Play Ball!

Some days I think I should just face the facts and shut down the blog completely.  I post so sporadically now that it hardly seems worth it to keep it going.  I could just put my thoughts in a regular journal and be content.   In fact, it’s been so long since I posted here that I actually had to look up my password to get into the site.  *head desk*

But then I have a rare moment like this one when I can actually string two sentences together and I realize why I’m just not ready to give it up yet.  So you get my ramblings again.  Lucky you!

We’re smack dab in the middle of softball and t-ball seasons.  I’m freezing my ass off at practices or games at least 3 times a week; we’re tired from later-than-usual bedtime due to nights at the field; we’re eating on the run; we’re scrambling to get homework done and fit in karate lessons, Girl Scouts, and everything else we’ve got going on.

And we’re loving it.

The kids are having fun and we’re having a blast watching them.  They’ve both learned enough to know what they’re supposed to be doing out there, and they’re trying their best to make it happen.  No, they don’t get a hit every time they’re at bat, and yes, there are quite a number of flubbed catches, but when they do get it – oh, you should see the joy on their faces.  It makes the hypothermia worth it.

This is the one season a year when we’re all involved in something as a family.  The kids frequently have games or practices at the same time, so Munky and I need to divide and conquer.  I’m an assistant coach for Cenzo’s t-ball team,  so I have to be at those practices and games.  If Cheeks has a game or practice at the same time, Munky takes her and we meet up afterwards.  It’s by no means a perfect system, but it works.

Cenzo is finally old enough that I don’t worry about him as much when we’re at Cheeks’ games.  He finds his friends (the other players’ younger or older siblings) and they head for the nearest playground. Sometimes they’ll grab a soccer ball and start a pick-up game the next field over.  I can keep one eye on him and another on Cheeks’ game.

Cheeks is a great helper at Cenzo’s games.  She corrals the kids on the bench for me, she helps them with their equipment, and, if we need someone to chase down balls in the outfield or grab the bats, she’s right there to do it for us.

Munky has stepped in as an assistant coach for t-ball, too.  He’s out there on the field with the kids, making sure they stay in position and focus so no one gets beaned with the ball. He’s also the one who helps prevent t-ball from becoming football when all the kids rush for the ball at the same time.

Some days I don’t know how we’re going to manage everything, but somehow we do.  And we’re closer as a family because of this chaotic time of year.  I can’t ask for anything more than that.

Haunted by Sea Monkeys

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you know that for a brief period, every other post was about sea monkeys.  My daughter had received them as a gift for Christmas one year, and they skeeved me out to no end.  So, of course, I had to write about them.

(If you’re feeling adventurous, you can read about them here, here, here, here, and here.) 

(See?  I told you it was every other post.  But they really are pretty funny.  Go ahead and read them if you need a good chuckle.)

That was three years ago.

I’m still getting search engine hits for the little sperm-spiders.

And, oh what search engine hits I get.  Here’s a sampling from 2010.

Let’s open up the mailbag and see what 2011 and 2012 brought my way.

What is a real sea monkey?  In comparison to what – one made of plastic?  They are slimy little hairy amoeba bastards who swim in their own poop.

What happens if a sea monkey bites you? First off, if your sea monkeys are actually big enough to have jaws, you don’t have sea monkeys.  You have real monkeys.  Fling your poop at them and run like hell.

Do sea monkeys eat semen?  Are you kidding me, Pervy McPervstein?  Why on earth would you want to know that?

My hamster has big testicles.  Um, I’m sorry?

How do sea monkeys poop?  In very tiny toilets.

How do you spell “slacker”?  Oh my head, if you are that much of a slacker that you need to look up how to spell “slacker”, you need to pay more attention in school.  (For the record, though, it’s D-U-M-B-A-S-S.)

What do sea monkeys look like full grown?  Fortunately, dear reader, I never had the opportunity to find out.  I can only imagine that they look something like Pepe the King Prawn from the Muppets.

Can you add semen to sea monkeys to make them people?  Bwahahahahaha. Oh my God, no.  Just. NO.

Nothing ever goes away on the Internet.

Sea monkeys will haunt me forever.

Snow Time!!

Want to know what I’ve been up to lately?

Hanging out with these little monkeys:

Finally! Enough snow for a proper snowman!!

Want to know what I’ve written lately? Nada.

Except this post for The Band.

Which should also explain why it’s been so quiet here.  Working with The Band has given me much food for thought; thoughts that I hope to turn into words here someday soon.  (Hopefully big words that I’ll remember when I play with “Words With Friends” so I stop freakin’ losing!)

So, anything else you want to know?   Questions, comments, thoughts?   Thanks for sticking with me here. 

Three Points

I’m fat.  I know it, I accept it, I’m trying to change it.   I don’t let it define me and I don’t obsess over it.  I spent years trying to reach some ideal weight, but the fact of the matter is, I will never be a size 6.   Even if I had a personal chef who made all my meals, and a personal trainer who worked out with me 4 hours a day, I’d never get to size 6.  (Ok, maybe I would, but since a personal chef and/or trainer are not in my budget, I can safely say I’ll never get there.)  Genetics plays a huge factor.  I’m 5’0″ on a good day.  I have child-bearing hips.  I’m short, I’m curvy, and nothing’s changing there.

But this isn’t about me.  This is about my daughter.  My daughter who is not fat.  My daughter who is not headed down that road because I do my best to ensure that she eats healthfully and exercises as much as possible.  Apparently, according to the school and the MA Dept of Health (DOH), my best is not enough.

A healthy BMI is considered to be between 5 and 85 percent.  My daughter’s?  88%.

Those three extra percentage points warrant a four page letter home from the school and an admonition to contact the pediatrician to discuss the findings.

Are you kidding me?

I know the nurse is only doing her job to stay within the DOH reporting guidelines and mandates for follow-up.  I get that.  I don’t fault her for doing her job.   I know they’re trying to reach the parents who may not be aware/may not care about how healthfully their children are eating. I get all that.

But sending home a four-page letter with links and tips/tricks for getting the kids to eat better and exercise more is tantamount to waving a red flag in the child’s face, screaming “fatty, fatty, two by four!”   Really, the letter could be summed up this way – the school nurse says you’re fat and you need to go to the doctor.  There’s something wrong with you.

I have no plans to share the letter with Cheeks’ pediatrician.  If the pediatrician had any concerns about Cheeks’ BMI, she would have brought it up at her last appointment.  I’m not going to make an unnecessary visit to the office just to have the pediatrician say, “she’s tracking where she should be, given her history – don’t worry about it.”  (Which is exactly what the pediatrician said 3 months ago at the last appointment.)

I am certainly not going to share the letter with Cheeks. I can only imagine the conversation we’d have if I told her we were going to the doctor to discuss her weight.  She’s 9 – she doesn’t need to start obsessing over her weight at this age, or -hopefully – ever!   For heaven’s sake, we’re trying to prevent eating disorders in our children, not give them a head start on developing one.

The MA DOH wants the kids to get 60 minutes of exercise a day.  The MA Dept. of Education wants the kids to pass ridiculous standardized tests.  The schools are all about the tests.  The homework load is ridiculous.  You tell me where I’m supposed to fit 60 minutes of exercise in while Cheeks is doing 60+ minutes of homework each night on top of the extracurricular activities that she enjoys and make her a well-balanced child.   Plus she’s supposed to be getting 10 hours of a sleep a night?  Just how many hours do you think there are in a day, DOE and DOH?

Here’s an idea – if you want the kids to exercise more, give them back recess at school.  Make gym class mandatory.  Introduce intra-mural programs for all kids, not just the ones who can afford to sign up with the rec department.  Make exercise a part of the school day.  Forget the stupid standardized tests that aren’t teaching our kids anything, except 12 different ways to arrive at the same damn answer or how to beat a standardized test.  Develop better school lunches – lunches that aren’t 75% carbohydrates and 80% sodium.

In other words, get on the same damn page.  A page that doesn’t make me want to shred it as soon as it arrives in my mailbox.

Pushing for More Independence

I miss the baby days with my kids.  That’s not to say that I want another baby.  If one happens to fall into my lap, sure!  But the days of me gestating another little human are over.  The snipped Fallopian ship sailed right down to the hospital’s pathology department minutes after Cenzo was born.

We have over a decade’s worth of photos as our screen savers on the TVs.  Like all new parents, we took a ton of pictures when they were little so photos of them as babies and toddlers appear frequently.

When I see those little chubby cheeks and the plump little legs, I’m transported back to the days when I would hold them for hours at a time, breathing in their sweet baby smell, tickling their little toes and bellies, waiting for that first word, that first step.

Not to say that there weren’t challenging times back then, too.  The sleepless nights, the seemingly endless feedings, the super-duper poops and pukes, the constant worry over what the hell they had put in their mouths now, and the list goes on and on.

But, back then?  They couldn’t talk back.

Now? They talk back.

Scratch that.  They sass. They swear.* They call names.  They tattle.  They test.

Oh, how they test.

Sometimes the testing is good for both of us.  Like when Cheeks asks if she’s old enough to go to and from the bus stop on her own.  Or when she starts pushing for sleep-away camp rather than day camp during the summer.  Those requests force me to acknowledge that she is growing up and getting more independent.  It opens a dialogue between us about what we think might be a good starting point and what should wait  maybe another year.**

Other times the testing is good for no one.  And that’s when it gets hard.  Really hard.

There’s just no reasoning with a child of any age who is in full-out obstinate mode.  For whatever reason, that seems to be happening more and more lately.  I don’t know if it’s the post-holiday let-down or the fact that this winter sucks as far as snow and outside fun are concerned or they’re not getting enough sleep or what.  I guess I can only take it day by day, check my reactions to their testing, and hope that the next day will better.

That and gaze fondly at the photos on the screen savers and remember why I didn’t eat them when they were little.

*Gee, I don’t know where they learned that. *coughs*

**Walking home from the bus stop is fine.  I’ll know when the bus goes by, because I will be watching from the window, and I can see her coming down the street.   I can see her going to the bus stop in the morning, too, but the bus comes from the opposite direction so I can’t hear its approach.  Day camp with an overnight or two during the session this year; resident camp next year – maybe.  She might think she’s ready, but  I know I’m not.