love (and germs) is in the air

What a weekend.  I've finally absorbed the germs from my kids and have a stuffed head, plugged ears, sore throat, aching neck and dripping nose.  As disgusting as I feel, I guess I'm thankful this will be gone by next weekend when we have plans to do fun things.

Mr. T learned how to ski on Saturday.  I'm so impressed by him.  He went with a buddy to a ski hill, the same one I went to decades ago in my youth.  Unlike his mama, however, Mr. T managed to make it down the slopes only wiping out TWICE.  In stark contrast to Mr. T, I never made it down a slope without wiping out.  I tried, several times, but skiing was not my sport.  I could never understand this particular failure because I have terrific balance--I can hold a one-legged yoga pose forever and a day.  I can water ski, ice skate, roller blade and pop off multiple kicks while balanced on one leg.  But something about gliding downhill on two feet throws off my equilibrium I guess.  Anyway, I'm glad the kid had fun and wants to do it again.

Mr. G had his second wrestling meet.  He took 2nd place, winning 4 of 5 matches.  The match he lost was his first of the day and he lost it 8-7.  Mr. D thinks if he knew a bit more about the sport he'd have won, but I'm glad he lost.  I got to see how he handled it--and he handled it well.  He shook everyone's hand before leaving the mat and didn't shed a single tear.  And he went in the next match without trepidation.  Losing builds character and I fear if things come too easily for my youngest, he'll turn into a real knucklehead. 

We also did Valentines for school last night.  I know I've mentioned before how my kids are so different than I was at this age (I know, because they're boys, duh).  I remember sitting at the kitchen table with a box of Valentine cards and selecting carefully a card for each classmate.  They had to be just right, you know?  A card with a picture of a dog holding a bone that said "I dig you, Valentine" had to go to a boy because otherwise you'd run out and end up giving a boy a card with a kitten which would be all kinds of wrong. 

Not Team Testosterone.  Against their free will and muttering under their breaths about "worst holiday ever" and "I can't wait until I'm Mr. T's age and never have to endure this strange and horrible torture again" they scrawled their classmate's names on cards.  Grab-scrawl-sign.  Grab-scrawl-sign.  No care.  No thought.  Valentine's Day is a duty undertaken because of social rules.  Oh, boys.  Gotta love them.  I told them if they're lucky like their dad, they'll marry someone like me who doesn't care about Valentine's Day and has no expectations about celebrating it. 

Then we watched some TV.  Every time a commercial came on for Jared or Kay's or Diamonds R Us, I pointed out that only a moron who has no imagination gets his wife some mass-produced piece of ugly jewelry.  Someday there will be a girl out there who will thank me for teaching my son so well...

Spill it, reader.  What's your favorite Valentine's Day candy?  Mine's chocolate, though I get nostalgic when I bite into a conversation heart.

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ninjas everywhere, but only one broken ornament

While I was off enjoying the Packers stomping on the Lions in the snow at Lambeau (though not literally, as stomping means something quiet specific when talking about that team and the Packers have good sportsmanship unlike SUHme players...), Team Testosterone was ecstatic.

For a while now, Mr. G and Mr. B have had serious boy-crushes on these two brothers at the dojo, I'll call them Nina 1 and Ninja 2, AKA the Ninja Bros.  They're good, upstanding assistant instructors, both in high school, both compete in martial arts tournaments and both are phenomenal athletes.  If my kids want to hold anybody up as role models, they can totally idolize these guys.

Ninja 1 and Ninja 2 have a team routine they've done at karate tournaments and my younger boys copy their moves, flipping and jumping over each other in their room at night.  They've numbered the moves, so they come up with various combinations of flipping, jumping, and shaking the floor when they land.  Mr. G's mastery of a kip-up is also due in part to the Ninja Bros. 

For a while now they've been begging for the Ninja Bros to babysit.  We don't have much of a need for sitters around here since Mr. T's old enough and we've worked out an excellent system of paying everyone for cooperating with one another (Mr. T gets $2/hour, the younger boys get $1/hour, you only get paid if you have a good report).  But a Packer game overlapping dinner time is a pretty long shift, so I relented and asked the Ninja Bros if one of them would be free to come over for a few hours.

Team Ninja Bros said "YES!  We're both in!" and the clouds parted, a light shone down from heaven, angels sung and Team Testosterone squealed with joy.  Or something like that.  The Ninja Bros then asked if we had anything breakable in the living room.  Uh, yeah.  You can do all the crazy stuff you want in the basement, but keep your weapons out of my living room and away from the Christmas tree!

Team Testosterone counted down the hours and then the Ninja Bros arrived, one carrying his sword, the other his bo staff, both laden with Monster Energy drinks and sodas.  I handed over money for a run to Subway and cell phone numbers.  We drove away with a strong vibe that Team Testosterone was in for one of the best nights of their lives.

We returned much later to find the Ninja Bros' vehicle still parked at our house.  I'd told them they were free to leave around 7 (school night, snowstorm, Mr. T capable of handling bedtime) so I panicked, thinking their car hadn't started and the poor boys were trapped at our house waiting for us to return.  Ah, but no.  They were sitting comfortably in the living room, watching TV, drinking soda.  Just hanging out, enjoying the quiet of our home.

"I have to tell you, I broke an ornament on your tree.  It was just a glass ball, not a fancy one or anything," Ninja 1 explained.

"Oh?"

"The boys had knocked it down and I was trying to hang it back up, but it fell on the ground and shattered."

"Don't worry about it.  How did everything else go?"

"We did karate in the basement, played outside in the snow, went to Subway--the change is on the counter--fed Jax.  We played the Wii a little.  Now they're all in bed.  Your kids are really good.  We had a lot of fun with them."

I helped the Ninja Bros scrape off their car and watched them drive away, curious to know if Team Testosterone really had a good time.  They woke up Monday morning dragging their feet.  Later I learned that they had played really hard.  Mr. T finally mastered a new bo staff move he'd been working on (private weapon lesson in the basement from Ninja 2 while we were gone).  They found a flashlight, turned off all the lights in the house and played hide-and-seek for at least an hour.  They each learned something new to add to their karate repertoire.

"So, did you have fun?  Would you want the Ninja Bros to come out here again sometime?"

YES!!!  Are you leaving again?  When?  I had to stop them from rushing off to mark their calendars and grab their weapons. 

Well, there were 5 black belts of varying degrees tearing through the house and only a broken ornament to show for it.  I have to say I was impressed.

In other news, it's 12/12/12 today which means putting on your #12 jersey and celebrating this guy:

Spill it, reader.  Who rocks the babysitting in your neck of the woods? 

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hunting

Sleep paralysis, eh?  Thus sayeth the internets and Web MD.  The weird thing is, I have the symptoms, but none of the causes.  We'll chalk this dysfunction up to metabolic or hormonal change, which is akin to blaming the government for problems, right?  Another vague, all-encompassing cause of things. 

Here's more than you need to know about my metabolism:  it's pretty high as a general rule.  I eat enormous amounts of food, yet my weight only fluctuates about 5 pounds once a month when I bloat n' flow.  I've been a hot flash my entire life--feeling excessively cold is a sure sign I'm sick or getting sick.  I get so overheated when I sleep that waking up sweaty happens to me all the time.  I keep expecting that "change" to start happening, but so far the only signs of aging on this old body are external--some grey hair and deeper lines on my face.  For now, I'm ruling out hormones, too.  The only big change around these parts is the weather--from cold to colder as we settle into winter.   My hunt for a cause of my sleep paralysis comes up empty, as does my hunt for a cure, namely "treat sleep disorders."  Um, isn't sleep paralysis a sleep disorder?  That's like saying "If thirsty, cure thirst."  Not terribly detailed or helpful.

Speaking of hunting for a cure, the heat in our bedroom isn't working and there's a crew of guys in my basement as I type this trying to get to the bottom of things.  In March we had a new boiler installed.  For some reason "Zone 3" gets no hot water.  Our freezing cold bedroom is heavenly--to me and only me.  No joke:  we put extra blankets on only one side of the bed during the winter, and it's not my side. How many men does it take to fix a radiant heat system?  So far we're up to four...

And speaking of hunting, this weekend gun season opens and Mr. B is old enough to join his big brother and dad out in the woods.  To say he's excited is an understatement.  Since his trip to Fleet Farm last week, he's been trying on his new blaze orange duds almost every day.  That kid is JACKED UP to get in the woods.  He told his dad last night, "Only four more days until I'm a man."  Later Mr. D asked me, "He knows he doesn't get to shoot anything yet, right?" 

While three go sit in the woods and carry out the grand Wisconsin tradition of deer hunting, I'm left back at the ranch with Mr. G (too young) and Jax (terrified of guns) (plus, you don't take a dog deer hunting).  It'll only be a couple years and then Mr. G will join the hunt.  Then I'll have to hunt for something to do while I'm all alone.  But this year I'll stay busy ferrying Mr. G to baseball and basketball, which is fine by me.  I've never had any desire to join the hunting party.  I don't object to it, deer are prolific around here, and when prepared properly, delicious with a side of potatoes.  It's just that I can think of about 723 other things I'd rather do in my free time and sitting in the cold woods propped up against a tree isn't one of them.  Yet, that would cool me off and help me sleep well, wouldn't it?

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promises

It's been chaotic here.  Make up homework from our trip.  Basketball.  Football.  Even winter baseball, for crying out loud, because Mr. D's just a guy who can't say no.   Three boys who want some semblance of a social life.  Parent/teacher conferences.  Birthdays, a wedding and church.  Meetings, a home improvement project and work.  Squeezed into this mess are the usual chores like laundry and dishes and cooking and that poor, poor dog.  So it's NO surprise that everyone's coming down with a variation of the Standard Head Cold.

Mr. T goes with pure stuffiness, scratchy throat and fogged-up ears.

Mr. D prefers the classic raw throat and sneezing.

Mr. B's a mucusy mess with a seal's barking cough.

Mr. G sniffles and feels warm to the touch.

I take a hit off the ol' asthma meds and limit the suffering to my nasal passages.

Time to slow down, say no, limit what we've piled on our plates.  I started today when getting an email asking me to sub at church on Sunday.  Well, that one was easy since I'll be out of town.  

Mr. B and Mr. G got their black belts Sunday night.  No more karate class after school for Mr. G.  We're all in the same time slot now, reducing my trips to town and taking the edge off the supper/homework crunch twice a week.

Gratuitous photo of Mr. B (2nd degree) and Mr. G (1st degree) with their instructors at their graduation celebration.

I'll set aside the home improvement projects until deer hunting season.  That's when I'll have some time to tackle those jobs and they'll still get done before the holidays and any significant snowfall.

That's all low-hanging fruit.  The next level of cuts will hurt.  I guarantee we'll feel some suffering.  But in order to keep our family unit strong and healthy we need to make some tough choices.  That means clarifying our priorities and keeping focus. 

I solemnly swear not to take on any further responsibilities until our schedule clears.  Read my lips:  NO NEW ACTIVITIES OR COMMITMENTS.  We're adhering to austerity, a policy of isolationism to preserve our sanity.  We will have a better tomorrow, tomorrow. We hold onto hope that things will change as we set aside our different schedules and begin to work together. 

A new start this November--a choice for the future--united we stand.

But first?  I have to get to the polls.

Happy Election Day!

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stumper

The boys are big into the "Who Would Win?" books. 

Who would win--a scorpion or a tarantula?  You have to count speed.

Who would win--a Wookie or Sand People?  You have to count special moves.

Who would win--Darth Vader or Luke Skywalker?  You have to count weapons.

Who would win--a saltwater crocodile or a great white shark?  You have to count endurance.
 
Who would win--a polar bear or a grizzly bear?  You have to count ferocity, not just size.

So the other day I asked them "Who would win--mom or dad?"

Their response:


To the death or what kind of a battle are we talking here?

For some reason that just cracked me up.

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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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bucket list item #2 for summer 2012

We drove 2 hours north the other day and Team Testosterone chattered nonstop the entire way.  Thanks to the oddly hot summer, Lake Michigan was a balmy 72 degrees when we visited.  I was quickly reminded of the soothing effect of hearing the surf.  That rhythmic sound just unravels my nerves like magic.

We saw dogs, dudes wearing Speedos (ew!), seagulls and lots of people reading books.  Everyone agreed it was the perfect day for playing in the waves and playing in the sand.  Mr. T opened the trail mix, took a fistful and wandered to the water's edge.  Behind him a seagull swooped in and began helping himself.

Some of the sandcastles were magnificent.  Ours were pretty standard.

We buried Mr. G.

That's one way to keep a brother out of your hair.

Later, after we dried off and grabbed cheeseburgers we headed up the coast to see a lighthouse.  We arrived 20 minutes too late to tour the inside, but we found plenty to explore on the grounds.

We didn't want to leave.

So we lingered for over an hour and watched the sun move lower in the sky.  Then we pulled out to find ice cream cones.

Do you like my new sunglasses?  My old pair was crooked and Mr. D said they made me look drunk.  These make me look sober and they're super-comfy. 

We reached a consensus during the drive home:  we need to take more trips to the lake.

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it's not "goodbye"

it's really just "see you soon."  In the spirit of bad things happening in sets of three, the Momvan and my laptop took a puke.  I've been to the garage 4 (expensive) times inside of a week for the dang Momvan and without any computer access since Saturday.  Today I checked in to discover 139 emails including, but not limited to, various editing projects, start of school year, social invitations, tragic news about one of my favorite teachers and baseball equipment drop off dates (which we missed).  My blog reader overfloweth.  I can't even face facebook.  Yet being out of touch for a week hasn't been the worst possible thing in the world--it's oddly liberating. 

Meanwhile, I've seen a couple of great plays, visited girlfriends, gone to the zoo with Team Testosterone, swam (swum?), read, picked tomatoes and booked our family vacation.  The boys have been up to their knees in the creek catching frogs--they've built a frog habitat in an old wheelbarrow covered with a busted window screen.  The trail we've got through the woods has really taken shape.  I've knocked lots of odd jobs off my chore list and we all got new shoes.

And there's the Olympics.  Every night until very late.  It's awesome listening to the boys talk about the athletes--especially the women--with admiration and knowledge.  They know who Missy Franklin and Gabby Douglas and Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt are--and we're all talking about how far, how fast, how strong, how amazing and special they are.  Pretty inspiring stuff.

So, I'll be back next week.  Life is good here, and I hope it's fine in your neck of the world, too.

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balls

Last night ended Mr. D's baseball season--he helps coach Happyland High School's varsity team.  While he was watching their playoff dreams die, I sat in the dugout at Mr. B's game with a good view of the scoreboard.  I'd watched only one inning and the mood was tense.  HHS played a good team and they've been in a slump for two weeks.  How tough not to shake it off.

While Mr. D's team struggled (valiantly), I kept the book and managed Mr. B's cadet league team.  Mr. B pitched for his first time ever and I think he did pretty well.  His team won their game, 8-3, and I have to say I really like being in his team's dugout.  It's a great group of kids, all very nice, respectful, good sports, good teammates.  They try hard and have fun.  They ask a million questions ("When do I bat next?"  "When will I get to pitch?"  "How many outs do we have?"  "What's the score?"  "How long is this bat?") and only one kid seems to not want to be there.

Sadly, Mr. B is a great hitter, but he's having a tough time at the plate this year.  Coincidentally he's been referred to an optometrist. So, this afternoon we're heading to an eye doctor to determine if Mr. B needs glasses, which would probably help his fielding and hitting if that's the case.  Stay tuned.  Frankly, of all three of my boys, Mr. B's the most responsible and least destructive so the least likely to lose or break his glasses if he requires them. (Clarification:  he's been the least destructive since toddlerhood.  He kind of had an obsession with water and caused extensive damage at our house for a number of years.  I've saved the bills for posterity--seriously, they're in his baby book.  Mr. B compulsively clogged toilets by flushing things down them, once he plugged a sink and let it run, flooding our basement and another time ran a garden hose into our living room and turned the water on full blast.  All this happened before he turned 5.  Since turning 5 he's channeled his passion for all things water-related to swimming and reading books about ocean life and sharks.)

After Mr. B's game, he and I hauled ass across the field, gear thumping against our backs as we hustled to watch Mr. G's soccer game.  I love watching my kids play--they give 100% effort and seem to enjoy themselves.  Mr. G's a fast runner and likes competition.  I drove the Momvan home with two winners in my back seat. 

Thank goodness we live in a small town where everything takes place in one park area--we're running ragged a few nights each week between soccer and baseball games and practices.  And as if all that fun at the park wasn't enough, Team Testosterone closed out the night playing Cherry Bomb Kickball in our driveway until I made them go to bed.  Everywhere I step there is a baseball, a basketball, a soccer ball, a kick ball, a beach ball, a wiffle ball, even the occasional golf ball.

Spill it, reader.  Does anyone at your house play ball?

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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 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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Jane Austen, take me away!

To say that being in the throes of baseball season is akin to being a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest is a bit of an understatement. One guy coaching two teams, two guys playing in league and tournament teams, one playing softball and I'm the "ghost runner" making the schedule flow, ferrying people hither, thither and yon. It's a thankless job. If you know a coach's wife, do me a personal favor and give her a shout-out for all she does behind the scenes. She'll appreciate your recognition.

How frazzled are you, Green Girl?

I'm an episode behind watching that drool-worthy Don Draper.
I've got a big pile of mulch to pitch onto the flower beds.
There's a bit of wind damage to tend to after yesterday.
And of course that laundry pile made taller for the dirty uniforms and practice gear.
Everybody needs to eat, but at different times, so prepping dinner is a bigger chore than usual.
Don't get me started on how poorly that fan form is coming along--last night I kept getting my fingers caught between the blades and dropping it--and the test is next Wednesday.
Plus my desk is covered with manuscript revisions and manuscript editing for a fellow writer.

Obviously the answer to this madness is to escape--into the placid, civilized world of Jane Austen. A world where wit and good manners reign, where one frets about Finding The Perfect Match instead of Finding the Matching Sock/Missing Homework Assignment/Chicken I Swear I Bought For Dinner This Week & Hid Somewhere In The Freezer.

So, my bloggy friend Alyssa Goodnight (is that not the best author name ever?) has provided an escape from the madness of Real Life. It's called Austentatious. There's a clever and original heroine (with a really cool scientific job instead of an artsy-writer-y type of job), a dashing hero (who is literally a rock star) and a supporting cast of eclectic folks who do funky things like sing karaoke and bowl. Trust me, if life's swamping you, this book can take you away for a little while, refresh your batteries with a bit of humor and romance.


Green Girl, how can I score a copy of this book? I'm glad you asked! You can either win a copy here this week or buy your own. (I recommend trying to win a copy before you buy your own.)

To win your copy of Austentatious, you have to enter my Frazzled Contest. Entering is easy--each comment in the comment box is an entry to win. That's all. I'll pick a lucky winner Monday and mail them a copy of Austentatious. It's that easy and that awesome.

Spill it, reader. What's got you frazzled this week?

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stinky

Jax found something dead in a ditch and it became his new favorite toy ever. Our dog smells like a rotting corpse. And he keeps dragging various sections of this dead animal to different parts of the yard, so you never know when you'll encounter the stench of decaying flesh. And I swear, he rolled every inch of his furry body over the smelliest bits of whateverthefrickdeadanimal it was so he could carry it with him wherever he goes. Which naturally makes a girl think of e. e. cummings because it is April, which is National Poetry Month, which leads to me wandering around outside quoting the words of dead men in reference to dead animals in my yard.

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

And speaking of smelly--my sons all wake up with the most powerful breath on the planet. They could peel paint off a wall with their morning breath. Because I worry about them offending their classmates and teachers, I'm always nagging to brush your teeth every morning before they leave the house. I tell them I don't want you to be the stinky kid nobody wants to sit next to. They tell me I don't care, Mom, it doesn't matter. Well, yesterday I learned they are right. It doesn't matter.

I subbed in 3rd grade (and yes, I rocked the lessons on perimeter, writing with adjectives, qualities of good leadership, levers, renewable and nonrenewable resources with a huge eco-women emphasis on reducing our use of plastics, and a bit of art with paint at the end of the day--holla!) yesterday. People, those kids STINK. Almost every kid in that class who talked to me about knocked my socks off with their fetid breath. Apparently when all the kids have stinky breath, no one's going to take offense, which is the logic my children have been using all school year. And I guess I've put my kids at a disadvantage by insisting on good oral hygiene because when your own breath is minty-fresh, you totally notice when other people's is funky. Maybe I need to rethink our morning routine ...

KIDDING! But I should buy a super-sized box of breath mints to help that poor teacher out. If I had a dime every time I wanted to offer one of these kids a piece of gum or something just so my eyes wouldn't water when they talked to me...

Despite their poor oral hygiene, they were a good class, cheerful and focused and willing to work hard.

Spill it, reader. What's stinky in your world today?

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y chromosome much?

Why, yes, yes it is the dominant chromosome around here. With 3 sons, a boy dog and Mr. D, this place is flooded with testosterone. It's startling to some people, to walk into a house that overflows with balls, cleats, Nerf ammo and Lego pieces. But for the boy children visiting--particularly those boy children with sisters--Chez Green Girl is heaven. Nary a frilly, pink, perfumed whiff of femininity to be found.

I don't notice it often, because I don't think it's out of hand here. It's not like I deliberately ban girl stuff or anything like that. But then someone will say something, like when Mr. T was in Kindergarten and his teacher was testing the children on their colors. She thought it was hilarious that he knew all of his colors except for pink and purple.

Last night I was reminded again of how manly we are here. We were all home after various practices and games and Mr. D was switching through the channels. I remarked that "Hey, Dancing With The Stars is on tonight--I've never seen it, but it would be fun to watch Donald Driver dance. I hear he's pretty good." Mr. D settled on that channel for a moment, we watched Melissa Gilbert wrap up her performance and learned that Donald would be on next!

A second later Mr. B and Mr. G strolled through, in search of food and somebody to wrestle/Bey Blade battle. "Mr. B--Donald Driver's on Dancing with the Stars! We're going to watch it after this commercial."

Mr. B gave us a puzzled look and replied, "What the heck is Dancing with the Stars?"

(Notice, there was no confusion over Donald's identity.)


**Reminder to local folks--I'm going to be at the Neenah Public Library at 2:30 this Saturday, participating in a panel discussion as part of the Fox Cities Book Festival.**

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satisfaction

The sun is out, the grass is green, the wind is cold and it feels like a proper Wisconsin spring again.
I want this dress for summertime. The fact that it's the "Gidget Dress" makes me want it more.
Mad Men is back and Peggy is still my favorite character. Joan's evolution as a mother surprises me. I knew they'd jump ahead in time with the first episode of the season, so much about the show's writing is satisfying. And Megan? Could grow on me...
Mr. B has a stye in his eye, poor boy. But his dad brought him shopping for a new baseball glove and bought him all kinds of other things to spoil him--new shirts, cleats, a Gatorade. It's a special thing to be spoiled for no particular reason.
Mr. G had playdates galore this weekend. He has also cleverly hidden his school pants in an act of protest. If he has nothing to wear, then he can return to Happyland Elementary or be home schooled, right? Right.
Mr. T has struck an ingenious deal with us. He's grounded from his i-device (for grades), but we want him to play CYO softball (for his social development--it's a 6-week season and he can play the sport as well as anyone else on the team). He'll play softball if he can have his i-device one day out of each week. Our boy can be so smart when motivated...
At Sunday school Mr. T's class discussed sibling rivalry. Awesome topic. On the drive home I asked him about it and it was gratifying to hear Team Testosterone agree that sibling rivalry isn't something they struggle with. I also think they do incredibly well on this count, but to hear it from their own lips was nice.
Spill it, reader. Is sibling rivalry an issue in your house?

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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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low tech fun

Yesterday I finished Louise Penny's Bury Your Dead and now I'm longing to go to Montreal. She's a sublime writer and I'm 70 pages deep into her latest book. If you haven't read her books yet, get cracking because you are missing out.

It's incredibly quiet around here, despite a steady influx of kids coming over. The only battery operated toy Team Testosterone received was a Lazer Tag set that's really not so loud. They're reading, building Legos, occasionally playing the Wii, but I haven't had to bust out my Mom Yell at all. Is this heaven? No, it's NOT having little kids--and man, do I love it.

Mr. D gave me a French oven for Christmas and I'm busy acquiring recipes for stovetop goodness. If you have any suggestions, I'm happy to take them.

I'm musing, at the fringe of my thoughts, on making a list of plans for 2012. I'm also steeped in disappointment that we're NOT living like the Jetsons, with individual jet packs zipping us all over the place. As a child I had such high hopes for 2012. I blame our dependency on fossil fuels for our unimaginative transportation. Though I am glad metallic skintight jumpsuits never caught on.

In other news, Mr. B and Mr. T claim to have seen a baby Ewok in the woods yesterday. A bear? Possibly. I don't think they were kidding because I grilled each of them in isolation and their story checked out... Consequently, they head into the woods more than ever now.

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building a case for Legos

Tonight is the boys' Christmas concert at school--Mr. D will attend since I'll be AT MY BOOK LAUNCH PARTY IN STEVENS POINT. Anyway, I'll sit in on the dress rehearsal, which, as my sons helpfully pointed out, is NOT the same thing as the evening performance, but there you have it. They don't seem terribly impressed by my reason for missing the concert.

It's all about LEGOS here lately. By lately I mean for the past year. My children have almost exclusively asked for Lego kits for Christmas. Mr. T has a hankering for the Old School Star Wars kits which are wicked pricey and hard to find, Mr. B and Mr. G are kicking it Clone Wars and Ninjago-style. Mr. D and I think we should buy stock in Lego Corp. because Lord knows we spend enough on their products. Star Wars! Ninjago! Pirates!

This morning we rehashed that conversation and I mused yet again to Mr. D, "And they haven't even begun to effectively tap the GIRL market yet. I mean, it's all for boys, their product lines. But Legos are huge and believe me, there are plenty of girls who like them now, but imagine if they developed lines exclusively for girls."

Mr. D looked at me like I'm crazy (which happens more often than you might imagine) and said, "They're BUILDING toys. Girls don't like to BUILD."

I replied, "Baloney-Salami. I was a girl and I loved to build. In fact, I spent more time BUILDING houses and mansions and towns for my Barbie dolls than I spent actually PLAYING dolls. I loved building toys--this old farm set my dad had as a kid, tinker toys, blocks, dollhouses. Sadly, most building toys are geared to boys, but I'm telling you, girls like to build."

It's true. Look at all the women you know who like to make things--crafting is a form of building. It's creative but it's also productive. Knitting a sweater, stamping an album, nailing together a birdhouse--the beauty of BUILDING is the satisfaction of looking at your final product. I truly believe girls both need and would enjoy toys that incorporate both.

Look at the wild success of Webkins. How many of those beanbag critters were sold because of the code that gained access to a virtual world where kids could build their own house and manage their own affairs? A form of building. My kids' favorite thing to play lately is Lego Universe because it's a virtual world where they BUILD their properties, create their characters, and design their characters' paths.

Kids want to interact with their toys and the lamest toys are the ones with a limited script (I'm talking to the likes of you, Tickle Me Elmo). The best toys are the ones that work at the mercy of a kid's imagination. Now these Lego kits the boys want for Christmas come with instructions, but once they're built, they get shuffled around and engage in all kinds of dramatic warfare. And then the boys build NEW space shuttles and rockets and weapons using random Lego parts, constantly interchanging the dynamics of their play.

More importantly, kids enjoy feeling the pride of looking at a finished product that they assembled themselves. So many toys rob them of this experience--what pride is there in dressing a doll? Almost none. What pride is there in rolling a car? Almost none. But building a track? Assembling a house/castle/spaceship? Creating a city? Piecing together an outfit/weapon/vehicle from scratch? Significantly more. I've got 3 kids who'd prefer to have blank paper and markers than a coloring page because they have Big Ideas to express. I don't think my kids are unique--I truly believe every kid has the potential to imagine and create--IF they're given the right toys and tools to employ their imagination and creativity.

For all these reasons I believe there is huge untapped potential for the girl market in Legos. Then I went online this morning to read the news and found this. Which I immediately sent to Mr. D with a request that I get stock in Lego Corp. for Christmas because by golly, it's about to happen! For all of the money Lego poured in to gaining the rights to and developing product lines for Pirates of the Caribbean and Harry Potter and Star Wars, I argue they can spend a pittance on some of the popular girl brands and gain traction. Imagine an American Girl-themed Lego world. Think of it! The perfect trifecta of education, creativity and positive identity development in a single toy line!

Spill it, reader. Are you with me? Do girls like to build? And more importantly, do you see a market for girl-themed Legos*?

I'm off to practice my reading for tonight.


* I know there's a missed opportunity here for exploring the whole gender dynamic of toys and branding and so forth, but for Pete's sake, people, I have 3 boys and a BOOK LAUNCH PARTY TONIGHT, so we're just not going there, okay?

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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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