lost and forgotten

I really wanted to post pictures of some of the charming snowmen I've seen in our area, but alas!  I lost my camera over the holidays.  After digging and hunting, I finally caved and began calling around.  I left it at my sister's-in-law and will have it when she sends it to me.

I took Team Testosterone and 3 of their buddies to the sledding hill a couple weeks ago.  That's when we found only 3 of our 4 sleds.  Funny thing about when you leave a sled in the yard and then it snows and the sled disappears.  No one could remember exactly where they left it lie, so it's lost until the snow melts enough.

Then on Monday night I sent Mr. T to his Boy Scout meeting (about to finish one of those 3 merit badges, yo) with my phone.  He had basketball practice and needed to track the time so he could run from the VFW hall to the high school.  Because he's 13, he tossed the phone in the pouch of his hooded sweatshirt and somewhere between Boy Scouts and the gym it got lost.

I valiantly tried to call the number in hopes that someone found it in a snowbank or at the VFW hall.  No dice.  My handy-dandy flip phone's a goner.  After 48 hours I called off the search and went to the phone store.  Now I have a smart phone and I feel really stupid because there's a lot to learn.  It's got more bells and whistles than my laptop for crying out loud.  And it's touchy, too.  Took me almost half an hour to set up my voice mail. 

This morning Mr. D called me and I couldn't figure out how to answer it.  Yep, you guessed it, reader.  I'm lost.

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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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revealing

Well, the only person to say a word to me about the election results was Mr. D.  And I didn't even hole up at home all day.  It pleased me that civility rules the day up in this part of Wisconsin.

We're moving a compost pile because snakes are inclined to live in the current location and our neighbor lady is terrified of snakes.  Digging out the compost revealed a few interesting things:
1.  We have a TON of worms, busily digesting all of our waste and they do great work.
2.  We have a LOT of really nice compost.  Thanks, worms.
3.  Mr. G really loves worms--he made sure they all got transplanted safe and sound to their new compost pile spot.
4.  Mr. B really hates to work too hard.  He mostly wandered around while his brothers and I put our backs into this project.
5.  Someone threw out a kitchen spoon.  I'd suspected we were short a couple spoons for a while now, so it was nice to find one in the pile.
6.  Those "biodegradable" compost bags?  Are. Not. Biodegradable.  Not by my definition of the word, anyway.

We also moved the sandbox out of the back yard.  Team Testosterone refused to pull out the weeds, so I pulled out the sand and now I have a nice frame filled in with those extra pumpkin seedlings I enthusiastically planted.

Standing in the grocery store the other day with Mr. B I learned that all my "eco-awesomeness" isn't all that effective: 
GG:  Buddy, what are you hungry for this week?  Whatever you want for dinner or lunch, let's grab it.

Mr. B: No, they don't have anything I like to eat here.

GG:  What do you mean?

Mr. B:  I like gas station food.

GG:  Gas station food?

Mr. B:  Yeah.  The stuff you can buy at gas stations.

GG: Dude!  That's like all sugar and chemicals.  That's not FOOD.

Mr. B: Well, I can put it in my mouth and chew it, so it IS food.

GG: All right, then I'm feeding you grass for dinner.  You can put that in your mouth and chew it. 


T-4 days until I leave for Baltimore for the 2012 Screw Iowa Writers Workshop. 

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holding our (collective) breath

It's a big defining moment today in Wisconsin.  The cows still need to get milked, the Brewers still need to beat the Cubs, the hay needs mowing and anyone sitting outside at night still needs to spray down to keep the mosquitoes at bay.  While we cheeseheads collectively go about our everyday business, the polls are open.

I'll cast the same ballot I cast last November.  Nothing our current governor did since he was elected surprised me in the least--but I'm a voter who pays attention to the debates and looks at the big picture.  In November the final tally was close and I was disappointed, but that's the price of living in with majority rule.  Sometimes you cast your ballot on the losing side and you roll with it, hoping people wise up the next time around.

I guess a lot of people were surprised by the guy they elected so they rallied enough support for a recall.  A do-over.  A "wait!  I wasn't paying attention and I want to change my vote now that I understand this better."

Since November I've perceived one major change in my fair state:  it's divided and angry.  My neighbors put out campaign signs and I silently judge them by their political alliance.  People post their opinions on Facebook and I block their updates so I don't have to know what they think.  I'm really no better than "them," the only difference is that I keep most of my politics to myself.  Cowardly or courteous?  I don't know.  By disengaging from the political discourse I'm trying to keep peace, but by not discussing opposing politics I fear I get further entrenched in one camp, guilty of the political divide I accuse others of forming.  What I do know is I'm weary of it all--and I really don't know which outcome today will heal.  Neither, I think. 

My biggest wish for today is for healing to start.  I want us to start working together for the collective good.  I predict that's not going to happen no matter which way the people vote, however, because there's too much money and too much outside influence involved now.  If one guy wins, the money flows to keep him in office and squelch any opposition.  If the other guy wins, the money flows in to undermine his every move until the next election.  Meanwhile, the rhetoric will remain loaded, aimed at distracting people from the big picture and the common good with slivers and splinters like "Voter Rights" and "Bargaining Rights" and "Reproductive Rights" and "Rights to Bear Arms." 

What about our Right to Eat Dinner Without Political Robo-Calls?  Our Right to Watch TV Without Mud-Slinging Commercial Interruptions?  Our Right to Leadership Intent on the Voters' Best Interests?  Our Right to Leaders With Wisconsin, NOT Party Affiliation At Heart?  Our Right to Truth and Justice? 

My heart is heavy today because I think no matter who wins, we all lose.

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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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let's dance

One of the stars on my ipod shuffle died yesterday.  I've confessed before to having a weird running soundtrack that meshes alternative/punk with disco, but truth be told, I almost exclusively run to disco music.  Here's why:  you cannot listen to disco and be sad.  Since running does not make me happy, adding that bouncy, sexy groove in my ears makes it much, much better.  (True story:  sometimes I'll even stop midstride and break into a diva dance move on the road if I'm sure no cars are coming and no one except Schuh's cows will see me.  In these moments I'm wearing a silky dress with a swirly skirt instead of a sweaty t-shirt and my hair is huge instead of damply clinging to my skull.  Yes, there is a disco ball illuminating me with glittery light.)

My favorite disco diva and I go way back.  When I was a kid, these albums were in my parents' collection:



 





Just those costumes she wore made her all that to a 10-year-old girl.  I mean, she was like a real-life Barbie doll.   Donna Summer was the predecessor to the Madonnas and Lady GaGas and all of their spin-offs. 
Whether listening to her on my parents' stereo or on the radio at the five and dime, I always pictured Donna Summer looking like this when she sang:



Look at that woman.  She kicked ass. 
Her songs make me think of summertime and heat.  Romance and sex.  Power and grace.  Strength and independence.  And roller skating for some reason.  RIP, Donna Summer.  And thanks for filling my ipod shuffle with awesomeness.

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why do green girl's teeth hurt today?

a) the New York Giants kicked them in during the 4th quarter
b) the Packers consistently fumbled, dropped and whiffed on offense, causing her to grind them in frustration
c) the Packers' sloppy defense made her grit them
d) 7 hours of tailgating and sitting in the fresh air at Lambeau made everything from her neck up feel a little sensitive
e) all of the above

She does take exception to the Packer fans who yelled that the Giants suck, because clearly they did NOT. They made a winning team go out looking like losers. Green Girl plans to spend Monday curled up in the fetal position, hugging her Charles Woodson jersey and eating the leftover Christmas chocolates.

She'll see you Tuesday.

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