room and then go upstairs and change into play clothes." They complied, and raced barefoot and bare-assed up the stairs to the safety of their rooms.

I shoved the first load of everything--boxers, khakis, shirts, sweatshirts, winter coats, hats, snowpants--into the washing machine and dialed the setting to Hot/Cold. For safety's sake, backpacks and the entire stash of mittens/hats/scarves went onto the "WASH" pile and I grabbed my coat and keys.

Instructing the boys to stay at the kitchen table no matter what and do not move until I get home--and eat a snack and finish their homework, I ran out to the Momvan.

We got the first note last Friday and I'd diligently pawed through the boys' hair, searching for nits and signs of lice. I'd peered closely at their scalps every day since, but now I was taking no chances. I shuddered when I thought of all those winter jackets and snow pants crammed closely together on classroom hooks--and the blithe way lice could climb and crawl from one head to the next. Can lice crawl from winter boot to winter boot? Maybe I should run all of their shoes through the wash. Suddenly my scalp began to itch.

Forty-eight minutes I returned home, a razor kit in hand. One at a time, I perched the boys on a stool in the middle of the driveway and began shearing their heads. I knew we didn't have lice, but I figure keeping them "high and tight" couldn't hurt.

Three loads of wash and three buzz cuts later, I feel confident we've kept the lousy parasites at bay ... for now. Others I know have experienced this terror. I realize this is only the tip of the lousy iceberg. Even so, that leftover book club wine is looking pretty tempting--since Sunday I've fixed a leaking dishwasher, dealt with a water heater on the fritz and sniffed out carbon monoxide in our basement.

My sons have offered encouragement during this ordeal. They assured me that lice like clean hair more than dirty hair, so they should be pretty safe. (See: Boys, Hygiene, Personal Care Is for Wusses) We've seen no trace of lice thus far and I believe my Buzz Cut/Laundry Attack is enough of a preemptive strike to negate any critical risk. And this has been a "Teachable Moment" as the boys wonder what eats lice, how lice have babies and who would win in a lice vs. army ant showdown.

I'm keeping the faith even though the back of my head feels itchy while I type this.

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oooh, baby, it's a wild world

I'll never tell which member of the Team asked--confidentiality is a big deal around Chez Green Girl--but they saw the words on a banner ad on my computer while I was reading blogs. They'd come in to ask me about something and the ad was right there: Brazilian Wax! It totally wasn't the blogger's fault--but it was a good reminder of why I'll keep things ad-free in my zone.

What did I tell him? I explained that we're mammals and grow all kinds of hair everywhere, including (how does a mama put this delicately?) "down there." Heh. Yes, I pointed. "So during swimsuit season, people like to remove some of that extra insulation. Waxing is when you pour hot wax on your skin and when it cools, you rip it off and the hair comes with it." (Interesting to note, that's the point during my explanation that totally freaked out the Unnamed Team Member.) "Why 'Brazilian'?" I continued to explain, "in southern climates, people bare more skin. The swimsuits are cut higher, hence the name of a more extensive wax job." This seemed like a satisfactory amount of information and we then discussed some other important stuff, like what I'd put in the oven for dinner and were we doing anything special this weekend.

Unnamed Team Member left the room a few minutes later. I finished drinking my Road Slush (which was incredible, never had one before) that I'd opened before he asked about Brazilian Waxing (and after a whole day with 3rd grade, blesstheirhearts) and yes, dear reader, I did stop after just one delicious oatmeal stout.

Speaking of mammals, it's all about animals around these parts. Team Testosterone is WILD about animals.
This book is permanently on the kitchen table--we read it every day and discuss the fun facts. "Who would win--a mountain lion or a black bear?" (Inevitably I get smart and ask, "Who would win--a hamster or a sparrow?" and things start to get silly.) My kids cannot get enough of this book.

They've always been fans of nonfiction, but to have PREDATORS "versing" each other is the pinnacle of literary awesomeness. (Yes, "vs." is a verb that means "to compete" or "battle", as in "I'll vs. you in Bey Blades.")
The pictures have something to do with this book's awesomeness, I'm sure. All those TEETH.


And every week day at 4:30 we're tuned in to watch:

I kid you not. They watch this as religiously as Mr. D watches the NFL and that's saying something. I confess, it pleases me to see those crazy Kratt brothers back in action. Years ago we loved Zoboomafoo. Team Testosterone absorbs this show and then they even play it out afterwards.

And when Wild Kratts isn't on TV, they switch over to Animal Planet to watch programs about insect infestations, cheetahs, crocodiles, goats and gazelles. They're constantly discussing the plight of tigers, how much gorillas weigh, where you can find a snowy owl and what fire ants eat. My head spins with the glorious facts. "Did you know that a whale's heart beats 10-15 times a minute?" "Did you know that coyotes only killed 13,000 deer last year in Wisconsin, but hunters killed 226,000?"

Wild love, creature fascination, whatever you want to call it, I think it's great to live in a house where the natural world is all the rage.

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pandora's box

It's been opened, I fear. Monday Mr. T had a friend over, a nice kid who we really like. He brought his new ipod touch and the boys swapped recommendations for game downloads, songs, etc. Then the friend showed Mr. T a texting app. I had no idea that you could text using an ipod touch. I actually thought the app wouldn't work, but Mr. T downloaded it, and the boy told him, "I'll text you when I get home." Since Monday night, Mr. T has entered a whole new society.

Cut to last night: I sat playing mahjong on his toy while the boys finished watching a TV show. Twice I got a little message on the screen--two texts from a girl. I ignored them and when the boys' show was over, I called Mr. T over to hand back the ipod. "By the way," I said, "you got 2 messages from someone named Ava."

Silence.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody."

"I'm just curious--do you know her from school?"

"Yeah."

"Your class?"

"Yeah."

"Hm."

"She spends 24/7 at her computer, Mom. I swear, she has no life."

"What does she text you about?"

Then he showed me--I skimmed the texts that he'd exchanged (I had no idea!) since Monday--mostly about school assignments, a few photos of people's dogs, nothing of great importance.

My mind processed this new situation.

On one hand, my slightly antisocial kid has a new way to interact with more people. Good. This might help inspire better spelling (I noticed one girl pointed out his errors in spelling "stoopid"). Good. I have no qualm about him interacting with kids his age about dogs and school assignments.

On the other hand, I'm well aware of the danger (Danger, Will Robinson!) associated with kids and technology. (It doesn't help at all that at tonight's Bumble Book Club meeting we're discussing This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman.)

I don't want to eavesdrop, read every text, hover and smother my son.

But I'm smart. Our laptop is in a public zone in our house--the boys do not have their own computers, game systems or televisions in their rooms. Mr. T bought his own ipod touch and I control the password so I can control what he downloads--he doesn't mind and so far it's not been a hassle. Mr. T borrows my cell phone as needed, none of them play online games (except for Lego Universe which will disappear at the end of this week), none of them are on Facebook, I'm aware of the sites they visit online and the media they ingest.

I want Mr. T to have independent relationships and evidently if he owns an ipod touch, he has access to texting.

How does a parent monitor this silent, private world of communication? It's so different than the days of passing notes (written on looseleaf paper folded into clever triangular shapes and covered with letters like "BFF" and "SWAK") between desks at school or talking on a telephone (connected by a twirly cord to the kitchen wall) where your entire family walked past as you chatted about boys and parties and who said what where, when and how.

We talked about this New-Fangled Texting Stuff and I told him that I trust him. He's a good kid with good judgment for his age. But I'm the parent, so as long as he's under my roof, I need to have a baseline knowledge of what's going on in his world. I told him I would occasionally check his texts--just skim through them from time to time to make sure the tone and topics are appropriate. "I won't tease you," I promised, "and I won't ask you tons of questions unless I think it's important. I don't care that Mary likes Nick or any of that stuff. I respect your privacy, but I need to make sure you're safe and stuff. Because I'm your mom and I love you."

Spill it, reader. I'm feeling my way through the dark, here (as often happens with your firstborn child). How do you handle kids and texting? Do you have rules? Boundaries? Checkpoints?

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a dry Christmas break

We have no snow and Team Testosterone has brand new snow shoes. No sledding. No snow forts. No snow people in the yard. Just cold out there and very dry. And, speaking of dry, I discovered last night (before the Packers beat the Bears) that I've no beer, either.

Thank goodness they also have a brand new lazer tag set (for 4 players) and a plethora of boxes to build a maze with. And thank goodness we have a basement.

And Dance Party 3, which is the most sweaty, gut-busting fun we've had in ages.

Spill it, reader. What's the forecast for your break?

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holiday chores

I'm wicked late for this year's Christmas card. There are issues with content. There are issues with format. And then the camera batteries died. Above is one of the rejects from this year's session. Team Testosterone looks festive, don't you think?

There's been much talk about Advent calendars. Behind them you'll see a calendar my mom made for me. I grew up with a similar one. You velcro the ornaments to the tree and are supposed to put the star on top Christmas Eve. Try telling that to Mr. G. I keep reading about people putting together Advent calendars that involve opening wee gifts and trinkets and treats. The whole logistics of putting such a thing together (times THREE, natch) blows my mind. So reader, let's make a deal. I'll never tell your kids our kid-sized four-wheeler, pool and the boys' man-fort out back if you never speak of Advent calendars with daily gifts to mine, okay?

Blue jays and cardinals are hitting the bird feeder.

Had lunch with J and her darling baby T yesterday. I will so miss her when she returns to work after Christmas. Seriously, girlfriend makes me laugh so hard.

I awoke this morning to the sound of an ornament hitting the floor, but the tree still stands upright.

St. Nicholas filled stockings with tiny Lego kits and chocolates last night. This morning Mr. G informed me that "St. Nicholas gave me a Ninjago set, but it's okay because he'll tell Santa because they live together." It slays me how kids makes sense of these things in their own way. I guess I always thought St. Nicholas was Santa, on a teaser run to let you know where you stood on his Naughty or Nice List.

The hybrid is a GO! Squee! We don't do new cars around here, the hybrid is barely used, and the first new vehicle for probably 6 years. In our discussions about whether to buy this car, we realized that the Momvan is over 8 years old. That startled me for some reason.

Tonight is the season finale of Sons of Anarchy.

Nine days until the Stevens Point book launch party, when I hold a copy of Whipped, Not Beaten in my hands.

So much to look forward to. Spill it, reader. What are you anticipating?

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many good things

We got a tree--not the biggest tree, not the most expensive tree, but a fragrant, tall-ish, full tree that hasn't tipped over. Without a single curse word or snappish tone the tree got lit and decorated. Bing Crosby and Andy Williams crooned over the stereo, we sang along (in our tuneless way) and hung ornaments. The children discussed how excited they were for Christmas. All the lights worked when we plugged them in. Nothing broke. No one fought. When we finished, I realized that with the help of my entire family the ornaments were decently spaced. I didn't feel the urge to reorganize the boys' decorating. It couldn't have gone more smoothly and I am thankful for that. Christmas is so much better when kids are older.

Mr. T is playing basketball. Mr. T is playing basketball. That's such a strange thing that I must type it twice. He's loath to play team sports and quit YMCA league in 1st grade. This year he was again invited to play for his school's team and he agreed. Poor boy doesn't have much of a clue about the game, looks pretty dazed out there during games, but he's gradually catching on and gaining confidence. He loves going to practice, really tries hard. Well, this week he made his first basket during a game AND got his first foul. He rebounds pretty well and his team took first in a local tournament. He's never won anything before. The triumphant feeling still lingers. Also? He keeps talking about going out for track in the spring because he really likes to run and has good speed.

Mr. T and I went to the town's Christmas parade Saturday night after the basketball tournament. It was a nice parade, full of happy people, clever floats and lots of fire trucks. We greeted many people by name, a good, friendly evening. And the rain stopped for the parade.

The boys are revved up for St. Nicholas Eve, which is tonight. Because we live in a heavily Dutch-populated area, we participate in the tradition of setting out stockings for treats. Little treats. Mostly chocolate-flavored treats.

Because of this, that and the other we haven't been going to karate classes. I was very thankful to hit mitts with a tough partner Saturday and work up a sweat.

Mr. B started basketball, which is totally within character for him, so I shall only type it once. He's always happiest when his day involves other guys and a ball of any sort.

Mr. G went to a fantastic birthday party for a friend who is an only child and therefore gets to have the sort of party that no one with siblings would get to have.

The Packers are still on their streak.

The Badgers got retribution.

I saw a skunk by our driveway and Jax never tangled with it.

There are leftovers in the fridge for tonight's supper.

I'm finally reading The Help and it's pretty good.

Spill it, reader. What good things happened over your weekend?

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