Geometry Flashback

I looked my my son's super-sized geometry text book, and I had a flash back. I was transported to tenth grade sitting in my wooden desk listening to Mr. Luscombe talk about angles and lines and shapes and degrees and blah and blah blah. In my tiny school the geometry class consisted of nine people, all of whom were staring blankly at him. This routine of him talking and drawing and us staring blankly went on for a couple weeks. Then, one day something changed. I don't know what caused this miraculous change. Maybe I took my vitamins that morning, or maybe Mr. Luscombe mind melded with me and I obtained all his knowledge. But, I suddenly understood everything he said. In an instant, geometry transformed from a muddy puddle of goo in my mind to a neatly structured phenomenon.

I started working on my homework right there in class and flew through the problems as if they had not baffled me for all of my life. A kid next to me asked Mr. Luscombe a question and I spoke up and answered it. Every blank face in the room looked in my direction. So I continued explaining. I took liberties and explained problem after problem to my peers. Finally, Mr. Luscombe, with a look of pure amazement on his face, asked me to come to the front of the room and explain to the class on the overhead all that I was talking about. I drew shapes on the overhead. I labeled. I measured. I did geometry.

Mr. Luscombe smiled the smile of a proud teacher who had finally broken through to the most lost case.

The next day I confidently entered geometry class and listened in anticipation as Mr. Luscombe reviewed our lesson from the prior day. I didn't understand anything that man was saying. Nothing. I rose my hand and asked a question. He explained in Swahili or something because I did not understand a word he said. With a confused look, he told me he was just going over the exact thing I had explained to my class the day before. He told me I understood. But I didn't. The knowledge was gone.

Maybe I forgot to take my morning vitamins. Maybe Mr. Luscombe broke the mind meld. But after that day I was never a math genius again.

I'm glad I'm not in tenth grade anymore. So is Mr. Luscombe.

Bass Drum Cockroach

My son continues to make all my dreams in life come true. I sincerely love him for sacrificing himself for my entertainment. He is a good boy.

Josiah is the dooer in our family. He volunteers. He signs up. He auditions. He competes. The other three children prefer to do less. Like nothing. I like the nothing route because it is mostly lazy, and I am pro lazy.

One of the things Josiah is doing right now is marching band. He is also doing football, which will become clunky at some point since the marching band does its marching thing during half time, but for now it works. I know there have to be other people out there who have marching band dreams, like I do. Not to be in the band. NO! But to witness the singular most entertaining marching band event to ever transpire. Every time I see those guys marching around wearing a drum the size of an airplane engine on their bellies, I just hold my breath in the anticipation that one of them will fall backwards and end up pinned to the earth, arms and legs flailing. Like a cockroach stuck on its back. It would be hilarious, right? Yes, it would be hilarious.

MY SON DID THAT!!!

Unfortunately, I was not around to see the event transpire. I was home doing mom stuff when he walked in the door and related the story to me.
"That is so awesome!" I shouted. Because my dream had come true.
"It wasn't awesome. I couldn't get back up."
"YES!! I wish I could have seen it."
"You're weird," he told me, needlessly.
"Are you okay?" I asked, because I am first and foremost a good mom. Sometimes.
"Yeah, but I have a huge bruise," he said, pointing to a black and blue patch the size of a grapefruit on his thigh.
"So worth it!" Sensitivity is not something I excel at. "Did everyone laugh?"
"Yes."
"You know I love you even though I think it is really funny, right?"
"I know," he rolled his eyes. "That is the kind of mom you are."

We understand each other.

TV Time

When my kids were little I religiously gave them naps everyday after lunch. Except when I didn't feel like it. When it was sunny and warm outside, I had a hard time enforcing my own rules, and I have been known to play outside all afternoon and skip naps.

I knew I would pay for it later, but one day we just blew bubbles and caught crickets all afternoon long.

I knew the grumpiness would strike shortly after supper, so I planned on putting the kids to bed early. But I didn't do that either. Sometimes I work against myself.

In an astounding display of weakness and a complete breakdown in mother logic, I let them pick out a movie and stay up late watching it. Hoping to display a little common sense, I put them to bed immediately after the movie and informed them that they were not allowed to wake up before 8:00 the next morning.
"But how will I know what time it is in the morning?" Makenna asked.
"Look at the Sponge Bob clock that Drake got for Christmas."
"But what if I am awake and can't fall back asleep?"
"Then do something quiet, but don't turn on the TV or anything else that would wake up the other kids."
"Okay!"
Then I confirmed, "Does everybody understand that? No TV before 8:00!"
"Okay, Mommy!"

I went to bed that night feeling very satisfied that my children would be well rested and in cheerful moods due to the extra sleep I had ordered.

When I woke up to silence at 7:30 the next morning, I felt a wave of motherly pride wash over me. I felt satisfied that they had obeyed like dolls and would be well rested because of it. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and walked to the kitchen to start breakfast when I noticed all four kids, awake and still in their pajamas, sitting in silence on the couch surrounded by their stuffed animals. Drake held his Sponge Bob alarm clock on his lap and intently watched it as the time neared 8:00, the time he had set the alarm to ring. Josiah sat with the remote aimed at the TV, finger hovering above the on button. Four little faces gazed in anticipation at the blank TV screen. 


I vote that we return them to that age and use the freeze ray on them.

Lightening Football

When Valley High plays football, they take it seriously. They should probably stop calling it a game and call it what it really is - a battle.

Since my son is on the freshman team, this is our first year to experience the intensity first hand. That is why when storm clouds rolled in and took over the sky, I was naive enough to wonder if the game might be canceled. As kick off time approached and no word of canceling was mentioned, I dug through our camping gear and covered myself in my husband's XL rain poncho. I grabbed the umbrellas and dashed through the lightening to my Jeep wondering, "What in the world does it take for Valley to call the game?"

Then I found out. Pouring rain and nonstop lightening displays is not when Valley calls the game. When the fans sit on metal bleachers raising their lightening rod umbrellas in the air is not when Valley calls the game. When our sons run around in a wide open space as the sky illuminates their moves like a strobe light is not when Valley calls the game. Even though if they pulled that nonsense at home they would get called inside this very instant.

It is when lightening strikes straight down from the point directly above our very head and every mother sees her son's skeleton illuminated by the brilliance of the flash and the retinas of every fan are burned crisp that Valley High calls the game. And when I say they call the game, what I mean is that the Valley Tigers give God fifteen minutes to change his mind about His lightening fit. We wisely leave the metal bleachers and huddle around the concession stand as the players seek safety in the locker room.

As I stood huddled under my umbrella, which did very little good, and watched the lightening race from one end of the sky to the other, what the coaches must have done was roll some dice and decide that we might not die if we play more. So, GAME ON!

At the defiance of the Tigers, however, God became even more serious and pulled His impressive retina burning lightening trick over and over until even the Valley Tigers had to admit how puny we really are compared to violent electricity crashing to earth from the Heavens. Maybe the principal was concerned for the safety of the students, or maybe some over protective mother threw away the coach's dice and made the decision herself, but the rest of the game was postponed until the next day.

So, now I know. Immediate and certain death is when Valley calls the game.

Wedding Crashers

"Hmmm," I asked myself. "Why are my boys lying on top of the garage roof staring into the neighbor's back yard?" I might be out of touch with teenage culture, but it struck me as an unusual activity. But then, like a super great mother, I walked into the house and forgot about the strange activity happening on the garage.

I was distracted by the fact that Wal-Mart had invaded my house. After carrying too forcryingoutloud many bags into my house, my entire kitchen was buried under a mountain of Elmer's glue sticks, #2 pencils, wide ruled paper, and Purell hand sanitizer. Does anybody else besides me think that school supply lists have gotten a little too specific and ridiculous?

Then my boys crashed into my reality and reminded me that they were up to no good.
"Hey, what were you guys doing on the garage roof?" I asked responsibly.
"The people who live behind us had a wedding in their back yard."
"You watched the wedding?" I smiled, thinking they were such tenderhearted little guys.
"No!" They guffawed. "We stood up one at a time, lifted up our shirts, and jiggled our bellies at the crowd. If anyone waved at us, we took a picture."

I had no idea wedding crashing was part of a male's DNA and began at such a young age.

School really couldn't start soon enough. Someone needs to teach these boys some stuff.

A NEW CAR!!

Let's face it - some people are complete dorks. But, this is not about them. This is about people who make me proud to be a part of the human race.

This week, someone called my husband and said, "You know how your sister has a family of six but an unsafe, rust bucket of a car that will only fit five? Well, I want to buy her a nice minivan, but I don't want her to know that it was me." Thus began the event in which we were able to bring a sparkling, clean minivan to our house and deliver the good news to Mike's sister, Lori.

It was one of the most fun and exciting things I've ever been a part of, and I am honored that I was able to be involved. Watching someone who works hard and is in desperate need recieve something they could not possibly buy for themselves is humbling and touching. I couldn't be more excited for Lori and her family.

And people who bless others like this make me hopeful that love is still the most powerful force on earth.

Rooftop Parade

Ever find yourself sitting in bed quietly reading a book when you suddenly wonder, "Why is there a parade marching across the top of my house?" Me too.

We have a Friday night tradition. I make homemade pizza and we all watch a movie or play a game together. Friday nights of the past hold some of my fondest memories.

But, the kids are getting older, which means busier. So, this Friday didn't go according to plan.

First we started with a high school football game. We all went to cheer on #58 because he happens to be the world's most excellent defensive lineman. I just learned that title. I don't even know if it is right. But he owns the field with his awesomeness, and since I believe that pretty much everything he has done from birth till now is dang noteworthy, I drag all whom I know to his game so we can scream and wave things in the air. I mean, where else can you act like that?

Then, after he dominated the field, he informed me that he was totally sick and needed to go home right away. Makenna begged to stay for the rest of the football games, and, knowing how much she loves football and pays attention to every play, we told her she could ride home with some friends after it was all over. The rest of us grabbed a movie and some pizzas and hit the couch.

Midway into the movie Makenna called to say she needed a ride, so I happily threw on my slippers and marched my pajama clad self into the car and grumbled all the way across town. When we returned a bazillion hours later, the movie was nearly over. So as not to ruin the ending for myself, I grabbed a book and settled into my bed intending to watch the part of the movie I had missed at a later time. And I did not complain because moms do not complain. I may, however, have mumbled.

Just as I became wrapped up in the plot of my book, a parade marched across my rooftop. I gave my ceiling the evil eye, but the sound continued.

No worries though. It was only my precious offspring being hoisted onto the roof by THIER FATHER. My first thought was, "Why must we hoist our children onto the roof at midnight?" My second thought was, "Who decided this man was old enough to raise children?"

Then I was distracted by a lovely vision of my youngest daughter gazing at the stars, enjoying the breeze, and dancing in the moonlight. But when I mentioned this she told me, "Mom, I'm not dancing. I'm shaking out my weggie."

So, now I know: Fine entertainment is why we hoist children onto the rooftop at midnight.

Swimming Trunks Ablaze

Ever notice how sometimes funny stories are just a smidgen away from total disaster? It is enough to cause a sweat to break out on my forehead.

We had a house full of people this week, and it was great fun. The characters in this event didn't all necessarily know each other, but are all super cool. Our regular Wednesday night visitors, who come week after week and are the kind of people who rock this world, were here. Also, because fate smiled on us, we had our long lost son who is not our real son but we love like a son, Franke Bates, over because he is home visiting. He is in the Air Force and has been stationed in WayTooFarAway, Texas. He brought his younger brother, Everett, and our other long lost son who is not our real son but we love like a son, JP.

It was the perfect set up for either hilarious laughter or disaster. Or, as it turns out, both.

The regular Wednesday night people grabbed their swimsuits and headed to the pool out back, because that is our tradition. I scrounged up spare swimming suits for the other three guys, who, by the way, couldn't possibly be more different in size. So, I grabbed every spare set of swim trunks I could find, and dumped the pile on the table. JP saw this as an opportunity to grab the nearest trunks and pummel Everett with them. Endlessly. Everett got fed up and ripped the trunks from JP's hands. Then inspiration struck him and he extracted his revenge by throwing the trunks back at JP.

Admittedly, when a 14 year old skinny kid throws soft, fluffy, swim trunks at a large man, it is not very threatening. In fact, it is so non-threatening that JP didn't even notice Everett's act of revenge and simply walked out of the room.

Which left Everett standing in the kitchen alone. That is when he noticed that the carefully aimed trajectory of the swim trunks had missed its mark. Instead of landing on JP's head, the swim trunks had landed on top of a burning candle. By the time Everett figured out what was happening, the trunks had caught on fire and the flame was about a foot tall. He handled the situation like a pro and began shouting, "I NEED AN ADULT!! I NEED AN ADULT!!"

So of course, Makenna came running. She is fifteen. But, she completely saved the day by instantly comprehending the situation, grabbing the swimming trunks with her bare hands, running into the back yard, and throwing the trunks into the swimming pool. And shrieking. Without end.

No adults ever responded to Everett's cry of help, and we were only informed what happened well after all danger was completely over.

So, I've asked Makenna to be our babysitter from now on. We need her.

Milkathon

When I opened my refrigerator after returning from vacation, my first thought was that I had gone through a time warp and ended up back in elementary school. Then I wondered if my parents, who had stayed at my house, had become closet milkaholics. The kind of milkaholics who like to drink from tiny containers.

Then I remembered Grandpa. He simply cannot bear to see a single food item go to waste. He used to load me up with bananas that were, "perfect for banana bread," which is a nice way of putting it. He sometimes handed me a sack of apples that needed to be eaten, "probably before tomorrow would be best." One time he sent me home with no less than thirty plums.

Since he has moved into his retirement home he has a serious problem. There is so much food being served, he can't keep up. He is not hungry enough to consume it all, so he takes it to his room and sends it home with his visitors. Every time I visit him I leave with a plastic bag full of left over food, "for the dog." Not kidding.

Now it is milk. He gets a carton of it for each meal, but doesn't always drink it. He takes it to his room, places it in his refrigerator, and then worries about it. Who will drink the milk? Will it go bad before someone drinks it? Who should the milk go to? How soon will someone take this milk?

So, that is how I ended up with a refrigerator filled with small cartons of milk. Most of it expired. Got to love Grandpa!

Oh Puppy!

My puppy was naughty while we were gone on vacation. He really loves us. He really wants to spend every waking minute with us. We went away. He was mad.

My parents so generously offered to watch our puppy, and we felt so happy. We were glad that he would not have to spend a whole week in a kennel, but, rather, receive attention from two retired grandparents who are loving and kind.

He spent the week terrorizing them. He barked and howled. He sat on the furniture, which he is NOT allowed to do, with a defiant attitude. He peed on the floor. He ate a blanket. He ate a raincoat. He pooped in his crate. He tore his crate apart from within and escaped. After he ate a bird. A baby bird that was born in a nest in our backyard. A sweet little bird that we watched hatch and grow. We watched its mother feed it, and we watched it grow feathers. We watched it begin to learn to fly. Eaten. By my naughty puppy.




But when we drove into the driveway, Drake jumped out of our moving Jeep to run and tackle the naughty puppy. They wrestled and hugged, and Arrow licked Drake's face a thousand zillion times. If his tail had wagged any faster, it would have broken the sound barrier. Then he loved all over the rest of us.


Each time I drive into my driveway, I see this naughty puppy hanging his head over the side of the deck in anticipation of my return. As soon as he sees me he begins howling. He howls until I hug his neck. I love that stupid, naughty puppy.