Orange Hair and Ass Pond

Let's start at the beginning ... I have four children ages 17, 12, 7, and 4. They are all boys. That little bit of information should be plenty to describe why I have a tad bit of insanity on board. At any given time one of them is being ridiculous. And by ridiculous, I mean aggressively stupid. They are also messy. Messy like living with hogs. Hogs who prefer rolling in their filth. Their father added in his token bit of ADD leaving me with four little genetic codes of oh my hell are you kidding me? Do you know what it is to live with aggressively stupid hogs? Oh, and the hogs have a dog, who also has ADD, and I am fairly certain was bred to close to the source.

Most days I can maintain and or manage my beloved little hogs. However, there are some days ... some days in which even I am left standing there saying, "done, I am just done." Yesterday was a done day. For starters, Jon is traveling. This means I am single parenting all 4 hogs. I manage sneering bouts of testosterone laden madness from the older two simultaneously pulling a lego man out of the bottom of my foot while kicking a trail to the littlest hogs bedroom. And I don't even have a taser for any of this mess. One little thing goes wrong in this bedlam of madness and it all falls apart.

Yesterday it started with orange hair. I had it in my head that a cut and color was desperately needed prior to me heading up to "parent/college" welcome next week. Uh huh. And the Universe cackled. I made the cosmic error of trying a new salon, cue, Ms. Longstocking, ala Pippi. Since I only have 3 or 4 hairs on my head, processing my poor bird hair again to resolve the orange mess she made could mean going bald. The stylist said it wasn't "that bad" and tried to reschedule me for 2 weeks to try again. Um. Hell. I came home to my 4 year-old squeeling, "mom, your hair is orange!" Yeah. I know. I went to my room to try and make sense of the hair situation. I had a football parents meeting in an hour, and holy crap I was going to be so awesome. #facepalm As I tried to style my 4 orange hairs into something manageable, or at least not laughable, my oldest came in the room and said, "hows the fight sista?" He was trying to help.

I left my parenting post momentarily. I let the ball drop. While I was fussing with orange hair two hogs escaped the pen with the dog. My phone rang. It was the 12 year-old, sobbing. My heart escaped me for a second imagining the worst when he said, "mom, the dogs trapped in the lake, help." Excuse me? The dog is trapped in the lake, WTF? The "lake" he was referring to is a giant retention pond behind our house. We've had an unreasonably warm summer and the retention pond smells like ass. Not butt. Ass. It has ducks and mud. A lot of mud. Both items were apparently just enough to coerce my dumb dog into the middle of it ... where she got her back legs trapped in mud, because she's also aggressively stupid. 

I grabbed the oldest hog and we proceeded to go on a dog rescue. He went one direction, me the other. I'm on my phone with a sobbing 12 year-old and what do I see? There on the trail around ass pond stands my 4 year-old, "hey Mom, he's in here, it's waaaaaay down there ..." as he points his chubby little hand towards the marsh. I could hear Bradyn, I couldn't SEE Bradyn. Well crap. I hollered at the oldest, "he's here!" as I headed down into the marsh following the lightening trail skills of a 4 year-old. Seconds later I hear swearing. Perfect. My blazing orange hair must have served as a beacon to help the oldest hog sniff me out.

The scene was ... it was just that ridiculous. Surrounded in the ass pond, sinking in the mud, sobbing 12 year-old, and the aggressively stupid dog sitting in the middle of said pond hanging onto a fallen piece of wood. I imagine some desperate Lassie situation. No. If the dogs tail wasn't stuck in mud, she would be wagging it. The oldest started maneuvering out into the ass pond. "Oh my hell, what is this smell? We are going to all get a disease. Let the dog sit in her own stupid." These were my thoughts as I saw my two older boys trying to maneuver onto pieces of wood and muck out to their beloved stupid dog. My thoughts were interrupted by two things. I was sinking into the ass mud of the pond and my oldest just splashed full throttle into a pile of ass mud and pond followed by a few words that weren't describing the ducks in the pond.

My mind flashed into holy crap mode. I did NOT want to be in this ass mud. I could not go into the ass pond. My 4 year-old was giggling. The oldest fell, again. He was now full ass into ass pond. "Can you move?" I screamed between laughter. This was a circus act. I hollered at the 12 year-old to help him from the other side of the "log bridge of redemption" to their aggressively stupid dog. I sank further into the ass mud trying to rescue my hogs ... oh gross. I threw up a little in my mouth just in time for the dog to be freed from her ass mud with an aggressive (of course) body shake. Aaaaaaaahhhhhh! We're all covered in ass mud! Gross. Run. Run home. Run home and hose off before we all get the ass plague.

There on the patio we stood. Ass mud pond covered hosing off. The dog is so remarkably intelligent that each time we hosed her down she ran into the woods to rub her whole body in the dirt. Aggressively stupid. The oldest finally broke. Covered in ass mud ripping his clothes off ... he dropped a series of  "expletive remarks" regarding his shirt being found on the ground (see dumb dog running rampant) instead of on the patio chair. The expletive stream was running haywire, non stop, so I warned him, "cool down". He didn't ... so sans a taser but in possession of a hose I sprayed. We had all reached full ass tilt.

The expletives stopped, stunned, followed by him grabbing a shoe and throwing ... in my direction, fast and hard. Now I was screaming expletives. Then the 4 year-old opened the patio door. Noooooooo! Aggressively stupid dog ran inside, covered in ass pond and dirt, leaving her trail all over the WHITE carpet ... and couch ... and stairs ... and her trail of tears continued. I looked at the clock. 5:55. The phone rings, it's Jon from Las Vegas, "hey, so the football parent meeting at 6, you can bring the other kids, they are going to have ice cream, should be awesome." Oh Jon. 

I surveyed the scene around me, dog, ass pond dirt, filthy carpet. I rubbed my 4 orange hairs on my head and said, "done, I'm done." The kid apologized for the shoe, I apologized for the hose, the 12 year-old ran upstairs as soon as I said we missed the meeting (6:30 now) and the 4 year-old shrugged his shoulders and said, "I didn't do it." I ordered they all get in the car so we could forage for food in town. As the universe was still cackling and my little hogs were getting in the Tahoe, my neighbor showed up, wagon in hand, asking if we were headed down to the neighborhood "weenie Wednesday". I mustered up my orange hair to venture out the door as she said, "I love your hair." What? I mumbled it was a trainwreck and something about being covered still in ass pond. She didn't skip a beat. "Get your ass down here, I have hot dogs and wine." The hogs momentarily turned back into children as the exited the Tahoe for hot dogs and friends. I turned into a grateful friend. "I'm done" turned into "one more day". I joked she hazed me into weenie wednesday attendance, but really, she helped me not give up.

Living in A Sea of Seahawks ...

A Couple Pats and a Hawk ... Fan Life IS This Simple

 I married into the New England Patriots fan club. Prior to marrying their self professed #1 fan, the only time I watched football was the super bowl, and that was just the half time show. I gave birth to 4 little male child monsters. The #1 fan had a vote in what we named our first two boys .,, wait for it ... Drew and Bradyn. For those of you who have no idea why that means anything, please google"New England Patriots Quarterbacks". You are now either shaking your head in agreement and understanding or a face palm. Go with it. The bottom line is once those kids were out of utero they were in Patriots garb. Onesies, bibs, hats, jerseys, if you could slap New England Patriots on it, these boys wear it. Instead of fight the #1 fan, I embrace his love of the Pats as my own.

Over the years I have encountered other #1 football fans flanked by their children immortalizing their love of a team. It's written all over their onesie, bib, hat, socks ... you get the idea. A mega industry depends on #1 fans bringing up #1 fan spawn. And let's be honest, #1 fans can be like awkward teenagers with no social graces and/or tantrum ridden toddlers. However, no matter how socially bizarre or tantruming, #1 fans believe their team possesses some bizarre manifest destiny towards victory. This belief is passed down as sacred as religion for #1 fans. You live and die by your team. 

Kudos to the Seattle Seahawks for tapping into the #1 fan industry madness creating the "12th man" mentality. What is a 12th man? It's an extra player. Applause Seahawks having created the perfect psychological warfare weapon ensuring a solid fan base... inclusion. Tell the fans they are PART of the team, they are the 12th man. Imagine a social leper just being invited to sit at the cool kids table. 12th man. And here in Seattle and the surrounding suburbs, you can't drive a block without seeing a "12" plastered somewhere.

For the past year we have "dealt" with this 12th man situation as Patriots fans. Our kids attend public schools that boast weekly "spirit" Fridays ... aka, wear your Seahawks gear. The schools are plastered in green and blue and 12 ... it's everywhere. AND when the Patriots won the super bowl, our 12 year-old gave us a teachable moment. He could have worn his Patriots jersey to school that following Monday and act smug and superior. Instead he chose not to wear that jersey because it would be "bad sportsmanship". Class. I hope all my kids have that same attitude. 

I wonder about 12th man ... a week ago my 1st grader came home and squeeled, "Mom, Mom, next Wednesday is field day and ... and ... we get to wear our own spirit wear so I'm wearing my New England Patriots​ jersey!" He's been counting the days and every night he reminds me before bed, "Mom, remember I'm wearing my Patriots jersey for field day!" Today was the day. Finally. We had both reached the aggravated red zone with one another counting down to this moment. I grabbed a quick snapshot of he and his little brother before school. I knew he's be in a sea of 12th men, but I also know as much as we banter with the neighbors, everyone walks away laughing.

Imagine my surprise when he came home on the verge of tears. "How was school bird?"  He responded, "Mom, it was supposed to be the best day ever all school year and it was the worst day ever!" Cue tears. What? I cautiously asked what happened assuming perhaps this was some first grade drama at field day ... I could not have been more wrong. "Mom, kids were so mean to me today." Huh? I asked if it was kids in his class. "No, nobody in my class ...". He then went on through tears to tell me that on the bus to and from school, recess, lunch, kids we're "being mean". I think the adult term is "hazing". My 42 pound wouldn't hurt a fly mentality kid was beaten down all day with phrases ranging from, "you suck!" to booing him when he crossed pass with others. He was so excited to wear his jersey ... 

I tried to explain how what happened "wasn't fair" and showed "bad sportsmanship". But when you're 7 years-old, all you will walk away with is feeling like "I suck" and he wasn't wanted because that's what he heard all day. While I embrace being a fan, I'm quite frankly a little ill right now. I'm ill because I know the kids who taunted his day were only following parental social cues. I hope being a fan at our house never means morally demeaning another human being. I hope we can raise four boys that understand being a fan means understanding it is only a game. 

The momma bear in me is livid. My heart aches for my son who had built this particular day into what should have been "the best day ever" into the "worst". It makes me want to get on his bus tomorrow, follow him around school, and have him point out every kid who haunted him today just so I can gather them up and speak in firm direct vocabulary explaining THIS is not fan behavior, this is being an asshole, return and report to your parents, because somewhere, somehow, you were taught by an asshole and they need to check their social prowess. BUT, this is only in my unrealistic mother bear world. 

So here it is ... we're quite fond of Washington. We would like to raise our kids here. We love our neighborhood. We are surrounded by 12th men, and as competitive as things may seem, there is still a social cap on being an ass. The neighbors tolerate the banner on our house arguing "12" means Brady and not "12th man", and we tolerate having our Pats flag taken down all the time during the season. I will continue to dress my kids in Pats gear and Hawks you continue to dress them the same. We will continue to "deal" with being surrounded by all things Seahawks at work, school, and play with a smile on our face. But to be clear ... when the notion of being a #1 fan crosses into hazing my little guys or making their world feel unsafe ... we're in a new game. Let's keep it classy fans.

Sucky Thumb ... Calm Down Parenting

Why does my blog have out dated family pictures - look to the right. I blame sucky thumb - look to the left. Bennett. Captain Sucky Thumb. When Bennett was in utero and he started looking like more than a gummy bear, we noticed his "photo shoots" had one of two things in common. A) he had his right hand up on his forehead as if to say, "whelp, I'm the last of 4 boys, help me!" B) his thumb was firmly in his mouth. The hand situation proved excruciating for both of us at delivery. He didn't get the "tuck both hands into delivery position with ONLY your head coming out the exit" memo. He arrived into the world head and hand first.

Sucky thumb has changed my life in several ways. There are several titles for an unplanned pregnancy. "Surprise baby, bonus gift, what the hell?" or as his father refers to him, "one shot one kill". Ha. Funny from the guy facing down 4 college tuitions. Sucky thumb came into the world unexpected to say the least. I did the mental math in my head during my pregnancy and realized, "holy crap, this kid will be starting kindergarten the day my oldest starts college...". The oldest went with an early college option, so even better. Now we get to pay exorbitant preschool fees WITH college tuition. Who's laughing now "one shot one kill"?

Sucky thumb has slowed me down. I was just starting to get the hang of three boys when bam! God looked down, giggled, and sent me one more. But, sometimes a force greater than we realize sends us a reality check. Sucky thumb has given me a gift few moms may ever know ... calm down. There is no way I can keep up with family pictures. Wrangling four boys and and an indecisive husband into any photo shoot with everyone still looking reasonably intact ... metaphysical abnormality. Sucky thumb gives me a second chance. A second chance as an "older mom" to stop and smell the roses along the way. I didn't enroll him in preschool in utero, he wasn't potty trained at gunpoint by 2 years of age. He was three ... and a half if we 're being honest. And it was totally okay. Because sucky thumb randomly tells me, "Mom, I wub you". He doesn't have several costume changes throughout the day like his older brother (the first and holy child of all consuming mommy guilt to be the best mommy ever!) to best parenting perfection. He prefers "old man pants" (his sweat pants) and random unmatched assortments of fashionista travesty. And you know what? He's still alive, he's intelligent, and his cookie dough, peanut butter and jelly marked face mocks my parenting fails, but he's happy dammit. Happy. And that's a win in my book.

So to you, dear sucky thumb, as you have reached the ripe old age of four years-old, thank you. Thank you to the power of the universe for sending me that final chance to see magic in your every day. The glimmer of excitement in your eyes that my older eyes have long ignored reminds me to hope every day for a better, kinder, and gentler world for you my dear sucky thumb. Thank you for giving me a final mommy moment to enjoy this journey. Your giant smile every morning reminds me to see joy in the grace of every moment. Love you dear sucky thumb.We'll get family pictures later, for now, let's just enjoy the magic of existence.

MALL SANTA

Hate My Life Santa (minus our teenager who REFUSES Santa)

Smoke Break Santa

The other day I noticed on face book a mom's simple request, "does anyone know where there is a non-scary Santa ..." I don't know this person and can only assume she is a new parent. A seasoned veteran parent knows that Santa, like clowns, entertains some and scares the hell out of others. But there is rarely if ever a "non scary" Santa. However, there WILL always be parents, like myself, dedicated to making memories at any cost. We train kids all year to not talk to strangers, certainly don't sit in their lap, but hey if an elf leads the way to a fat guy in a suit of red, this is a memory kid, SIT ON HIS LAP AND SMILE!

I was a dedicated new mom. Dedicated to overachieving mommyhood by accomplishing every unwritten rule of overachieving mother's everywhere. Oh, there would be visits to Santa and overpriced pictures, and they would be ADORABLE dammit. Not unlike the memo nobody shared with me during my first pregnancy that "recovery from having a baby is a nasty, gross mess", I also missed the memo regarding annual Santa visits. ADORABLE comes with a price. So to you new mom's looking for the non scary Santa, here's the memo you need that I never got:

Bribed/Threatened Year

First, let's talk about Santa. My oldest is 17 and my youngest is 3. I've seen some Santa's in my day. Be prepared. Be prepared to sit your kids on the lap of a stranger you would normally steer clear. Because there is some scary Santa nonsense out there. I don't know what it takes to be one of Santa's "helpers", but I can only guess it creates what I've seen. The best Santa's were during our time living overseas with the military. In no particular order, "mini bottle drunken Santa", followed by "smoke break lung spasms phlegm in the beard Santa". This leads me to my next piece of advice.

Go ahead new mom. Dress up your kid to the nines, pep talk them days before you're going to actually see Santa. Let them know how magical it will be. Do all these things, but know this .. when you are standing in that line (oh, and you WILL stand in line for at least an hour,so pack a snack or a flask) your kid will start to panic. They will panic because they are bored. They will panic because they are tired of standing in line. They may meltdown all together and throw themselves on the filthy ground ruining all of your weeks of picking the perfect outfit and curling and combing their hair just right. They will look like hell by the time you get to Santa's lap. Just accept this now. 

"Help me, HELP ME!!!"

Panic. The manic panic you see your child display while in line is NOTHING compared to what will happen when you actually get close to Santa. When an Elf (again, let's discuss what it takes to be a mall Elf, enough said) greets your child the reality of their situation suddenly becomes terrifyingly real as they catch a glimpse of the kids 4 places ahead of them in line ... screaming ... on Santa's lap. I promise you there is not one cohesive thought in their head past, "HELP!!!!!!" So, prepare. You're going to have to talk your kid off the ledge if you want that ADORABLE Santa moment. What you're about to embark on is easier than a days work as a hostage negotiation specialist. You're going to talk your kid through the fear of Santa.

First, does Santa look drunk? He probably is, use that. Softly explain to your child how happy Santa looks. Ignore the fact that Santa just slurred his "ho ho ho Mewwwwy Chrismass!!" to the kids three places in front of you. He's jolly, he's probably been pee'd on today, he probably has a slow drip IV of his own holiday cheer just to get through it. Back to your kid. Your kid is going to notice the baby now two spaces in front of you. They will notice the dutiful, well meaning mom dropping her baby into drunk Santa's lap ... and they will notice the baby scream in terror. Redirect! Redirect! Turn their focus onto the pretty Christmas lights at the mall, point out the coloring books and cheap lollipops Santa gives to everyone AFTER a sit in the lap. Just REDIRECT!

Drunk Scary Santa ... Happy Holidays!

You're next in line. Your child is now demonstrating full meltdown. They can't do it. No way. The won't do it. They whine, they pull out the, "I have to go potty RIGHT NOW!" card, they grab your leg and act like you're sending them to the worst place on earth. REDIRECT! Get on their level, grab their chubby little cheeks, force a smile (after all, you've been standing in this damn line for an hour, the prize is RIGHT THERE and there is no way you are losing your place in line), and bribe them. I'm not proud of this, but you bribe them or scare them. Either tell them Santa's not coming or they're getting a new toy after enduring this whole debacle so suck it up soldier.

The Elf. It's your time. Finally, your kid who looks like a hot mess from the 15 standing in line tantrums and who is now suffering mild PTSD is taken by the hand by a mall elf and escorted to Santa's drunken lap. Shout words of encouragement as they look back at you in complete distress. "It's okay, isn't this awesome, it's SANTA!" They may fight. Be prepared. You may have to step in with the mall elf and physically sit your kid on Santa's lap and scream, "take the picture NOW!" as you step out of the way for the microsecond it takes for the flash to click. Memory made.

Finally, be prepared to skimp on Christmas this year because you certainly can't take your own photo, you have to BUY them from the Elves. And the Elves ... Santa may be drunk, but they are all business. Never, never, I repeat NEVER try and take your own photo. One year we happened upon a very nice Santa. My parents happened to be visiting from across the country, and the very sweet Santa asked if they would like to take a picture of their own since they would not be there for Christmas. My parents gratefully obliged ... followed by an IRATE Elf who instantly started screaming and pointing at the "do NOT take photos" signs. Words were said, gestures were made, and since my kids were little I left it with a "Merry Christmas ... Mall Elf!" (oh, and a letter to the mall of New Hampshire about their craptastic mall elf).

I digress. Memory has been made, your kid is now sucking on their cheap lollipop/candy cane in a delirious PTSD sort of "what the hell just happened" sort of demeanor and you are being escorted like a line of cattle to the "photo counter". You will be presented with 1-3 photos and several photo "packages". Each photo will be worse than the next and you will be EXPECTED as a GOOD PARENT to purchase one of these terrible pictures. The Elves will look down on you when you opt out of the $250 1 8x10, 1 5x7, 5 wallets package of horrible photos and rather defer to the cheapest package. 1 single 5x7 for $30. And as a friendly suggestion, don't let your husband open his mouth during the transaction. Mine likes to say in his "he thinks he's whispering but everyone can hear him" voice, "just get the 5x7, it's easy to copy at home." It only leads to an angry elf slamming your picture into the frame and without so much as a shove the candy cane up your butt goodbye you are unceremoniously handed your photo and gestured to leave the counter.

You walk away, kids all hyped up on sugar suffering from PTSD and you feel a little dirty, a little stupid, and a little ashamed that you just paid $30 for one really bad picture. Then the next year rolls around and you take out that really bad picture from the previous year and you insist this tradition must continue no matter how weird. The bonus? The cost of the photo has gone up a few dollars this year. HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

FOOTBALL ... it's gonna hurt like hell



Drew New Hampshire, 11

This boy, my Drew, is now almost 17 years old. He's the oldest of my crew of four boys. When Drew was on the verge
of being 11 years-old his best friend talked him into trying out football. I sat on the sidelines and noticed two things. One, this coach had been around for awhile and these kids weren't new to football. The players immediately formed warm up lines and snapped into military like precision warming up. Two, Drew was arguably the smallest kid on this football team ... and it was his first year. 

That first practice day I watched in a mommy slow motion movie, frame by painfully slow frame as Drew took his first "hit" in a suicide drill. A hit unceremoniously sanctioned by a kid easily twice his size and an obvious veteran of the game. Drew's body looked like a rag doll as he flew a few feet in the air landing flat on his back. He wasn't moving. My momma bear instinct filled my whole body as I sharpened my claws ready to rush the field. I wanted to rush the field, I needed to save and protect him. As I started to stand, a fellow "seasoned" football mom firmly put her hand on my knee, locked eyes with me and gently said, "if you go out there, he'll never forgive you." She was right, I knew she was right. I retracted my momma bear claws and sat on the sidelines ... chewed off my nails ... and tried to will my son to "get up, just get up".

It seemed like forever as I watched first one coach then two stand over my son and talk to him. In my mind I was silently repeating the phrase, "just get up, move, just get up ...". I saw his head move, then one leg, and in what seemed like a lifetime of moments, the other leg suddenly tucked up to meet his other leg at the knees. The head coach offered his hand, brought Drew to his feet, and then  grabbed Drew's facemask. The coach locked eyes with this little creature I call son and whispered something. Drew nodded, and a butt slap later he was back on the field. I tried to see his face through that face mask to see if he was really okay. There were some tears, but no sound.

Drew was hit repeatedly that season. Every time the helmets and pads made contact I felt a silent struggle with being his protector and letting him go. It took a few "hits" for me to understand this was football... and there is no crying in football. Even for the mom. I learned that Drew knowing how to take a hit was key for his safety. I found myself hollering, "stay low, stay low, dig, dig, dig!!!". In that way only a mom understands, it was my approach at protection without humiliation.



Colorado Football Drew 12

Drew spent a season literally black and blue, but he never gave up ... and I never walked on that field. On the last day of the season the veteran coach with at least twenty years experience pulled the kids into their final huddle and brought Drew forward. "Gentleman," he began, "I've never seen a kid take a hit and keep getting up like Drew. Never in my career as a coach for over 20 years." The coach continued in his speech, but of course all this mom heard was "he got up".






What Drew lacked in size on the field, he made up for in heart and understanding of the game. He loved football, and I loved what football did for him to push through physical and emotional barriers with a coach who believed that there were no "stars", only a team. Drew may have been one of the physically smallest players, but by years end, he stood taller. And then we moved to Colorado from New Hampshire. We arrived in Colorado in late Spring and Drew's only request was that we find a football program for him in Colorado. We did, he played, and it was different. By the end of the season my son who loved football didn't want to play every again. It wasn't until months later I found out why ... and after I regained my mommy composure, I wrote his coach this letter:

http://www.eldridge5.blogspot.com/2010/08/dear-coach.html
" ... the great players got better and more experienced while others (including my son) became complacent, never getting better, never getting a chance to become better... You have the chance to give these boys at the beginning of their most awkward adolescent journey lessons in life. Those kids look up to you as a coach, they will follow your lead and your example. Teach those kids the importance of team, allow the faster, stronger players an opportunity to learn the meaning of team as they buoy up the smaller, slower players. In a nutshell, teach them to be men. Men who don’t bully, men who help others, men who exercise integrity, and men who know winning has its place in this world, but giving all your heart to whatever you do in life is the real test of a man."




Bradyn Football 10

Drew never looked back. He never played again. Last year we went back to football. Number two in our pack of boys, the one who's actually built for the game but doesn't realize his size gives people assumptions about his demeanor. Bradyn is built like a linebacker, but he's not a killing machine. Last year, at 10 years old and 115 lbs he is what is called an "X" man in youth football. "X" is fancy terminology for the marking they put on your helmet indicating you, son, are huge, like a bear. You are only allowed to maul other large bears with the same "X" marking. Everyone with an "X", go the bear aisle.

The problem is unlike his older brother who had to "earn" each and every hit, my big bear is genetically gigantic. What would his heart look like? I watched him at the pre-season High School football camp last summer. I shook my head in disbelief. My big "built for the game" kid ... he didn't give a crap. I scream, "stay low, dig" and he falls over. They run drills, he scampers drills, and then wonders why everyone else seems so tired. I think he is convinced wearing yourself out for a silly game is pointless. I found myself with my bear sloth absolutely exasperated before the official football season started last year. Unlike his genetically disadvantaged size wise brother, I wasn't sure this one would get up after a hit. I thought he might expect me to charge the field and beat the kid who tackled him, or worse, he will cry.

I worried if he doesn't take the hit, as in go INTO rather than FALL to the side of the hit, he will be hurt. It's a safety thing I learned years ago with Drew ... and it's really a thing a kid should learn if they are going to play football and minimize risk. Take the hit, head on, get up, get back out there.

Last year in a frenzy of fear and exasperation prior to his first practice I was convinced this gentle bear had no idea what "X" meant. I had him put on his gear and head into the backyard. I grabbed the front of his facemask and found myself becoming uncharacteristically passionate about sports... which let's be honest, was really aka the momma bear protector warning system. "Look, you are going to have a giant "X" on your helmet. That "X" is like a target for other big kids. They want to hit you. They will hit you. If you don't hit them first, here (as I pound my chest like the mama ape I am apparently becoming), they will hit you, you will fall, and it will hurt like hell. I won't help you get up, you have to get up, but first, you have to take the hit!"

I then smacked his butt and said, "three point stance!" He was a little terrified at this point because Mommy had lost the will to be reasonable. He dutifully went into a 3 point stance. "Get your head up! Look at who you're gonna tackle!" Sadly the person he was about to tackle was his mother. He awkwardly smiled. I yelled, "you TACKLE ME!" He smiled again and I screamed, "TAKE ME DOWN!" The smile left and he obliged. The bear lunged out of his three point stance and charged. He knocked the wind out of me for a second and I felt my feet start to lift but all I could do was feel proud as I screamed, "stay low, stay low, dig, dig, dig!!!" I think for a moment he realized his size and strength were a legendary combination for his age.

A day later, I found myself standing on the field with him holding his face mask saying, "X, hit or be hit, stay low, dig, it's gonna hurt like hell, get up." Bradyn padded up and played his first practice, I grimaced when he took his first hit. Nobody can quite explain the deafening echo of the sound of pads and helmets crushing into one another knowing your son/daughter is inside of that mess. And that first hit ... it was like hitting an instant replay from so many years ago with Drew. He went down, not as violently as his much smaller brother, but it was a hefty hit from a veteran. I didn't charge the field ... I sat there and thought, "get up ... get up ..." and he did.

Bradyn had a fantastic experience last year in football. He played "up" a year (meaning as a 5th grader he played with the 6th graders because of his size). He played with kids who had played since first grade. Not unlike his older brother, he was black and blue from season beginning to end. He was pushed emotionally and physically and there were tears ... but not on the field. The tears he saves from the field, the tears he thinks his Mom doesn't hear, the tears he saves for behind a closed bathroom door, a running shower, and a space that feels safe for him to wail and hit and scream and cry ... because he's mentally broken.

The championship game was a devastating loss, but every child walked off that field a better person because they had phenomenal coaches who realized the meaning of team. Every player was pushed, brought together, played together, won and loss together. As the players stood silently listening to their coaches final speech, I looked around at these little men who now openly shed tears together with their coaches ... as a team.

As a mom of four boys, there are many sports my kids have played, but none quite as intense as football. Many years ago I learned a valuable lesson from a dear friend. There are times I can't charge the field in my momma bear fervor and save my sons ... because they will never forgive me. They will never forgive me and I will never forgive myself for not trusting that their will is as strong as their heart.

Drew was never "built" for football, but he could run a play and take a hit better than any kid I've ever seen. I think there is some regret in his decision to not continue ... but I think bad coaches and nasty politics firmly plant kids showing some athleticism in first grade as superstars leaving potential talent on the bench. Bad coaches put their brand early on several kids like Drew. It's why High School teams in small towns struggle and the NFL reports stories of "walk-ons" who never knew they were athletically phenomenal until 16.

Bradyn is "built" for the game and was fortunate enough to have a phenomenal coaching staff who knew the importance of building a team and in turn creating a player. He, like his brother, loves the game. Sheer odds say there is a 25% chance one of my four boys will play football into high school and perhaps beyond. But there is a 100% chance they will be successful in whatever they choose because they have the heart, will, strength, intelligence and talent to be whatever they choose ... and I will always be there, standing on the sidelines of their life, praying they will continue to get up no matter how hard life hits, hoping they grow into men of integrity and kindness. So far, so good.





Bradyn 10 years Football Day One

 

 

 



Pediatrician Turned Glove Slapper

You have not lived in this lifetime until your kids pediatrician says to you, "do you want to roll over on your side or stand up and bend over for this" as he's slapping on a pair of gloves staring at you butt naked sans fashion forward medical paper dress. It started with being exhausted ... what mom is not exhausted? It led into a potential diagnosis of internal bleeding and the man who was once the kids pediatrician seeing a whole new side of the woman who created his little patients. And ...

Facebook ... Schizophrenic Mania

I'm officially THAT old.  It started with a fb account.  "Open one, seriously, it's awesome, everyone is doing it."  The latter portion of that sentence should have clued me in that it may not be a good idea.  "Everyone is doing it ..."  Indeed, everyone is doing it. In college some guy offered me a beer at a frat party because, "everyone was doing it." I declined (hate beer) and he stared into the wilderness, "but EVERYONE is doing it." It didn't make sense then, but apparently it makes sense to me now. Age and wisdom have not held hands in some areas of my life.

In the past few months it has become glaringly apparent that the "who" on FB apparently has a schizophrenic alter ego with several personalities. One page. One person. I think there should be rules that if your schizophrenic alter takes over and decides you might need 2 or 12 facebook pages with several versions of yourself to present to your 2 or 12 different groups of friends please pick one and defriend, block, and delete the others.  Please pick one personality.  Go with it.  It's yours.  All yours. And you aren't going to change that, no matter how many FB personalities you choose to create.

FB as a whole is a relatively new thing for me. I'm. That. Old. I opened an account with the sheer intention of keeping up with global friends.  A retired USAF husband and a few dozen moves under our belt has left us with friends all over the world.  Facebook seemed like a good way to keep in touch, post a few highlights about life, click send, and get it all out in the open with a select group of people I call friend.  I do not have alot of friends.  In fact, I recently noticed I have 293 and that seems excessive. I don't have 293 friends who really care about my politics, my family, or my life.

BUT, I've realized if I even have one friend, that means I have all of their friends, and their friends, and so on and so forth.  Unless I can set the parameters (and seriously, who can really do that, because if you could I would suggest global domination because you are an evil genius) to only show posts to that one person, I'm setting my thoughts free and awkward ill advised tagged photos for the world.  And now, now I am noticing people taking "screen shots" of what other people say (who knows, maybe I have been screen shotted multiple times and I am just not that sophisticated to know about it) and posting it for public comment. Uh-huh.

A few months ago I noticed the whole schizophrenic FB phenomenon ... one post.  One post from a girl I thought had a FB name of "jane smith" was suddenly "jane anderson" (duh, fake names at my attempt to protect the innocene of apparent FB schizophrenic actions). In an attempt to keep things all orderly and all those friends situated, FB has come up with groups.  Groups are a fancy way of putting people together who MIGHT care about each other's hobbies/politics/pictures of their cats.  Limiting the creation of groups (because there is one for EVERYTHING) is like limiting the creation of hamsters. One cage, riddled with toilet paper rolls shredded into nests. It's happening and nobody can stop it.

Back to Jane. The Jane I knew as married "smith" was suddenly posting in a group (not even a group I was in mind you, another group a friend was in who shared a thread and so it goes on and on into eternity, amen) under jane "anderson".  Jane.  Jane.  It's the same profile pic ... but the comments were completely different and the "Janes" obviously two different people sharing the same body.  High school maiden name Jane, an apparent cool hipster now with definite opinions on things versus married PTA president Jane. It took me at least a day to wrap my head around the fact that people do not play "fair" on FB and they create alter egos to post on different groups, or threads, or whatever because they aren't satisfied with the self they have to portray (I'm just guessing here).

I feel kind of dirty.  Dirty in a way that is exposed, shared, and passed around for everyone to comment. And I can't keep up.  If I want to participate in life as I know it here in 2012 almost 2013 I have to FB.  I have to FB to keep up with my kids schools, I have to FB to participate in my neighborhood and the current great "park your car on the street so the snow plow can get by" debate (for the love of all that is holy, please park your car in your driveway, on your yard, or in your front room for hells sake, let's just put that FB battle to rest cause I'm tired of reading people "one upping" each other posting first their opinion, then links on the local law). Tragically, I have to FB to keep up with my own friends, family and their lives... because that's where people talk these days.

I want desperately to look away.  But I cannot.  I can't stop reading or posting.  And I suppose that's the sad part.  Where did we get to a point in the world where reading and posting was a part of our sense of society and belonging?  When did we blow past phone calls to texting, letters to emails? I miss that.  I miss the connection of the personal touch. I'm sitting here blogging my feelings (cruel irony) because I want to think there is a girl in the world that feels like me besides my grandma. I want to hope in the universe another soul exists who thinks greeting someone with "what's your facebook name?" is weird.  It's Cortney.  Just Cortney.  P.S. I have 293 friends.